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 f/3
 
 X-
 
 It IE
 
 THE 
 
 WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL. D. 
 
 WITH AH 
 
 ESSAY ON HIS LIFE AND GENIUS, 
 
 BY 
 
 ARTHUR MURPHY, ESQ. 
 
 SECOND COMPLETE AMERICAN EDITION. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 I. 
 
 NEW-YORK: 
 ALEXANDER V. BLAKE, PUBLISHER. 
 
 SOLD BY COLLINS, KEESE & CO., NEW YORK; OTIS, BROADERS & CO., BOSTON, 
 THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT & CO., PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 1844.
 
 SfacK 
 Annex 
 
 AN ESSAY 
 
 ON 
 
 THE LIFE AND GENIUS u * 
 
 SAMUEL JOHNSON. LL. D. 
 
 WHEN the works of a great writer, who has be- 
 queathed to posterity a lasting legacy, are pre- 
 sented to the world, it is naturally expected, that 
 some account of his life should accompany the 
 edition. The reader wishes to know as much as 
 possible of the author. The circumstances that 
 attended him, the features of his private charac- 
 ter, his conversation, and the means by which 
 he rose to eminence, becomes the favourite ob- 
 jects of inquiry. Curiosity is excited; and the 
 admirer of his works is eager to know his pri- 
 vate opinions, his course of study, the particu- 
 larities of his conduct, and, above all, whether 
 he pursued the wisdom which he recommends, 
 and practised the virtue which his writings in- 
 spire. A principle of gratitude is awakened in 
 every generous mind. For the entertainment 
 and instruction which genius and diligence have 
 provided for the world, men of refined and sensi- 
 ble tempers are ready to pay their tribute of 
 praise, and even to form a posthumous friend- 
 ship with the author. 
 
 In reviewing the life of such a writer, there is, 
 besides, a rule of justice to which the public have 
 an undoubted claim. Fond admiration and par- 
 tial friendship should not be suffered to represent 
 his virtues with exaggeration ; nor should ma- 
 lignity be allowed, under a specious disguise, to 
 magnify mere defects, the usual failings of hu- 
 man nature, into* vice or gross deformity. The 
 lights and shades of the character should be 
 given ; and, if this be done with a strict regard to 
 truth, a just estimate of Dr. Johnson will afford 
 a le_sson, perhaps as valuable as the moral doc- 
 trine that speaks with energy in every page of 
 his works. 
 
 The present writer enjoyed the conversation 
 and friendship of that excellent man more than 
 thirty years. He thought it an honour to be so 
 connected, and to this hour he reflects on his loss 
 with regret: but regret, he knows has secret 
 bribes, by which the judgment may be influ- 
 enced, and partial affection may be carried be- 
 yond the bounds of truth. In the present case, 
 however, nntb-ng needs to be disguised, and ex- 
 aggerated praise is unnecessary. It is an ob- 
 servation of the younger Pliny, 'in his Epistle to 
 his friend Tacitus, that history ought never to 
 magnify matters of fact, because worthy actions 
 (a) 
 
 require nothing but the truth. Nam nee hiitoria 
 debet egredi veritatem, et honeste factis veritas siiffi- 
 cit. This rule the present biographer promises 
 shall guide his pen throughout the following nar 
 rative. 
 
 It may be said, the death of Dr. Johnson kept 
 the public mind in agitation beyond all former 
 example. No literary character ever excited so 
 much attention ; and, when the press has teemed 
 with anecdotes, apophthegms, essays, and publi- 
 cations of every kind, what occasion now for a 
 new tract on the same threadbare subject? The 
 plain truth shall be the answer. The proprie- 
 tors of Johnson's Works thought the life, which 
 they prefixed to their former edition, too unweildy 
 for republication. The prodigious variety of fo- 
 reign matter, introduced into that performance, 
 seemed to overload the memory of Dr. Johnson, 
 and in the account of his own life to leave him 
 hardly visible. They wished to have a more 
 concise, and, for that reason, perhaps a more sa- 
 tisfactory account, such as may exhibit a just 
 picture of the man, and keep him the principai 
 figure in the foreground of his own picture. 
 To comply with that request is the design o" 
 this essay, which the writer undertakes with a 
 trembling hand. He has no discoveries, no se- 
 cret anecdotes, no occasional controversy, no 
 sudden flashes of wit and humour, no private 
 conversation, and no new facts to embellish his 
 work. Every thing has been gleaned. Dr. 
 Johnson said of himself, " I am not uncandid 
 nor severe : I sometimes say more than I mean, 
 in jest, and people are apt to think me serious."* 
 The exercise of that privilege which is enjoyed 
 by every man in society, has not been allowed 
 to him. His fame has given importance even to 
 trifles ; and the zeal of his friends has brought 
 every thing to light. What should be related, 
 and what should not, has been published with- 
 out distinction. Dicenda tacenda locuti! Every 
 thing that fell from him has been caught with 
 eagerness by his admirers, who, as he says in 
 one of his letters, have acted with the diligence 
 of spies upon his conduct. To some of them 
 the following lines, in Mallet's Poem, on verbal 
 criticism, are not inapplicable : 
 
 *Boswell's Life of Johnson, vol. ii. p. 465. 4to. edir
 
 AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND 
 
 " Such that grave bird in Northern seas is found, 
 Whose name a Dutchman only knows to souiid ; 
 Where'er the king of fish moves OH before. 
 This humble friend attends from shore to shore; 
 With eye still earnest, and with bill inclined, 
 He picks up what his patron left behind, 
 With those choice cates his palate to revile, 
 And is the careful Tibbald of a Whale." 
 
 After so many essays and volumes of Johnsoni- 
 ana, what remains for the present writer ? Per- 
 haps, what has not been attempted ; a short, yet 
 full a faithful, yet temperate, history of Dr. 
 Johnson. 
 
 SAMUEL JOHNSON was born atLitchfield, Sep- 
 tember 7, 1709, O. S.* His father Michael 
 Johnson was a bookseller in that city; a man 
 of large athletic make, and violent passions; 
 wrong-headed, positive, and at times afflicted 
 with a degree of melancholy, little short of rrfad- 
 ness. His mother was sister to Dr. Ford, a 
 practising physician, and father of Cornelius 
 Ford, generally known by the name of PARSON 
 FORD, the same who is represented near the 
 punch-bowl in Hogarth's Midnight Modern 
 Conversation. In the life of Fenton, Johnson 
 says, that " his abilities, instead of furnishing 
 convivial merriment to the voluptuous and disso- 
 lute, might have enabled him to excel among the 
 virtuous and the wise." Being chaplair; to the 
 Earl of Chesterfield, he wished to attend that 
 nobleman on his embassy to the Hague. Col- 
 lej Gibber has recorded the anecdote. "You 
 should go," said the witty peer, "if to your many 
 vices you would add one more," " Pray, my 
 Lord, what is that?" " Hypocrisy, my dear Doc- 
 tor." Johnson had a younger brother named 
 Nathaniel, who died at the age of twenty-seven 
 or twenty-eight Michael Johnson, the father, 
 was chosen in the year 1718, under bailiff of 
 Litchfield; and in the year 1725 he served the 
 office of the senior bailiff He had a brother of 
 the name of Andrew, who, for some years, kept 
 the ring at Smithfield, appropriated to wrestlers 
 and boxers. Our author used to say, that he was 
 never thrown or conquered. Michael, the fa- 
 ther, died December 1731, at the age of seventy- 
 six ; his mother at eighty-nine, of a gradual de- 
 cay, in the year 1759. Of the family nothing 
 more can be related worthy of notice. Johnson 
 did not delight in talking of his relations. 
 "There is little pleasure," he said to Mrs. Piozzi, 
 "in relating the anecdotes of beggary." 
 
 Johnson derived from his parents, or from an 
 unwholesome nurse, the distemper called the 
 king's evil. The Jacobites at that time believed 
 in the efficacy of the royal touch ; and accord- 
 ingly Mrs. Johnson presented her son, when two 
 years old, before GLueen Anne, who, for the first 
 time, performed that office, and communicated 
 to her young patient all the healing virtue in her 
 power. He was afterwards cut for that scrophu- 
 lous humour, and the under part of his face was 
 seamed and disfigured by the operation. It is 
 supposed that this disease deprived him of the 
 sight of his left eye, and also impaired his hear- 
 ing. At eight years old he was placed under 
 Mr. Hawkins, at the Free-school in Litchfield, 
 
 *This appears in a note to Johnson's Diary, prefixed to 
 the first of his prayers. After the alteration" of the style, 
 he kept his birth-day on the 18th of September, and it is 
 accordingly marked September, 7-18. 
 
 where he was not remarkable for diligence 01 
 regular application. Whatever he read, his te- 
 nacious memory made his own. In the fields 
 with his school-fellows, he talked more to him- 
 self than with his companions. In 1725, when 
 he was about sixteen years old, he went on a 
 visit to his cousin C6rnelius Ford, who detained 
 him for some months, and in- the mean time as- 
 sisted him in the classics. The general direc- 
 tion for his studies, which he then received, he 
 related to Mrs. Piozzi. "Obtain," says Ford, 
 "some general principles of every science: he 
 who can talk only on one subject, or act only in 
 one department, is seldom wanted, and perhaps 
 never wished for; while the man of general 
 knowledge can often benefit, and always please." 
 This advice Johnson seems to have pursued with 
 a good inclination. His reading was ahvays de- 
 sultory, seldom resting on any particular author, 
 but rambling from one book to another, and, by 
 hasty snatches, hoarding up a variety of know- 
 ledge. It may be proper in this place to men- 
 tion another general rule laid down by Ford for 
 Johnson's future conduct: "You will make your 
 way the more easily in the world, as you are con- 
 tented to dispute no man's claim to conversation 
 excellence: they will, therefore, more willingly 
 allow your pretensions as a writer." " But," 
 says Mrs. Piozzi, " the features of peculiarity, 
 which mark a character to all succeeding gene- 
 rations, are slow in coming to their growth." 
 That ingenious lady adds, with her usual viva- 
 city, " Can one, on such an occasion, forbear re- 
 collecting the predictions of Boileau's father, 
 who said, stroking the head of the young satirist, 
 ' this little man has too much wit, but he will ne-. 
 ver speak ill of any one?'" 
 
 On Johnson's return from Cornelius Ford, 
 Mr. Hunter, then master of the Free-school at 
 Litchfield, refused to receive him again on that 
 foundation. At this distance of time, what his 
 reasons were, it is vain to inquire ; but to refuse 
 assistance to a lad of promising o-cnius must be 
 pronounced harsh and illiberal, ft did not, how- 
 ever stop the progress of the young student's 
 education. He was placed at another school, 
 at Stourbridge in Worcestershire, under the 
 care of Mr. Wentworth. Having gone through 
 the rudiments of classic literature, lie returned 
 to his father's house, and was probably intended 
 for the trade of a bookseller. He has been heard 
 to say that he could bind a book. At the end 
 of two years, being then about nineteen, he went 
 to assist the studies of a young gentleman of the 
 name of Corbett, to the University of Oxford ; 
 and on the 31st of October, 1728, both were en- 
 tered of Pembroke College ; Corbett, as a gentle- 
 man-commoner, and Johnson as a commoner. 
 The college tutor, Mr. Jordan, was a man of no 
 genius ; and Johnson, it seems, showed an early 
 contempt of mean abilities, in one or two in- 
 stances behaving with insolence to that gentle- 
 man. Of his general conduct at the university 
 there are no particulars that merit attention, ex- 
 cept the translation of Pope's Messiah, which 
 was a college exercise imposed upon him as a 
 task, by Mr. Jordan. Corbett left the university 
 in about two years, and Johnson's salary ceased. 
 He was by consequence straitened in his circum- 
 stances: but he still remained at college. Mr 
 Jordan the tutor, went off to a living; and was 
 succeeded by Dr. Adams, who afterwards be
 
 GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 ill 
 
 came head of the college, and was esteemed 
 through life for his learning, his talents, and his 
 amiable character. Johnson grew more regular 
 in his attendance. Ethics, theology, and classic 
 literature, were his favourite studies. He disco- 
 vered, notwithstanding, early symptoms of that 
 wandering disposition of mind, which adhered 
 to him to the end of his life. His reading was 
 by fits and starts, undirected to any particular 
 science. General philology, agreeably to his 
 cousin Ford's advice, was the object of his am- 
 bition. He received, at that time, an early im- 
 pression of piety, and a taste for the best authors, 
 ancient and modern. It may, notwithstanding, 
 be questioned whether,%xcept his Bible, he ever 
 read a book entirely through. Late in life, if any 
 man praised a book, in his presence, he was sure 
 to ask, "Did youread it through?" If the answer 
 was in the affirmative, he did not seem willing to 
 believe it. He continued at the university till the 
 want of pecuniary supplies obliged him to quit 
 the place. He obtained, however, the assistance 
 of a friend, and returning in a short time, was 
 able to complete a residence of three years. The 
 history of his exploits, at Oxford, he used to say, 
 was best known to Dr. Taylor and Dr. Adams. 
 Wonders are told of his memory, and, indeed, 
 all who knew him late in life, can witness that 
 he retained that faculty in the greatest vigour. 
 
 From the university Johnson returned to 
 Litchfield. His father died soon after, Decem- 
 ber 1731 ; and the whole receipt out of his ef- 
 fects, as appeared by a memorandum in the son's 
 hand-writing, dated 15th June, 1732, was no 
 more than twenty pounds.* In this exigence, 
 determined that poverty should neither depress 
 his spirit nor warp his integrity, he became un- 
 der-master of a grammar-school at Market-Bos- 
 worth in Leicestershire. That resource, how- 
 ever, did not last long. Disgusted by the pride 
 of Sir Wolstan Dixie, the patron of that little 
 seminary, he left the place in discontent, and 
 ever after spoke of it with abhorrence. In 1733 
 he went on a visit to Mr. Hector, who had been 
 ;iis school-fellow, and was then a surgeon at 
 Birmingham, lodging at the house of Warren, a 
 bookseller. At that place Johnson translated a 
 voyage to Abyssinia, written by Jerome Lobo, 
 a Portuguese missionary. This was the first 
 literary work from the pen of Dr. Johnson. His 
 friend Hector was occasionally his amanuensis. 
 The work was, probably, undertaken at the de- 
 sire of Warren, the bookseller, and was printed 
 at Birmingham ; but it appears in the Literary 
 Magazine, or History of the Works of the 
 Learned, for March 1735, that it was published 
 by Bettesworth and Hitch, Paternoster-row. It 
 contains a narrative of the endeavours of a com- 
 pany of missionaries to convert the people of 
 Abyssinia to the Church of Rome. In the pre- 
 face to this work Johnson observes, " that the 
 Portuguese traveller, contrary to the general 
 view of his countrymen, has amused his readers 
 with no romantic absurdities, or incredible fic- 
 
 *The entry of this is remarkable, for his early resolu- 
 tion to preserve through life a fair and upright character. 
 "1732, Junii 15. Undecim aureos dcposui, quo die, 
 quidquid ante matris fumis (quod serum sit precor) de 
 paternis l>onis sperare licet, viginti scilicet libras, accepi. 
 Usque adeo mini mea fortuna fingenda cst interea, et ne 
 paupertate vires animi languescaut, ne in flagitia egestas 
 ndigat, cavendum." 
 
 tion. He appears, by his modest and unaffected 
 narration, to have described things as he saw 
 them ; to have copied nature from the life ; and 
 to have consulted his senses, not his imagination. 
 He meets with no basilisks, that destroy with 
 their eyes; his crocodiles devour their prey, with- 
 out tears ; and his cataracts fall from the rock, 
 without deafening the neighbouring inhabitants. 
 The reader will here find no regions cursed with 
 irremediable barrenness, or blessed with spon- 
 taneous fecundity ; no perpetual gloom, or un- 
 ceasing sunshine: nor are the nations, here de- 
 scribed, either void of all sense of humanity, or 
 consummate in all private and social virtues : 
 here are no Hottentots without religion, polity, 
 or articulate language ; no Chinese perfectly po- 
 lite, and completely skilled in all sciences : he 
 will discover, what will always be discovered by 
 a diligent and impartial inquirer, that, wnerever 
 human nature is to be found, there is a mixture 
 of vice and virtue, a contest of passion and rea- 
 son ; and that the Creator doth not appear partial 
 in his distributions, but has balanced, in most 
 countries, their particular inconveniences by par- 
 ticular favours." We have here an early spe- 
 cimen of Johnson's mann er ; the vein of think- 
 ing and the frame of the sentences are "mani- 
 festly his: we see the infant Hercules. The 
 translation of Lobo's Narrative has been re- 
 printed lately in a separate volume, with some 
 other tracts of Dr. Johnson's, and therefore 
 forms no part of this edition ; but a compendious 
 account of so interesting a work as Father Lo- 
 bo's discovery of the head of the Nile will not, it 
 is imagined, be unacceptable to the reader. 
 
 Father Lobo, the Portuguese Missionary, em- 
 barked, in 1622, in the same fleet with the 
 Count Vidigueira, who was appointed, by the 
 king of Portugal, Viceroy of the Indies. They 
 arrived atGoa; and, in January 1624, Father 
 Lobo set out on the mission to Abyssinia. Two 
 of the Jesuits, sent on the same commission, were 
 murdered in their attempt to penetrate into that 
 empire. Lobo had better success ; he sur- 
 mounted all difficulties, and made his way into 
 the heart of the country. Then follows a de- 
 scription of Abyssinia, formerly the largest em- 
 pire of which we have an account in history. It 
 extended from the Red Sea to the kingdom of 
 Congo, and from Egypt to the Indian Sea, con- 
 taining no less than forty provinces. At the 
 time of Lobo's mission, it was not much larger 
 than Spain, consisting then but of five kingdoms, 
 of which part was entirely subject to the Em- 
 peror, and part paid him a tribute, as an ac- 
 knowledgment. The provinces were inhabited 
 by Moors, Pagans, Jews, and Christians. The 
 last was, in Lobo's time, the established and 
 reigning religion. The diversity of people and 
 religion is the reason why the kingdom was un- 
 der different forms of government, with laws 
 and customs extremely various. Some of the 
 people neither sowed their lands, nor improved 
 them by any kind of culture, living upon milk 
 and flesh, and, like the Arabs, encamping with- 
 out any settled habitation. In some places 
 they practised no rites of worship, though they 
 believed that, in the regions above, there dwells 
 a Being that governs the world. This Deity 
 they call in their language Out. The Christi- 
 anity professed by the people in some parts, is 
 corrupted with superstitious errors, and here-
 
 IV 
 
 AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND 
 
 si^s, and so mingled with ceremonies borrowed 
 from the Jews, that little, besides the name of 
 Christianity, is to be found among them. The 
 Abyssins cannot properly be said to have either 
 cities or houses ; they live in tents or cottages 
 made of straw or clay, very rarely building with 
 stone. Their villages or towns consist of these 
 huts ; yet even of such villages they have but 
 few; because the grandees, the viceroys, and the 
 emperor himself, are always in camp, that they 
 may be prepared, upon the most sudden alarm, 
 to meet every emergence, in a country which is 
 engaged every year either in foreign wars or in- 
 testine commotions. Ethiopia produces very 
 near the same kinds of provision as Portugal, 
 though, by the extreme laziness of the inhabit- 
 ants, in a much less quantity. What the an- 
 cients imagined of the torrid zone being a part 
 of the world uninhabitable, is so far from being 
 true, that the climate is very temperate. The 
 blacks have better features than in other coun- 
 tries, and are not without wit and ingenuity. 
 Their apprehension is quick, and their judgment 
 sound. There are in the climate two harvests 
 in the year : one in winter, which lasts through 
 the months of July, August and September; 
 the other in the Spring. They have, in the 
 greatest plenty, raisins, peaches, pomegranates, 
 sugar-canes, and some figs. Most of these are 
 ripe about Lent, which the Abyssins keep with 
 great strictness. The animals of the country 
 are the lion, the elephant, the rhinoceros, the uni- 
 corn, horses, mules, oxen, and cows without 
 number. They have a very particular custom, 
 which obliges every man, that has a thousand 
 c;ows, to save every year one day's milk of all 
 his herd, and make a bath with it for his rela- 
 tions. This they do so many days in each year, 
 as they have thousands of cattle ; so that, to ex- 
 press how rich a man is, they tell you he bathes 
 so many times. 
 
 " Of the river Nile, which has furnished so 
 much controversy, we have a full and clear de- 
 scription. It is called by the natives, Abavi, 
 the Father of Water. It rises in Sacala, a pro- 
 vince of the kingdom of Goiama, the most fer- 
 tile and agreeable part of the Abyssinian do- 
 minions. On the Eastern side of the country, 
 on the declivity of a mountain, whose descent is 
 so easy, that it seems a beautiful plain, is that 
 source of the Nile, which has been sought after 
 at so much expense and labour. This spring, 
 or rather these two springs, are two holes, each 
 about two feet diameter, a stone's cast distant 
 from each other. One of them is about five 
 feet and a half in depth. Lobo was not able to 
 sink his plummet lower, perhaps, because it was 
 stopped by roots, the whole place being full of 
 trees. A line often feet did not reach the bot- 
 tom of the other. These springs are supposed 
 by the Abyssins to be the vents of a great sub- 
 terraneous lake. At a small distance to the 
 South, is a village called Guix, through which 
 you ascend to the top of the mountain, where 
 there is a little hill, which the idolatrous Agaci 
 hold in great veneration. Their priest calls 
 them together to this place once a year : and 
 every one sacrifices a cow, or more, according 
 to the different degrees of wealth and devotion 
 Hence we have sufficient proof, that these na- 
 tions always paid adoration to the Deity of this 
 famous rivor. 
 
 " As to the course of the Nile, its waters, af- 
 ter the first rise, run towards the East, about the 
 length of a musket-shot: then, turning north- 
 ward, continue hidden in the grass and weedu 
 for about a quarter of a league, when they re- 
 appear amongst a quantity of rocks. The Nile 
 from its source proceeds with so inconsiderable 
 a current, that it is in danger of being dried up 
 by the hot season ; but soon receiving an increase 
 from the Gemma, the Keltu, the Bransa, and the 
 other smaller rivers, it expands to such a breadth 
 in the plains of Boad, which is not above three 
 days' journey from its source, that a musket- 
 ball will scarcely fly from one bank to the other. 
 Here it begins to run northward, winding, how- 
 ever, a little to the East for the space of nine or 
 ten leagues, and then enters the so-much-talkcd- 
 of Lake of Dambia, flowing with such violent 
 rapidity, that its waters may be distinguished 
 through the whole passage, which is no less than 
 six leagues. Here begins the greatness of the 
 Nile. Fifteen miles further, in the land of Alata, 
 it rushes precipitately from the top of a high rock, 
 and forms one of the most beautiful waterfalls 
 in the world. Lobo says, he passed under it 
 without being wet, and resting himself, for the 
 sake of the coolness, was charmed with a thou- 
 sand delightful rainbows, which the sunbeams 
 painted on the water, in all their shining and 
 lively colours.* The fall of this mighty stream, 
 from so great a height, makes a noise that may 
 be heard at a considerable distance ; but it was 
 not found, that the neighbouring inhabitants 
 were deaf. After the cataract, the Nile collects 
 its scattered stream among the rocks, which are 
 so near each other, that in Lobo's time, a bridge 
 of beams, on which the whole imperial army 
 passed, was laid over them. Sultan Sequed has 
 since built a stone bridge of one arch, in the 
 same place, for which purpose he procured ma 
 sons from India. Here the river alters its course, 
 and passes through various kingdoms, such as 
 Amhara, Olaca, Choaa, Damot, and the king 
 dom of Goiama, and, after various windings, 
 returns within a short day's journey of its spring. 
 To pursue it through all its mazes, and accom 
 pany it round the kingdom of Goiama, is a jour- 
 ney of twenty-nine days. From Abyssinia, the 
 river passes into the countries of Fazulo and 
 Ombarca, two vast regions little known, inha- 
 bited by nations entirely different from the Abys- 
 sins. Their hair, like that of the other blacks in 
 those regions, is short and curled. In the year 
 1615, Rassela Christos, Lieutenant-General to 
 Sultan Sequed, entered those kingdoms in a hos- 
 tile manner ; but, not being able to get intelli- 
 gence, returned without attempting any thing. 
 As the empire of Abyssinia terminates at these 
 descents, Lobo followed the course of the Nile 
 no farther, leaving it to range ovei barbarous 
 kingdoms, and convey wealth and plenty into 
 JEgypt, which owes to the annual inundations 
 
 * This, Mr. Bruce, the late traveller, avers to he a down- 
 right falsehood. He says, a deep pool of water reaches to 
 the very foot of the rock; and allowing that there was a 
 peat or bench (which there is not) in the middle of the 
 pool, it is absolutely impossible, by any exertion of human 
 strength, to have arrived at it. But it may be isked, can 
 Mr. Bruce say, what was the face of the country io tho 
 year 1622, when Lobo saw the magnificent sight which lie 
 has described? Mr. Bruce's pool of water may have been 
 formed since ; and Lobo, perhaps, was content to sit dowu 
 without a bench.
 
 GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 of this river its envied fertility.* Lobo knows 
 nothing uf the Nile in the rest of its passage, 
 except that it receives great increase from many 
 other rivers, has several cataracts like that al- 
 ready described, and that few fish are to be 
 found in it ; that scarcity is to be attributed to 
 the river horse and the crocodile, which destroy 
 the weaker inhabitants of the river. Something, 
 likewise, must be imputed to the cataracts, where 
 fish cannot fall without being killed. Lobo adds, 
 that neither he, nor any with whom he conversed 
 about the crocodile, ever saw him weep ; and 
 therefore all that hath been said about his tears 
 must be ranked among the fables invented for 
 the amusement of children. 
 
 As to the causes of the inundations of the 
 Nile, Lobo observes, that many an idle hypothe- 
 sis has been framed. Some theorists ascribe it 
 to the high winds, that stop the current, and 
 force the water above its banks. Others pre- 
 tend a subterraneous communication between 
 the Ocean and the Nile, and that the sea, when 
 violently agitated, swells the river. Many are 
 of opinion, that this mighty flood proceeds from 
 the melting of the snow on the mountains of 
 Ethiopia ; but so much snow and such prodigious 
 heat are never met with in the same region. 
 Lobo never saw snow in Abyssinia, except on 
 Mount Semen in the kingdom of Tigre, very 
 remote from the Nile ; and on Namara, which 
 is, indeed, not far distant, but where there never 
 falls snow enough to wet, when dissolved, the 
 foot of the mountain. To the immense labours 
 of the Portuguese, mankind is indebted for the 
 knowledge of the real cause of these inundations, 
 so great and so regular. By them we are in- 
 formed, that Abyssinia, where the Nile rises, is 
 full of mountains, and in its natural situation, is 
 much higher than Egypt ; that in the winter, from 
 June to September, no day is without rain ; that 
 the Nile receives in its course, all the rivers, 
 brooks, and torrents, that fall from those moun- 
 tains, and, by necessary consequence, swelling 
 above its banks, fills the plains of Egypt with 
 inundations, which come regularly about the 
 month of July, or three weeks after the begin- 
 ning of the rainy season in Ethiopia. The dif- 
 ferent degrees of this flood are such certain indi- 
 cations of the fruitfulness or sterility of the ensu- 
 ingyear, thatit is publiclyproclaimedatCairohow 
 much the water hath gained during the night." 
 
 Such is the account of the Nile and its inun- 
 dations, which it is hoped will not be deemed an 
 improper or tedious digression, especially as the 
 whole is an extract from Johnson's translation. 
 He is all the time the actor in the scene, and in 
 his own words relates the story. Having finish- 
 ed this work, he returnsd, in February 1734, to 
 his native city, and, in the month of August fol- 
 lowing, published proposals for printing by sub- 
 scription the Latin Poems of Politian, with the 
 History of Latin Poetry, from the Era of Pe- 
 trarch, to the time of Politian; and also the 
 life of Politian, to be added by the Editor, 
 Samuel Johnson. The book to be printed 
 in thirty octavo sheets, price five shillings. 
 It is to be regretted that this project failed for 
 
 * After comparing this description with that lately given 
 by Mr. Bruce, the reader will judge whether Lobo is to 
 lose t!iB honour of having been at the head of the Nile 
 near two centuries before any other European traveller. 
 
 want of encouragement. Johnson, it seems, 
 differed from Boileau, Voltaire, and D'Alembert, 
 who had taken upon them to proscribe all mo- 
 dern efforts to write with elegance in a dead 
 language. For a decision pronounced in so 
 high a tone, no good reason can be assigned. 
 The interests of learning require that the dic- 
 tion of Greece and Rome should be cultivated 
 with care; and he who can write a language 
 with correctness, will be most likely to under- 
 stand its idiom, its grammar, and its peculiar 
 graces of style. What man of taste would will- 
 ingly forego the pleasure of reading Vida, Fra.- 
 castorius, Sannazaro, Strada, and others, down 
 to the late elegant productions of Bishop Lowth? 
 The history which Johnson proposed to himself 
 would, beyond all question, have been a valuable* 
 addition to the history of letters ; but his project 
 failed. His next expedient was to offer his as 
 sistance to Cave, the original projector of the 
 Gentleman's Magazine. For this purpose he 
 sent his proposals in a letter, offering, on rea 
 sonable terms, occasionally to fill some pages 
 with poems and inscriptions never printed be- 
 fore ; with fugitive pieces that deserved to be re- 
 vived, and critical remarks on authors ancient 
 and modern. Cave agreed to retain him as a 
 correspondent and contributor to the Magazine. 
 What the conditions were cannot now be 
 known ; but certainly they were not sufficient 
 to hinder Johnson from casting his eyes about 
 him in quest of other employment. According- 
 ly, in 1735, he made overtures to the Rev. Mr. 
 Budworth, Master of a Grammar-school at 
 Brerewood, in Staffordshire, to become his as- 
 sistant. This proposition did not succeed. Mr. 
 Budworth apprehended, that the involuntary 
 motions, to which Johnson's nerves were sub- 
 ject, might make him an object of ridicule with 
 his scholars, and, by consequence, lessen their 
 respect for their master. Another mode of ad- 
 vancing himself presented itself about this time. 
 Mrs. Porter, the widow of a mercer in Birming- 
 ham, admired his talents. It is said that she had 
 about eight hundred pounds; and that sum to a 
 person in Johnson's circumstances was an afflu- 
 ent fortune. A marriage took place, and to turn 
 his wife's money to the best advantage, he prc 
 jected the scheme of an academy for education. 
 Gilbert Walmsley, at that time Registrar of the 
 Ecclesiastical Court of the Bishop of Litchfield, 
 was distinguished by his erudition, and the po- 
 liteness of his manners. He was the friend of 
 Johnson, and, by his weight and influence en 
 deavoured to promote his interest. The cele- 
 brated Garrick, whose father, Captain Garrick, 
 lived at Litchfield, was placed in the new semi- 
 nary of education, by that gentleman's advice. 
 Garrick was then about eighteen years old. An 
 accession of seven or eight pupils was the most 
 that could be obtained, though notice was given 
 by a public advertisement,! that at Edial, near 
 Litchfield, in Staffordshire, young gentlemen are 
 boarded and taught the Latin and Greek Lan- 
 guages, by Samuel Johnson. 
 
 The undertaking proved abortive. Johnson 
 having now abandoned all hopes of promoting 
 his fortune in the country, determined to become 
 an adventurer in the world at large. His young 
 pupil, Garrick, had formed the same resolution ; 
 
 I t See the Gentleman's Magazine for 1736, p. 413
 
 VI 
 
 AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND 
 
 and, accordingly, in March, 1737, they arrived 
 in London together. Two such candidates for 
 fame, perhaps never before that day entered 
 ihe metropolis together. Their stock of money 
 wus soon exhausted. In his visionary project 
 of an academy, Johnson had probably wasted 
 his wife's substance ; and Garrick's father had 
 little more than his half-pay. The two fellow- 
 travellers had the world before them, and each 
 was to choose his road to fortune and to fame. 
 They brought with them genius, and powers of 
 mind, peculiarly formed by nature for the differ- 
 ent vocations to which each of them felt himself 
 inclined. They acted from the impulse of young 
 minds, even then meditating great things, and 
 with courage anticipating success. Their friend 
 Mr. Walmsley, by a letter to the Rev. Mr. Col- 
 son, who, it seems, was a great mathematician, 
 exerted his good offices in their favour. He gave 
 notice of their intended- 'journey. "Davy Gar- 
 rick," he said, "will be with you next week; 
 and Johnson, to try his fate with a tragedy, and 
 to get himself employed in some translation 
 either from the Latin or French. Johnson is a 
 very good scholar and a poet, and I have great 
 hopes will turn out a fine tragedy writer. If it 
 should be in your way, I doubt not but you will 
 be ready to recommend and assist your country- 
 men." Of Mr. Walmsley's merit, and the ex- 
 cellence of his character, Johnson has left a 
 beautiful testimonial at the end of the Life of 
 Edward Smith. It is reasonable to conclude, 
 that a mathematician, absorbed in abstract spe- 
 culations, was not able to find a sphere of action 
 for two men who were to be the architects of 
 their own fortune. In three or four years after- 
 wards Garrick came forth, with talents that as- 
 tonished the public. He began his career at 
 Goodman's-fields, and there, monstratus fatis 
 Vespasianus! he chose a lucrative profession, 
 and consequently soon emerged from all his dif- 
 ficulties. Johnson was left to toil in the hum- 
 ble walks of literature. A tragedy, as appears 
 by Walmsley's letter, was the whole of his stock. 
 This, most probably, was IRENE ; but, if then 
 finished, it was doomed to wait fora more happy 
 period. It was offered to Fleetwood, and reject- 
 ed. Johnson looked round him for employment. 
 Having, while he remained in the country, cor- 
 responded with Cave, under a feigned name, he 
 new thought it time to make himself known to 
 a man whom he considered as a patron of litera- 
 ture. Cave had announced, by public advertise- 
 ment, a prize of fifty pounds for the beet poem on 
 Life, Death, Judgment, Heaven, and Hell ; and 
 this circumstance diffused an idea of his libe- 
 rality. Johnson became connected with him in 
 business, and in a close and intimate acquaint- 
 ance. Of Cave's character it is unnecessary to 
 say any thing in this place, as Johnson was af- 
 terwards the biographer of his first and most use- 
 ful patron. To be engaged in the translation of 
 some important book was still the object which 
 Johnson had in view. For this purpose he pro- 
 posed tn give the History of the Council of Trent, 
 with copious notes, then lately added to a French 
 edition. Twelve sheets of this work were print- 
 ed, for which Johnson received forty-nine 
 pounds, as appears by his receipt in the posses- 
 sion of Mr. Nichols, the compiler of that enter- 
 taining and useful work, the Gentleman's Maga- 
 zine. Johnson's translation was never com- 
 
 pleted : a like design was offered to the public, 
 under the patronage of Dr. Zachary Pearce; 
 and by that contention both attempts were frus- 
 trated. Johnson had been commended by tope 
 for the translation of the Messiah into Latin 
 verse; but he knew no approach to so eminent a 
 man. With one, however, who was connected 
 with Pope, he became acquainted at St. John's 
 Gate; and that person was no other than the 
 well-known Richard Savage, whose life was af- 
 terwards written by Johnson, with great ele- 
 gance, and a depth of moral reflection. Savage 
 was a man of considerable talents. His ad- 
 dress, his various accomplishments, and, above 
 all, the peculiarity of his 'misfortunes, recom 
 mended him to Johnson's notice. They be- 
 came united in the closest intimacy. Both had 
 great parts, and they were equally under the 
 pressure of want. Sympathy joined them in a 
 league of friendship. Johnson has been often 
 heard to relate, that he and Savage walked 
 round Grosvenor-square till four in the morn- 
 ing ; in the course of their conversation reform- 
 ing the world, dethroning princes, establishing 
 new forms of government, and giving laws to 
 the several states of Europe; till, fatigued at 
 length with their legislative office, they began to 
 feel the want of refreshment, but could not mus- 
 ter up more than fourpence-halfpenny. Sa 
 vage, it is true, had many vices : but vice could 
 never strike its roots in a mind like Johnson's, 
 seasoned early with religion, and the principles of 
 moral rectitude. His first prayer was composed 
 in the year 1738. He had not at that time re- 
 nounced the use of wine ; and, no doubt, occa- 
 sionally enjoyed his friend and his bottle. The 
 love of late hours, which followed him through 
 life, was, perhaps, originally contracted in com- 
 pany with Savage. However that may be, theii 
 connexion was not of long duration. In the 
 year 1738, Savage was reduced to the last dis- 
 tress. Mr. Pope, in a letter to him, expressed 
 his concern for "the miserable withdrawing of 
 his pension after the death of the Q,ueen;" and 
 gave him hopes that, " in a short time, he should 
 find himself supplied with a competence, with 
 out any dependence on those little creatures 
 whom we are pleased to call the Great. The 
 scheme proposed to him was, that he should re- 
 tire to Swansea in Wales, and receive an allow- 
 ance of fifty pounds a year, to be raised by sub- 
 scription ; Pope was to pay twenty pounds. This 
 plan, though finally established, took more than 
 a year before it was carried into execution. In 
 the mean time, the intended retreat of Savage 
 called to Johnson's mind the third Satire of Ju- 
 venal in which that poet takes leave of a friend, 
 who was withdrawing himself from all the vices 
 of Rome. Struck with this idea, he wrote that 
 well-known poem, called London. The first 
 lines manifestly point to Savage. 
 
 ''Though grief and fondness in my breast rebel 
 When injured Thales bills the town farewell; 
 Yet still my calmer thoughts his choice commend , 
 I praise the hermit, but regret the friend , 
 Resolved at length, from Vice and London far 
 To breathe in distant fields a purer air ; 
 And fixed on Cambria's solitary shore, 
 Give to St. David one true Briton more.' 
 
 Johnson at that time lodged at Greenwicru 
 He there fixes the scene, und takes leave of his 
 friend; who, he says in his Life, parted from
 
 GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 vu 
 
 him with tears in his eyes. The poem, when 
 finished, was offered to Cave. It happened, 
 however, that the late Mr. Dodsley was the 
 purchaser, at the price of ten guineas. It was 
 published in 1738; and Pope, we are told, said, 
 " The author, whoever he is, will not be long 
 concealed :" alluding to the passage in Terence, 
 Ubi, u&i est, diu celari non potest. Notwithstand- 
 ing that prediction, it does not appear that, be- 
 sides the copy-money, any advantage accrued 
 to the author of a poem, written with the ele- 
 gance and energy of Pope. Johnson, in Au- 
 gust 1738, went, with all the fame of his poetry, 
 to offer himself a candidate for the mastership of 
 the school at Appleby, in Leicestershire. The 
 statutes of the place required, that the person 
 chosen should be a Master of Arts. To remove 
 this objection, the then Lord Gower was induced 
 to write to a friend, in order to obtain for John- 
 son a Master's degree in the University of Dub- 
 lin, by the recommendation of Dr. Swift. The 
 letter was printed in one of the Magazines, and 
 was as follows : 
 
 "Sm, 
 
 "Mr. Samuel Johnson (author of London, a 
 Satire, and some other poetical pieces,) is a na- 
 tivj of this county, and much respected by some 
 worthy gentlemen in the neighbourhood, who 
 are trustees of a charity-school, now vacant ; the 
 certain salary of which is sixty pounds per year, 
 of which they are desirous to make him master ; 
 but unfortunately he is not capable of receiving 
 their bounty, which would make him happy for 
 life, by not being a Master of Arts, which, by 
 the statutes of the school, the master of it must 
 be. 
 
 "Now, these gentlemen do me the honour to 
 think, that I have interest enough in you, to pre- 
 vail upon you to write to Dean Swift, to persuade 
 die University of Dublin to send a diploma to 
 me, constituting this poor man Master of Arts 
 in their University. Theyhighly extol the man's 
 learning and probity, and will not be persuaded, 
 that the University will make any difficulty of 
 conferring such a favour upon a stranger, if he 
 is recommended by the Dean. They say he is 
 not afraid of the strictest examination, though 
 he is of so long a journey; and yet he will ven- 
 ture it, if the Dean thinks it necessary, choosing 
 rather to die upon the road, than to be starved 
 to death in translating for booksellers, which 
 has been his only subsistence for some time 
 past. 
 
 "I fear there is more difficulty in this affair 
 than these good-natured gentlemen apprehend, 
 especially as their election cannot be delayed 
 longer than the llth of next month. If you see 
 this matter in the same light that it appears to 
 me, I hope you will burn this, and pardon me 
 for giving you so much trouble about an imprac- 
 ticable thing ; but, if you think there is a proba- 
 bility of obtaining the favour asked, I am sure 
 your humanity and propensity to relieve merit 
 in distress will incline you to serve the poor 
 man, without my adding any more to the trou- 
 ble 1 have already given you, than assuring you, 
 that I am, with great truth, 
 
 " Pir, 
 " Your faithful humble servant, 
 
 "GOWER." 
 
 " Trentbaiii Aug. Ut." 
 
 This scheme miscarried. There is reason to 
 think, that Swift declined to meddle in the busi- 
 ness; and to that circumstance Johnson's known 
 dislike of Swift has been often imputed. 
 
 ft is mortifying to pursue a man of merit 
 through all his difficulties ; and yet this narra- 
 tive must be, through many following years, the 
 history of Genius and "Virtue struggling with 
 Adversity. Having lost the school at Appleby, 
 Johnson was thrown back on the metropolis. 
 Bred to no profession, without relations, friends 
 or interest, he was condemned to drudgery in 
 the service of Cave, his only patron. In Novem 
 her 1738 was published a translation of Crou- 
 saz's Examen of Pope's Essay on Man ; " con- 
 taining a succinct View of the System of the 
 Fatalists, and a Confutation of their Opinions ; 
 with an Illustration of the Doctrine of Free- 
 Will; and an Inquiry, what view Mr. Pope 
 might have in touching upon the Leibnitzian 
 Philosophy, and Fatalism. By Mr. Crousaz, 
 Professor of Philosophy, and Mathematics at 
 Lausanne." This translation has been gene- 
 rally thought a production of Johnson's pen ; 
 but it is now known, that Mrs. Elizabeth Carter 
 has acknowledged it to be one of her early per- 
 formances. It is certain, however, that John- 
 son was eager to promote the publication. He 
 considered the foreign philosopher as a man 
 zealous in the cause of religion ; and with him 
 he was willing to join against the system of the 
 Fatalists, and the doctrine of Leibnitz. It is 
 well known that Warburton wrote a vindication 
 of Mr. Pope , but there is reason to think that 
 Johnson conceived an early prejudice against 
 the Essay on Man ; and what once took root in 
 a mind like his, was not easily eradicated. His 
 letter to Cave on this subject is still extant, and 
 may well justify Sir John Hawkins, who inferred 
 that Johnson was the translator of Crousaz. 
 The conclusion of the letter is remarkable. "1 
 am yours, IMPRANSUS." If by that Latin word 
 was meant that he had not dined, .because he 
 wanted the means, who can read it, even at this 
 hour, without an aching heart ? 
 
 With a mind naturally vigorous, and quick 
 ened by necessity, Johnson formed a multiplici 
 ty of projects ; but most of them proved abortive. 
 A number of small tracts issued from his pen 
 with wonderful rapidity; such as "M ARMOR 
 NORFOLCIENSE ; or an Essay on an ancient pro- 
 phetical Inscription, in Monkish Rhyme, dis- 
 covered at Lynn in Norfolk. By Probus Britan- 
 ntciw.'' This was a pamphlet against Sir Robert 
 Walpole. According to Sir John Hawkins, a 
 warrant was issued to apprehend the Author, 
 who retired with his wife to an obscure lodging 
 near Lambeth Marsh, and there eluded the 
 search of the messengers. But this story has 
 no foundation in truth. Johnson was never 
 known to mention such an incident in his life ; 
 and Mr. Steele (late of the Treasury) caused 
 diligent search to be made at the proper offices, 
 and no trace of such a proceeding could be 
 found. In the same year (1739) the Lord 
 Chamberlain prohibited the representation of a 
 tragedy, called GCSTAVUS VASA, by Henry 
 Brooke. Under the mask of irony, Johnson 
 published "A Vindication of the Licenser fiom 
 the malicious and scandalous Aspersions of Mr. 
 Brooke." Of these two pieces Sir John Haw- 
 kins says, " they have neither learning nor wit,
 
 vin 
 
 AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND 
 
 nor a single ray of that genius which has since 
 blazed forth ; but, as they have lately been re- 
 printed, the reader, who wishes to gratify liis cu- 
 riosity, is referred to the fourteenth volume of 
 Johnson's works, published by Stockdale. The 
 lives of Boerhaave, Blake, Barratier, Father 
 Paul, and others, were about that time, printed 
 in the Gentleman's Magazine. The subscrip- 
 tion of fifty pounds a year for Savage was com- 
 pleted; and m July 1739, Johnson parted with 
 the companion of his midnight hours never to 
 see him more. The separation was, perhaps, 
 an advantage to him, who wanted to make a 
 right use of his time, and even then beheld with 
 self-reproach the waste occasioned by dissipa- 
 tion. His abstinence from wine and strong li- 
 quors began soon after the departure of Savage. 
 What habits he contracted in the course of that 
 acquaintance cannot now be known. The am- 
 bition of excelling in conversation, and that 
 pride of victory, which, at times, disgraced a 
 man of Johnson's genius, were, perhaps, native 
 blemishes. A fierce spirit of independence, 
 even in the midst of poverty, may be seen in 
 Savage; and, if not thence transfused by John- 
 son into his own manners, it may, at least, be 
 supposed to have gained strength from the ex- 
 ample before him. During that connexion there 
 was, if we believe Sir John Hawkins, a short 
 separation between our author and his wife ; 
 but a reconciliation soon took place. Johnson 
 loved her, and showed his affection in various 
 modes of gallantry, which Garrick used to render 
 ridiculous by his mimicry. The affectation of 
 soft and fashionable airs did not become an un- 
 wieldy figure : his admiration was received by 
 the wife with the flutter of an antiquated co- 
 quette ; and both, it is well known, furnished 
 matter for the lively genius of Garrick. 
 
 It is a mortifying reflection, that Johnson, 
 with a store of learning and extraordinary ta- 
 lents, was not able, at the age of thirty, to force 
 his way to the favour of the public. Slow rises 
 worth, by poverty depress fd. "He was still," as 
 he says himself, "to provide for the day that was 
 passing over him." He saw Cave involved in a 
 state of warfare with the numerous competitors, 
 at that time struggling with the Gentleman's 
 Magazine; and gratitude for such supplies as 
 Johnson received dictated a Latin Ode on the 
 subject of that contention. The first lines, 
 
 " Urbane, nullis fesse laboribus, 
 Urbaue, nullis victe calumniis," 
 
 put one in mind of Casimir's Ode to Pope Ur- 
 ban: 
 
 " Urbane, regura miutime, maxime 
 Urbane vatum." 
 
 The Polish poet was, probably, at that time in 
 the hands of a man who had meditated the his- 
 tory of the Latin poets. Guthrie the historian 
 nad from July 1736 compossd the parliamentary 
 speeches for the Magazine ; but, from the begin- 
 ning of the session which opened on the 19th of 
 November 1740, Johnson succeeded to that de- 
 partment, and continued it from that time to the 
 debate on spirituous liquors, which happened in 
 the House of Lords in February 1742-3. The 
 eloquence, the force of argument, and the splen- 
 dour of language displayed in the several 
 
 speeches, are well known, and universally nd 
 mired. The whole has been collected in two 
 volumes by Mr. Stockdale, and may form a pro- 
 per supplement to this edition. That Johnson 
 was the author of the debates during that period 
 was not generally known ; but the secret tran- 
 spired several years afterwards, and was avowed 
 by himself on the following occasion: Mr. Wed- 
 derburne (now Lord Loughborough,)* Dr. John- 
 son, Dr. Francis, (the translator of Horace,) the 
 present writer, and others, dined with the late 
 Mr. Foote. An important debate towards the 
 end of Sir Robert Walpole's administration be- 
 ing mentioned, Dr. Francis observed, " That 
 Mr. Pitt's speech, on that occasion, was the best 
 he had ever read." He added, "That he had 
 employed eight years of his life in the study of 
 Demosthenes, and finished a translation of that 
 celebrated orator, with all the decorations of 
 style and language within the reach of his ca- 
 pacity ; but he had met with nothing equal to 
 the speech above-mentioned." Many of the 
 company remembered the debate ; and some 
 passages were cited, with the approbation and 
 applause of all present. During the ardour of 
 conversation Johnson' remained silent As soon 
 as the warmth of praise subsided, he opened 
 with these words : " That speech I wrote in a 
 garret in Exeter-street." The company was 
 struck with astonishment. After staring at each 
 other in silent amaze, Dr. Francis asked, "How 
 that speech could be written by him ?" " Sir," 
 said Johnson, "I wrote it in Exeter-street. I 
 never had been in the gallery of the House of 
 Commons but once. Cave had interest with 
 the door-keepers. He, and the persons em- 
 ployed under him, gained admittance; they 
 brought away the subject of discussion, the 
 names of the speakers, the side they took, 
 and the order in which they rose, together 
 with notes of the arguments advanced in the 
 course of the debate. The whole was after 
 wards communicated to me, and I composed the 
 speeches in the form which they now have in 
 the Parliamentary Debates." To this discovery 
 Dr. Francis made answer: "Then, Sir, you have 
 exceeded Demosthenes himself; for to say that 
 you have exceeded Francis's Demosthenes, 
 would be saying nothing." The rest of the 
 company bestowed lavish encomiums on John- 
 son ; one, in particular, praised his impartiality ; 
 observing, that he dealt out reason and elo- 
 quence with an equal hand to both parties. 
 "That is not quite true," said Johnson; "1 
 saved appearances tolerably well ; but I took 
 care that the whig dogs should not have the best 
 of it" The sale of the Magazine was greatly 
 increased by the Parliamentary Debates, which 
 were continued by Johnson till the month of 
 March 1742-3. From that time the Magazine 
 was conducted by Dr. Hawkesworth. 
 
 In 1743-4, Osborne, the bookseller, who kept 
 a shop in Gray's-lnn, purchased the Earl of Ox- 
 ford's library, at the price of thirteen thousand 
 pounds. He projected a catalogue in five oc- 
 tavo volumes, at five shillings each. Johnson 
 was employed in that painful drudgery. He 
 was likewise to collect all such small tracts as 
 were in any degrees worth preserving in order 
 to reprint and publish the whole in a collection 
 
 Afterwards Earl of KosJin. He died Jan. i> 1805
 
 GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 called " The Harleian Miscellany/' The cata- 
 logue was completed: and the Miscellany, in 
 1749, was published in eight quarto volumes. 
 In this business Johnson was a day-labourer for 
 immediate subsistence, not unlike Gustavus 
 Vasa, working in the mines of Dalecarlia. What 
 Wilcox, a bookseller of eminence in the Strand, 
 said to Johnson, on his first arrival in town, was 
 now almost confirmed. He lent our author five 
 guineas, and then asked him, "How do you 
 mean to earn your livelihood in this town?" "By 
 my literary labours," was the answer. Wil- 
 cox, staring at him, shook his head : " By your 
 literary labours ! You had better buy a porter's 
 knot." Johnson used to tell this anecdote to 
 Mr. Nichols ; but he said, " Wilcox was one of 
 my best friends, and he meant well." In fact, 
 Johnson, while employed in Gray's-Inn, may be 
 said to have carried a, porter's knot. He paused 
 occasionally to peruse the book that came to his 
 hand. Osborne thought that such curiosity 
 tended to nothing but delay, and objected to it 
 with all the pride and insolence of a man who 
 knew that he paid daily wages. In the dispute 
 that of course ensued, Osborne, with that rough- 
 ness which was natural to him, enforced his ar- 
 gument by giving the lie. Johnson seized a 
 folio and knocked the bookseller down. This 
 story has been related as an instance of John- 
 son's ferocity ; but merit cannot always take the 
 spurns of the unworthy with a patient spirit* 
 
 That the history of an author must be found 
 in his works, is, in general, a true observation ; 
 and was never more apparent than in the pre- 
 sent narrative. Every era of Johnson's life is 
 fixed by his writings. In 1744, he published 
 the life of Savage ; and then projected a new edi- 
 tion of Shakspeare. As a prelude to that de- 
 sign, he published, in 1745, " Miscellaneous Ob- 
 servations on the Tragedy of Macbeth, with Re- 
 marks on Sir Thomas Hanmer's Edition ;" to 
 which were prefixed, " Proposals for a new Edi- 
 tion of Shakspeare," with a specimen. Of this 
 pamphlet Warburton, in the Preface to Shaks- 
 peare, has given his opinion: "As to all those 
 things, which have been published under the 
 title of Essays, Remarks, Observations, &c. on 
 Shakspeare, if you except some critical notes on 
 Macbeth, given as a specimen of a projected edi- 
 tion, and written, as appears, by a man of parts 
 and genius, the rest are absolutely below a se- 
 rious notice." But the attention of the public 
 was not excited ; there was no friend to promote 
 a subscription ; and the project died, to revive at 
 a future day. A new undertaking, however, 
 was soon after proposed ; namely, an English 
 Dictionary upon an enlarged plan. Several of 
 the most opulent booksellers had meditated a 
 work of this kind ; and the agreement was soon 
 adjusted between the parties. Emboldened by 
 this connexion, JohnsrtH thought of a better ha- 
 bitation than he had hitherto known. He had 
 lodged with his wife in courts and alleys about 
 the Strand ; but now, for the purpose of carrying 
 on his arduo'-'*- undertaking, and to be nearer 
 his printer and fnend, Mr. Strahan, he ventured 
 to take a house in Gough-square, Fleet-street. 
 
 *Mr. Boswell says, "The simple truth I had from John- 
 non himself. 'Sir, he was impertinent to me, an-1 1 boat 
 nun; bul it was not in his shop, it was in my own chain- 
 
 He was told that the Earl of Chesterfield was 
 a friend to his undertaking; and in consequence 
 of that intelligence, h published, in 1747, The 
 Plan of a Dictionary of the English Language, 
 addressed to the Right Honourable Philip Dormer, 
 Earl of Chesterfield, one of his Majesty's princi 
 pal Secretaries of State. Mr. Whitehead, after 
 wards Poet Laureat, undertook to convey the 
 manuscript to his Lordship: the consequence 
 was an invitation from Lord Chesterfield to the 
 author. A stronger contrast of characters could 
 not be brought together ; the Nobleman, cele- 
 brated for his wit, and all the graces of polite 
 behaviour; the Author, conscious of his own 
 merit, towering in idea above all competition, 
 versed in scholastic logic, but a stranger to the 
 arts of polite conversation, uncouth, vehement, 
 and vociferous. The coalition was too unnatu- 
 ral. Johnson expected a Maecenas, and was 
 disappointed. No patronage, no assistance fol- 
 lowed. Visits were repeated ; but the reception 
 was not cordial. Johnson one day was left a 
 full hour, waiting in an antichamber, till a gen- 
 tleman should retire, and leave his lordship at 
 leisure. This was the famous Colley Gibber. 
 Johnson saw him go, and fired with indignation, 
 rushed out of the house, f What Lord Ches- 
 terfield thought of his visiter may be seen in a 
 passage in one of that Nobleman's letters to his 
 son.f "There is a man, whose moral charac 
 ter, deep learning, and superior parts, I acknow- 
 ledge, admire, and respect; but whom it is so 
 impossible for me to love, that I am almost in a 
 fever whenever I am in his company. His figure 
 (without being deformed) seems made to dis- 
 grace or ridicule the common structure of the 
 human body. His legs and arms are never in 
 the position which, according to the situation of 
 his body, they ought to be in, but constantly 
 employed in committing acts of hostility upon 
 the Graces. He throws any where, but dcwn 
 his throat, whatever he means to drink: and 
 mangles what he means to carve. Inattentive 
 to all the regards of social life, he mis-times and 
 mis-places every thing. He disputes with heat 
 indiscriminately, mindless of the rank, charac- 
 ter, and situation of those with whom he dis 
 putes. Absolutely ignorant of the several gra- 
 dations of familiarity and respect, he is exactly 
 the same to his superiors, his equals, and his in- 
 feriors; and therefore by a necessary conse- 
 quence, is absurd to two of the three. Is it pos- 
 sible to love such a man ? No. The utmost I 
 can do for him is, to consider him a respectable 
 Hottentot." Such was the idea entertained by 
 lord Chesterfield. After the incident of Colley 
 Gibber, Johnson never- repeated his visits. In 
 his high and decisive tone, he has been often 
 heard to say, "Lord Chesterfield is a Wit 
 among Lords, and a Lord among Wits." 
 
 In the course of the year 1747, Garrick, in 
 conjunction with Lacy, became patentee of 
 Drury-Lane playhouse. For the opening of 
 the theatre at the usual time, Johnson wrote 
 for his friend the well-known prologue, which, 
 to say no more of it, may at least be placed on 
 a level with Pope's to the tragedy of Cato. The 
 playhouse being now under Garrick's direction. 
 
 tDr. Jolinson denies the whole of this story. See Bos 
 well's Life. vol. i. p. 128. Oct. edit. 1804. C. 
 1 Letter CCXII.
 
 ^ ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND 
 
 Johnson thought the opportunity fair to think of 
 his tragedy of Irene, which was his whole stock 
 on his first arrival in town, in the year 1737. 
 That play was according!}' put into rehearsal in 
 January, 1749. As a precursor to prepare the 
 way, and to awaken the public attention, The 
 Vanity of Human Wishes, a poem in imitation of 
 the Tenth Satire of Juvenal, by the Author of 
 London, was published in the same month. In 
 the Gentleman's Magazine, for February, 1749, 
 we find that the tragedy of Irene was acted at 
 Drury-Lane, on Monday, February the 6th, and 
 from that time, without interruption, to Monday, 
 February, the 20th being in all thirteen nights. 
 Since that time it has not been exhibited on any 
 stage. Irene may be added to some other plays 
 in our language, v/hich have lost their place 
 in the theatre, but continue to please in the 
 closet During the representation of this piece, 
 Johnson attended every night behind the scenes. 
 Conceiving that his character as an author re- 
 quired some ornament for his person, he chose 
 upon that occasion to decorate himself with a 
 handsome waistcoat, and a gold-laced hat The 
 late Mr. Topham Beauclerc, who had a great 
 deal of that humour, which pleases the more for 
 seeming undesigned, used to give a pleasant de- 
 scription of this green-room finery, as related by 
 the author himself ; "But," said Johnson, with 
 great gravity, " I soon laid aside my gold-laced 
 hat, lest it should make me proud." The amount 
 of the three benefit nights for the tragedy of 
 Irene, it is to be feared, was not very considera- 
 ble, as the profit, that stimulating motive, never 
 invited the author to another dramatic attempt. 
 Some years afterwards, when the present writer 
 was intimate with Garrick, and knew Johnson 
 to be in distress, he asked the manager why he 
 did not produce another tragedy for his Litch- 
 field friend ? Garriek's answer was remarkable : 
 "When Johnson writes tragedy, declamation 
 roars, and passion sleeps: when Shakspeare 
 wrote, he dipped his pen in his own heart" 
 
 There may, perhaps, be a degree of sameness 
 in this regular way of tracing an author from 
 one work to another, and the reader may feel the 
 effect of a tedious monotony : but in the life of 
 Johnson there are no other landmarks. He 
 was now forty years old, and had mixed but lit- 
 tle with the world. He followed no profession, 
 transacted no business, and was a stranger to 
 what is called a town life. We are now arrived 
 at the brightest period he had hitherto known. 
 His name broke out upon mankind with a de- 
 gree of lustre that promised a triumph over all his 
 difficulties. The Life of Savage was admired as 
 a beautiful and instructive piece of biography. 
 The two imitations of Juvenal were thought to 
 rival even the excellence of Pope ; and the tra- 
 gedy of Irene, though uninteresting on the stage, 
 was universally admired in the closet, for the 
 propriety of the sentiments, the richness of the 
 language, and the general harmony of the whole 
 composition. His fame was widely diffused; 
 and lie had made his agreement with the book- 
 sellers for his English Dictionary at the sum of 
 fifteen hundred guineas ; a part of which was to 
 be, from time to time, advanced in proportion to 
 the progress of the work. This was a certain 
 fund for his support, without being obliged to 
 write fugitive pieces for the petty supplies of the 
 day. Accordingly we find that, in 1749, he esta- 
 
 blished a club, consisting of ten in number at 
 Horseman's, in Ivy-Lane, on every Tuesday 
 evening. This is the first scene of social life to 
 which Johnson can be traced out of his own 
 house. The members of this little society were, 
 Samuel Johnson ; Dr. Salter (father of the late 
 Master of the Charter-House;) Dr. Hawker- 
 worth ; Mr. Ryland, a merchant ; Mr. Payne, a 
 bookseller, in Paternoster-row; Mr. Samuel 
 Dyer, alearned young man; Dr. Wm. M'Ghie, a 
 Scotch physician ; Dr. Edmund Barker, a young 
 physician ; Dr. Bathurst, another young physi- 
 cian ; and Sir John Hawkins. This list is given 
 by Sir John, as it should seem, with no other 
 view than to draw a spiteful and malevolent cha- 
 racter of almost every one of them. Mr. Dyer, 
 whom Sir John says he loved with the affection 
 of a brother, meets with the harshest treatment, 
 because it was his maxim, that to live in peace 
 with mankind, and in a temper to do good offices, 
 was the most essential part of our duty. That no- 
 tion of moral goodness gave umbrage to Sir John 
 Hawkins, and drew down upon the memory of 
 his friend the bitterest imputations. Mr. Dyer, 
 however, was admired and loved through life. 
 He was a man of literature. Johnson loved to 
 enter with him into a discussion of metaphysical, 
 moral, and critical subjects; in those conflicts, 
 exercising his talents, and, according to his cus- 
 tom, always contending for victory. Dr. Ba- 
 thurst was the person on whom Johnson fixed 
 his affection. He hardly ever spoke of him 
 without tears in his eyes. It was from him, who 
 was a native of Jamaica, that Johnson received 
 into his service Frank,* the black servant, whom, 
 on account of his master, he valued to the end 
 of his life. At the time of instituting the club in 
 Ivy-Lane, Johnson had projected the Rambler. 
 The title was most probably suggested by the 
 Wanderer; a poem which he mentions with the 
 warmest praise, in the Life of Savage. With 
 the same spirit of independence with which he 
 wished to live, it was now his pride to write. 
 He communicated his plan to none of his friends; 
 he desired no assistance, relying entirely on his 
 own fund, and the protection of the Divine Be 
 ing, which he implored in a solemn form oi 
 prayer, composed by himself for the occasion. 
 Having formed a resolution to undertake a work 
 that might be of use and honour to his country, 
 he thought, with Milton, that this was not to be 
 obtained " but by devout prayer to that Eternal 
 Spirit that can enrich with all utterance and 
 knowledge, and send out his seraphim with the 
 hallowed fire of his altar, to touch and purify the 
 lips of whom he pleases." 
 
 Having invoked the special protection of Hea- 
 ven, and by that act of piety fortified his mind, 
 he began the great work of the Rambler. The 
 first number was published on Tuesday, March 
 the 20th, 1750 ; and fromhat time was continued 
 regularly every Tuesday and Saturday, for the 
 space of two years, when it finally closed, on 
 Saturday, March 14, 1752. As it began with 
 motives of piety, so it appears that the same reli- 
 gious spirit glowed with unabating ardour to the 
 last. His conclusion is : " The Essays profess- 
 edly serious, if I have been able to execute my 
 own intentions, will be found exactly conforma- 
 ble to the precepts of Christianity, without any 
 
 *See Gent. May. vol. Jxxi. p. 190.
 
 GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 XI 
 
 accommodation to the licentiousness and levity 
 of the present age. I therefore look back on 
 this part of my work with pleasure, which no 
 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." The whole number of Es- 
 says amounted to two hundred arid eight Ad- 
 dison's, in the Spectator, are more in number, 
 but not half in point of quantity : Addison was 
 not bound to publish on stated days ; he could 
 watch the ebb and flow of bis genius, and send 
 his paper to the press when his own taste was 
 satisfied. Johnson's case was fery different 
 lie wrote singly and alone. In the whole pro- 
 gress of the work he did not receive more than 
 ten essays. This was a scanty contribution. 
 For the rest, the author has described his situa- 
 tion. "He that condemns himself to compose 
 on a stated day, will often bring to bis 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 topic, till it is too late 
 to change it ; or, in the ardour of invention, dif- 
 fuse his thoughts into wild exuberance, which 
 the pressing hour of publication cannot suffer 
 judgment to examine or reduce." Of this excel- 
 lent production, the number sold on each day 
 did not amount to five hundred : of course the 
 bookseller, who paid the author four guineas a 
 week, did not carry on a successful trade. His 
 generosity and perseverance deserve to be com- 
 mended ; and happily, when the collection ap- 
 peared in volumes, were amply rewarded. John- 
 son lived to see his labours flourish in a tenth 
 edition. His posterity, as an ingenious French 
 writer has said on a similar occasion, began in 
 his lifetime. 
 
 In the beginning of 1750, soon after the Ram- 
 bler was set on foot, Johnson was induced by the 
 arts of a vile impostor to lend his assistance, 
 during a temporary delusion, to a fraud not to 
 be paralleled in the annals of literature.* One 
 Lauder, a native of Scotland, who had been a 
 teacher in the University of Edinburgh, had con- 
 ceived a mortal antipathy to the name and cha- 
 racter of Milton. His reason was, because the 
 prayer of Pamela, in Sir Philip Sidney's Arca- 
 dia, was, as he supposed, maliciously inserted 
 by the great poet in an edition of the Eikon 
 Basilike, in order to fix an imputation of impiety 
 on the memory of the murdered king. Fired 
 with resentment, and willing to reap the profits 
 of a gross imposition, this man collected from 
 several Latin poets, such as Masenius the Je- 
 suit, Staphorstius a Dutch divine, Beza, and 
 others, all such passages as bore any kind of 
 resemblance to different places in the Paradise 
 Lost ; and these he published from time to time, 
 in the Gentleman's Magazine, with occasional 
 interpolations of lines, which he himself trans- 
 lated from Milton. The public credulity swal- 
 lowed all with eagerness ; and Milton was sup- 
 posed to be guilty of plagiarism from inferior 
 modem writers. The fraud succeeded so well, 
 that Lauder collected the whole into a volume, 
 and advertised it under the title of " An Essay 
 
 * It has since been paralleled, in the caso of the Shaks- 
 pcare MSS. by a yet more vile impostor. 
 
 on Milton's Use and Imitation of the Moderns, 
 in his Paradise Lost ; dedicated to the Universi- 
 ties of Oxford and Cambridge." While the 
 book was in the press, the proof-sheets were 
 shown to Johnson at the Ivy-Lane club, by 
 Payne, the bookseller, who was one of the mem- 
 bers. No man in that Society was in posses- 
 sion pf the authors from whom Lauder professed 
 to make his extracts. The charge was believed, 
 and the contriver of it found his way to Johnson ; 
 who is represented by Sir John Hawkins, not 
 indeed as an accomplice in the fraud, but through 
 motives of malignity to Milton, delighting in the 
 detection, and exulting that the poet's reputation 
 would suffer by the discovery. More malice to 
 a deceased fnend cannot well be imagined. 
 Hawkins adds, " that he wished well to the ar- 
 gument must be inferred from the preface, which 
 indubitably was written by him." The preface, 
 it is well known, was written by Johnson, and 
 for that reason is inserted in this edition. But 
 if Johnson approved of the argument, it was no 
 longer than while he believed it founded in truth. 
 Let us advert to bis own words in that very pre- 
 face. "Among the inquiries to which the ar- 
 dour of criticism has naturally given occasion, 
 none is more obscure in itself, or more worthy of 
 rational curiosity, than a retrospection of the 
 progress of this mighty genius in the construc- 
 tion of his work ; a view of the fabric gradually 
 rising, perhaps from small beginnings, till its 
 foundation rests in the centre, and its turrets 
 sparkle in the skies ; to trace back the structure, 
 through all its varieties, to the simplicity of the 
 first plan ; to find what was projected, whence 
 the scheme was taken, how it was improved, by 
 what assistance it was executed, and from what 
 stores the materials were collected ; whether its 
 founder dug them from the quarries of nature, 
 or demolished other buildings to embellish his 
 own." These were the motives that induced 
 Johnson to assist Lauder with a preface : and 
 are not these the motives of a critic and a scho 
 lar ? What reader of taste, what man of real 
 knowledge, would not think his time well em- 
 ployed in an inquiry so curious, so interesting, 
 and instructive? If Lauder' s facts were really 
 true, who would not be glad, without the small- 
 est tincture of malevolence, to receive real in- 
 formation? It is painful to be thus obliged to 
 vindicate a man who, in his heart, towered above 
 the petty arts of fraud and imposition, against an 
 injudicious biographer, who undertook to be his 
 editor, and the protector of his memory. Ano- 
 ther writer, Dr. Towers, in an Essay on the Life 
 and Character of Dr. Johnson, seems to counte- 
 nance this calumny. He says, " It can hardly 
 be doubted, but that Johnson's aversion to Mil- 
 ton's politics was the cause of that alacrity with 
 which he joined with Lauder in his infamous at- 
 tack on our great epic poet, and which induced 
 him to assist in that transaction." These words 
 would seem to describe an accomplice, were they 
 not immediately followed by an express declara- 
 tion, that Johnson was unacquainted with the im- 
 posture. Dr. Towers adds, " It seems to have 
 been by way of making some compensation to 
 the memory of Milton, for the share he had in 
 the attack of Lauder, that Johnson wrote the 
 Prologue, spoken by Garrick, at Drury-Lane 
 Theatre, 1750, on the performance of the Masque 
 of Comus, for the benefit of Milton's grand
 
 Xll 
 
 daughter." Dr. Towers is not free from preju- 
 dice; but, as Shakspeare has it, "he begets a 
 temperance, to give it smoothness." He is, 
 therefore, entitled to a dispassionate answer. 
 When Johnson wrote the prologue, it does not 
 appear that he was aware of the malignant ar- 
 tifices practised by Lauder. In the postscript 
 to Johnson's preface, a subscription is proposed, 
 for relieving the grand-daughter of the author 
 of Paradise Lost. Dr. Towers will agree that 
 this shows Johnson's alacrity in doing good. 
 That alacrity showed itself again in the letter 
 pnnted in the European Magazine, January, 
 1785, and there said to have appeared originally 
 in the General Advertiser, 4th April, 1750, by 
 which the public were invited to embrace the 
 opportunity of paying a just regard to the illus- 
 trious dead, united with the pleasure of doing 
 good to the living. The letter adds, " to assist 
 industrious indigence, struggling with distress, 
 and debilitated by age, is a display of virtue, and 
 an acquisition of happiness and honour. Who- 
 ever, therefore, would be thought capable of 
 pleasure in reading the works of our incompara- 
 ble Milton, and not so destitute of gratitude as 
 to refuse to lay out a trifle, in a rational and ele- 
 gant entertainment, for the benefit of his living 
 remains, for the exercise of their own virtue, the 
 increase of their reputation, and the conscious- 
 ness of doing good, should appear at Drury- 
 Lane Theatre, to-morrow, April 5, when COMUS 
 will be performed for the benefit of Mrs. Eliza- 
 beth Foster, grand-daughter to the author, and 
 the only surviving branch of his family. Nota 
 bene, there will be a new prologue on the oc- 
 casion, written by the author of Irene, and 
 spoken by Mr. Garrick." The man who had 
 thus exerted himself to serve the grand-daughter, 
 cannot be supposed to have entertained personal 
 malice to the grand-father. It is true, that the 
 malevolence of Lauder, as well as the impostures 
 of Archibald Bower, were fully detected by the 
 labours, in the cause of truth, of the Rev. Dr. 
 Douglas, the late Lord Bishop of Salisbury. 
 
 " Diram qui contudit Hydram, 
 Notaque fatali portenta labore subegit." 
 
 But the pamphlet, entitled, " Milton vindicated 
 from the charge of Plagiarism brought against 
 him by Mr. Lauder, and Lauder himself con- 
 victed of several Forgeries and gross Imposi- 
 tions on the Public, by John Douglas, M. A. 
 Rector of Eaton Constantine, Salop," was not 
 published till the year 1751. In that work, p. 
 77, Dr. Douglas says, "It is to be hoped, nay, 
 it is expected, that the elegant and nervous wri- 
 ter, whose judicious sentiments and inimitable 
 style point out the author of Lauder's preface 
 and postscript, will no longer allow A MAN to 
 plume himself with his feathers, who appears so 
 little to have deserved his assistance, an assist- 
 ance which I am persuaded would never have 
 been communicated, had there been the least 
 suspicion of those facts, which I have been the 
 instrument of conveying to the world." We 
 have here a contemporary testimony to the in- 
 tegrity of Dr. Johnson throughout the whole of 
 that vile transaction. What was the consequence 
 of the requisition made by Dr. Douglas ? John- 
 son, whose ruling passion may be said to be the 
 love of truth, convinced Lauder, that it would 
 be more for his interest to make a full confession 
 
 AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND 
 
 of his guilt, than to stand forth the convicted 
 champion of a lie ; and for this purpose he drew 
 up, in the strongest terms, a recantation, in a 
 Letter to the Rev. Mr. Douglass, which Lauder 
 signed, and published in the year 1751. That 
 piece will remain a lasting memorial of the ab- 
 horrence with which Johnson beheld a violation 
 of truth. Mr. Nichols, whose attachment to 
 his illustrious friend was unwearied, showed 
 him, in 1780, a book called " Remarks on John- 
 son's Life of Milton," in which the affair of 
 Lauder was renewed with virulence, and a po- 
 etical scale in the Literary Magazine, 1758, (when 
 Johnson had ceased to write in that collection) 
 was urged as an additional proof of deliberate 
 malice. He read the libellous passage with at- 
 tention, and instantly wrote on the margin: " In 
 the business of Lauder I was deceived, partly by 
 thinking the man too frantic to be fraudulent. 
 Of the poetical scale quoted from the Magazine I 
 am not the author. I fancy it was put in alter I 
 had quitted that work ; for I not only did not 
 write it, but I do not remember it." As a critic 
 and a scholar, Johnson was willing to receive 
 what numbers, at the time, believed to be true 
 information : when he found that the whole 
 was a forgery, he renounced all connexion with 
 the author. 
 
 In March 1752, _he felt a severe stroke of af- 
 fliction in the death of his wife. The last num 
 ber of the Rambler, as already mentioned, was 
 on the 14th of that month. The loss of Mrs. 
 Johnson was then approaching, and probably 
 was the cause that put an end to those admira- 
 ble periodical essays. It appears that she died 
 on the 28th of March : in a memorandum, at 
 the foot of the Prayers and Meditations, that is 
 called her Dying Day. She was buried at 
 Bromley, under the care of Dr. Hawkesworth. 
 Johnson placed a Latin inscription on her tomb, 
 in which he celebrated her beauty. With the 
 singularity of his prayers for his deceased wife, 
 from that time to the end of his days, the world 
 is sufficiently acquainted. On Easter-day, 22d 
 April, 1 764, his memorandum says : " Thought 
 on Tetty, poor dear Tetty ; with my eyes full. 
 Went to church. After sermon I recommended 
 Tetty in a prayer by herself; and my father, 
 mother, brother, and Bathurst, in another. I 
 did it only once, so far as it might be lawful 
 for me." In a prayer, January 23, 1759, the 
 day on which his mother was buried, he com- 
 mends, as far as may be lawful, her soul to God, 
 imploring for her whatever is most beneficial to 
 her in her present state. In this habit he per- 
 severed to the end of his days. The Rev. Mr. 
 Strahan, the editor of the Prayers and Medita- 
 tions, observes, "That Johnson, on some occa- 
 sions, prays that the Almighty may have had mercy 
 on his wife and Mr. Thrale ; evidently supposing 
 their sentence to have been already passed in the 
 Divine Mind ; and by consequence, proving, 
 that he had no belief in a state of purgatory, and 
 no reason for praying for the dead that could im- 
 peach the sincerity of his profession as a Pro- 
 testant." Mr. Strahan adds, "That, in praving 
 for the regretted tenants of the grave, Johnson 
 conformed to a practice which has been retained 
 by many learned members of the Established 
 Church, though the Liturgy no longer admits it. 
 If where the tree falleth, there it shall be ; if our 
 state, at the close of life, is to be the measure of
 
 GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 our final sentence, then prayers for the dead, be- 
 ing visibly fruitless, can be regarded only as the 
 vain oblations of superstition. But of all super- 
 stitions this, perhaps, is one of the least unamia- 
 ble, and most incident to a good mind. If our 
 sensations of kindness be intense, those, whom 
 we have revered and loved, death cannot wholly 
 seclude from our concern. It is true, for the rea- 
 son just mentioned, such evidences of our sur- 
 viving affection may be thought ill-judged ; but 
 surely they are generous, and some natural ten- 
 derness is due even to a superstition, which thus 
 originates in piety and benevolence." These 
 sentences, extracted from the Rev. Mr. Strahan's 
 preface, if they are not a full justification, are, 
 at least, a beautiful apology. It will not be im- 
 proper to add what Johnson himself has said on 
 the subject. Being asked by Mr. Boswell,* 
 what he thought of purgatory as believed by the 
 Roman Catholics ? His answer was, " It is a 
 very harmless doctrine. They are of opinion, 
 that the generality of mankind are neither so ob- 
 stinately wicked as to deserve everlasting pu- 
 nishment ; nor so good as to merit being admit- 
 ted into the society of blessed spirits ; and, there- 
 fore, that God is graciously pleased to allow a 
 middle state, where they may be purified by cer- 
 tain degrees of suffering. You see there is no- 
 thing unreasonable in this ; and if it be once es- 
 tablished that there are souls in purgatory, it is 
 as proper to pray for them, as for our brethren 
 of mankind who are yet in this life." This was 
 Dr. Johnson's guess into futurity ; and to guess 
 is the utmost that man can do. " Shadows, 
 clouds, and darkness, rest upon it." 
 
 Mrs. Johnson left a daughter, Lucy Porter, 
 by her first husband. She had contracted a 
 friendship with Mrs. Anne Williams, the daugh- 
 ter of Zachary Williams, a physician of emi- 
 nence in South Wales, who had devoted more 
 than thirty years of a long life to the study of the 
 longitude, and was thought to have made great 
 advances towards that important discovery. 
 His letters to Lord Halifax, and the Lords of 
 the Admiralty, partly corrected and partly writ- 
 ten by Dr. Johnson, are still extant in the hands 
 of Mr. Nichols.j We there find Dr. Williams, 
 in the eighty-third year of his age, stating, that 
 he had prepared an instrument, which might be 
 called an epitome or miniature of the terraque- 
 ous globe, showing, with the assistance of tables 
 constructed by himself, the variations of the 
 magnetic needle, and ascertaining the longitude 
 for the safety of navigation. It appears that 
 this scheme had been referred to Sir Isaac New- 
 ton ; but that great philosopher excusing himself 
 on account of his advanced age, all applications 
 were useless till 1751, when the subject was re- 
 ferred, by order of Lord Anson, to Dr. Bradley, 
 the celebrated professor of astronomy. His re- 
 port was unfavourable,^ though it allows that a 
 considerable progress had been made. Dr. 
 Williams, after all his labour and expense, died 
 in a short time after, a melancholy instance of 
 unrewarded merit. His daughter possessed un- 
 common talents, and, though blind, had an ala- 
 crity of mind that made her conversation agree- 
 able, and even desirable. To relieve and ap- 
 
 * Life of Johnson, vol. i. p. 328. 4to edition. 
 
 (See Gentleman's Magazine for Nov. and Dec. 1787. 
 
 1 See Gentleman's Magazine for 1787, p. 1042. 
 
 X1U 
 
 pease melancholy reflections, Johnson took her 
 home to his house in Gough-square. In 1755, 
 Garrick gave her a benefit-play, which produced 
 two hundred pounds. In 1766, she published, 
 by subscription, a quarto volume of Miscella- 
 nies, and increased her little stock to three hun- 
 dred pounds. That fund, with Johnson's pro- 
 tection, supported her through the remainder of 
 her life. 
 
 During the two years in which the Rambler 
 was carried on, the Dictionary proceeded by slow 
 degrees. In May 1752, having composed a 
 prayer preparatory to his return from tears and 
 sorrow to the duties of life, he resumed his grand 
 design, and went on with vigour, giving, how- 
 ever, occasional assistance to his friend Dr. 
 Hawkesworth in the Adventurer, which began 
 soon after the Rambler was laid aside. Some 
 of the most valuable essays in that collection 
 were from the pen of Johnson. The Dictionary 
 was completed towards the end of 1754 ; and, 
 Cave being then no more, it was a mortification 
 to the author of that noble addition to our lan- 
 guage, that his old friend did not live to see the 
 triumph of his labours. In May 1755, that 
 great work was published. Johnson was de- 
 sirous that it should come from one who had ob- 
 tained academical honours ; and for that pur 
 pose his friend, the Rev. Thomas Wharton, ob 
 tained for him, in the preceding month of Feb- 
 ruary, a diploma for a master's degree from the 
 University of Oxford. Garrick, on the publi- 
 cation of the Dictionary, wrote the following 
 lines ; 
 
 " Talk of war with a Briton, he'll boldly advance, 
 That one English soldier can beat ten of France, 
 Would we alter the boast, from the sword to the pen, 
 Our odds are still greater, still greater our men. 
 In the deep mines of science, though Frenchmen may 
 
 toil, [Boyle J 
 
 Can their strength be compared to Locke, Newton, or 
 Let them rally their heroes, seud forth all their powers, 
 Their versemen and prosemen, then match them with 
 
 ours. 
 
 First Shakspeare and Milton, like gods in the fight 
 Have put their whole drama and epic to Sight. 
 In satires, epistles, and odes would they cope t 
 Their numbers retreat before Dryden and Pope. 
 And Johnson well arm'd, like a hero of yore, 
 Has beat forty French, and will beat forty more," 
 
 It is, perhaps, needless to mention, that Forty 
 was the number of the French academy, at the 
 time when their Dictionary was published to set- 
 tle their language. 
 
 In the course of the winter preceding this grand 
 publication, the late Earl of Chesterfield gave 
 two essays in the periodical paper called The 
 World, dated November 28, and December 5, 
 1754, to prepare the public for so important a 
 work. The original plan, addressed to his 
 Lordship in the year 1747, is there mentioned in 
 terms of the highest praise ; and this was under- 
 stood, at the time, to be a courtly way of soli- 
 citing a dedication of the Dictionary to himself. 
 Johnson treated this civility with disdain. He 
 said to Garrick and others, "I have sailed a 
 long and painful voyage round the world of the 
 English language, and does he now send out two 
 cock-boats to tow me into harbour?" He had 
 said, in the last number of the Ramblor, that 
 "having laboured to maintain the dignity of 
 virtue, I will not now degrade it by the mean- 
 ness of dedication." Such a man, when he had
 
 XIV 
 
 AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND 
 
 finished his Dictionary, " not," as he says him- 
 self, " in the soft obscurities of retirement, or 
 under the shelter of academic bowers, but amidst 
 inconvenience and distraction, in sickness and 
 in sorrow, and without the patronage of the 
 Great," was not likely to be caught by the lure 
 thrown out by Lord Chesterfield. He had in 
 vain sought the patronage of that nobleman; 
 and his pride, exasperated by disappointment, 
 drew from him the following letter, dated in the 
 month of February, 1755. 
 
 " To the Right Hem. the Earl of CHESTERFIELD. 
 " MY LORD, 
 
 " I have been lately informed, by the proprie- 
 tors of The World, that two papers, in which 
 my Dictionary is recommended to the public, 
 were written by your Lordship. To be so dis- 
 tinguished, is an honour which, being very little 
 accustomed to favours from the great, I know 
 not well how to receive, or in what terms to ac- 
 knowledge. 
 
 " When, upon some slight encouragement, I 
 first visited your Lordship, I was overpowered, 
 like the rest of mankind, by the enchantment of 
 your address, and could not forbear to wish, 
 that I might boast myself le vainqueur du vain- 
 queur de la terre ; that I might obtain that regard 
 for which I saw the world contending. But I 
 found my attendance so little encouraged, that 
 neither pride nor modesty would suffer me to 
 continue it. When I had once addressed your 
 Lordship in public, I had exhausted all the art 
 of pleasing, which a retired and uncourtly scho- 
 lar can possess. I had done all that I could ; 
 and no man is well pleased to have his all ne- 
 glected, be it ever so little. 
 
 " Seven years, my Lord, have now passed 
 since I waited in your outward room, or was re- 
 pulsed from your door; during which time I have 
 been pushing on my work through difficulties of 
 which it is useless to complain, and have brought 
 it at last to the verge of publication, without one 
 act of assistance, one word of encouragement, 
 or one smile of favour. Such treatment I did 
 not expect, for I never had a patron before. 
 
 "The Shepherd in Virgil grew acquainted 
 with Love, and found him a native of the rocks. 
 
 "Is not a patron, my Lord, one who looks 
 with unconcern on a man struggling for life in 
 the water, and, when he has reached ground, 
 encumbers him with help ? The notice which 
 you have been pleased to take of my labours, 
 had it been early, had been kind : but it has 
 been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot 
 enjoy it ; till I am solitary, and cannot impart 
 it ; till I am known, and do not want it I hope 
 it is no very cynical asperity not to confess ob- 
 ligations where no benefit has been received ; or 
 to be unwilling that the public should consider 
 me as owing that to a patron, which Providence 
 has enabled me to do for myself. 
 
 "Having carried on my work thus far with 
 so little obligation to any favourer of learning, I 
 shall not be disappointed, though I should con- 
 clude it, if less be possible, with less ; for I have 
 been long wakened from that dream of hope, in 
 which I once boasted myself with so much ex- 
 ultation, 
 
 My Lord, your Lordship's most humble, 
 And most obedient servant, 
 
 SAMUEL JOHNSON." 
 
 It is said, upon good authority, that Johnson 
 once received from Lord Chesterfield the sum 
 of ten pounds. It were to be wished that the 
 secret had never transpired. It was mean to re- 
 ceive it, and meaner to give it. It may be ima- 
 gined, that for Johnson's ferocity, as it has been 
 called, there was some foundation in his finances; 
 and, as his Dictionary was brought to a conclu- 
 sion, that money was now to flow in upon him. 
 The reverse was the case. For his subsistence, 
 during the progress of the work, he had received 
 at different times the amount of his contract ; and 
 when his receipts were produced to him at a ta- 
 vern dinner, given by the booksellers, it appeared 
 that he had been paid a hundred pounds and up- 
 wards more than his due. The author of a 
 book, called Lexiphanes* written by a Mr. 
 Campbell, a Scotchman, and purser of a man 
 of war, endeavoured to blast his laurels, but in 
 vain. The world applauded, and Johnson ne- 
 ver replied. " Abuse," he said, " is often of 
 service : there is nothing so dangerous to an 
 author as silence ; his name, like a shuttlecock, 
 must be beat backward and forward, or it falls 
 to the ground." Lexiphanes professed to be an 
 imitation of the pleasant manner of Lucian ; but 
 humour was not the talent of the writer of Lexi- 
 phanes. As Dryden says, " He had too much 
 horse-play in his raillery." 
 
 It was in the summer of 1754, that the pre- 
 sent writer became acquainted with Dr. John- 
 son. The cause of his first visit is related by 
 Mrs. Piozzi nearly in the following manner: 
 " Mr. Murphy being engaged in a periodical 
 paper, the Gray's-Inn Journal, was at a friend's 
 house in the country, and not being disposed to 
 lose pleasure for business, wished to content his 
 bookseller by some unstudied essay. He there- 
 fore took up a French Journal LiltSraire, and 
 translating something he liked, sent it away to 
 town. Time, however discovered that he trans- 
 lated from the French a Rambler, which had 
 been taken from the English without acknow- 
 ledgment. Upon this discovery, Mr. Murphy 
 thought it right to make his excuses to Dr. John- 
 son. He went next day, and found him covered 
 with soot, like a chimney-sweeper, in a little 
 room, as if he had been acting Lungs in the Al- 
 chymist, making (Ether. This being told by Mr. 
 Murphy in company, ' Come, come,' said Dr. 
 Johnson, 'the story is black enough ; but it was 
 a happy day that brought you first to my house.'" 
 After this first visit, the author of this narrative 
 by degrees grew intimate with Dr. Johnson. 
 The first striking sentence, that he heard from 
 him, was in a few days after the publication of 
 Lord Bolingbroke's posthumous works. Mr. 
 Garrick asked him, "If he had seen them?" 
 "Yes, I have seen them." "What do you 
 think of them?" " Think of them!" He made 
 a long pause, and then replied : " Think of 
 them ! A scoundrel and a coward ! A scoun- 
 drel, who spent his life in charging a gun against 
 Christianity ; and a coward, who was afraid of 
 hearing the report of his own gun ; but left half- 
 a-crown to a hungry Scotchman to draw the 
 trigger after his death." His mind, at this time 
 strained and over-laboured by constant exertion, 
 
 * This work was not published until the year 1767, 
 when Dr. Johnson's Dictionary was fully established in 
 reputation. C.
 
 S OF Dll. JOIIA'SOJN*. 
 
 culled for an interval of repose and indolence. 
 But indolence was the time of danger ; it was 
 then that his spirits, not employed abroad, turn- 
 ed with inward hostility against himself. His 
 reflections on his own life and conduct were al- 
 ways severe : and, wishing to be immaculate, 
 he destroyed his own peace by unnecessary 
 scruples. He tells us, that when he surveyed 
 his past life, he discovered nothing but a barren 
 waste of time, with some disorders of body, and 
 disturbances of mind, very near to madness. 
 His life, he says, from his earliest youth, was 
 wasted in a morning bed ; and his reigning sin 
 was a general sluggishness, to which he was al- 
 ways inclined, and in part of his life, almost 
 compelled, by morbid melancholy, and weari- 
 ness of mind. This was his constitutional ma- 
 lady ; derived, perhaps, from his father, who 
 was, at times, overcast with a gloom that bor- 
 dered on insanity. When to this it is added, 
 that Johnson, about the age of twenty, drew up 
 a description of his infirmities, for Dr. Swinfen, 
 at that time an eminent physician in Stafford- 
 shire ; and received an answer to his letter, im- 
 porting, that the symptoms indicated a future 
 privation of reason ; who can wonder that he 
 was troubled with melancholy and dejection of 
 spirit? An apprehension of the worst calamity 
 that can befall human nature hung over him all 
 the rest of his life, like the sword of the tyrant 
 suspended over his guest. In his sixtieth year 
 he had a mind to write the history of his melan- 
 choly ; but he desisted, not knowing, whether 
 it would not too much disturb him. In a Latin 
 Poem, however, to which he has prefixed as a 
 tide, FNnoI EEAYTON, he has left a picture of 
 himself, drawn with as much truth, and as firm 
 a hand, as can be seen in the portraits of Ho- 
 garth or Sir Joshua Reynolds. The learned 
 reader will find the original Poem in this vo- 
 lume, and it is hoped that a translation, or rather 
 imitation, of so curious a piece will not be im- 
 proper in this place. 
 
 KNOW YOURSELF. 
 
 (AFTER REVISING AND ENLARGING THE ENGLISH 
 LEXICON OR DICTIONARY.) 
 
 WHEN Scaliger, whole years of labour past, 
 Beheld his Lexicon complete at last, 
 And weary of his task, with wond'ring eyes, 
 Saw from words piled on words a fabric rise, 
 He cursed the industry, inertly strong, 
 In creeping toil that could persist so long, 
 And if, enraged he cried. Heaven meant to shed 
 Its keenest vengeance on the guilty head. 
 The drudgery of words the dainn'd would know, 
 Doooi'd to write Lexicons in endless wo.* 
 
 Yes, you had cause, great Genius, to repent ; 
 "You lost good days that might be better spent ;" 
 You well might grudge the hours of liug'ring pain, 
 And view your learned labours with disdain. 
 To you were given the large expanded mind, 
 The flame of genius, and the taste refined 
 'Twas yours on eagle wings uluft to soar, 
 And amidst rolling worlds the Great First Cune ex- 
 plore ; 
 
 To fix the eras of recorded time, 
 And live in every age and every clime , 
 Record the Chiefs, who propt their Country's cause ; 
 Who founded Empires, and established Laws ; 
 
 * See Scaliger's Epigram on this subject, communi- 
 cated without doubt by Dr. Johnson, Gent. Mag. 1748, 
 p. 8. 
 
 To learn whate'er the Sage, wit'i virtue fraught, 
 Whate'erthe Muse of moral wisdom taught. 
 These were your quarry ; these to you were known 
 And the world's ample volume was your own. 
 
 Yet warn'd by me, ye pigmy Wits, beware, 
 Nor with immortal Scaliger com pare. 
 For me, though his example strike my view 
 Oh ! not for me his footsteps to pursue. 
 Whether first Nature, unpropitious, cold, 
 This clay compounded in a ruder mould ; 
 Or the slow current, loitering at my heart, 
 No gleam of wit or fancy can impart ; 
 Whate'er the cause, from me no numbers flow 
 No visions warm me, and no raptures glow. 
 A mind like Scaliger's, superior still, 
 No grief could conquer, no misfortunes chill. 
 Though for the maze of words his native skies 
 He seem'd to quit, 'twas but again to rise ; 
 To mount once more to the bright source of day, 
 And view the wonders of th' ethereal way. 
 The love of Fame his generous bosom fired ; 
 Each Science hail'd him, and each Muse inspired 
 For him the Sons of Learning trimm'd the bays, 
 And Nations grew harmonious in his praise. 
 
 My task perform'd, and all my labours o'er, 
 For me what lot has Fortune now in store 1 
 The listless will succeeds, that worst disease, 
 The rack of indolence, the sluggish ease. 
 Care grows on care, and o'er my aching brain 
 Black melancholy pours her morbid train. 
 No kind relief, no lenitive at hand, 
 I seek at midnight clubs the social band. 
 But midnight clubs, where wit with noise conspire*, 
 Where Comus revels, and where wine inspires, 
 Delight no more : I seek my lonely bed, 
 And call on Sleep to soothe my languid head. 
 But Sleep from these sad lids flies far away ; 
 I mourn all night, and dread the coming day. 
 Exhausted, tired, I throw my eyes around, 
 To find some vacant spot on classic ground ; 
 And soon, vain hope ! I form a grand design ; 
 Languor succeeds, and all my powers decline 
 If Science open not her richest vein, 
 Without materials all our toil is vain. 
 A form to rugged stone when Phidias gives, 
 Beneath his touch a new creation lives. 
 Remove his marble, and his genius dies ; 
 With nature, then, no breathing statue vies. 
 
 Whate'er I plan, I feel my powers confined 
 By Fortune's frown and penury of mind. 
 I boast no knowledge glean'd with toil and strife, 
 That bright reward of a well-acted life. 
 I view myself, while Reason's feeble light 
 Shoots a pale glimmer through the gloom of night, 
 While passions, error, phantoms of the brain, 
 And vain opinions, fill the dark domain ; 
 A dreary void, where fears with grief combined 
 Waste all within, and desolate the mind. 
 
 What then remains ? Must I in slow decline 
 To mute inglorious ease old age resign ? 
 Or, bold Ambition kindling in my breast, 
 Attempt some arduous task ? Or, were it best, 
 Brooding o'er Lexicons to pass the day, 
 And in that labour drudge my life away ? 
 
 Such is the picture for which Dr. Johnson sat 
 to himself. He gives the prominent features 
 of his character ; his lassitude, his morbid me- 
 lancholy, his love of fame, his dejection, his ta- 
 vern parties, and his wandering reveries, Vacuat 
 mala somnia mentis, about which so much has 
 been written ; all are painted in miniature, but 
 in vivid colours, by his own hand. His idea of 
 writing more dictionaries was not merely said 
 in verse. Mr. Hamilton, who was at that time 
 an eminent printer, and well acquainted with 
 Dr. Johnson, remember* that he engaged in a 
 Commercial Dictionary, and, as appears by the 
 receipts in his possession? was paid his price for 
 several sheets ; but he soon relinquished the un 
 dertaking. It is probable that he found himscJ''
 
 AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND 
 
 not sufficiently versed in that branch of know- 
 ledge. 
 
 He was again reduced to the expedient of 
 short compositions for the supply of the day. 
 The writer of this narrative has now before him 
 a letter in Dr. Johnson's hand-writing, which 
 shows the distress and melancholy situation of 
 the man who had written the Rambler, and 
 finished the great work of his Dictionary. The 
 letter is directed to Mr. Richardson (the author 
 of Clarissa,) and is as follows : 
 
 SIR, 
 
 "I am obliged to entreat your assistance. I 
 am now under an arrest for five pounds eigh- 
 teen shillings. Mr. Strahan, from whom I should 
 have received the neccessary help in this case, is 
 not at home ; and I am afraid of not finding Mr. 
 Millar. If you will be so c;ood as to send me 
 this sum, I will very gratefully repay you, and 
 add it to all former obligations. 
 " I am, Sir, 
 
 " Your most obedient, 
 
 " and most humble servant, 
 
 "SAMUEL JOHNSON." 
 " Gough-Square, 16 March." 
 
 In the margin of this letter there is a memo- 
 randum in these words: "March 16, 1756, 
 Sent six guineas. Witness, Wm. Richardson." 
 For the honour of an admired writer it is to be 
 regretted, that we do not find a more liberal en- 
 try. To his friend in distress he sent eight shil- 
 lings more than was wanted. Had an incident 
 of this kind occurred in one of his Romances, 
 Richardson would have known how to grace 
 his hero ; but in fictitious scenes, generosity costs 
 the writer nothing. 
 
 About this time Johnson contributed several 
 papers to a periodical Miscellany, called " The 
 VISITOR," from motives which are highly ho- 
 nourable to him, a compassionate regard for the 
 late Mr. Christopher Smart The Criticism on 
 Pope's Epitaphs appeared in that work. In a 
 short time after he became a reviewer in the 
 Literary Magazine, under the auspices of the 
 late Mr. Newberry, a man of a projecting head, 
 good taste, and great industry. This employ- 
 ment engrossed but little of Johnson's time 
 He resigned himself to indolence, took no exer- 
 cise, rose about two, and then received the visits 
 of his friends. Authors long since forgotten, 
 waited on him as their oracle, and he gave re- 
 sponses in the chair of criticism. He listened 
 to the complaints, the schemes, and the hopes 
 and fears, of a crowd of inferior writers, "who." 
 he said, in the words of Roger Ascham, " lived, 
 men knew not how, and died obscure, men marked 
 not when." He believed that he could give a 
 better history of C4rub-street than any man liv- 
 ing. His house was filled with a succession of 
 visitors till four or five in the evening. During 
 the whole time he presided at his tea-table. Tea 
 was his favourite beverage ; and, when the late 
 Jonas Hanway pronounced his anathema against 
 the use of tea, Johnson rose in defence of his ha- 
 bitual practice, declaring himself " in that article 
 a hardened sinner, who had for years diluted his 
 meals with the infusion of that fascinating plant ; 
 whose tea-kettle had no time to cool : who with 
 tea solaced the midnight hour, and with tea wel- 
 comed the morning." 
 
 The proposal for a new edition of Shakspeara, 
 which had formerly miscarried, was resumed in 
 the year 175(5. The booksellers readily agreed 
 to his terms; and subscription-tickets were is- 
 sued out. For undertaking this work, money, 
 he confessed was the inciting motive. His friends 
 exerted themselves to promote his interest; and, 
 in the mean time, he engaged in a new periodi- 
 cal production called " The Idler.'' The first 
 number appeared on Saturday, April 15, 1758; 
 and the last, April 5, 17GO. The profits of this 
 work, and the subscriptions for the new edition 
 of Shakspeare, were the means by which he 
 supported himself for four or five years. In 
 1759 was published " Rasselas, Prince of Abys 
 sinia." His translation of Lobo's voyage to 
 Abyssinia seems to have pointed out that coun- 
 try for the scene of action ; and Rassila Christos, 
 the General of Sultan Segued, mentioned in that 
 work, most probably suggested the name of the 
 prince. The author wanted to set out on a jour- 
 ney to Litchfield, in order to pay the last offices 
 of filial piety to his mother, who, at the age of 
 ninety, was then near her dissolution ; but mo- 
 ney was necessary. Mr. Johnston, a booksel 
 ler, who has long since left off business, gave 
 one hundred pounds for the copy. With this 
 supply Johnson set out for Litchfield ; but did 
 not arrive in time to close the eyes of a parent 
 whom he loved. He attended the funeral, 
 which, as appears among his memorandums, 
 was on the 23d of January, 1759. 
 
 Johnson now found it necessary to retrench 
 his expenses. He gave up his house in Gough 
 
 Suare. Mrs. Williams went into lodgings. 
 e retired to Gray's-Inn, and soon removed to 
 chambers in the Inner-Temple-lane, where he 
 lived in poverty, total idleness, and the pride ot 
 literature. JV/agni stat nominis umbra. Mr. 
 Fitzherbert (the father of Lord St. Helens, the 
 present minister at Madrid,) a man distin- 
 guished through life for his benevolence and 
 other amiable qualities, used to say, that he paid 
 a morning visit to Johnson, intending from his 
 chambers to send a letter into the City ; but, to 
 his great surprise, he found an author by pro- 
 fession without pen, ink, or paper. The late 
 Dr. Douglas, bishop of Salisbury, was also 
 among those who endeavoured, by constant at- 
 tention, to soothe the cares of a mind which he 
 knew to be afflicted with gloomy apprehensions. 
 At one of the parties made at his house, Bosco- 
 vich, the Jesuit, who had then lately introduced 
 the Newtonian philosophy at Rome, and, after 
 publishing an elegant Latin poem on the sub- 
 ject, was made a Fellow of the Royal Society, 
 was one of the company invited to meet Dr. 
 Johnson. The conversation at first was mostly 
 in French. Johnson, though thoroughly versed 
 in that language, and a professed admirer oi 
 Boileau and La Bruyero, did hot understand its 
 pronunciation, nor could he spoak it himself 
 with propriety. For the rest of the evening the 
 talk was in Latin. Boscovich had a ready 
 current flow of that flimsy phraseology with 
 which a priest may travel through Italy, Spain, 
 and Germany. Johnson scorned what he called 
 colloquial barbarisms. It was his pride to speak 
 his best. He went on, after a little practice, 
 with as much facility as if it was his native 
 tongue. One sentence his writer well remem- 
 bers. Observing that Fontenelle at first op.
 
 GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 posed the Newtonian philosophy, and embraced 
 it afterwards, his words were : Fontenellus, m 
 fallor in extrem senedute, fuit transfuga ad 
 castra Jfeictoniana. 
 
 We have now travelled through that part of 
 Dr. Johnson's life which was a perpetual strug- 
 gle with difficulties. Halcyon days are now to 
 open upon him. In the month of May 1762, 
 his Majesty, to reward literary merit, signified 
 his pleasure to grant to Johnson a pension of 
 three hundred pounds a year. The Earl of 
 Bute was minister. Lord Loughborough, who, 
 perhaps, was originally a mover in the business, 
 had authority to mention it. He was well ac- 
 quainted with Johnson ; but, having heard 
 much of his independent spirit, and of the 
 downfall of Osborne the bookseller, he did not 
 know but his benevolence might be rewarded 
 with a folio on his head. He desired the au- 
 thor of these memoirs to undertake the task. 
 This writer thought the opportunity of doing so 
 much good the most happy incident in his life. 
 He went, without delay, to the chambers in 
 the Inner Temple-lane, which, in fact, were the 
 abode of wretchedness. By slow and studied 
 approaches the message was disclosed. Johnson 
 made a long pause : he asked if it was seriously 
 intended ? He fell into a profound meditation, 
 and his own definition of a pensioner occurred 
 to him. He was told, "That he, at least, did 
 not come within the definition." He desired to 
 meet next day and dine at the Mitre Tavern. 
 At that meeting he gave up all his scruples. On 
 the following day Lord Loughborough conduct- 
 ed him to the Earl of Bute. The conversation 
 that passed was in the evening related to this 
 writer by Dr. Johnson. He expressed his 
 sense of his Majesty's bounty, and thought 
 himself the more highly honoured, as the favour 
 was not bestowed on him for having dipped his 
 pen in faction. "No, Sir," said Lord Bute, 
 "it is not offered to you for having dipped your 
 pen in faction, nor with a design that you ever 
 should." Sir John Hawkins will have it, that 
 after this interview, Johnson was often pressed 
 to wait on Lord Bute : but with a sullen spirit 
 refused to comply. However that be, Johnson 
 was never heard to utter a disrespectful word of 
 that nobleman. The writer of this essay re- 
 members a circumstance which may throw some 
 light on this subject The late Dr. Rose, of 
 Chiswick, whom Johnson loved and respected, 
 contended for the pre-eminence of the Scotch 
 writers ; and Ferguson's book on Civil Society, 
 then on the eve of publication, he said, would 
 give the laurel to North Britain. " Alas ! what 
 can he do upon that subject ?" said Johnson : 
 "Aristotle, Polybius, Grotius, Puffendorf, and 
 Burlemaqui, have reaped in that field before 
 him." " He will treat it," said Dr. Rose, "in 
 a new mannner." " A new manner ! Buck- 
 inger had no hands, and he wrote his name 
 with his toes at Charing-cross, for half-a-crown- 
 a-piece; that was a new manner of writing!" 
 Dr. Rose replied, " If that will not, satisfy you, 
 I will name a writer, whom you must allow to 
 be the best in the kingdom." " Who is that ?" 
 " The Earl of Bute, when he wrote an order for 
 your pension." " There, Sir," said Johnson, 
 " you have me in the toil : to Lord Bute I must 
 allow whatever praise you may claim for him." 
 Ingratitude was no part of Johnson's character, 
 (c) 
 
 Being now in the possession of a regular in- 
 come, Johnson left his chambers in the Temple, 
 and once more became master of a house in 
 Johnson's-court, Fleet-street. Dr. Levet, his 
 friend and physician in ordinary,* paid his daily 
 visits with assiduity ; made tea all the morning, 
 talked what he had to say, and did not expect 
 an answer. Mrs. Williams had her apartment 
 in the house, and entertained her benefactor 
 with more enlarged conversation. Chemistry 
 was part of Johnson's amusement For this 
 love of experimental philosophy, Sir John 
 Hawkins thinks an apology necessary. He 
 tells us, with great gravity, that curiosity was 
 the only object in view ; not an intention to 
 grow suddenly rich by the philosopher's stone, 
 or the transmutation of metals. To enlarge his 
 circle, Johnson once more had recourse to a 
 literary club. This was at the Turk's Head, 
 in Gerard-street, Soho, on every Tuesday 
 evening through the year. The members 
 were, besides himself, the Right Hon. Edmund 
 Burke, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Dr. Nugent, Dr. 
 Goldsmith, the late Mr. Topham Beauclerk, 
 Mr. Langton, Mr. Chamier, Sir John Haw- 
 kins, and some others. Johnson's affection for 
 Sir Joshua was founded on a long acquaintance, 
 and a thorough knowledge of the virtues and 
 amiable qualities of that excellent artist. He 
 delighted in the conversation of Mr. Burke. 
 He met him for the first time at Mr. Garrick's, 
 several years ago. On the next day he said, " I 
 suppose, Murphy, you are proud of your coun- 
 tryman. CUM TALIS SIT UTINAM NOSTER ES- 
 SEX ?" From that time his constant observation 
 was, "That a man of sense could not meet Mr. 
 Burke by accident, under a gateway to avoid a 
 shower, without oeing convinced that he was 
 the first man in England." Johnson felt not 
 only kindness, but zeal and ardour for his 
 friends. He did every thing in his power to 
 advance the reputation of Dr. Goldsmith. He 
 loved him, though he knew his failings, and 
 particularly the leaven of envy, which corroded 
 :he mind of that elegant writer, and made him 
 impatient, without disguise, of the praises be- 
 stowed on any person whatever. Of this in- 
 firmity, which marked Goldsmith's character, 
 Johnson gave a remarkable instance. It hap- 
 pened that he went with Sir Joshua Reynolds 
 ind Goldsmith to see the Fantoccini, which 
 were exhibited some years ago in or near the 
 Haymarket. They admired the curious me- 
 chanism by which the puppets were made to 
 walk the stage, draw a chair to the table, sit 
 down, write a letter, and perform a variety of 
 other actions, with such dexterity, that " though 
 Nature's journeymen made the men, they imi- 
 tated humanity" to the astonishment of the 
 spectator. The entertainment being over, the 
 ;hree friends retired to a tavern. Johnson and 
 Sir Joshua talked with pleasure of what they 
 lad seen; and says. Johnson, in a tone of ad- 
 miration, "How the little fellow brandished 
 lis spontoon !" " There is nothing in it," 
 replied Goldsmith, starting up with impatience ; 
 ' give me a spontoon ; I can do it as Avell my- 
 self." 
 
 Enjoying his amusements at his weekly club, 
 and happy in a state of independence, Johnson 
 
 ' See Johnson's Epitaph on him.
 
 AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND 
 
 gained in the year 1765 another resource, which 
 contributed more than any thing else to exempt 
 him from the solicitudes oflife. He was intro- 
 duced to the late Mr. Thrale and his family. 
 Mrs. Piozzi has related the fact, and it is there- 
 fore needless to repeat it in this place. The 
 author of this narrative looks back to the share 
 he had in that business with self-congratulation, 
 since he knows the tenderness which from that 
 time soothed Johnson's cares at Streatham, and 
 prolonged a valuable life. The subscribers to 
 Shakspeare began to despair of ever seeing the 
 promised edition. To acquit himself of this ob- 
 ligation, he went to work unwillingly, but pro- 
 ceeded with vigour. In the month of October, 
 1765, Shakspeare was published; and, in a short 
 time after, the University of Dublin sent over a 
 diploma, in honourable terms, creating him a 
 Doctor of Laws. Oxford, in eight or ten years 
 afterwards, followed the example ; and till then 
 Johnson never assumed the title of Doctor. In 
 1766 his constitution seemed to be in a x apid de- 
 cline ; and that morbid melancholy which often 
 clouded his understanding, came upon him with 
 a deeper gloom than ever. Mr. and Mrs. Thrale 
 paid him a visit in this situation, and found him 
 011 his knees, with Dr. Delap, the Rector of 
 Lewes, in Sussex, beseeching God to continue 
 to him the use of his understanding. Mr. Thrale 
 took him to his house at Streatham ; and John- 
 son from that time became a constant resident 
 in the family. He went occasionally to the club 
 in Gerard-street; but his head-quarters were 
 fixed at Streatham. An apartment was fitted 
 up for him, and the library was greatly enlarged. 
 Parties were constantly invited from town ; and 
 Johnson was every day at an elegant table, with 
 select and polished company. Whatever could 
 be devised by Mr. and Mrs. Thrale to promote 
 the happiness, and establish the health of their 
 guest, was studiously performed from that time 
 to the end of Mr. Thrale's life. Johnson ac- 
 companied the family in all their summer excur- 
 sions to Brighthelmstone, to Wales, and to Paris. 
 It is but justice to Mr. Thrale to say, that a 
 more ingenuous frame of mind no man possess- 
 ed. His education at Oxford gave him the ha- 
 bits of a gentleman ; his amiable temper recom- 
 mended his conversation ; and the goodness of 
 his heart made him a sincere friend. That he 
 was the patron of Johnson is an honour to his 
 memory. 
 
 In petty disputes with contemporary writers, 
 or the wits of the age, Johnson was seldom en- 
 tangled. A single incident of that kind may not 
 be unworthy of notice, since it happened with a 
 man of great celebrity in his time. A number 
 of friends dined with Garrick on a Christmas- 
 day. Foote was then in Ireland. It was said 
 at table, that the modern Aristophanes (so 
 Foote was called) had been horse-whipped by a 
 Dublin apothecary, for mimicking him on the 
 stage. "I wonder," said Garrick, "that any 
 man should show so much resentment to Foote ; 
 he has a patent for such liberties ; nobody ever 
 thought it worth his while to quarrel with him in 
 London." '' I am glad," said Johnson, " to find 
 that the man is rising in the world." The ex- 
 pression was afterwards reported to Foote ; 
 who, in return, gave out, that he would produce 
 the Caliban of Literature on the stage Being 
 informed of thia design, Johnson sent word to 
 
 Foote, " That the theatre being intended for the 
 reformation of vice, he would step from the 
 boxes on the stage, and correct him before the 
 audience." Foote knew the intrepidity of his 
 antagonist, and abandoned the design. No ill- 
 will ensued. Johnson used to say, "That, for 
 broad-faced mirth, Foote had not his equal." 
 
 Dr. Johnson's fame excited the curiosity of the 
 King. His Majesty expressed a desire to see a 
 man of whom extraordinary things were said. 
 Accordingly, the librarian at Buckingham-house 
 invited Johnson to see that elegant collection of 
 books, at the same time giving a hint of what 
 was intended. His Majesty entered the room ; 
 and, among other things, asked the author, "If 
 he meant to give the world any more of his 
 compositions?" Johnson answered, "That he 
 thought he had written enough." " And I 
 should think so too," replied his Majesty, "if 
 you had not written so well." 
 
 Though Johnson thought he had written 
 enough, his genius, even in spite of bodily slug- 
 gishness, could not lie still. In 1770 we find 
 him entering the lists as a political writer. The 
 flame of discord that blazed throughout the na- 
 tion on the expulsion of Mr. Wilkes, and the 
 final determination of the House of Commons, 
 that Mr. Luttrell was duly elected, by 206 votes 
 against 1143, spread a general spirit of discon- 
 tent. To allay the tumult, Dr. Johnson pub- 
 lished The False Alarm. Mrs. Piozzi informs 
 us, "That this pamphlet was written at her 
 house, between eight o'clock on Wednesday 
 night and twelve on Thursday night." This 
 celerity has appeared wonderful to many, and 
 some have doubted the truth. It may, how 
 ever, be placed within the bounds of probability. 
 Johnson has observed that there are different 
 methods of composition. Virgil was used to 
 pour out a great number of verses in the morn- 
 ing, and pass the day in retrenching the exube- 
 rances, and correcting inaccuracies ; and it was 
 Pope's 'custom to write his first thoughts in his 
 first words, and gradually to amplify, decorate, 
 rectify, and refine them. Others employ at 
 once memory and invention, and with little in- 
 termediate use of the pen, form and polish large 
 masses by continued meditation, and write their 
 productions only, when, in their opinion, they 
 have completed them. This last was Johnson's 
 method. He never took his pen in hand till he 
 had well weighed his subject, and grasped in his 
 mind the sentiments, the train of argument, a:id 
 the arrangement of the whole. As he often 
 thought aloud, he had, perhaps, talked it over to 
 himself. This may account for that rapidity 
 with which, in general, he despatched his sheets 
 to the press, without being at the trouble of a 
 fair copy. Whatever may be the logic or elo- 
 quence of the False Alarm, the House of Com- 
 mons ha-we since erased the resolution from the 
 Journals. But whether they have not left ma- 
 terials for a future controversy, may be made a 
 question. 
 
 In 1771, he published another tract, on the 
 subject of Falkland islands. The design was 
 to show the impropriety of going to war with 
 Spain for an island thrown aside from human 
 use, stormy in winter, and barren in summer. 
 For this work it is apparent that materials were 
 furnished by direction of the minister. 
 
 At the approach of the general election in
 
 GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 xix 
 
 1774, he wrote a short discourse, called The 
 Patriot ; not with any visible application to Mr. 
 Wilkes ; but to teach the people to reject the 
 leaders of opposition, who called themselves pa- 
 triots. In 1775 he undertook a pamphlet of 
 more importance, namely, Taxation no Tyran- 
 ny, in answer to the Resolutions and Address 
 of the American Congress. The scope of the 
 argument was, that distant colonies, which had 
 in their assemblies a legislature of their own, 
 were, notwithstanding, liable to be taxed in a 
 British Parliament, where they had neither 
 peers in one house, nor representatives in the 
 other. He was of opinion, that this country 
 was strong enough to enforce obedience. " When 
 an Englishman," he says, "is told that the 
 Americans shoot up like the hydra, he naturally 
 considers how the hydra was destroyed." The 
 event has shown how much he and the minister 
 of that day were mistaken. 
 
 The Account of the Tour to the Western 
 Islands of Scotland, which was undertaken in 
 the autumn of 1773, in company with Mr. Bos- 
 well, was not published till some time in the 
 year 1775. This book has been variously re- 
 ceived; by some extolled for the elegance of the 
 narrative, and the depth of observation on life 
 and manners ; by others, as much condemned, 
 as a work of avowed hostility to the Scotch na- 
 tion. The praise was, beyond all question, 
 fairly deserved ; and the censure, on due exami- 
 nation, will appear hasty and ill-founded. That 
 Johnson entertained some prejudices against the 
 Scotch, must not be dissembled. It is true, as 
 Mr. Boswell says, " that he thought their suc- 
 cess in England exceeded their proportion of 
 real merit, and he could not but see in them that 
 nationality which no liberal-minded Scotsman 
 will deny." The author of these memoirs well 
 remembers, that Johnson one day asked him, 
 " Have you observed the difference between 
 your own country impudence and Scotch im- 
 pudence ?" The answer being in the negative : 
 "Then I will tell you," said Johnson. "The 
 impudence of an Irishman is the impudence of 
 a fly, that buzzes about you, and you put it 
 away, but it returns again, and flutters and 
 teazes you. The impudence of a Scotsman is 
 the impudence of a leech, that fixes, and sucks 
 your blood." Upon another occasion, this 
 writer went with him into the shop of Davis the 
 bookseller, in Russel-street, Covent-garden. 
 Davis came running to him almost out of breath 
 with joy : " The Scots gentleman is come, Sir; 
 his principal wish is to see you ; he is now in 
 the back-parlour." "Well, well, I'll see the 
 gentleman," said Johnson. He walked towards 
 the room. Mr. Boswell was the person. This 
 writer followed with no small curiosity. " I 
 find," said Mr. Boswell, " that I am come to 
 London at a bad time, when great popular pre- 
 judice has gone forth against us North Britons ; 
 but when I am talking to you, I am talking to 
 a large and liberal mind, and you know that I 
 cannot help coming from Scotland." " Sir," 
 said Johnson, "no more can the rest of your 
 countrymen."* 
 
 He had other reasons that helped to alienate 
 
 *Mr. Boswell's account of this introduction is very 
 different from the above. See his Life of Johnson, vol. 1. 
 p. 360, 8vo. Edit. 1804 
 
 him from the natives of Scotland. Being a cor- 
 dial well-wisher to the constitution in Church 
 and State, he did not think that Calvin and John 
 Knox were proper founders of a national reli- 
 gion. He made, however, a wide distinction 
 between the Dissenters of Scotland and the 
 Separatists of England. To the former he im- 
 puted no disaffection, no want of loyalty. Their 
 soldiers and their officers had shed their blood 
 with zeal and courage in the service of Great 
 Britain ; and the people, he used to say, were 
 content with their own established modes of 
 worship, without wishing, in the present age, to 
 give any disturbance to the Church of England. 
 This he was at all times ready to admit ; and 
 therefore declared, that whenever he found a 
 Scotchman to whom an Englishman was as a 
 Scotchman, that Scotchman should be as an En- 
 glishman to him. In this, surely, there was no 
 rancour, no malevolence. The Dissenters on 
 this side the Tweed appeared to him in a dif 
 ferent light. Their religion, he frequently said, 
 was too worldly, too political, too restless and 
 ambitious. The doctrine of cashiering kings, 
 and erecting on the ruins of the constitution a 
 new form of government, which lately issued 
 from their pulpits, he always thought was, under 
 a calm disguise, the principle that lay lurking in 
 their hearts. He knew that a wild democracy 
 had overturned Kings, Lords, and Commons ; 
 and that a set of Republican Fanatics, who 
 would not bow at the name of Jesus, had taken 
 possession of all the livings and all the parishes 
 in the kingdom. That those scenes of horror 
 might never be renewed, was the ardent wish 
 of Dr. Johnson ; and though he apprehended 
 no danger from Scotland, it is probable that his 
 dislike of Calvinism mingled sometimes with 
 his' reflections on the natives of that country. 
 The association of ideas could not be easily 
 broken ; but it is well known that he loved and 
 respected many gentlemen from that part of the 
 island. Dr, Robertson's History of Scotland, 
 and Dr. Beattie's Essays, were subjects of his 
 constant praise. Mr. Boswell, Dr. Rose of 
 Chiswick, Andrew Millar, Mr. Hamilton, the 
 printer, and the late Mr. Strahan, were among 
 his most intimate friends. Many others might 
 be added to the list He scorned to enter Scot- 
 land as a spy ; though Ha%vkins, his biographer, 
 and the professing defender of his fame, allow- 
 ed himself leave to represent him in that igno- 
 ble character. He went into Scotland, to survey 
 men and manners. Antiquities, " fossils, and 
 minerals, were not within his province. He 
 did not visit that country to settle the station of 
 Roman camps, or the spot where Galgacus 
 fought the last battle for public liberty. The 
 people, their customs, and the progress of litera- 
 ture were his objects. The civilities which he 
 received in the course of his tour have been re- 
 paid with grateful acknowledgment, and gene- 
 rally, with great elegance of expression. His 
 crime is, that he found the country bare of trees, 
 and he has stated the fact. This, Mr. Boswell, 
 in his Tour to the Hebrides, has told us, was re- 
 sented by his countrymen with anger inflamed to 
 rancour ; but he admits that there are few trees 
 on the east side of Scotland. Mr. Pennant, in 
 his Tour, says, that in some parts of the eastern 
 side of the country, he saw several large planta- 
 tions of pine planted by gentlemen near their
 
 AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND 
 
 seats ; and in this respect such a laudable spirit 
 prevails, that, in another half century it never 
 shall be said, " To spy the nakedness of the land 
 are you come." Johnson could not wait for that 
 half century, and therefore mentioned things as 
 he found them. If in any thing he has been 
 mistaken, he has made a fair apology in the last 
 paragraph of his book, avowing with candour, 
 " That he may have been surprised by modes of 
 life, and appearances of nature, that are familiar 
 to men of wider survey, and more varied con- 
 versation. Novelty and ignorance must always 
 be reciprocal; and he is conscious that his 
 thoughts on national manners are the thoughts 
 of one who has seen but little." 
 
 The Poems of Ossian made a part of John- 
 son's inquiry during his residence in Scotland 
 and the Hebrides. On his return to England, 
 November, 1773, a storm seemed to be gathering 
 over his head ; but the cloud never burst, and 
 the thunder never fell, Ossian, it is well known, 
 was presented to the public as a translation 
 from the Earse ; but that this was a fraud, John- 
 son declared without hesitation. " The Earse," 
 he says, " was always oral only, and never a 
 written language. The Welsh and the Irish 
 were more cultivated. Iq Earse there was not 
 in the world a single manuscript a hundred 
 years old. Martin, who in the last century pub- 
 lished an Account of the Western Islands, men- 
 tions Irish, but never Earse manuscripts, to be 
 found in the islands in his time. The bards 
 could not read ; if they could, they might proba- 
 bly have written, But the bard was a barbarian 
 among barbarians, and, knowing nothing him- 
 self, lived with others that knew no more. If 
 there is a manuscript from which the transla- 
 tion was made, in what age was it written, and 
 where is it ? If it was collected from oral recita- 
 tion, it could only he in detached parts and scat- 
 tered fragments ; the whole is too long to be re- 
 membered. Who put it together in its present 
 form?" For these and such like reasons, John- 
 son calls the whole an imposture. He adds, 
 " The editor, or author, never could show the 
 original, nor can it be shown by any other. To 
 revenge reasonable incredulity, by refusing evi- 
 dence, is a degree of insolence with which the 
 world is not yet acquainted ; and stubborn auda- 
 city is the last refuge of guilt." This reasoning 
 carries with it great weight. It roused the re- 
 sentment of Mr. Macpherson. He sent a threat- 
 ening letter to the author; and Johnson an- 
 swered him in the rough phrase of stern defiance. 
 The two heroes frowned at a distance, but ne- 
 ver came to action. 
 
 In the year 1777, the misfortunes of Dr. Docld 
 excited his compassion. He wrote a speech for 
 that unhappy man, when called up to receive 
 judgment of death; besides two petitions, one 
 to the King, and another to the Q.ueen : and a 
 sermon to be preached by Dodd to the convicts 
 in Newgate. It may appear trifling to add, that 
 about the same time he wrote a prologue to the 
 comedy of "A Word to the Wise," written by 
 Hugh Kelly. The play, some years before, had 
 been damned by a party on the first night. It 
 was revived for the benefit of the author's wi- 
 dow. Mrs. Piozzi relates, that when Johnson 
 was rallied for these exertions, so close to one 
 another, his answer was, "When they come to 
 me with a dying Parson, and a dead Stay-ma- 
 
 ker, what can a man do?" We come now to the 
 last of his literary labours. At the request of 
 the Booksellers he undertook the Lives of the 
 Poets. The first publication was in 1779, and 
 the whole was completed in 1781. In a memo- 
 randum of that year he says, some time in M arch 
 he finished the Lives of the Poets, which he 
 wrote in his usual way, dilatorily and hastily, 
 unwilling to work, yet working with vigour and 
 haste. In another place, he hopes they are 
 written in such a manner as may tend to the 
 promotion of piety. That the history of so 
 many men, who, in their different degrees, made 
 themselves conspicuous in their time, was not 
 written recently after their deaths, seems to be 
 an omission that does no honour to the Republic 
 of Letters. Their contemporaries in general 
 looked on with calm indifference, and suffered 
 Wit and Genius to vanish out of the world in 
 total silence, unregarded, and unlamented. Was 
 there no friend to pay the tribute of a tear ? No 
 just observer of life, to record the virtues of the 
 deceased? Was even Envy silent? It seemed to 
 have been agreed, that if an author's works sur- 
 vived, the history of the man was to give no 
 moral lesson to after ages. If tradition told us 
 that Ben Johnson went to the Devil Tavern ; 
 that Shakspeare stole deer, and held the stirrup 
 at playhouse doors; that Dryden frequented 
 Button's Coffee-house; curiosity was lulled 
 asleep, and biography forgot the best part of her 
 function, which is to instruct mankind by ex- 
 amples taken from the school of life. This task 
 remained for Dr. Johnson, when years had roll- 
 ed away; when the channels of information 
 were, for the most part, choked up, and little 
 remained besides doubtful anecdote, uncertain 
 tradition, and vague report. 
 
 " Nunc situs informis prcmit et deserta Vetustas. 
 
 The value of Biography has been better un. 
 derstood in other ages, and in other countries 
 Tacitus informs us, that to record the lives and 
 characters of illustrious men was the practice of 
 the Roman authors, in the early periods of the 
 Republic. In France the example has been fol- 
 lowed. Fontenelle, D'Alcmbert, and Monsieur 
 Thomas have left models in this kind of com- 
 position. They have embalmed the dead. But 
 it is true, that they had incitements and advan- 
 tages, even at a distant day, which could not, by 
 any diligence, be obtained by Dr. Johnson. 
 The wits of France had ample materials. They 
 lived in a nation of critics, who had at heart the 
 honour done to their country by their Poets, 
 their Heroes, and their Philosophers. They 
 had, besides, an Academy of Belles-Lettres, where 
 Genius was cultivated, refined, and encouraged. 
 They had the tracts, the essays, and disserta- 
 tions, which remain in the memoirs of the Aca 
 demy, and they had the speeches of the several 
 members, delivered at their first admission to a 
 seat in that learned Assembly. In those speech- 
 es the new Academician did ample justice to 
 the memory of his predecessor ; and though his 
 harangue was decorated with the colours of elo- 
 quence, and was, for that reason, called pane- 
 gyric, yet being pronounced before qualified 
 judges, who knew the talents, the conduct ana 
 morals of the deceased, the speaker could not, 
 with propriety, wander into the regions of fie
 
 GENIUS OP DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 tion. The truth was known, before it was 
 adorned. The Academy saw the marble before 
 the artist polished it. But this country has had 
 no Academy of Literature. The public mind, 
 for centuries, has been engrossed by party and 
 faction ; by the madness of many far the gain of a 
 few ; by civil wars, religious dissensions, trade 
 and commerce, and the arts of accumulating 
 wealth. Amidst such attentions, who can won- 
 der that cold praise has been often the only re- 
 ward of merit? In this country Doctor Nathaniel 
 Hodges, who, like the good bishop of Marseilles, 
 drew purer breath amidst the contagion of the 
 plague in London, and, during the whole time, 
 continued in the city, administering medical as- 
 sistance, was suffered, as Johnson used to re- 
 late with tears in his eyes, to die for debt in a 
 gaol. In this country, the man who brought 
 the New River to London was ruined by that 
 noble project ; and in this country, Otway died 
 for want on Tower Hill; Butler, the great author 
 of Hudibras, whose name can only die with the 
 English language, was left to languish in pover- 
 ty, the particulars of his life almost unknown, 
 and scarce a vestige of him left except his immor- 
 tal poem. Had there been an Academy of Lite- 
 rature, the lives, at least, of those celebrated per- 
 sons would have been written for the benefit of 
 posterity. Swift, it seems, had the idea of such 
 an institution, and proposed it to Lord Oxford ; 
 but Whig and Tory were more important objects. 
 It is needless to dissemble that Dr. Johnson, in 
 the Life of Roscommon, talks of the inutility 
 of such a project. " In this country," he says, 
 " an academy could be expected to do but little. 
 If an Academician's place were profitable, it 
 would be given by interest ; if attendance were 
 gratuitous, it would be rarely paid, and no man 
 would endure the least disgust. Unanimity is 
 impossible, and debate would separate the as- 
 sembly." To this it may be sufficient to an- 
 swer, that the Royal Society has not been dis- 
 solved by sullen disgust ; and the modern Aca- 
 demy at Somerset House has already performed 
 much, and promises more. Unanimity is not 
 necessary to such an assembly. On the contra- 
 ry, by difference of opinions, and collision of 
 sentiment, the cause of literature would thrive 
 and flourish. The true principles of criticism, 
 the secret of fine writing, the investigation of 
 antiquities, and other interesting subjects, might 
 occasion a clash of opinion ; but in that conten- 
 tion, Truth Avould receive illustration, and the 
 essays of the several members would supply the 
 memoirs of the Academy. "But," says Dr. 
 Johnson, " suppose the philological decree made 
 and promulgated, what would be its authority? 
 In absolute government there is sometimes a ge- 
 neral reverence paid to all that has the sanction 
 of power, the countenance of greatness. How 
 little this is the state of our country needs not be 
 told. The edicts of an English Academy would 
 probably be read by many, only that they may 
 be sure to disobey them. The present manners 
 of the nation would deride authority, and there- 
 fore nothing is left, but that every writer should 
 criticise himself." This surely is not conclusive. 
 It is by the standard of the best writers that 
 every man settles for himself his plan of legiti- 
 mate composition ; and since the authority of 
 superior genius is acknowledged, that authority, 
 which the individual obtains, would not be less- 
 
 ened by an association with others of distin- 
 guished ability. It may, therefore, be inferred, 
 that an Academy of Literature would be an 
 establishment highly useful, and an honour to 
 Literature. In such an institution profitable 
 places would not be wanted. Valis avams hand 
 facile est animus; and the minister, who shall 
 find leisure from party and factiou to carry such 
 a scheme into execution, will, in all probability, 
 be respected by posterity as the Maecenas of 
 letters. 
 
 We now take leave of Dr. Johnson as an au- 
 thor. Four volumes of his Lives of the Poets 
 were published in 1778, and the work was com- 
 pleted in 1781. Should Biography fall again 
 into disuse, there will not always be a Johnson 
 to look back through a century, and give a body 
 of critical and moral instruction. In April 1781, 
 he lost his friend Mr. Thrale. His own words, 
 in his diary, will best tell that melancholy event. 
 " On Wednesday the llth of April, was buried 
 my dear friend Mr. Thrale, who died on Wed- 
 nesday the 4th, and with him were buried many 
 of my hopes and pleasures. About five, I think, 
 on Wednesday morning he expired. I felt al- 
 most the last flutter of his pulse, and looked for 
 the last time upon the face, that, for fifteen years 
 before, had never been turned upon me but with 
 respect and benignity. Farewell! may God, 
 that delighteth in mercy, have had mercy on 
 thee! I had constantly prayed for him before 
 his death. The decease of him, from whose 
 friendship I had obtained many opportunities of 
 amusement, and to whom I turned my thoughts 
 as to a refuge from misfortunes, has left me 
 heavy. But my business is with myself." From 
 the close of his last work, the malady that per- 
 secuted him through life, came upon him with 
 alarming severity, and his constitution declined 
 apace. In 1782 his old friend Level expired 
 without warning, and without a groan. Events 
 like these reminded Johnson of his own mor- 
 tality. He continued his visits to Mrs. Thrale 
 at Streatham, to the 7th day of October 1782, 
 when having first composed a prayer for the 
 happiness of a family with whom he had for 
 many years enjoyed the pleasures and comforts 
 of life, he removed to his own house in town. 
 He says he was up early in the morning, and 
 read fortuitously in the Gospel, which was his 
 parting use of the library. The merit of the fa- 
 mily is manifested by the sense he had of it, and 
 we see his heart overflowing with gratitude. 
 He leaves the place with regret, and casts a lin- 
 gering look behind. 
 
 The few remaining occurrences may be soon 
 despatched. In the month of June, 1783, John- 
 son had a paralytic stroke, which affected his 
 speech only. He wrote to Dr. Taylor of West- 
 minster ; and to his friend Mr. Allen, the printer, 
 who lived at the next door. Dr. Brocklesby ar- 
 rived in a short time, and by his care, and that 
 of Dr. Heberden, Johnson soon recovered. 
 During his illness the writer of this narrative 
 visited him, and found him reading Dr. Wat- 
 son's Chymistry. Articulating with difficulty, 
 he said, " From this book he who knows no- 
 thing may learn a great deal ; and he who 
 knows, will be pleased to find his knowledge 
 recalled to his mind in a manner highly pleas- 
 ing." In the month of August he set out for 
 Litchfield on a visit to Mrs. Lucy Porter, the
 
 \.\11 
 
 AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND 
 
 daughter of his wife by her first husband ; and 
 in his way back paid his respects to Dr. Adams 
 at Oxford. Mrs. Williams died at his house in 
 Bolt Court, in the month of September, during 
 his absence. This was another shock to a mind 
 like his, ever agitated by the thpughts of futurity. 
 The contemplation of his own approaching end 
 was constantly before his eyes ; and the pros- 
 pect of death, he declared, was terrible. For 
 many years, when he was not disposed to enter 
 into the conversation going forward, whoever sat 
 near his chair, might hear him repeating from 
 Shakspeare, 
 
 Ay, but to die, and go we know not where ; 
 To lie in cold obstruction and to rot ; 
 This sensible warm motion to become 
 A kneaded clod, and the delighted spirit 
 To bathe in fiery floods 
 
 And from Milton, 
 
 Who would lose, 
 For fear of pain, this intellectual being ? 
 
 By the death of Mrs. Williams he was left in 
 a state of destitution, with nobody but Frank, his 
 black servant, to soothe his anxious moments. 
 In November 1783, he was swelled from head 
 to foot with a dropsy. Dr. Brocklesby, with 
 that benevolence with which he always assists 
 his friends, paid his visits with assiduity. The 
 medicines prescribed were so efficacious, that in 
 a few days Johnson, while he was offering up 
 his prayers was suddenly obliged to rise, and, in 
 the course of the day, discharged twenty pints 
 of water. 
 
 Johnson, being eased of his dropsy, began to 
 entertain hopes that the vigour of his constitu- 
 tion was not entirely broken. For the sake of 
 conversing with his friends, he established a 
 conversation club, to meet on every Wednesday 
 evening; and to serve a man whom he had 
 known in Mr. Thrale's household for many 
 years, the place was fixed at his house in Essex- 
 street, near the Temple. To answer the malig- 
 nant remarks of Sir John Hawkins on this sub- 
 ject, were a wretched waste of time. Profess- 
 ing to be Johnson's friend, that biographer has 
 raised more objections to his character, than all 
 the enemies to that excellent man. Sir John 
 had a root of bitterness that put rancours in the 
 vessel of his peace. Fielding, he says, was the 
 inventor of a cant phrase, Goodness of heart, 
 which means little more than the virtue of a horse 
 or a dog: He should have known that kind af- 
 fections are the essence of virtue : they are the 
 will of God implanted in our nature, to aid and 
 strengthen moral obligation ; they incite to ac- 
 tion ; a sense of benevolence is no less neces- 
 sary than a sense of duty. Good affections are 
 an ornament not only to an author, but to his 
 writings. He who shows himself upon a cold 
 scent for opportunities to bark and snarl through- 
 out a volume of six hundred pages, may, if he 
 will, pretend to moralize ; but Goodness of 
 Heart, or, to use that politer phrase, the virtue 
 of a horse or a dog, would redound more to his 
 honour. But Sir John is no more : our business 
 is with Johnson. The members of his club 
 were respectable for their rank, their talents, 
 and their literature. They attended with punc- 
 tuality till about Midsummer 1784, when, with 
 
 some appearance of health, Johnson went into 
 Derbyshire, and thence to Litchfield. While he 
 was in that part of the world, his friends in town 
 were labouring for his benefit. The air of a 
 more southern climate they thought might pro- 
 long a valuable life. But a pension of 300 a 
 year was a slender fund for a travelling valetu- 
 dinarian, and it was not then known that he had 
 saved a moderate sum of money. Mr. Boswell 
 and Sjr Joshua Reynolds undertook to solicit 
 the patronage of the Chancellor. With Lord 
 Thurlpw, while he was at the bar, Johnson was 
 well acquainted. He was often heard to say, 
 " Thurlow is a man of such vigour of mind, that 
 I never knew I was to meet him, but I was go- 
 ing to say, I was afraid, but that would not be 
 true, for I never was afraid of any man ; but I 
 never knew that I was to meet Thurlow, but I 
 knew I had something to encounter." The 
 Chancellor undertook to recommend Johnson's 
 case ; but without success. To protract if pos- 
 sible the days of a man whom he respected, he 
 offered to advance the sum of five hundred 
 pounds. Being informed of this at Litchfield, 
 Johnson wrote the following letter: 
 
 "My Lord, 
 
 " After a long and not inattentive observation 
 of mankind, the generosity of your Lordship's 
 offer raises in me not less wonder than grati- 
 tude. Bounty, so liberally bestowed, I should 
 gladly receive if my condition made it necessary; 
 for to such a mind who would not be proud to 
 own his obligations ? But it has pleased God to 
 restore me to so great a measure of health, that 
 if I should now appropriate so much of a fortune 
 destined to do good, I could not escape from 
 myself the charge of advancing a false claim. 
 My journey to the continent, though I once 
 thought it necessary, was never much encou- 
 raged by my physicians; and I was very desirous 
 that your Lordship should be told it by Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds as an event very uncertain ; for if I 
 grew much better, I should not be willing ; if 
 much worse, I should not be able to migrate. 
 Your Lordship was first solicited without my 
 knowledge ; but when I was told that you were 
 pleased to honour me with your patronage, I did 
 not expect to hear of a refusal ; yet^as 1 have 
 had no long time to brood hopes, and have not 
 rioted in imaginary opulence, this cold reception 
 has been scarce a disappointment; and from 
 your Lordship's kindness I have received a be- 
 nefit which only men like you are able to be- 
 stow. I shall now live mihi carior, with a higher 
 opinion of my own merit. 
 I am, my Lord, 
 
 Your Lordship's most obliged, 
 most grateful, and most humble sen-ant, 
 
 SAMUEL JOHNSON. 
 
 " Sept. 1784." 
 
 We have in this instance the exert'on of two 
 congenial minds: one, with a generous impulse 
 relieving merit in distress ; and the other, by 
 gratitude and dignity of sentiment, rising to an 
 equal elevation. 
 
 It seems, however, that greatness of mind is 
 not confined to greatness of rank. Dr. Brock- 
 lesby was not content to assist with his medical 
 art ; he resolved to minister to his patient's mind, 
 and pluck from his memory the sorrow which the
 
 GMsIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 xxiu 
 
 late refusal from a high quarter might occasion. 
 To enable him to visit the south of France in 
 pursuit of health, he offered from his own funds 
 an annuity of one hundred pounds, payable 
 quarterly. This was a sweet oblivious antidote, 
 but it was not accepted for the reasons assigned 
 to the Chancellor. The proposal, however, will 
 do honour to Dr. Brocklesby, as long as liberal 
 sentiment shall be ranked among the social 
 virtues. 
 
 In the month of October, 1784, we find Dr. 
 Johnson corresponding with Mr. Nichols, the 
 intelligent compiler of the Gentleman's Maga- 
 zine, and, in the languor of sickness, still desir- 
 ous to contribute all in his power to the ad- 
 vancement of science and useful knowledge. He 
 says, in a letter to that gentleman, dated Litch- 
 field, October 20, that he should be glad to give 
 so skilful a lover of antiquities any information. 
 He adds, " At Ashburne, where I had very lit- 
 tle company, I had the luck to borrow Mr. Bow- 
 yer's Life, a book so full of contemporary his- 
 tory, that a literary man must find some of his 
 old" friends. I thought that I could now and 
 then have told you some hints worth your no- 
 tice : We perhaps may talk a life over. I hope 
 we shall be much together. You must now be 
 to me what you were before, and what dear Mr. 
 Allen was besides. He was taken unexpectedly 
 away, but I think he was a very good man. I 
 have made very little progress in recovery. I 
 am very weak, and very sleepless ; but I live on 
 and hope." 
 
 In that languid condition he arrived, on the 
 16th of November, at his house in Bolt Court, 
 there to end his days. He laboured with the 
 dropsy and an asthma. He was attended by 
 Dr. Heberden, Dr. Warren, Dr. Brocklesby, 
 Dr. Butter, and Mr. Cruikshank, the eminent 
 surgeon. Eternity presented to his mind an 
 awful prospect, and, with as much virtue as per- 
 haps ever is the lot of man, he shuddered at the 
 thought of his dissolution. His friends awak- 
 ened the comfortable reflection of a well-spent 
 life ; and, as his end drew near, they had the 
 satisfaction of seeing him composed, and even 
 cheerful, insomuch that he was able, in the 
 course of his restless nights, to make transla- 
 tions of Greek epigrams from the Anthologia ; 
 and to compose a Latin epitaph for his father, 
 his mother, and his brother Nathaniel. He 
 moditated, at the same time, a Latin inscrip- 
 tion to the memory of Garrick ; but his vigour 
 was exhausted. 
 
 His love of literature was a passion that stuck 
 to his last sand. Seven days before his death 
 he wrote the following letter to his friend Mr. 
 Nichols : 
 
 " SIR, 
 
 " THE late learned Mr. Swinton, of Oxford, 
 having one day remarked that one man, mean- 
 ing, I suppose, no man but himself, could assign 
 all the parts of the Ancient Universal History 
 to their proper Authors, at the request of Sir 
 Robert Chambers, or myself, gave the account 
 which I now transmit to you in his own hand, 
 being willing that of so great a work the history 
 should be known, and that each writer should 
 receive his due proportion of praise from pos- 
 terity. 
 
 "I recommend to you to preserve this scrap 
 
 of literary intelligence in Mr. Swinton's own 
 hand, or to deposit it in the Museum,* that the 
 veracity of this account may never be doubted. 
 
 " I am. Sir, 
 " Your most humble servant, 
 
 SAM. JOHNSON." 
 Dec. 6, 1784. 
 
 Mr. Swinton. 
 
 The History of the Carthaginians, Numidians, 
 Mauritinians, Gaetulians, Garamantes, Mela- 
 no-Gaetulians, Nigritae, Cyrenaica, Manna- 
 rica, Regio Syrtica, Turks, Tartars, and Mo- 
 guls, Indians, Chinese, Dissertation on the 
 peopling of America, Dissertation on the In 
 dependency of the Arabs. 
 The Cosmogony, and a small part of the history 
 
 immediately following. By M. Sale. 
 To the Birth of Abraham. Chiefly by Mr. 
 
 Shelvock. 
 History of the Jews, Gauls, and Spaniards. By 
 
 Mr. F Salmanazar. 
 
 Xenophon's Retreat. By the same. 
 History of the Persians, and the Constantino- 
 
 politan Empire. By Dr. Campbell 
 History of the Romans. By Mr. Bower, f 
 
 On the morning of Dec. 7, f)i. Johnson re- 
 quested to see Mr. Nichols. A few days before, 
 he had borrowed some of the early volumes of 
 the Magazine, with a professed intention to 
 point out the pieces which he had written in 
 that collection. The books lay on the table, 
 with many leaves doubled down, and in parti- 
 ticular those which contained his share in the 
 Parliamentary Debates. Such was the good- 
 ness of Johnson's heart, that he then declared, 
 that " those debates were the only parts of hia 
 writings which gave him any compunction : 
 but that at the time he wrote them he had no 
 conception that he was imposing upon the 
 world, though they were frequently written 
 from very slender materials, and often from 
 none at all, the mere coinage of his own ima- 
 gination." He added, " that he never wrote 
 any part of his work with equal velocity. 
 Three columns of the Magazine in an hour," 
 he said, " was no uncommon effort ; which was 
 faster than most persons could have transcribed 
 that quantity. In one day in particular, and 
 that not a very long one, he wrote twelve pages, 
 more in quantity than ever he wrote at any 
 other time, except in the Life of Savage, of 
 which forty-eight pages in octavo were the 
 production of one long day, including a part of 
 the night" 
 
 In the course of the conversation he asked, 
 whether any of the family of Faden the printer, 
 were living. Being told that the geographer 
 near Charing-Cross was Faden's son, he said, 
 after a short pause, " I borrowed a guinea of 
 his father near thirty years ago ; be so good as 
 to take this, and pay it for me." 
 
 * It is there deposited. J. N. 
 
 t Before this authentic communication, Mr. Nichols had 
 given, in the volume of the Gentleman's Magazine for 
 1731, p. 370, the following account of the Universal His- 
 tory. The proposals were published October 6, 1729, 
 and the authors of the first seven volumes were, 
 
 Vol. 1. Mr. Sale, translator of the Koran II. George 
 Psalmanazar. III. George Psalmanazar, Archibald Bow- 
 er, Captain Shelvock, Dr. Campbell. IV. The same as 
 vol. III. V. Mr. Bower. VI. Mr. Bower, Rev. John 
 Swinton. VII. Mr. Swinton, Sir. Bower
 
 XXIV 
 
 Wishing to discharge every duty, and every 
 obligation, Johnson recollected another debt of 
 ten pounds which he had borrowed from his 
 friend Mr. Hamilton the printer, about twenty 
 years before. He sent the money to Mr. Ha- 
 milton, at his house in Bedford-Row, with an 
 apology for the length of time. The Reverend 
 Mr. Strahan was the bearer of the message, 
 about four or five days before Johnson breathed 
 his last. 
 
 Mr. Sastress (whom Dr. Johnson esteemed 
 and mentioned in his will) entered the room 
 during his illness. Dn Johnson, as soon as he 
 saw him, stretched forth his hand, and, in a 
 tone of lamentation, called out, JAM MORITU- 
 Rtis ! But the love of life was still an active 
 principle. Feeling himself swelled with the 
 dropsy, he conceived that by incisions in his 
 legs, the water might be discharged. Mr/ Cruik- 
 shank apprehended that a mortification might 
 be the consequence ; but, to appease a distem- 
 pered fancy, he gently lanced the surface. John- 
 son cried out, " Deeper, deeper ! I want length 
 of life, and you are afraid of giving me pain, 
 which I do not value." 
 
 On the 8th of December, the Reverend Mr. 
 Strahan drew h^is will, by which, after a few 
 legacies, the residue, amounting to about fifteen 
 hundred pounds, was bequeathed to Frank, the 
 black servant, formerly consigned to the testa- 
 tor by his friend Dr. Bathurst. 
 
 The history of a death-bed is painful. Mr. 
 Strahan informs us, that the strength of religion 
 prevailed against the infirmity of nature ; and 
 his foreboding dread of the Divine Justice sub- 
 sided into a pious trust and humble hope of 
 mercy at the Throne of Grace. On Monday 
 the 13th day of December (the last of his exist- 
 ence on this side the grave,) the desire of life 
 returned with all its former vehemence. He 
 still imagined, that, by puncturing his legs re-' 
 lief might be obtained. At eight in the morn- 
 ing he tried the experiment, but no water fol- 
 lowed. In an hour or two after he fell into 
 a doze, and about seven in the evening expired 
 without a groan. 
 
 On the 20th of the month his remains, with 
 due solemnities, and a numerous attendance of 
 his friends, were buried in Westminster Abbey, 
 near the foot of Shakspeare's monument, and 
 close to the grave of the late Mr. Garrick. The 
 funeral service was read by his friend Dr. Tay- 
 lor. 
 
 A black marble over his grave has the follow- 
 ing inscription : 
 
 SAMUEL JOHNSON', LL. D. 
 
 obiit xni die Decembris, 
 
 Anno Domini 
 
 MDCCLXXXIV. 
 
 jEtatis suae LXXV. 
 
 If we now look back, as from an eminence, to 
 view the scenes of life, and the literary labours 
 in which Dr. Johnson was engaged, we may be 
 able to delineate the features of the man, and to 
 fonn an estimate of his genius. 
 
 As a man, Dr. Johnson stands displayed in 
 open daylight. Nothing remains undiscovered. 
 Whatev'er he said is known ; and without al- 
 lowing him the usual privilege of hazarding 
 sentiments, and advancing positions, for mere 
 
 AN ESSAY ON THE LIFBAND 
 
 amusement, or the pleasure of discussion, Cri- 
 ticism has endeavoured to make him answerable 
 for what, perhaps, he never seriously thought. 
 His diary, which has been printed, discovers 
 still more. We have before us the very heart 
 of the man, with all his inward consciousness. 
 And yet neither in the open palhs of life, nor in 
 his secret recesses, has any one vice been disco- 
 vered. We see him reviewing every year of his 
 life, and severely censuring himself for not keep- 
 ing resolutions, which morbid melancholy, and 
 other bodily infirmities, rendered impracticable. 
 We see him for every little defect imposing on 
 himself voluntary penance, going through the 
 day with only one cup of tea without milk, and 
 to the last, amidst paroxysms and remissions of 
 illness, forming plans of study and resolutions 
 to amend his life.* Many of his scruples may 
 be called weaknesses ; but they are the weak- 
 nesses of a good, a pious and most excellent 
 man. 
 
 His person, it is well-known, was large and 
 unwieldy. His nerves were affected by that 
 disorder, for which, at two years of age, he was 
 presented to the royal touch. His head shook, 
 and involuntary motions made it uncertain that 
 his legs and arms would, even at a tea-table, re- 
 main in their proper place. A person of Lord 
 Chesterfield's delicacy might in his company be 
 in a fever. He would sometimes of his own 
 accord do things inconsistent with the establish- 
 ed modes of behaviour. Sitting at table with 
 the celebrated Mrs. Cholmondeley, who exerted 
 herself to circulate the subscription for Sbak- 
 speare, he took hold of her hand in the middle 
 of dinner, and held it close to his eye, wondering 
 at the delicacy and whiteness, till with a smile 
 she asked, " Will he give it to me again when 
 he has done with it?" The exteriors of polite- 
 ness did not belong to Johnson. Even that ci- 
 vility which proceeds, or ought to proceed, from 
 the mind, was sometimes violated. His morbid 
 melancholy had an effect on his temper; his 
 passions were irritable ; and the pride of science, 
 as well as of a fierce, independent spirit, in- 
 flamed him on some occasions above all bounds 
 of moderation. Though not in the shade of 
 academic bowers, he led a scholastic life ; and 
 the habit of pronouncing decisions to his friends 
 and visitors gave him a dictatorial manner, 
 which was much enforced by a voice naturally 
 loud, and often overstretched. Metaphysical 
 discussion, moral theory, systems of religion, 
 and anecdotes of literature, were his favourite 
 topics. General history had little of his regard. 
 Biography was his delight. The proper study of 
 mankind is man. Sooner than hear of the Punic 
 war, he would be rude to the person that intro- 
 duced the subject. 
 
 Johnson was born a logician ; one of those, 
 to whom only books of logic are said to be of 
 use. In consequence of his skill in that art, he 
 loved argumentation. No man thought more 
 profoundly, nor with such acute discernment. 
 A fallacy could not stand before him ; it was 
 sure to be refuted by strength of reasoning, and 
 a precision both in idea and expression almost 
 unequalled. When he chose by apt illustration 
 to place the argument of his adversary in a lu 
 
 * On the subject of voluntary penance, Eee the Ram 
 bier, No. CX.
 
 GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 dicr./us light, one was almost inclined to think 
 ridicule the test of truth. He was surprised to 
 be told, bat it was certainly true, that, with great 
 powers of mind, wit and humour were his shin- 
 ing talents. T he often argued for the sake 
 of triumph over his adversary, cannot be dis- 
 sembled. Dr. Rose, of Chiswick, has been 
 heard to tell of a friend of his, who thanked him 
 for introducing him to Dr. Johnson, as he had 
 been convinced, in the course of a long dispute, 
 that an opinion, which he had embraced as a 
 settled truth, was no better than a vulgar error. 
 This being reported to Johnson, "Nay," said 
 he, "do not let him be thankful, for he was right, 
 and I was wrong." Like his uncle Andrew, in 
 the ring at Smithfield, Johnson, in a circle of 
 disputants, was determined neither to be thrown 
 nor conquered. Notwithstanding all his piety, 
 self-government, or the command of his pas- 
 sions in conversation, does not seem to have been 
 among his attainments. Whenever he thought 
 the contention was for superiority, he has been 
 known to break out with violence, and even fe- 
 rocity. When the fray was over, he generally 
 softened into repentance, and, by conciliating 
 measures, took care that no animosity should be 
 left rankling in the breast of his antagonist. Of 
 this defect he seems to have been conscious. In 
 a letter to Mrs. Thrale, he says, "Poor Baretti ! 
 do not quarrel with him ; to neglect him a little 
 will be sufficient. He means only to be frank 
 and manly, and independent, and perhaps, as 
 you sav a little wise. To be frank, he thinks, 
 is to be cynical ; and to be independent, is to be 
 rude. Forgive him, dearest lady, the rather, 
 because of his misbehaviour I am afraid he 
 learned part of me. I hope to set him here- 
 after a better example." For his own intolerant 
 and overbearing spirit he apologized by observ- 
 ing, that it had done some good ; obscenity and 
 impiety were repressed in his company. 
 
 It was late in life before he had the habit of 
 mixing, otherwise than occasionally, with polite 
 company. At Mr. Thrale's, he saw a constant 
 succession of well-accomplisl^dvisitors. In 
 that society he began to "'m^f? the rugged 
 points of his own character. T^^awthe advan- 
 tages of mutual civility, and endeavoured to profit 
 by the models before him. He aimed at what 
 has been called by Swift the lesser morals, and by 
 Cicero minores virtutes. His endeavour, though 
 new and late, gave pleasure to all his acquaint- 
 ance. Men were glad to see that he was willing 
 to be communicative on equal terms and recipro- 
 cal complaisance. The time was then expect- 
 ed when he was to cease being what George 
 Garrick, brother to the celebrated actor, called 
 him the first time he heard him converse, " A 
 TREMENDOUS COMPANION." He certainly wished 
 to be polite, and even thought himself so ; but 
 his civility still retained something uncouth and 
 harsh. His manners took a milder tone, but the 
 endeavour was too palpably seen. He laboured 
 even in trifles. He was a giant gaining a pur- 
 chase to lift a feather. 
 
 It is observed by the younger Pliny, that in 
 the confines of virtue and great qualities there 
 are generally vices of an opposite nature. In Dr. 
 Johnson not one ingredient can take the name 
 of vice. From his attainments in literature 
 grew the pride of knowledge ; and from his pow- 
 ers of reasoning, the love of disputation and the 
 (d) 
 
 vainglory of superior vigour. His piety, in 
 some instances, bordered on superstition. He 
 was willing to believe in preternatural agency, 
 and thought it not more strange that there 
 should be evil spirits than evil men. Even the 
 question about second sight held him in sus- 
 pense. " Second sight," Mr. Pennant tells us, 
 " is a power of seeing images impressed on the 
 organs of sight by the power of fancy, or on the 
 fancy by the disordered spirits operating on the 
 mind. It is the faculty of seeing spectres or 
 visions, which represent an event actually pass- 
 ing at a distance, or likely to happen at a future 
 day. In J771, a gentleman, the last who was 
 supposed to be possessed of this faculty, had a 
 boat at sea in a tempestuous night, and, being 
 anxious for his freight, suddenly started up, and 
 said his men would be drowned, for he had seen 
 them pass before him with wet garments and 
 dripping locks. The event corresponded with 
 his disordered fancy. And thus," continues 
 Mr. Pennant, " a distempered imagination, 
 clouded with anxiety, may make an impression 
 on the spirits; as persons, restless and troubled 
 with indignation, see various forms and figures 
 while they lie awake in bed." This is what Dr. 
 Johnson was not willing to reject. He wished 
 for some positive proof of communications with 
 another world. His benevolence embraced the 
 whole race of man, and yet was tinctured with 
 particular prejudices. He was pleased with 
 the minister in the Isle of Sky, and loved him so 
 much that he began to wish him not a Presby- 
 terian. To that body of Dissenters his zeal for 
 the Established Church made him in some de- 
 gree an adversary ; and his attachment to a 
 mixed and limited Monarchy led him to declare 
 open war against what he called a sullen Re- 
 publican. He would rather praise a man of 
 Oxford than of Cambridge. , He disliked a 
 Whig, and loved a Tory. These were the 
 shades of his character, which it has been the 
 business of certain party-writers to represent in 
 the darkest colours. 
 
 Since virtue, or moral goodness, consists in a 
 just conformity of our actions to the relations in 
 which we stand to the Supreme Being and to 
 our fellow creatures, where shall we find a man 
 who has been, or endeavoured to be, more dili- 
 gent in the discharge of those essential duties ? 
 His first prayer was composed in 1738 ; he con- 
 tinued those fervent ejaculations of piety to the 
 end of his life. In his Meditations we see him 
 scrutinizing himself with severity, and aiming 
 at perfection unattainable by man. His duty to 
 his neighbour consisted in universal benevolence, 
 and a constant aim at the production of happi- 
 ness. Who was more sincere and steady in his 
 friendships? It has been said that there was no 
 real affection between him and Garrick. On 
 the part of the latter, there might be some cor- 
 rosions of jealousy. The character of PROS- 
 PERO, in the Rambler, No. 200, was, beyond all 
 question, occasioned by Garrick's ostentatious 
 display of furniture and Dresden china. It was 
 surely fair to take from this incident a hint for a 
 moral essay ; and though no more was intended, 
 Garrick, we are told, remembered it with unea 
 siness. He was also hurt that his Litchfield 
 friend did not think so highly of his dramatic 
 art as the rest of the world. The fact was, 
 Johnson could not see the passions as they rose
 
 rxvi 
 
 AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND 
 
 and chased one another in the varied features 
 of that expressive face ; and by his own manner 
 of reciting verses, which was wonderfully im- 
 pressive, he plainly showed that he thought 
 there was too much of artificial tone and mea- 
 sured cadence in the declamation of the theatre. 
 The present writer well remembers being in 
 conversation with Dr. Johnson near the side of 
 the scenes during the tragedy of King Lear : 
 when Garrick came off the stage, he said, 
 " You two talk so loud you destroy all my feel- 
 ings." "Prithee," replied Johnson, "do not 
 talk of feelings, Punch has no feelings." This 
 seems to have been his settled opinion ; admi- 
 rable as Garrick's imitation of nature always 
 was, Johnson thought it no better than mere 
 mimicry. Yet it is certain that he esteemed and 
 loved Garrick ; that he dwelt with pleasure on 
 his praise ; and used to declare, that he deserved 
 his great success, because on all applications 
 for charity he gave more than was asked. Af- 
 ter Garrick's death he never talked of him with- 
 out a tear in his eye. He offered, if Mrs. Gar- 
 rick would desire it of him, to be the editor of 
 his works and the historian of his life.* It has 
 been mentioned, that on his death-bed he 
 thought of writing a Latin inscription to the 
 memory of his friend. Numbers are still living 
 who know these facts, and still remember with 
 gratitude the friendship which he showed to 
 them with unaltered affection for a number of 
 years. His humanity and generosity, in pro- 
 portion to his slender income were unbounded. 
 It has been truly said, that the lame, the blind, 
 and the sorrowful, found in his house a sure re- 
 treat A strict adherence to truth he considered 
 as a sacred obligation, insomuch that, in relating 
 the most minute anecdote, he would not allow 
 himself the smallest addition to embellish his 
 story. The late Mr. Tyers, who knew Dr. 
 Johnson intimately, observed, "that he always 
 talked as if he was talking upon oath." 
 
 After a long acquaintance with this excellent 
 man, and an attentive retrospect to his whole 
 conduct, such is the light in which he appears 
 to the writer of this essay. The following lines 
 of Horace may be deemed his picture in mi- 
 niature. 
 
 Iracundior est paulo, minus aptus acutii 
 
 ffaribus horum hominum, rideri possit, eo quod 
 
 ftusticius tonso toga defluit, et male laxus 
 
 Inpede calceus hteret ; at est bonus, utmelior vir 
 
 If on alias quisquam: at tibi amicus, at ingenium ingtnt, 
 
 Inculto latet hoc sub carport. 
 
 ' Your friend is passionate, perhaps unfit 
 For the brisk petulance of modern wit. 
 His hair ill-cut, his robe that awkward flows, 
 Or his large shoes, to raillery expose 
 The man you love ; yet is he not posscss'd 
 Of virtues, with which very few are bless'd ? 
 While underneath this rude, uncouth disguise, 
 A genius of extensive knowledge lies." 
 
 FRANCIS' Hon. Book. i. Sat. 3. 
 
 It remains to give a review of Johnson's 
 works ; and this, it is imagined, will not be un- 
 welcome to the reader. 
 
 * It is to be regretted that he was not encouraged in 
 this undertaking. The assistance, however, which he 
 gave to Davies, in writing the Life of Garrick, has been 
 acknowledged in general terms by that writer, and from 
 the evidence of style, appears to have been very conside- 
 rable. C. 
 
 Like Milton and Addison, he seems to have 
 been fond of his Latin poetry. Those compo- 
 sitions show that he was an early scholar ; but 
 his verses have not the grac9*Y.l ease that gave 
 so much suavity to the poems v Addison. The 
 translation of the Messiah laoours under two 
 disadvantages ; it is first to be compared with 
 Pope's inimitable performance, and afterwards 
 with the Pollio of Virgil. It may appear trifling 
 to remark, that he has made the letter o, in the 
 word Virgo, long and short in the same line ; 
 Virgo, Virgo parit. But the translation has 
 great merit, and some admirable lines. In the 
 odes there is a sweet flexibility, particularly, To 
 his worthy friend Dr. Laurence; on himself at 
 the theatre, March 8, 1771 ; the Ode in the Isle 
 of Sky ; and that to Mrs. Thrale from the same 
 place. 
 
 His English poetry is such as leaves room to 
 think, if he had devoted himself to the Muses, 
 that he would have been the rival of Pope. His 
 first production in this kind was London, a poem 
 in imitation of the third satire of Juvenal. The 
 vices of the metropolis are placed in the room of 
 ancient manners. The author had heated his 
 mind with the ardour of Juvenal, and, having 
 the skill to polish his numbers, he became a sharp 
 accuser of the times. The Vanity of Human 
 Wishes is an imitation of the tenth Satire of the 
 same author. Though it is translated by Dry- 
 den, Johnson's imitation approaches nearest to 
 the spirit of the original. The subject is taken 
 from the Alcibiades of Plato and has an inter- 
 mixture of the sentiments of Socrates concerning 
 the object of prayers offered up to the Deity. The 
 general proposition is, that good and evil are so 
 little understood by mankind, that their wishes 
 when granted are always destructive. This is 
 exemplified in a variety of instances, such as 
 riches, state preferment, eloquence, military glo- 
 ry, long life, and the advantages of form and 
 beauty. Juvenal's conclusion is worthy of a 
 Christian poet, and such a pen as Johnson's. 
 " Let us," he says, " leave it to the gods to judge 
 what is fittest fiyrus. Man is dearer to his Cre- 
 ator than to hi^B| If we must pray for spe- 
 cial favour, let^Pre for a sound mind in a sound 
 body. Let us. pray for fortitude, that we may 
 think the labours of Hercules and all his suffer- 
 ings preferable to a life of luxury and the soft 
 repose of Sardanapalus. This is a blessing 
 within the reach of every man ; this we can give 
 ourselves. It is virtue, and virtue only, that can 
 make us happy." In the translation the zeal of 
 the Christian conspired with the warmth and 
 energy of the poet ; but Juvenal is not eclipsed. 
 For the various characters in the original, the 
 reader is pleased, in the English poem, to meet 
 with Cardinal VVolsey, Buckingham stabbed by 
 Felton, Lord Strafford, Clarendon, Charles XII. 
 of Sweden ; and for Tully and Demosthenes, 
 Lydiat, Galileo, and Archbishop Laud. It is 
 owing to Johnson's delight in biography that the 
 name of Lydiat is called forth from obscurity. It 
 may, therefore, not be useless to tell, that Lydiat 
 was a learned divine and mathematician in the 
 beginning of the last century. He attacked the 
 doctrine of Aristotle and Scaliger, and wrote a 
 number of sermons on the harmony of the Evan- 
 gelists. With all his merit, he lay in the prison 
 of Bocardo at Oxford, till Bishop Usher, Laud, 
 and others paid his debts. He petitioned Charles
 
 GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 XXVII 
 
 I. to be sent to Ethiopia to procure manuscripts. 
 Having spoken in favour of monarchy and bi- 
 shops, he was plundered by the Puritans, and 
 twice carried away a prisoner from his rectory. 
 He died very poor in 1646. 
 
 The tragedy of Irene is founded on a passage 
 in Knolies' History of the Turks ; an author 
 highly commended in the Rambler, No. 122. 
 An incident in the Life of Mahomet the Great, 
 first Emperor of the Turks, is the hinge on which 
 the fable is made to move. The substance of 
 the story is shortly this. In 1453 Mahomet laid 
 siege to Constantinople, and having reduced the 
 place, became enamoured of a fair Greek, whose 
 name was Irene. The sultan invited her to em- 
 brace the law of the Prophet, and to grace his 
 throne. Enraged at this intended marriage, the 
 Janizaries formed a conspiracy to dethrone the 
 Emperor. To avert the impending danger, 
 Mahomet, in a full assembly of the grandees, 
 "catching with one hand," as Knolies relates it, 
 " the fair Greek by the hair of her head, and 
 drawing his falchion with the other, he, at one 
 blow, struck off her head, to the great terror of 
 them all ; and, having so done, said unto them, 
 Now, by this, judge whether your emperor is 
 able to bridle his affections or not." The story 
 is simple, and it remained for the author to am- 
 plify it with proper episodes, and giye it compli- 
 cation and variety. The catastrophe is changed, 
 and horror gives place to terror and pity. But, 
 after all, the fable is cold and languid. There 
 is not, throughout the piece, a single situation to 
 excite curiosity, and raise a conflict of passions. 
 The diction is nervous, rich, and elegant; but 
 splendid language, and melodious numbers, will 
 make a fine poem, not a tragedy. The senti- 
 
 in the disasters of their country ; a race of men, 
 quibus nidla ex honesto spes. 
 
 The prologue to Irene is written with ele- 
 gance, and, in a peculiar style, shows the literary 
 pride and lofty spirit of the author. The epilogue, 
 we are told in a late publication was written by 
 Sir William Young. This is a new discovery, 
 but by no means probable. When the append- 
 ages to a dramatic performance are not assigned 
 to a friend, or an unknown hand, or a person of 
 fashion, they are always supposed to be written 
 by the author of the play. It is to be wished, 
 however, that the epilogue in question could be 
 transferred to any other writer. It is the worst 
 jeu (Fesprit that ever fell from Johnson's pen.* 
 
 An account of the various pieces contained in 
 this edition, such as miscellaneous tracts, and 
 philological dissertations, would lead beyond the 
 intended limits of this essay. It will suffice to 
 say, that they are the productions of a man who 
 never wanted decorations of language, and al- 
 ways taught his readers to think. The life of 
 the late king of Prussia, as far as it extends, is a 
 model of the biographical style. The review of 
 the Origin of Evil was, perhaps, written with as- 
 perity ; but the angry epitaph which it provoked 
 from Soame Jenyns, was an ill-timed resentment, 
 unworthy of the genius of that amiable author. 
 
 The Rambler may be considered as Johnson's 
 great work. It was the basis of that high reputa- 
 tion which went on increasing to the end of his 
 days. The circulation of those periodical essays 
 was not, at first equal to their merit. They had 
 not, like the Spectators, the art of charming by 
 variety ; and indeed how could it be expected ? 
 The wits of dueen Anne's reign sent their con- 
 tributions to the Spectator ; and Johnson stood 
 
 ments are beautiful, always happily expressed, 'alone. "A stage-coach," says Sir Richard 
 
 but seldom appropriated to the character, and 
 generally too philosophic. What Johnson has 
 said of the tragedy of Cato may be applied to 
 Irene : " It is rather a poem in dialogue than a 
 drama ; rather a succession of just sentiments 
 in elegant language, than a representation of na- 
 tural, affections. Nothing excites or assuages 
 emotion. The events are expected without soli- 
 citude, and are remembered without joy or sor- 
 row. Of the agents we have no care ; we con- 
 sider not what they are doing, nor what they are 
 suffering ; we wish only to know what they have 
 to say. It is unaffecting elegance, and chill phi- 
 losophy." The following speech, in the mouth 
 of a Turk, who is supposed to have heard of 
 the British constitution, has been often selected 
 from the numberless beauties with which Irene 
 abounds : 
 
 " If there be any land, as fame reports 
 Where common laws restrain the prince and subject ; 
 A happy land, where circulating power 
 Flows through each member of th' embodied state ; 
 Sure, not unconscious of the mighty blessing, 
 Her grateful sons shine bright with every virtue ; 
 Untainted with the lust of Innovation ; 
 Sure all unite to hold her league of rule, 
 Unbroken as the sacred chain of nature, 
 That licks the jarring elements in peace." 
 
 These are British sentiments. Above forty 
 y ears ago they found an echo in the breast of 
 applauding audiences ; and to this hour they are 
 the voice of the people, in defiance of the meta- 
 vhysics and the new lights of certain politicians, 
 who would gladly find their private advantage 
 
 Steele, " must go forward on stated days, whe- 
 her there are passengers or not." So it was with 
 he Rambler, every Tuesday and Saturday, for 
 ;wo years. In this collection Johnson is the 
 [rreat moral teacher of his countrymen ; his es- 
 says form a body of ethics ; the observations on 
 life and manners are acute and instructive ; and 
 he papers, professedly critical, serve to promote 
 ihe cause of literature. It must, however, be ac- 
 snowledged, that a settled gloom hangs over the 
 author's mind ; and all the essays, except eight 
 or ten, coming from the same fountain-head, no 
 wonder that they have the raciness of the soil 
 from which they sprang. Of this uniformity 
 Johnson was sensible. He used to say, that if he 
 had joined a friend or two, who would have been 
 able to intermix papers of a sprightly turn, the 
 collection would have been more miscellaneous, 
 and by consequence more agreeable to the ge- 
 nerality of readers. This he used to illustrate 
 by repeating two beautiful stanzas from his own 
 Ode to Cave, or Sylvanus Urban; 
 
 Non ulla Musis pagina gratipr, 
 Quam quae severis ludicra jungere 
 Novit, fatigatamque nugis 
 Utilibus recreare nicnteiu. 
 
 Texente nymphis serta Lycoride, 
 Rosa 1 rubbrem sic viola adjuvat 
 Immista, sic Iris refulget 
 Althereis variata fucis. 
 
 * Dr. Johnson informed Mr. Boswell that this epilogue 
 was written by Sir William Young. See Boswell's Lift 
 of Johnson, vol. i. p. 16670. 8vo. edit. 1504. The inter- 
 nal evidence that it is not Johnson's, is very strong, parti- 
 cularly in the Hue " But how the devil," &c.
 
 -\\V111 
 
 AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND 
 
 It is remarkable that the pomp of diction, 
 which has been objected to Johnson, was first 
 assumed in the Rambler. His Dictionary was 
 going on at the same time, and, in the course of 
 that work, as he grew familiar with technical 
 and scholastic words, he thought that the bulk 
 of his readers were equally learned ; or at least 
 would admire the splendour and dignity of the 
 style. And yet it is well known that he praised 
 in Cowley the easy and unaffected structure of 
 the sentences. Cowley may be placed at the 
 head of those who cultivated a clear and natural 
 style. Dryden, Tillotson, and Sir William 
 Temple, followed. Addison, Swift, and Pope, 
 with more correctness, carried our language 
 well nigh to perfection. Of Addison, Johnson 
 was used to say, He is the Raphael of Essay 
 Writers. How he differed so widely from such 
 elegant models is a problem not to be solved, 
 unless it be true that he took an early tincture 
 from the writers of the last century, particularly 
 Sir Thomas Browne, Hence the peculiarities 
 of his style, new combinations, sentences of an 
 unusual structure, and words derived from the 
 learned languages. His own account of the 
 matter is, "When common words were less 
 pleasing to the ear, or less distinct in their signi- 
 fication, I familiarized the terms of philosophy, 
 by applying them to popular ideas." but he for- 
 got the observation of Dryden : If too many fo- 
 reign words are poured in upon us, it looks as if 
 they were designed, not to assist the natives, but to 
 conquer them. There is, it must be admitted, a 
 swell of language, often out of all proportion to 
 the sentiment ; but there is, in general, a fulness 
 of mind, and the thought seems to expand with 
 the sound of the words. Determined to discard 
 colloquial barbarisms and licentious idioms, he 
 forgot the elegant simplicity that distinguishes 
 the writings of Addison. He had what Locke 
 calls a round-about view of his subject ; and 
 though he was never tainted, like many modern 
 wits, with the ambition of shining in paradox, 
 he may be fairly called an ORIGINAL THINKER. 
 His reading was extensive. H treasured in his 
 mind whatever was worthy of notice, but he 
 added to it from his own meditation. He col- 
 lected, qu<R reconderet, auctaque prorneret. Addi- 
 son was not so profound a thinker. He was 
 born to write, converse, and live with ease ; and he 
 found an early patron in Lord Somers. He de- 
 pended, however, more upon a fine taste than 
 the vigour of his mind. His Latin poetry shows, 
 that he relished, with a just selection, all the re- 
 fined and delicate beauties of the Roman class- 
 ics ; and when he cultivated his native language, 
 no wonder that he formed that graceful style, 
 which has been so justly admired ; simple, yet 
 elegant; adorned, yet never overwrought ; rich 
 in allusion, yet pure and perspicuous ; correct, 
 without labour ; and though sometimes deficient 
 in strength, yet always musical. His essays, in 
 general, are on the surface of life ; if ever ori- 
 ginal, it was in pieces of humour. Sir Roger de 
 Coverly, and the Tory Fox-hunter, need not to 
 be mentioned. Johnson had a fund of humour, 
 but he did not know it : nor was he willing to 
 descend to the familiar idiom and the variety ol 
 diction which that mode of composition required. 
 The letter, in the Rambler, No. 12, from a young 
 girl that wants a place, will illustrate this ob- 
 servation. Addison possessed an unclouded 
 
 imagination, alive to the first objects of nature 
 and of art. He reaches the sublime without 
 any apparent effort. When he tells us, " If we 
 consider the fixed stars as so many oceans of 
 flame, that are each of them attended with a dif- 
 ferent set of planets ; if we still discover new 
 firmaments and new lights that are sunk further 
 in those unfathomable depths of aether, we are 
 lost in a labyrinth of suns and worlds, and con- 
 founded with the magnificence and immensity 
 of nature ;" the ease with which this passage 
 rises to unaffected grandeur, is the secret charm 
 that captivates the reader. Johnson is ahvays 
 lofty ; he seems, to use Dryden's phrase, to be 
 o'er-informed with meaning, and his words do 
 not appear to himself adequate to his conception. 
 He moves in state, and his periods are always 
 harmonious. His Oriental Tales are in the true 
 style of Eastern magnificence, and yet none of 
 them are so much admired as the Visions of 
 Mirza. In matters of criticism, Johnson is ne- 
 ver the echo of preceding writers. He thinks 
 and decides for himself. If we except the Es- 
 says on the Pleasures of Imagination, Addison 
 cannot be called a philosophical critic. His mo- 
 ral Essays are beautiful : but in that province 
 nothing can exceed the Rambler, though John- 
 son used to say, that the Essay on The burthens 
 of mankind (in the Spectator No. 558) was the 
 most exquisite he had ever read. Talking of 
 himself, Johnson said, " Topham Beauclerk has 
 wit, and every thing eomes from him with ease ; 
 but when I say a good thing I seem to labour." 
 When we compare him with Addison, the con- 
 trast is still stronger. Addison lends grace and 
 ornament to truth: Jolmson gives it force and 
 energy. Addison makes virtue amiable ; John- 
 son represents it as an awful duty. Addison in 
 sinuates himself with an air of modesty ; John 
 son commands like a dictator ; but a dictator in 
 his splendid robes, not labouring at the plough. 
 Addison is the Jupiter of Virgil, with placid se- 
 renity talking to Venus : 
 
 " Vultu, quo coelum tempestatesque sereiiat." 
 
 Johnson is Jupiter tonans : he darts his light- 
 ning, and rolls his thunder, in the cause of virtue 
 and piety. The language seems to fall short of 
 ideas ; he pours along, familiarizing the terms 
 of philosophy, with bold inversions, and sono- 
 rous periods ; but we may apply to him what 
 Pope has said of Homer: "It is the sentiment 
 that swells and fills out the diction, which rises 
 with it, and forms itself about it ; like glass in 
 the furnace, which grows to a greater magni- 
 tude, as the breath within is more powerful, and 
 the heat more intense." 
 
 It is not the design of this comparison to de- 
 cide between these two eminent writers. In 
 matters of taste every reader will choose for 
 himself. Johnson is ahvays profound, and of 
 course gives the fatigue of thinking. Addison 
 charms while he instructs; and writing, as he 
 always does, a pure, an elegant and idiomatic 
 style, he may be pronounced the safest model for 
 imitation. 
 
 The essays written by Johnson in the Adven- 
 turer may be called a continuation of the Ram- 
 bler. The Idler, in order to be consistent with 
 the assumed character, is written with abated 
 vigour, in a style of ease and unlaboured ele- 
 gance. It is the Odyssey after the Illiad. In-
 
 GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 tense thinking would not become the Idler. The 
 first number presents a well-drawn portrait of an 
 Idler, and from that character no deviation could 
 be made. Accordingly, Johnson forgets his aus- 
 tere manner, and plays us into sense. He still 
 continues his lectures on human life, but he ad- 
 verts to common occurrences, and is often con- 
 tent with the topic of the day. An advertise- 
 ment in the beginning of the first volume informs 
 us, that twelve entire essays were a contribution 
 from different hands. One of these, No. 33, is 
 the journal of a Senior Fellow at Cambridge, but 
 as Johnson, being himself an original thinker, 
 always revolted from servile imitation, he has 
 printed the piece, with an apology, importing that 
 the journal of a citizen in the Spectator almost 
 precluded the attempt of any subsequent writer. 
 This account of the Idler may be closed, after 
 observing, that the author's mother, being buried 
 on the 23d of January, 1759, there is an admira- 
 ble paper occasioned by that event, on Saturday 
 the 27th of the same month, No. 41. The read- 
 er, if he pleases, may compare it with another 
 fine paper in the Rambler, No. 54, on the convic- 
 tion that rushes on the mind at the bed of a dy- 
 ing friend. 
 
 " Rasselas," says Sir John Hawkins, " is a 
 specimen of our language scarcely to be paral- 
 leled ; it is written in a style refined to a degree 
 of immaculate purity, and displays the whole force 
 of turgid eloquence." One cannot but smile at 
 this encomium. Rasselas is undoubtedly both 
 elegant and sublime. It is a view of human life, 
 displayed, it must be owned, in gloomy colours. 
 The author's natural melancholy, depressed, at 
 the time, by the approaching dissolution of his 
 mother, darkened the picture. A tale, that should 
 keep curiosity awake by the artifice of unexpect- 
 ed incidents, was not the design of a mind preg- 
 nant with better things. He, who reads the 
 heads of the chapters will find, that it is not a 
 course of adventures that invites him forward, 
 but a discussion of interesting questions ; Re- 
 flections on Human life, the History of Imlac, the 
 Man of Learning ; a Dissertation upon Poetry ; 
 the Character of a wise and happy Man, who 
 discourses with energy on the goverm:?ent of the 
 passions, and on a sudden, when Death deprives 
 him of his daughter, forgets all his maxims of 
 wisdom and the eloquence that adorned them, 
 yielding to the stroke of affliction with all the 
 vehemence of the bitterest anguish. It is by pic- 
 tures of life, and profound moral reflection, that 
 expectation is engaged and gratified throughout 
 the work. The History of the Mad Astronomer, 
 who imagines that, for five years, he possessed 
 the regulation of the weather, and that the sun 
 passed from tropic to tropic by his direction, re- 
 presents in striking colours the sad effect of a 
 distempered imagination. It becomes the more 
 affecting when we recollect that it proceeds from 
 one who lived in fear of the same dreadful visita- 
 tion ; from one who says emphatically, " Of the 
 uncertainties' in our present state, the most dread- 
 ful and alarming is the uncertain continuance of 
 reason." The inquiry into the cause of mad- 
 ness, and the dangerous prevalence of imagina- 
 tion, till in time some particular train of ideas 
 fixes the attention, and the mind recurs con- 
 Btantly to the favourite conception, is carried on 
 in a strain of acute observation ; but it leaves us 
 room to think that the author was transcribing 
 
 XXIX 
 
 from his own apprehensions. The discourse on 
 the nature of the soul gives us all that philoso- 
 phy knows, not without a tincture of supersti- 
 tion. It is remarkable that the vanity of humar 
 pursuits was, about the same time, the subject 
 that employed both Johnson and Voltaire : but 
 Candide is the work of a lively imagination ; and 
 Rasselas, with all its splendour of eloquence, ex- 
 hibits a gloomy picture. It should, however, be 
 remembered, that the world has known the 
 weeping as well as the laughing philosopher. 
 
 The Dictionary does not properly fall within 
 the province of this essay. The preface, how 
 ever, will be found in this edition. He who reads 
 the close of it, without acknowledging the force 
 of the pathetic and sublime, must have more in- 
 sensibility in his composition than usually falls 
 to the share of a man. The work itself, though 
 in some instances abuse has been loud, and in 
 others malice has endeavoured to undermine its 
 fame, still remains the MOUNT ATLAS of English 
 literature. 
 
 Though storms and tempests thunder on its brow, 
 And oceans break their billows at its feet, 
 It stands unmoved, and glories in its height- 
 Thai Johnson was eminently qualified for th 3 
 office of a commentator on Shakspeare, no mar 
 can doubt ; but it was an office which he never 
 cordially embraced. The public expected more 
 than he had diligence to perform ; and yet his 
 edition has been the ground on which every sub- 
 sequent commentator has chosen to build. One 
 note for its singularity, may be thought worthy 
 of notice in this place. Hamlet says ; " For if 
 the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a 
 God-kissing- carrion." In this Warburton dis- 
 covered the origin of evil. Hamlet, he says, 
 breaks off" in the middle of the sentence ; but the 
 learned commentator knows what he was going 
 to say, and being unwilling to keep the secret, 
 he goes on in a train of philosophical reasoning 
 that leaves the reader in astonishment. Johnson, 
 with true piety, adopts the fanciful hypothesis, 
 declaring it to be a noble emendation, which al- 
 most sets the critic on a level with the author. 
 The general observations at the end of the seve- 
 ral plays, and the preface will be found in this 
 edition. The former, with great elegance and 
 precision, give a summary view of each drama. 
 The preface is a tract of great erudition and phi- 
 losophical criticism. 
 
 Johnson's political pamphlets, whatever waa 
 his motive for writing them, whether gratitude 
 for his pension, or the solicitation of men in 
 power, did not support the cause for which they 
 were undertaken. They are written in a style 
 truly harmonious, and with his usual dignity of 
 language. When it is said that he advanced po- 
 sitions repugnant to the common rights of mankind, 
 the virulence of party may be suspected. It is, 
 perhaps, true that in the clamour raised through- 
 out the kingdom, Johnson over-heated his mind ; 
 but he was a friend to the rights of man, and he 
 was greatly superior to the littleness of spirit that 
 might incline him to advance what he did not 
 think and firmly believe. In the False Mann, 
 though many of the most eminent men in the king- 
 domconcurred in petitionsto the throne, yet John- 
 son, having well surveyed the mass of the peo- 
 ple, has given, with great humour, and no less 
 truth, what may be called, the birth, parentage,
 
 XXX 
 
 AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND 
 
 and education of a remonstrance. On the subject 
 of Falkland's islands, the fine dissuasive from too 
 hastily involving the world in the calamities of 
 war, must extort applause even from the party 
 that wished, at that time, for the scenes of tu- 
 rnult and commotion. It was in the sarne pam- 
 phlet that Johnson offered battle to JUNIUS ; a 
 writer, who, by the uncommon elegance of his 
 style, charmed every reader, though his object 
 was to inflame the nation in favour of a faction. 
 Junius fought in the dark ; he saw his enemy 
 and had his full blow ; while he himself remained 
 safe in obscurity. But let us not, said Johnson, 
 mistake the venom of the shaft for the vigour of 
 the bow. The keen invective which he pub- 
 lished on that occasion, promised a paper war 
 between two combatants, who knew the use of 
 their weapons. A battle between them was as 
 eagerly expected as between Mendoza and Big 
 Ben. But Junius, whatever was his reason, 
 never returned to the field. He laid down his 
 arms, and has, ever since, remained as secretes 
 tne man in the mask in Voltaire's History. 
 
 The account of his journey to the Hebrides, 
 or Western Isles of Scotland, is a model for such 
 as shall hereafter relate their travels. The au- 
 thor did not visit that part of the world in the 
 character of an Antiquary, to amuse us with 
 wonders taken from the dark and fabulous ages ; 
 nor as a Mathematician, to measure a degree, 
 and settle the longitude and latitude of the seve- 
 ral islands. Those, who expected such informa- 
 tion, expected what was never intended. In 
 every work regard the writer's end. Johnson went 
 to see men. and manners, modes of life, and the 
 progress of civilization. His remarks are so 
 artfully blended with the rapidity and elegance 
 of his narrative, that the reader is inclined to 
 wish, as Johnson did with regard to Gray, that 
 to travel, and to tell his travels, had been more of his 
 employment. 
 
 As to Johnson's Parliamentary Debates, no- 
 thing with propriety can be said in this place. 
 They are collected in two volumes by Mr. 
 Stockdale, and the flow of eloquence which 
 runs through the several speeches is sufficiently 
 known. 
 
 It will not be useless to mention two more 
 volumes, which may form a proper supplement 
 to this edition. They contain a set of Sermons 
 left for publication by" John Taylor, LL. D. The 
 Reverend Mr. Hayes, who ushered these Dis- 
 courses into the world, has not given them as 
 the composition of Dr. Taylor. All he could 
 say for his departed friend was, that he left them 
 in silence among his papers. Mr. Hayes knew 
 them to be the production of a superior mind ; 
 and the writer of these Memoirs owes it to the 
 candour of that elegant scholar, that he is now 
 warranted to give an additional proof of John- 
 son's ardour in the cause of piety, and every 
 moral duty. The last discourse in the collection 
 was intended to be delivered by Dr. Taylor at 
 the funeral of Johnson's wife; but that reverend 
 gentleman declined the office, because, as he told 
 Mr. Hayes., the praise of the deceased was too 
 much amplified. He, who reads the piece, will 
 find it a beautiful moral lesson, written with 
 temper, and no where over-charged with ambi- 
 tious ornaments. The rest of the Discourses 
 were the fund, which Dr. Taylor, from time to 
 time carried with him to his pulpit. He had the 
 
 largest Bull* in England, and some of the beet 
 Sermons. 
 
 We now come to the Lives of the Poets, a 
 work undertaken at the age of seventy, yet the 
 most brilliant, and certainly the most popular, 
 of all our Author's writings. For this perform- 
 ance he needed little preparation. Attentive 
 always to the history of letters, and by his own 
 natural bias fond of biography, he was the more 
 willing to embrace the proposition of the Book- 
 sellers. He was versed in the whole body of 
 English Poetry, and his rules of criticism were 
 settled with precision. The dissertation, in the 
 Life of Cowley, on the metaphysical Poets of 
 the last century, has the attraction of novelty as 
 well as sound observation. The writers who 
 followed Dr. Donne, went in quest of something 
 better than truth and nature. As Sancho says 
 in Don duixote, they wanted better bread than 
 is made with wheat. They took pains to be- 
 wilder themselves, and were ingenious for no 
 other purpose than to err. In Johnson's review 
 of Cowley's works, false wit is detected in all its 
 shapes, and the Gothic taste for glittering con- 
 ceits, and far-fetched allusions, is exploded, ne- 
 ver, it is hoped, to revive again. 
 
 An author who has published his observations 
 on the Life and Writings of Dr. Johnson, speak- 
 ing of the Lives of the Poets, says, " These com 
 positions abounding in strong and acute remark, 
 and with many fine and even sublime passages, 
 have unquestionably great merit; but if they 
 be regarded merely as containing narrations of 
 the lives, delineations of the characters, and 
 strictures of the several authors, they are far 
 from being always to be depended on." He 
 adds, "The characters are sometimes partial, 
 and there is sometimes too much malignity of 
 misrepresentation, to which, perhaps, may be 
 joined no inconsiderable portion of erroneous 
 criticism." The several clauses of this censure 
 deserve to be answered as fully as the limits of 
 this essay will permit. 
 
 In the first place, the facts are related upon 
 the best intelligence, and the best vouchers that 
 could be g'^aned, after a great lapse of time. 
 Probability ivas to be inferred from such mate- 
 rials as could be procured, and no man better 
 understood the nature of historical evidence than 
 Dr. Johnson ; no man was more religiously an 
 observer of truth. If his History is any where 
 defective, it must be imputed to the want of 
 better information, and the errors of uncertain 
 tradition. 
 
 Ad nos vix tennis fainiE perlabitur aura. 
 
 If the strictures on the works of the various 
 authors are not always satisfactory, and if erro- 
 neous criticism may sometimes be suspected, 
 who can hope that in matters of taste all shall 
 agree ? The instances in which the public mind 
 has differed from the positions advanced by 
 the author, are few in number. It has been 
 said, that justice has not been done to Swift, 
 that Gay and Prior are undervalued ; and that 
 Gray has been harshly treated. This charge, 
 perhaps, ought not to be disputed. Johnson, it is 
 well known had conceived a prejudice against 
 
 * See Johnson's Letters from Ashbourne, in thU edi 
 tion.
 
 GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 Swift. His friends trembled for him when he 
 was writing that life : but were pleased, at last, 
 to see it executed with temper and moderation. 
 As to Prior, it is probable that he gave his real 
 opinion, but an opinion that will not be adopted 
 by men of lively fancy. With regard to Gray, 
 when he condemns the apostrophe, in which 
 Father Thames is desired to tell who drives the 
 hoop, or tosses the ball, and then adds, that Fa- 
 ther Thames had no better means of knowing 
 than himself; when he compares the abrupt be- 
 ginning of the first stanza of the Bard to the bal- 
 lad of Johnny Armstrong, " Is there ever a man 
 in all Scotland;" there are, perhaps, few friends 
 of Johnson, who would not wish to blot out both 
 the passages. It may be questioned whether 
 the remarks on Pope's Essay on Man can be 
 received without great caution. It has been al- 
 ready mentioned, that Crousaz, a professor in 
 Switzerland, eminent for his Treatise of Logic, 
 started up a professed enemy to that poem. 
 Johnson says, " his mind was one of those, in 
 which philosophy and piety are happily united. 
 He looked with distrust upon all metaphysical 
 systems of theology, and was persuaded, that the 
 positions of Pope were intended to draw man- 
 kind away from Revelation, and to represent the 
 whole course of things as a necessary concate- 
 nation of indissoluble fatality." This is not the 
 place for a controversy about the Leibnitzian 
 system. Warburton with all the powers of his 
 large and comprehensive mind, published a 
 Vindication of Pope ; and yet Johnson says, 
 that " in many passages a religious eye may 
 easily discover expressions not very favourable 
 to morals, or to liberty." This sentence is se- 
 vere, and, perhaps dogmatical. Crousaz wrote 
 an Examen of The Essay on Man, and after- 
 wards a Commentary on every remarkable 
 passage ; and though it now appears that Mrs. 
 Elizabeth Carter translated the foreign Critic, yet 
 it is certain that Johnson encouraged the work, 
 and, perhaps, imbibed those early prejudices 
 \thichadhered to him to the end of his life. He 
 shuddered at the idea of irreligion. Hence we 
 are told in the Life of Pope, " never were pe- 
 nury of knowledge and vulgarity of sentiment 
 so happily disguised ; Pope, in the chair of wis- 
 dom tells much that every man knows, and 
 much that he did not know himself ; and gives 
 us comfort in the position, that though man's a 
 fool, yet God is wise; that human advantages are 
 unstable ; that our true honour is, not to have a 
 great part, but to act it well ; that virtue only is 
 our own, and that happiness is always in our 
 power. The reader, when he meets all this in 
 Us new array, no longer knows the talk of his 
 mother and his nurse." But may it not be said, 
 that every system of ethics must or ought to 
 terminate in plain and general maxims for the 
 use of life ? and, though in such axioms no dis- 
 covery is made, does not the beauty of the moral 
 theory consist in the premises, and the chain of 
 reasoning that leads to the conclusion ? May 
 not truth, as Johnson himself says, be conveyed 
 to the mind by a new train of intermediate 
 images? Pope's doctrine about the ruling pas- 
 sion does not seem to be refuted, though it is 
 called, in harsh terms, pernicious as well as 
 false, tending to establish a kind of moral pre- 
 destination, or over-ruling principle, which can- 
 not be resisted. But Johnson was too easily 
 
 alarmed in the cause of religion. Organized as 
 the human race is, individuals have different in- 
 lets of perception, different powers of mind, and 
 different sensations of pleasure and pain. 
 
 All spread their charm*, but charms not all alike, 
 On different senses different objects strike : 
 Hence different passions more or less inflame, 
 As strong or weak the organs of the frame. 
 And hence one master-passion in the breast, 
 Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest. 
 
 Brumoy says, Pascal from his infancy felt him- 
 self a geometrician ; and Vandyke, in like man- 
 ner, was a painter. Shakspeare, who of all po- 
 ets, had the deepest insight into human nature, 
 was aware of a prevailing bias in the operations 
 of every mind. By him we are told, " Master- 
 less passion sways us to the mood of what it 
 likes or loathes." 
 
 It remains to inquire whether in the lives be- 
 fore us the characters are partial, and too often 
 drawn with malignity of misrepresentation. To 
 prove this it is alleged, that Johnson has misre- 
 presented the circumstance relative to the trans- 
 lation of the first Iliad, and maliciously ascribed 
 that performance to Addison, instead of Tickell, 
 with too much reliance on the testimony of Pope, 
 taken from the account in the papers left by 
 Mr. Spence. For a refutation of the fallacy 
 imputed to Addison, we are referred to a note 
 in the Biographia Britannica, written by the 
 late Judge Blackstone, who, it is said, examined 
 the whole matter with accuracy, and found that 
 the first regular statement of the accusation 
 against Addison was published by Ruffhead, in 
 his Life of Pope, from the materials which he re- 
 ceived from Dr. Warburton. But with all due 
 deference to the learned Judge, whose talents 
 deserve all praise, this account is by no means 
 accurate. 
 
 Sir Richard Steele, in a dedication of the 
 Comedy of the Drummer to Mr. Congreve, gave 
 the first insight into that business. He says, in 
 a style of anger and resentment, " If that gen 
 tleman (Mr. Tickell) thinks himself injured, I 
 will allow I have wronged him upon this issue, 
 that (if the reputed translator of the first book 
 of Homer shall please to give us another book) 
 there shall appear another good judge of poetry, 
 besides Mr. Alexander Pope, who shall like it" 
 The authority of Steele outweighs all opinions 
 founded on vain conjecture, and, indeed, seems 
 to be decisive, since we do not find that Tickell, 
 though warmly pressed, thought proper to vin 
 dicate himself. 
 
 But the grand proof of Johnson's malignity is 
 the manner in which he has treated the charac- 
 ter and conduct of Milton. To enforce this 
 charge has wearied sophistry, and exhausted 
 the invention of a party. What they cannot 
 deny, they palliate; what they cannot prove, 
 they say is probable. But why all this rage 
 against Dr. Johnson ? Addison, before him, had 
 said of Milton: 
 
 Oh : had the Poet ne'er profaned his pen, 
 To varnish o'er the guilt of faithless men ! 
 
 And had not Johnson an equal right to avow his 
 sentiments ? Do his enemies claim a privilege to 
 abuse whatever is valuable to Englishmen, either 
 in Church or State ? and must the liberty of UN-
 
 XXX11 
 
 LICENSED PRINIING be denied to the friends of 
 the British constitution ? 
 
 It is unnecessary to pursue the argument 
 through all its artifices, since, dismantled of or- 
 nament and seducing language, the plain truth 
 may be stated in a narrow compass. Johnson 
 knew that Milton was a republican ; he says, 
 " an acrimonious and surly republican, for which 
 it is not known that he gave any better reason 
 than that a popular government was the most 
 frugal ; for, the trappings of a monarchy would 
 set up an ordinary commonwealth." Johnson 
 knew that Milton talked aloud " of the danger 
 of RE-ADMITTING KINGSHIP in this nation ;" and 
 when Milton adds, " that a commonwealth was 
 commended, or rather enjoined, by our Saviour 
 himself, to all Christians, not without a remarka- 
 ble disallowance, and the brand of Gentilism 
 UPOX KINGSHIP," Johnson thought him no better 
 than a wild enthusiast. He knew as well as 
 Milton, "that the happiness of a nation must 
 needs be firmest and certainest in a full and 
 free council of their own electing, where no sin- 
 gle person but reason only sways ;" but the ex- 
 ample of all the republics, recorded in the annals 
 of mankind, gave him no room to hope that REA- 
 SON only would be heard. He knew that the 
 republican form of government, having little or 
 no complication, and no consonance of parts, by 
 a nice mechanism forming a regular whole, was 
 too simple to be beautiful even in theory. In 
 practice, it perhaps never existed. In its most 
 flourishing state, at Athens, Rome, and Car- 
 thage, it was a constant scene of tumult and 
 commotion. From the mischiefs of a wild de- 
 mocracy, the progress has ever been to the do- 
 minion of an aristocracy : and the word aristo- 
 cracy fatally includes the boldest and most tur- 
 bulent citizens, who rise by their crimes, and 
 call themselves the best men in the state. By 
 intrigue, by cabal, and faction, a pernicious oli- 
 garchy is sure to succeed, and end at last in the 
 tyranny of a single ruler. Tacitus, the great 
 master of political wisdom, saw, under the mixed 
 authority of king, nobles, and people, a better 
 form of government than Milton's boasted repub- 
 lic; and what Tacitus admired in theory, but 
 despaired of enjoying, Johnson saw established 
 in this country. He knew that it had been 
 overturned by the rage of frantic men ; but he 
 knew that, after the iron rod of Cromwell's 
 usurpation, the constitution was once more re- 
 stored to its first principles. Monarchy was 
 established, and this country was regenerated. 
 It was regenerated a second time at the Revo- 
 lution : the rights of men were then defined, and 
 the blessings of good order and civil liberty have 
 been ever since diffused through the whole^om- 
 munity 
 
 The peace and happiness of society were what 
 Dr. Johnson had at heart. He knew that Mil- 
 ton called his defence of the Regicides a defence 
 of the people of England, but, however glossed 
 and varnished, he thought it an apology for 
 murder. Had the men, who, under a show of 
 liberty, brought their king to the scaffold, proved 
 by their subsequent conduct, that the public good 
 inspired their actions, the end might have given 
 some sanction to the means; but usurpation and 
 slavery followed. Milton undertook the office 
 of secretary under the despotic power of Crom- 
 well, offering the incense of adulation to his mas- 
 
 ter, with the titles of Director of public Councils, 
 the Leader of unconquered Jlrmies, the Father oj 
 his Country. Milton declared at the same time, 
 that nothing is more pleasing to God, or more, agree- 
 able to reason, than that the highest mind should 
 have the sovereign power. In this strain of servile 
 flattery Milton gives us the right divine of tyrants. 
 But it seems, in the same piece, he exhorts 
 Cromwell "not to desert those great principles 
 of liberty which he had professed to espouse ; 
 for, it would be a grievous enormity, if, after 
 having successfully opposed tyranny, he should 
 himself act the part of a tyrant, and betray the 
 cause that he had defended." This -desertion 
 of every honest principle the advocate for liberty 
 lived to see. Cromwell acted the tyrant ; and 
 with vile hypocrisy, told the people, that he had 
 consulted the Lord, and the Lord would have it 
 so. Milton took an underpart in the tragedy. 
 Did that become the defender of the people of 
 England ? Brutus saw his country enslaved ; he 
 struck the blow for freedom, and he died with 
 honour in the cause. Had he lived to be a se- 
 cretary under Tiberius, what would now be said 
 of his memory ? 
 
 But still, it seems, the prostitution with which 
 Milton is charged, since it cannot be defended, 
 is to be retorted on the character of Johnson. 
 For this purpose a book has been published, 
 called Remarks on Dr. Johnson's Life of Milton; 
 to which are added Milton's Tractate of Education, 
 and Jlreopagitica. In this laboured tract we are 
 told, " There is one performance ascribed to the 
 pen of the Doctor, where the prostitution is of 
 so singular a nature, that it would be difficult 
 to select an adequate motive for it out of the 
 mountainous heap of conjectural causes of hu- 
 man passions or human caprice. It is the speech 
 of the late unhappy Dr. William Dodd, when he 
 was about to hear the sentence of the law pro- 
 nounced upon him, in consequence of an indict- 
 ment for forgery. The voice of the public has 
 given the honour of manufacturing this speech 
 to Dr. Johnson ; and the style and figuration of 
 the speech itself confirm the imputation. But it 
 is hardly possible to divine what could be his 
 motive for accepting the office. A man, to ex- 
 press the precise state of mind of another, about 
 to be destined to an ignominious death for a 
 capital crime, should, one would imagine, have 
 some consciousness, that he himself had incur- 
 red some guilt of the same kind." In all the 
 schools of sophistry is there to be found so vile 
 an argument? In the purlieus of Grub-street is 
 there such another mouthful of dirt ? In the 
 whole quiver of malice is there so envenomed a 
 shaft ? 
 
 After this it is to be hoped, that a certain class 
 of men will talk no more of Johnson's malig- 
 nity. The last apology for Milton is that he 
 acted according to his principles. But Johnson 
 thought those principles detestable ; pernicious 
 to the constitution in Church and State, destruc- 
 tive of the peace of society, and hostile to the 
 great fabric of civil policy, which the wisdom of 
 ages has taught every Briton to revere, to love 
 and cherish. He reckoned Milton in that class 
 of men of whom the Roman historian says, 
 when they want, by a sudden convulsion, to 
 overturn the government, they roar and clamour 
 for liberty ; if they succeed, they destroy liberty 
 itself. Ut imperium evertant, libertatem prccje-
 
 GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 XXXlll 
 
 runt; si perverterint, liberlatem ipsam aggredien- 
 tur. Such were the sentiments of Dr. Johnson; 
 find it may be asked, in the language of Boling- 
 broke, " Are these sentiments, which any man, 
 who is born a Briton, in any circumstances, in 
 any situation, ought to be ashamed or afraid to 
 avow?" Johnson has done ample justice to Mil- 
 ton'.s poetry : the Criticism on Paradise Lost is 
 a sublime composition. Had he thought the 
 author as good and pious a citizen as Dr. Watts, 
 he would have been ready, notwithstanding his 
 non-conformity, to do equal honour to the me- 
 mory of the man. 
 
 It is now time to close this Essay, which the 
 author fears has been drawn too much into 
 length. In the progress of the work, feeble as 
 it may be, he thought himself performing the 
 last human office to the memory of a friend, 
 whom he loved, esteemed, and honoured. 
 
 His saltern accumulem donis, et fungar inani 
 Munere. 
 
 The author of these Memoirs has been anx- 
 ious to give the features of the man, and the true 
 
 character of the author. He has not suffered 
 the hand of partiality to colour his excellencies 
 with too much warmth ; nor has he endeavoured 
 to throw his singularities too much into the 
 shade. Dr. Johnson's failings may well be for- 
 given for the sake of his virtues. His defects 
 were spots in the sun. His piety, his kind affec- 
 tions, and the goodness of his liieart, present an 
 example worthy of imitation. His works still 
 remain a monument of genius and of learning. 
 Had he written nothing but what is contained 
 in this edition, the quantity shows a life spent in 
 study and meditation. If to this be added the 
 labour of his Dictionary and other various pro- 
 ductions, it may be fairly allowed, as he used to 
 say of himself, that he has written his share. In 
 the volumes here presented to the public, the 
 reader will find a perpetual source of pleasure 
 and instruction. With due precautions authors 
 may learn to grace their style with elegance, har- 
 mony, and precision ; they may be taught to 
 think with vigour and perspicuity ; and to crown 
 the whole, by a diligent attention to these books, 
 all may advance in virtue.
 
 ADVERTISEMENT TO THE AMERICAN EDITION. 
 
 THE works of Dr. Johnson have so long stood the test of public opinion, that an apo- 
 logy for offering a new edition is hardly necessary. While a part of his works are 
 advantageously known to the general reader, there are many of them, from various 
 causes, which have not been so extensively read. Among these causes, may be stated 
 the fact, that some of them have never been published in this country at all ; while 
 jthers have never been contained in any uniform edition of his works. It may also 
 is added, that so far as the works of Dr. Johnson have been published, the price 
 iemanded for them has prevented their coming within the reach of the great mass of 
 eaders. 
 
 The present is the only complete edition of Dr. Johnson's works which has been pub- 
 lished in this country. It will be found to contain much that is valuable in itself, be- 
 side many papers of much curiosity, including every variety of subject which a mind 
 so comprehensive as his might naturally embrace. The American reader will also 
 here find a surer test by which the intellectual powers of Dr. Johnson may be appre- 
 ciated ; for although these have been acknowledged to be of the highest cast, yet it 
 has been a general impression that they were more particularly confined to one 
 species of literature that of purifying and elevating the standard of the English 
 language. 
 
 
 
 The Political tracts of Dr. Johnson are but little known to the great mass of readers 
 in this country. The author, with his usual vigour, entered fully into the political 
 feelings of the times in which he lived. The relations between this country and 
 Great Britain at that period, are, as a matter of history, interesting to all Ameri- 
 cans. Dr. Johnson defended with much tenacity the original rights of the Indians, 
 and denounced the wrongs imposed upon them by the English and French. In allu- 
 sion to the war between the French and English, about the year 1756, which began 
 in this country, he says, " The American \var between the French and us is therefore 
 only a quarrel between two robbers for the spoils of a passenger." And yet when we 
 had become colonies to Great Britain he equally defended the most odious features 
 of government toward the colonies. A specimen of this may be found in a paper 
 entitled " Taxation no tyranny an answer to the resolutions and address of the Ameri- 
 can Congress 1775," (vol. 5i. p. 425.) Could he have foreseen the progress and termi- 
 nation of the struggle which was then commencing, he might have uttered as a truth, 
 what he then indited as a bitter sarcasm. " The heroes of Boston, if the Stamp Act 
 had not been repealed, would have left their town, their port, and their trade, have re- 
 signed the splendour of opulence, and quitted the delight of neighbourhood, to disperse 
 themselves over the country, where they would till the ground, and fish in the rivers, 
 and range the mountains, and be free." 
 
 As an essayist, Dr. Johnson may be placed upon a par with the writers of the 
 Spectator. Although, in this species of his writing, there may not be found that 
 sprightliness and lively manner which at once wins the attention, yet there is 
 solidity and beauty which will bear thorough and close examination, and stand the 
 severest test of scrutiny and time.
 
 ii ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 Although not exactly within the compass of the present volumes, we may say 
 a word in relation to the great Dictionary of Dr. Johnson. This is undoubtedly at the 
 head of all similar works in the English language, and will stand as a monument 
 of the author's genius, and unparalleled research and industry, so long as the lan 
 guage shall be spoken and read. 
 
 Previous to the completion of this work, no general standard for the English (an 
 guage was acknowledged. The intention of the author was to supply this Deficiency 
 in his own words " the chief intent of it is to preserve the purity, and ascertain the 
 meaning of our English idiom." In fulfilling this task, Dr. Johnson accomplished 
 what falls to the lot of few men in any undertaking. He made that work which 
 was the first standard of the English language so perfect, that not one of all who fol- 
 lowed him, has been able to improve it. Some few indeed have enjoyed an epheme- 
 ral celebrity; but while they are gradually sinking into oblivion, the value and beauty 
 of this great work is becoming more and more appreciated. We cannot but admire 
 the determination of Dr. Johnson to undertake this work, which he knew would add 
 little or nothing to his literary fame during his lifetime. "I knew," says he, " that the 
 work in which I engaged is generally considered as a drudgery for the blind, as the 
 proper toil for artless industry; a task that requires neither the light of learning, 
 nor the activity of genius, but may be successfully performed without any higher 
 quality than that of bearing burdens with dull patience, and beating the tract of the 
 alphabet with sluggish resolution." 
 
 There is one consideration alone which should entitle the works of Dr. Johnson to 
 an attentive, and often repeated perusal. It is the perfection of style and elegance of 
 diction with which they are written. In this they may be set down as models. 
 
 New York, September 1832.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF VOLUME I. 
 
 MURPHY'S ESSAY. 
 
 Essay on the Life and Genius of Dr. John- 
 eon .... 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 1 Difficulty of the first address. Practice of 
 
 the epic poets. Convenience of periodi- 
 cal performances 13 
 
 2 The necessity and danger of looking into 
 
 futurity. Writers naturally sanguine. 
 Their hopes liable to disappointment. . 14 
 
 3 An allegory on criticism 15 
 
 4 The modern form of romances preferable to 
 
 the ancient. The necessity of characters 
 morally good 17 
 
 5 A meditation on the Spring ...... 19 
 
 6 Happiness not local .20 
 
 7 Retirement natural to a great mind. Its 
 
 religious use 22 
 
 8 The thoughts to be brought under regulation; 
 
 as they respect the past, present, and 
 future 23 
 
 9 The fondness of every man for his profes- 
 
 sion. The gradual improvement of manu- 
 factures 25 
 
 . Four billets, with their answers. Remarks 
 
 on masquerades 26 
 
 11 The folly of anger. The misery of a peevish 
 
 old age 28 
 
 12 The history of a young woman that came to 
 
 London for a service 29 
 
 13 The duty of secrecy. The invalidity of all 
 
 excuses for betraying secrets .... 31 
 
 14 The difference between an author's writings 
 
 and his conversation 33 
 
 15 The folly of cards. A letter from a lady 
 
 that has lost her money 35 
 
 16 The dangers and miseries of a literary emi- 
 
 nence 36 
 
 17 The frequent contemplation of death neces- 
 
 sary to moderate the passions .... 38 
 
 18 The unhappiness of marriage caused by ir- 
 
 regular motives of choice 39 
 
 19 The danger of ranging from one study to 
 
 another. The importance of the early 
 choice of a profession 41 
 
 20 The folly and inconvenience of affectation . 43 
 
 21 The anxieties of literature not less than 
 
 those of public stations. The inequality 
 
 of authors' writings 44 
 
 22 An allegory on wit and learning .... 46 
 
 23 The contrariety of criticism. The vanity of 
 
 objection. An author obliged to depend 
 upon his own judgment 47 
 
 24 The necessity of attending to the duties of 
 
 common life. The natural character 
 
 not to be forsaken 48 
 
 85 Rashness preferable to cowardice. Enter- 
 prise not to be repressed 50 
 
 26 The mischief of extravagance, and misery 
 
 of dependence 51 
 
 27 An author's treatment from six patrons . . 63 
 
 28 The various arts of self-delusion .... 54 
 
 29 The folly of anticipating misfortunes ... 56 
 
 30 The observance of Sunday recommended; 
 
 an x allegory 57 
 
 31 The defence of a known mistake highly 
 
 culpable .59 
 
 32 The vanity of stoicism. The necessity of 
 
 patience 60 
 
 33 An allegorical history of rest and labour . 62 
 
 34 The uneasiness and disgust of female cow- 
 
 ardice 63 
 
 35 A marriage of prudence without affection . 65 
 
 36 The reasons why pastorals delight ... 66 
 
 37 The true principles of pastoral poetry . . 68 
 
 38 The advantages of mediocrity. An eastern 
 
 fable 69 
 
 39 The unhappiness of women whether single 
 
 or married 71 
 
 40 The difficulty of giving advice without of- 
 
 fending 72 
 
 41 The advantages of memory 74 
 
 42 The misery of a modish lady in solitude . . 75 
 
 43 The inconveniences of precipitation and con- 
 
 fidence 77 
 
 44 Religion and superstition ; a vision ... 78 
 
 45 The causes of disagreement in marriage . 80 
 
 46 The mischiefs of rural faction 81 
 
 47 The proper means of regulating sorrow . . 82 
 
 48 The miseries of an infirm constitution . . 84 
 
 49 A disquisition upon the value of fame . . 85 
 
 50 A virtuous old age always reverenced . 87 
 
 51 The employments of a housewife in the 
 
 country 88 
 
 52 The contemplation of the calamities of others, 
 
 a remedy for grief 90 
 
 53 The folly and misery of a spendthrift ... 91 
 
 54 A death-bed the true school of wisdom. The 
 
 effects of death upon the survivors . . 92 
 
 55 The gay widow's impatience of the growth 
 
 of her daughter. The history of Miss 
 May-pole 94 
 
 56 The necessity of complaisance. The Ram- 
 
 bler's grief for offending his correspondents 95 
 
 57 Sententious rules of frugality 97 
 
 58 The desire of wealth moderated by philosophy 98 
 
 59 An account of Suspirius, the human screech 
 
 ovvl 99 
 
 60 The dignity and usefulness of biography . . 101 
 
 61 A Londoner's visit to the country .... 102 
 
 62 A young lady's impatience to see London . 104 
 
 63 Inconstancy not always a weakness . . . 105 
 
 64 The requisites to true friendship .... 107 
 
 65 Obidsh and the hermit, an eastern story . . 108 
 
 66 Passion not to be eradicated. The views of 
 
 women ill directed 109 
 
 67 The garden of hope, a dream 110 
 
 68 Every man chiefly happy or miserable at 
 
 home. The opinion of servants not to be 
 despised 112
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 69 The miseries and prejudice of old age . . 113 
 
 70 Different men virtuous in different degrees. 
 
 The vicious not always abandoned . .114 
 
 71 No man believes that his own life will be 
 
 short 116 
 
 72 The necessity of good humour .... 117 
 
 73 The lingering expectation of an heir . . 118 
 
 74 Peevishness equally wretched and offensive. 
 
 The character of Tetrica 120 
 
 75 The world never known but by a change of 
 
 fortune. The history of Melissa . . . 121 
 
 76 The arts by which bad men are reconciled 
 
 to themselves 123 
 
 77 The learned seldom despised but when they 
 
 deserve contempt 124 
 
 78 The power of novelty. Mortality too fami- 
 
 liar to raise apprehensions 125 
 
 79 A suspicious man justly suspected . . . 127 
 
 80 Variety necessary to happiness. A Winter 
 
 scene 128 
 
 81 The great rule of action. Debts of justice 
 
 to be distinguished from debts of charity 129 
 
 82 The virtuoso's account of his rarities . . 131 
 
 83 The virtuoso's curiosity justified ..... 132 
 
 84 A young lady's impatience of control . . 134 
 
 85 The mischiefs of total idleness . . . . 135 
 
 86 The danger of succeeding a great author : 
 
 An introduction to a criticism on Milton's 
 versification 137 
 
 87 The reasons why advice is generally inef- 
 
 fectual 138 
 
 88 A criticism on Milton's versification. Eli- 
 
 sions dangerous in English poetry . . 140 
 
 89 The luxury of vain imagination .... 141 
 
 90 The pauses in English poetry adjusted . 143 
 
 91 The conduct of patronage, an allegory . . 144 
 
 92 The accommodation of sound to sense, often 
 
 chimerical 145 
 
 93 The prejudices and caprices of criticism . 148 
 
 94 An inquiry how far Mikon has accommo- 
 
 dated the sound to the-sense .... 149 
 
 95 The history of Pertinax, the sceptic . . . 151 
 
 96 Truth, falsehood, and fiction, an allegory . 152 
 
 97 Advice to unmarried ladies 154 
 
 98 The necessity of cultivating politeness . . 156 
 
 99 The pleasures of private friendship. The 
 
 necessity of similar dispositions . . . 157 
 
 100 Modish pleasures 158 
 
 101 A proper audience necessary to a wit . . 159 
 
 102 The voyage of life 161 
 
 103 The prevalence of curiosity. The charac- 
 
 ter of Nugaculus . 162 
 
 104 The original of flattery. The meanness of 
 
 venal praise 164 
 
 105 The universal register, a dream .... 165 
 
 106 The vanity of an author's expectations. 
 
 Reasons wiiy good authors are sometimes 
 neglected 167 
 
 107 Properantia's hopes of a year of confusion. 
 
 The misery of prostitutes 168 
 
 108 Life sufficient to all purposes if well em- 
 
 ployed 170 
 
 109 The education of a fop 171 
 
 110 Repentance stated and explained. Retire- 
 
 ment and abstinence useful to repentance 173 
 
 111 Youth made unfortunate by its haste and 
 
 eagerness 174 
 
 112 Too much nicety not to be indulged. The 
 
 character of Eriphile 176 
 
 113 The history of Hymenjeus's courtship . . 177 
 
 114 The necessity of proportioning punishments 
 
 to crimes ' 179 
 
 115 The sequel of Hymenaeus's courtship . .180 
 
 116 The young trader's attempt at politeness .182 
 
 117 The advantages of living in a garret . . . 183 
 
 118 The narrowness of fame 185 
 
 119 Tranquillo's account of her lovers opposed 
 
 to Hymenceus 187 
 
 120 The history of Almamoulin, the son of 
 
 Nouradin 188 
 
 121 The dangers of imitation. The impropriety 
 
 of imitating Spenser 190 
 
 122 A criticism on the English historians . . 191 
 
 123 The young trader turned gentleman . . . 193 
 
 124 The lady's misery in a summer retirement 194 
 
 125 The difficulty of defining comedy. Tragic 
 
 and comic sentiments confounded . . . 195 
 
 126 The universality of cowardice. The impro- 
 
 priety of extorting praise. The imper- 
 tinence of an astronomer 197 
 
 127 Diligence too soon relaxed. Necessity of 
 
 perseverance 198 
 
 128 Anxiety universal. The unhappiness of a 
 
 wit and a fine lady 200 
 
 129 The folly of cowardice and inactivity . . 201 
 
 130 The history of a beauty 202 
 
 131 Desire of gain the general passion . . .204 
 
 132 The difficulty of educating a young noble- 
 
 man '. . 205 
 
 133 The miseries of a beauty defaced . . . 2'16 
 
 134 Idleness an anxious and miserable state . 08 
 
 135 The folly of annual retreats into the country 209 
 
 136 The meanness and mischief of indiscrimi- 
 
 nate dedication .... .... 21 
 
 137 The necessity of literary courage . . . 212 
 
 138 Original characters to be found in the coun- 
 
 try. The character of Mrs. Busy . . 213 
 
 139 A critical examination of Samson Agonistes 215 
 
 140 The criticism continued 216 
 
 141 The danger of attempting wit in conversa- 
 
 tion. The character of Papilius . . .218 
 
 142 An account of squire Bluster 219 
 
 143 The criterions of plagiarism 221 
 
 144 The difficulty of raising reputation. The 
 
 various species of detractors .... 223 
 
 145 Petty writers not to be despised .... 224 
 
 146 An account of an author travelling in quest 
 
 of his own character. The uncertainty 
 offame 225 
 
 147 The courtier's esteem of assurance . . . 228 
 
 148 The cruelty of parental tyranny .... 229 
 
 149 Benefits no't always entitled to gratitude . 230 
 
 150 Adversity useful to the acquisition of know- 
 
 ledge 231 
 
 151 The climacterics of the mind 232 
 
 152 Criticism on epistolary writings .... 234 
 
 153 The treatment incurred by loss of fortune . 235 
 
 154 The inefficacy of genius without learning . 237 
 
 155 The usefulness of advice. The danger of 
 
 habits. The necessity of reviewing life 238 
 
 156 The laws of writing not always indisputable. 
 
 Reflections on tragi-comedy .... 240 
 
 157 The scholar's complaint of his own bashful- 
 
 ness 241 
 
 158 Rules of writing drawn from examples 
 
 Those examples often mistaken . . . 242 
 
 159 The nature and remedies of bashfulness . 244 
 
 160 Rules for the choice of associates . . . 245 
 
 161 The revolutions of a garret 246 
 
 162 Old men in danger of falling into pupilage. 
 
 The conduct of Thrasybulus .... 247 
 
 163 The mischiefs of following a patron . . .249 
 
 164 Praise universally desired. The failings of 
 
 eminent men often imitated 250 
 
 165 The impotence of wealth'. The visit of 
 
 Serotinus to the place of his nativity . . 252 
 
 166 Favours not easily gained by the poor . . 253 
 
 167 The marriage of Hymenseus and Tranquilla 254 
 
 168 Poetry debased by mean expressions. An 
 
 example from Shakspeare 256 
 
 169 Labour necessary to excellence .... 257 
 
 170 The history of Misce'.la debauched by her 
 
 relation 258 
 
 171 Miscella's description of the life of a pros- 
 
 titute 259 
 
 172 The effect of sudden riches upon the man- 
 
 ners 261 
 
 173 Unreasonable fears of pedantry . . . .262 
 
 174 The mischiefs of unbounded raillery. His- 
 
 tory of Dicaculus ........ 264
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 175 The rvajority are wicked 265 
 
 176 Directions to authors attacked by critics. 
 
 The various degrees of critical perspi- 
 cacity 266 
 
 177 An account of a club of antiquaries . . . 267 
 
 1 78 Many advantages not to be enjoyed together 269 
 
 179 The awkward merriment of a student . . 270 
 
 180 The study of life iiot to be neglected for the 
 
 sake of books 271 
 
 181 The history of an adventurer in lotteries . 272 
 
 182 The history of Leviculus the fortune-hunter 274 
 
 183 The influence of envy and interest com- 
 
 pared 275 
 
 184 The subject of essays often suggested by 
 
 chance. Chance .equally prevalent in 
 other affairs 276 
 
 185 The prohibition of revenge justifiable by 
 
 reason. The meanness of regulating our 
 conduct by the opinions of men . . . 277 
 
 186 Anningait and Ajut, a Greenland history . 279 
 
 187 The history of Anningait and Ajut con- 
 
 cluded 280 
 
 188 Favour often gained with little assistance 
 
 from understanding 281 
 
 189 The mischiefs of falsehood. The character 
 
 ofTurpicula 283 
 
 190 The history of Abouzaid, the son of Morad 284 
 
 191 The busy life of a young lady 285 
 
 192 Love unsuccessful without riches .... 286 
 
 193 The author's art of praising himself . . . 288 
 
 194 A young nobleman's progress in politeness 289 
 
 195 A young nobleman's introduction to the 
 
 knowledge of the town 290 
 
 196 Human opinions mutable. The hopes of 
 
 youth fallacious 292 
 
 197 The history of a legacy hunter .... 293 
 
 198 The legacy hunter's history concluded . . 294 
 
 199 The virtues of Rabbi Abraham's magnet . 296 
 
 200 Asper's complaint of the insolence of Pros- 
 
 pero. Unpoliteness not always the effect 
 
 of pride 297 
 
 201 The importance of punctuality .... 299 
 
 202 The different acceptations of poverty. Cyn- 
 
 ics and monks not poor 300 
 
 203 The pleasures of life to be sought in pros- 
 
 pects of futurity. Future fame uncertain 301 
 
 204 The history of ten days of Seged, emperor 
 
 of Ethiopia 302 
 
 205 The history of Seged concluded . . . . 304 
 
 206 The art of living at the cost of others . . 305 
 
 207 The fo'.ly of continuing too long upon the 
 
 sta.au 306 
 
 208 The Rambler's reception. His design . . 308 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 34 Story of Mysargyras 310 
 
 39 Sleep 311 
 
 41 Story of Mysargyras concluded .... 313 
 45 Want of strength and unity in confederated 
 
 power 314 
 
 50 The causes of falsehood 316 
 
 53 Letter of Mysarsyras 317 
 
 58 Criticism 318 
 
 62 Letter of Mysargyras 320 
 
 57 The useful arts as applied to the wants, ne- 
 cessities and superfluities of life . . . 322 
 
 59 Men willingly believe what they wish to be 
 
 true 324 
 
 74 Advice useful and salutary 325 
 
 81 Whether a man should think too highlv, or 
 
 too meanly of himself 327 
 
 84 On the diversity of the English character . 329 
 
 85 The necessity of readina and consulting 
 
 o'her understandings than our own . . 330 
 
 ! Observations on Virgil's Pastorals . . . 332 
 
 95 Resemblance between authors .... 334 
 
 99 The fate of projectors 335 
 
 102 Life of Mercator .337 
 
 107 Why is the world divided by such difference 
 
 of opinion 338 
 
 108 Some images and sentiments of which the 
 
 mind of man may be said to be enamoured 340 
 111 Examination of the pretensions that are 
 
 made to happiness 341 
 
 115 Every age has fe peculiar character . . 343 
 
 119 The great extremes in which happiness is 
 
 sought 344 
 
 120 Misery the lot of man, and our present state 
 
 one of danger and infelicity 346 
 
 126 Retirement 347 
 
 138 The employment of mankind 349 
 
 131 The neglect of little things ...... 350 
 
 137 Retrospect of the papers of the Adventurer 352 
 
 138 The condition of authors with regard to 
 
 themselves 354 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 1 Idler's character 357 
 
 2 Invitation to correspondents 358 
 
 3 Idler's reason for writing 359 
 
 4 Charities and hospitals 360 
 
 5 Proposal for a female army 361 
 
 6 Lady's performance on horseback . . . . ib. 
 
 7 Scheme for news writers . . ' 362 
 
 8 Plan of military discipline ...... 364 
 
 9 Progress of idleness 365 
 
 10 Political credulity 366 
 
 11 Discourses on the weather 367 
 
 12 Marriages why advertised ib. 
 
 13 The imaginary housewife 368 
 
 14 Robbery of time 369 
 
 15 Treacle's complaint of his wife 370 
 
 16 Drugget's retirement 371 
 
 17 Expedients of Idlers 372 
 
 18 Drugget vindicated 373 
 
 19 Whirler's character 374 
 
 20 Louisbourg's history 375 
 
 21 Linger's history of lisllessness 376 
 
 22 Imprisonment of debtors 377 
 
 23 Uncertainty of friendship 378 
 
 24 Man does not always think ib. 
 
 25 New actors on the theatre 379 
 
 26 Betty Broom's history 380 
 
 27 Power of habits 381 
 
 28 Wedding day Grocer's wife Chairman . 382 
 
 29 Betty Broom's history 383 
 
 30 Corruption of news writers 384 
 
 31 Disguises of idleness Sober's character . 385 
 
 32 Sleep 386 
 
 33 Journal of a fellow of a college 387 - 
 
 34 Punch and conversation 388 
 
 35 Auction hunter 389 
 
 36 The terrific diction 390 
 
 37 Iron and gold 391 
 
 38 Debtors in Prison . . 392 
 
 39 The bracelet 393 
 
 40 Art of advertising 394 
 
 41 On the death of a friend 395 
 
 42 Perdita's complaint of her father . . . .396 
 
 43 Monitions on the flight of time . . . .397 
 
 44 Use of memory 398 
 
 45 Portraits defended 399 
 
 46 Molly. Quick's complaint of her mistress . . 400 
 
 47 Deborah Ginger's account of city wits . . 401 
 
 48 The bustles of Idleness 402 
 
 49 Marvel's journey 403 
 
 50 Marvel paralleled 404 
 
 51 Domestic greatness unattainable .... 405 
 32 Self denial necessary ib. 
 
 53 Mischiefs of good company 406 
 
 54 Mrs. Savecharges' complaint 407 
 
 55 Author's mortifications 409 
 
 56 Virtuosos \\himsical 410 
 
 57 Character of Sophron the prudent . . .411 
 
 58 Expectations of pleasure frustrated . . .412 
 
 59 Books fall into neglect . ib.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 60 Minim the critic 413 
 
 61 Minim the critic 414 
 
 62 Ranger's account of the vanity of riches . 415 
 
 63 Progress of arts and language 416 
 
 64 Ranger's complaint concluded 417 
 
 65 Fate of posthumous works 418 
 
 66 Loss of ancient writings . . ..... 419 
 
 67 Scholar's journal 420 
 
 68 History of translations 421 
 
 69 History of translations 422 
 
 70 Hard words defended 423 
 
 71 Dick Shifter's rural excursion 424 
 
 72 Regulation of memory 425 
 
 73 Tranquil's use of riches 426 
 
 74 Memory rarely deficient 427 
 
 75 GelaleddinofBassora 428 
 
 76 False criticisms on painting 429 
 
 77 Easy writing 430 
 
 78 Steady, Snug, Startle, Solid, and Misty . 431 
 
 79 Grand style of painting 432 
 
 80 Ladies' journey to London 433 
 
 81 Indian's speech to his countrymen . . . 434 
 
 82 The true idea of beauty 435 
 
 83 Scruple, Wormwood, Sturdy, and Gentle . 436 
 
 84 Biography, how best performed .... 437 
 
 85 Books multiplied by useless compilations . 438 
 
 86 Miss Heartless's want of a lodging . . .439 
 
 87 Amazonian bravery revived ib. 
 
 88 What have ye done? 440 
 
 89 Physical evil moral good 441 
 
 90 Rhetorical action considered ..... 442 
 
 91 Sufficiency of the English language . . . 443 
 
 92 Nature of cunning 444 
 
 93 Sam Softly's history 445 
 
 94 Obstructions of learning 446 
 
 95 Tim Wainscot's son a fine gentleman . . ib. 
 
 96 Hacho of Lapland 447 
 
 97 Narratives of travellers considered . . . 448 
 
 98 Sophia Heedful 449 
 
 99 Ortogrul of Basra 450 
 
 100 The good sort of woman 451 
 
 101 Omar's plan of life 452 
 
 102 Authors inattentive to themselves . . . 453 
 
 103 Horror of the last ib. 
 
 22 (as originally published,) The Shepherd of 
 
 Bohemia 454 
 
 RASSELAS, a Tale 456 
 
 TALES OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 The Vision of Theodore the Hermit of Tene- 
 
 riffe 501 
 
 The Fountains, a Fairy Tale 606 
 
 LETTERS, SELECTED FROM THE COLLECTION 
 OF MRS. PlOZZI, AND OTHERS. 
 
 I. To Mr. James Elphinston 499 
 
 II. to LIII. To Mrs. Thrale ib. 
 
 LIV. To Mrs. Piozzi 525 
 
 IRENE, a Tragedy in five acts . 
 
 . 525 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 London 544 
 
 The Vanity of Human Wishes 548 
 
 Prologue spoken by Mr. Garrick, at the opening 
 
 the Theatre Royal, Drury I.ane . . . 551 
 Prologue to the "Masque of Comus" . . . . ib. 
 Prologue to the Comedy of" The Good-natured 
 
 Man" 55? 
 
 Prologue to the Comedy of "A Word to the 
 
 Wise" ib. 
 
 Spring ib. 
 
 Midsummer ib. 
 
 Autumn 553 
 
 Winter ib. 
 
 The Winter's Walk ib 
 
 To Miss ****. on her giving the Author a Gold 
 and Silk Network Purse of her own 
 weaving ib. 
 
 To Miss ****, on her playing upon the Harp- 
 sichord in a room hung with Flower- 
 pieces of her own painting 654 
 
 Evening: an Ode. To Stella ib 
 
 To the Same ib. 
 
 To a Friend ib. 
 
 Stella in Mourning . ib. 
 
 To Stella . . 555 
 
 Verses written at the request of a Gentleman to 
 
 whom a Lady had given a Sprig of Myrtle ib 
 
 To Lady Firebrace, at Bury Assizes . . . . ib. 
 
 To Lyce, an elderly Lady . . . . . . ib 
 
 On the Death of Mr. Robert Level . . . . ib. 
 
 Epitaph on Claude Phillips 556 
 
 Epitaphium in Thomam Hanmer, Baronettum . ib. 
 
 Paraphrase of the above by Dr. Johnson . . . ib. 
 
 To Miss Hickman, playing on the Spinnet . . 557 
 
 Paraphrase of Proverbs, chap. vi. verses 6, 7, 8, 
 
 9, 10, 11, ........ . . ib. 
 
 Horace, Lib. iv. Ode vii. translated . . . . ib. 
 
 Anacreon, Ode ix. . . . ib. 
 
 Lines written in ridicule of certain Poems pub- 
 lished in 1777 558 
 
 Parody of a Translation from the Medea of 
 
 Euripides ib 
 
 Translation of the two first Stanzas of the Song 
 
 "Rio Verde, Rio Verde" ib. 
 
 Imitation of the style of **** ib. 
 
 Burlesque of some Lines of Lopez de Vega . ib. 
 
 Translation of some Lines at the end of Baretti's 
 
 Easy Phraseology ib 
 
 Improviso Translation of a Distich on the Duke 
 of Modena's running away from the 
 Comet in 1742 to 1743 ib 
 
 Improviso Translation of some Lines of Mons. 
 
 Benserade h son Lit ib. 
 
 Epitaph for Mr. Hogarth 559 
 
 Translation of some Lines written under a 
 
 Print representing persons skaiting . . ib. 
 
 Impromptu Translation of the same . . . . ib. 
 
 To Mrs. Thrale, on her completing he r 35th year ib 
 
 Impromptu Translation of an Air in the Cle- 
 
 menza de Tito of Metastasio . . . . ib. 
 
 Translation of a Speech of Aquileio in the 
 
 Adriano of Meiaotasio ib. 
 
 Friendship. An Ode ib. 
 
 Translation from the M"dea of Euripides . . ib 
 
 Poemata 560
 
 HISTORICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 
 
 THIS work was written by Dr. Johnson for 
 "The Universal Chronicle, or Weekly Gazette," 
 projected in the year 1751, by Mr. J. Newberry, 
 Bookseller. The preface to the Rambler con- 
 tains an outline of the Life of the celebrated 
 author of these papers; we shall therefore here 
 only present our readers with a few observations 
 on the style, &c. of Dr. Johnson, which he will 
 not find so copiously described as we could wish 
 in on i- preliminary observations on the Rambler. 
 
 The Doctor is said to have been allowed a 
 share in the profits of this newspaper, for which 
 he was to furnish a short essay on such subjects 
 as might suit the taste of the times, and distin- 
 guish this publication from it contemporaries. 
 The first Essay appeared on Saturday, April 
 15th, 1753, and continued to be published on the 
 same day, weekly, until April 5th, 1760, when 
 the Idler was concluded. 
 
 The Rambler may be considered as Johnson's 
 great work. It was the basis of that high re- 
 putation which went on increasing to the end of 
 his days. The circulation of those periodical 
 essays was not, at first, equal to ther merit. They 
 had not, like the Spectators, the art of charming 
 by variety ; and indeed how could it be expected ? 
 The wits of dueen Anne's reign sent their con- 
 tributions to the Spectator ; and Johnson stood 
 alone. A stage-coach, says Sir Richard Steele, 
 must go forward on stated days, whether there 
 are passengers or not So it was with the Ram- 
 bler, every Tuesday and Saturday, for two years. 
 In this collection Johnson is the great moral 
 teacher of his countrymen ; his essays form a 
 body of ethics ; the observations on life and man- 
 ners are acute and instructive ; and the papers, 
 professedly critical, serve to promote the cause of 
 literature. It must, however, be acknowledged, 
 that a settled gloom hangs over the author's 
 mind ; and all the essays, except eight or ten, 
 coming from the same fountain head, no wonder 
 that they have the raciness of the soil from which 
 they spams:. Of this uniformity Johnson was 
 sensible. He used to say, that if he had joined a 
 friend or two, who would have been able to inter- 
 mix papers of a sprightly turn, the collection 
 would have been more miscellaneous, and, by 
 consequence, more agreeable to the generality 
 of readers. 
 
 It is remarkable, that the pomp of diction, 
 which has been objected to Johnson, was first 
 assumed in the Rambler. His Dictionary was 
 going on at the same time, and, in the course of 
 that work, as he grew familiar with technical 
 and scholastic words, he thought the bulk of his 
 readers were equally learned ; or at least would 
 admire the splendour and dignity of the style. 
 And yet it is well known, that he praisea in 
 Cowley the ease and unaffected structure of the 
 sentences. Cowley may be placed at the head 
 of those who cultivated a clear and natural style. 
 Dryden, Tillotson, and Sir William Temple, fol- 
 lowed. Addison, Swift, and Pope, with more 
 correctness, carried our language well nigh to 
 perfection. Of Addison, Johnson was used to 
 
 say, "He is the Raphael of Essay Writers." 
 How he differed so widely from such elegant 
 models is a problem not to be solved, unless it be 
 true that he took an early tincture from the wri- 
 ters of the last century, particularly Sir Thomas 
 Browne. Hence the peculiarities of his style, 
 new combinations, sentences of an unusual struc- 
 ture, and words derived from the learned lan- 
 guages. His own account of the matter is, 
 "When common words were less pleasing to the 
 ear, or less distinct in their signification, I fami- 
 liarized the terms of philosophy, by applying 
 them to popular ideas." But he forgot the obser- 
 vation of Dryden: "If too many foreign words 
 are poured in upon us, it looks as if they were 
 designed, not to assist the natives, but to conquer 
 them." There is, it must be admitted, a swell 
 of language, often out of all proportion to the sen- 
 timent; but there is, in general, a fulness of 
 mind, and the thought seems to expand with the 
 sound of the words. Determined to discard col- 
 loquial barbarisms and licentious idioms, he for- 
 got the elegant simplicity that distinguishes the 
 writings of Addison. He had what Locke calls 
 a roundabout view of his subject ; and though he 
 was never tainted, like many modern wits, with 
 the ambition of shining in paradox, he may be 
 fairly called an Original Thinker. His reading 
 was extensive. He treasured in his mind what- 
 ever was worthy of notice, but he added to it 
 from his own meditation. He collected, qua 
 reconderet, auctaque promeret. Addison was not 
 so profound a thinker. He was born to write, 
 converse, and live with ease ; and he found an 
 early patron in Lord Somers. He depended, 
 however, more upon a fine taste than the vigour 
 of his mind. His Latin poetry shows, that he 
 relished, with a just selection, all the refined and 
 delicate beauties of the Roman classics ; and 
 when he cultivated his native language, no won- 
 der that he formed that graceful style, which has 
 been so justly admired; simple, yet elegant; 
 adorned, yet never over-wrought; rich in allu- 
 sion, yet pure and perspicuous; correct with- 
 out labour, and, though sometimes deficient in 
 strength, yet always musical. His essays in ge- 
 neral, are on the surface of life ; if ever original, it 
 was in pieces of humour. Sir Roger de Coverly, 
 and the Tory Fox-hunter, need not to be men- 
 tioned. Johnson had a fund of humour, but he 
 did not know it, nor was he willing to descend to 
 the familiar idiom and the variety of diction which 
 that mode of composition required. The letter, 
 in the Rambler, No. 12, from a young girl that 
 wants a place, will illustrate this observation. 
 Addison possessed an unclouded imagination, 
 alive to the first objects of nature and of art. He 
 reaches the sublime without any apparent effort. 
 When he tells us, " If we consider the fixed 
 stars as so many oceans of flame, that are each of 
 them attended with a different set of planets ; if 
 we still discover new firmaments and new lights 
 that are sunk further in those unfathomabla 
 depths of aether, we are lost in a labyrinth of suns 
 and worlds, and confounded with the magnifi-
 
 HISTORICAL AND 
 
 coiicc and immensity of nature ;" the ease, with 
 which this passage rises to unaffected grandeur, 
 is the secret charm that captivates the reader. 
 Johnson is always lofty ; he seems, to use Dry- 
 den's phrase, to be o'er informed with meaning, 
 and his words do not appear to himself adequate 
 to his conception. He moves in state, and his pe- 
 riods are always harmonious. His Oriental Tales 
 are in the true style of eastern magnificence, and 
 yet none of them are so much admired as the Vi- 
 sions of Mirza. In matters of criticism, Johnson 
 is never the echo of preceding writers. He thinks 
 and decides for himself. If we except the Essays 
 on the pleasures of imagination, Addison cannot 
 be called a philosophical critic. His moral Es- 
 says are beautiful ; but in that province nothing 
 can exceed the Rambler, though. Johnson used 
 to say, that the Essay on " The Burthens of 
 Mankind" (in the Spectator, No. 558) was the 
 most exquisite he had ever read. Talking of 
 himself, Johnson said, " Topham Beauclark has 
 wit, and every thing conies from him with ease ; 
 but when I say a good thing, I seem to labour." 
 When we compare him with Addison, the con- 
 trast is still stronger. Addison lends grace and 
 ornament to truth; Johnson gives it force and 
 energy. Addison makes virtue amiable ; John- 
 son represents it as an awful duty. Addison 
 insinuates himself with an air of modesty ; John- 
 son commands like a dictator ; but a dictator in 
 his splended robes, not labouring at the plough. 
 Addison is the Jupiter of Virgil, with placid 
 serenity talking to Venus : 
 
 " Vultu, quo coelum tempestatesque serenat." 
 
 Johnson is Jupiter Tonans ; he darts his light- 
 ning, and rolls his thunder, in the cause or vir- 
 tue and piety. The language seems to fall short 
 of his ideas ; he pours along, familiarising the 
 terms of philosophy, with bold inversions, and 
 sonorous periods ; but we may apply to him 
 what Pope has said of Homer: "It is the sen- 
 timent that swells and fills out the diction, which 
 rises with it, and forms itself about it ; like glass 
 in the furnace, which grows to a greater magni- 
 tude, as the breath within is more powerful, and 
 the heat more intense." 
 
 It is not the design of this comparison to decide 
 between those two eminent writers. In matters 
 of taste every reader will chose for himself. John- 
 son is always profound, and of course gives the 
 fatigue of thinking. Addison charms while he 
 instructs; and writing, as he always does, a 
 pure, an elegant, and idiomatic style, he may 
 be pronounced the safest model for imitation. 
 
 The Essays written by Johnson in the Adven- 
 turer may be called a continuation of the Rambler. 
 The Idler, in order to be consistent with the as- 
 sumed character, is written with abated vigour, in 
 a style of ease and unlaboured elegance. It is 
 the Odyssey after the Iliad. Intense thinking 
 would not become the Idler. The first number 
 presents a well-drawn portrait of an Idler, and 
 from that character no deviation could be made. 
 Accordingly, Johnson forgets his austere manner, 
 and plays us into sense. He still continues his 
 lectures on human life, but he adverts to common 
 occurrences, and is often content with the topic 
 of the day. An advertisement in the beginning 
 of the first volume informs us, that twelve entire 
 Essays were a contribution from different hands. 
 One of these, No. 33, is the journal of a Senior 
 
 fellow at Cambridge, but, aa Johnson, being 
 himself an original thinker, always revolted from 
 servile imitation, he has punted the piece, with 
 an apology, importing that the journal of a citizen 
 in the Spectator almost precluded the attempt ol 
 any subsequent writer. This account 01 the 
 Idler may be closed, after observing, that the 
 author's mother being buried on the 23d of Jan- 
 uary 1759, there is an admirable paper, occasion- 
 ed by that event, on Saturday the 27th of the 
 same month, No. 41. The reader, if he pleases, 
 may compare it with another fine paper in the 
 Rambler, No. 54, on the conviction that rushes 
 on the mind at the bed of a dying friend. 
 
 The Idlers, during the time of their publication, 
 were frequently copied into contemporary works 
 without any acknowledgment. The author, who 
 was also a proprietor of the Universal Chronicle, 
 in which they appeared, hurled his vengeance on 
 the pirates in the following "Hue and Cry," 
 which, as coming from Dr. Johnson's pen, may 
 justly be deemed a literary curiosity. 
 
 "London, Jan. 5, 1759. Advertisement. The 
 proprietors of the paper, entitled "The Idler," 
 having found that those essays are inserted in 
 the newspapers and magazines with so little 
 regard to justice or decency, that the Universal 
 Chronicle in which they first appear, is not 
 always mentioned, think it necessary to declare to 
 the publishers of those collections, that however 
 patiently they have hitherto endured these inju- 
 ries, made yet more injurious by contempt, they 
 have now determined to endure them no longer. 
 They have already seen essays, for which a 
 very large price is paid, transferred with the 
 most shameless rapacity into the weekly or 
 monthly compilations, and their right, at least 
 for the present, alienated from them, before they 
 could themselves be said to enjoy it. But they 
 would not willingly be thought to want tender- 
 ness even for men by whom no tenderness hath 
 been shown. The past is without remedy, and 
 shall be without resentment. But those who 
 have been thus busy with their sickles in the 
 fields of their neighbours, are henceforward to 
 take notice, that the time of impunity is at an 
 end. Whoever shall, without our leave, lay the 
 hand of rapine upon our papers, is to expect 
 that we shall vindicate our due, by the means 
 which justice prescribes, and which are warrant- 
 ed by the immemorial prescriptions of honoura- 
 ble trade. We shall lay hold, in our turn, on 
 their copies, degrade them from the pomp of 
 wide margin and diffuse typography, contract 
 them into a narrow space, and sell them at "an 
 humble price ; yet not with a view of growing 
 rich by confiscations, for we think not much bet- 
 ter of money got by punishment than by crimes : 
 we shall therefore, when our losses are repaid, 
 give what profit shall remain to the Magdalens: 
 for we know not who can be more properly taxed 
 for the support of penitent prostitutes than pros- 
 titutes in whom there yet appears neither peni- 
 tence nor shame." 
 
 The effect of this singular manifesto is not now 
 known; but if "essays for which a large price 
 has been paid" be not words of course, they may 
 prove that the author received an immediate re- 
 muneration for his labour, independent of his 
 share in the general profits. 
 
 Nos. 33, 93, and 96, were written by Mr. 
 Thomas Warton. Thomas Warton was the
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 
 
 younger brother of Dr. Joseph Warton, and was 
 born at Basingstoke in 1728. He very early 
 manifested a taste for verse ; and there is extant a 
 well-turned translation of an epigram of Martial 
 composed by him in his ninth year. He was 
 educated under his father, who kept a school at 
 Basingstoke, till he was admitted in 1743 a com- 
 moner of Trinity College, Oxford. Here he exer- 
 cised his poletical talent to so much advantage, 
 that on the appearance of Mason's Elegy of 
 " Isis," which severely reflected on the disloyalty 
 of Oxford at that period, he was encouraged by 
 Dr. Huddesford, president of his college, to vin- 
 dicate the cause of the university. This task he 
 performed with great applause, by writing, in his 
 21st year, "The Triumph of Isis;" a piece of 
 much spirit and fancy, in which he retaliated 
 upon the bard of Cam by satirising the courtly 
 venality then supposed to distinguished the loyal 
 university, and sung in no common strains the 
 past and present glories of Oxford. This on his 
 part was fair warfare, though as a peace-offer- 
 ing he afterwards excluded the poem from his 
 volume of collected pieces. His " Progress of 
 Discontent," published in 1750, in a miscellany 
 entitled "The Student," exhibited to great ad- 
 vantage his power in the familiar style, and 
 his talent for humour, with a knowledge of life 
 extraordinary at his early age, especially if com- 
 posed, as is said, for a college-exercise in 1746. In 
 1750 he took the degree of M. A., and in the fol- 
 lowing year became a Fellow of his college. He 
 appears now to have unalterably devoted him- 
 self to the pursuit of poetry and elegant literature 
 in a university-residence. His spirited satire, 
 entitled " Newmarket," and pointed against the 
 ruinous passion for the turf; his "Ode for Mu- 
 sic ;" and " Verses on the Death of the Prince of 
 Wales ;" were written about this time ; and in 
 1753 he was the editor of a small collection of 
 poems, which, under the title of " The Union," 
 was printed at Edinburgh, and contained several 
 of his own pieces. In 1754 he made himself 
 known as a critic and a diligent student of poeti- 
 cal antiquities, by his observations on Spenser's 
 Fairy Glueen, in one volume, afterwards enlarg- 
 ed to two volumes ; a work well received by the 
 public, and which made a considerable addition 
 to his literary reputation. These various proofs 
 of his abilities caused him very properly to be 
 elected in 1757 professor of poetry to the univer- 
 sity, an office which he held for the usual period 
 of ten years, and rendered respectable by the 
 erudition and taste displayed in his lectures. Dr. 
 Johnson was at this time publishing his " Idler," 
 and Warton who had long been intimately ac- 
 quainted with him, contributed the three papers 
 we have mentioned to that work. He gave a 
 specimen of his classical proficiency in 1758 by 
 the publication "Inscriptionum Romanarum 
 Metricarum Delectus," a collection of select Latin 
 epigrams and inscriptions, to which were annex- 
 ed a few modern ones, on the antique model, five 
 of them by himself. He drew up in 1760, for the 
 Biographica Britannica, the life of Sir Thomas 
 Pope, which he published separately, much 
 enlarged, in 1772 and 1780. Another con- 
 tribution to literary biography was his "Life 
 and Literary Remains of Dr. Bathurst," pub- 
 lished in 1761. A piece of local humour, 
 which was read at the time with great avidity, 
 dropped from his pen in 1760 with the title, 
 B 
 
 " A Companion to the Guide, and a Guide to the 
 Companion; being a complete Supplement to 
 all the Accounts of Oxford hitherto published." 
 The lapse of time, and the new reign, had now 
 entirely restored to Oxford its ancient virtue of 
 loyalty ; and Warton, who had lamented the 
 death of George II. in a copy of verses addressed 
 to Mr. Pitt, continued the courtly strain, though 
 with due dignity, in lines on the marriage of 
 George III. and on the birth of the Prince of 
 Wales, printed in the university collection. Still 
 ranking equally with the wits and with the poets 
 of Isis, he edited in 1764 the " Oxford Sausage," 
 of several pieces in which lively miscellany he 
 was the writer. In 1766 he again appeared as a 
 classical editor by superintending the Anthology 
 of Cephalus, printed at the Clarendon-press, to 
 which he perfixed a learned and ingenious pre- 
 face. He took the degree of B. D. in 1761, and 
 in 1771 was instituted to the small living of Kid- 
 dington in Oxfordshire, on the presentation oi 
 the Earl of Litchfield, then chancellor of the uni 
 versity. An edition of Theocritus in 2 vols. 4to. 
 which was published in 1770, gave him celebrity 
 not only at home, but among the scholars of the 
 continent. 
 
 A History of English Poetry is said to have 
 been meditated by Pope, who was but indiffer 
 ently qualified by learning, whatever he might 
 have been by taste, for such an undertaking. 
 Gray, who possessed every requisite for the work, 
 except industry, entertained a distant idea of en- 
 gaging in it, with the assistance of Mason ; but 
 he shrunk from the magnitude of the task, and 
 readily relinquished his project, when he heard 
 that a similar design was adopted by Warton. 
 At what period he first occupied himself in this 
 extensive plan of writing and research, we are 
 not informed ; but in 1774 he had proceeded so 
 far as to publish the first volume in quarto ; and 
 he pursued an object now apparently become the 
 great mark of his studies, with so much assiduity, 
 that he brought out a second volume in 1778, and 
 a third in 1781. He now relaxed iahis labours, 
 and never executed more than a few sheets of a 
 fourth volume. The work had grown upon his 
 hands, and had greatly exceeded his first esti- 
 mate ; so that the completion of the design, 
 which was to have terminated only with the 
 commencement of the eighteenth century, was 
 still very remote, supposing a due proportion to 
 have been preserved throughout. Warton's 
 " History of English Poetry"^ regarded as his 
 opus magnum ; and is indeed an ample monument 
 of his reading, as well as of his taste and critical 
 judgment. The majority of its readers, however, 
 will probably be of opinion that he has dwelt too 
 minutely upon those early periods in which poe- 
 try can scarcely be said to have existed in this 
 country, and has been too profuse of transcripts 
 from pieces destitute of all merit but their age. 
 Considered, however, as literary antiquarianism, 
 the work is very interesting; and though inaccu- 
 racies have been detected, it cannot be denied to 
 abound with curious information. His brother 
 gave some expectation of carrying on the history 
 to the completion of the fourth volume, but 
 seems to have done little or nothing towards ful- 
 filling it. As a proof that Warton began to be 
 weary of his task, it appears that about 1781 he 
 had turned his thoughts to another laborious un- 
 dertaking, which was a county-history of Ox
 
 HISTORICAL AND 
 
 fordshire ; and in 1782 he published as a sped- ' 
 men a topographical account of his parish of Kid- 
 dington. In the same year he entered into the 
 celebrated Chattertonian controversy, and pub- 
 lished An Inquiry into the Authenticity of the 
 Poems ascribed to Rowley, which he decidedly 
 pronounced to be the fabrication of their pre- 
 tended editor. His income was augmented in 
 this year by presentation to a donative in Somer- 
 setshire ; and as he was free both from ambition 
 and avarice, he seems to have looked no farther 
 f or ecclesiastical promotion. In 1785 the place 
 of Camden-professor of history at Oxford, vacant 
 by the resignation of the present Sir W. Scott, 
 was conferred upon him. He attended to his 
 duties so far as to deliver a learned and ingenious 
 inaugural lecture, but that was the limit of his 
 professional exertions. Another office at this 
 time demanded new efforts. At his Majesty's 
 express desire the post of Poet-laureat, vacated by 
 the death of Whitehead, was offered to him ; 
 and, in accepting it, he laudably resolved to use 
 his best endeavours for rendering it respectable. 
 He varied the monotony of anniversary court 
 compliment by retrospective views of the splen- 
 did period of English history and the glories of 
 chivalry, and by other topics adapted to poetical 
 description, though little connected with the pro- 
 per theme of the day ; and though his lyric strains 
 underwent some ridicule on that account, they 
 in general enhanced the literary valuation of 
 laureat odes. His concluding publication was 
 an edition of the juvenile poems of Milton, in 
 which it was his purpose to explain his allusions, 
 point out his imitations, illustrate his beauties, 
 and elucidate his obsolete diction and peculiar 
 phraseology. This was a task of no great effort 
 to one qualified like Warton ; and engaging in it, 
 rather than in the completion of his elaborate 
 plans, seems to prove that the indolence of ad- 
 vancing years and a collegiate life was gaining 
 upon him. Of this work the first edition appear- 
 ed in 1785, and the second in 1791, a short time 
 before his death. He had intended to include 
 in his plan a similar edition of the Paradise Re- 
 gained, and the Samson Agonistes, of the great 
 author, of whom, notwithstanding religious and 
 political differences, he was a warm admirer ; 
 and he left notes on both these pieces. But his 
 constitution now began to give way, though the 
 period of old age was yet distant. In his 62d 
 year an attack of the gout shattered his frame, 
 and was succeeded, in May 1790, by a paralytic 
 seizure, which carried him off at his lodgings in 
 Oxford. His remains were interred, with every 
 academical honour, in the chapel of Trinity Col- 
 lege. 
 
 The character of Thomas Warton was mark- 
 ed by some of those peculiarities which common- 
 ly fix upon a man the appellation of an humorist ; 
 and a variety of stories current among the col- 
 legians show that he was more intent upon grati- 
 fying his own habitual tastes, than regardful of 
 the usual modes and decorums of society. But 
 he was substantially good-humoured, friendly, 
 and placid ; and if his dislike of form and re- 
 straint sometimes made him prefer the company 
 of inferiors to that of equals, the choice was pro- 
 bably in some measure connected with that love 
 of nature, and spirit of independence, which may 
 oe discerned in his writings. That he employed 
 a large portion of his time in the cultivation of his 
 
 mind by curious and elegant literature, his various 
 productions abundantly testify ; yet he appears 
 to have wanted the resolution and steady indus 
 try necessary for the completion of a great 
 design; and some remarkable instances of inac- 
 curacy or forgetfulness prove that his exertions 
 were rather desultory than regular. This dispo- 
 sition was less injurious to him in his poetical 
 capacity than in any other, whence he will proba- 
 bly live longest in fame as a poet. Scarcely any 
 one of that tribe has noted with finer observation 
 the minute circumstances in rural nature that 
 afford pleasure in description, or has derived from 
 the regions of fiction more animated and pictu- 
 resque scenery. His pieces are very various in 
 subject, and none of them long. He can only 
 rank among the minor poets ; but perhaps few 
 volumes in that class will more frequently be 
 taken up for real amusement. Several editions 
 of his poems were called for in his life-time, and 
 since his death an edition of his works has been 
 given by Mr. Mant, in 2 vols. octavo, 1802, with 
 a biographical account of the author prefixed. 
 
 "When Mr. Warton wrote his three papers 
 in the Idler, he lived in habits of intimacy and 
 correspondence with Dr. Johnson ; he was like- 
 wise a member of the Literary Club, and made 
 occasional journeys to London, to attend that, and 
 to enjoy the pleasures of Sir Joshua Reynolds' 
 company, of whom some notice is now to be 
 taken as writer of the Essays Nos. 76, 79, and 82, 
 in this work. 
 
 Sir Joshua Reynolds was the son of a clergy- 
 man at Plympton, in Devonshire, and born there 
 in 1723. Being intended for the church, he 
 received a suitable education under his father, 
 and then removed to Oxford, where he took his 
 degrees in arts ; but having a great taste for draw 
 ing, he resolved to make painting his profession, 
 and accordingly was placed under Hudson the 
 portrait painter. About 1749 he went to Italy, 
 in company with the honourable Mr. Keppel, his 
 early friend and patron. After studying the 
 works of the most illustrious masters two years, 
 Mr. Reynolds returned to London, where he 
 found no encouragement given to any other 
 branch of the art than to portrait painting. Pie 
 was of course under the necessity of complying 
 with the prevailing taste, and in that walk soon 
 became unrivalled. The first picture by which 
 he distinguished himself, after his return, was the 
 portrait of Mr. Keppel. He did not, however, 
 confine himself to portraits, but painted several 
 historical pictures of high and acknowledged 
 merit. When the royal academy was instituted 
 he was appointed president, which station he 
 held with honour to himself and advantage to the 
 arts till 1791, and then resigned it. He was 
 also appointed principal painter to the king, and 
 knighted. His literary merits, and other ac- 
 complishments, procured him the friendship of 
 the most distinguished men of genius in his time, 
 particularly Johnson, Burke, Goldsmith, and 
 Garrick : and Sir Joshua had the honour of insti- 
 tuting the literary club, of which they were mem- 
 bers. He was likewise a member of the royal 
 society, and of that of antiquaries; and was cre- 
 ated doctor of laws by the universities of Oxford 
 and Dublin. Sir Joshua's academical discour- 
 ses display the soundest judgment, the most re- 
 fined taste, and a perfect acquaintance with the 
 works of different masters ; and are written in a
 
 HISTORICAL PREFACE TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 clear and elegant style. He died in 1792, and 
 lies buried in St. Paul's cathedral. Having no 
 children, he bequeathed the principal part of his 
 property to his niece, since married to the Earl of 
 Inciiiquin, now Marquis of Thomond. 
 
 We shall conclude our sketch of the life of 
 this illustrious artist, by quoting his opinion of 
 Dr. Johnson, which is equally honourable to 
 himself and his friend. Speaking of his own dis- 
 courses, our great artist says, " Whatever merit 
 they have must be imputed, in a great measure, 
 to the education which I may be said to have had 
 under Dr. Johnson. I do not mean to say, 
 though it certainly would be to the credit of 
 these discourses if I could say it with truth, that 
 he contributed even a single sentiment to them ; 
 but he qualified my mind to think justly. No 
 man had, like him, the faculty of teaching inferior 
 minds the art of thinking. Perhaps other men 
 might have equal knowledge, but few were so 
 communicative. His great pleasure was to talk 
 to those who looked up to him. It was here he 
 exhibited his wonderful powers. In mixed com- 
 pany, and frequently in company that ought to 
 
 have looked up to him, many, thinking they had 
 a character for learning to support, considered it 
 as beneath them to enlist in the train of his au- 
 ditors ; and to such persons he certainly did not 
 appear to advantage, being often impetuous and 
 over-bearing. The desire of shining in conversa- 
 tion was in him indeed a predominant passion; 
 and if it must be attributed to vanity, let it at the 
 same time be recollected, that it produced that 
 loquaciousness from which his more intimate 
 friends derived considerable advantage. The 
 observations which he made on poetry, on life, 
 and on every thing about us, I applied to our art, 
 with what success others must judge." 
 
 No. 67 was written by another intimate and 
 affectionate friend of Dr. Johnson's, Bennet 
 Langton, Esq. of Langton in Lincolnshire. His 
 acquaintance with Dr. Johnson commenced soon 
 after the conclusion of the Rambler, which Mr. 
 Langton, then a youth, had read with so much 
 admiration that Mr. Bpswell says he came to 
 London chiefly with a view of being introduced 
 to its author. Mr. Langton died December the 
 18th, 1801. 
 
 HISTORICAL PREFACE TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 THE long space which intervened between the 
 GUARDIAN and the RAMBLER, from 1713 to 1750, 
 was filled up by many attempts of the periodical 
 kind, but scarcely any of these had a reformation 
 of manners and morals for their object. A few 
 valuable papers on general and useful topics ap- 
 peared, but so incumbered with angry political 
 contests, as to be soon forgotten. Dr. Johnson 
 was the first to restore ths periodical essay to its 
 original purpose, and it will appear soon that 
 there is none of his works on which he set a 
 higher value than on his RAMBLER. He seems to 
 have thought, that it would constitute his princi- 
 pal fame, and the learned world appear to have 
 been of the same opinion. 
 
 Its commencement was a matter of great im- 
 portance with him ; and he was so desirous to 
 benefit the age by this production, that he began 
 to write with the solemnity of preparatory prayer. 
 In the volume of his Devotions, published soon 
 after his death, we find the following, entitled 
 " Prayer on the RAMBLER." 
 
 " Almighty God, the giver of all good things, 
 without whose help all labour is ineffectual, and 
 without whose grace all wisdom is folly ; grant, 
 I beseech thee, that in this my undertaking, thy 
 HOLY SPIRIT may not be withheld from me, but 
 that I may promote thy glory, and the salvation 
 both of myself and others : grant this, O Lord, 
 for the sake of JESUS CHRIST, Amen." 
 
 The first paper was published on Tuesday, 
 March 20, 1750, and the work continued without 
 the least interruption, every Tuesday and Sa- 
 
 turday, until Saturday, March 14, 1752, on which 
 day it closed. 
 
 The sale was very inconsiderable, and seldom 
 exceeded five hundred copies: and it is very 
 remarkable that the only paper which had a pros- 
 perous sale (No. 97) was one of the very few 
 which Dr. Johnson did not write. It was writ- 
 ten by Richardson, author of Clarissa, Pamela, 
 and Sir Charles Grandison. Modern taste will not 
 allow it a very high place, but its style was at 
 that time better adapted to the readers of the 
 RAMBLER than that of Dr. Johnson. It may here 
 be noticed, that the assistance our author re- 
 ceived from correspondents amounted to a very 
 small proportion. The four billets in No. 10, 
 were written by Miss Mulso, afterwards Mrs. 
 Chapone ; No. 30, was written by Miss Talbot, 
 and Nos. 44, and 100, by the learned and cele- 
 brated Mrs. Carter. 
 
 Of the characters described in the RAMBLER, 
 some were not altogether fictitious, yet they were 
 not exact portraits. The author employed 
 some adventitious circumstances to produce 
 effect. Prospero, in No. 200, was intended for 
 the celebrated actor Garrick. By Gelidus in No. 
 24, the author is said to have meant Mr. Coul- 
 son, a mathematician, who formerly lived at 
 Rochester. The man "immortalized for purring 
 like a cat," was one Busby, a proctor in the 
 Commons. He who barked so ingeniously, and 
 then called the drawer to drive away the dog, was 
 father to Dr. Saltar of the Charterhouse. He 
 who sung a song, and by correspondent motions
 
 HISTORICAL PREFACE TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 of his arm chalked out a giant on the wall, was 
 one Richardson, an attorney. Polypliilus, in No. 
 19, is said to have been drawn from the various 
 studies of Floyer Sydenhem, but no produce of 
 his studies is known except his translations. 
 
 It has been remarked by the editor of the 
 " British Essayists" that the RAMBLER made its 
 way very slowly into the world. This may be 
 true, if spoken of its appearance in numbers. 
 The style was new ; it appeared harsh, involved, 
 and perplexed ; it required more than a transitory 
 inspection to be understood ; but this repulsive 
 appearance was soon overcome : and few works 
 have been more successful, when reprinted 
 in volumes. It was admired by scholars, and 
 recommended by the friends of religion and lite- 
 rature, as a book by which a man might be taught 
 to think : and the author lived to see tec large 
 editions printed in England, besides those which 
 were clandestinely printed in other parts of Great 
 Britain, in Ireland, and in America. For some 
 years past the demand for it has been greater 
 than for any of the " British Essayists ;" its in- 
 fluence on the literature of the age has been great. 
 Dr. Johnson is certainly not to be imitated with 
 perfect success, yet the attempt to imitate him, 
 where it has neither been servile or artificial, has 
 elevated the style of every species of literary com- 
 position. "In every thing we perceive more 
 vigour, more spirit, more elegance. He not only 
 began a revolution in our language, but lived till 
 it was almost completed." 
 
 It has already been said that Dr. Johnson set a 
 high value on the RAMBLER, and it may now be 
 added that he bestowed a labour upon it, with 
 which he never favoured any other of his works. 
 This circumstance, which escaped the researches 
 of all his biographer*, was lately discovered by 
 the editor of tb ''British Essayists," whose 
 
 words we shall borrow on the present occa- 
 sion. 
 
 After noticing the mistakes Mr. Boswell had 
 fallen into, on the subject of the perfection of thf) 
 RAMBLERS at their first appearance, the editor 
 of the "Essayists" says, "Is it not surprising 
 that this friend and companion of our illustrious 
 author, who has obliged the public with the 
 most perfect delineation ever exhibited of any 
 human being, and who declared so often that he 
 was determined 
 
 ' To lose no drop of that immortal man'-- 
 
 that one so inquisitive after the most trifling 
 circumstance connected with Dr. Johnson's cha- 
 racter or history, should have never heard or 
 discovered that Dr. Johnson almost re-wrote the 
 RAMBLER after the first folio edition. Yet the 
 alterations made by him in the second and third 
 editions of the RAMBLER far exceed six thousand ; 
 a number which may justify the use of the word 
 re-wrote, although it must not be taken in its 
 literal acceptation. A comparison of the first edi- 
 tion with the fourth or any subsequent edition 
 will show the curious examiner in what these 
 alterations consist. In the mean time we may 
 apply to the author what he says of Pope 'He 
 laboured his works, first to gain reputation, and 
 afterwards to keep it.' He was not content to 
 satisfy ; he desired to excel, and therefore always 
 endeavoured to do his best: he did not court 
 the candour, but dared the judgment of his read- 
 ers; and expecting no indulgence from others, 
 he showed none himself. He examined lines 
 and words with minute and punctilious obser- 
 vation, and retouched every part with indefati- 
 gable diligence till he had left nothing to be 
 forgiven."
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 No. I.] TUESDAY, MARCH 20, 1749-50. 
 
 Cur iamenhoc libcatpotius decurrere campo, 
 Per quern nuignus eqvos Auru.ncaf.txil alumnus, 
 Si vacat, el placidi rationcm admiltitis, edam. 
 
 JBV. 
 
 Why to expatiate in this beaten field, 
 Why arms, oft used in vain, I mean to wield ; 
 If time permit, and candour will attend, 
 Some satisfaction this essay may lend. 
 
 ELPHINSTON. 
 
 THE difficulty of the first address on any new 
 occasion, is felt by every man in his transactions 
 with the world, and confessed by the settled and 
 regular forms of salutation which necessity has 
 introduced into all languages. Judgment was 
 wearied with the perplexity of being forced upon 
 choice, where there 'was no motive to preference ; 
 and it was found convenient that some easy me- 
 thod of introduction should be established, which, 
 if it wanted the allurement of novelty, might en- 
 ioy the security of prescription. 
 
 Perhaps few authors have presented themselves 
 before the public, without wishing that such ce- 
 remonial modes of entrance had been anciently 
 established as might have freed them from those 
 dangers which the desire of pleasing is certain to 
 produce, and precluded the vain expedients of 
 softening censure by apologies, or rousing atten- 
 tion by abruptness. 
 
 The epic writers have found theproemial part 
 of the poem such an addition to then- undertak- 
 ing, that they have almost unanimously adopted 
 the first lines of Homer, and the reader needs 
 only be informed of the subject, to know in what 
 manner the poem will begin. 
 
 But this solemn repetition is hitherto the pe- 
 culiar distinction of heroic poetry ; it has never 
 been legally extended to the lower orders of lite- 
 rature, but seems to be considered as an heredi- 
 tary privilege, to be enjoyed only by those who 
 claim it from then- alliance to the genius of Ho- 
 mer. 
 
 The rules which the injudicious use of this pre- 
 logative suggested to Horace, may indeed be 
 applied to the direction of candidates for inferior 
 fame ; it may be proper for all to remember, 
 that they ought not to raise expectation which it 
 is not in their power to satisfy, and that it is more 
 pleasing to see smoke brightening into flame, 
 than flame sinking into smoke. 
 
 This precept has been long received, both from 
 regard to the authority of Horace, and its con- 
 formity to the general opinion of the world ; yet 
 thpre have been a'wavs some, that thought 't " 
 
 deviation from modesty to recommend their own 
 labours, and imagined themselves entitled by in- 
 disputable merit to an exemption from general 
 restraints, and to elevations not allowed in com- 
 mon life. They, perhaps, believed, that when, 
 like Thucydides, they bequeathed to mankind 
 K-rrjita Is Act an estatefor ever, it was an additional 
 favour to inform them of its value. 
 
 It may, indeed, be no less dangerous to claim 
 on certain occasions, too little than too much. 
 There is something captivating in spirit and in- 
 trepidity, to which we often yield, as to a resist- 
 less power ; nor can he reasonably expect the 
 confidence of others, who too apparently distrusts 
 himself. 
 
 Plutarch, in his enumeration of the various oc- 
 casions on which a man may without just of- 
 fence proclaim his own excellencies, has omitted 
 the caJse of an author entering the world ; unless 
 it may be comprehended under his general posi- 
 tion, that a man may lawfully praise himself for 
 those qualities which cannot be known but from 
 his own mouth ; as when he is among strangers, 
 and can have no opportunity of an actual exer 
 tion of his powers. That the case of an author 
 is parallel, will scarcely be granted, because he 
 necessarily discovers the degree of his merit to 
 his judges, when he appears at his trial. But it 
 should be remembered, that unless his judges are 
 inclined to favour him, they will hardly be per- 
 suaded to hear the cause. 
 
 In love, the state which fills the heart with a 
 degree of solicitude next that of an author, it has 
 been held a maxim, that success is most easily 
 obtained by indirect and unperceived approaches , 
 he who too soon professes himself a lover, raises 
 obstacles to his own wishes, and those whom 
 disappointments have taught experience, endea- 
 vour to conceal their passion till they believe 
 their mistress wishes for the discovery. The 
 same method, if it were practicable to writers, 
 would save many complaints of the severity of 
 the age, and the caprices of criticism. If a man 
 could glide imperceptibly into the favour of the 
 public, and only proclaim his pretensions to lite- 
 rary honours when he is sure of not being reject- 
 ed, he might commence author with better hopes, 
 as his failings might escape contempt, though he 
 shall never attain much regard. 
 
 But since the world supposes every man that 
 writes, ambitious of applause, as some ladies 
 have taught themselves to believe that every man 
 intends love, who expresses civility, the miscar- 
 riage of any endeavour in learning raises an un- 
 bounded contempt, indulged by most minds with-
 
 14 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 2 
 
 out scruple, as an honest triumph over unjust 
 claims, and exhorbitant expectations. The arti- 
 fices of those who put themselves in this hazard- 
 ous state, have therefore been multiplied in pro- 
 tion to their fear as well as their ambition ; and 
 are to be looked upon with more indulgence, as 
 they are incited at once by the two great movers 
 of the human rnind, the desire of good and the 
 fear of evil. For who can wonder that, allured 
 on one side, and frightened on the other, some 
 should endeavour to gain favour by bribing the 
 judge with an appearance of respect which they 
 do not feel, to excite compassion by confessing 
 weakness of which they are not convinced ; and 
 others to attract regard by a show of openness 
 and magnanimity, by a daring profession of their 
 own deserts, and a public challenge of honours 
 and rewards? 
 
 The ostentatious and haughty display of them- 
 selves has been the usual refuge of diurnal writ- 
 ers ; in vindication of whose practice it may be 
 said, that what it wants in prudence is supplied 
 by sincerity, and who at least may plead, that if 
 their boasts deceive any kito the perusal of their 
 performances, they defraud them of but little time. 
 
 -Quidenim? Concurritur hora 
 
 Momenta cita mors vtnit, aut victoria lata. 
 
 The battle join, and in a moment's flight, 
 Death, or a joyful conquest, ends the fight. 
 
 The question concerning the merit of the day is 
 soon decided, and we are not condemned to toil 
 through half a folio, to be convinced that the 
 writer has broke his promise. 
 
 It is one among many reasons for which I pur- 
 pose to endeavour the entertainment of my coun- 
 trymen by a short essay on Tuesday and Satur- 
 day, that I hope not much to tire those whom I 
 shall not happen to please ; and if I am not com- 
 mended for the beauty of my works, to be at 
 .east pardoned for their brevity. But whether 
 my expectations are most fixed on pardon or 
 praise, I think it not necessary to discover ; for 
 having accurately weighed the reasons for arro- 
 gance and submission, I find them so nearly 
 equiponderant, that my impatience to try the 
 event of my first performance will not suffer me to 
 attend any longer the trepidations of the balance. 
 
 There are, indeed, many conveniences almost 
 peculiar to this method of publication, which may 
 naturally flatter the author, whether he be con- 
 fident or timorous. The man to whom the ex- 
 tent of his knowledge, or the sprightliness of his 
 imagination, has, in his own opinion, already 
 secured the praises of the world, willingly takes 
 that way of displaying his abilities which will 
 soonest give him an opportunity of hearing the 
 voice of fame ; it heightens his alacrity to think 
 in how many places he shall hear what he is 
 now writing, read with ecstacies to-morrow. He 
 will often please himself with reflecting, that the 
 author of a large treatise must proceed with anx- 
 iety, lest, before the completion of his work, the 
 attention of the public may have changed its ob- 
 ject ; but that he who is confined to no single topic, 
 may follow the national taste through all its va- 
 riations, and catch the aura popularis, the gale of 
 favour, from what point soever it shall blow. 
 
 Nor is the prospect less likely to ease the 
 doubts of the cautious, and the terrors of the 
 
 fearful, for to such the shortness of every single 
 paper is a powerful encouragement. He that 
 questions his abilities to arrange the dissimilar 
 parts of an extensive plan, or fears to be lost in 
 a complicated system, may yet hope to adjust a 
 few pages without perplexity ; and if, when he 
 turns over the repositories of his memory, he 
 finds his collection too small for a volume, he 
 may yet have enough to furnish out an essay. 
 He that would fear to lay out too much time 
 upon an experiment of which he knows not the 
 event, persuades himself that a few days will 
 show him what he is to expect from his learning 
 and his genius. If he thinks his own judgment 
 not sufficiently enlightened, he may, by attend- 
 ing to the remarks which every paper will pro- 
 duce, rectify his opinions. If he should with too 
 little premeditation encounter himself by an un- 
 wieldy subject, he can quit it without confessing 
 his ignorance, and pass to other topics less dan- 
 gerous, or more tractable. And if he finds, with 
 all his industry, and all his artifices, that he can- 
 not deserve regard, or cannot attain it, he may 
 let the design fall at once, and, without injury to 
 others or himself, retire to amusements of greater 
 pleasure, or to studies of better prospect. 
 
 No. 2.] SATURDAY, MARCH 24, 1749-50. 
 
 Stare loco nescit, pereunt vestigia mille 
 Ante fugam, absenlemque ferit gravis ungula campum. 
 
 STATHIS 
 
 Th' impatient courser pants in every vein, 
 And pawing seems to beat the distant plain, 
 Hills, vales, and Hoods appear already cross'd, 
 And ere he starts a thousand steps are lost. 
 
 THAT the mind of man is never satisfied with 
 the objects immediately before it, but is always 
 breaking away from the present moment, and 
 losing itself in schemes of future felicity ; and 
 that we forget the proper use of the time now in 
 our power to provide for the enjoyment of that 
 which, perhaps, may never be granted us, has 
 been frequently remarked ; and as this practice 
 is a commodious subject of raillery to the gay, 
 and of declamation to the serious, it has been ri- 
 diculed with all the pleasantry of wit, and exag 
 gerated with all the amplifications of rhetoric. 
 Every instance, by which its absurdity might ap 
 pear most flagrant, has been studiously collect- 
 ed ; it has been marked with every epithet of 
 contempt, and all the tropes and figures have been 
 called forth against it 
 
 Censure is willingly indulged, because it al- 
 ways implies some superiority ; men please 
 themselves with imagining that they have made 
 a deeper search, or wider survey than others, 
 and detected faults and follies, which escape 
 vulgar observation. And the pleasure of wan- 
 toning in common topics is so tempting to a 
 writer, that he cannot easily resign it ; a train 
 of sentiments generally received enables him to 
 shine without labour, and to conquer without a 
 contest It is so easy to laugh at the folly of 
 him who lives only in idea, refuses immediate 
 ease for distant pleasures, and, instead of enjoy- 
 ing the blessings of life, lets life glide away in 
 preparations to enjoy them ; it affords such op- 
 portunities of triumphant exultation, to exem-
 
 No. 2.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 plify the uncertainty of the human state, to rouse 
 mortals from their dream, and inform them of 
 the silent celerity of time, that we may believe 
 authors willing rather to transmit than examine 
 so advantageous a principle, and more inclined 
 o pursue a track so smooth and so flowery, than 
 attentively to consider whether it leads to truth. 
 This quality of looking forward into futurity, 
 seems the unavoidable condition of a being, 
 whose motions are gradual, and whose life is pro- 
 gressive : as his powers are limited, he must use 
 means for the attainment of his ends, and intend 
 first what he performs last ; as by continual ad- 
 vances from his first stage of existence, he is per- 
 petually varying the horizon of his prospects, he 
 must always discover new motives of action, 
 new excitements of fear, and allurements of 
 desire. 
 
 The end therefore which at present calls forth 
 our efforts, will be found, when it is once gained, 
 to be only one of the means to some remoter end. 
 The natural flights of the human mind are not 
 from pleasure to pleasure, but from hope to hope. 
 He that directs his steps to a certain point, 
 must frequently turn his eyes to that place 
 which he strives to reach ; he that undergoes the 
 fatigue of labour, must solace his weariness with 
 the contemplation of its reward. In agriculture, 
 one of the most simple and necessary employ- 
 ments, no man turns up the ground but because 
 he thinks of the harvest, that harvest which 
 blights may intercept, which inundations may 
 sweep away, or which death or calamity may 
 hinder him from reaping. 
 
 Yet as few maxims are widely received or long 
 retained but for some conformity with truth and 
 nature, it must be confessed that this caution 
 against keeping our view too intent upon remote 
 advantages is not without its propriety or useful- 
 ness, though it may have been recited with too 
 much levity, or enforced with too little distinc- 
 tion ; for, not to speak of that vehemence of de- 
 sire which presses through right and wrong to its 
 gratification, or that anxious inquietude which is 
 justly chargeable with distrust of Heaven, sub- 
 jects too solemn for my present purpose ; it fre- 
 quently happens that by indulging early the rap- 
 tures of success, we forget the measures neces- 
 sary to secure it, and suffer the imagination to 
 riot in the fruition of some possible good, till the 
 time of obtaining it has slipped away. 
 
 There would, however, be few enterprises of 
 great labour or hazard undertaken, if we had not 
 the power of magnifying the advantages which 
 we persuade ourselves to expect from them. 
 When the knight of La Mancha gravely recounts 
 to his companion the adventures by which he is 
 to signalize himself in such a manner, that he 
 shall be summoned to the support of empires, so- 
 licited to accept the heiress of the crown which 
 he has preserved, have honours and riches to 
 scatter about him, and an island to bestow on 
 his worthy squire, very few readers, amidst their 
 mirth or pity, can deny that they have admitted 
 visions of the same kind ; though they have not, 
 perhaps, expected events equally strange, or by 
 means equally inadequate. When we pity him, 
 we reflect on our own disappointments; and 
 when we laugh, our hearts inform us that he is 
 not more ridiculous than ourselves, except thai 
 he tells what we have only thought. 
 
 The understanding ot a men naturally san- 
 
 ;uine, may, indeed, be easily vitiated by the 
 'uxurious indulgence of hope, however necessary 
 .o the production of every thing great or excel- 
 ent, as some plants are destroyed by too open 
 exposure to that sun which gives life and beauty 
 ,o the vegetable^world. 
 
 Perhaps no class of the human species requires 
 nore to be cautioned against this anticipation of 
 lappiness, than those that aspire to the name of 
 authors. A man of lively fancy no sooner finds 
 a hint moving in his mind, than he makes mo- 
 mentaneous excursions to the press, and to the 
 world, and, with a little encouragement from flat- 
 ery, pushes forward into future ages, and prog- 
 nosticates the honours to be paid him, when 
 nvy is extinct, and faction forgotten, and those, 
 whom partiality now suffers to obscure him, shall 
 lave given way to the triflers of as short dura- 
 ion as themselves. 
 
 Those who have proceeded so far as to appeal 
 o the tribunal of succeeding times, are not likely 
 :o be cured of their infatuation ; but all endea- 
 vours ought to be used for the prevention of a 
 disease, for which, when it has attained its height, 
 jerhaps no remedy will be found in the gardens 
 of philosophy, however she may boast her phy- 
 sic of the mind, her cathartics of vice, or lenitive? 
 of passion. 
 
 I shall, therefore, while I am yet but lightly 
 .ouched with the symptoms of the writer's ma- 
 ady, endeavour to fortify myself against the in- 
 "ection, not without some weak hope that my 
 reservatives may extend their virtue to others, 
 whose employment exposes them to the same 
 danger. 
 
 Loitdis amore tunics ? Sunt eerta piacula, qua te 
 Ter pure lecto pottrunt recreare libello. 
 
 Is fame your passion ? Wisdom's powerful charm, 
 If thrice read over, shall its force disarm. 
 
 FRANCIS. 
 
 It is the sage advice of Epictetus, that a man 
 should accustom himself often to think of what 
 is most shocking and terrible, that by such re- 
 flections he may be preserved from too ardent 
 wishes for seeming good, and from too much de 
 jection in real evil. 
 
 There is nothing more dreadful to an author 
 than neglect ; compared with which, reproach, 
 hatred, and opposition, are names of happiness ; 
 yet this worst, this meanest fate, every one who 
 dares to write has reason to fear. 
 
 I nunc, et versus tecum meditare canoros. 
 
 Go now, and meditate thy tuneful lays. 
 
 ELPHINSTOK 
 
 It may not be unfit for him who makes a new 
 entrance into the lettered world, so far to suspect 
 his own powers as to believe that he possibly may 
 deserve neglect ; that nature may not have quali 
 fied him much to enlarge or embellish knowledge, 
 nor sent him forth entitled by indisputable supe 
 riority to regulate the conduct of the rest of man- 
 kind ; that, though the world must be granted to 
 be yet in ignorance, he is not destined to dispel 
 the cloud, nor to shine out as one of the lumina- 
 ries of life. For this suspicion, every catalogue 
 of a library will furnish sufficient reason ; as he 
 will find it crowded with names of men, who, 
 though now forgotten, were once no less enter- 
 prising or confident than himself, equally pleased
 
 16 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 3 
 
 with their own productions, equally caressed by 
 their patrons, and flattered by their friends. 
 
 But, though it should happen that an author 
 is capable of excelling, yet his merit may pass 
 without notice, huddled in the variety of things, 
 and thrown into the general miscellany of life. 
 He that endeavours after fame by writing, soli- 
 cits the regard of a multitude fluctuating in plea- 
 sures, or immersed in business, without time for 
 intellectual amusements ; he appeals to judges, 
 prepossessed by passions, or corrupted by preju- 
 dices, which preclude their approbation of any 
 new performance. Some are too indolent to 
 read any thing, till its reputation is established ; 
 others too envious to promote that fame which 
 gives them pain by its increase. What is new 
 is opposed, because most are unwilling to be 
 raught ; and what is known is rejected, because 
 it is not sufficiently considered, that men more 
 frequently require to be reminded than informed. 
 The learned are afraid to declare their opinion 
 early, lest they should put their reputation in ha- 
 zard ; the ignorant always imagine themselves 
 giving some proof of delicacy, when they refuse 
 to be pleased : and he that rinds his way to re- 
 putation through all these obstructions, must ac- 
 knowledge that he is indebted to other causes 
 esides his industry, his learning, or his wit. 
 
 No. 3.1 TUESDAY, MARCH 27, 1750. 
 
 Virtus, repulsa nescia soraidts, 
 fntaminalisfulget konoribus, 
 
 ffecsumit aut pouit secures HOR. 
 
 Arbitrio popularis auric. 
 
 ITiidisappointed in designs, 
 With native honours virtue shines ; 
 Nor takes up power, nor lays it down, 
 As giddy rabbles smile or frown. 
 
 ELPHINSTON. 
 
 THE task of an author is, either to teach what 
 is not known, or to recommend known truths 
 by his manner of adorning them ; either to let 
 new light in upon the mind, and open new 
 scenes to the prospect, or to vary the dress and 
 situation of common objects, so as to give them 
 fresh grace and more powerful attractions, to 
 spread such flowers over the regions through 
 which the intellect has already made its pro- 
 gress, as may tempt it to return, and take a se- 
 cond view of things hastily passed over, or neg- 
 ligently regarded. 
 
 Either of these labours is very difficult, be- 
 cause that they may not be fruitless, men must 
 not only be persuaded of their errors, but recon- 
 ciled to their guide ; they must not only confess 
 their ignorance, but, what is still less pleasing, 
 must allow that he from whom they are to learn 
 is more knowing than themselves. 
 
 It might be imagined that such an employ- 
 ment was in itself sufficiently irksome and ha- 
 zardous ; that none would be found so malevo- 
 lent as wantonly to add weight to the stone of 
 Sisyphus; and that few endeavours would be 
 used to obstruct those advances to reputation 
 which must be made at such an expense of time 
 and thought, with so great hazard in the miscar- 
 riaf, and with so little advantage from the suc- 
 cess. 
 
 Yet there is a certain race of men, that either 
 imagine it their duty, or make it their amuse- 
 
 ment, to hinder the reception of every work ot 
 learning, or genius, who stand as sentinels in the 
 avenues of fame, and value themselves upon giv- 
 ing Ignorance and Envy the first notice of a prey. 
 "To these men, who distinguish themselves by 
 the appellation of Critics, it is necessary for a 
 new author to find some means of recommenda- 
 tion. It is probable, that the most malignant 
 of these persecutors might be somewhat soften- 
 ed, and prevailed on, for a short time, to remit 
 their fury. Having for this purpose considered 
 many expedients, I find in the records of an- 
 cient times, that Argus was lulled by music, 
 and Cerberus quieted with a sop ; and am there- 
 fore inclined to believe that modern critics, who, 
 if they have not the eyes, have the watchfulness 
 of Argus, and can bark as loud as Cerberus, 
 though, perhaps, they cannot bite with equal 
 force, might be subdued by methods of the same 
 kind. I have heard how some have been paci- 
 fied with claret and a supper, and others laid 
 asleep with the soft notes of flattery. 
 
 Though the nature of my undertaking gives 
 me sufficient reason to dread the united attacks 
 of this virulent generation, yet I have not hither- 
 to persuaded myself to take any measures for 
 flight or treaty. For I am in doubt whether 
 they can act against me by lawful authority, 
 and suspect that they hate presumed upon a. 
 forged commission, styled themselves the minis- 
 ters of Criticism, without any authentic evidence 
 of delegation, and uttered their own determina- 
 tions as the decrees of a higher judicature. 
 
 Criticism, from whom they derive their claim 
 to decide the fate of writers, was the eldest 
 daughter of Labour and of Truth : she was, at 
 her birth, committed to the care of Justice, and 
 brought up by her in the palace of Wisdom. 
 Being soon distinguished by the celestials, for 
 her uncommon qualities, she was appointed the 
 governess of Fancy, and empowered to beat time 
 to the chorus of the Muses, when they sung be- 
 fore the throne of Jupiter. 
 
 When the Muses condescended to visit this 
 lower world, they came accompanied by Criti- 
 cism, to whom, upon her descent from her na- 
 tive regions, Justice gave a sceptre, to be carried 
 aloft in her right hand, one end of which was 
 tinctured with ambrosia, and inwreathed with 
 a golden foliage of amaranths and bays ; the 
 other end was encircled with cypress and pop- 
 pies, and dipped in the waters of oblivion. In 
 her left hand she bore an unextinguishable torch, 
 manufactured by Labour, and lighted by Truth, 
 of which it was the particular quality immedi- 
 ately to show every thing in its true form, how- 
 ever it might be disguised to common eyes. 
 Whatever Art could complicate, or Folly could 
 confound, was, upon the first gleam of the torch 
 of Truth, exhibited in its distinct parts and origi- 
 nal simplicity; it darted through the labyrinths 
 of sophistry, and showed at once all the absurdi- 
 ties to which they served for refuge ; it pierced 
 through the robes which rhetoric often sold to 
 falsehood, and detected the disproportion of parts 
 which artificial veils had been contrived to 
 cover. 
 
 Thus furnished for the execution of her office, 
 Criticism came down to survey the perform- 
 ances of those who professed themselves the 
 votaries of the Muses. Whatever was brought 
 before her, she beheld by the steady light of the
 
 No. 4.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 torch of Truth, and when her examination had 
 convinced her, that the laws of just writing had 
 been observed, she touched it with the amaran- 
 thine end of the sceptre, and consigned it over 
 to immortality. 
 
 But it more frequently happened, that in the 
 works which required her inspection, there was 
 some imposture attempted ; that false colours 
 were laboriously laid ; that some secret in- 
 equality was found between the words and 
 sentiments, or some dissimilitude of the ideas 
 and the original objects ; that incongruities 
 were linked together, or that some parts were 
 of no use but to enlarge the appearance of the 
 whole, without contributing to its beauty, soli- 
 dity, or usefulness. 
 
 Wherever such discoveries were made, and 
 they were made whenever these faults were 
 committed, Criticism refused the touch which 
 conferred the sanction of immortality, and, 
 when the errors were frequent and gross, re- 
 /ersed the sceptre, and let drops of Lethe distil 
 "rom the poppies and cypress, a fatal mildew, 
 vhich immediately began to waste the work 
 iway, till it was at last totally destroyed. 
 
 There were some compositions brought to the 
 test, in which, when the strongest light was 
 thrown upon them, their beauties and faults 
 appeared so equally mingled, that Criticism 
 stood with her sceptre poised in her hand, in 
 doubt whether to shed Lethe, or ambrosia, upon 
 them. These at last increased to so great a 
 number, that she was weary of attending such 
 doubtful claims, and for fear of using improperly 
 the sceptre of Justice, referred the cause to be 
 considered by Time. 
 
 The proceedings of Time, though very dila- 
 tory, were, some few caprices excepted, con- 
 formable to justice; and many who thought 
 themselves secure by a short forbearance, have 
 sunk under his sithe, as they were posting down 
 with their volumes in triumph to futurity. It 
 was observable that some were destroyed by lit- 
 tle and little, and others crushed for ever by a 
 single blow. 
 
 Criticism having long kept her eye fixed stea- 
 dily upon Time, was at last so well satisfied with 
 his conduct, that she withdrew from the earth 
 with her patroness Astrea, and left Prejudice and 
 False Taste to ravage at large as the associates 
 of Fraud and Mischief; contenting herself thence- 
 forth to shed her influence from afar upon some 
 select minds, fitted for its reception by learning 
 and by virtue. 
 
 Before her departure she broke her sceptre, of 
 which the shivers, that formed the ambrosial end, 
 were caught up by Flattery, and those that had 
 been infected with the waters of Lethe were, 
 with equal haste, seized by Malevolence. The 
 followers of Flattery, to whom she distributed 
 her part of the sceptre, neither had nor desired 
 light, but touched indiscriminately whatever 
 Power or Interest happened to exhibit. The 
 companions of Malevolence were supplied by the 
 Furies with a torch, which had this quality pe- 
 culiar to infernal lustre, that its light fell only 
 upon faults. 
 
 No light, but rather darkness visible, 
 Served only to discover sights of wo. 
 
 With these fragments of authority, the slaves 
 of Flattery and Malevolence marched out, at the 
 C 
 
 command of their mistresses, to confer immor- 
 tality, or condemn to oblivion. But this seep- 
 tre had now lost its power ; and Time passes 
 his sentence at leisure, without any regard to 
 their determinations. 
 
 No. 4.] SATURDAY, MARCH 31, 1750. 
 
 Simul et jucunda et idonea dicere vita. HOR. 
 
 And join both profit and delight in one. 
 
 CREECH. 
 
 THE works of fiction, with which the present 
 generation seems more particularly delighted, 
 are such as exhibit life in its true state, diver- 
 sified only by accidents that daily happen in the 
 world, and influenced by passions and qualities 
 which are really to be found in conversing with 
 mankind. 
 
 This kind of writing may be termed not im- 
 properly the comedy of romance, and is to be 
 conducted nearly by the rules of comic poetry. 
 Its province is to bring about natural events 
 by easy means, and to keep up curiosity with- 
 out the help of wonder : it is therefore precluded 
 from the machines and expedients of the heroic 
 romance, and can neither employ giants to snatch 
 away a lady from the nuptial rites, nor knights to 
 bring her back from captivity ; it can neither be 
 wilder its personages in deserts, nor lodge them 
 in imaginary castles. 
 
 I remember a remark made by Scaliger upon 
 Pontanus, that all his writings are filled with 
 the same images ; and that if you take from him 
 his lilies and his roses, his satyrs and his dry- 
 ads, he will have nothing left that can be called 
 poetry. In like manner almost all the fictions 
 of the last age will vanish, if you deprive them 
 of a hermit and a wood, a battle and a ship 
 wreck. 
 
 Why this wild strain of imagination found 
 reception so long in polite and learned ages, it is 
 not easy to conceive ; but we cannot wonder 
 that while readers could be procured, the authors 
 were willing to continue it ; for when a man had 
 by practice gained some fluency of language, he 
 had no further care than to retire to his closet, 
 let loose his invention, and heat his mind with 
 incredibilities ; a book was thus produced with- 
 out fear of criticism, without the toil of study, 
 without knowledge of nature, or acquaintance 
 with life. 
 
 The task of our present writers is very differ 
 ent; it requires, together with that learning 
 which is to be gained from books, that experi- 
 ence which can never be attained by solitary di- 
 ligence, but must arise from general converse and 
 accurate observation of the living world. Theii 
 performances have, as Horace expresses it, plus 
 oneris quantum veni<e minus, little indulgence, and 
 therefore more difficulty. They are engaged in 
 portraits of which every one knows the original, 
 and can detect any deviation from exactness of 
 resemblance. Other writings are safe, except 
 from the malice of learning, but these are in dan- 
 ger from every common reader : as the slippet 
 ill executed was censured by a shoemaker who 
 happened to stop in his way at the Venus of 
 Apelles. 
 
 But the fear of not being approved as just co-
 
 18 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 4 
 
 piers of human manners, is not the most import- 
 am concern that an author of this sort ought to 
 to have before him. These books are written 
 chiefly to the young, the ignorant, and the idle, 
 to whom they serve as lectures of conduct, and 
 introductions into life. They are the entertain- 
 ment of minds unfurnished with ideas, and there- 
 fore easily susceptible of impressions ; not fixed 
 by principles, and therefore easily following the 
 current of fancy ; not informed by experience, 
 and consequently open to every false suggestion 
 and partial account. 
 
 That the highest degree of reverence should be 
 oaid to youth, and that nothing indecent should 
 be suffered to approach their eyes or ears, are 
 precepts extorted by sense and virtue from an 
 ancient writer, by no means eminent for chastity 
 of thought. The same kind, though not the 
 same degree of caution, is required in every 
 thing which is laid before them, to secure them 
 r rom unjust prejudices, perverse opinions, and 
 .^congruous combinations of images. 
 
 In the romances formerly written, every trans- 
 action and sentiment was so remote from all that 
 passes among men, that the reader was in very 
 little danger of making any applications to him- 
 self; the virtues and crimes were equally beyond 
 his sphere of activity ; and he amused himself 
 with heroes and with traitors, deliverers and 
 persecutors, as with beings of another species, 
 whose actions were regulated upon motives of 
 their own, and who had neither faults nor excel- 
 lences in common with himself. 
 
 But when an adventurer is levelled with the 
 rest of the world, and acts in such scenes of the 
 universal drama, as may be the lot of any other 
 man ; young spectators fix their eyes upon him 
 with closer attention, and hope, by observing his 
 behaviour and success, to regulate their own 
 practices, when they shall be engaged in the like 
 part. 
 
 For this reason, these familiar histories may 
 perhaps be made of greater use than the solemni- 
 ties of professed morality, and convey the know- 
 ledge of vice and virtue with more efficacy than 
 axioms and definitions. But if the power of ex- 
 ample is so great, as to take possession of the 
 memory by a kind of violence, and produce ef- 
 fects almost without the intervention of the will, 
 care ought to be taken, that, when the choice is 
 unrestrained, the best examples only should be 
 exhibited ; and that which is likely to operate so 
 strongly, should not be mischievous or uncertain 
 in its effects. 
 
 The chief advantage which these fictions have 
 over real life is, that their authors are at liberty, 
 though not to invent, yet to select objects, and 
 to cull from the mass of mankind, those indivi- 
 duals upon which the attention ought most to be 
 employed : as a diamond, though it cannot be 
 made, may be polished by art, and placed in 
 such a situation, as to display that lustre which 
 before was buried among common stones. 
 
 It is justly considered as the greatest excel- 
 lency of art, to imitate nature ; but it is neces- 
 sary to distinguish those parts of nature, which 
 are most proper for imitation ; . greater care is 
 still required in representing life, which is so 
 often discoloured by passion, or deformed by 
 wickedness If the world be promiscuously de- 
 scribed, I cannot see of what use it can be to read 
 the account : or why it may not be as safe to turn 
 
 the eye immediately upon mankind as upon i 
 mirror which shows all that presents itself with- 
 out discrimination. 
 
 It is therefore not a sufficient vindication of 
 character, that it is drawn as it appears; fo 
 many characters ought never to be drawn ; no 
 of a narrative, that the train of events is agreea- 
 ble to observation and experience ; for that ob 
 servation which is called knowledge of the world, 
 will be found much more frequently to make 
 men cunning than good. The purpose of these 
 writings is surely not only to show mankind, 
 but to provide that they may be seen hereafter 
 with less hazard ; to teach the means of avoid- 
 ing the snares which are laid by Treachery for 
 Innocence, without infusing any wish for that su- 
 periority with which the betrayer flatters his va- 
 nity ; to give the power of counteracting fraud, 
 without the temptation to practise it ; to initiate 
 youth by mock encounters in the art of neces- 
 sary defence, and to increase prudence without 
 impairing virtue. 
 
 Many writers, for the sake of following nature, 
 so mingle good and bad qualities in their princi- 
 pal personages, that they are both equally con- 
 spicuous ; and as we accompany them through 
 their adventures with delight, and are led by de- 
 grees to interest ourselves in their favour, we lose 
 the abhorrence of their faults, because they do 
 not hinder our pleasure, or, perhaps, regard them 
 with some kindness, for being united with so 
 much merit. 
 
 There have been men indeed splendidly wicked, 
 whose endowments threw a brightness on their 
 crimes, and whom scarce any villany made per- 
 fectly detestable, because they never could be 
 wholly divested of their excellences; but such 
 have been in all ages the great corrupters of the 
 world, and their resemblance ought no more to 
 be preserved, than the art of murdering without 
 pain. 
 
 Some have advanced, without due attention to 
 the consequences of this notion, that certain vir- 
 tues have their correspondent faults, and there- 
 fore that to exhibit either apart is to deviate from 
 probability. Thus men are observed by Swift to 
 be " grateful in the same degree as they are re- 
 sentful." This principle, with others of the same 
 kind, supposes man to act from a brute impulse, 
 and pursue a certain degree of inclination, with- 
 out any choice of the object ; for, otherwise, 
 though it should be allowed that gratitude and 
 resentment arise from the same constitution of 
 the passions, it follows not that they will be 
 equally indulged when reason is consulted ; yet, 
 unless that consequence be admitted, this saga- 
 cious maxim becomes an empty sound, without 
 any relation to practice or to life. 
 
 Nor is it evident, that even the first motions to 
 these effects are always in the same proportion. 
 For pride, which produces quickness of resent- 
 ment, will obstruct gratitude, by unwillingness 
 to admit that inferiority which obligation im- 
 plies; and it is very unlikely that he who cannot 
 think he receives a favour, will acknowledge or 
 repay it 
 
 It is of the utmost importance to mankind, that 
 positions of this tendency should be laid open 
 and confuted ; for while men consider good and 
 evil as springing from the same root, they will 
 spare the one for the sake of the other, and in 
 judging, if not of others, at least of themselves,
 
 No. 5.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 19 
 
 will be apt to estimate their virtues by their vices. 
 To this fatal error all those will contribute, who 
 confound the colours of right and wrong, and, in- 
 stead of helping to settle their boundaries, mix 
 them with so much art, that no common mind is 
 able to disunite them. 
 
 In narratives where liistorical veracity has no 
 place, I cannot discover, why there should not 
 be exhibited the most perfect idea of virtue ; of 
 virtue not angelical, nor above probability, for 
 .vhat we cannot credit, we shall never imitate, 
 Cut the highest and purest that humanity can 
 reach, which, exercised in such trials as the vari- 
 ous revolutions of things shall bring upon it, may, 
 by conquering some calamities, and enduring 
 others, teach us what we may hope, and what 
 we can perform. Vice, for vice is necessary to 
 be shown, should always disgust; nor should 
 the graces of gayety, or the dignity of courage, be 
 so united with it, as to reconcile it to the mind. 
 Wherever it appears, it should raise hatred by the 
 malignity of its practices, and contempt by the 
 meanness of its stratagems : for while it is sup- 
 ported by either parts or spirit, it will be seldom 
 heartily abhorred. The Roman tyrant was con- 
 tent to be hated, if he was but feared ; and there 
 are thousands of the readers of Romances willing 
 to be thought wicked, if they may be allowed to 
 be wits. It is therefore to be steadily inculcated, 
 that virtue is the highest proof of understanding, 
 and the only solid basis of greatness ; and that 
 vice is the natural consequence of narrow 
 thoughts ; that it begins in mistake, and ends in 
 ignominy.* 
 
 No. 5.] TUESDAY, APRIL 3, J750. 
 
 Et nunc omnls agcr, mine omnis parturit arbos, 
 J\~unc frondcnt silca, nunc formosissimus annus. 
 
 VIRG. 
 
 Now every field, now every tree is green ; 
 Now genial Nature's fairest face is seen. 
 
 ELPHINSTON. 
 
 Every man is sufficiently discontented with 
 some circumstances of his present state, to suffer 
 his imagination to range more or less in quest 
 of future happiness, and to fix upon some point 
 of time, in which, by the removal of the incon- 
 venience which now perplexes him, or acquisi- 
 tion of the advantage which he at present wants, 
 he shall find the condition of his life very much 
 improved. 
 
 When this time, which is too often expected 
 with great impatience, at last arrives, it generally 
 ;omes without the blessing for which it was de- 
 sired ; but we solace ourselves with some new 
 prospect, and press forward again with equal 
 eagerness. 
 
 It is lucky for a man, in whom this temper pre- 
 vails, when he turns his hopes upon things wholly 
 out of his own power ; since he forbears then to 
 precipitate his affairs, for the sake of the great 
 event that is to complete his felicity, and waits 
 for the blissful hour with less neglect of the mea- 
 sures necessary to be taken in the mean time. 
 
 * This excellent paper was occa? ioneU by the popularity 
 of " Roderick Random," aud " Tom Jones," which ap- 
 peared about this tiny;, and have been the models of that 
 species of romance, now known by the more common 
 name of Iforel. C. 
 
 I have long known a person of this temper, 
 who indulged his dream of happiness with less 
 hurt to himself than such chimerical wishes com- 
 monly produce, and adjusted his scheme with 
 such address, that his hopes were in full bloom 
 three parts of the year, and in the other part ne- 
 ver wholly blasted. Many, perhaps, would be 
 desirous of learning by what means he procured 
 to himself such a cheap and lasting satisfaction. 
 It was gained by a constant practice of referring 
 the removal of all his uneasiness to the coming 
 of the next spring ; if his health was impaired, 
 the spring would restore it ; if what he wanted 
 was at a high price, it would fall its value in the 
 spring. 
 
 The spring indeed did often come without any 
 of these effects, but he was always certain that 
 the next would be more propitious ; nor was ever 
 convinced, that the present spring would fail him 
 before the middle of summer ; for he alwaj's 
 talked of the spring as coming till it was past, and 
 when it was once past, every one agreed with 
 him that it was coming. 
 
 By long converse with this man, I am, perhaps, 
 brought to feel immoderate pleasure in the con- 
 templation of this delightful season ; but I have 
 the satisfaction of finding many, whom it can be 
 no shame to resemble, infected with the same 
 enthusiasm ; for there is, I believe, scarce any 
 poet of eminence, who has not left some testi- 
 mony of his fondness for the flowers, the zephyrs, 
 and the warblers of the spring. Nor has the 
 most luxuriant imagination been able to describe 
 the serenity and happiness of the golden age,, 
 otherwise than by giving a perpetual spring, as 
 the highest reward of uncorrupted innocence. 
 
 There is, indeed, something inexpressibly 
 pleasing in the annual renovation of the world, 
 and the new display of the treasures of nature. 
 The cold and darkness of winter, with the naked 
 deformity of every object on which we turn our 
 eyes, make us rejoice at the succeeding season, 
 as well for what we have escaped, as for what 
 we may enjoy ; and every budding flower, whicb 
 a warm situation brings early to .our view, is con- 
 sidered by us as a messenger to notify the ap- 
 proach of more joyous days. 
 
 The Spring affords to a mind, so free from the 
 disturbance of cares or passions as to be vacant 
 to calm amusements, almost every thing that our 
 present state makes us capable of enjoying. The 
 variegated verdure of the fields and woods, the 
 succession of grateful odours, the voice of plea- 
 sure pouring out its notes on every side, with the 
 gladness apparently conceived by every animal, 
 from the growth of his food, and the clemency 
 of the weather, throw over the whole earth an air 
 of gayety, significantly expressed by the smile ot 
 nature. 
 
 Yet there are men to whom these scenes are 
 able to give no delight, and who hurry away 
 from all the varieties of rural beauty, to lose their 
 hours and divert their thoughts by cards or as- 
 semblies, a tavern dinner, or the prattle of the 
 day. 
 
 It may be laid down as a position which will 
 seldom deceive, that when a man cannot bear 
 his own company, there is something wrong. 
 He must fly from himself either because he feels 
 a tediousness in life from the equipoise of an 
 empty mind, which, having no tendency to one 
 motion more than another, but as it is impelled
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 6. 
 
 by some external power, must always have re- 
 course lo foreign objccU; or he must bo afraid 
 < ( the intrusion of sonu unpleasmg ideas, and 
 , nktps is struggling to escape iVom the remem- 
 brance of a loss, the fcar of a calamity, or some 
 ouu-r thought of greater horror. 
 
 'I hose whom sorrow incapacitates to enjoy the 
 pleasures of contemplation, may property apply 
 to such diversions, provided thjy are innocent, 
 as lay strong hold on the attention ; and those, 
 whom fear of any future affliction chains down 
 to misery, must endeavour to obviate the dan- 
 
 re '. 
 
 ' My considerations shall, on this occasion, be 
 turned on such as are burdensome to themselves 
 merely because they want subjects for reflection, 
 and to whom the volume of nature is thrown 
 open without affording them pleasure or instruc- 
 tion, because they never learned to read the cha- 
 racters. 
 
 A French author has advanced this seeming 
 paradox, that very few men know how to lalce a 
 walk ; and, indeed, it is true, that few know how 
 to take a walk with a prospect of any other plea- 
 sure, than the same company would have afford- 
 ed them at home. 
 
 There are animals that borrow their colour 
 from the neighbouring body, and consequently 
 vary their hue as they happen to change their 
 place. In like manner, it ought to be the en- 
 deavour of every man to derive his reflections 
 from the objects about him ; for it is to no purv 
 pose that he alters his position, if his attention 
 continues fixed to the same point. The mind 
 should be kept open to the access of every new 
 idea, and so far disengaged from the predomi- 
 nance of particular thoughts, as easily to ac- 
 commodate itself to occasional entertainment. 
 
 A man that has formed this habit of turning 
 every new object to his entertainment, finds it 
 the productions of nature an inexhaustible stocl 
 of materials upon which he can employ himsel 
 without any temptations to envy or malevo 
 lence ; faults, perhaps, seldom totally avoide< 
 by those, whose judgment is much exercise' 
 upon the works of art He has always a cer 
 tain prospect of discovering new reasons fo 
 adoring the sovereign Author of the universe 
 and probable hopes of making some discovery o 
 benefit to others, or of profit to himself. Ther 
 is no doubt but many vegetables and animal 
 have qualities that might be of great use, to th 
 knowledge of which there is not required muc 
 force of penetration, or fatigue of study, bn 
 only frequent experiments, and close attention 
 What is said by the chymists of their darlin 
 mercury, is, perhaps, true of every body throug 
 the whole creation, that if a thousand live 
 should be spent upon it, all its properties woul 
 not be found out. 
 
 Mankind must necessarily be diversified b 
 various tastes, since life affords and require 
 euch multiplicity of employments, and a natio 
 of naturalists is neither to be hoped or desired 
 but it is surely not improper to point out a fres 
 amusement to those who languish in health, an 
 repine in plenty, for want of some source of d 
 version that may be less easily exhausted, an 
 to inform the multitudes of both sexes, who ar 
 burdened with every new day, that there a: 
 many shows which they have not seen. 
 He that enlarges his curiosity after the work 
 
 ' nature, demonstrably multiplies the inlets to 
 appiness ; and, therefore, the younger pare of 
 iy readers, to whom I dedicate this vernal spe- 
 ulation, must excuse me for calling upon them, 
 o make use at once of the spring of the year, and 
 le spring of life ; to acquire, while their minds 
 my be yet impressed with new images, a love 
 f innocent pleasures, and an ardour for use- 
 ul knowledge ; and to remember, that a blight 
 d spring makes a barren year, and that th? 
 ernal flowers, however beautiful and gay, ar* 
 nly intended by nature as preparatives to au 
 umnal fruits. 
 
 S r o. 6.] SATURDAY, APRIL 7, 1750. 
 
 Slrenuanos exercrt inertia, navibsta alqus 
 Quadrigis petimus bene vivere: quod petis, hie eat 
 Est Vlubris, animus si te non deficit aquus. 
 
 Active in indolence, abroad we roam 
 In quest of happiness which dwells at home . 
 With vain pursuits fatigued, at length you'll find, 
 No place excludes it from an equal mind. 
 
 ELFHINSTON 
 
 THAT man should never suffer his happiness ti 
 depend upon external circumstances, is one ot 
 the chief precepts of the stoical philosophy ; a 
 jrecept, indeed, which that lofty sect lias ex- 
 ended beyond the condition of human life, and 
 .n which some of them seem to have comprised 
 an utter exclusion of all corporeal pain and 
 pleasure from the regard or attention of a wise 
 
 an. 
 
 Such sapientia insaniens, as Horace calls the 
 doctrine of another sect, such extravagance of 
 philosophy can want neither authority nor ar- 
 gument for its confutation : it is overthrown by 
 The experience of every hour, and the powers ol 
 nature rise up against it. But we may very pro- 
 perly inquire, how near to this exalted state it is 
 in our power to approach ? how far we can ex- 
 empt ourselves from outward influences, and se- 
 cure to our minds a state of tranquillity? for 
 though the boast of absolute independence is ri 
 diculous and vain, yet a mean flexibility to every 
 impulse, and a patient submission to the tyranny 
 of casual troubles, is below the dignity of that 
 mind, which however depraved or weakened, 
 boasts its derivation from a celestial original, and 
 hopes for a union with infinite goodness, and un 
 variable felicity. 
 
 Ni vitiisptjorafovcns 
 Proprium deserat vrtum. 
 
 Unless the soul, to vice a thrall, 
 Desert her own original. 
 
 The necessity of erecting ourselves to some 
 degree of intellectual dignity, and of perceiving 
 resources of pleasure, which may not be wholly 
 at the mercy of accident, is never more apparent 
 than when we turn our eyes upon those whom 
 fortune has let loose to their own conduct; who, 
 not being chained down by their condition to a 
 regular and stated allotment of their hours, are 
 obliged to find themselves business or diversion 
 and having nothing within that can entertain 01 
 employ them, are compelled to try all the arts of 
 destroying time. 
 
 The numberless expedients practised by this 
 class of morUls to alleviate the burden of life
 
 No. 6.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 21 
 
 are not less shameful, nor, perhaps, much less 
 pitiable, than those to which a trader on the edge 
 of a bankruptcy is reduced. I have seen me- 
 lancholy overspread a whole family at the disap- 
 pointment of a party for cards ; and when, after 
 the proposal, of a thousand schemes, and the de- 
 spatch of the fo Jtman upon a hundred messages, 
 they have submitted, with gloomy resignation, to 
 the misfortune of passing one evening in con- 
 versation with each other; on a sudden, such are 
 the revolutions of the world, an unexpected visit- 
 or has brought them relief, acceptable as pro- 
 vision to a starving city, and enabled them to 
 hold out till the next day. 
 
 The general remedy of those who are uneasy 
 without knowing the cause, is change of place ; 
 they are willing to imagine that their pain is the 
 consequence of some local inconvenience, and 
 endeavour to fly from it, as children from their 
 shadows ; always hoping for some more satis- 
 factory delight from every new scene, and al- 
 ways returning home with disappointment and 
 complaints^ 
 
 Who can look upon this kind of infatuation, 
 without reflecting on those that suffer under the 
 dreadful symptoms of canine madness, termed 
 by physicians the dread of water ? These mise- 
 rable wretches, unable to drink, though burning 
 with thirst, are sometimes known to try various 
 contortions, or inclinations of the body, flatter- 
 ing themselves that they can swallow in one 
 posture that liquor which they find in another 
 to repel their lips. 
 
 Y"et such folly is not peculiar to the thought- 
 less or ignorant, but sometimes seizes those 
 minds which seem most exempted from it, by 
 the variety of attainments, quickness of pene- 
 tration, or severity of judgment ; and, indeed, 
 the pride of wit and knowledge is often morti- 
 fied by finding that they confer no security 
 against the common errors, which mislead the 
 weakest and meanest of mankind, 
 
 These reflections arose in my mind upon the 
 remembrance of a passage in Cowley's preface 
 to his poems, where, however exalted by genius, 
 and enlarged by study, he informs us of a 
 scheme of happiness to which the imagina- 
 tion of a girl, upon the loss of her first lover, 
 could have scarcely given way ; but which he 
 seems to have indulged, till he had totally for- 
 gotten its absurdity, and would probably have 
 put in execution, had he been hindered only by 
 his reason. 
 
 "My desire," says he, "has been for some 
 years past, though the execution has been acci- 
 dentally diverted, and does still vehemently con- 
 tinue, to retire myself to some of our American 
 plantations, not to seek for gold, or enrich my- 
 self with the traffic of those parts, which is the 
 end of most men that travel thither; but to 
 forsake this world for ever, with all the vanities 
 and vexations of it, and to bury myself there in 
 some obscure retreat, but not without the conso- 
 lation of letters and philosophy." 
 
 Such was the chimerical provision which 
 Cowley had made in his own mind, for the 
 quiet of his remaining life, and which he seems 
 to recommend to posterity, since there is no 
 other reason for disclosing it. Surely no strong- 
 er instance can be given of a persuasion that con- 
 tent was the inhabitant of particular regions, 
 and that a man might set sail with a fair wind, 
 
 and leave behind him all his cares, mcumbrances 
 and calamities. 
 
 If he travelled so far with no other purpose 
 than to bury himself in some obscure retreat, he 
 might have found, in his own country, innu- 
 merable coverts sufficiently dark to have con- 
 cealed the genius of Cowley ; for whatever 
 might be his opinion of the importunity with 
 which he might be summoned back into public 
 life, a short experience would have convinced 
 him, that privation is easier than acquisition, 
 and that it would require little continuance to 
 free himself from the intrusion of the world. 
 There is pride enough in the human heart to 
 prevent much desire of acquaintance with a 
 man, by whom we are sure to be neglected, 
 however his reputation for science or virtue 
 may excite our curiosity or esteem ; so that the 
 lover of retirement needs not be afraid lest the 
 respect of strangers should overwhelm him with 
 visits. Even those to whom he has formerly 
 been known, will very patiently support his ab- 
 sence, when they have tried a little to live with 
 out him, and found new diversions for those 
 moments which his company contributed to ex 
 hilarate. 
 
 It was, perhaps, ordained by Providence, to 
 hinder us from tyrannising over one another, 
 that no individual should be of such importance, 
 as to cause, by his retirement or death, any 
 chasm in the world. And Cowley had con- 
 versed to little purpose with mankind, if he had 
 never remarked, how soon the useful friend, the 
 gay companion, and the favoured lover, when 
 once they are removed from before the sight, 
 give way to the succession of new objects. 
 
 The privacy, therefore, of his hermitage might 
 have been safe enough from violation, though 
 he had chosen it within the limits of his native 
 island ; he might have found here preservatives 
 against the vanities and vexations of the world, 
 not less efficacious than those which the woods 
 or fields of America could afford him: but hav- 
 ing once his mind embittered with disgust, he 
 conceived it impossible to be far enough from 
 the cause of his uneasiness; and was posting 
 away with the expedition of a coward, who, for 
 want of venturing to look behind him, thinks the 
 enemy perpetually at his heels. 
 
 When he was interrupted by company, or fa- 
 tigued with business, he so strongly imaged to 
 himself the happiness of leisure and retreat, that 
 he determined to enjoy them for the future with- 
 out interruption, and to exclude for ever all that 
 could deprive him of his darling satisfaction. 
 He forgot, in the vehemence of desire, that so- 
 litude and quiet owe their pleasures to those 
 miseries which he was so studious to obviate : 
 for such are the vicissitudes of the world, through 
 all its parts, that day and night, labour and rest, 
 hurry and retirement, endear each other ; such 
 are the changes that keep the mind in action ; 
 we desire, we pursue, we obtain, we are sa 
 tiated : we desire something else, and begin a 
 new pursuit. 
 
 If he had proceeded in his project, and fixed 
 his habitation in the most delightful part of the 
 new world, it may be doubted, whether his dis- 
 tance from the vanities of life would have enabled 
 him to keep away the vexations. It is common 
 for a man, who feels pain, to fancy that he could 
 bear it better in any other part. Cowley having
 
 22 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 7 
 
 Known the troubles and perplexities of a parti- 
 cular condition, readily persuaded himself that 
 nothing worse was to be found, and that every 
 alteration would bring some improvement: he 
 never suspected that the cause of Ms unhappi- 
 ness was within, that his own passions were not 
 sufficiently regulated, and that he was harassed 
 by his own impatience, which could never be 
 without something to awaken it, would accom- 
 pany him over the sea, and find its way to his 
 American elysium. He would, upon the trial, 
 have been soon convinced, that the fountain of 
 content must spring up in the mind ; and that he 
 who has so little knowledge of human nature, as 
 to seek happiness by changing any thing but his 
 own dispositions, will waste his life in fruitless 
 efforts, and multiply the griefs which he pur- 
 poses to remove.* 
 
 No. 7.] TUESDAY, APRIL 10, 1750. 
 
 O qui perpetua mundum ratione gubernas, 
 
 Terramm caelique sator ! 
 
 Visjice terrena nebulas et pondera molis, 
 Atque tuo splendnre mica '. Tu namque serenum, 
 Tu requies tranquilla piis. Te cernere,Jinis, 
 Principium, vector, dux, semita, terminus, idem. 
 
 EOETHIUS 
 
 O thou whose power o'er moving worlds presides, 
 Whose voice created, and whose wisdom guides, 
 On darkling man in pure effulgence shine, 
 And cheer the clouded mind with light divine. 
 'Tis thine alone to calm the pious breast 
 With silent confidence and holy rest : 
 From thee, great God, we spring, to thee we tend, 
 Path, motive, guide, original, and end. 
 
 THE love of retirement has, in all ages, adhered 
 closely to those minds, which have been most 
 enlarged by knowledge, or elevated by genius. 
 Those who enjoyed every thing generally sup- 
 posed to confer happiness, have been forced to 
 seek it in the shades of privacy. Though they 
 possessed both power and riches, and were, 
 therefore surrounded by men who considered il 
 as their chief interest to remove from them every 
 thing that might offend their ease, or interrupt 
 their pleasure, they have soon felt the languors 
 of satiety, and found themselves unable to pur- 
 sue the race of life without frequent respirations 
 of intermediate solitude. 
 
 To produce this disposition, nothing appear; 
 requisite but quick sensibility and active imagi- 
 nation ; for, though not devoted to virtue, or 
 science, the man whose faculties enable him to 
 make ready comparisons of the present with 
 the past, will find such a constant recurrence of 
 the same pleasures and troubles, the same ex- 
 pectations and disappointments, that he will 
 gladly snatch an hour of retreat, to let his 
 thoughts expatiate at large, and seek for thai 
 variety in his own ideas, which the objects of 
 sense cannot afford him. 
 
 Nor will greatness, or abundance, exempt him 
 from the importunities of this desire, since, if he 
 is born to think, he cannot restrain himself from 
 a thousand inquiries and speculations, which h 
 must pursue by his own reason, and which the 
 splendour of his condition can only hinder : for 
 those who are most exalted above dependence 
 
 *See Dr. Johnson's Life of Cowley, vol. is. p 
 10 1C 
 
 or control, are yet condemned to pay so largo 
 
 tribute of their time to custom, ceremony, 
 and popularity, that, according to the Greek pro- 
 verb, no man in the house is more a slave than 
 the master. 
 
 When a king asked Euclid, the mathemati- 
 cian, whether he could not explain his art to him 
 in a more compendious manner ? he was an- 
 swered, That there was no royal way to geome- 
 try. Other things may be seized by might, or 
 purchased with money, but knowledge is to be 
 gained only by study, and study to be prosecuted 
 only in retirement. 
 
 These are some of the motives which have 
 had power to sequester kings and heroes from 
 the crowds that soothed them with flatteries, or 
 inspirited them with acclamations ; but their 
 efficacy seems confined to the higher mind, and 
 to operate little upon the common classes of 
 mankind, to whose conceptions the present as- 
 semblage, of things is adequate, and who seldom 
 range beyond those entertainments and vexa- 
 tions, which solicit their attention by pressing on 
 their senses. 
 
 But there is a universal reason for some stated 
 intervals of solitude, which the institutions of 
 the church call upon me now especially to 
 mention ; a reason which extends as wide as 
 moral duty, or the hopes of Divine favour 
 in a future state ; and which ought to influ- 
 ence all ranks of life, and all degrees of intel- 
 lect; since none can imagine themselves not 
 comprehended in its obligation, but such as de- 
 termine to set their Maker at defiance by obsti- 
 nate wickedness, or whose enthusiastic security 
 of his approbation places them above external or- 
 dinances, and all human means of improvement. 
 
 The great task of him who conducts his life 
 by the precepts of religion, is to make the future 
 predominate over the present, to impress upon 
 his mind so strong a sense of the importance oi 
 obedience to the Divine will, of the value of the 
 reward promised to virtue, and the terrors of 
 the punishment denounced against crimes, as 
 may overbear all the temptations which tem- 
 poral hope or fear can bring in his way, and en- 
 able him to bid equal defiance to joy and sorrow, 
 to turn away at one time from the allurements 
 of ambition, and push forward at another against 
 the threats of calamity. 
 
 It is not without reason that the apostle re- 
 presents our passage through this stage of our 
 existence by images drawn from the alarms and 
 solicitude of a military life ; for we are placed 
 in such a state, that almost every thing about us 
 conspires against our chief interest. We are in 
 danger from whatever can get possession of our 
 thoughts ; all that can excite in us either pain or 
 pleasure, has a tendency to obstruct the way 
 that leads to happiness, and either to turn us 
 aside, or retard our progress. 
 
 Our senss, our appetites, and our passions, 
 are our lawful and faithful guides, in most things 
 that relate solely to this life ; and, therefore, 
 by the hourly necessity of consulting them, we 
 gradually sink into an implicit submission, and 
 habitual confidence. Every act of compliance 
 with their motions facilitates a second compli- 
 ance every new step towards depravity is made 
 with less reluctance than the former, and thus 
 the descent to life merely sensual is perpetually 
 accelerated.
 
 No. 8.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 23 
 
 The senses have not only that advantage over 
 conscience, which things necessary must always 
 have over things chosen, but they have likewise 
 a kind of prescription in their favour. We feared 
 pain much earlier than we apprehended guilt, and 
 were delighted with the sensations of pleasure, 
 before we had capacities to be charmed with the 
 beauty of rectitude. To this power, thus early es- 
 tablished, and incessantly increasing, it must be 
 remembered that almost every man has, in some 
 part of his life, added new strength by a volun- 
 tary or negligent subjection of himself; for who 
 is there that has not instigated his appetites by 
 indulgence, or suffered them, by an unresisting 
 neutrality, to enlarge their dominion, and multi- 
 ply their demands ? 
 
 From the necessity o/ dispossessing the sensi- 
 tive faculties of the influence which they must 
 naturally gain by this pre-occupation of the soul, 
 arises that conflict between opposite desires in 
 the first endeavours after a religious life ; which, 
 however enthusiastically it may have been de- 
 scribed, or however contemptuously ridiculed, 
 will naturally be felt in some degree, though va- 
 ried without end, by different tempers of mind, 
 and innumerable circumstances of health or con- 
 dition, greater or less fervour, more or fewer 
 temptations to relapse. 
 
 From the perpetual necessity of consulting the 
 animal faculties, in our provision for the present 
 life, arises the difficulty of withstanding their im- 
 pulses, even in cases where they ought to be of 
 no weight ; for the motions of sense are instanta- 
 neous, its objects strike unsought, we are accus- 
 tomed to follow its directions, and therefore often 
 submit to the sentence without examining the 
 authority of the judge. 
 
 Thus it appears, upon a philosophical estimate, 
 that, supposing the mind, at any certain time, in 
 an equipoise between the pleasures of this life, 
 and the hopes of futurity, present objects falling- 
 more frequently into the scale, would in time pre- 
 ponderate, and that our regard for an invisible 
 state would grow every moment weaker, till at 
 last it would lose all its activity, and become ab- 
 solutely without effect. 
 
 To prevent this dreadful event, the balance is 
 put into our own hands, and we have power to 
 transfer the weight to either side. The motives 
 to a life of holiness are infinite, not less than the 
 favour or anger of Omnipotence, not less than the 
 eternity of happiness or misery. But these can 
 only influence our conduct as they gain our atten- 
 tion, which the business or diversions of the world 
 are always calling off by contrary attractions. 
 
 The great art therefore of piety, and the end 
 for which all the rites of religion seem to be insti- 
 tuted, is the perpetual renovation of the motives 
 to virtue, by a voluntary employment of our mind 
 in the contemplation of its excellence, its import- 
 ance, and its necessity, which, in proportion a 
 they are more frequently and more willingly re- 
 volved, gain a more forcible and permanent in- 
 fluence, till in time they become the reigning 
 ideas, the standing principles of action, and the 
 test by which every thing proposed to the judg- 
 ment is rejected or approved. 
 
 To facilitate this change of our affections, it is 
 necessary that we weaken the temptations of the 
 world, by retiring at certain seasons from it ; for 
 its influence arising only from its presence, i 
 much lessened when it becomes the object of so- 
 
 litary meditation. A constant residence amidst 
 noise and pleasure, inevitably obliterates tho im- 
 pressions of piety, and a frequent abstraction of 
 ourselves into a state, where this life, like the 
 next, operates only upon the reason, will rein- 
 state religion in its just authority, even without 
 those irradiations from above, the hope of which 
 I have no intention to withdraw from the sincere 
 and the diligent. 
 
 This is that conquest of the world and of our- 
 selves, which has been always considered as the 
 perfection of human nature ; and this is only to 
 be obtained by fervent prayer, steady resolu- 
 tions, and frequent retirement from folly and va- 
 nity, from the cares of avarice and the joys of in- 
 temperance, from the lulling sounds of deceitful 
 flattery, and the tempting sight of prosperous 
 wickedness. 
 
 No. 8.] SATURDAY, APRIL 14, 1750. 
 
 Patitur pccnas peccandi sola voluntas ; 
 
 Nam sc flus intra se taciturn qui cogitat ullitm, 
 Facti crimcn habet. 
 
 JUT 
 
 For he that but conceives a crime in thought, 
 Contracts the danger of an actual fault. 
 
 CREECH. 
 
 IF the most active and industrious of mankind 
 was able, at the close of life, to recollect distinctly 
 his past moments, and distribute them in a regu- 
 lar account according to the manner in which 
 they have been spent, it is scarcely to be imagin- 
 ed how few would be marked out to the mind, 
 by any permanent or visible effects, how small a 
 proportion his real action would bear to his seem 
 ing possibilities of action, how many chasms 
 he would find of wide and continued vacuity, 
 and how many interstitial spaces unfilled, even 
 in the most tumultuous hurries of business, and 
 the most eager vehemence of pursuit. 
 
 It is said by modern philosophers, that not only 
 the great globes of matter are thinly scattered 
 through the universe, but the hardest bodies are 
 so porous, that, if all matter were compressed to 
 perfect solidity, it might be contained in a cube 
 of a few feet In like manner, if all the employ- 
 ment of life were crowded into the time which it 
 really occupied, perhaps a few weeks, days, or 
 hours, would be sufficient for its accomplishment, 
 so far as the mind was engaged in the perform- 
 ance. For such is the inequality of our corporeal 
 to our intellectual faculties, that we contrive in 
 minutes what we execute in years, and the soul 
 often stands an idle spectator of the labour of the 
 hands, and expedition of the feet 
 
 For this reason the ancient generals often 
 found themselves at leisure to pursue the study 
 of philosophy in the camp ; and Lucan, with 
 historical veracity, makes Caesar relate of him- 
 self that he noted the revolutions of the stars in 
 the midst of preparations for battle. 
 
 Media inter prclia semper 
 
 Sideribas ccclique plagis, guperisgue vacavi. 
 
 Amid the storms of war, with curious eyes 
 I trace the planets, and survey the skies. 
 
 That the soul always exerts her peculiar pow- 
 ers, with greater or less force, is very probable, 
 though the common occasions of our present con-
 
 24 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 8 
 
 dition require but a small part of that incessant 
 cogitation ; and by the natural frame of our bo- 
 dies, and general combination of the world, we 
 are so frequently condemned to inactivity, that 
 as through all our time we are thinking, so for a 
 great part of our time we can only think. 
 
 Lest a power so restless should be either un- 
 proritably or hurtfully employed, and the super- 
 fluities of intellect run to waste, it is no vain 
 speculation to consider how we may govern our 
 thoughts, restrain them from irregular motions, 
 or confine them from boundless dissipation. 
 
 How the understanding is best conducted to 
 the knowledge of science, by what steps it is to 
 be led forwards in its pursuit, how it is to be 
 cured of its defects, and habituated to new stu- 
 dies, has been the inquiry of many acute and 
 learned men, whose observations I shall not 
 either adopt or censure : my purpose being to 
 consider the moral discipline of the mind, and 
 to promote the increase of virtue rather than of 
 learning. 
 
 This inquiry seems to have been neglected for 
 want of remembering, that all action has its ori- 
 gin in the mind, and that therefore to suffer the 
 thoughts to be vitiated, is to poison the foun- 
 tains of morality ; irregular desires will produce 
 licentious practices ; what men allow themselves 
 to wish they will soon believe, and will be at last 
 incited to execute what they please themselves 
 with contriving. 
 
 For this reason the casuists of the Roman 
 church, who gain, by confession, great opportu- 
 nities of knowing human nature, have generally 
 determined that what is a crime to do, it is a 
 crime to think.* Since by revolving with plea- 
 sure the facility, safety, or advantage of a wicked 
 deed, a man soon begins to find his constancy re- 
 iax, and his detestation soften ; the happiness of 
 success glittering before him, withdraws his at- 
 tention from the atrociousness of the guilt, and 
 acts are at last confidently perpetrated, of which 
 the first conception only crept into the mind, dis- 
 guised in pleasing complications, and permitted 
 rather than invited. 
 
 No man has ever been drawn to crimes by love 
 or jealousy, envy or hatred, but he can tell how 
 easily he might at first have repelled the tempta- 
 tion, how readily his mind would have obeyed a 
 call to any other object, and how weak his pas- 
 sion has been after some casual avocation, till he 
 has recalled it again to his heart, and revived the 
 viper by too warm a fondness. 
 
 Such, therefore, is the importance of keeping 
 reason a constant guard over imagination, that 
 we have otherwise no security for our own virtue, 
 but may corrupt our hearts in the most recluse so- 
 litude, with more pernicious and tyrannical appe- 
 tites and wishes than the commerce of the woild 
 will generally produce ; for we are easily shocked 
 by crimes which appear at once in theirfull mag- 
 nitude, but the gradual growth of our own wicked- 
 ness, endeared by interest, and palliated by all 
 the artifices of self-deceit, gives us time to form 
 distinctions in our own favour, and reason by de- 
 grees submits to absurdity, as the eye is in time 
 accommodated to darkness. 
 
 In this disease of the soul, it is of the utmost 
 importance to apply remedies at the beginning . 
 
 * This was determined before their time. See Matt. 
 
 C. 
 
 and therefore I shall endeavour to show what 
 thoughts are to be rejected or improved, as they 
 regard the past, present, or future ; in hopes that 
 some may be awakened to caution and vigilance, 
 who, perhaps, indulge themselves in dangerous 
 dreams, so much the more dangerous, because, 
 being yet only dreams, they are concluded in- 
 nocent. 
 
 The recollection of the past is only useful by 
 way of provision for the future ; and, therefore, 
 in reviewing all occurrences that fall under a re- 
 ligious consideration, it is proper that a man stop 
 at the first thoughts, to remark how he was led 
 thither, and why he continues the reflection. If 
 he is dwelling with delight upon a stratagem of 
 successful fraud, a night of licentious riot, or an 
 intrigue of guilty pleasure, let him summon off 
 his imagination as from an unlawful pursuit, ex- 
 pel those passages from his remembrance, of 
 which, though he cannot seriously approve them, 
 the pleasure overpowers the guilt, and refer them 
 to a future hour, when they may be considered 
 with greater safety. Such an hour will certainly 
 come: for the impressions of past pleasure are al- 
 ways lessening, but the sense of guilt, which re- 
 spects futurity, continues the same. 
 
 The serious and impartial retrospect of our 
 conduct, is indisputably necessary to the confirm- 
 ation or recovery of virtue, and is, therefore, re 
 commended under the name of self-examination, 
 by divines, as the first act previous to repe: *nnce. 
 It is, indeed, of so great use, that without it we 
 should always be to begin life, be seduced for 
 ever by the same allurements, and misled by the 
 same fallacies. But in order that we may not lose 
 the advantage of our experience, we must endea- 
 vour to see every thing in its proper form, and 
 excite in ourselves those sentiments, which the 
 great Author of nature has decreed the concomi- 
 tants or followers of good or bad actions. 
 
 )e$a ; T( uoi < 
 
 og &' airb irpwrov iirfi-i6i' Kai pe , 
 
 attna /iiv eKirpij^as, t;ri7rA>7cr<r0, ^pjjrra Si, Ttoitou. 
 
 Let not sleep (says Pythagoras ) fall upon thy eyes 
 till thou hast thrice reviewed the transactions of the 
 past day. Where have I turn ed aside from rectitude 1 
 What have I been doing ? What have I left undone, 
 which I ought to have done? Begin thus from the 
 first act, and proceed; and in conclusion, at the ill 
 which thou hast done be troubled, and rejoice for the 
 gocd. 
 
 Our thoughts on present things being deter- 
 mined by the objects before us, fall not undei 
 those indulgences, or excursions, which I am now 
 considering. But I cannot forbear, under this 
 head, to caution pious and tender minds, that arc 
 disturbed by the irruptions of wicked imagina 
 t ions, against too great dejection, and too anxious 
 alarms; for thoughts are only criminal, when 
 they are first chosen, and then voluntarily con 
 tmued. 
 
 Evil into the mind of God or man 
 
 May come and go, so unapproved, and leave 
 
 No spot or stain behind, MILTON. 
 
 In futurity chiefly are the snares lodged, by 
 which the imagination is entangled. Futurity is 
 the proper abode of hope and fear, with all their
 
 No. 9.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 25 
 
 train and progeny of subordinate apprehensions 
 and desires. In futurity events and chances are 
 yet floating at large, without apparent connexion 
 with their causes, and we therefore easily indulge 
 the liberty of gratifying ourselves with a pleas- 
 ing choice. To pick and cull among possible 
 advantages is, as the civil law terms it in vacuum 
 venire, to take what belongs to nobody ; but it 
 has this hazard in it, that we shall be unwilling 
 to quit what we have seized, though an owner 
 should be found. It is easy to think on that 
 which may be gained, till at last we resolve to 
 gain it, and to image the happiness of particular 
 conditions, till we can be easy in no other. We 
 ought, at least, to let our desires fix upon no- 
 thing in another's power for the sake of our quiet, 
 or in another's possession, forthe sake of our in- 
 nocence. When a man finds himself led though 
 by a train of honest sentiments, to wish for that 
 to which he has no right, he should start back 
 as from a pitfal covered with flowers. He that 
 fancies he should benefit the public more in a 
 great station than the man that fills it, will in 
 time imagine it an act of virtue to supplant him ; 
 and as opposition readily kindles into hatred, his 
 eagerness to do that good, to which he is not 
 called, will betray him to crimes, which in his 
 original scheme were never proposed. 
 
 He therefore that would govern his actions by 
 the law s of virtue, must regulate his thoughts by 
 those of reason ; he must keep guilt from the re- 
 cesses of his heart, and remember that the pleas- 
 ures of fancy, and the emotions of desire, are 
 more dangerous as they are more hidden, since 
 they escape the awe of observation, and operate 
 equally in every situation, without the concur- 
 rence of external opportunities. 
 
 No. 9.] TUESDAY, APRIL 17, 1750. 
 
 Quorf sis esse velis, nihilque malis. MART. 
 
 Choose what you are ; no other state prefer. 
 
 ELPHINSTON. 
 
 IT is justly remarked by Horace, that howsoever 
 every man may complain occasionally of the 
 hardships of his condition, he is seldom willing 
 to change it for any other on the same level ; for 
 whether it be that he, who follows an employ- 
 ment, made choice of it at first on account of its 
 suitableness to his inclination ; or that when ac- 
 cident, or the determination of others, have placed 
 him in a particular station, he, by endeavouring 
 to reconcile himself to it, gets the custom of view- 
 ing it only on the fairest side ; or whether every 
 man thinks that class to which he belongs the 
 most illustrious, merely because he has honoured 
 it with his name ; it is certain that, whatever be the 
 reason, most men have a very strong and- active 
 prejudice in favour of their own vocation, always 
 working upontheir minds, and influencing their 
 behaviour. 
 
 This partiality is sufficiently visible in every 
 rank of the human species : but it exerts itself 
 more frequently and with greater force among 
 those who have never learned to conceal their 
 sentiments for reasons of policy, or to model their 
 expressions by the laws of politeness ; and there- 
 fore the chief contests of wit among artificers 
 and handicraftsmen arise from a mutual en- 
 
 deavour to exalt one trade by depreciating an- 
 other. 
 
 From the same principle are derived many 
 consolations to alleviate the inconveniences to 
 which every calling is peculiarly exposed. A 
 blacksmith was lately pleasing himself at his an 
 vil, with observing that though his trade was hot 
 and sooty, laborious and unhealthy, yet he had 
 the honour of living by his hammer, he got his 
 bread like a man, and if his son should rise in 
 the world, and keep his coach, nobody could re 
 proach him that his father was a tailor. 
 
 A man, truly zea!ous for his fraternity is never 
 so irresistibly flattered, as when some rival call- 
 ing is mentioned with contempt. Upon this 
 principle a linen-draper boasted that he had got 
 a new customer, whom he could safely trust, 
 for he could have no doubt of his honesty, since 
 it was known, from unquestionable authority, 
 that he was now filing a bill in chancery to delay 
 payment for the clothes wliich he had worn the 
 last seven years ; and he himself had heard him 
 declare, in a public coffee-house, that he looked 
 upon the whole generation of woollen-drapers to 
 be such despicable wretches, that no gentleman 
 ought to pay them. 
 
 It has been observed that physicians and law- 
 yers are no friends to religion ; and many con- 
 jectures have been formed to discover the reason 
 of such a combination between men who agree 
 in nothing else, and who seem less to be aft'ect- 
 ed, in their own provinces, by religious opinions, 
 than any other part of the community. The 
 truth is, very few of them have thought about 
 religion ; but they have all seen a parson : seen 
 him in a habit different from their own, and there- 
 fore declared war against him. A young stu- 
 dent from the inns of court, who has often attack- 
 ed the curate of his father's parish with such 
 arguments as his acquaintances could furnish, 
 and returned to town without success, is now 
 gone down with a resolution to destroy him ; for 
 he has learned at last how to manage a prig, and 
 if he pretends to hold him again to syllogism, he 
 has a catch in reserve, which neither logic nor 
 metaphysics can resist. 
 
 I laugh to think how your unshaken Cato 
 Will look aghast, when unforeseen destruction 
 Pours in upon him thus. 
 
 The malignity of soldiers and sailors against 
 each other has been often experienced at the cost 
 of their country ; and, perhaps, no orders of men 
 have an enmity of more acrimony, or longer con. 
 tinuance. When, upon our late successes at sea, 
 some new regulations were concerted for esta 
 blishing the rank of the naval commanders, a 
 captain of foot very acutely remarked, that no- 
 thing was more absurd than to give any honor- 
 ary rewards to seamen ; " for honour," says he 
 "ought only to be won by bravery, and all the 
 world knows that in a sea-fight there is no dan- 
 ger, and therefore no evidence of courage." 
 
 But although this general desire of aggrandiz- 
 ing themselves, by raising their profession, be- 
 trays men to a thousand ridiculous and mischiev- 
 ous acts of supplantation and detraction, yet as 
 almost all passions have theirgood as well as bad 
 effects, it likewise excites ingenuity, and some- 
 times raises an honest and useful emulation ot 
 diligence. It may be observed in general, that
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 10 
 
 no trade had ever reached the excellence to which 
 it is now improved, had its professors looked 
 upon it with the eyes of indifferent spectators ; 
 the advances, from the first rude essays, musf 
 have been made by men who valued themselves 
 for performances, for which scarce any other 
 would be persuaded to esteem them. 
 
 It is pleasing to contemplate a manufacture 
 rising gradually from its first mean state by the 
 successive labours of innumerable minds ; to con- 
 sider the first hollow trunk of an oak in which, 
 perhaps, the shepherd could scarce venture to 
 cross a brook swelled with a shower, enlarged 
 at last into a ship of war, attacking fortresses, 
 terrifying nations, setting storms and billows at 
 defiance, and visiting the remotest parts of the 
 globe. And it might contribute to dispose us to 
 a kinder regard for the labours of one another, 
 if we were to consider from what unpromising 
 beginnings the most useful productions of art 
 have probably arisen.^ Who, when he saw the 
 first sand or ashes, by a casual intenseness of 
 heat, melted into a metaline form, rugged with 
 excrescences, and clouded with impurities, would 
 have imagined, that in this shapeless lump lay 
 concealed so many conveniences of life, as would 
 in time constitute a great part of the happiness 
 of the world? Yet by some such fortuitous li- 
 quefaction was mankind taught to procure a 
 body at once in a high degree solid and trans- 
 parent, which might admit the light of the sun, 
 and exclude the violence of the wind ; which 
 might extend the sight of the philosopher to new 
 ranges of existence, and charm him at one time 
 with the unbounded extent of the material crea- 
 tion, and at another with the endless subordina- 
 tion of animal life ; and, what is yet of more 
 importance might supply the decays of nature, 
 and succour old age with subsidiary sight. Thus 
 was the first artificer in glass employed, though 
 without his own knowledge or expectation. He 
 was facilitating and prolonging the enjoyment of 
 light, enlarging the avenues of science, and con- 
 ferring the highest and most lasting pleasures ; 
 he was enabling the student to contemplate na- 
 ture, and the beauty to behold herself. 
 
 This passion for the honour of a profession, 
 like that for the grandeur of our own country, 
 is to be regulated, not extinguished. Every man, 
 from the highest to the lowest station, ought to 
 warm his heart and animate his endeavours with 
 the hopes of being useful to the world, by ad- 
 vancing the art which it is his lot to exercise, and 
 for that end he must necessarily consider the 
 whole extent of its application, and the whole 
 weight of its importance. But let him not too 
 readily imagine that another is ill employed, be- 
 cause, for want of fuller knowledge of his busi- 
 ness, he is not able to comprehend its dignity. 
 Every man ought to endeavour at eminence, not 
 by pulling others down, but by raising himself, 
 and enjoy the pleasure of his own superiority, 
 whether imaginary or real, without interrupt- 
 ing others in the same felicity. The philoso- 
 pher may very justly be delighted with the ex- 
 tent of his views, and the artificer with the 
 readiness of his hands ; but let the one re- 
 member, that, without mechanical performan- 
 ces, refined speculation is an empty dream ; 
 and the other, that, without theoretical reason- 
 ing, dexterity is little more than a brute in- 
 Btmct. 
 
 No. 10.] SATURDAY, APRIL 21, 1750. 
 
 Posthabui tamen illorum mea seria ludo. 
 
 VIRO 
 
 For trifling sports I quitted grave affairs. 
 
 THE number of correspondents which increases 
 every day upon me, shows that my paper is at 
 least distinguished from the common produc- 
 tions of the press. It is no less a proof of emi- 
 nence to have many enemies than many friends ; 
 and I look upon every letter, whether it con- 
 tains encomiums or reproaches, as an equal at- 
 testation of rising credit. The only pain, which 
 I can feel from my correspondence, is the fear 
 of disgusting those, whose letters I shall neglect; 
 and therefore I take this opportunity of remind- 
 ing them, that in disapproving their attempts, 
 whenever it may happen, I only return the treat- 
 ment which I often receive. Besides, many 
 particular motives influence a writer, known 
 only to himself, or his private friends ; and it may 
 be justly concluded, that not all letters which are 
 postponed are rejected, nor all that are rejected, 
 critically condemned. 
 
 Having thus eased my heart of the only ap 
 prehension that sat heavy on it, I can pleas 
 myself with the candour of Benevolus, who en- 
 courages me to proceed, without sinking under 
 the anger of Flirtilla, who quarrels with me for 
 being old and ugly, and for wanting both activity 
 of body and sprightliness of mind ; feeds her 
 monkey with my lucubrations, and refuses any 
 reconciliation till I have appeared in vindication 
 of masquerades. That she may not however 
 imagine me without support, and left to rest 
 wholly upon my own fortitude, I shall now pub- 
 lish some letters which I have received from men 
 as well dressed, and as handsome, as her favour- 
 ite ; and others from ladies, whom I sincerely 
 believe as young, as rich, as gay, as pretty, as 
 fashionable, and as often toasted and treated as 
 herself. 
 
 " A SET of candid readers send their respects 
 to the Rambler, and acknowledge his merit in 
 so well beginning a work that may be of public 
 benefit But, superior as his genius is to the im- 
 pertinences of a trifling age, they cannot but have 
 a wish, that he would condescend to the weak- 
 ness of minds softened by perpetual amuse- 
 ments, and now and then throw in, like liis pre- 
 decessors, some papers of a gay and humourous 
 turn. Too fair a field now lies open, with too 
 plentiful a harvest of follies ! let the cheerful 
 Thalia put in her sickle, and, singing at her 
 work, deck her hair with red and blue." 
 
 " A LADY sends her compliments to the Ram- 
 bler, and desires to know by what other name 
 she may direct to him ; what are his set of friends, 
 his amusements ; what his way of thinking, with 
 regard -to the living world, and its ways ; in 
 short, whether he is a person now alive, and in 
 town? If he be, she will do herself the honour 
 to write to him pretty often, and hopes, from 
 time to time, to be the better for his advice and 
 animadversions; for his animadversions on her 
 neighbours at least. But, if he is a mere essay- 
 ist, and troubles not himself with the manners 
 of the age, she is sorry to tell him, that even the 
 genius and correctness of an Addison will no* 
 secure him from neglect" 
 
 No man is so much abstracted from common
 
 No. 10.] THE RAMBLER. 
 
 life, as not to feel a particular pleasure from 
 the regard of the female world ; the candid 
 writers of the first billet will not be offended, 
 that my haste to satisfy a lady has hurried their 
 address too soon out of my mind, and that I re- 
 fer them for a reply t,o some future paper, in 
 order to tell this curious inquirer after my 
 other name, the answer of a philosopher to a 
 man, who meeting him in the street, desired to 
 see wnat ne carried under his cloak ; " I carry 
 it there," says he, " that you may not see it." 
 But, though she is never to know my name, 
 she may often see my face ; for I am of her 
 opinion, that a diurnal writer ought to view 
 the world, and that he who neglects his con- 
 temporaries, may be with justice neglected by 
 them. 
 
 " LADY RACKET sends compliments to the 
 Rambler, and lets him know she shall have cards 
 at her house, every Sunday, the remainder of 
 the season, where he will be sure of meeting 
 all the good company in town. By this means 
 she hopes to see his papers interspersed with 
 living characters. She longs to see the torch of 
 Truth produced at an assembly, and to admire 
 the charming lustre it will throw on the jewels, 
 complexions, and behaviour, of every dear crea- 
 ture there." 
 
 It is a rule with me to receive every offer with 
 the same civility as it is made ; and, therefore, 
 though Lady Racket may have had some reason 
 to guess, that I seldom frequent card-tables on 
 Sundays, I shall not insist upon an exception, 
 which may to her appear of so little force. My 
 business has been to view, as opportunity was 
 offered, every place in which mankind was to 
 be seen ; but at card-tables, however brilliant, I 
 have always thought my visit lost, for I could 
 know nothing of the company, but their clothes 
 and their faces. I saw their looks clouded at the 
 beginning of every game with a uniform solici- 
 tude, now and then in its progress varied with a 
 short triumph, at one time wrinkled with cun- 
 ning, at another deadened with despondency, or 
 by accident flushed with rage at the unskilful or 
 unlucky play of a partner. From such assem- 
 blies, in whatever humour I happened to enter 
 them, I was quickly forced to retire ; they were 
 too trifling for me when I was grave, and too 
 dull when I was cheerful. 
 
 Yet I cannot but value myself upon this to- 
 ken of regard from a lady who is not afraid to 
 stand before the torch of Truth. Let her not, 
 however, consult her curiosity more than her 
 prudence , but reflect a moment on the fate of 
 Semele, who might have lived the favourite of 
 Jupiter, if she could have been content without 
 his thunder. It is dangerous for mortal beauty, 
 or terrestrial virtue, to be examined by too strong 
 a licht. The torch of Truth shows much that 
 we cannot, and all that we would not see. In a 
 face dimpled with smiles, it has often disco- 
 vered malevolence and envy, and detected, un- 
 der jewels and brocade, the frightful forms of 
 poverty and distress. A fine hand of cards have 
 changed before it into a thousand spectres of 
 sickness, misery and vexation ; and immense 
 sums of monev, while the winner counted them 
 with transport, have ai the first glimpse of this 
 unwelcome lustre vanished from before him. If 
 her ladyship therefore designs to continue her 
 assembly, I would advise, her to shun such dan- 
 
 27 
 
 gerous experiments, to satisfy herself with com- 
 mon appearances, and to light up her apart- 
 ments rather with myrtle than the torch of 
 Truth. 
 
 " A MODEST young man sends his service to 
 the author of the Rambler, and will be very will- 
 ing to assist him in his work, but is sadly afraid 
 of being discouraged by having his first essay 
 rejected, a disgrace he has wofully experienced 
 in every offer he had made of it to every new 
 writer of every new paper ; but he comforts him- 
 self by thinking, without vanity, that this has 
 been from a peculiar favour of the Muses, who 
 saved his performance from being buried in 
 trash, and reserved it to appear with lustre in 
 the Rambler." 
 
 I am equally a friend to modesty and enter- 
 prise ; and therefore shall think it an honour tc 
 correspond with a young man who possesse. 
 both in so eminent a degree. Youth is, indeed 
 the time in which these qualities ought chiefly tc 
 be found ; modesty suits well with inexperience 
 and enterprise with health and vigour, and an 
 extensive prospect of life. One of my prede- 
 cessors has justly observed, that, though mo- 
 desty has an amiable and winning appearance, 
 it ought not to hinder the exertion of the active 
 powers, but that a man should show under his 
 blushes a latent resolution. This point of per- 
 fection, nice as it is, my correspondent seems to 
 have attained. That he is modest, his own de- 
 claration may evince ; and, I think, the latent 
 resolution may be discovered in his letter by an 
 acute observer. 1 will advise him, since he so 
 well deserves my precepts, not to be discouraged 
 though the Rambler should prove equally en- 
 vious, or tasteless, with the rest of this fraternity. 
 If his paper is refused, the presses of England 
 are open, let him try the judgment of the public. 
 If, as it has sometimes happened in general com- 
 binations against merit, he cannot persuade the 
 world to buy his works, he may present them to 
 his friends; and if his friends are seized with the 
 epidemical infatuation, and cannot find his ge 
 nius, or will not confess it, let him then refer his 
 cause to posterity, and reserve his labours for a 
 wiser age. 
 
 Thus have I despatched some of my corres- 
 pondents in the usual manner, with fair words 
 and general civility. But to Flirtilla, the gay 
 Flirtilla, what shall I reply ? Unable as I am to 
 fly at her command, over land and seas, or to 
 supply her from week to week with the fashions 
 of Paris, or the intrigues of Madrid, I am yet 
 not willing to incur her further displeasure, and 
 would save my papers from her monkey on any 
 reasonable terms. By what propitiation, there- 
 fore, may I atone for my former gravity, and open 
 without trembling, the future letters of this 
 sprightly persecutor? To write in defence of 
 masquerades is no easy task; yet something 
 difficult and daring may well be required, as the 
 price of so important an approbation. I there- 
 fore, consulted, in this great emergency, a man of 
 high reputation in gay life, who having added, to 
 his other acomplishments, no mean proficiency 
 in the minute philosophy, after the fifth perusal 
 of her letter, broke out with rapture into these 
 words : "And can you, Mr. Rambler, stand out 
 against this charming creature ? Let her know, 
 at least, that from this moment Nigrinus devotes 
 his life and his labours to her service. Is there
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 1L 
 
 any stubborn prejudice of education, that stands 
 between thee and the most amiable of mankind ? 
 Behold, Flirtilla, at thy feet, a man grown gray 
 in the study of those noble arts by which righ 
 and wrong may be confounded; by which reason 
 may be blinded, when we have a mind to escape 
 from her inspection ; and caprice and appetite in 
 stated in uncontrolled command and boundless 
 dominion ! Such a casuist may surely engage 
 with certainty of success, in vindication of an 
 entertainment, which in an instant gives confi- 
 dence to the timorous, and kindles ardour in the 
 cold ; an entertainment where the vigilance oi 
 jealousy has so often been eluded, and the virgin 
 is set free from the necessity of languishing in 
 silence ; where all the outworks of chastity are 
 at once demolished ; where the heart is laid open 
 without a blush ; where bashfulness may survive 
 virtue, and no wish is crushed under the frown 
 of modesty. Far weaker influence than Flir- 
 tilla's might gain over an advocate for such 
 amusements. It was declared by Pompey, tha 
 if the commonwealth was violated, he coulc 
 stamp with his foot, and raise an army out o 
 the ground ; if the rights of pleasure are again 
 invaded, let but Flirtilla crack her fan, neither 
 pens nor swords shall be wanting at the sum- 
 mons ; the wit and the colonel shall march out 
 at her command, and neither law nor reason 
 shall stand before us."* 
 
 No. 11.] TUESDAY, APRIL 24, 1750. 
 
 JVon Dindymene, nan adytis quatit 
 Mentem sacerdotum incola Pythius, 
 JVpn Liber ague, non acuta 
 Sic geminant Corybantet <tra, 
 
 Tristes ut ira. HOR. 
 
 Vet O ! remember, nor the god of wine, 
 
 Nor Pythian Ph&bus from his inmost shrine, 
 
 Nor Dindymene, nor her priests possess'd, 
 
 Can with their sounding cymbals shake the breast, 
 
 Like furious anger. FRANCIS. 
 
 THE maxim which Periander of Corinth, one 
 of the seven sages of Greece, left as a memorial 
 of his knowledge and benevolence, was ^<$Xo 
 Kfdrti, Be master of thy anger. He considered 
 anger as the great disturber of human life, the 
 chief enemy both of public happiness and private 
 tranquillity, and thought that he could not lay 
 on posterity a stronger obligation to reverence 
 his memory, than by leaving them a salutary 
 caution against this outrageous passion. 
 
 To what latitude Periander might extend the 
 word, the brevity of his precept will scarce al- 
 low us to conjecture. From anger, in its full 
 import, protracted into malevolence, and exert- 
 ed in revenge, arise, indeed, many of the evils to 
 which the life of man is exposed. By anger ope- 
 rating upon power are produced the subversion 
 of cities, the desolation of countries, the mas- 
 sacre of nations, and all those dreadful and as- 
 tonishing calamities which fill the histories of 
 Ihe world, and which could not be read at any 
 distant point of time, when the passions stand 
 
 The four billets in this paper were written by Miss 
 lulso afterwards Mrs. Chapone, who survived this work 
 5 than_half a century, and died Dec. 25, 1801. See an 
 
 E pi * ii to the Adventurer - " Briti8h 
 
 neutral, and every motive and principle are left 
 to its natural force, without some doubt of the 
 truth of the relation, did we not see the same 
 causes still tending to the same effects, and only 
 acting with less vigour for want of the same 
 concurrent opportunities. 
 
 But this gigantic and enormous species of an- 
 ger falls not properly under the animadversion 
 of a writer, whose chief end is the regulation of 
 common life, and whose precepts are to recom- 
 mend themselves by their general use. Nor is 
 this essay intended to expose the tragical or fatal 
 effects even of private malignity. The anger 
 which I propose now for my subject, is such as 
 makes those who indulge it more troublesome 
 than formidable, and ranks them rather with hor- 
 nets and wasps, than with basilisks and lions. 
 I have, therefore, prefixed a motto, which cha 
 racterises this passion, not so much by the mis 
 chief that it causes, as by the noise that it utters. 
 There is in the world a certain class of mor- 
 tals known, and contentedly known, by the ap- 
 pellation of passionate men, who imagine them- 
 selves entitled by that distinction to be provoked 
 on every slight occasion, and to vent their rage 
 in vehement and fierce vociferations, in furious 
 menaces and licentious reproaches. Their rage, 
 indeed, for the most part, fumes away in outcries 
 of injury, and protestations of vengeance, and 
 seldom proceeds to actual violence, unless a 
 drawer or linkboy falls in their way ; but they 
 interrupt the quiet of those that happen to be 
 within the reach of their clamours, obstruct the 
 course of conversation, and disturb the enjoyment 
 of society. 
 
 Men of this kind are sometimes not without 
 understanding or virtue, and are, therefore not 
 always treated with the severity which their 
 neglect of the ease of all about them might just- 
 ly provoke ; they have obtained a kind of pre- 
 scription for their folly, and are considered by 
 their companions as under a predominant in- 
 fluence, that leaves them not masters of their 
 conduct or language, as acting without con- 
 sciousness, and rushing into mischief with a mis- 
 before their eyes ; they are therefore pitied rather 
 than censured, and their sallies are passed over 
 as the involuntary blows of a man agitated by 
 the spasms of a convulsion. 
 
 It is surely not to be observed without indig- 
 nation, that men may be found of minds mean 
 enough to be satisfied with this treatment ; wretch- 
 es who are proud to obtain the privilege of mad- 
 men, and can, without shame, and without regret, 
 Consider themselves as receiving hourly pardons 
 'rom their companions, and giving them conti- 
 nual opportunities of exercising their patience, 
 and boasting their clemency. 
 
 Pride is undoubtedly the original of anger; 
 jut pride, like every other passion, if it once 
 jreaks loose from reason, counteracts its own 
 purposes. A passionate man, upon the review 
 of his day, will have very few gratifications to 
 otter to his pride, when he has considered how 
 his outrages were caused, why they were borne 
 and in what they are likely to end at last. 
 
 Those sudden bursts of rage generally break 
 out upon small occasions ; for life, unhappy as it 
 s, cannot supply great evils as frequently as the 
 man of fire thinks it fit to be enraged ; therefore 
 nrst reflection upon his violence, must show 
 him that he ie mean enough to be driven from hi&
 
 No. 12.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 29 
 
 post by every petty incident, that he is the mere 
 slave of casualty, and that his reason and virtue 
 are in the power of the wind. 
 
 One motive there is of these loud extravagan- 
 ces, which a man is careful to conceal from others, 
 and does not always discover to himself. He 
 that finds his knowledge narrow, and his argu- 
 ments weak, and by consequence his suffrage 
 not much regarded, is sometimes in hope of gain- 
 ing that attention by his clamours which he can- 
 not otherwise obtain, and is pleased with remem- 
 bering, that at least he made himself heard, that 
 he had the power to interrupt those whom he 
 could not confute, and suspend the decision 
 which he could not guide. 
 
 Of this kind is the fury to which many men 
 give way among their servants and domestics ; 
 they feel their own ignorance, they see their own 
 insignificance ; and therefore they endeavour, by 
 their fury, to fright away contempt from before 
 them, when they know it must follow them be- 
 hind, and think themselves eminently masters, 
 when they see one folly tamely complied with, 
 only lest refusal or delay should provoke them to 
 a greater. 
 
 These temptations cannot but be owned to 
 have some force. It is so little pleasing to any 
 man to see himself wholly overlooked in the 
 mass of things, that he may be allowed to try a 
 few expedients for procuring some kind of sup- 
 plemental dignity, and use some endeavour to 
 add weight, by the violence of his temper, to the 
 lightness of his other powers. But this has now 
 been long practised, and found, upon the most 
 exact estimate, not to produce advantages equal 
 to its inconveniences ; for it appears not that a 
 man can by uproar, tumult, and bluster, alter 
 any one's opinion of his understanding, or gain 
 influence, except over those whom fortune or 
 nature have made his dependents. He may, by 
 a steady perseverance in his ferocity, fright his 
 children, and harass his servants, but the rest 
 of the world will look on and laugh; and he 
 will have the comfort at last of thinking that he 
 lives only to raise contempt and hatred, emotions 
 to which wisdom and virtue would be always 
 unwilling to give occasion. He has contrived 
 only to make those fear him, whom every rea- 
 sonable being is endeavouring to endear by kind- 
 ness, and must content, himself with the pleasure 
 of a triumph obtained by trampling on them who 
 could not resist. He must perceive that the ap- 
 prehension which his presence causes is not the 
 awe of his virtue, but the dread of his brutality, 
 and that he has given up the felicity of being 
 loved, without gaining the honour of being re- 
 verenced. 
 
 But this is not the only ill consequence of the 
 frequent indulgence of this blustering passion, 
 which a man, by often calling to his assistance, 
 will teach in a short time, to intrude before the 
 summons, to rush upon him with resistless vio- 
 lence, and without any previous notice of its ap- 
 proach. He will find himself liable to be inflam- 
 ed at the first touch of provocation, and unable 
 to retain his resentment, till he has a full con- 
 viction of the offence, to proportion his anger to 
 the cause, or to regulate it by prudence or by 
 duty. When a man has once suffered his mind 
 to be thus vitiated, he becomes one of the most 
 hateful and unhappy beings. He can give no 
 security to himself that he shall not, at the next 
 
 interview, alienate by some sudden transport his 
 dearest friend ; or break out, upon so'.ne slight 
 contradiction, into such terms of rudeiie-js as can 
 never be perfectly forgotten. Whoever con- 
 verses with him, lives with the suspicion and 
 solicitude of a man that plays with a tame tiger, 
 always under a necessity of watching the mo- 
 ment in which the capricious savage shall begin 
 to growl. 
 
 It is told by Prior, in a panegyric on the Earl 
 of Dorset, that his servants used to put them- 
 selves in his way when he was angry, because 
 he was sure to recompense them for any indig- 
 nities which he made them suffer. This is the 
 round of a passionate man's life; he contracts 
 debts when he is furious, which his virtue, if he 
 has virtue, obliges him to discharge at the return 
 of reason. He spends his time in outrage and 
 acknowledgment, injury and reparation. Or, if 
 there be any who hardens himself in oppression, 
 and justifies the wrong, because he has done it, 
 his insensibility can make small part of his praise, 
 or his happiness; he only adds deliberate to 
 hasty folly, aggravates petulance by contumacy, 
 and destroys the only plea that he can offer for 
 the tenderness and patience of mankind. 
 
 Yet even this degree of depravity we may be 
 content to pity, because it seldom wants a pu- 
 nishment equal to its guilt Nothing is more des- 
 picable or more miserable than the old age of a 
 passionate man. When the vigour of youth 
 fails him, and his amusements pall with frequent 
 repetition, his occasional rage sinks by decay of 
 strength into peevishness ; that peevishness, for 
 want of novelty and variety, becomes habitual ; 
 the world falls off from around him, and he is 
 left, as Homer expresses it QBiwOwv Q&ov iajp to 
 devour his own heart in solitude and contempt 
 
 No. 12-3 SATURDAY, APRIL 23, 1750. 
 
 Mieerum parva stipe focillat, ut pudibundos 
 
 Exercert gales inter convivia possit. 
 
 Tu mitis, et acri 
 
 Aiperilatecarcns, positoque per omniafastu 
 Inter ut aqvales units numeraris arnicas, 
 Obsequiumque daces, et amorem quczris amando. 
 
 LUCANCS ad PISONEM. 
 
 Unlike the ribald whose licentious jest 
 
 Pollutes his banquet, and insults his guest ; 
 
 From wealth and grandeur easy to descend, 
 
 Thou joy 'st to lose the master in the friend : 
 
 We round thy board the cheerful menials see, 
 
 Gay with the smile of bland equality : 
 
 No social care the gracious lord disdains ; 
 
 Love prompts to love, and reverence reverence gains. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 As you seem to have devoted your labours to 
 virtue, I cannot forbear to inform you of one 
 species of cruelty with which the life of a man 
 of letters perhaps does not often make him ac- 
 quainted ; and which, as it seems to produce no 
 other advantage to those that practise it than a 
 short gratification of thoughtless vanity, may be- 
 come less common when it has been once expos- 
 ed in its various forms, and its full magnitude. 
 
 I am the daughter of a country gentleman, 
 whose family is numerous, and whose estate, not 
 at first sufficient to supply us with affluenco,
 
 30 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 12, 
 
 has been lately so much impaired by an unsuc- 
 cessful lawsuit, that all the younger children are 
 obliged to try such means as their education af- 
 fords them, for procuring the necessaries of life. 
 Distress and curiosity concurred to bring me to 
 London, where I was received by a relation 
 rtith the coldness which misfortune generally 
 nds. A week, a long week, I lived with my 
 .ousin, before the most vigilant inquiry could 
 procure us the least hopes of a place, in which 
 time, I was much better qualified to bear all the 
 vexations of servitude. The first two days she 
 was content to pity me, and only wished I had 
 not been quite so well bred; but people must 
 comply with their circumstances. This lenity, 
 however, was soon at an end ; and, for the re- 
 maining part of the week, I heard every hour of 
 the pride of my family, the obstinacy of my 
 father, and of people better born than myself 
 that were common servants. 
 
 At last, on Saturday noon, she told me, with 
 very visible satisfaction, that Mrs. Bombasine, 
 the great silk mercer's lady, wanted a maid, and 
 a fine place it would be, for there would be no- 
 thing to do but to clean my mistress's room, get 
 up her linen, dress the young ladies, wait at tea 
 in the morning, take care of a little miss just 
 come from nurse, and then sit down to my nee- 
 dle. But madam was a woman of great spirit, 
 and would not be contradicted, and therefore, I 
 should take care, for good places were not easily 
 to be got. 
 
 With these cautions I waited on Madam Bom- 
 basine, of whom the first sight gave me no ra- 
 vishing ideas. She was two yards round the 
 waist, her voice was at once loud and squeak- 
 ing, and her face brought to my mind the picture 
 of the full moon. Are you the young woman, 
 says she, that are come to offer yourself? It is 
 strange when people of substance want a serv- 
 ant, how soon it is the town-talk. But they 
 know they shall have a belly-full that live with 
 me. Not like people at the other end of the 
 lown, we dine at one o'clock. But I never take 
 any body without a character ; what friends do 
 you come off? I then told her that my father 
 was a gentleman, and that we had been unfor- 
 tunate. A great misfortune indeed, to come to 
 me, and have three meals a-day ! So your father 
 was a gentleman, and you are a gentlewoman 
 I suppose : such gentlewomen ! Madam, I did 
 not mean to claim any exemptions, I only an- 
 swered your inquiry Such gentlewomen ! peo- 
 ple should set their children to good trades, and 
 keep them off" the parish. Pray go to the other 
 end of the town, there are gentlewomen if they 
 would pay their debts : I am sure we have lost 
 enough by gentlewomen. Upon this, her broad 
 face grew broader with triumph, and I was afraid 
 she would have taken me for the pleasure of con- 
 tinuing her insult ; but happily the next word was, 
 Pray, Mrs. gentlewoman, troop down stairs. 
 You may believe I obeved her. 
 
 returned and met with a better reception from 
 my cousin than I expected ; for while I was out, 
 she had heard that Mrs. Standish, whose hus- 
 band had lately been raised from a clerk in an 
 office, to be commissioner of the excise, had taken 
 a fine house, and wanted a maid. 
 
 To Mrs. Standish I went, and, after having 
 waited six hours, was at last admitted to the top 
 of the stairs, when she came out of her room, 
 
 with two of her company. There was a smell of 
 punch. So, young woman, you want a place ; 
 whence do you come ? From the country, Ma- 
 dam. Yes, they all come out of the country. 
 And what brought you to town, a bastard? 
 Where do you lodge ? At the Seven-Dials. 
 What, you have heard of the foundling-house ! 
 Upon this they all laughed so obstreperously, 
 that I took the opportunity of sneaking off in the 
 tumult. 
 
 I then heard of a place at an elderly lady's. 
 She was at cards ; but in two hours, I was told, 
 she would speak to me. She asked me if I could 
 keep an account, and ordered me to write. I 
 wrote two lines out of some book that lay by her. 
 She wondered what people meant to breed up 
 poor girls to write at that rate. I suppose, Mrs. 
 Flirt, if I was to see your work, it would be fine 
 stuff! You may walk, I will not have love-let- 
 ters written from my house to every young fellow 
 in the street 
 
 Two days after I went on the same pursuit to 
 Lady Lofty, dressed as I was directed, in what 
 little ornaments I had, because she had lately 
 got a place at court. Upon the first sight of me, 
 she turns to the woman that showed me in. Is 
 this the lady that wants a place? Pray what 
 place would you have, Miss ? a maid of honour's 
 place? Servants now-a-days ! Madam, I heard 
 you wanted Wanted what ? Somebody finer 
 than myself? A pretty servant indeed ! I should 
 be afraid to speak to her. I suppose, Mrs. Minx, 
 these fine hands cannot bear wetting a servant 
 indeed ! Pray move off I am resolved to be the 
 head person in this house. You are ready 
 dressed, the taverns will be open. 
 
 I went to inquire for the next place in a clean 
 linen gown, and heard the servant tell his lady, 
 there was a young woman, but he saw she would 
 not do. I was brought up, however. Are you 
 the trollop that has the impudence to come for 
 my place ? What, you have hired that nasty 
 gown, and are come to steal a better. Madam. 
 I have another, but being obliged to walk. 
 Then these are your manners, with your blushes 
 and your courtesies, to come to me in your worst 
 gown. Madam, give me leave to wait upon you 
 in my other. Wait on me, you saucy slut ! Then 
 you are sure of coming. I could not let such a 
 drab come near me. Here, you girl that came 
 up with her, have you touched her? If you have, 
 wash your hands before you dress me. Such 
 trollops! Get you down. What, whimpering? 
 Pray walk. 
 
 I went away with tears ; for my cousin had lost 
 all patience. However, she told me, that having 
 a respect for my relations, she was willing to 
 keep me out of the street, and would let me have 
 another week. 
 
 The first day of this week I saw two places. 
 At one I was asked where I had lived ? And 
 upon iny answer, was told by the lady, that peo 
 pie should qualify themselves in ordinary places-, 
 for she should never have done if she was to fol- 
 low girls about. At the other house I was a 
 smirking hussy, and that sweet face I might make 
 money of For her part, it was a rule with her 
 never to take any creature that thought herself 
 handsome. 
 
 The three next days were spent in Lady Bluff's 
 entry, where I waited six hours every day for the 
 pleasure of seeing the servants peep at me, and
 
 No. 13.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 go away laughing. Madam will stretch her 
 small shanks in the entry; she will know the 
 house again. At sunset the^wo first days I wa: 
 told, that my lady would see me to-morrow, and 
 on the third, that her woman stayed. 
 
 A Ly week was now near its end, and I had no 
 hopes of a place. My relation, who always laid 
 upon me the blame of every miscarriage, told 
 me that I must learn to humble myself, and that 
 all great ladies had particular ways : that if I 
 went on in that manner, she could not tell who 
 would keep me ; she had known many that had 
 refused places, sell their clothes and beg- in the 
 streets. 
 
 It was to no purpose that the refusal was de- 
 clared by me to be never on my side ; I was rea- 
 soning against interest and against stupidity ; 
 and therefore I comforted myself with the hope 
 of succeeding better in my next attempt, and 
 went to Mrs. Courtly, a very fine lady, who had 
 routes at her house, and saw the best company 
 in town. 
 
 I had not waited two hours before I was called 
 up, and found Mr. Courtly and his lady at pi- 
 quet, in the height of good humour. This I 
 looked on as a favourable sign, and stood at the 
 lower end of the room, in expectation of the com- 
 mon questions. At last Mr. Courtly called out, 
 after a whisper, Stand facing the light, that one 
 may see you. I changed my place and blushed. 
 They frequently turned their eyes upon me, and 
 seemed to discover many subjects of merriment; 
 for at every look they whispered and laughed 
 with the most violent agitations of delight. At 
 last Mr. Courtly cried out, Is that colour your 
 own, child? Yes, says the lady, if she has not 
 robbed the kitchen hearth. This was so happy a 
 conceit, that it renewed the storm of laughter, 
 and they threw down their cards in hopes of bet- 
 ter sport. The lady then called me to her, and 
 began with an affected gravity to inquire what I 
 could do ? But first turn about, and let us see 
 your fine shape. Well, what are you fit for, 
 Mrs. Mum ? You would find your tongue, I sup- 
 pose, in the kitchen. No, no, says Mr. Courtly, 
 the girl's a good girl yet, but I am afraid a brisk 
 young fellow, with fine tags on his shoulder 
 Come, child, hold up your head ; What! you 
 have stole nothing. Not yet, says the lady, but 
 she hopes to steal your heart quickly. Here 
 was a laugh of happiness and triumph, prolong- 
 ed by the confusion which I could no longer re- 
 press. At last the lady recollected herself: 
 Stole ! no but if I had her, I should watch her: 
 for that downcast eye why cannot you look 
 people in the face ? Steal ! says her husband, 
 she would steal nothing but, perhaps, a few ri- 
 bands before they were left offby her lady. Sir, 
 answered I, why should you, by supposing me a 
 thief, insult one from whom you have received 
 no injury ? Insult ! says the lady ; are you come 
 here to be a servant, you saucy baggage, and talk 
 of insulting ! What will this world come to, if a 
 gentleman may not jest with a servant ! Well, 
 such servants ! pray be gone, and see when you 
 will have the honour to be so insulted again. 
 Sen-ants insulted ! a fine time ! Insulted ! Get 
 nown stairs, you slut, or the footman shall insult 
 you. 
 
 The last day of the last week was now com- 
 ing, and my kind cousin talked of sending me 
 doin in the wagon to preserve me from bad 
 
 courses. But in the morning she came and tola 
 me that she had one trial more for me ; Euphe- 
 mia wanted a maid, and perhaps I might do for 
 her ; for, like me, she must fall her crest, being 
 forced to lay down her chariot upon the loss of 
 half her fortune by bad securities, and with her 
 way of giving her money to every body that pre- 
 tended to want it, she could have little before- 
 hand ; therefore I might serve her ; for, with all 
 her fine sense, she must not pretend to be nice. 
 I went immediately, and met at the door a 
 young gentlewoman, who told me she had her- 
 self been hired that morning, but that she was 
 ordered to bring any that offered up stairs. I 
 was accordingly introduced to Euphemia, who, 
 when I came in, laid down her book, and told rne 
 that she sent for me not to gratify an idle curiosi- 
 ty, but lest my disappointment might be made 
 still more grating by incivility ; that she was in 
 pain to deny any thing, much more what was no 
 favour ; that she saw nothing in my appearance 
 which did not make her wish for my company ; 
 but that another, whose claims might perhaps be 
 equal, had come before me. The thought of be- 
 ing so near to such a place, and missing it, brought 
 tears into my eyes, and my sobs hindered me 
 from returning my acknowledgments. She rose 
 up confused, and supposing by my concern that 
 I was distressed, placed me by her, and made 
 me tell her my story ; which when she had 
 heard, she put two guineas in my hand, order- 
 ing me to lodge near her, and make use of her 
 table till she could provide for me. J am now 
 under her protection, and know not how to show 
 my gratitude better than by giving this account 
 to the Rambler. 
 
 ZOSIMA. 
 
 No. 13.] TUESDAY, MAT 1, 1750. 
 
 Commissumquf. teges, et vino tortut et ira. HOR. 
 
 And let not wine or anger wrest 
 
 Th' intrusted secret from your breast. FRANCIS. 
 
 It is related by duintus Curtius, that the Per- 
 sians always conceived an invincible contempt 
 of a man who had violated the laws of secrecy ; 
 for they thought that, however he might be de- 
 ficient in the qualities requisite to actual excel- 
 lence, the negative virtues at least were in his 
 power, and though he perhaps could not speak 
 well if he was to try, it was still easy for him not 
 to speak. 
 
 In forming this opinion of the easiness of se- 
 crecy, they seem to have considered it as oppos- 
 ed, not to treachery, but loquacity, and to have 
 conceived the man whom they thus censured, not 
 frighted by menaces to reveal, or bribed by pro- 
 mises to betray, but incited by the mere pleasure 
 of talking, or some other motive equally trifling, 
 to lay open his heart without reflection and to 
 let whatever he knew slip from him, only for 
 want of power to retain rt. Whether, by their 
 settled and avowe.d scorn of thoughtless talkers, 
 the Persians were able to diffuse to any great 
 extent the virtue of taciturnity, we are hindered 
 by the distance of those times from being able 
 to discover, there being very few memoirs re- 
 maining of the court of Persepolis, nor any dis- 
 tinct accounts handed down to us of their office-
 
 iq 
 
 i - 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 13 
 
 clerks, their ladies of the bed-chamber, their at- 
 torneys, their chamber-maids, or their footmen. 
 
 In these latter ages, though the old animosity 
 against a prattler is still retained, it appears 
 wholly to have lost its effect upon the conduct 
 of mankind ; for secrets are so seldom kept, that 
 it may with some reason be doubted, whether 
 the ancients were not mistaken in their first 
 postulate, whether the quality of retention be so 
 generally bestowed, and whether a secret has 
 not some subtle volatility, by which it escapes 
 imperceptibly at the smallest vent, or some 
 power of fermentation, by which it expands it- 
 self so as to burst the heart that will not give 
 it way. 
 
 Those that study either the body or the mind 
 of man, very often find the most specious and 
 pleasing theory falling under the weight of con- 
 trary experience ; and, instead of gratifying their 
 vanity by inferring effects from causes, they are 
 always reduced at last to conjecture causes from 
 effects. That it is easy to be secret, the specu- 
 latist can demonstrate in his retreat, and there- 
 fore thinks himself justified in placing confi- 
 dence ; the man of the world knows, that, whe- 
 ther difficult or not, it is uncommon, and there- 
 fore finds himself rather inclined to search after 
 the reason of this universal failure in one of the 
 most important duties of society. 
 
 The vanity of being known to be trusted with 
 a secret, is generally one of the chief motives to 
 disclose it; for however absurd it may be 
 thought to boast an honour by an act which 
 shows that it was conferred without merit, yet 
 most men seem rather inclined to confess the 
 want of virtue than of importance, and more 
 willingly show their influence, though at the 
 expense of their probity, than glide through life 
 with no other pleasure than the private con- 
 sciousness of fidelity ; which, while it is pre- 
 served,must be without praise, except from the 
 single person who tries and knows it. 
 
 There are many ways of telling a secret, by 
 which a man exempts himself from the re- 
 proaches of his conscience, and gratifies his 
 pride, without suffering himself to believe that he 
 impairs his virtue. He tells the private affairs 
 of his patron, or his friend, only to those from 
 whom he would not conceal his own ; he tells 
 them to those who have no temptation to betray 
 the trust, or with a denunciation of a certain for- 
 feiture of his friendship, if he discovers that they 
 become public. 
 
 Secrets are very frequently told in the first ar- 
 dour of kindness, or of love, for the sake of 
 proving, by so important a sacrifice, sincerity or 
 tenderness ; but with this motive, though it be 
 strong in itself, vanity concurs, since every man 
 desires to be most esteemed by those whom he 
 loves, or with whom he converses, with whom 
 he passes his hours of pleasure, and to whom he 
 retires from business and from care. 
 
 When the discovery of secrets is under consi- 
 deration, there is always a distinction carefully 
 to be made between our own and those of an- 
 other ; those of which we are fully masters, as 
 they affect only our own interest, and those 
 which are reposited with us in trust, and involve 
 the happiness or convenience of such as we have 
 no right to expose to hazard. To tell our own 
 secrets is generally folly, but that folly is with- 
 out guilt ; to communicate those with which we 
 
 are intrusted is always treachery, and treachery 
 for the most part combined with folly. 
 
 There have, indeed, been some enthusiastic 
 and irrational zealots for friendship, who have 
 maintained, and perhaps believed, that one 
 friend has a right to all that is in possession of 
 another ; and that, therefore, it is a violation of 
 kindness to exempt any secret from this bound- 
 less confidence. Accordingly, a late female 
 minister of state* has been shameless enough to 
 inform the world, that she used, when she 
 wanted to extract any thing from her sovereign, 
 to remind her of Montaigne's reasoning, who has 
 determined, that to tell a secret to a friend is no 
 breach of fidelity, because the number of persons 
 trusted is not multiplied, a man and his friend 
 being virtually the same. 
 
 That such a fallacy could be imposed upon 
 any human understanding, or that an author 
 could have advanced a position so remote from 
 truth and reason, any other ways than as a de- 
 claimer, to show to what extent he could stretch 
 his imagination, and with what strength he 
 could press his principle, would scarcely have 
 been credible, had not this lady kindly shown 
 us how far weakness may be deluded, or in- 
 dolence amused. But since it appears, that even 
 this sophistry, has been able, with the help of a 
 strong desire, to repose in quiet upon the under- 
 standing of another to mislead honest intentions, 
 and an understanding not contemptible,! it may 
 not be superfluous to remark, that those things 
 which are common among friends are only such 
 as either possesses in his own right, and can 
 alienate or destroy without injury to any other 
 person. Without this limitation, confidence 
 must run on without end, the second person 
 may teH the secret to the third, upon the same 
 principle as he received it from the first, and a 
 third may hand it forward to a fourth, till at last 
 it is told in the round of friendship to them from 
 whom it was the first intention to conceal it. 
 
 The confidence which Caius has of the faith- 
 fulness of Titius is nothing more than an opinion 
 which himself cannot know to be true, and 
 which Claudius, who first tells his secret to 
 Caius, may know to be false ; and therefore the 
 trust is transferred by Caius, if he reveal what 
 has been told him, to one from whom the person 
 originally concerned would have withheld it, 
 and whatever may be the event, Caius has ha- 
 zarded the happiness of his friend, without ne- 
 cessity and without permission, and has put that 
 trust in the hand of fortune which was given 
 only to virtue. 
 
 All the arguments upon which a man who is 
 telling the private affairs of another may ground 
 his confidence of security, he must upon reflec- 
 tion know to be uncertain, because he finds them 
 without effect upon himself. When he is ima- 
 gining that Titius will be cautious, from a re- 
 gard to his interest, his reputation, or his duty, 
 he ought to reflect that he is himself at that 
 instant acting in opposition to all these reasons, 
 and revealing what interest, reputation, and duty, 
 direct him to conceal. 
 
 Every one feels that in his own case he should 
 consider the man incapable of trust, who believed 
 himself at liberty to tell whatever he knew to the 
 
 * Sarah, Dutchess of Marlborough.-^C. 
 f That of Queen Anne. C.
 
 No. 14.] THE RAMBLER. 
 
 first whom he should conclude deserving of his 
 own confidence ; therefore Caius, in admitting 
 Titius to the affairs imparted only to himself musl 
 know that he violates his faith, since he acts con- 
 trary to the intention of Claudius, to whom that 
 faith was given. For promises of friendship are 
 like all others, useless and vain, unless they are 
 made in some known sense, adjusted and ac- 
 knowledged by both parties. 
 
 I am not ignorant that many questions may be 
 started relating to the duty of secrecy, where the 
 affairs are of public concern ; where subsequent 
 reasons may arise to alter the appearance and 
 nature of the trust ; that the manner in which 
 the secret was told may change the degree of 
 obligation, and that the principles upon which a 
 man is chosen for a confidant may not always 
 equally constrain him. But these scruples, if not 
 too intricate, are of too extensive consideration 
 for my present purpose, nor are they such as ge- 
 nerally occur in common life ; and though casu- 
 istical knowledge be useful in proper hands, yet 
 it ought by no means to be carelessly exposed, 
 since most will use it rather to lull than to awak- 
 en their own consciences; and the threads of 
 reasoning, on which truth is suspended, are fre- 
 quently drawn to such subtilty, that common 
 eyes cannot perceive, and common sensibility 
 cannot feel them. 
 
 The whole doctrine as well as practice of se- 
 crecy, is so perplexing and dangerous, that, next 
 to him who is compelled to trust, I think him un- 
 happy who is chosen to be trusted ; for he is 
 often involved in scruples without the liberty of 
 calling in the help of any other understanding; 
 he is frequently drawn into guilt under the ap- 
 pearance of friendship and honesty; and some- 
 times subjected to suspicion, by the treachery of 
 others, who are engaged without his knowledge 
 in the same schemes ; for he that has one confi- 
 
 dant has generally more, and when he is at last 
 betrayed, is in doubt on whom he shall fix the 
 crime. 
 
 The rules therefore that I shall propose con- 
 cerning secrecy, and from which I think it not 
 safe to deviate, without long and exact delibera- 
 tion, are Never to solicit the knowledge of a 
 secret. Not willingly, nor without many limita- 
 tions, to accept such confidence when it is offer- 
 ed. When a secret is once admitted, to consi- 
 der the trust as of a very high nature, important 
 as society, and sacred as truth, and therefore not 
 to be violated for any incidental convenience, or 
 slight appearance of contrary fitness. 
 
 No. 14] SATURDAY, MAT 5, 1750. 
 -Nil fuit unquam 
 
 Sic impar Sibi- 
 Sure such a various creature ne'er was known. 
 
 FRANCIS. 
 
 AMONG the many inconsistencies which folly 
 produces, or infirmity suffers, in the human mind, 
 there has often been observed a manifest and 
 striking contrariety between the life of an author 
 and his writings; and Milton, in a letter to a 
 (earned stranger, by whom he had been visited, 
 with great reason congratulates himself upon the 
 consciousness of being found equal to his own 
 E 
 
 character, and having preserved in a private and 
 familiar interview, that reputation which his 
 works had procured him. 
 
 Those whom the appearance of virtue, or the 
 evidence of genius, have tempted to a nearer 
 knowledge of the writer in whose performances 
 they may be found, have indeed had frequent 
 reason to repent their curiosity: the bubble that 
 sparkled before them has become common wa- 
 ter at the touch; the phantom of perfection has 
 vanished when they wished to press it to their 
 bosom. They have lost the pleasure of imagin- 
 ing how far humanity may be exalted, and, per- 
 haps, felt themselves less inclined to toil up the 
 steeps of virtue, when they observe those who 
 seem best able to point the way, loitering below, 
 as either afraid of the labour, or doubtful of the 
 reward. 
 
 It has long been the custom of the oriental mo 
 narchs to hide themselves in gardens and palaces, 
 to avoid the conversation of mankind, and to be 
 known to their subjects only by their edicts. The 
 same policy is no less necessary to him that 
 writes, than to him that governs ; for men would 
 not more patiently submit to be taught than com- 
 manded, by one known to have the same follies 
 and weaknesses with themselves. A sudden 
 intruder into the closet of an author would per- 
 haps feel equal indignation with the officer, who 
 having long solicited admission into the presence 
 of Sardanapalus, saw him not consulting upon 
 .aws, inquiring into grievancee, or modelling ar- 
 mies, but employed in feminine amusements, 
 and directing the ladies in their work. 
 
 It is not difficult to conceive, however, that for 
 many reasons a man writes much better than he 
 "ives. For without entering into refined specula- 
 ions, it may be shown much easier to design 
 ;han to perform. A man proposes his schemes 
 of life in a state of abstraction and disengage- 
 ment, exempt from the enticements of hope, the 
 
 solicitations of affection, the importunities of ap- 
 >etite, or the depressions of fear, and is in the 
 same state with him that teaches upon land the 
 art of navigation, to whom the sea is always 
 smooth, and the wind always prosperous. 
 
 The mathematicians are well acquainted with 
 
 he difference between pure science, which has to 
 do only with ideas, and the application of its 
 aws to the use of life, in which they are con- 
 strained to submit to the imperfection of mattei 
 and the influence of accidents. Thus, in mora\ 
 discussions, it is to be remembered, that many im- 
 >ediments obstruct our practice, which very easilj 
 jive way to theory. The speculatist is only in 
 danger of erroneous reasoning ; but the man in- 
 
 olved in life has his own passions and those of 
 others to encounter, and is embarrassed with a 
 thousand inconveniences which confound hiaa 
 with variety of impulse, and either perplex or ob 
 struct his way. He is forced to act without de 
 liberation, and obliged to choose before he can 
 examine ; he is surprised by sudden alterations 
 of the state of things, and changes his measures 
 according to superficial appearances ; he is led 
 by others, either because he is indolent, or be- 
 cause he is timorous ; he is sometimes afraid to 
 know what is right, and sometimes finds friends 
 or enemies diligent to deceive him. 
 
 We are, therefore, not to wonder that most 
 fail, amidst tumult, and snares, and danger, in 
 the observance of those precepts, which they lay
 
 31 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 14. 
 
 down in solitude, safety, and tranquillity, with a 
 mind unbiassed, and with liberty unobstructed. 
 It is the condition of our present state to see more 
 than we can attain ; the ^oxactest vigilance and 
 caution can never maintain a single day of un- 
 mingled innocence, much less can the utmost ef- 
 forts of incorporated mind reach the summits of 
 speculative virtue. 
 
 It is, however, necessary for the idea of perfec- 
 tion to be proposed, that we may have some ob- 
 ject to which our endeavours are to be directed ; 
 and he that is the most deficient in the duties of 
 life, makes some atonement for his faults, if he 
 warns others against his own failings, and hin- 
 ders, by the salubrity of his admonitions, the con- 
 tagion of his example. 
 
 Nothing is more unjust, however common, 
 lhan to charge with hypocrisy him that expresses 
 teal for those virtues which he neglects to prac- 
 tise ; since he may be sincerely convinced of the 
 advantages of conquering his passions, without 
 having yet obtained the victory, as a man may 
 be confident of the advantages of a voyage, or a 
 journey, without having courage or industry to 
 undertake it, and may honestly recommend to 
 others those attempts which he neglects himself. 
 
 The interest which the corrupt part of man- 
 kind have in hardening themselves against every 
 motive to amendment, has disposed them to give 
 to these contradictions, when they can be pro- 
 duced against the cause of virtue, that weight 
 which they will not allow them in any other case. 
 They see men act in opposition to their interest, 
 without supposing that they do not know it; 
 those who give way to the sudden violence of 
 passion, and forsake the most important pur- 
 suits for petty pleasures, are not supposed to have 
 changed their opinions, or to approve their own 
 conduct In moral or religious questions alone, 
 they determine the sentiments by the actions, 
 and charge every man with endeavouring to im- 
 pose upon the world, whose writings are not con- 
 firmed by his life. They never consider that 
 themselves neglect or practise something every 
 day inconsistently with their own settled judg- 
 ment, nor discover that the conduct of the advo- 
 cates for virtue can little increase or lessen the 
 obligations of their dictates ; argument is to be 
 invalidated only by argument, and is in itself of 
 the same force, whether or not it convinces him 
 by whom it is proposed. 
 
 Yet since this prejudice, however unreasona- 
 ble, is always likely to have some prevalence, 
 it is the duty of every man to take care lest he 
 should hinder the efficacy of his own instructions. 
 When he desires to gain the belief of others, he 
 should show that he believes himself; and when 
 he teaches the fitness of virtue by his reasonings, 
 h"e should, by his example, prove its possibility. 
 Thus much at least maybe required of him, that 
 he shall' not act worse than others, because he 
 writes better ; nor imagine that, by the merit of 
 his genius, he may claim indulgence, beyond 
 mortals of the lower classes, and be excused for 
 want of prudence, or neglect of virtue. 
 
 Bacon, in his history of the winds, after having 
 offered something to the imagination as desirable, 
 often proposes lower advantages in its place to 
 the reason as attainable. The same method 
 may be sometime pursued in moral endeavours, 
 which this philosopher has observed in natural 
 inquiries ; having first set positive and absolute 
 
 excellence before us, we may be pardoned though 
 we sink down to humbler virtue, trying, however 
 to keep our point always in view, and struggling 
 not to lose ground, though we cannot gain it. 
 
 It is recorded of Sir Matthew Hale, that he, 
 for a long time, concealed the consecration of 
 himself to the stricter duties of religion, lest, by 
 some flagitious and shameful actions, he should 
 bring piety into disgrace. For the same reason 
 it may be prudent for a writer, who apprehends 
 that he shall not enforce his own maxims by his 
 domestic character, to conceal his name that he 
 may not injure them. 
 
 There are, indeed, a great number whose curi- 
 osity to gain a more familiar knowledge of suc- 
 cessful writers, is not so much prompted by an 
 opinion of their power to improve as to delight, 
 and who expect from them not arguments against 
 vice, or dissertations on temperance or justice, 
 but flights of wit, and sallies of pleasantry, or, a' 
 least, acute remarks, nice distinctions, justness 
 of sentiment, and elegance of diction. 
 
 This expectation is, indeed, specious and pro- 
 bable, and yet, such is the fate of all human 
 hopes, that it is very often frustrated, and those 
 who raise admiration by their books, disgust by 
 their company. A man of letters, for the most 
 part spends, in the privacies of study, that season 
 of life in which the manners are to be softened 
 into ease, and polished into elegance ; and, when 
 he has gained knowledge enough to be respected, 
 has neglected the minuter acts by which he might 
 have pleased. When he enters life, if his tem- 
 
 Eerbe soft and timorous, he is diffident and bash- 
 il, from the knowledge of his defects: or if he 
 was born with spirit and resolution, he is fero- 
 cious and arrogant, from the consciousness of his 
 merit ; he is either dissipated by the awe of com- 
 pany, and unable to .recollect his reading, and 
 arrange his arguments ; or he is hot and dogma- 
 tical, quick in opposition, and tenacious in de- 
 fence, disabled by his own violence, and confused 
 by his haste to triumph. 
 
 The graces of writing and conversation are of 
 different kinds ; and though he who excels in 
 one might have been, with opportunities and ap- 
 plication, equally successful in the other, yet as 
 many please, by extemporary talk, though utterly 
 unacquainted with the more accurate method, 
 and more laboured beauties, which composition 
 requires ; so it is very possible that men, w holly 
 accustomed to works of study, may be without 
 that readiness of conception, and affluence of 
 language, always necessary to colloquial enter- 
 tainment. They may want address to watch 
 the hints which conversation offers for the display 
 of their particular attainments, or they may be so 
 much unfurnished with matter on common sub- 
 jects, that discourse not professedly literary glides 
 over them as heterogeneous bodies, without 
 admitting their conceptions to mix in the circu- 
 lation. 
 
 A transition from an author's book to his con- 
 versation, is too often like an entrance into a 
 large city, after a distant prospect. Remotely, 
 we see nothing but spires of temples and turrets 
 of palaces, and imagine it the residence of splen- 
 dour, grandeur and magnificence ; but, when we 
 have passed the gates, we find it perplexed with 
 narrow passages, disgraced with despicable cot- 
 tages, embarrassed with obstructions, and cloud- 
 with smoke.
 
 No. 15.] THE RAMBLER. 
 
 No. 15.] TUESDAY, MAY 3, 1751. 
 
 Et quando uberior vitiorum copia .- Qumitlo 
 Major avaritite patuit sinus? Alca quando 
 Has animus } JUV. 
 
 What age so large a crop of vices bore ? 
 
 Or when was avarice extended more ? 
 
 When were the dice with more profusion thrown ? 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 THERE is no grievance, public or private, of 
 which, since I took upon me the office of a pe- 
 riodical monitor, I have received so many or so 
 earnest complaints, as of the predominance of 
 play ; of a fatal passion for cards and dice, which 
 seems to have overturned, not only the ambition 
 of excellence, but the desire of pleasure; to have 
 extinguished the flames of the lover, as well as of 
 the patriot ; and threatens, in its further progress, 
 to destroy all distinctions, both of rank and sex, 
 to crush all emulation but that of fraud, to cor- 
 rupt all those classes of our people whose an- 
 cestors have, by their virtue, their industry, or 
 their parsimony, given them the power of living 
 in extravagance, idleness, and vice, and to leave 
 them without knowledge, but of the modish 
 games, and without wishes, but for lucky hands. 
 
 I have found, by long experience, that there 
 are few enterprises so hopeless as contests with 
 the fashion, in which the opponents are not only 
 made confident by their numbers, and strong by 
 their union, but are hardened by contempt of 
 their antagonist, whom they always look upon 
 as a wretch of low notions, contracted views, 
 mean conversation, and narrow fortune, who en- 
 vies the elevations which he cannot reach, who 
 would gladly embitter the happiness which his 
 inelegance or indigence deny him to partake, and 
 who has no other end in his advice than to re- 
 venge his own mortification by hindering those 
 whom their birth and taste have set above him, 
 from the enjoyment of their superiority, and 
 bringing them down to a level with himself. 
 
 Though I have never found myself much af- 
 fected by this formidable censure, which I have 
 incurred often enough to be acquainted with its 
 full force, yet I shall, in some measure, obviate it 
 on this occasion, by offering very little in my 
 own name, either of argument or entreaty, since 
 those who suffer by this general infatuation may 
 be supposed best able to relate its effects. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 There seems to be so little knowledge left in 
 the world, and so little of that reflection prac- 
 tised, by which knowledge is to be gained, that I 
 am in doubt, whether I shall be understood, when 
 I complain of want of opportunity for thinking; 
 or whether a condemnation, which at present 
 seems irreversible, to perpetual ignorance, will 
 raise any compassion, either in you or your read- 
 ers : yet I will venture to lay my state before 
 you, because I believe it is natural to most minds, 
 to take some pleasure in complaining of evils, of 
 which they have no reason to be ashamed. 
 
 I am the daughter of a man of great fortune, 
 whose diffidence of mankind, and perhaps the 
 pleasure of continual accumulation, incline him 
 to reside upon his own estate, and to educate his 
 children in his own house, where I was bred, if 
 not with the most brilliant examples of virtue 
 before my eyes, at least remote enough from any 
 incitements to vice ; and, wanting neither leisure 
 
 35 
 
 nor books, nor the acquaintance of some persons 
 of learning in the neighbourhood, I endeavoured 
 to acquire such knowledge as might most recom- 
 mend me to esteem, and thought myself able to 
 support a conversation upon most of the sub- 
 jects, which my sex and condition made it propel 
 for me to understand. 
 
 I had, besides my knowledge, as my mamma 
 and my maid told me, a very fine face Did ele- 
 gant shape, and with all these advantages had 
 been seventeen months the reigning toast for 
 twelve miles round, and nevercame to the month- 
 ly assembly, but I heard the old ladies that sat 
 by wishing that it might end well, and their 
 daughters criticising my air, my features, or my 
 dress. 
 
 You know, Mr. Rambler, that ambition is na 
 tural to youth, and curiosity to understanding, 
 and therefore will hear, without wonder, that I 
 was desirous to extend my victories over those 
 who might give more honour to the conqueror ; 
 and that I found in a country life a continual re- 
 petition of the same pleasures, which was not 
 sufficient to fill up the mind for the present, or 
 raise any expectations of the future ; and I will 
 confess to you, that I was impatient for a sight 
 of the town, and filled my thoughts with the dis- 
 coveries which I should make, the triumphs that 
 I should obtain, and the praises that I should 
 receive. 
 
 At last the time came. My aunt, whose hus- 
 band has a seat in Parliament, and a place at 
 court, buried her only child, and sent for me to 
 supply the loss. The hope that I should so far 
 insinuate myself into their favour, as to obtain a 
 considerable augmentation to my fortune, pro- 
 cured me every convenience for my departure, 
 with great expedition ; and I could not, amidst 
 all my transports, forbear some indignation to 
 see with what readiness the natural guardians of 
 my virtue sold me to a state, which they thought 
 more hazardous than it really was, as soon as a 
 new accession of fortune glittered in their eyes. 
 
 Three days I was upon the road, and on the 
 fourth morning my heart danced at the sight of 
 London. I was set down at my aunt's and en- 
 tered upon the scene of action. I expected now, 
 from the age and experience of my aunt, some 
 prudential lessons ; but, after the first civilities 
 and first tears were over, was told what pity it 
 was to have kept so fine a girl so long in the 
 country; for the people who did not begin young, 
 seldom dealt their cards handsomely, or played 
 them tolerably. 
 
 Young persons are commonly inclined to 
 slight the remarks and counsels of their elders. 
 I smiled, perhaps, with too much contempt, and 
 was upon the point of telling her that my time 
 had not been passed in such trivial attainments. 
 But I soon found that things are to be estimated, 
 not by the importance of their effects, but the 
 frequency of their use. 
 
 A few days after, my aunt gave me notice, that 
 some company, which she had been six weeks 
 in collecting, was to meet that evening, and she 
 expected a finer assembly than had been seen all 
 the winter. She expressed this in the jargon of 
 a gamester, and, when I asked an explication of 
 her terms of art, wondered where I had lived. 
 I had already found my aunt so incapable of any 
 rational conclusion, and so ignorant of every 
 thing, whether great or little, that I had lost all
 
 36 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 16. 
 
 regard to her opinion, and dressed myself with 
 great expectations of an opportunity to display 
 my charms among rivals, whose competition 
 would not dishono ir me. The company came 
 in, and after the cursory compliments of saluta- 
 tion, alike easy to the lowest and the highest un- 
 derstanding, what was the result? The cards 
 were broken open, the parties were formed, the 
 whole night passed in a game, upon which the 
 
 {oung and ola were equally employed ; nor was 
 able to attract an eye, or gain an ear, but be- 
 ing compelled to play without skill I perpetually 
 embarrassed my partner, and soon perceived 
 the contempt of the whole table gathering upon 
 me. 
 
 I cannot but suspect, Sir, that this odious 
 fashion is produced by a conspiracy of the old, 
 the ugly, and the ignorant, against the young and 
 beautiful, the witty and the gay, as a contrivance 
 to level all distinctions of nature and of art, to 
 confound the world in a chaos of folly, and to 
 take from those who could outshine them all the 
 advantages of mind and body, to withhold youth 
 from its natural pleasures, deprive wit of its influ- 
 ence, and beauty of its charms, to fix those hearts 
 upon monev, to which love has hitherto been en- 
 titled, to sink life into a tedious uniformity, and 
 to allow it no other hopes or fears, but those of 
 robbing, and being robbed. 
 
 Be pleased, Sir, to inform those of my sex who 
 have minds capable of nobler sentiments, that, 
 if they will unite in vindication of their pleasures 
 and their prerogatives, they may fix a time, at 
 which cards shall cease to be in fashion, or be 
 left only to those who have neither beauty to be 
 loved, nor spirit to be feared ; neither knowledge 
 to teach, nor modesty to learn ; and who, having 
 passed their youth in vice, are justly condemned 
 to spend their age in folly. 
 
 I am, Sir, &c. CLEORA. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 VEXATION will burst my heart, if I do not give 
 it vent. As you publish a paper, I insist upon it 
 that you insert this in your next, as ever you hope 
 for the kindness and encouragement of any wo- 
 man of taste, spirit, and virtue. I would have it 
 published to the world, how deserving wives are 
 rfsed by imperious coxcombs, that henceforth no 
 woman may marry who has not the patience of 
 Grizzel. Nay, if even Grizzel had been married 
 to a gamester, her temper would never have held 
 out A wretch that loses his good humour and 
 humanity along with his money, and will not aK 
 low enough from his own extravagances to support 
 a woman of fashion in the necessary amusements 
 of life ! Why does not he employ his wise head 
 to make a figure in parliament, raise an estate, 
 and get a title ? That would be fitter for the 
 master of a family, than rattling a noisy dice-box; 
 and then he might indulge his wife in a few 
 slight expenses and elegant diversions. 
 
 What if I was unfortunate at brag? should he 
 not have stayed to see how luck would turn ano- 
 ther time ? Instead of that, what does he do, but 
 picks a quarrel, upbraids me with loss of beauty, 
 abuses my acquaintance, ridicules my play, and 
 insults my understanding; says forsooth, that 
 women have not heads enough to play with any 
 thing but dolls, and that they should be employed 
 in things proportionable to their understanding, 
 keep at home, and mind family affairs. 
 
 I do stay at home, Sir, and all the world knows 
 I am at home every Sunday. I have had six 
 routes this winter, and sent out ten packs of 
 cards in invitations to private parties. As for 
 management, I am sure he cannot call me ex- 
 travagant, or say I do not mind my family. The 
 children are out at nurse in villages as cheap as 
 any two little brats can be kept, nor have I ever 
 seen them since ; so he has no trouble about them. 
 The servants live at board wages. My own din- 
 ners come from the Thatched House ; and I have 
 never paid a penny for any thing I have bought 
 since I wtes married. As for play, I do think I 
 may, indeed, indulge in that, now I am my own 
 mistress. Papa made me drudge at whist till I 
 was tired of it ; and, far from wanting a head, 
 Mr. Hoyle, when he had not given me above 
 forty lessons, said I was one of his best scholars. 
 I thought then with myself, that, if once I was at 
 liberty, I would leave play, and take to reading 
 romances, things so forbidden at our house, and 
 so railed at, that it was impossible not to fancy 
 them very charming. Most fortunately, to save 
 me from absolute undutifulness, just as I was 
 married, came dear brag into fashion, and ever 
 since it has been the joy of my life ; so easy, so 
 cheerful and careless, so void of thought, and so 
 genteel ! Who can help loving it ? Yet the per- 
 fidious thing has used me very ill of late, and to- 
 morrow I should have changed it for faro. But, 
 oh! this detestable to-morrow, a thing always ex- 
 pected, and never found. Within these few 
 
 hours must I be dragged into the country. The 
 wretch, Sir, left me in a fit, which his throaten- 
 ings had occasioned, and unmercifully ordered a 
 post-chaise. Stay I cannot, for money I have 
 none, and credit I cannot get. But I will make 
 the monkey play with me at picquet upon the 
 road for all I want. I am almost sure to beat 
 him, and his debts of honour I know he will pay. 
 Then who can tell but I may still come back 
 and conquer Lady Packer; Sir, you need not 
 print this last scheme; and, upon second thoughts, 
 
 you may. Oh, distraction ! the post chaise is 
 
 at the door, Sir, publish what you will, only let 
 it be printed without a name. 
 
 No. 16.] SATURDAY, MAT 12, 1750. 
 
 -Torrcns dicendi copia multis, 
 
 Et sua mortifera estfacundia 
 
 Some who the depths of eloquence have found, 
 In that unnavigable stream were drown'd. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I AM the modest young man whom you favour- 
 ed with your advice in a late paper ; and as I am 
 very far from suspecting that you foresaw the 
 numberless inconveniences which I have, by 
 following it, brought upon myself, I will lay my 
 condition open before you, for you seem bound 
 to extricate me from the perplexities in which 
 your counsel, however innocent in the intention, 
 has contributed to involve me. 
 
 Faeilis deacincus Averni, 
 
 Nodes atque ditspatet atrijanua Ditis. vino 
 
 The gates of hell are open night and day j 
 Smooth the descent and easy is the way.
 
 No. 16.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 The means of doing hurt to ourselves are al- 
 ways at hand. I immediately sent to a printer, 
 and contracted with him for an impression of 
 several thousands of my pamphlet. While it 
 was at the press, I was seldom absent from the 
 printing-house, and continually urged the work- 
 men, to" haste, by solicitations, promises, and 
 rewards. From the day all other pleasures were 
 excluded, by the delightful employment of cor- 
 recting the sheets ; and from the night, sleep 
 was generally banished, by anticipations of the 
 happiness which every hour was bringing nearer. 
 
 At last the time of publication approached, 
 and my heart beat with the raptures of an author. 
 I was above all little precautions, and, in defiance 
 of envy or of criticism, set my name upon the 
 title, without sufficiently considering, that what 
 has once passed the press is irrevocable, and 
 that though the printing-house may properly be 
 compared to the infernal regions, for the facility 
 of its entrance, and the difficulty with which 
 authors return from it ; yet there is this difference, 
 that a great genius can never return to his for- 
 mer state, by a happy draught of the waters of 
 oblivion. 
 
 I am now, Mr. Rambler, known to be an au- 
 thor, and am condemned, irreversibly condemned, 
 to all the miseries of high reputation. The first 
 morning after publication my friends assembled 
 about me ; 1 presented each, as is usual, with a 
 copy of my book. They looked into the first 
 pages, but were hindered, by their admiration, 
 from reading further. The first pages are, in- 
 deed, very elaborate. Some passages they par- 
 ticularly dwelt upon, as more eminently beautiful 
 than the rest; and some delicate strokes, and 
 secret elegancies, I pointed out to them, which 
 had escaped their observation. I then begged 
 of them to forbear their compliments, arid invit- 
 ed them, I could do no less, to dine with me at 
 a tavern. After dinner, the book was resumed ; 
 but their praises very often so much overpower- 
 ed my modesty, that I was forced to put about 
 the glass, and had often no means of repressing 
 the clamours of their admiration, but by thunder- 
 ing to the drawer for another bottle. 
 
 .Next morning another set of my acquaintance 
 congratulated me upon my performance, with 
 such importunity of praise, that I was again forc- 
 ed to obviate their civilities by a treat. On the 
 third day, I had yet a greater number of applaud- 
 ers to put to silence in the same manner; and, 
 on the fourth, those whom I had entertained the 
 first day came again, having, in the perusal of the 
 remaining part of the book, discovered so many 
 forcible sentences and masterly touches, that it 
 was impossible for me to bear the repetition of 
 their commendations. I therefore persuaded 
 them once more to adjourn to the tavern, and 
 choose some other subject, on which I might 
 share in their conversation. But it was not in 
 their power to withhold their attention from my 
 performance, which had so entirely taken- pos- 
 session of their minds, that no entreaties of mine 
 could change their topic, and I was obliged to 
 stifle, with claret, that praise, which neither my 
 modesty could hinder, nor my uneasiness re- 
 press. 
 
 The whole week was thus spent in a kind of 
 literary revel, and I have now found that nothing 
 is so expensive as great abilities, unless there is 
 joined with them an insatiable eagerness of praise ; 
 
 for to escape from the pain of hearing myself 
 exalted above the greatest names, dead and liv- 
 ing, of the learned world, it has already cost me 
 two hogsheads of port, fifteen gallons of arrack, 
 ten dozen of claret, and five-and-forty bottles of 
 champaign. 
 
 I was resolved to stay at home no longer, and 
 therefore rose early and went to the coffee- 
 house ; but found that I had now made myself 
 too eminent for happiness, and that I was no 
 longer to enjoy the pleasure of mixing, upon 
 equal terms, with the rest of the world. As soon 
 as I enter the room, I see part of the company 
 raging with envy, which they endeavour to con- 
 ceal, sometimes withjthe appearance of laughter, 
 and sometimes with that of contempt ; but the 
 disguise is such, that I can discover the secret 
 rancour of their hearts, and as envy is deserv- 
 edly its own punishment, I frequently indulge 
 myself in tormenting them with my presence. 
 
 But though there may be some slight satisfac- 
 tion received from the mortification of my ene- 
 mies, yet my benevolence will not suffer me to 
 take any pleasure in the terrors of my friends, 1 
 have been cautious, since the appearance of my 
 work, not to give myself more premeditated airs 
 of superiority, than the most rigid humility might 
 allow. It is, indeed, not impossible that I may 
 sometimes have laid down my opinion, in a 
 manner that showed a consciousness of my ability 
 to maintain it, or interrupted the conversation, 
 when I saw its tendency, without suffering the 
 speaker to waste his time in explaining lu's senti- 
 ments ; and, indeed, I did indulge myself for two 
 days in a custom of drumming with my fingers, 
 when the company began to lose themselves in 
 absurdities, or to encroach upon subjects which 
 I knew them unqualified to discuss. But I ge- 
 nerally acted with great appearance of respect, 
 even to those whose stupidity I pitied in my 
 heart. Yet, notwithstanding this exemplary mo- 
 deration, so universal is the dread of uncommon 
 powers, and such the unwillingness of mankind 
 to be made wiser, that I have now for some days 
 found myself shunned by all my acquaintance. 
 If I knock at a door, nobody is at home ; if I 
 enter a coffee-house, I have the box to myself. 
 I live in the town like a lion in his desert, or an 
 eagle on his rock, too great for friendship or 
 society, and condemned to solitude by unhappy 
 elevation and dreaded ascendency. 
 
 Nor is my character only formidable to others, 
 but burdensome to myself. I naturally love to 
 talk without much thinking, to scatter my mer- 
 riment at random, and to relax my thoughts 
 with ludicrous remarks and fanciful images ; but 
 such is now the importance of my opinion, that 
 I am afraid to offer it, lest, by being established 
 too hastily into a maxim, it should be the occa- 
 sion of error to half the nation ; and such is the 
 expectation with which I am attended, when I 
 am going to speak, that I frequently pause to re- 
 flect, whether what I am about to utter is worthy 
 of myself. 
 
 This, Sir, is sufficiently miserable ; but there 
 are still greater calamities behind. You must 
 have read in Pope and Swift how men of parts 
 have had their closets rifled, and their cabinets 
 broken open, at the instigation of piratical book- 
 sellers, for the profit of their works ; and it is 
 apparent that there are many prints now sold in 
 the shops, of men whom you cannot suspect of
 
 38 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 17. 
 
 sitting for that purpose, and whose likenesses 
 must have been certainly stolen when their names 
 made their faces vendible. These considerations 
 at first put me on my guard and I have, indeed, 
 found sufficient reason for my caution, for I have 
 discovered many people examining my counte- 
 nance, with a curiosity thatshowed their intention 
 to draw it ; I immediately left the house, but find 
 the same behaviour in another. 
 
 Others may be persecuted, but I am haunted ; 
 I have good reason to believe that eleven paint- 
 ers are now dogging me, for they know that he 
 who can get my face first will make his fortune. 
 I often change my wig, and wear my hat over 
 my eyes, by which T hope somewhat to confound 
 them ; for you know it is not fair to sell my face, 
 without admitting me to share the profit 
 
 I am, however, not so much in pain for my 
 face as for my papers, which I dare neither carry 
 with me nor leave behind. I have indeed, taken 
 some measures for their preservation, having put 
 them in an iron chest, and fixed a padlock upon 
 my closet I change my lodgings five times a 
 week, and always remove at the dead of night 
 
 Thus I live, in consequence of having given 
 too great proofs of a predominant genius, in the 
 solitude of a hermit, with the anxiety of a miser, 
 and the caution of an outlaw ; afraid to show my 
 face lest it should be copied ; afraid to speak, lest 
 I should injure my character, and to write, lest my 
 correspondents should publish my letters; al- 
 ways uneasy lest my servants should steal my 
 papers for the sake of money, or my friends for 
 that of the public. This it is to soar above the 
 rest of mankind; and this representation I lay 
 before you, that I may be informed how to divest 
 myself of the laurels which are so cumbersome 
 to" the wearer, and descend to the enjoyment of 
 that quiet, from which I find a writer of the first 
 class so fatally debarred. 
 
 MISELLUS. 
 
 No. 17.] TUESDAY, MAT 15, 1750. 
 
 Me non oracula cerium, 
 
 Sedmors certafacit. LUCAN. 
 
 Let those weak minds, who live in doubt and fear, 
 To juggling priests for oracles repair ; 
 One certain hour of death to each decreed, 
 My fix'd, my certain soul, from doubt has freed. 
 
 HOWE. 
 
 IT is recorded of some eastern monarch, that he 
 kept an officer in his house, whose employment 
 it was to remind him of his mortality, by calling 
 out every morning, at a stated hour, Remember, 
 prince, that thou shall die ! And the contempla- 
 tion of the frailness and uncertainty of our pre- 
 sent state appeared of so much importance to 
 Solon of Athens, that he left this precept to 
 future ages : Keep thine eye fixed upon the end of 
 life. 
 
 A. frequent and attentive prospect of that mo- 
 ment, which must put a period to all our schemes, 
 and deprive us of all our acquisitions, is indeec 
 of the utmost efficacy to the just and rational 
 regulation of our lives; nor would ever any 
 thing wicked, or often anything absurd, be under- 
 taken or prosecuted by him who should begin 
 every day with a serious reflection that he is born 
 to die. 
 
 The disturbers of our happiness, in this world, 
 are our desires, our griefs, and our fears ; and to 
 ill these, the consideration of mortality is a cer- 
 ain and adequate remedy. Think, says Epic- 
 .etus, frequently on poverty, banishment, and 
 death, and thou wilt then never indulge violent de- 
 sires or give up thy heart to mean sentiments, ol6ev 
 ovdeiroTC raTravdi/ yS/}<n7, oiirt ayav tTuSvufjcrets rivrfj. 
 
 That the maxim of Epictetus is founded on 
 ust observation will easily be granted, when we 
 effect, how that vehemence of eagerness after 
 the common objects of pursuit is kindled in our 
 minds. We represent to ourselves the pleasures 
 of some future possession, and suffer our thoughts 
 to dwell attentively upon it, till it has wholly en- 
 Crossed the imagination, and permits us not to 
 conceive any happiness but its attainment, or any 
 misery but its loss ; every other satisfaction which 
 ;he bounty of Providence has scattered over life 
 is neglected as inconsiderable, in comparison 
 of the great object which we have placed before 
 us, and is thrown from us as incumbering our 
 activity, or trampled under foot as standing in 
 our way. 
 
 Every man has experienced how much of this 
 ardour has been remitted, when a sharp or tedious 
 sickness has set death before his eyes. The ex- 
 tensive influence of greatness, the glitter of wealth, 
 the praises of admirers, and the attendance of 
 supplicants, have appeared vain and empty things, 
 when the last hour seemed to be approaching ; 
 and the same appearance they would always 
 have, if the same thought was always predomi- 
 nant. We should then find the absurdity of 
 stretching out our arms incessantly to grasp that 
 which we cannot keep, and wearing out our lives 
 in endeavours to add new turrets to the fabric of 
 ambition, when the foundation itself is shaking, 
 and the ground on which it stands is mouldering 
 away. 
 
 All envy is proportionate to desire ; we are 
 uneasy at the attainments of another, according 
 as we think our own happiness would be ad- 
 vanced by the addition of that which he with- 
 holds from us ; and therefore whatever depresses 
 immoderate wishes, will, at the same time, set 
 the heart free from the corrosion of envy, and ex- 
 empt us from that vice which is, above most 
 others, tormenting to ourselves, hateful to the 
 world, and productive of mean artifices and sor- 
 did projects. He that considers how soon he 
 must close his life, will find nothing of so much 
 importance as to close it well ; and will, there- 
 fore, look with indifference upon whatever is use- 
 less to that purpose. Whoever reflects frequent- 
 ly upon the uncertainty of his own duration, will 
 find out, that the state of others is not more per- 
 manent, and that what can confer nothing on 
 himself very desirable, cannot so much improve 
 the condition of a rival, as to make him much 
 superior to those from whom he has carried the 
 prize, a prize too mean to deserve a very obsti- 
 nate opposition. 
 
 Even grief, that passion to which the virtuous 
 and tender mind is particularly subject, will be 
 obviated or alleviated by the same thoughts. It 
 will be obviated, if all the blessings of our condi- 
 tion are enjoyed with a constant sense of this un- 
 certain tenure. If we remember, that whatever 
 we possess is to be in our hands but a very little 
 time, and that the little, which our most lively 
 hopes can promise us, may be made less by ten
 
 No. 18.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 thousand accidents ; we shall not much repine 
 at a loss, of which we cannot estimate the value, 
 but of which, though we are not able to tell the 
 least amount, we know, with sufficient certainty, 
 the greatest, and are convinced that the greatest 
 is not much to be regretted. 
 
 But, if any passion has so much usurped our 
 understanding, as not to suffer us to enjoy advan- 
 tages with the moderation prescribed by reason, 
 it is not too late to apply this remedy, when we 
 find ourselves sinking under sorrow, and inclined 
 to pine for that which is irrecoverably vanished. 
 We may then usefully revolve the uncertainty of 
 our OWP condition, and the folly of lamenting 
 that from which, if it had stayed a little longer, 
 we should ourselves have been taken away. 
 
 With regard to the sharpest and most melting 
 sorrow, that which arises from the loss of those 
 whom we have loved with tenderness, it may be 
 observed, that friendship between mortals can be 
 contracted on no other terms, than that one must 
 some time mourn for the other's death : and this 
 grief will always yield to the survivor one conso- 
 lation proportionate to his affliction ; for the pain, 
 whatever it be, that he himself feels, his friend 
 has escaped. 
 
 ISTor is fear, the most overbearing and resist- 
 less of all our passions, less to be temperated by 
 this universal medicine of the mind. The fre- 
 quent contemplation of death, as it shows the 
 vanity of all human good, discovers likewise the 
 lightness of all terrestrial evil, which certainly can 
 last no longer than the subject upon which it 
 acts ; and, according to the old observation, must 
 be shorter, as it is more violent. The most cruel 
 calamity which misfortune can produce, must, 
 by the necessity of nature, be quickly at an end. 
 The soul cannot long be held in prison, but will fly 
 away, and leave a lifeless body to human malice. 
 
 Ridetque sui ludibria trunci. 
 
 And soaring mocks the broken frame below. 
 
 The utmost that we can threaten to one ano- 
 ther is that death, which, indeed, we may preci- 
 pitate, but cannot retard, and from which, there- 
 fore, it cannot become a wise man to buy a re- 
 prieve at the expense of virtue, since he knows 
 not how small a portion of time he can purchase, 
 but knows, that whether short or long, it will be 
 made less valuable by the remembrance of the 
 price at which it has been obtained. He is sure 
 that he destroys his happiness, but is not sure 
 that he lengthens his life. 
 
 The known shortness of life, as it ought to mo- 
 derate our passions, may likewise, with equal 
 propriety, contract our designs. There is not 
 time for the most forcible genius, and most active 
 industry, to extend its effects beyond a certain 
 sphere. To project the conquest of the world, 
 is the madness of mighty princes ; to hope for 
 excellence in every science, has been the folly of 
 literary heroes ; and both have found at last, that 
 they have panted for a height of eminence denied 
 to humanity, and have lost many opportunities 
 of making themselves useful and happy, by a 
 vain ambition of obtaining a species of honour, 
 which the eternal laws of Providence have placed 
 beyond the reach of man. 
 
 The miscarriages of the great designs of princes 
 are recorded in the histories of the world, but are 
 of little use to the bulk of mankind, who seem 
 
 very little interested in admonitions against er- 
 rors which they cannot commit. But the fate of 
 learned ambition is a proper subject for every 
 scholar to consider ; for who has not had occa- 
 sion to regret the dissipation of great abilities in 
 a boundless multiplicity of pursuits, to lament 
 the sudden desertion of excellent designs, upon 
 the offer of some other subject made inviting by 
 its novelty, and to observe the inaccuracy and 
 deficiencies, of works left unfinished by too great 
 an extension of the plan? 
 
 It is always pleasing to observe, how much 
 more our minds can conceive, than our bodies 
 can perform ! yet it is our duty, while we con- 
 tinue in this complicated state, to regulate one 
 part of our composition by some regard to the 
 other. We are not to indulge our corporeal ap- 
 petites with pleasures that impair our intellectual 
 vigour, nor gratify our minds with schemes which 
 we know our lives must fail in attempting to exe- 
 cute. The uncertainty of our duration ought at 
 once to set bounds to our designs, and add in- 
 citements to our industry ; and when we find 
 ourselves inclined either to immensity in our 
 schemes, or sluggishness in our endeavours, we 
 may either check or animate ourselves, by recol- 
 lecting, with the father of physic, that art is long, 
 and life is short. 
 
 No. 18.] SATURDAY, MAT 19, 1750 
 
 Illic matre carentibiu, 
 
 Privignis mulier temperat innocent, 
 Aec dotata re<;it virum 
 
 Conjux, nee nitidiijidit aduJtero : 
 Dos est magna parcntium 
 
 Virtus, et metucns alterius tori 
 Certofccdere castitas. HOR. 
 
 Not there the guiltless step-dame knows 
 The baleful draught for orphans to compose ; 
 
 No wife high portion'd rules her spouse, 
 Or trusts her essencpd lover's faithless vows : 
 
 The lovers there for dowry claim 
 The father's virtue, and the spotless fame, 
 
 Which dares not break the nuptial tie. 
 
 FRANCIS. 
 
 THERE is no observation more frequently made 
 by such as employ themselves in surveying the 
 conduct of mankind, than that marriage though 
 the dictate of nature, and the institution of Pro- 
 vidence, is yet very often the cause of misery, 
 and that those who enter into that state can sel- 
 dom forbear to express their repentance, and 
 their envy of those whom either chance or cau- 
 tion hath withheld from it. 
 
 This general unhappiness has given occasion 
 to many sage maxims among the serious, and 
 smart remarks among the gay ; the moralist and 
 the writer of epigrams have equally shown their 
 abilities upon it ; some have lamented, and some 
 have ridiculed it ; but as the faculty of writing 
 has been chiefly a masculine endowment, the re- 
 proach of making the world miserable has been 
 always thrown upon the women, and the grave 
 and the merry have equally thought themselves 
 at liberty to conclude either with declamatory 
 complaints, or satirical censures, of female folly 
 or fickleness, ambition or cruelty, extravagance 
 or lust. 
 
 Led by such a number of examples, and incited 
 by my share in the common interest, I sometimes 
 venture to consider this universal grievance, hav
 
 40 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 18. 
 
 ing endeavoured to divest my heart of all par- 
 tiality, and place myself as a kind of neutral be- 
 ing between the sexes, whose clamours being 
 equally vented on both sides with all the vehe- 
 mence of distress, all the apparent confidence of 
 justice, and all the indignation of injured virtue 
 seem entitled to equal regard. The men have, 
 indeed, by their superiority of writing, been able 
 to collect the evidence of many ages, and raise 
 prejudices in their favour by the venerable testi- 
 monies of philosophers, historians, and poets, but 
 the plea of the ladies appeal to passions of more 
 forcible operation than the reverence of antiquity 
 If they have not so great names on their side they 
 have stronger arguments ; it is to little purpose, 
 that Socrates, or Euripides, are produced againsi 
 the sighs of softness and the tears of beauty. 
 The most frigid and inexorable judge would at 
 least stand suspended between equal powers, as 
 Lucan was perplexed in the determination of the 
 cause, where the deities were on one side, and 
 Cato on the other. 
 
 But I, who have long studied the severest and 
 most abstracted philosophy, have now, in the 
 cool maturity of life, arrived at such command 
 over my passions, that I can hear the vocifera- 
 tions from either sex, without catching any of 
 the fire from those that utter them. For I have 
 found, by long experience, that a man will some- 
 times rage at his wife, when in reality his mis- 
 tress has offended him ; and a lady complain of 
 the cruelty of her husband, when she has no 
 other enemy than bad cards. I do not suffer 
 myself to be any longer imposed upon by oaths 
 on one side, or fits on the other, nor when the 
 husband hastens to the tavern, and the lady re- 
 tires to her closet, am I always confident that 
 they are driven by their miseries ; since I have 
 sometimes reason to believe, that they purpose 
 not so much to soothe their sorrows, as to ani- 
 mate their fury. But how little credit soever 
 may be given to particular accusations, the gene- 
 ral accumulation of the charge shows, with too 
 much evidence, that married persons are not 
 very often advanced in felicity ; and, therefore, 
 it may be proper to examine at what avenues so 
 many evils have made their way into the world. 
 With this purpose, I have reviewed the lives of 
 my friends, who have been least successful in 
 connubial contracts, and attentively considered 
 by what motives they were incited to marry, and 
 by what principles they regulated their choice. 
 
 One of the nrst of my acquaintances that re- 
 solved to quit the unsettled thoughtless condition 
 of a bachelor, was Prudentius, a man of slow 
 parts, but not without knowledge or judgment in 
 things which he had leisure to consider gradually 
 before he determined them. Whenever we met 
 at a tavern, it was his province to settle the 
 scheme of our entertainment, contract with the 
 cook, and inform us when we had called for 
 wine to the sum originally proposed. This grave 
 considerer found, by deep meditation, that a man 
 was no loser by marrying early, even though he 
 contented himself with a less fortune; for esti- 
 mating the exact worth of annuities, he found 
 that, considering the constant diminution of the 
 value of life, with the probable fall of the inter- 
 est of money, it was not worse to have ten 
 thousand pounds at the age of two and twenty 
 years, than a much larger fortune at thirty ; for 
 many opportunities, says he, occur of improving 
 
 money, which if a man misses he may not after- 
 wards recover. 
 
 Full of these reflections, he threw his eyes 
 about him, not in search of beauty or elegance, dig- 
 nity or understanding, but of a woman with ten 
 thousand pounds. Such a woman, in a wealthy 
 part of the kingdom, it was not very difficult to 
 find ; and by artful management with her father, 
 whose ambition was to make his daughter a 
 gentlewoman, my friend got her, as he boasted 
 to us in confidence two days after his marriage, 
 for a settlement of seventy-three pounds a year 
 less than her fortune might have claimed, and 
 less than he would himself have given, if the 
 fools had been but wise enough to delay the 
 bargain. 
 
 Thus, at once delighted with the superiority of 
 his parts and the augmentation of his fortune, 
 he carried Furia to his own house, in which he 
 never afterwards enjoyed one hour of happiness. 
 For Furia was a wretch of mean intellects, vio- 
 lent passions, a strong voice, and low education, 
 without any sense of happiness .but that which 
 consisted in eating and counting money. Furia 
 was a scold. They agreed in the desire of wealth, 
 but with this difference, that Prudentius was for 
 growing rich by gain, Furia by parsimony. Pru- 
 dentius would venture his money with chances 
 very much in his favour ; but Furia very wisely 
 observing, that what they had, was while they 
 had it, their own, thought all traffic too great a 
 hazard, and was for putting it out at low interest, 
 upon good security. Prudentius ventured how- 
 ever, to insure a ship at a very unreasonable 
 price, but happening to lose his money, was so 
 tormented with the clamours of his wife, that he 
 never durst try a second experiment. He has 
 now grovelled seven and forty years under Fu- 
 ria's direction, who never once mentioned him, 
 since his bad luck, by any other name than that 
 of the insurer. 
 
 The next that married from our society was 
 Florentius. He happened to see Zephyretta in 
 a chariot at a horse-race, danced with her at 
 night, was confirmed in his first ardour, waited 
 on her next morning, and declared himself her 
 lover. Florentius had not knowledge enough of 
 the world, to distinguish between the flutter of 
 coquetry and the sprightliness of wit, or between 
 the smile of allurement and that of cheerfulness. 
 He was soon waked from his rapture, by con- 
 viction that his pleasure was but the pleasure of 
 a day. Zephyretta had in four and twenty hours 
 spent her stock of repartee, gone round the cir 
 cle of her airs, and had nothing remaining for 
 !iirn but childish insipidity, or for herself, but the 
 practice of the same artifices upon new men. 
 
 Melissus was a man of parts, capable of en- 
 oying and improving life. He had passed 
 Jirough the various scenes of gayety with that 
 indifference and possession of himself, natural to 
 men who have something higher and nobler in 
 their prospect. Retiring to spend the summer in 
 a village little frequented, he happened to lodge 
 n the same house with lanthe, and was una- 
 voidably drawn to some acquaintance, which her 
 ivit and politeness soon invited him to improve. 
 Having no opportunity of any other company, 
 ;hey were always together ; and as they owed 
 their pleasures to each other, they began to for- 
 get that any pleasure was enjoyed before their 
 meeting. Melissus, from being delighted with
 
 No. 19.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 4. 
 
 her company, quickly began to be uneasy in her 
 absence, and being sufficiently convinced of the 
 force of her understanding, and finding, as he 
 imagined, such a conformity of temper as de- 
 clared them formed for each other, addressed her 
 as a lover, after no very long courtship obtained 
 her for his wife, and brought her next winter to 
 town in triumph. 
 
 Now began their infelicity. Melissus had 
 only seen her in one scene, where there was no 
 variety of objects, to produce the proper excite- 
 ments to contrary desires. They had both loved 
 solitude and reflection, where there was nothing 
 but solitude and reflection to be loved; but when 
 they came into public life, Ian the discovered 
 those passions which accident rather than hy- 
 pocrisy had hitherto concealed. She was in- 
 deed, not without the power of thinking, but was 
 wholly without the exertion of that power when 
 either gayety or splendour played on her ima- 
 gination. She was expensive in her diversions, 
 vehement in her passions, insatiate of pleasure, 
 however dangerous to her reputation, and eager 
 of applause, by whomsoever it might be given. 
 This was the wife which Melissus the philoso- 
 pher found in his retirement, and from whom he 
 expected an associate in his studies, and an as- 
 sistant to his virtues. 
 
 Prosapius, upon the death of his younger bro- 
 ther, that the family might not be extinct, married 
 his housekeeper, and has ever since been com- 
 plaining to his friends that mean notions are in- 
 stilled into his children, that he is ashamed to sit 
 at his own table, and that his house is uneasy to 
 him for want of suitable companions. 
 
 Avaro, master of a very large estate, took a 
 woman of bad reputation, recommended to him 
 by a rich uncle, who made that marriage the 
 condition on which he should be his heir. Avaro 
 now wonders to perceive his own fortune, his 
 wife's and his uncle's, insufficient to give him 
 that happiness which is to be found only with 
 a woman of virtue. 
 
 I intend to treat in more papers on this import- 
 ant article of life, and shall, therefore, make no 
 reflection upon these histories, except that all 
 whom I have mentioned failed to obtain happi- 
 ness, for want of considering that marriage is the 
 strictest tie of perpetual friendship ; that there 
 can be no friendship without confidence, and no 
 confidence without integrity ; and that he must 
 expect to be wretched, who pays to beauty, riches, 
 or politeness, that regard which only virtue and 
 piety can claim. 
 
 No. 19.] TUESDAY, MAT 22, 1750. 
 
 Ihim te causidicum, dum te modo rhetorajlngis, 
 Et non dccernis Taurc, quid esse vclis, 
 
 Peleos ft Priami transit, vet Nestoris tetas, 
 Et serum fuerat jam tibi desincre. 
 
 Eja, age, rumpe moras, quo te spectabimus usque ? 
 Dum quid sis dubitas, poles ease nihil. MART. 
 
 To rhetoric now, and now to law inclined, 
 Uncertain where to fix thy changing mind; 
 Old Priam's age or ffestor's may be out, 
 And thou, O Taurus ! still go on in doubt. 
 Come then, how long such wavering shall we see ? 
 Thou inay'st doubt on : thou uow canst nothing be. 
 
 r. LEWIS. 
 
 JT is never without very melancholy reflections, 
 that we can observe the misconduct, or miscar- 
 riage, of those men, who seem, by the force of 
 
 understanding, or extent of knowledge, exempt- 
 ed from the general frailties of human nature, and 
 privileged from the common infelicities of life. 
 Though the world is crowded with scenes of ca 
 lamity, we look upon the general mass of wretch- < 
 edness with very little regard, and fix our eyes 
 upon the state of particular persons, whom the 
 eminence of their qualities marks out from the 
 multitude ; as in reading an account of a battle, 
 we seldom reflect on the vulgar heaps of slaugh 
 ter, but follow the hero with our whole attention, 
 through all the varieties of his fortune, without a. 
 thought of the thousands that are falling round 
 him. 
 
 With the same kind of anxious veneration I 
 have for many years been making observations 
 on the life of Polyphilus, a man whom all his ac- 
 quaintances have, from his first appearance in 
 the world, feared for the quickness of his discern- 
 ment, and admired for the multiplicity of his at- 
 tainments, but whose progress in life, and use- 
 fulness to mankind, have been hindered by the 
 superfluity of his knowledge, and the celerity of 
 his mind. 
 
 Polyphilus was remarkable, at the school, for 
 surpassing all his companions, without any visi 
 ble application, and at the university was distin- 
 guished equally for his successful progress as 
 well through the thorny mazes of science, as the 
 flowery path of politer literature, without any 
 strict confinement to hours of study, or remark- 
 able forbearance of the common amusements of 
 young men. 
 
 When Polyphilus was at the age in which men 
 usually choose their profession, and prepare to 
 enter into a public character, every academical 
 eye was fixed upon him ; all were curious to in- 
 quire what this universal genius would fix upon 
 for the employment of his life ; and no doubt was 
 made but that he Would leave all his contempo- 
 raries behind him, and mount to the highest ho- 
 nours of that class in which he should enlist him- 
 self, without those delays and pauses which must 
 be endured by meaner abilities. 
 
 Polyphilus, though by no means insolent or as- 
 suming, had been sufficiently encouraged by un- 
 interrupted success, to place great confidence in 
 his own parts ; and was not below his companions 
 in the indulgence of his hopes, and expectations 
 of the astonishment with which the world would 
 be struck, when first his lustre should break out 
 upon it ; nor could he forbeaf (for whom does 
 not constant flattery intoxicate?) to join some 
 times in the mirth of his friends, at the sudden 
 disappearance of those, who, having shone 
 awhile, and drawn the eyes of the public upon 
 their feeble radiance, were now doomed to fade 
 away before him. 
 
 It is natural for a man to catch advantageous 
 notions of the condition which those with whom 
 he converses are striving to attain. Polyphilus, 
 in a ramble to London, fell accidentally among 
 the physicians, and was so much pleased with 
 the prospect of turning philosophy to profit, and 
 so highly delighted with a new theory of fevers 
 which darted into his imagination, and which af- 
 ter having considered it a few hours, he found 
 himself able to maintain against all the advocates 
 for the ancient system, that he resolved to apply 
 himself to anatomy, botany, and chymistry, and 
 to leave no part unconquered, either of the ani 
 mal, mineral, or vegetable kingdoms.
 
 42 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. I'J. 
 
 He tnerefore read authors, constructed systems, 
 and tried experiments ; but unhappily, as he was 
 going to see a new plant in flower at Chelsea, he 
 met, in crossing Westminster to take water, the 
 chancellor's coach ; he had the curiosity to follow 
 him into the hall, where a remarkable cause hap- 
 pened to be tried, and found himself able to pro- 
 duce so many arguments, which the lawyers had 
 omitted on both sides, that he determined to quit 
 physic for a profession in which he found it would 
 be so easy to excel, and which promised higher 
 honours, and larger profits, without melancholy 
 attendance upon misery, mean submission to 
 peevishness, and continual interruption of rest 
 and pleasure. 
 
 He immediately took chambers in the Temple, 
 bought a common-place book, and confined him- 
 self for some months to the perusal of the statutes, 
 year-books, pleadings, and reports ; he was a 
 constant hearer of the courts, and began to put 
 cases with reasonable accuracy. But he soon 
 discovered, by considering the fortune of lawyers, 
 that preferment was not to be got by acuteness, 
 learning, and eloquence. He was perplexed by 
 the absurdities of attorneys, and misrepresenta- 
 tions made by his clients of their own causes, by 
 the useless anxiety of one, and the incessant im- 
 portunity of another; he began to repent of hav- 
 ing devoted himself to a study, which was so nar- 
 row in its comprehension, that it could never 
 carry his name to any other country, and thought 
 it unworthy of a man of parts to sell his life only 
 for money. The barrenness of his fellow-stu- 
 dents forced him generally into other company 
 at his hours of entertainment, and among the va- 
 rieties of conversation through which his curi- 
 osity was daily wandering, he, by chance, min- 
 gled at a tavern with some intelligent officers of 
 the army. A man of letters was easily dazzled 
 with the gayety of their appearance, and softened 
 into kindness by the politeness of their address ; 
 he therefore, cultivated this new acquaintance, 
 and when he saw how readily they found in every 
 place admission and regard, and how familiarly 
 they mingled with every rank and order of men, 
 he began to feel his heart beat for military ho- 
 nours, and wondered how the prejudices of the 
 university should make him so long insensible of 
 that ambition, which has fired so many hearts in 
 every age, and negligent of that calling, which is, 
 above all others, universally and invariably illus- 
 trious, and which gives, even to the exterior ap- 
 pearance of its professors, a dignity and freedom 
 unknown to the rest of mankind. 
 
 These favourable impressions were made still 
 deeper by his conversation with ladies, whose re- 
 gard for soldiers he could not observe, without 
 wishing himself one of that happy fraternity, to 
 which the female world seemed to have devoted 
 their charms and their kindness. The love of 
 knowledge, which was still his predominant in- 
 clination, was gratified by the recital of adven- 
 tures, and accounts of foreign countries ; and 
 therefore he concluded that there was no way of 
 life in which all his views could so completely 
 concentre as in that of a soldier. In the art of 
 war he thought it not difficult to excel, having ob- 
 served his new friends not very much versed in 
 the principles of tactics or fortification ; he there- 
 fore studied all the military writers, both ancient 
 and modern, and, in a short time, could tell how 
 to have gained every remarkable battle that has 
 
 been lost from the beginning of the world. He 
 often showed at table how Alexander should have 
 been checked in his conquests, what was the fa- 
 tal error at Pharsalia, how Charles of Sweden 
 might have escaped his ruin at Pultowa, and 
 Marlborough might have been made to repent 
 his temerity at Blenheim. He intrenched armies 
 upon paper so that no superiority of numbers 
 could force them, and modelled in clay many 
 impregnable fortresses, on which all the present 
 arts of attack would be exhausted without ef- 
 fect. 
 
 Polyphilus, in a short time, obtained a commis- 
 sion; but before he could rub off the solemnity 
 of a scholar, and gain the true air of military vi- 
 vacity, a war was declared, and forces sent to 
 the continent. Here Polyphilus unhappily 
 found that study alone would not make a sol- 
 dier; for being much accustomed to think, he 
 let the sense of danger sink into his mind, and 
 felt at the approach of any action, that terror 
 which a sentence of death would have brought 
 upon him. He saw that, instead of conquering 
 their fears, the endeavour of his gay friends was 
 only to escape them ; but his philosophy chained 
 his mind to its object, and rather loaded him 
 with shackles than furnished him with arms. 
 He, however, suppressed his misery in silence, 
 and passed through the campaign with honour, 
 but found himself utterly unable to support 
 another. 
 
 He then had recourse again to his books, and 
 continued to range from one study to another. 
 As I usually visit him once a month, and am ad- 
 mitted to him without previous notice, I have 
 found him within this last half year deciphering 
 the Chinese language, making a farce, collecting 
 a vocabulary of the obsolete terms of the English 
 law, writing an inquiry concerning the ancient 
 Corinthian brass, and forming a new scheme of 
 the variations of the needle. 
 
 Thus is this powerful genius, which might 
 have extended the sphere of any science, or be- 
 nefited the world in any profession, dissipated 
 in a boundless variety, without profit to others 01 
 himself! He makes sudden irruptions into the 
 regions of knowledge, and sees all obstacles give 
 way before him : but he never stays long enough 
 to complete his conquest, to establish laws, or 
 bring away the spoils. 
 
 Such is often the folly of men, whom nature 
 has enabled to obtain skill and knowledge, on 
 terms so easy, that they have no sense of the va- 
 lue of the acquisition ; they are qualified to make 
 such speedy progress in learning, that they think 
 themselves at liberty to loiter in the way, and by 
 turning aside after every new object,lose the race, 
 like Atalanta, to slower competitors, who press 
 diligently forward, and whose force is directed 
 to a single point. 
 
 I have often thought those happy that have 
 been fixed, from the first dawn of thought, in a 
 determination to some state of life, by the choice 
 of one whose authority may preclude caprice, 
 and whose influence may prejudice them in fa- 
 vour of his opinion. The general precept of 
 consulting the genius is of little use, unless we 
 are told how the genius can be known. If it is 
 to be discovered only by experiment, life will be 
 lost before the resolution can be fixed ; if any 
 other indications are to be found, they may, per- 
 haps, be very early discerned. At least, if to
 
 No 20.] THE RAMBLER. 
 
 miscarry in an attempt be a proof of having mis- 
 taken the direction of the genius, men appear 
 not less frequently deceived with regard to 
 themselves than to others ; and therefore no one 
 has much reason to complain -that his life was 
 planned out by his friends, or to be confident 
 that he should have had either more honour or 
 happiness, by being abandoned to the chance oi 
 his own fancy. 
 
 It was said of the learned Bishop Sanderson, 
 that when he was preparing his lectures, he he- 
 sitated so much, and rejected so often, that, at the 
 time of reading, he was often forced to produce, 
 not what was best, but what happened to be at 
 hand. This will be the state of every man who, 
 in the choice of his employment, balances all the 
 arguments on every side ; the complication is so 
 intricate, the motives and objections so numerous, 
 there is so much play for the imagination, and 
 so much remains in the power of others, that 
 reason is forced at last to rest in neutrality, the 
 decision devolves into the hands of chance, and 
 after a great part of life spent in inquiries which 
 can never be resolved, the rest must often pass 
 in repenting the unnecessary delay, and can be 
 useful to few other purposes than to warn others 
 against the same folly ; and to show, that of two 
 states of life equally consistent with religion 
 and virtue, he who chooses earliest chooses 
 best 
 
 No. 20.] SATURDAY, MAT 26, 1750. 
 
 Adpopulumphaleras. Ego te intus et in cute novi. 
 
 PERSIUS. 
 
 Such pageantry be to the people shown ; 
 There boast thy horse's trappings and thy own ; 
 I know thee to thy bottom, from within 
 Thy shallow centre, to thy utmost skin. 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 AMONG the numerous stratagems, by which pride 
 endeavours to recommend folly to regard, there 
 is scarcely one that meets with less success than 
 affectation, or a perpetual disguise of the real 
 character, by fictitious appearances ; whether it 
 be, that every man hates falsehood, from the na- 
 tural congruity of truths to his faculties of reason, 
 or that every man is jealous of the honour of his 
 understanding, and thinks his discernment con- 
 sequently called in question, wheneverany thing 
 is exhibited under a borrowed form. 
 
 This aversion to all kinds of disguise, what- 
 ever be its cause, is universally diffused, and in- 
 cessantly in action ; nor is it necessary, that to 
 exasperate detestation or excite contempt, any 
 interest should be invaded, or any competition 
 attempted ; it is sufficient, that there is an in- 
 tention to deceive, an intention which every 
 heart swells to oppose, and every tongue is busy 
 to detect. 
 
 This reflection was awakened in my mind by 
 a very common practice among my correspond- 
 ents, of writing under characters which they 
 cannot support, whiph are p.f no use to the ex- 
 planation or enforcement of that which they de- 
 scribe or recommend ; and which, therefore, 
 since they assume them only for the sake of dis- 
 playing their abilities, I will advise them for the 
 future to forbear, as laborious without advan- 
 tage. 
 
 It is almost a general ambition of those who 
 favour me with their advice for the regulation of 
 my conduct, or their contribution for the assist- 
 ance of my understanding, to affect the style and 
 the names of ladies. And I cannot always with- 
 hold some expression of anger, like Sir Hugh in 
 the comedy, when I happen to find that a woman 
 has a beard. I must therefore warn the gentle 
 Phyllis, that she send me no more letters from the 
 Horse Guards ; and require of Belinda, that she 
 be content to resign her pretensions to female 
 elegance, till she has lived three weeks without 
 hearing the politics of Batson's coffeehouse. I 
 must indulge myself in the liberty of observation, 
 that there were some allusions in Chloris's pro- 
 duction, sufficient to show that Bracton and 
 Plowden are her favourite authors ; and that 
 Euphclia has not been long enough at home, to 
 wear out all the traces of the phraseology, which 
 she learned in the expedition to Carthagena. 
 
 Among all my female friends, there was none 
 who gave me more trouble to decypher her true 
 character than Penthesilea, whose letter lay 
 upon my desk three days before I could fix upon 
 the real writer. There was a confusion of ima- 
 ges, and medley of barbarity, which held me long 
 in suspense ; till by perseverance I disentangled 
 the perplexity, and found that Penthesilea is the 
 son of a wealthy stock-jobber, who spends his 
 morning under his father's eye in Change-alley, 
 dines at a tavern in Covent-garden, passes his 
 evening in the play-house, and part of the night 
 at a gaming-table, and having learned the dia- 
 lects of these various regions, has mingled them 
 all in a studied composition. 
 
 When Lee was once told by a critic, that it was 
 very easy to write like a madman ; he answered, 
 that it was difficult to write like a madman, but 
 easy enough to write like a fool ; and I hope to 
 be excused by my kind contributors, if in imita- 
 tion of this great author, I presume to remind 
 them, that it is much easier not to write like a 
 man, than to write like a woman. 
 
 I have, indeed, some ingenious well-wishers, 
 who, without departing from their sex, have found 
 very wonderful appellations. A very smart let- 
 ter has been sent me from a puny ensign, signed 
 Ajax Telamonius ; another, in recommendation 
 of a new treatise upon cards, from a gamester, 
 who calls himself Sesostris : and another upon 
 :he improvements of the fishery, from Dioclesian ; 
 iut as these seem only to have picked up their 
 appellations by chance, without endeavouring at 
 any particular imposture, their improprieties are 
 rather instances of blunder than of affectation, 
 and are, therefore, not equally fitted to inflame 
 ,he hostile passions : for it is not folly but pride, 
 not error, but deceit, which the world means to 
 >ersecute, when it raises the full cry of nature to 
 mnt down affectation. 
 
 The hatred which dissimulation always draws 
 upon itself is so great, that if I did not know how 
 much cunning differs from wisdom, I should won- 
 der that any men have so little knowledge of their 
 own interest, as to aspire to wear a mask for 
 ife ; to try to impose upon the world a charac- 
 ter, to which they feel themselves void of any 
 ust claim ; and to hazard their quiet, their fame, 
 and even their profit, by exposing themselves to 
 he danger, of that reproach, malevolence, and 
 icglect, which such a discovery as they have al- 
 ways to fear -mil certainly oring upon them.
 
 44 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 21. 
 
 It might be imagined that the pleasure of repu- 
 tation should consist in the satisfaction of having 
 our opinion of our own merit confirmed by the 
 suffrage of the public ; and that, to be extolled 
 for a quality, which a man knows himself to 
 want, should give him no other happiness than 
 to be mistaken for the owner of an estate, over 
 which he chances to be travelling. But he who 
 subsists upon affectation, knows nothing of this 
 delicacy ; like a desperate adventurer in com- 
 merce, he takes up reputation upon trust, mort- 
 gages possessions which he never had, and en- 
 joys, to the fatal hour of bankruptcy, though with 
 a thousand terrors and anxieties, the unneces- 
 sary splendour of borrowed riches. 
 
 Affectation is always to be distinguished from 
 hypocrisy, as being the art of counterfeiting those 
 qualities which we might with innocence and 
 safety, be known to want. Thus the man who, 
 to carry on any fraud, or to conceal any crime, 
 pretends to rigours of devotion, and exactness of 
 life, is guilty of hypocrisy ; and his guilt is great- 
 er, as the end, for which he puts on the false ap- 
 pearance, is more pernicious. B.ut he^.hat, with 
 an awkward address, and unpleasing counte- 
 nance, boasts of the conquests made by him 
 among the ladies, and counts over the thousands 
 which he might have possessed if he would have 
 submitted to the yoke of matrimony, is chargea- 
 ble only with affectation. Hypocrisy is the ne- 
 cessary burthen of villany, affectation part of 
 the chosen trappings of folly; the one completes 
 a villain, the other only finishes a fop. Con- 
 tempt is the proper punishment of affectation, and 
 detestation the just consequence of hypocrisy. 
 
 With the hypocrite it is not at present my in- 
 tention to expostulate, though even he might be 
 taught the excellency of virtue, by the necessity 
 of seeming to be virtuous ; but the man of affect- 
 ation may, perhaps, be reclaimed, by finding 
 how little he is likely to gain by perpetual con- 
 straint and incessant vigilance, and how much 
 more securely he might make his way to esteem, 
 by cultivating real, than displaying counterfeit 
 qualities. 
 
 Every thing future is to be estimated, by a wise 
 man, in proportion to the probability of attaining 
 it, and its value, when attained ; and neither of 
 these considerations will much contribute to the 
 encouragement of affectation. For, if the pinna- 
 cles of fame be, at best, slippery, how unsteady 
 must his footing be who stands upon pinnacles 
 without foundation ! If praise be made by the in- 
 constancy and maliciousness of those who must 
 confer it, a blessing which no man can promise 
 himself from the most conspicuous merit and vi- 
 gorous industry, how faint must be the hope of 
 gaining it, when the uncertainty is multiplied by 
 the weakness of the pretensions ! He that pur- 
 sues fame with just claims, trusts his happiness 
 to the winds : but he that endeavours after it by 
 false merit, has to fear, not only the violence of 
 the storm, but the leaks of his vessel. Though 
 he should happen to keep above water for a time, 
 by the help of a soft breeze, and a calm sea, at the 
 first gust he must inevitably founder, with this 
 melancholy reflection, that, if he would have been 
 content with his natural station, he might have 
 escaped his calamity. Affectation may possibly 
 succeed for a time, and a man may, by great at- 
 tention, persuade others, that he really has the 
 qualities of which he presumes to boast ; but the 
 
 hour will come when he should exert them, and 
 then, whatever he enjoyed in praise, he must suf- 
 fer in reproach. 
 
 Applause and admiration are by no means to 
 be counted among the necessaries of life, and 
 therefore any indirect arts to obtain them have 
 very little claim to pardon or compassion. There 
 is scarcely any man without some valuable or 
 improveable qualities, by which he might always 
 secure himself from contempt And perhaps ex- 
 emption from ignominy is the most eligible repu- 
 tation, as freedom from pain is, among some phi- 
 losophers, the definition of happiness. 
 
 If we therefore compare the value of the praise 
 obtained by fictitious excellence, even while the 
 cheat is yet undiscovered, with that kindness 
 which every man may suit by his virtue, and that 
 esteem to which most men may rise by common 
 understanding steadily and honestly applied, wa 
 shall find that when from the adscititious happi- 
 ness all the deductions are made by fear and 
 casualty, there will remain nothing equiponde- 
 rant to the security of truth. The state of the 
 possessor of humble virtues, to the affectcr of 
 great excellences, is that of a small cottage of 
 stone, to the palace raised with ice by the Em 
 press of Russia ; it was for a time splendid and 
 luminous, but the first sunshine melted it to no- 
 thing. 
 
 No. 21.] TUESDAY, MAT 29, 1750. 
 
 Terra salutiferas herbas, eademque nocenles 
 Ntitrit; et urtica proximo, sape rosa est. OVID 
 
 Our bane and physic the same earth bestows, 
 And near the noisome nettle blooms the rose. 
 
 EVERT man is prompted by the love of himself to 
 imagine, that he possesses some qualities supe- 
 rior, either in kind or in degree, to those which 
 he sees allotted to the rest of the world ; and, 
 whatever apparent disadvantages he may suffer 
 in the comparison with others, he has some invi- 
 sible distinctions, some latent reserve of excel- 
 lence, which he throws into the balance, and by 
 which he generally fancies that it is turned in his 
 favour. 
 
 The studious and speculative part of mankind 
 always seem to consider their fraternity as 
 placed in a state of opposition to those who are 
 engaged in the tumult of public business ; and 
 have pleased themselves from age to age with ce 
 lebrating the felicity of their own condition, and 
 without recounting the perplexity of politics, the 
 dangers of greatness, the anxieties of ambition, 
 and the miseries of riches. 
 
 Among the numerous topics of declamation, 
 that their industry has discovered on this subject, 
 there is none which they press with greater ef- 
 forts, or on which they have more copiously laid 
 put their reason and their imagination, than the 
 instability of high stations, and the uncertainty 
 with which the profits and honours are possess- 
 ed, that must be acquired with so much hazard, 
 vigilance and labour. 
 
 This they appear to consider as an irrefraga- 
 ble argument against the choice of the statesman 
 and the warrior ; and swell with confidence of 
 victory, thus furnished by the Muses with the 
 arms which never can be blunted, and which no
 
 No. 21.] THE RAMBLER. 
 
 art or strength of their adversaries can elude or 
 resist. 
 
 It was well known by experience to the na- 
 tions which employed elephants in war, that 
 though by the terror of their bulk, and the vio- 
 lence of their impressions, they often threw the 
 enemy into disorder, yet there was always dan- 
 ger in the use of them, very nearly equivalent to 
 the advantage ; for if their first charge could be 
 supported, they were easily driven back upon 
 their confederates ; they then broke through the 
 troops behind them, and made no less havoc in 
 the precipitation of their retreat, than in the fury 
 of their onset. 
 
 I know not whether those who have so vehe- 
 mently urged the inconveniences and danger of 
 an active life, have not made use of arguments 
 that may be retorted with equal force upon them- 
 selves ; and whether the happiness of a candi- 
 date for literary fame be not subject to the same 
 uncertainty with that of him who governs pro- 
 vinces, commands armies, presides in the senate, 
 or dictates in the cabinet. 
 
 That eminence of learning is not to be gained 
 without labour, at least equal to that which any 
 other kind of greatness can require, will be al- 
 lowed by those who wish to elevate the charac- 
 ter of a scholar; since they cannot but know, 
 that every human acquisition is valuable in pro- 
 portion to the difficulty employed in its attain- 
 ment. And that those who have gained the es- 
 teem and veneration of the world, by their know- 
 ledge or their genius, are by no means exempt 
 from the solicitude which any other kind of dig- 
 nity produces, may be conjectured from the in- 
 numerable artifices which they make use of to 
 degrade a superior, to repress a rival, or obstruct 
 a follower ; artifices so gross and mean, as to 
 prove evidently how much a man may excel in 
 learning without being either more wise or more 
 virtuous than those whose ignorance he pities or 
 despises. 
 
 Nothing therefore remains, by wlu'ch the stu- 
 dent can gratify his desire of appearing to have 
 built his happiness on a more firm basis than his 
 antagonist, except the certainty with which his 
 honours are enjoyed. The garlands gained by 
 the heroes of literature must be gathered from 
 summits equally difficult to climb with those that 
 bear the civic or triumphal wreaths, they must be 
 worn with equal envy, and guarded with equal 
 care from those hands that are always employed 
 in efforts to tear them away ; the only remaining 
 hope is, that their verdure is more lasting, and 
 that they are less likely to fade by time, or less 
 obnoxious to the blasts of accident. 
 
 Even this hope will receive very little encou- 
 ragement from the examination of the history of 
 learning, or observation of the fate of scholars in 
 the present age. If we look back into past times, 
 we find innumerable names of authors once in 
 high reputation, read perhaps by the beautiful, 
 quoted by the witty, and commented on by the 
 grave ; but of whom we now know only that they 
 once existed. If we consider the distribution of 
 literary fame in our own time, we shall find it a 
 possession of very uncertain tenure; sometimes 
 bestowed by a sudden caprice of the public, and 
 again transferred to a new favourite, for no other 
 reason than that he is new ; sometimes refused 
 to long labour and eminent desert, and sometimes 
 granted to very slight pretensions; lost some- 
 
 times by security and negligence, and sometimes 
 by too diligent endeavours to -etain it. 
 
 A successful author is equally in danger of 
 the dimunition of his fame, whether he continues 
 or ceases to write. The regard of the public is 
 not to be kept but by tribute, and the remem- 
 brance of past service will quickly languish, un- 
 less successive performances frequently revive it. 
 Yet in every new attempt there is new hazard, 
 and there are few who do not, at some unlucky 
 time, injure their own characters by attempting 
 to enlarge them, 
 
 There are many possible causes of that ine- 
 quality which we may so frequently observe in 
 the performances of the same man, from the in- 
 fluence of which no ability or industry is suffi- 
 ciently secured, and which have so often sullied 
 the splendour of genius, that the wit, as well as 
 the conqueror, may be properly cautioned not to 
 indulge his pride with too early triumphs, but to 
 defer to the end of life his estimate of happiness 
 
 Ultima semper 
 
 Eipectanda dies homini, dicique beatus 
 Antt obitum nemo supremaquefunera debet. 
 
 But no frail man, however great or high, 
 
 Can be concluded bless'd before he die. ADDISON. 
 
 Among the motives that urge an author to un- 
 dertakings by which his reputation is impaired, 
 one of the most frequent must be mentioned with 
 tenderness, because it is not to be counted among 
 his follies, but his miseries. It very often hap- 
 pens that the works of learning or of wit are per- 
 formed .at the direction of those by whom they 
 are to be rewarded ; the writer has not always 
 the choice of his subject, but. is compelled to ac- 
 cept any task which is thrown before him, with- 
 out much consideration of his own convenience, 
 and without time to prepare himself by previous 
 studies. 
 
 Miscarriages of this kind are likewise frequent- 
 ly the consequence of that acquaintance with the 
 great, which is generally considered as one of the 
 chief privileges of literature and genius. A man 
 who has once learned to think himself exalted by 
 familiarity with those whom nothing but their 
 birth, or their fortunes, or such stations as are 
 seldom gained by moral excellence, set above 
 him, will not be long without submitting his un- 
 derstanding to their conduct; he will suffer them 
 to prescribe the course of his studies, and employ 
 him for their own purposes either of diversion or 
 interest. His desire of pleasing those whose fa- 
 vour he has weakly made necessary to himself!, 
 will not suffer him always to consider how little 
 he is qualified for the work imposed. Either his 
 vanity will tempt him to conceal his deficiencies, 
 or that cowardice, which always encroaches fast 
 upon such as spend their lives in the company of 
 persons higher than themselves, will not leave 
 him resolution to assert the liberty of choice. 
 
 But, though we suppose that a man by his for- 
 tune can avoid the necessity of dependence, and 
 by his spirit can repel the usurpations of patron- 
 age, yet he may easily, by writing long, happen 
 to write ill. There is a general succession of 
 events in which contraries are produced by peri- 
 odical vicissitudes ; labour and care are reward- 
 ed with success, success produces confidence, 
 confidence relaxes industry, and negligence ruins 
 that reputation which accuracy had raised,
 
 46 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 No. 22.] 
 
 He that happens not to be lulled by praise in- 
 to supineness, may be animated by it to under- 
 takings above his strength, or incited to fancy 
 himself alike qualified for every kind of compo- 
 sition, and able to comply with the public taste 
 through all its variations. By some opinion like 
 this, many men have been engaged, at an ad- 
 vanced age in attempts which they had not time 
 to complete, and after a few weak efforts, sunk 
 into the grave with vexation, to see the rising ge- 
 neration gain ground upon them. From these 
 failures the highest genius is not exempt ; that 
 judgment which appears so penetrating, when it 
 is employed upon the works of others, very often 
 fails where interest or passion can exert their pow- 
 er. We are blinded in examining our own la- 
 bours by innumerable prejudices. Our juvenile 
 compositions please us, because they bring to our 
 minds the remembrance of youth; our later per- 
 formances we are ready to esteem, because we 
 are unwilling to think that we have made no 
 improvement; what flows easily from the pen 
 charms us, because we read with pleasure that 
 which flatters our opinion of our own powers ; 
 what was composed with great struggles of the 
 mind we do not easily reject, because we cannot 
 bear that so much labour should be fruitless. 
 But the reader has none of these prepossessions, 
 and wonders that the author is so unlike himself, 
 without considering that the same soil will, with 
 different culture, afford different products. 
 
 No. 22.] SATURDAY, JUNE 2, 1750. 
 
 Ego nee studium sine divite vena 
 
 ffee rude quidprosit video ing enium ; altering sic 
 Altera poscit opem res tt conjurat amice. HOR. 
 
 Without a genius learning soars in vain ; 
 And without learning genius sinks again ; 
 Their force united crowns the sprightly reign. 
 
 ELFH1NSTON. 
 
 WIT and Learning were the children of Apollo, 
 by different mothers : Wit was the offspring of 
 Euphrosyne, and resembled her in cheerfulness 
 and vivacity : Learning was born of Sophia, and 
 retained her seriousness and caution. As their 
 mothers were rivals, they were bred up by them 
 from their birth in habitual opposition, and all 
 means were so incessantly employed to impress 
 upon them a hatred and contempt of each other, 
 that though Apollo, who foresaw the ill effects of 
 their discord, endeavoured to soften them, by di- 
 viding his regard equally between them, yet his 
 impartiality and kindness were without effect ; 
 the material animosity was deeply rooted, having 
 been intermingled with their first ideas, and was 
 confirmed every hour, as fresh opportunities oc- 
 curred of exerting it. No sooner were they of 
 age to be received into the apartments of the 
 other celestials, than Wit began to entertain Ve- 
 nus at her toilet, by aping the solemnity of Learn- 
 ing, and Learning to divert Minerva at her loom, 
 by exposing the blunders and ignorance of Wit. 
 Thus they grew up, with malice perpetually 
 increasing, by the encouragement which each re- 
 ceived from those whom their mothers, had per- 
 euaded to patronize and support them ; and longed 
 to be admitted to the table of Jupiter, not so much 
 for the hope of gaining honour, as of excluding 
 a rival from all pretensions to regard, and cf put- 
 
 ting an everlasting stop to the progress of that 
 influence which either believed the other to have 
 obtained by mean arts and false appearances. 
 
 A t last the day came, when they were both, 
 with the usual solemnities, received into the class 
 of superior deities, and allowed to take nectar 
 from the hand of Hebe. But from that hour Con- 
 cord lost her authority at the table of Jupiter. 
 The rivals, animated by their new dignity, and 
 incited by the alternate applauses of the associate 
 powers, harassed each other by incessant con- 
 tests, with such a regular vicissitude of victory, 
 that neither was depressed. 
 
 It was observable, that at the beginning of 
 every debate, the advantage was on the side ot 
 Wit ; and that, at the first sallies, the whole as- 
 sembly sparkled, according to Homer's expres- 
 sion, with unextinguishable merriment. But 
 Learning would reserve her strength till the burst 
 of applause was over, and the languor with which 
 the violence of joy is always succeeded, began to 
 promise more calm and patient attention. She 
 then attempted her defence, and by comparing 
 one part of her antagonist's objections with an- 
 other, commonly made him confute himself; or, 
 by showing how small a part of the question he 
 had taken into his view, proved that his opinion 
 could have no weight. The audience began 
 gradually to lay aside their prepossessions, and 
 rose, at last, with greater veneration for Learn- 
 tng, but with greater kindness for Wit. 
 
 Their conduct was, whenever they desired to 
 recommend themselves to distinction, entirely 
 opposite. Wit was daring and adventurous ; 
 Learning cautious and deliberate. Wit thought 
 nothing reproachful but dulness ; Learning was 
 afraid of no imputation, but that of error. Wit 
 answered before he understood, lest his quickness 
 of apprehension should be questioned ; Learning 
 paused, where there was no difficulty, lest any, 
 insidious sophism should lie undiscovered. Wit 
 perplexed every debate by rapidity and confu- 
 sion ; Learning tired the hearers with endless dis- 
 tinctions, and prolonged the dispute without ad- 
 vantage, by proving that which never was de- 
 nied. Wit, in hopes of shining, would venture 
 to produce what he had not considered, and oft- 
 en succeeded beyond his own expectation, by 
 following the train of a lucky thought ; Learning 
 would reject every new notion, for fear of being 
 entangled in consequences which she could not 
 foresee, and was often hindered, by her caution, 
 from pressing her advantages, and subduing her 
 opponent. 
 
 Both had prejudices, which in some degree 
 hindered their progress towards perfection, and 
 left them open to attacks. Novelty was the dar- 
 ling of Wit, and antiquity of Learning. To Wit, 
 all that was new was specious ; to Learning, 
 whatever was ancient was venerable. Wit, how- 
 ever, seldom failed to divert those whom he could 
 not convince, and to convince was not often his 
 ambition ; Learning always supported her opi- 
 nion with so many collateral truths, that, when the 
 cause was decided against her, her arguments 
 were remembered with admiration. 
 
 Nothing was more common, on either side, 
 than to quit their proper characters, and to hope 
 for a complete conquest by the use of the wea- 
 pons which had been employed against them. 
 Wit would sometimes labour a syllogism, and 
 Learning distort her features with a jest; but
 
 No. 23.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 47 
 
 they always suffered by the experiment, and be- 
 trayed themselves to confutation or contempt. 
 The seriousness of Wit was without dignity, and 
 the merriment of Learning without vivacity. 
 
 Their contests, by long continuance, grew at 
 last important, and the divinities broke into par- 
 ties. Wit was taken into the protection of the 
 laughter-loving Venus, had a retinue allowed 
 him of Smiles and Jests, and was often permit- 
 ted to dance among the Graces. Learning still 
 continued the favourite of Minerva, and seldom 
 went out of her palace, without a train of the se- 
 verer virtues, Chastity, Temperance, Fortitude, 
 and Labour. Wit, cohabiting with Malice, had 
 a son named Satyr, who followed him, carrying 
 a quiver filled with poisoned arrows, which, 
 where they once drew blood, could by no skill 
 ever be extracted. These arrows he frequently 
 shot at Learning, when she was most earnestly 
 or usefully employed, engaged in abstruse inqui- 
 ries, or giving instructions to her followers. Mi- 
 nerva therefore deputed Criticism to her aid, who 
 generally broke the point of Satyr's arrows, turn- 
 ed them aside, or retorted them on himself. 
 
 Jupiter was at last angry that the peace of the 
 heavenly regions should be in perpetual danger 
 of violation, and resolved to dismiss these trou- 
 blesome antagonists to the lower world. Hither 
 therefore they came, and carried on their ancient 
 quarrel among mortals, nor was either long with- 
 out zealous votaries. Wit, by his gayety, capti- 
 vated the young ; and Learning, by her authority, 
 influenced the old. Their power quickly ap- 
 peared by very eminent effects ; theatres were 
 built for the reception of Wit; and colleges en- 
 dowed for the residence of Learning. Each party 
 endeavoured to outvie the other in cost and mag- 
 nificence, and to propagate an opinion, that it 
 was necessary, from the first entrance into life, 
 to enlist in one of the factions ; and that none 
 could hope for the regard of either divinity, who 
 had once entered the temple of the rival power. 
 
 There were indeed a class of mortals, by whom 
 Wit and Learning were equally disregarded ; 
 these were the devotees of Plutus, the god of 
 riches : among these it seldom happened that 
 the gayety of Wit could raise a smile, or the elo- 
 quence of Learning procure attention. In re- 
 venge of this contempt they agreed to incite their 
 followers against them ; but the forces that were 
 sent on those expeditions frequently betrayed 
 their trust ; and, in contempt of the orders which 
 they had received, flattered the rich in public, 
 while they scorned them in their hearts ; and 
 when, by this treachery, they had obtained the 
 favour of Plutus, affected to look with an air of 
 superiority on those who still remained in the 
 -ervice of Wit and Learning. 
 
 Disgusted with these desertions, the two ri- 
 vals, at the same time, petitioned Jupiter for re- 
 admission to their native habitations. Jupiter 
 thundered on the right hand, and they prepared 
 to obey the happy summons. Wit readily spread 
 his wings and soared aloft, but not being able to 
 see far, was bewildered in the pathless immensi- 
 ty of the ethereal spaces. Learning, who knew 
 the way, shook her pinions ; but for want of 
 natural vigour, could only take short flights ; so, 
 after many efforts, they both sunk again to the 
 ground, and learned from their mutual distress 
 the necessity of union. They therefore joined 
 their hands and renewed their flight ; Learning 
 
 was borne up by the vigour of Wit, and Wit 
 guided by the perspicacity of Learning. They 
 soon reached the dwellings of Jupiter, and were 
 so endeared to each other, that they lived after- 
 wards in perpetual concord. Wit persuaded 
 Learning to converse with the Graces, and 
 Learning engaged Wit in the service of the Vir- 
 tues. They were now the favourites of all the 
 powers of heaven, and gladdened every banquet 
 by their presence. They soon after married, at 
 the command of Jupiter, and had a numerous 
 progeny of Arts and Sciences. 
 
 No. 23.] TUESDAY, JUNE 5, 1750. 
 
 Trcs mihi conviva prope dissentire videntur, 
 Poscentcs vario mult urn diversa palato. HOR. 
 
 Three guests I have, dissenting at my feast, 
 
 Requiring each to gratify his taste 
 
 With different food. FRANCIS. 
 
 THAT every man should regulate his actions by 
 his own conscience, without any regard to the 
 opinions of the rest of the world, is one of the 
 first precepts of moral prudence ; justified not 
 only by the suffrage of reason, which declares 
 that none of the gifts of Heaven are to lie useless, 
 but by the voice likewise of experience, which 
 will soon inform us that, if we make the praise or 
 blame of others the rule of our conduct, we shall 
 be distracted by a boundless variety of irrecon- 
 cileable judgments, be held in perpetual suspense 
 between contrary impulses, and consult for ever 
 without determination. 
 
 I know not whether, for the same reason, it is 
 not necessary for an author to place some confi- 
 dence in his own skill, and to satisfy himself in 
 the knowledge that he has not deviated from the 
 established laws of composition, without submit- 
 ting his works to frequent examinations before 
 he gives them to the public, or endeavouring to 
 secure success by a solicitous conformity to ad- 
 vice and criticism. 
 
 It is, indeed, quickly discoverable, that con- 
 sultation and compliance can conduce little to 
 the perfection of any literary performance ; for 
 whoever is so doubtful of his own abilities as to 
 encourage the remarks of others, will find him- 
 self every day embarrassed with new difficulties, 
 and will harass his mind, in vain, with the hope- 
 less labour of uniting heterogeneous ideas, di- 
 gesting independent hints, and collecting into 
 one point the several rays of borrowed light, 
 emitted often with contrary directions. 
 
 Of all authors, those who retail their labours 
 in periodical sheets would be most unhappy, if 
 they were much to regard the censures or the 
 admonitions of their readers ; for, as their works 
 are not sent into the world at once, but by small 
 parts in gradual succession, it is always imagin- 
 ed, by those who think themselves qualified to 
 give instructions, that they may yet redeem their 
 former failings by hearkening to better judges, 
 and supply the deficiencies of their plan, by the 
 help of the criticisms which are so liberally af- 
 forded. 
 
 I have had occasion to observe, sometimes with 
 vexation, and sometimes with merriment, the 
 different temper with which the same man reads 
 a printed and manuscript performance. When 
 a book is once in the hands of the public, it is
 
 48 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 24. 
 
 considered as permanent and unalterable, and 
 the reader, if he be free from personal prejudices, 
 takes it up with no other intention than of pleas- 
 ing or instructing himself: he accommodates his 
 mind to the author's design ; and having no inte- 
 rest in refusing the amusement that is offeted 
 him, never interrupts his own tranquillity by stu- 
 died cavils, or destroys his satisfaction in that 
 which is already well, by an anxious inquiry 
 how it might be better; but is often contented 
 without pleasure, and pleased without perfection. 
 But if the same man be called to consider the 
 merit of a production yet unpublished, he brings 
 an imagination heated with objections to pas- 
 sages which he has yet never heard ; he invokes 
 all the powers of criticism, and stores his me- 
 mory with Taste and Grace, Purity and Delica- 
 cy, Manners and Unities, sounds which, having 
 been once uttered by those that understood them, 
 have been since re-echoed without meaning, and 
 kept up to the disturbance of the World, by a 
 constant repercussion from one coxcomb to ano- 
 ther. He considers himself as obliged to show, 
 by some proof of his abilities, that he is not con- 
 sulted to no purpose, and therefore watches every 
 opening for objection, and looks round for every 
 opportunity to propose some specious alteration. 
 Such opportunities a very small degree of saga- 
 city will enable him to find ; for, in every work 
 of imagination, the disposition of parts, the in- 
 sertion of incidents, and use of decorations, may 
 be varied a thousand ways with equal propriety ; 
 and as in things nearly equal, that will always 
 seem best to every man which he himself pro- 
 duces ; the critic, whose business is only to pro- 
 pose, without the care of execution, can never 
 want the satisfaction of believing that he has 
 suggested very important improvements, nor the 
 power of enforcing his advice by arguments, 
 which, as they appear convincing to himself, 
 either his kindness or his vanity will press obsti- 
 nately and importunately without suspicion that 
 he may possibly judge too hastily in favour of his 
 own advice, or inquiry whether the advantage of 
 the new scheme be proportionate to the labour. 
 It is observed by the younger Pliny, that an 
 orator ought not so much to select the strongest 
 arguments which his cause admits, as to employ 
 all which his imagination can afford : for, in 
 pleading, those reasons are of most Value, which 
 will most affect the judges ; and the judges, says 
 he, will be always most touched with that which 
 the? had before conceived. Every man who is 
 called to give his opinion of a performance, de- 
 cides upon the same principle: he first suffers him- 
 self to form expectations, and then is angry at his 
 disappointment He lets his imagination rove 
 at large, and wonders that another, equally un- 
 confined in the boundless ocean of possibility, 
 takes a different course. 
 
 But, though the rule of Pliny be judiciously 
 laid down, it is not applicable to the writer's 
 cause, because there always lies an appeal from 
 domestic criticism to a higher judicature, and the 
 public, which is never corrupted, nor often de- 
 ceived, is to pass the last sentence upon literary 
 claims. 
 
 Of the great force of preconceived opinions I 
 had many proofs when I first entered upon this 
 weekly labour. My readers having, from the 
 performances of my predecessors, established an 
 idea of unconnected essays, to which they be- 
 
 lieved all future authors under a necessity of 
 conforming, were impatient cf the least devia- 
 tion from their system, and numerous remon- 
 strances were accordingly made by each, as he 
 found his favourite subject omitted or delayed. 
 Some were angry that the Rambler did not, like 
 the Spectator, introduce himself to the acquaint- 
 ance of the public, by an account of his own 
 birth and studies, an enumeration of his adven- 
 tures, and a description of his physiognomy. 
 Others soon began to remark that he was a so- 
 lemn, serious, dictatorial writer, without spright- 
 liness or gayety, and called out with vehemence 
 for mirth and humour. Another admonished 
 him to have a special eye upon the various clubs 
 of this great city, and informed him that much of 
 the Spectator's vivacity was laid out upon such 
 assemblies. He has been censured for not imi- 
 tating the politeness of his predecessors, having 
 hitherto neglected to take the ladies under his 
 protection, and give them rules for the just oppo- 
 sition of colours, and the proper dimensions of 
 ruffles and pinners. He has been required by 
 one to fix a particular censure upon those ma- 
 trons who play at cards with spectacles : and 
 another is very much offended whenever he 
 meets with a speculation in which naked pre- 
 cepts are comprised without the illustration of 
 examples and characters. 
 
 I make not the least question that all these mo- 
 nitors intend the promotion of my design, and 
 the instruction of my readers; but they do not 
 know, or do not reflect, that an author has a rule 
 of choice peculiar to himself; and selects those 
 subjects which he is best qualified to treat, by the 
 course of his studies, or the accidents of his life ; 
 that some topics of amusement have been alrea- 
 dy treated with too much success to invite a com- 
 petition ; and that he who endeavours to gain 
 many readers must try various arts of invitation, 
 essay every avenue of pleasure, and make fre- 
 quent changes in his methods of approach. 
 
 I cannot but consider myself, amidst this tu- 
 mult of criticism, as a ship in a poetical tempest, 
 impelled at the same time by opposite winds, 
 and dashed by the waves from every quarter, but 
 held upright by the contrariety of the assailants, 
 and secured in some measure by multiplicity of 
 distress. Had the opinion of my censurers been 
 unanimous, it might perhaps have overset my re- 
 solution ; but since I find them at variance with 
 each other, I can, without scruple, neglect them, 
 and endeavour to gain the favour of the public 
 by following the direction of my own reason, and 
 indulging the sallies of my own imagination. 
 
 No. 24.] SATURDAY, JUNE 9, 1750. 
 
 Nemo in sese tentat dcscendere. PEKSIUS. 
 None, none descends into himself. DRYDEN. 
 
 AMONG the precepts, or aphorisms admitted by 
 general consent, and inculcated by frequent re- 
 petition, there is none more famous among the 
 masters of ancient wisdom, than that compendi- 
 ous lesson, TvAQi acavrbv, Be acquainted with thy- 
 self; ascribed by some to an oracle, and by oth- 
 ers to Chilo of Lacedemon. 
 
 This is, indeed, a dictate, which, in the whole 
 extent of its meaning, may be said to comprise
 
 No. 24.J 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 49 
 
 all the speculation requisite to a moral agent. 
 For what more can be necessary to the regula- 
 tion of life, than the knowledge of our original, 
 our end, our duties, and our relation to other 
 beings ? 
 
 It is however very improbable that the first 
 author, whoever he was, intended it to be under- 
 stood in this unlimited and complicated sense; 
 for of the inquiries, which in so large an accepta- 
 tion it would seem to recommend, soine are too 
 extensive for the powers of man, and some re- 
 quire light from above, which was not yet in- 
 dulged to the heathen world. 
 
 We might have had more satisfaction concern- 
 ing the original import of this celebrated sen- 
 tence, if history had informed us, whether it was 
 uttered as a general instruction to mankind, or 
 as a particular caution to some private inquirer ; 
 whether it was applied to some single occasion, 
 or laid down as the universal rule of life. 
 
 There will occur, upon the slightest consider- 
 ation, many possible circumstances, in which this 
 monition might very properly be enforced ; for 
 every error in human conduct must arise from 
 ignorance in ourselves, either perpetual or tem- 
 porary ; and happen either because we do not 
 know what is best and fittest,- or because our 
 knowledge is at the time of action hot present to 
 the mind. 
 
 When a man employs himself upon remote 
 and unnecessary subjects, and wastes his life 
 upon questions which cannot be resolved, and 
 of which the solution would conduce very little 
 to the advancement of happiness : when he la- 
 vishes his hours in calculating the weight of the 
 terraqueous globe, or in adjusting successive sys- 
 tems of worlds beyond the reach of the telescope ; 
 he may be very properly recalled from his excur- 
 sions by this precept, and reminded, that there is 
 a nearer being with which it is his duty to be 
 more acquainted ; and from which his attention 
 has hitherto been withheld by studies, to which 
 he has no other motive than vanity or curiosity. 
 
 The great praise of Socrates is, that he drew 
 the wits of Greece, by his instruction and exam- 
 ple from the vain pursuit of natural philosophy to 
 moral inquiries, and turned their thoughts from 
 stars and tides, and matter and motion, upon the 
 various modes of virtue and relations of life. All 
 his lectures were but commentaries upon this 
 saving; if we suppose the knowledge of our- 
 selves recommeiided by Chilo, in opposition to 
 other inquiries less suitable to the state of man. 
 
 The great fault of men of learning is still, that 
 they offend against this rule, and appear willing 
 to study any thing rather than themselves ; for 
 which reason they are often despised by those 
 with whom they imagine themselves above com- 
 parison ; despised, as useless to common pur- 
 noses, as unable to conduct the most trivial af- 
 fairs, and unqualified to perform those offices by 
 which the concatenation of society is preserved", 
 and mutual tenderness excited and maintained. 
 
 Gclidus is a man of great penetration and deep 
 researches. Having a mind naturally formed 
 for the abstruser sciences, he can comprehend in- 
 tricate combinations without confusion, and be- 
 ing of a temper naturally cool and equal, he is 
 seldom interrupted by his passions in the pur- 
 suit of the longest chain of unexpected conse- 
 quences. He has, therefore, a long time indulg- 
 ed hopes, that the solution of some problems, by 
 
 which the professors of science have been hither- 
 to baffled, is reserved for his genius and industry. 
 He spends his time in the highest room of his 
 house, into which none of his family are suffered 
 to enter ; and when he comes down to his dinner, 
 or his rest, he walks about like a stranger that 
 is there only for a day, without any tokens of re 
 gard or tenderness. He has totally divestea 
 himself of all human sensations ; he has neither 
 eye for beauty, nor ear for complaint ; he neither 
 rejoices at the good fortune of his nearest friend, 
 nor mourns for any public or private calamity. 
 Having once received a letter, and given it his 
 servant to read, he was informed, that it was 
 written by his brother, who, being shipwrecked, 
 had swam naked to land, and was destitute of 
 necessaries in a foreign country. Naked and 
 destitute! says Gelidus reach down the last 
 volume of meteorological observations, extract an 
 exact account of the wind, and note it carefully 
 in the diary of the weather. 
 
 The family of Gelidus once broke into his 
 study, to show him that a town at a small dis- 
 tance was on fire, and in a few moments a ser- 
 vant came up to tell him, that the flame had 
 caught so many houses on both sides, that the 
 inhabitants were confounded, and began to think 
 of rather escaping with their lives than saving 
 their dwellings. What you tell me, says Geli- 
 dus, is very probable, for fire naturally acts in a 
 circle. 
 
 Thus lives this great philosopher, insensible to 
 every spectacle of distress, and unmoved by the 
 loudest call of social nature, for want of consi- 
 dering that men are designed for the succour and 
 comfort of each other; that though there are 
 hours which may be laudably spent upon know- 
 ledge not immediately useful, yet the first atten- 
 tion is due to practical virtue : and that he may 
 be justly driven out from the commerce of man- 
 kind, who has so far abstracted himself from the 
 species, as to partake neither of the joys nor 
 griefs of others, but neglects the endearments of 
 fiis wife, and the caresses of his children, to 
 count the drops of rain, note the changes of the 
 wind, and calculate the eclipses of the moons of 
 Jupiter. 
 
 I shall reserve to some future paper the reli- 
 gious and important meaning of this epitome of 
 wisdom, and only remark, that it may be applied 
 to the gay and light, as well as to the grave and 
 solemn parts of life ; and that not only the philo- 
 sopher may forfeit his pretences to real learning, 
 tiut the wit and beauty may miscarry in their 
 schemes, by the want of this universal requisite, 
 the knowledge of themselves. 
 
 It is surely for no other reason, that we see 
 such numbers resolutely struggling against na- 
 ture, and contending for that which they never 
 can attain, endeavouring to unite contradictions, 
 and determined to excel in characters inconsist- 
 nt with each other; that stock-jobbers affect 
 dress, gayety, and elegance, and mathematicians 
 labour to be wits ; that the soldier teases his ac- 
 quaintance with questions in theology, and the 
 academic hopes to divert the ladies by a recital 
 of his gallantries. That absurdity of pride could 
 proceed only from ignorance of themselves, by 
 which Garth attempted criticism, and Congreve 
 waived his tide to dramatic reputation, and de- 
 sired to be considered only as a gentleman. 
 
 Euphues, with great parts, and extensive
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 25 
 
 knowledge, has a cioucled aspect and ungracious 
 form ; yet it has been his ambition, from his 
 first entrance into life, to distinguish himself by 
 particularities in his dress, to outvie beaus in 
 embroidery, to import new trimmings, and to be 
 foremost in the fashion. Euphues has turned 
 on his exterior appearance that attention which 
 would always have produced esteem, had it been 
 fixed upon his mind ; and though his virtues and 
 abilities have preserved him from the contempt 
 which he has so diligently solicited, he has, at 
 least, raised one impediment to his reputation ; 
 since all can judge of his dress, but few of his 
 understanding ; and many, who discern that he 
 is a fop, are unwilling to believe that he can be 
 wise. 
 
 There is one instance in which the ladies are 
 particularly unwilling to observe the rule of Chi- 
 lo. They are desirous to hide from themselves 
 the advances of age, and endeavour too frequent- 
 ly to supply the spi ightliness and bloom of youth 
 by artificial beauty and forced vivacity. They 
 hope to inflame the heart by glances which have 
 lost their fire, or melt it by languor which is no 
 longer delicate ; they play over the airs which 
 pleased at a time when they were expected only 
 to please, and forget that airs ought in time to 
 give place to virtues. They continue to trifle, 
 because they could once trifle agreeably, till 
 those who shared their early pleasures are with, 
 drawn to more serious engagements ; and are 
 scarcely awakened from their dream of perpetu- 
 al youth, but by the scorn of those whom they 
 endeavour to rival.* 
 
 No. 25.] TUESDAY, JUNE 12, 1750. 
 
 Possuitt qnia posse videntur. VIRGIL. 
 
 For they can conquer who believe they can. 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 THERE are some vices and errors which, though 
 often fatal to those in whom they are found, have 
 yet, by the universal consent of mankind, been 
 considered as entitled to some degree of respect, 
 or have, at least, been exempted from contemptu- 
 ous infamy, and condemned by the severest mo- 
 ralists with pity rather than detestation. 
 
 A constant and invariable example of this ge- 
 neral partiality will be found in the different re- 
 gard which has always been shown to rashness 
 and cowardice ; two vices, of which, though they 
 may be conceived equally distant from the mid- 
 dle point, where true fortitude is placed, and may 
 equally injure any public or private interest, yet 
 the one is never mentioned without some kind of 
 veneration, and the other always considered as 
 a topic of unlimited and licentious censure, on 
 which all the virulence of reproach may be law- 
 fully exerted. 
 
 The same distinction is made, by the common 
 suffrage, between profusion and avarice, and, 
 
 * Mrs. Piozzi says, that by Gelidus, in this paper the 
 
 suthor meant to represent Mr. Coulson, a mathematician 
 
 who formerly lived at Rochester. This is not very probal 
 
 ' S cc " 8lder the character Davies gives of Mr. Coul- 
 
 St! i !. his T Life * Garri <*. "hich was certaialy 
 written under Dr. Jonnson's inspection, and, what relates 
 lo Colson, probably from his mformatitij.-C. 
 
 perhaps, between many other opposite vices ; 
 and as I have found reason to pay great regard 
 to the voice of the people, in cases where know- 
 ledge has been forced upon them by experience, 
 without long deductions, or deep researches, I 
 am inclined to believe, that this distribution ol 
 respect is not without some agreement with the 
 nature of things ; and that in the faults, which 
 are thus invested with extraordinary privileges, 
 there are generally some latent principles of me- 
 rit, some possibilities of future virtue, which may, 
 by degrees, break from obstruction, and by time 
 and opportunity be brought into act. 
 
 It may be laid down as an axiom, that it is 
 more easy to take away superfluities than to sup- 
 ply defects ; and therefore he that is culpable, 
 because he has passed the middle point of virtue, 
 is always accounted a fairer object of hope, than 
 he who fails by falling short. The one has all 
 that perfection requires, and more, but the ex 
 cess may be easily retrenched ; the other wants 
 the qualities requisite to excellence, and who can 
 tell how he shall obtain them ? We are certain 
 that the horse may be taught to keep pace with 
 his fellows, whose fault is it that he leaves them 
 behind ? We know that a few strokes of the axe 
 will lop a cedar ; but what arts of cultivation 
 can elevate a shrub ? 
 
 To walk with circumspection and steadiness 
 in the right path, at an equal distance between 
 the extremes of error, ought to be the constant 
 endeavour of every reasonable being ; nor can 1 
 think those teachers of moral wisdom much to 
 be honoured as benefactors to mankind, who are 
 always enlarging upon the difficulty of our du- 
 ties, and providing rather excuses for vice, than 
 incentives to virtue. 
 
 But, since to most it will happen often, and to 
 all sometimes, that there will be a deviation to- 
 wards one side or the other, we ought always to 
 employ our vigilance, with most attention, on 
 that enemy from which there is the greatest dan- 
 ger, and to stray, if we must stray, towards those 
 parts from whence we may quickly and easily 
 return. 
 
 Among other opposite qualities of the mind, 
 which may become dangerous, though in differ- 
 ent degrees, I have often had occasion to consi- 
 der the contrary effects of presumption and de- 
 spondency; of heady confidence, which pro- 
 mises victory without contest, and heartless 
 pusillanimity, which shrinks back from the 
 thought of great undertakings, confounds diffi- 
 culty with impossibility, and considers all ad- 
 vancement towards any new attainment as irre- 
 versibly prohibited. 
 
 Presumption will be easily corrected. Every 
 experiment will teach caution, and miscarriages 
 will hourly show, that attempts are not always 
 rewarded with success. The most precipitate 
 ardour will, in time, be taught the necessity of 
 methodical gradation and preparatory measures ; 
 and the most daring confidence he convinced 
 that neither merit nor abilities can command 
 events. 
 
 It is the advantage of vehemence and activity, 
 that they are always hastening to their own re- 
 formation ; because they incite us to try whe- 
 ther our expectations are well grounded, and 
 therefore detect the deceits which they are apt 
 to occasion. But timidity is a disease of the 
 mind more obstinate and fatal ; for & man once
 
 No. 26. J 
 
 persuaded that any impediment is insuperable 
 has given it, with respect to himself, that strength 
 and weight which it had not before. He can 
 scarcely strive with vigour and perseverance, 
 when he has no hope of gaining the victory; anc 
 since he never will try his strength, can ncvei 
 discover the unreasonableness of his fears. 
 
 There is often to be found in men devoted to 
 literature, a kind of intellectual cowardice, which 
 whoever converses much among them, may ob- 
 serve frequently to depress the alacrity of enter- 
 prise, and by consequence to retard the improve- 
 ment of science. They have annexed to every 
 species of knowledge some chimerical character 
 of terror and inhibition, which they transmit, with- 
 outmuch reflection, from one to another; theyfirst 
 fright themselves, and then propagate the panic 
 to their scholars and acquaintance. One study 
 is inconsistent with a lively imagination, another 
 with a solid judgment ; one is improper in the 
 early parts of life, another requires so much time, 
 that it is not to be attempted at an advanced age ; 
 one is dry and contracts the sentiments, another 
 is diffuse and overburdens the memory ; one is 
 insufferable to taste and delicacy, and another 
 wears out life in the study of words, and is use- 
 less to a wise man, who desires only the know- 
 ledge of things. 
 
 But of all the bugbears of which the infantes 
 barbati, boys both young and old, have been hi- 
 therto frighted fiom digressing into new tracts 
 of learning, none has been more mischievously 
 efficacious than an opinion that every kind of 
 knowledge requires a peculiar genius, or mental 
 constitution framed for the reception of some 
 ideas, and the exclusion of others : and that to 
 him whose genius is not adapted to the study 
 which he prosecutes, all labour shall be vain 
 and fruitless, vain as an endeavour to mingle oil 
 and water, or in the language of chymistry, to 
 amalgamate bodies of heterogeneous principles. 
 This opinion we may reasonably suspect to 
 have been propagated, by vanity, beyond the 
 truth. It is natural for those who have raised a 
 reputation by any science, to exalt themselves as 
 endowed by Heaven with peculiar powers, or 
 marked out by an extraordinary designation for 
 their profession ; and to fright competitors away 
 by representing the difficulties with which they 
 must contend, and the necessity of qualities which 
 are supposed to be not generally conferred, and 
 which no man can know but by experience whe- 
 ther he enjoys. 
 
 To this discouragement it may be possibly an- 
 swered, that since a genius, whatever it be, is like 
 fire in a flint, only to be produced by collision 
 with a proper subject, it is the business of every 
 man to try whether his faculties may not happily 
 co-operate with his desires ; and since they whose 
 proficiency he admires, knew their own force only 
 by the event, he needs but engage in the same 
 undertaking with equal spirit, and may reasona- 
 bly hope for equal success. 
 
 There is another species of false intelligence, 
 given by those who profess to show the way to 
 the summit of knowledge, of equal tendency to 
 depress the mind with false distrust of itself, and 
 weaken it by needless solicitude and dejection. 
 When a scholar whom they desire to animate 
 consults them at his entrance on some new stu- 
 dy, it is common to make flattering representa- 
 tions of its pleasantness and facility. Thus they 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 51 
 
 generally attain one of two ends almost equally 
 
 desirable ; they either incite his industry by ele- 
 vating his hopes, or produce a high opinion of 
 their own abilities, since they are supposed to 
 relate only what they have found, and to have 
 proceeded with no less ease than they promise to 
 their followers. 
 
 The student, inflamed by this encouragement, 
 sets forward in the new path, and proceeds a few- 
 steps with great alacrity, but he soon finds aspe- 
 rities and intricacies of which he has not been 
 forewarned, and imagining that none ever were 
 so entangled or fatigued before him, sinks sud- 
 denly into despair, and desists as from an expe- 
 dition in which fate opposes him. Thus his 
 terrors are multiplied by his hopes, and he is de- 
 feated without resistance, because he had no ex- 
 pectation of an enemy. 
 
 Of these treacherous instructers, the one de- 
 stroys industry, by declaring that industry is vain, 
 the other by representing it as needless; the one 
 cuts away the root of hope, the other raises it 
 only to be blasted ; the one confines his pupil to 
 the shore, by telling him that his wreck is cer- 
 tain, the other sends him to sea, without prepar- 
 ing him for tempests. 
 
 False hopes and false terrors are equally to be 
 avoided.. Every man, who proposes to grow 
 eminent by learning, should carry in his mind at 
 once the difficulty of excellence and the force of 
 industry ; and remember, that fame is not con- 
 'erred but as the recompense of labour, and that 
 labour vigorously continued has not often failed 
 of its reward. 
 
 No. 26.] SATURDAY, JUNE 14, 1750. 
 
 Ingentes domino s, et clartf nomina fames, 
 
 Illustrique graves nobilitate domes 
 Devita, et longe cautusfuge ; contrahe vela, 
 
 E. te littoribus eymba propinqua vehat. 
 
 SENECA 
 
 Each mighty lord, big with a pompous name, 
 And each high house of fortune and of fame, 
 With caution fly ; contract thy ample sails, 
 And near the shore improve the gentle gales. 
 
 ELPHINSTON. 
 
 MR. RAMBLER, 
 
 T is usual for men, engaged in the same pur- 
 suits, to be inquisitive after the conduct and for- 
 une of each other ; and, therefore, I suppose it 
 will not be unpleasing to you, to read an account 
 if the various changes which have happened in 
 >art of a life devoted to literature. My narrative 
 ivill not exhibit any great variety of events, or 
 txtraordinary rovolutions ; but may, perhaps, 
 ie not less useful, because I shall relate nothing 
 ivhich is not likely to happen to a thousand 
 ithers. 
 
 I was born heir to a very small fortune, and 
 eft by my father, whom I cannot remember, to 
 he care of an uncle. He having no children, 
 .Iways treated me as his son, and finding in me 
 hose qualities which old men easily discover in 
 sprightly children, when they happen to love 
 hem, declared that a genius like mine should ne- 
 er be lost for want of cultivation. He therefore 
 )laced me, for the usual time, at a great school, 
 ,nd then sent me to the university, with a larger 
 llowance than my own patrimony would have 
 afforded, that I might not keep mean company,
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 26. 
 
 but learn to oecome my dignity when I should 
 be made lord chancellor, which he often lament- 
 ed, that the increase of his infirmities was very 
 likely to preclude him from seeing. 
 
 This exuberance of money displayed itself in 
 gayety of appearance, and wantonness of ex- 
 pense, and introduced me to the acquaintance of 
 those whom the same superfluity of fortune be- 
 trayed to the same license and ostentation : 
 young heirs, who pleased themselves with a re- 
 mark very frequent in their mouths, that though 
 they were sent by their fathers to the university, 
 they were not under the necessity of living by 
 their learning. 
 
 Among men of this class I easily obtained the 
 reputation of a great genius, and was persuaded 
 that with such liveliness of imagination, and de- 
 licacy of sentiment, I should never be able to 
 submit to the drudgery of the law. I therefore 
 gave myself wholly to the more airy and elegant 
 parts of learning, and was often so much elated 
 with my superiority to the youth with whom I 
 conversed, that I began to listen, with great at- 
 tention, to those that recommended to me a wider 
 and more conspicuous theatre ; and was particu- 
 larly touched with an observation made by ohe 
 .of my friends That it was not by lingering in 
 the university that Prior became ambassador, or 
 Addison secretary of state. 
 
 This desire was hourly increased by the soli- 
 citation of my companions, who removing one 
 by one to London, as the caprice of their rela- 
 tions allowed them, or the legal dismission from 
 the hands of their guardians put it in their pow- 
 er, never failed to send an account of the beauty 
 and felicity of the new world, and to remonstrate 
 how much was lost by every hour's continuance 
 in a place of retirement and constraint. 
 
 My uncle in the mean time frequently harass- 
 ed me with monitory letters, which I sometimes 
 neglected to open for a week after I received 
 them, and generally read in a tavern, with such 
 comments as might show how much I was su- 
 perior to instruction or advice. I could not but 
 wonder, how a man confined to the country, and 
 acquainted with the present system of things, 
 should imagine himself qualified to instruct a 
 rising genius, born to give laws to the age, re- 
 fine its taste, and multiply its pleasures. 
 
 The postman, however, still continued to bring 
 ;ne new remonstrances ; for my uncle was very 
 little depressed by the ridicule and reproach 
 which he never heard. But men of parts have 
 quick resentments ; it was impossible to bear his 
 usurpations for ever ; and I resolved, once for all, 
 to make him an example to those who imagine 
 themselves wise because they are old, and to 
 teach young men, who are too tame under re- 
 presentation, in what manner gray-bearded in- 
 solence ought to be treated. I therefore one 
 evening took my pen in hand, and after having 
 animated myself with a catch, wrote a general 
 answer to all his precepts with such vivacity of 
 turn, such elegance of irony, and such asperity 
 of sarcasm, that I convulsed a large company 
 with universal laughter, disturbed the neighbour- 
 hood with vociferations of applause, and five 
 days afterwards was answered, that I must be 
 content to live upon my own estate. 
 
 This contraction of my income gave me no 
 disturbance ; for a genius like mine was out of 
 the reach of want. I had friends that would be 
 
 proud to open their purses at rny call, and pros- 
 pects of such advancement as would soon re- 
 concile my uncle, whom, upon mature delibera- 
 tion, I resolved to receive into favour without in- 
 sisting on any acknowledgment of his offence, 
 when the splendour of my condition should in- 
 duce him to wish for my countenance. I there- 
 fore went up to London, before I had shown 
 the alteration of my condition, by any abatement 
 of my way of living, and was received by all 
 my academical acquaintance with triumph and 
 congratulation. I was immediately introduced 
 among the wits and men of spirit , and in a short 
 time had divested myself of all my scholar's gra- 
 vity, and obtained the reputation of a pretty fel- 
 low. 
 
 You will easily believe that I had no great 
 knowledge of the world; yet I had been hinder- 
 ed, by the general disinclination every man feels 
 to confess poverty, from telling to any one the 
 resolution of my uncle, and for some time sub- 
 sisted upon the stock of money which I had 
 brought with me, and contributed my share as 
 before to all our entertainments. But my pock- 
 et was soon emptied, and I was obliged to ask 
 my friends for a small sum. This was a favour, 
 which we had often reciprocally received from 
 one another; they supposed my wants only ac- 
 cidental, and therefore willingly supplied them. 
 In a short time I found a necessity of asking 
 again, and was again treated with the same ci- 
 vility ; but the third time they began to wonder 
 what that old rogue my uncle could mean by 
 sending a gentleman to town without money ; 
 and when they gave me what I asked for, advis- 
 ed me to stipulate for more regular remittances. 
 
 This somewhat disturbed my dream of con- 
 stant affluence ; but I was three days after com- 
 pletely awakened ; for entering the tavern where 
 we met every evening, I found the waiters remit- 
 ted their complaisance, and, instead of contend- 
 ing to light me up stairs, suffered me to wait for 
 some minutes at the bar. When I came to my 
 company, I found them unusually grave and 
 formal, and one of them took the hint to turn the 
 conversation upon the misconduct of young men, 
 and enlarged upon the folly of frequenting the 
 company of men of fortune, without being able to 
 support the expense, an observation which the 
 rest contributed either to enforce by repetition, 
 or to illustrate by examples. Only one of them 
 tried to divert the discourse, and endeavoured to 
 direct my attention to remote questions and com- 
 mon topics. 
 
 A man guilty of poverty easily believes him- 
 self suspected. I went, however, next morning 
 to breakfast with him, who appeared ignorant of 
 the drift of the conversation, and by a series of 
 inquiries drawing still nearer to the point, pre- 
 vailed on him, not perhaps much against his will, 
 to inform me, that Mr. Dash, whose father was 
 a wealthy attorney near my native place, had, 
 the morning before, received an account of my 
 uncle's resentment, and communicated his intel- 
 ligence with the utmost industry of grovelling in- 
 solence. 
 
 It was now no longer practicable to consort 
 with my former friends, unless I would be con- 
 tent to be used as an inferior guest, who was to 
 pay for his wine by mirth and flattery ; a charac- 
 ter which, if I could not escape it, I resolved to 
 endure only among those who had never known
 
 No. 27.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 53 
 
 me in the pride of plenty. I changed my lodg- 
 ings, and frequented the coffee-houses in a differ- 
 ent region of the town ; where I was very quick- 
 ly distinguished by several young gentlemen of 
 high birth and large estates, and began again to 
 amuse my imagination with hopes of preferment, 
 though not quite so confidently as when I had 
 less experience. 
 
 The first great conqtiest which tliis new scene 
 enabled me to gain over myself was, when I sub- 
 mitted to confess to a party, who invited me to 
 an expensive diversion, that my revenues were 
 not equal to such golden pleasures ; they would 
 not suffer me, however, to stay behind, and with 
 great reluctance I yielded to be treated. I took 
 that opportunity of recommending myself to 
 some office or employment, which they unani- 
 mously promised to procure me by their joint in- 
 terest. 
 
 I had now entered into a state of dependence, 
 and had hopes, or fears, from almost every man 
 I saw. If it be unhappy to have one patron, what 
 is his misery who has many ? I was obliged to 
 comply with a thousand caprices, to concur in a 
 thousand follies, and to countenance a thousand 
 errors. I endured innumerable mortifications, if 
 not from cruelty, at least from negligence, which 
 will creep in upon the kindest and most delicate 
 minds, when they converse without the mutual 
 awe of equal condition. I found the spirit and 
 vigour of liberty every moment sinking in me, 
 and a servile fear of displeasing stealing by de- 
 grees upon all my behaviour, till no word, or 
 look, or action, was my own. As the solicitude 
 to please increased, the power of pleasing grew 
 less, and I was always clouded with diffidence 
 where it was most my interest and wish to shine. 
 
 My patrons, considering me as belonging to 
 the community, and, therefore, not the charge of 
 any particular person, made no scruple of ne- 
 glecting any opportunity of promoting me, which 
 every one thought more properly the business of 
 another. An account of my expectations and 
 disappointments, and the succeeding vicissitudes 
 of my life, I shall give you in my following letter, 
 which will be, I hope, of use to show how ill he 
 forms his schemes, who expects happiness with- 
 out freedom. I am, &c. 
 
 N'o. 27.] TUESDAY, JUNE 19, 1750. 
 
 Pauperiem mctttcns potiore mctallis 
 
 f.ihirtatc caret. HOR. 
 
 So he, who poverty with horror views, 
 Who sells his freedom in exchange for gold, 
 (Freedom for mines of wealth too cheaply sold,) 
 Shall make eternal servitude his fate. 
 And feel a haughty master's galling weight. 
 
 FRANCIS. 
 
 MR. RAMBLER, 
 
 As it is natural for every man to think himself of 
 importance, your knowledge of the world will 
 incline you to forgive me, if I imagine your curi- 
 osity so much excited by the former part of my 
 narration, as to make you desire that I should 
 proceed without any unnecessary arts of connex- 
 ion. I shall, therefore, not keep you longer in 
 such suspense, as perhaps my performance may 
 not compensate. 
 
 In the gay company with which I was now 
 
 united, I found those allurements and delights, 
 which the friendship of young men always af- 
 fords; there was that openness which naturally 
 produced confidence, that affability which, in 
 some measure, softened dependence, and that 
 ardour of profession which incited hope. When 
 our hearts were dilated with merriment, pro- 
 mises were poured out with unlimited profusion, 
 and life and fortune were but a scanty sacrifice 
 to friendship ; but when the hour came, at which 
 any effort was to be made, I had generally the 
 vexation to find that my interest weighed nothing 
 against the slightest amusement, and that every 
 petty avocation was found a sufficient plea for 
 continuing me in uncertainty and want. Their 
 kindness was indeed sincere: when they pro- 
 mised, they had no intention to deceive ; but the 
 same juvenile warmth which kindled their be- 
 nevolence, gave force in the same proportion to 
 every other passion, and I was forgotten as soon 
 as any new pleasures seized on their attention. 
 
 Vagario told me one evening, that all my per- 
 plexities should be soon at an end, and desired 
 me, from that instant, to throw upon him all care 
 of my fortune, for a post of considerable value 
 was that day become vacant, and he knew his 
 interest sufficient to procure it in the morning. 
 He desired me to call on him early, that he might 
 be dressed soon enough to wait on the minister 
 before any other application should be made. I 
 came as he appointed, with all the flame of grati- 
 tude, and was told by his servant, that having 
 found at his lodgings, when he came home, an 
 acquaintance who was going to travel, he had 
 been persuaded to accompany him to Dover, and 
 that they had taken post-horses two hours before 
 day. 
 
 I was once very near to preferment, by the 
 kindness of Charinus, who, at my request, went 
 to beg a place, which he thought me likely to 
 fill with great reputation, and in which I should 
 have many opportunities of promoting his in- 
 terest in return ; and he pleased himself with 
 imagining the mutual benefits that we should 
 confer, and the advances that we should make 
 by our united strength. Away therefore he 
 went, equally warm with friendship and ambi- 
 tion, and left me to prepare acknowledgments 
 against his return. At length he came back, 
 and told me that he had met in his way a party 
 going to breakfast in the country, that the ladies 
 importuned him too much to be refused, and that 
 having passed the morning with them, he was 
 comeback to dress himself for a ball, to which he 
 was invited for the evening. 
 
 I have suffered several disappointments from 
 tailors and periwig-makers, who, by neglecting 
 to perform their work, withheld my patrons from 
 court ; and once failed of an establishment for 
 life by the delay of a servant, sent to a neigh- 
 bouring shop to replenish a snuff-box. 
 
 At last I thought my solicitude at an end, fot 
 an office fell into the gift of Hippodamus's father, 
 who, being then in the country, could not very 
 speedily fill it, and whose fondness would not 
 have suffered him to refuse his son a less reason- 
 able request. Hippodamus therefore set for- 
 ward with great expedition, and I expected every 
 hour an account of his success. A long time I 
 waited without any intelligence, but at last re- 
 ceived a letter from Newmarket, by which I waa 
 informed that the races were begun, and I knew
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 28. 
 
 the vehemence of his passions too well to ima- 
 gine that he oould refuse himself his favourite 
 amusement. 
 
 You will not wonder that I was at last weary 
 of the patronage of young men, especially as I 
 found them not generally to promise much great- 
 er fidelity as they advanced in life ; for I observed 
 that what they gained in steadiness they lost in 
 benevolence, and grew colder to my interest as 
 they became more diligent to promote their own. 
 I was convinced that their liberality was only 
 profuseness, that as chance directed, they were 
 equally generous to vice and virtue, that they 
 were warm but because they were thoughtless, 
 and counted the support of a friend only amongst 
 other gratifications of passion. 
 
 My resolution was now to ingratiate myself 
 with men whose reputation was established, 
 whose high stations enabled them to prefer me, 
 and whose age exempted them from sudden 
 changes of inclination. I was considered as a 
 man of parts, and therefore easily found admis- 
 sion to the table of Hilarius, the celebrated ora- 
 tor, renowned equally for the extent of his know- 
 ledge, the elegance of his diction, and the acute- 
 ness of his wit. Hilarius received me with an 
 appearance of great satisfaction, produced to me 
 all his friends, and directed to me that part of his 
 discourse in which he most endeavoured to dis- 
 play his imagination. I had now learned my own 
 interest enough to supply him opportunities for 
 smart remarks and gay sallies, which I never 
 failed to echo and applaud. Thus I was gaining 
 every hour on his affections, till unfortunately, 
 when the assembly was more splendid than usu- 
 al, his desire of admiration prompted him to turn 
 his raillery upon me. I bore it for some time with 
 great submission, and success encouraged him to 
 redouble his attacks ; at last my vanity prevailed 
 over my prudence, I retorted his irony with such 
 spirit, that Hilarius, unaccustomed to resistance, 
 was disconcerted, and soon found means of con- 
 vincing me, that his purpose was not to encou- 
 rage a rival, but to foster a parasite. 
 
 I was then taken into the familiarity of Argu- 
 tio, a nobleman eminent for judgment and criti- 
 cism. He had contributed to my reputation by 
 the praises which he had often bestowed upon 
 my writings, in which he owned that there were 
 proofs of a genius that might rise to high degrees 
 of excellence, when time or information had re- 
 duced its exuberance. He therefore required 
 me to consult him before the publication of any 
 new performance, and commonly proposed in- 
 numerable alterations, without sufficient atten- 
 tion to the general design, or regard to my form 
 of style, and mode of imagination. But these 
 corrections he never failed to press as indispen- 
 sably necessary, and thought the least delay of 
 compliance an act of rebellion. The pride of an 
 author made this treatment insufferable, and I 
 thought any tyranny easier to be borne than 
 that which took from me the use of my under- 
 standing. 
 
 My next patron was Eutyches the statesman, 
 who was wholly engaged in public affairs, and 
 seemed to have no ambition but to be powerful 
 and rich. I found his favour more permanent 
 than that of the others ; for there was a certain 
 price at which it might be bought ; he allowed 
 nothing to humour or to affection, but was al- 
 ways ready to pay liberally for the service that 
 
 he required. His demands were, indeed, very 
 often such as virtue could not easily consent to 
 gratify ; but virtue is not to be consulted when 
 men are to raise their fortunes by the favour of 
 the great. His measures were censured ; I wrote 
 in his defence, and was recompensed with a place, 
 of which the profits were never received by me 
 without the pangs of remembering that they were 
 the reward of wickedness a reward which no- 
 thing but that necessity which the consumption 
 of my little estate in these wild pursuits had 
 brought upon me, hindered me from throwing 
 back in the face of my corrupter. 
 
 At this time my uncle died without a will, and 
 I became heir to a small fortune. I had resolu- 
 tion to throw off* the splendour which reproached 
 me to myself, and retire to an humbler state, in 
 which I am now endeavouring to recover the 
 dignity of virtue, and hope to make some repa- 
 ration for my crime and follies, by informing 
 others, who may be led after the same pageants, 
 that they are about to engage in a course of life, 
 in which they are to purchase, by a thousand 
 miseries, the privilege of repentance. 
 I am, <fcc. 
 
 ECBULUS. 
 
 No. 28.] SATURDAY, JUNE 23, 1750. 
 
 Illi more gratis incubat, 
 
 Qni,notus nimis omnibus, 
 
 Tgnotus moritur sibi. SENECA 
 
 To him, alas ! to him, I fear, 
 The face of death will terrible appear, 
 Who in his life, flatt'ring his senseless pride, 
 By being known to all the world beside, 
 Does not himself, when he is dying, know, 
 Nor what he is, nor whither he's to go. 
 
 COWLEY. 
 
 I HAVE shown, in a late essay, to what errors 
 men are hourly betrayed by a mistaken opinion 
 of their own powers, and a negligent inspection 
 of their own character. But as I then confined 
 my observations to common occurrences and fa- 
 miliar scenes, I think it proper to inquire, how 
 far a nearer acquaintance with ourselves is ne- 
 cessary to our preservation from crimes as well 
 as follies, and how much- the attentive study ot 
 our own minds may contribute to secure to us 
 the approbation of that Being, to whom we are 
 accountable for our thoughts and our actions, 
 and whose favour must finally constitute our to- 
 tal happiness. 
 
 If it be reasonable to estimate the difficulty of 
 any enterprise by frequent miscarriages, it may 
 justly be concluded that it is not easy for a man 
 to know himself, for wheresoever we turn our 
 view, we shall find almost all, with whom we 
 converse so nearly as to judge of their senti- 
 ments, indulging more favourable conceptions 
 of their own virtue than they have been able to 
 impress upon others, and congratulating them- 
 selves upon degrees of excellence, which their 
 fondest admirers cannot allow them to have at- 
 tained. 
 
 Those representations of imaginary virtue are 
 generally considered as arts of hypocrisy, and as 
 snares laid for confidence and praise. But I be- 
 lieve the suspicion often unjust; those who thus 
 propagate their own reputation, only extend the
 
 No. 28.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 fraud by which they have been themselves de- 
 ceived; for this failing is incident to numbers, 
 who seem to live without designs, competitions, 
 or pursuits ; it appears on occasions which pro- 
 mise no accession of honour or of profit, and to 
 persons fruni whom very little is to be hoped or 
 feared. It is, indeed, not easy to tell how far we 
 may be blinded by the love of ourselves, when 
 we reflect how much a secondary passion can 
 cloud our judgment, and how few faults a man, 
 in the first raptures of love, can discover in the 
 person or conduct of his mistress. 
 
 To lay open all the sources from which error 
 flows in upon him who contemplates his own 
 character would require more exact knowledge 
 of the human heart, than perhaps the most acute 
 and laborious observers have acquired. And 
 since falsehood may be diversified without end, 
 it is not unlikely that every man admits an impos- 
 ture, in some respect peculiar to himself, as his 
 views have been accidentally directed, or his ideas 
 particularly combined. 
 
 Some fallacies, however, there are, more fre- 
 quently insidious, which it may, perhaps, not be 
 useless to detect ; because, though they are gross, 
 they may be fatal, and because nothing but atten- 
 tion is necessary to defeat them. 
 
 One sophism by which men persuade them- 
 selves that they have those virtues which they 
 really want, is formed by the substitution of sin- 
 gle acts for habits. A miser who once relieved 
 a friend from the danger of a prison, suffers his 
 imagination to dwell for ever upon his own heroic 
 generosity ; he yields his heart up to indignation 
 at those who are blind to merit, or insensible to 
 misery, and who can please themselves with the 
 enjoyment of that wealth, which they never per- 
 mit others to partake. From any censures of the 
 world, or reproaches of his conscience, he has an 
 appeal to action and to knowledge : and though 
 his whole life is a course of rapacity and avarice, 
 he concludes himself to be tender and liberal, be- 
 cause he has once performed an act of liberality 
 and tenderness. 
 
 As a glass which magnifies objects by the ap- 
 proach of one end to the eye, lessens them by the 
 application of the other, so vices are extenuated 
 by the inversion of that fallacy, by which virtues 
 are augmented. Those faults which we cannot 
 conceal from our own notice, are considered, 
 however frequent, not as habitual corruptions, or 
 settled practices, but as casual failures, and sin- 
 gle lapses. A man who has from year to year 
 sethis country to sale, either for the gratification 
 of his ambition or resentment, confesses that the 
 heat of party now and then betrays the severest 
 virtue to measures that cannot be seriously de- 
 fended. He that spends his days and nights in 
 riot and debauchery, owns that his passions of- 
 tentimes overpower his resolutions. But each 
 comforts himself that his faults are not with- 
 out precedent, for the best and the wisest men 
 have given way to the violence of sudden temp- 
 tations. 
 
 There are men who always confound the praise 
 of goodness with the practice, and who believe 
 themselves mild and moderate, charitable, and 
 faithful, because they have exerted their elo- 
 quence in commendation of mildness, fidelity, 
 and other virtues. This is an error almost uni- 
 versal among those that converse much with de- 
 pendents, with such whose fear or interest dis- 
 
 poses them to a seeming reverence for any decla- 
 mation, however enthusiastic, and submission to 
 any boast, however arrogant. Having none to 
 recall their attention to their lives, they rate 
 themselves by the goodness of their opinions, 
 and forget how much more easily men may show 
 their virtue in their talk than in their actions. 
 
 The tribe is likewise very numerous of those 
 who regulate their lives, not by the standard of 
 religion, but the measure of other men's virtue ; 
 who lull their own remorse with the remem- 
 brance of crimes more atrocious than their own, 
 and seem to believe they are not bad, while ano- 
 ther can be found worse. 
 
 For escaping these and a thousand other de- 
 ceits, many expedients have been proposed. 
 Some have recommended the frequent consulta- 
 tion of a wise friend, admitted to intimacy, and 
 encouraged to sincerity. But this appears a re 
 medy by no means adapted to general use : for 
 in order to secure the virtue of one, it presup- 
 poses more virtue in two than will generally be 
 found. In the first, such a desire of rectitude 
 and amendment, as may incline him to hear his 
 own accusation from the mouth of him whom he 
 esteems, and by whom, therefore, he will always 
 hope that his faults are not discovered ; and in 
 the second, such zeal and honesty, as will make 
 him content for his friend's advantage to lose his 
 kindness. 
 
 A long life may be passed without finding a 
 friend in whose understanding and virtue we can 
 equally confide, and whose opinion we can value 
 at once for its justness and sincerity. A weak 
 man, however honest, is not qualified to judge. 
 A man of the world, however penetrating, is not 
 fit to counsel. Friends are often chosen for si- 
 militude of manners, and therefore each palliates 
 the other's failings because they are his own. 
 Friends are tender, and unwilling to give pain, or 
 they are interested, and fearful to offend. 
 
 These objections have inclined others to advise, 
 that he who would know himself, should consult 
 his enemies, remember the reproaches that are 
 vented to his face, and listen for the censures 
 that are uttered in private. For his great busi- 
 ness is to know his faults, and those malignity 
 will discover, and resentment will reveal. But 
 this precept may be often frustrated ; for it sel- 
 dom happens that rivals or opponents are suffered 
 to come near enough to know our conduct with 
 so much exactness, as that conscience should al- 
 low and reflect the accusation. The charge of 
 an enemy is often totally false, and commonly so 
 mingled with falsehood, that the mind takes ad 
 vantage from the failure of one part to discredit 
 the rest, and never suffers any disturbance after 
 ward from such partial reports. 
 
 Yet it seems that enemies have been always 
 found by experience the most faithful monitors ; 
 for adversity has ever been considered as the 
 state in which a man most easily becomes ac- 
 quainted with himself, and this effect it must pro- 
 duce by withdrawing flatterers, whose business 
 it is to hide our weakness from us, or by giving 
 loose to malice, and license to reproach ; or at 
 least by cutting off those pleasures which called 
 us away from meditation on our conduct, and re- 
 pressing that pride which too easily persuades us 
 that we merit whatever we enjoy. 
 
 Part of these benefits it is in every man's power 
 to procure himself, by assigning proper portions
 
 56 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 29. 
 
 of his life to the examination of the rest, and by 
 putting himself frequently in such a situation, by 
 retireinent and abstraction, as may weaken the 
 influence of external objects. By this practice 
 lie may obtain the solitude of adversity without 
 its melancholy, its instructions without its cen- 
 sures, and its sensibility without its perturbations. 
 
 The necessity of setting the world at a dis- 
 tance from us, when we are to take a survey of 
 ourselves, has sent many from high stations to 
 the severities of a monastic life ; and, indeed, 
 every man deeply engaged in business, if all re- 
 gard to another state be not extinguished, must 
 have the conviction, though, perhaps, not the re- 
 solution of Valdesso, who, when he solicited 
 Charles the Fifth to dismiss him, being asked, 
 whether he retired upon disgust, answered that 
 he laid down his commission, for no other rea- 
 son but because there ought to be some time for so- 
 ber reflection between the life of a soldier and his 
 death. 
 
 There are few conditions which do not entan- 
 gle us with sublunary hopes and fears, from 
 which it is necessary to be at intervals disencum- 
 bered, that we may place ourselves in his presence 
 who views effects in their causes, and actions in 
 their motives ; that we may, as Chillingworth 
 expresses it, consider things as if there were no 
 other beings in the world but God and ourselves : 
 or, to use language yet more awful, may commune 
 with our own hearts and be still. 
 
 Death, says Seneca, falls heavy upon him who 
 is too much known to others, and too little to 
 himself; and Pontanus, a man celebrated among 
 the early restorers of literature, thought the study 
 of our own hearts of so much importance, that he 
 has recommended it from his tomb. Sum Joan- 
 nes Jovianus Pontanus, quern amacerunl bonae, 
 JMusce, suspexerunt viri probi, honestaverunt reges 
 domini ; jam scis qui sim,vel qui potius fuerim ; 
 ego vero te, hospes, noscere in tenebris nec/ueo, sed 
 teipsum ut noscas rogo. " I am Pontanus, beloved 
 by the powers of literature, admired by men of 
 worth, and dignified by the monarchs of the 
 world. Thou knowest now who I am, or more 
 properly who I was. For thee, stranger, I who 
 am in darkness cannot know thee, but I entreat 
 thee to know thyself." 
 
 I hope every reader of this paper will consider 
 himself as engaged to the observation of a pre- 
 cept, which the wisdom and virtue of all ages 
 have concurred to enforce : a precept dictated by 
 philosophers, inculcated by poets, and ratified 
 by* saints. 
 
 No. 29.] TUESDAY, JUNE 26, 1750. 
 
 Prudens futuri temporit exitum 
 Catiffinosa node premit Deus : 
 
 Ridetque, si mortalis ultra 
 
 Fas trepidet HOR. 
 
 But God has wisely hid from human sight 
 
 The dark decrees of future fate, 
 And sown their seeds in depth of night; 
 He luu <: hs nt all the giddy turns of state, 
 When mortals search too soon, and fear too late. 
 
 DRVDEN. 
 
 THERE is nothing recommended with greater 
 frequency among the gayer poets of antiquity, 
 than the secure possession of the present hour, 
 and the dismission of all the cares which intrude 
 
 ! upon our quiet, or hinder, by importunate pertur- 
 1 bations, the enjoyment, of those delights which 
 our condition happens to set before us. 
 
 The ancient poets are, indeed, by no means 
 unexceptionable teachers of morality; their pre- 
 cepts arc to be always considered as the sallies 
 of a genius, intent rather upon giving pleasure 
 than instruction, eager to take every advantage 
 of insinuation, and, provided the passions can be 
 engaged on its side, very solicitous about the suf- 
 frage of reason. 
 
 The darkness and uncertainty through which 
 the heathens were compelled to wander in the 
 pursuit of happiness, may, indeed, be alleged as 
 an excuse for many of their seducing invitations 
 to immediate enjoyment, which the moderns, by 
 whom they have been imitated, have not to plead. 
 It is no wonder that such as had no promise of 
 another state should eagerly turn their thoughts 
 upon the improvement of that which was before 
 them ; but surely those who are acquainted with 
 the hopes and fears of eternity, might think it ne- 
 cessary to put some restraint upon their imagina- 
 tions, and reflect that by echoing the songs of the 
 ancient bacchanals, and transmitting the maxims 
 of past debauchery, they not only prove that they 
 want invention, but virtue, and submit to the ser- 
 vility of imitation only to copy that of which the 
 writer, if he was to live now, would often be 
 ashamed. 
 
 Yet as the errors and follies of a great genius 
 are seldom without some radiations of under- 
 standing, by which meaner minds may be en- 
 lightened, the incitements to pleasure are, in 
 those authors, generally mingled with such reflec- 
 tions upon life, as well deserve to be considered 
 distinctly from the purposes for which they are 
 produced, and to be treasured up as the settled 
 conclusions of extensive observation, acute saga- 
 city, and mature experience. 
 
 It is not without true judgment, that on these 
 occasions they often warn their readers against 
 inquiries inlo futurity, and solicitude about events 
 which lie hid in causes yet inactive, and which 
 time has not brought forward into the view of 
 reason. An idle and thoughtless resignation to 
 chance, without any struggle against calamity, 
 or endeavour after advantage, is indeed below 
 the dignity of a reasonable being, in whose pow- 
 er Providence has put a great part even of Iiis 
 present happiness; but it shows an equal igno- 
 rance of our proper sphere, to harass our thoughts 
 with conjectures about things not yet in being. 
 How can we regulate events, of which we yet 
 know not whether they will ever happen ? And 
 why should we think, with painful anxiety, about 
 that on which our thoughts can have no influ- 
 ence. 
 
 It is a maxim commonly received, that a wise 
 man is never surprised ; and, perhaps, this ex- 
 emption from astonishment may be imagined to 
 proceed from such a prospect into futurity, as 
 gave previous intimation of those evils which 
 often fall unexpected upon others that have legs 
 foresight. But the truth is, that things to come, 
 except when they approach very nearly, are equal- 
 ly hidden from men of all degrees of understand- 
 ing ; and if a wise man is not amazed at sudden 
 occurrences, it is not that he has thought more, 
 but less upon futurity. He never considered 
 things not yet existing as the proper objects of 
 his attention; he never indulged dreams till he
 
 No. 30.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 57 
 
 was deceived by their phantoms, nor ever realiz- 
 ed nonentities to his mind. He is not surprised 
 because he is not disappointed, and he escapes 
 disappointment because he never forms any ex- 
 pectations. 
 
 The concern about things to come, that is so 
 justly censured, is not the result of those gene- 
 ral reflections on the variableness of fortune, the 
 uncertainty of life, and the universal insecurity 
 of all human acquisitions, which must always be 
 suggested by the view of the world ; but such a 
 desponding anticipation of misfortune, as fixes 
 the mind upon scenes of gloom and melancholy, 
 and makes fear predominate in every imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 Anxiety of this kind is nearly of the same na- 
 ture with jealousy in love, and suspicion in the 
 general commerce of life ; a temper which keeps 
 the man always in alarms ; disposes him to judge 
 of every thing in a manner that least favours his 
 own quiet, fills him with perpetual stratagems of 
 counteraction, wears him out in schemes to obvi- 
 ate evils which never threatened him, and at 
 length, perhaps, contributes to the production of 
 those mischiefs, of which it had raised such 
 dreadful apprehensions. 
 
 It has been usual in all ages for moralists to re- 
 press the swellings of vain hope, by representa- 
 tions of the innumerable casualties to which life 
 is subject, and by instances of the unexpected de- 
 feat of the wisest schemes of policy, and sudden 
 subversions of the highest eminences of great- 
 ness. It has, perhaps, not been equally observ- 
 ed, that all these examples afford the proper anti- 
 dote to fear, as well as to hope, and may be ap- 
 plied with no less efficacy as consolations to the 
 timorous, than as restraints to the proud. 
 
 Evil is uncertain in the same degree as good, 
 and for the reason that we ought not to hope too 
 securely, we ought not to fear with too much de- 
 jection. The state of the world is continually 
 changing, and none can tell the result of the next 
 vicissitude. Whatever is afloat in the stream of 
 time, may, when it is very near us, be driven 
 away by an accidental blast, which shall happen 
 to cross the general course of the csrrent The 
 sudden accidents by which the powerful are de- 
 pressed, may fall upon those whose malice we 
 fear ; and the greatness by which we expect to 
 be overborne, may become another proof of the 
 false flatteries of fortune. Our enemies maybe- 
 come weak, or we grow strong before our en- 
 counter, or we may advance against each other 
 without ever meeting. There are, indeed, natu- 
 ral evils which we can flatter ourselves with no 
 hopes of escaping, and with little of delaying ; 
 but of the ills which are apprehended from human 
 malignity, or the opposition of rival interests, we 
 may always alleviate the terror, by considering 
 that our persecutors are weak and ignorant, and 
 mortal like ourselves. 
 
 The misfortunes which arise from the concur- 
 rence of unhappy incidents should never be suf- 
 fered to disturb us before they happen ; because, 
 if the breast be once laid open to the dread of 
 mere possibilities of misery, life must be given a 
 prey to dismal solicitude, and quiet must be lost 
 for ever. 
 
 It is remarked by old Cornaro, that it is absurd 
 
 to be afraid of the natural dissolution of the 
 
 body, because it must certainly happen, and can, 
 
 by no caution or artifice, be avoided. Whether 
 
 H 
 
 the sentiment be entirely just I shall not exa- 
 mine; but certainly if it be improper to fear events 
 which must happen, it is yet more evidently con- 
 trary to right reason to fear those which may ne- 
 ver happen, and which, if they should come up- 
 on us, we cannot resist. 
 
 As we ought not to give way to fear, any more 
 than indulgence to hope, because the objects 
 both of fear and hope are yet uncertain, so we 
 ought not to trust the representations of one 
 more than of the other, because they are both 
 equally fallacious; as hope enlarges happiness, 
 fear aggravates calamity. It is generally allow- 
 ed, that no man ever found the happiness of pos- 
 session proportionate to that expectation which 
 incited his desire, and invigorated his pursuit ; 
 nor has any man found the evils of life so formi- 
 dable in reality, as they were described to him 
 by bis own imagination ; every species of distress 
 brings with it some peculiar supports, some un- 
 foreseen means of resisting, or power of enduring. 
 Taylor justly blames some pious persons, who 
 indulge their fancies too much, set themselves, 
 by the force of imagination, in the place of the 
 ancient martyrs and confessors, and question the 
 validity of their own faith, because they shrink 
 at the thoughts of flames and tortures. It is, 
 says he, sufficient that you are able to encounter 
 the temptations which now assault you ; when 
 God sends trials, he may send strength. 
 
 All fear is in itself painful, and when it con- 
 duces not to safety is painful without use. Every 
 consideration, therefore, by which groundless ter 
 rors may be removed, adds something to human 
 happiness. It is likewise not unworthy of re 
 mark, that in proportion as our cares are employ 
 ed upon the future they are abstracted from the 
 present, from the only time which we can call 
 our own, and of which if we neglect the apparent 
 duties, to make provision against visionary at 
 tacks, we shall certainly counteract our own 
 purpose ; for he, doubtless, mistakes his true in- 
 terest, who thinks that he can increase his safety 
 when he impairs his virtue. 
 
 No. 30.] SATURDAY, JUNE 30, 1750. 
 
 - Vultus ubi tnua 
 
 Affvlsit populo, ffratior it diet, 
 Et soles melius nitent. 
 
 Whene'er thy countenance divine 
 Th' attendant people cheers, 
 
 The genial suns more radiant shine, 
 The day more glad appears. 
 
 ELPHINSTO*. 
 
 MR. RAMBLER, 
 
 THERE are few tasks more ungrateful than for 
 persons of modesty to speak their own praises 
 In some cases, however, this must be done foi 
 the general good, and a generous spirit will or 
 such occasions assert its merit, and vindicate it 
 self with becoming warmth. 
 
 My circumstances, Sir, are very hard and pe 
 culiar. Could the world be brought to treat m 
 as I deserve, it woidd be a public benefit This 
 makes me apply to you, that my case being fair 
 ly stated in a paper so generally esteemed, I may 
 suffer no longer from ignorant and childish pre 
 judices. 
 
 My elder brother was a Jew ; a very respecta
 
 58 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 30. 
 
 We person, but somewhat austere in his manner ; 
 highly and deservedly valued by his near rela- 
 tions and intimates, but utterly unfit for mixing 
 in a larger society, or gaining a general acquaint- 
 ance among mankind. In a venerable old age 
 he retired from the world, and I in the bloom of 
 youth came into it, succeeding him in all his dig- 
 nities, and formed, as I might reasonably flatter 
 myself, to be ths object of universal love and 
 esteem. Joy and gladness were born with me ; 
 cheerfulness, good humour, and benevolence, 
 always attended and endeared my infancy. 
 That time is long past : so long, that idle irna- 
 
 finations are apt to fancy me wrinkled, old, and 
 isagreeable ; but, unless my looking-glass de- 
 ceives me, I have not yet lost one charm, one 
 beauty of my earliest years. However, thus far 
 is too certain, I am to every body just what they 
 choose to think me, so that to very few I appear 
 in my right shape ; and though naturally 1 am 
 the friend of human kind, to few, very few com- 
 paratively, am I useful or agreeable. 
 
 This is the more grievous, as it is utterly im- 
 possible for me to avoid being in all sorts or 
 places and companies ; and I arn therefore liable 
 to meet with perpetual affronts and injuries. 
 Though I have as natural an antipathy to cards 
 and dice, as some people have to a cat, many 
 and many an assembly am I forced to endure ; 
 and though rest and composure are my peculiar 
 joy, am worn out and harassed to death with 
 journeys by men and women of quality, who 
 never take one but when I can be of the party. 
 Some, on a contrary extreme, will never receive 
 me but in bed, where they spend at least half of 
 the time I have to stay with them ; and others 
 are so monstrously ill bred as to take physic on 
 purpose when they have reason to expect me. 
 Those who keep upon terms of more politeness 
 with me are generally so cold and constrained 
 in their behaviour, that I cannot but perceive 
 myself an unwelcome guest ; and even among 
 persons deserving of esteem, and who certainly 
 have a value for me, it is too evident that gene 
 rally wherever 1 come I throw a dulness ov^r 
 the whole company, that I am entertained with 
 a formal, stiff civility, and that they are glad 
 when I am fairly gone. 
 
 How bitter must this kind of reception be to 
 one formed to inspire delight, admiration, and 
 love ? To one capable of answering and re- 
 warding the greatest warmm and delicacy of 
 sentiments ! 
 
 I was bred up among a set of excellent people, 
 who affectionately loved me, and treated me with 
 the utmost honour and respect It would be te- 
 dious to relate the variety of my adventures, and 
 strange vicissitudes of rny fortune in many differ- 
 ent countries. Here in England there was a 
 time when I lived according to my heart's desire. 
 Whenever I appeared, public assemblies ap- 
 pointed for my reception were crowded with per- 
 sons of quality and fashion, early dressed as for 
 a court, to pay me their devoirs. Cheerful hos- 
 pitality every where crowned my board, and I 
 was looked upon in every country parish as a 
 kind of social bond between the squire, the par- 
 son, and the tenants. The laborious poor every 
 where blessed my appearance ; they do so still, 
 and keep their best clothes to do me honour ; 
 though as much as I delight in the honest country 
 folks, they do now and then throw a pot of ale at 
 
 my head, and sometimes an unlucky boy will 
 drive his cricket-ball full in my face. 
 
 Even in these my best days there were persons 
 who thought me too demure and grave. I must 
 forsooth by all means b3 instructed by foreign 
 masters, and taught to dance and play. This 
 method of education was so contrary to my ge- 
 nius, formed for much nobler entertainments, 
 that it did not succeed at all. 
 
 I fell next into the hands of a very different set. 
 They were so excessively scandalized at the 
 gayety of my appearance, as not only to despoil 
 me of the foreign fopperies, the paint and the 
 patches that I had been tricked out with by my 
 last misjudging tutors, but they robbed me of 
 every innocent ornament I had from my infancy 
 been used to gather in the fields and gardens ; 
 nay, they blacked my face, and covered me all 
 over with a habit of mourning, and that too very 
 coarse and awkward. I was now obliged to 
 spend my whole life in hearing sermons; nor per- 
 mitted so much as to smile upon any occasion. 
 
 In this melancholy disguise I became a per 
 feet bugbear to all children and young folks. 
 Wherever I came there was a general hush, and 
 immediate stop to all pleasantness of look or dis- 
 course ; and not being permitted to talk with 
 them in my own language at that time, they took 
 such a disgust to me in those tedious hours of 
 yawning; that having transmitted it to their chil- 
 dren, I cannot now be heard, though it is long 
 since I have recovered my natural form and 
 pleasing tone of voice. Would they but receive 
 my visits kindly, and listen to what I could tell 
 them let me say it without vanity how charm- 
 ing a companion should I be ! to every one could 
 I talk on the subjects most interesting and most 
 pleasing. With the great and ambitious, I 
 would discourse of honours and advancement.^ 
 of distinctions to which the whole world should 
 be witness, of unenvied dignities and durabl i 
 preferments. To the rich 1 would tell of inex- 
 haustible treasures, and the sure method to at- 
 | tain them. I would teach them to put out their 
 money on the best interest, and instruct the 
 lovers of pleasure how to secure and improve it 
 to the highest degree. The beauty should learn 
 of me how to preserve an everlasting bloom. Ta 
 the afflicted I wouH administer comfort, and re- 
 laxation to the bufy, 
 
 As I dare promise myself you will attest the 
 truth of all I have advanced, there is no doubt 
 but many will be desirous of improving their ac- 
 quaintance with me ; and that I may not be 
 thought too difficult, 1 will tell you, in short, how 
 I wish to be received. 
 
 You must know I equally hate lazy idleness 
 and hurry. I would every where be welcomed 
 at a tolerably early hour with decent good-hu- 
 mour and 1 gratitude. I must be attended in the 
 great halls, peculiarly appropriated to me, with 
 respect ; but I do not insist upon finery : pro- 
 priety of appearance, and perfect neatness, is all 
 I require. I must at dinner be treated with a 
 temperate, but cheerful social meal ; both the 
 neighbours and the poor should be the better for 
 me. Some time I must have tete-a-tete with my 
 kind entertainers, and the rest of my visit should 
 be spent in pleasant walks and airings among 
 sets of agreeable people, in such discourse as I 
 shall naturally dictate, or in reading some lew 
 selected out of those numberless books that are,.
 
 No. 31.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 59 
 
 dedicated to me, and go by my name. A name 
 that, alas ! as the world stands at present, makes 
 them oftener thrown aside than taken up. As 
 those conversations and books should be both 
 well chosen, to give some advice on that head 
 may possibly furnish you with a future paper, 
 and any thing you shall offer on my behalf will 
 be of great service to, 
 
 Good Mr. Rambler, 
 
 Your faithful friend and sen-ant, 
 
 SUNDAY.* 
 
 No. 31.] TUESDAY, JULY 3, 1750. 
 
 Ifon ego mendosos ausim defenders mores, 
 Falsaque provitiis anna tentre meis. OVID. 
 
 Corrupted manners I shall ne'er defend ; 
 Nor, falsely witty, for my faults contend. 
 
 ELPHINSTON. 
 
 THOUGH the fallibility of man's reason, and the 
 narrowness of his knowledge, are very liberally 
 confessed, yet the conduct of those who so will- 
 ingly admit the weakness of human nature, 
 seems to discern that this acknowledgment is 
 not altogether sincere ; at least, that most make 
 it with a tacit reserve in favour of themselves, and 
 that with whatever ease they give up the claim 
 of their neighbours, they are desirous of being 
 thought exempt from faults in their own conduct, 
 and from error in their opinions. 
 
 The certain and obstinate opposition, which 
 we may observe made to confutation however 
 clear, and to reproof however tender, is an un- 
 doubted argument, that some dormant privilege 
 is thought to be attacked ; for as no man can lose 
 what he neither possesses, nor imagines himself 
 to possess, or be defrauded of that to which he 
 has no right, it is reasonable to suppose that 
 those who break out into fury at the softest con- 
 tradiction, or the slightest censure, since they 
 apparently conclude themselves injured, must 
 fancy some ancient immunity violated, or some 
 natural prerogative invaded. To be mistaken, 
 if they thought themselves liable to mistake, 
 could not be considered, as either shameful or 
 wonderful, and they would not receive with so 
 much emotion intelligence which only informed 
 them of what they knew before, nor struggle with 
 such earnestness against an attack that deprived 
 them of nothing to which they held themselves 
 entitled. 
 
 It is related of one of the philosophers, that 
 when ah account was brought him of his son's 
 death, he received it only with this reflection, / 
 knew that my son was mortal. He that is con- 
 vinced of an error, if he had the same knowledge 
 of his own weakness, would, instead of strain- 
 ing for artifices, and brooding malignity, only 
 regard such oversights as the appendages of 
 humanity, and pacify himself with considering 
 that he had always known man to be a fallible 
 being. 
 
 If it be true that most of our passions are ex- 
 cited by the novelty of objects, there is little rea- 
 
 * This paper was written by Miss Catharine Talbot, 
 laughter to the Rev. Ed. Talbot, archdeacon of Berks, 
 and"preacher at the Rolls. She died Jan. 9, 1770. See 
 Preface to the Rambler, in " British Essayist?." vol. 
 lix - C. 
 
 son for doubting, that to be considered as subject 
 to fallacies of ratiocination, or imperfection of 
 knowledge, is to a great part of mankind entirely 
 new ; for it is impossible to fall into any com- 
 pany where there is not some regular and es- 
 tablished subordination, without finding rage 
 and vehemence produced only by difference of 
 sentiments about things in which neither of the 
 disputants have any other interest, than what 
 proceeds from their mutual unwillingness to give 
 way to any opinion that may bring upon them 
 the disgrace of being wrong. 
 
 I have heard of one that, having advanced some 
 erroneous doctrines in philosophy, refused to see 
 the experiments by which they were confuted : 
 and the observation of every day will give new 
 proofs with how much industry subterfuges ana 
 evasions are sought to decline the pressure of re- 
 sistless arguments, how often the state of the 
 question is altered, how often the antagonist is 
 wilfully misrepresented, and in how much per- 
 plexity the clearest positions are involved by 
 those whom they happen to oppose. 
 
 Of all mortals none seem to have been more 
 infected with this species of vanity, than the race 
 of writers, whose reputation, arising solely from 
 their understanding, gives them a very delicate 
 sensibility of any violence attempted on their 
 literary honour. It is not unpleasing to remark 
 with what solicitude men of acknowledged abili- 
 ties will endeavour to palliate absurdities and 
 reconcile contradictions, only to obviate criti- 
 cisms to which all human performances must 
 ever be exposed, and from which they can never 
 suffer, but when they teach the world, by a vain 
 and ridiculous impatience, to think them of im- 
 portance. 
 
 Dryden, whose warmth of fancy, and haste 
 of composition, very frequently hurried him 
 into inaccuracies, heard himself sometimes Ex- 
 posed to ridicule for having said in one of his 
 tragedies, 
 
 I follow fate, which does too fast pursue. 
 
 That no man could at once follow and be fol- 
 lowed, was, it may be thought, too plain to be 
 long disputed ; and the truth is, that Dryden 
 was apparently betrayed into the blunder by the 
 double meaning of the word Fate, to which in 
 the former part of the verse he had annexed the 
 idea of Fortune, and in the latter that of Death ; 
 so that the sense only was, Though pursued by 
 Death, I icill not resign myself to despair, but will 
 follow Fortune, and do and suffer what is appointed. 
 This, however, was not completely expressed, 
 and Dryden being determined not to give way to 
 his critics, never confessed that he had been sur- 
 prised by an ambiguity ; but finding luckily in 
 Virgil an account of a man moving in a circle, 
 with this expression, Et se sequiturque fugitque, 
 "Here," says he, " is the passage in imitation of 
 which I wrote the line that my critics were pleas- 
 ed to condemn as nonsense; not but I may 
 sometimes write nonsense, though they have 
 not the fortune to find it." 
 
 Every one sees the folly of such mean dou- 
 blings to escape the pursuit of criticism ; nor is 
 there a single reader of this poet, who would not 
 have paid him greater veneration, had he shown 
 consciousness enough of his own superiority to 
 set such cavils at defiance, and owned that he
 
 60 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 32. 
 
 sometimes slipped into errors by the tumult of 
 his imagination, and the multitude of his ideas. 
 
 It is happy when l\i\s temper discovers itself 
 only in little things, which may he right or wrong 
 without any influence on the virtue or happiness 
 of mankind. We may, with very little inquie- 
 tude, see a man persist in a project which he has 
 found to be impracticable, live in an inconveni- 
 ent house because it was contrived by himself, or 
 wear a coat of a particular cut, in hopes by per- 
 severance to bring it into fashion. These are 
 indeed follies, but they are only follies, and, 
 however wild and ridiculous, can very little af- 
 fect others. 
 
 But such pride, once indulged, too frequently 
 operates upon more important objects, and in- 
 clines men not only to vindicate their errors, but 
 their vices; to persist in practices which their 
 own hearts condemn, only lest they should seem 
 to feel reproaches, or be made wiser by the ad- 
 vice of others ; or to search for sophisms tending 
 to the confusion of all principles, and the evacu- 
 ation of all duties, that they may not appear to 
 act what they are not able to defend. 
 
 Let every man, who finds vanity so far predo- 
 minant, as to betray him to the danger of this 
 last degree of corruption, pause a moment to 
 consider what will be the consequences of the 
 pica which he is about to offer for a practice to 
 which he knows himself not led at first by rea- 
 son, but impelled by the violence of desire, sur- 
 prised by the suddenness of passion, or seduced 
 by the soft approaches of temptation, and by im- 
 perceptible gradations of guilt Let him consi- 
 der what he is going to commit, by forcing his 
 understanding to patronise those appetites, which 
 it is its chief business to hinder and reform. 
 
 The cause of virtue requires so little art to de- 
 fend it, and good and evil, when they have been 
 once shown, are so easily distinguished, that 
 such apologists seldom gain proselytes to their 
 party, nor have their fallacies power to deceive 
 any'but those whose desires have clouded their 
 discernment. All that the best faculties thus 
 employed can perform is, to persuade the hear- 
 ers that the man is hopeless whom they only 
 thought vicious, that corruption has passed from 
 his manners to his principles, that all endea- 
 vours for his recovery are without prospect of 
 success, and that nothing remains but to avoid 
 him as infectious, or hunt him down as destruc- 
 tive. 
 
 But if it be supposed that he may impoae on 
 his audience by partial representations of con- 
 sequences, intricate deductions of remote causes, 
 or perplexed combinations of ideas, which, hav- 
 ing various relations, appear different as viewed 
 on different sides ; that he may sometimes puz- 
 zle the weak and well-meaning, and now and 
 then seduce, by the admiration of his abilities, a 
 young mind still fluctuating in unsettled notions, 
 and neither fortified by instniction nor enlight- 
 ened by experience ; yet what must be the event 
 of such a triumph ! A man cannot spend all this 
 life in frolic : age, or disease, or solitude, will 
 bring some hours of serious consideration, and 
 it will then afford no comfort to think, that he has 
 extended the dominion of vice, that he has load- 
 ed himself with the crimes of others, and can 
 never know the extent of his own wickedness, or 
 make reparation for the mischief that he has 
 caused. There is not, perhaps, in all the stores 
 
 of ideal anguish, a thought more painful, than 
 the consciousness of having propagated corrup- 
 tion by vitiating principles, of having not only 
 drawn others from the paths of virtue, but block- 
 ed up the way by which they should return, of 
 having blinded them to every beauty but the 
 paint of pleasure, and deafened them to every 
 call but the alluring voice of the syrens of de 
 struction. 
 
 There is yet another danger in this practice . 
 men who cannot deceive others, are very often 
 successful in deceiving themselves; they weave 
 their sophistry till their own reason is entangled, 
 and repeat their positions till they are credited 
 by themselves ; by often contending they grow 
 sincere in the cause ; and by long wishing for 
 demonstrative arguments, they at last bring 
 themselves to fancy that they have found them. 
 They are then at the uttermost verge of wicked- 
 ness, and may die without having that light TC- 
 kindled in their minds, which their own pride 
 and contumacy have extinguished. 
 
 The men who can be charged with fewest fail- 
 ings, either with respect to abilities or virtue, are 
 generally most ready to allow them; for, not to 
 dwell on things of solemn and awful considera- 
 tion, the humility of confessors, the tears of 
 saints, and the dying terrors of persons eminent 
 for piety and innocence, it is well known that 
 Caesar wrote an account of the errors committed 
 by him in his wars of Gaul, and that Hippocra- 
 tes, whose name is perhaps in rational estima- 
 tion greater than Caesar's, warned posterity 
 against a mistake into which he had fallen. "So 
 much," says Celsus, "does the open and artless 
 confession of an error become a man conscious 
 that he has enough remaining to support his 
 character." 
 
 As all error is meanness, it is incumbent on 
 every man who consults his own dignity, to re- 
 tract it as soon as he discovers it, without fear- 
 ing any censure so much as that of his own mind. 
 As justice requires that all injuries should be re- 
 paired, it is the duty of him who has seduced 
 others by bad practices or false notions, to en- 
 deavour that such as have adopted his errors 
 should know his retraction, and that those who 
 have learned vice by his example, should by his 
 example be taught amendment. 
 
 No. 32.] SATURDAY, JULY 7, 1750. 
 
 *O<r<ra re. Saipovtr/ai ri^ai 
 T iiv av ftoigav iffis, irpawf 
 'lao-Oai &t Trpiirti KaQoaov 
 
 Of all the woes that load the mortal state, 
 
 Whate'er thy portion, mildly meet thy fate; 
 
 But ease it as thou canst. - " ELPHINSTON. 
 
 So large a part of human life passes in a state 
 contrary to our natural desires, that one of the 
 principal topics of moral instruction is the art of 
 bearing calamities. And such is the certainty of 
 evil, that it is the duty of every man to furnish 
 his mind with those principles that may enable 
 him to act under it with decency and propriety. 
 The sect of ancient philosophers, that boasted 
 to have carried this necessary science to the high- 
 est perfection, were the stoics, or scholars of
 
 No. 32.J 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 61 
 
 Zeno, whose wild enthusiastic virtue pretended 
 to an exemption from the sensibilities of unen- 
 lightened mortals, and who proclaimed them- 
 selves exalted, by the doctrines of their sect, 
 above the reach of those miseries which embitter 
 life to the rest of the world. They therefore re- 
 moved pain, poverty, loss of friends, exile, and 
 violent death, from the catalogue of evils ; and 
 passed, in their haughty style, a kind of irrever- 
 sible decree, by which they forbade them to be 
 counted any longer among the objects of terror 
 or anxiety, or to give any disturbance to the tran- 
 quillity of a wise man. 
 
 This edict was, I think, not universally observ- 
 ed : for though one of the more resolute, when 
 he was tortured by a violent disease, cried out, 
 that let pain harass him to its utmost power, it 
 should never force him to consider it as other 
 than indifferent and neutral ; yet all had not stub- 
 bornness to hold out against their senses ; for a 
 weaker pupil of Zeno is recorded to have con- 
 fessed in the anguish of the gout, that he now 
 found pain to be an esU. 
 
 It may however be questioned, whether these 
 philosophers can be very properly numbered 
 among the teachers of patience ; for if pain be not 
 an evil, there seems no instruction requisite how 
 it may be borne ; and, therefore, when they en- 
 deavour to arm their followers with arguments 
 against it, they may be thought to have given up 
 their first position. But such inconsistencies are 
 to be expected from the greatest understandings, 
 when they endeavour to grow eminent by singu- 
 larity, and employ their strength in establishing 
 opinions opposite to nature. 
 
 The controversy about the reality of external 
 evils is now at an end. That life has many 
 miseries, and that those miseries are, sometimes 
 at least, equal to all the powers of fortitude, is 
 now universally confessed ; and therefore it is 
 useful to consider not only how we may escape 
 them, but by what means those which either the 
 accidents of affairs, or the infirmities of nature, 
 must bring upon us, may be mitigated and light- 
 ened, and how we may make those hours less 
 wretched, which the condition of our present ex- 
 istence will not allow to be very happy. 
 
 The cure for the greatest part of human miseries 
 is not radical, but palliative. Infelicity is involv- 
 ed in corporeal nature, and interwoven with our 
 being ; all attempts therefore to decline it wholly 
 are useless and vain ; the armies of pain send 
 their arrows against us on every side, the choice 
 is only between those which are more or less 
 sharp, or tinged with poison of greater or less 
 malignity ; and the strongest armour which rea- 
 son can supply, will only blunt their points, but 
 cannot repel them. 
 
 The great remedy which Heaven has put in 
 our hands is patience, by which, though we can- 
 not lessen the torments of the body, we can in a 
 great measure preserve the peace of the mind, 
 and shall suffer only the natural and genuine 
 force of an evil, without heightening its acrimo- 
 ny, or prolonging its effects. 
 
 There is indeed nothing more unsuitable to 
 the nature of man in any calamity than rage and 
 turbulence, which, without examining whether 
 they are not sometimes impious, are at least 
 always offensive, and incline others rather to 
 hate and despise than to pity and assist us. If 
 what we suffer has been brought upon us by 
 
 ourselves, it is observed by an ancient poet, that 
 patience is eminently our duty, since no one 
 should be angry at feeling that which he has 
 deserved. 
 
 Lc niter ex merito quiequid patiare ferendum en. 
 Let pain deserved without complaint be borne. 
 
 And surely, if we are conscious that we have not 
 contributed to our own sufferings, if punishment 
 falls upon innocence, or disappointment happens 
 to industry and prudence, patience, whether 
 more necessary or not, is much easier, since our 
 pain is then without aggravation, and we have 
 not the bitterness of remorse to add to the aspe- 
 rity of misfortune. 
 
 In those evils which are allotted to us by Provi- 
 dence, such as deformity, privation of any of the 
 senses, or old age, it is always to be remembered, 
 that impatience can have no present effect, but 
 to deprive us of the consolations which our con- 
 dition admits, by driving away from us those by 
 whose conversation or advice we might be 
 amused or helped ; and that with regard to futu 
 rity it is yet less to be justified, since, without 
 lessening the pain, it cuts off the hope of that re- 
 ward which He, by whom it is inflicted, will con- 
 fer upon them that bear it well. 
 
 In all evils which admit a remedy, impatience 
 is to be avoided, because it wastes that time and 
 attention in complaints, that, if properly applied, 
 might remove the cause. Turenne, among the 
 acknowledgments which he used to pay in con- 
 versation to the memory of those by whom he 
 bad been instructed in the art of war, mentioned 
 one with honour, who taught him not to spend 
 !iis time in regretting any mistake which he had 
 made, but to set himself immediately and vigor- 
 ously to repair it 
 
 Patience and submission are very carefully to 
 je distinguished from cowardice and indolence. 
 We are not to repine, but we may lawfully strug- 
 gle ; for the calamities of life, like the necessities 
 of nature, are calls to labour and exercises of 
 diligence. When we feel any pressure of dis- 
 ;ress, we are not to conclude that we can only 
 obey the will of Heaven by languishing under it, 
 any more than when we perceive the pain of 
 hirst, we are to imagine that water is prohibited. 
 Of misfortune it never can be certainly known 
 whether, as proceeding from the hand of God, it 
 s an act of favour or of punishment : but since 
 all the ordinary dispensations of Providence are 
 ;o be interpreted according to the general analo- 
 gy of things, we may conclude that we have a right 
 ;o remove one inconvenience as well as another; 
 ;hat we are only to take care lest we purchase 
 ease with guilt ; and that our Maker's purpose, 
 whether of reward or severity, will be answered 
 ly the labours which he lays us under the neces- 
 sity of performing. 
 
 This duty is not more difficult in any state than 
 n diseases intensely painful, which may indeed 
 suffer such exacerbations as seem to strain the 
 jowers of life to their utmost stretch, and leave 
 y little of the attention vacant to precept or 
 reproof. In this state the nature of man requires 
 some indulgence, and every extravagance but 
 mpiety may be easily forgiven him. Yet, lest 
 we should think ourselves too soon entitled to 
 the mournful privileges of irresistible misery, it is 
 proper to reflect, that the utmost anguish which
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 33. 
 
 human wit can contrive, or human malice can in- 
 flict, has been borne with constancy ; and that if 
 the pains of disease be, as I believe they are, 
 sometimes greater than those of artificial torture, 
 they are therefore in their own nature shorter : 
 the vital frame is quickly broken, or the union 
 between soul and body is for a time suspended 
 by insensibility, and we soon cease to feel our 
 maladies when they once become too violent to 
 be borne. I think there is some reason for ques- 
 tioning whether the body and mind are not so 
 proportioned, that the one can bear all that can 
 be inflicted on the other, whether virtue cannot 
 stand its ground as long as life, and whether a 
 soul well principled will not be separated sooner 
 than subdued. 
 
 In calamities which operate chiefly on our 
 passions, such as diminution of fortune, loss of 
 friends, or declension of character, the chief dan- 
 ger of impatience is upon the first attack, and 
 many expedients have been contrived, by which 
 the blow may be broken. Of these the most 
 general precept is, not to take pleasure in any 
 thing, of which it is not in our power to secure 
 the possession to ourselves. This counsel, when 
 we consider the enjoyment of any terrestrial ad- 
 vantage, as opposite to a constant and habitual 
 solicitude for future felicity, is undoubtedly just, 
 and delivered by that authority which cannot be 
 disputed ; but, in any other sense, is it not like 
 advice, not to walk lest we should stumble, or 
 not to see lest our eyes should light upon de- 
 formity? It seems to me reasonable to enjoy 
 blessings with confidence, as well as to resign 
 them with submission, and to hope for the con- 
 tinuance of good which we possess without inso- 
 lence or voluptuousness, as for the restitution of 
 that which we lose without despondency or mur- 
 murs. 
 
 The chief security against the fruitless an- 
 guish of impatience, must arise from frequent 
 reflection on the wisdom and goodness of the 
 God of nature, in whose hands are riches and 
 poverty, honour and disgrace, pleasure and pain, 
 and life and death. A settled conviction of the 
 tendency of every thing to our good, and of the 
 possibility of turning miseries into happiness, 
 by receiving them rightly, will incline us to 
 bless the name of the Lord, whether he gives or 
 takes away. 
 
 No. 33.] TUESDAY, JULY 10, 1750. 
 
 Quod caret alterna requie durdbile non est. 
 
 OVID. 
 
 Alternate rest and labour long endure. 
 
 IN the early ages of the world, as is well known 
 to those who are versed in ancient traditions, 
 when innocence was yet untainted, and simpli- 
 city unadulterated, mankind was happy in the 
 enjoyment of continual pleasure, and constant 
 plenty, under the protection of Rest; a gentle di- 
 vinity, who required of her-worshippers neither 
 altars nor sacrifices, and whose rites were only 
 performed by prostrations upon turfs of flowers 
 in shades of jasmine and myrtle, or by dances on 
 the banks of rivers flowing with milk and nectar. 
 Under this easy government the first genera- 
 tions breathed the fragrance of perpetual spring, 
 
 ate the fruits, which, without culture, fell ripe 
 into their hands, and slept under bowers arched 
 by nature, with the birds singing over their 
 heads, and the beasts sporting about them. But 
 by degrees they began to lose their original in- 
 tegrity ; each, though there was more than 
 enough for all, was desirous of appropriating 
 part to himself. Then entered violence and 
 fraud, and theft, and rapine. Soon after pride 
 and envy broke into the world, and brought with 
 them a new standard of wealth ; for men, who 
 till then thought themselves rich when they want- 
 ed nothing, now rated their demands, not by the 
 calls of nature, but by the plenty of others ; and 
 began to consider themselves as poor, when they 
 beheld their own possessions exceeded by those 
 of their neighbours. Now only one could be 
 happy, because only one could have most, and 
 that one was always in danger, lest the same 
 arts by which he had supplanted others should 
 be practised upon himself. 
 
 Amidst the prevalence of this corruption, the 
 state of the earth was changed ; the year was di- 
 vided into seasons : part of the ground became 
 barren, and the rest yielded only berries, acorns, 
 and herbs. The summer and autumn indeed 
 furnished a coarse and inelegant sufficiency, but 
 winter was without any relief; Famine, with a 
 thousand diseases which the inclemency of the 
 air invited into the upper regions, made havoc 
 among men, and there appeared to be danger 
 lest they should be destroyed before they were 
 reformed. 
 
 To oppose the devastations of Famine, who 
 scattered the ground every where with carcasses, 
 Labour came down upon earth. Labour was the 
 son of Necessity, the nurseling of Hope, and the 
 pupil of Art ; he had the strength of his mother, 
 the spirit of his nurse, and the dexterity of his 
 governess. His face was wrinkled with the 
 wind, and swarthy with the sun : he had the im- 
 plements of husbandry in one hand, with which 
 he turned up the earth ; in the other he had the 
 tools of architecture, and raised walls and towers 
 at his pleasure. He called out with a rough 
 voice, "Mortals! see here the power to whom 
 you are consigned, and from whom you are to 
 hope for all your pleasures, and all your safety. 
 You have long languished under the dominion 
 of Rest, an impotent and deceitful goddess, who 
 can neither protect nor relieve you, but resigns 
 you to the first attacks of either Famine or Dis- 
 ease, and suffers her shades to be invaded by 
 every enemy, and destroyed by every accident. 
 
 " Awake therefore to the call of Labour. I 
 will teach you to remedy the sterility of the earth, 
 and the severity of the sky ; I will compel sum- 
 mer to find provisions for the winter ; T will force 
 the waters to give you their fish, the air its fowls, 
 and the forest its beasts; I will teach you to pierce 
 the bowels of the earth, and bring out from the 
 caverns of the mountains metals which shall eive 
 strength to your hands, and security to your bo- 
 die?, by which you may be covered'from the as- 
 saults of the fiercest beasts, and witli which you 
 shall fell the oak, and divide rocks, and subject 
 all nature to your use and pleasure." 
 
 Encouraged by this magnificent invitation, the 
 inhabitants of the globe considered Labour as 
 their only friend, and hasted to his command. 
 He led them out to the fields and mountains, and 
 showed them how to open mines, to level hills, to
 
 No. 34.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 63 
 
 drain marshes, and change the course of rivers. 
 The face of things was immediately transformed; 
 the land was covered with towns and villages, 
 encompassed with fields of corn, and plantations 
 of fruit-trees : and nothing was seen but heaps 
 of grain, and baskets of fruit, full tables, and 
 crowded storehouses. 
 
 Thus Labour and his followers added every 
 hour new acquisitions to their conquests, and 
 saw Famine gradually dispossessed of his domi- 
 nions ; till at last, amidst their jollity and tri- 
 umphs, they were depressed and amazed by the 
 approach of Lassitude, who was known by her 
 sunk eyes and dejected countenance. She came 
 forward trembling and groaning; at every groan 
 the hearts of all those that beheld her lost their 
 courage, their nerves slackened, their hands 
 shook, and the instruments of labour fell from 
 their grasp. 
 
 Shocked with this horrid phantom, they re- 
 flected with regret on their easy compliance with 
 the solicitations of Labour, and began to wish 
 again for the golden hours which they remember- 
 ed to have passed under the reign of Rest, whom 
 they resolved again to visit, and to whom they 
 intended to dedicate the remaining part of their 
 lives. Rest had not left the world ; they quickly 
 found her, and, to atone for their former deser- 
 tion, invited her to the enjoyment of those acqui- 
 sitions which Labour had procured them. 
 
 Rest therefore took leave of the groves and 
 valleys, which she had hitherto inhabited, and 
 entered into palaces, reposed herself in alcoves, 
 and slumbered away the winter upon beds of 
 down, and the summer in artificial grottos with 
 cascades playing before her. There was indeed 
 always something wanting to complete her feli- 
 city, and she could never lull her returning fugi- 
 tives to that serenity which they knew before 
 their engagements with Labour: nor was her 
 dominion entirely without control, for she was 
 obliged to share it wjth Luxury, though she al- 
 ways looked upon her as a false friend, by whom 
 her influence was in reality destroyed, while it 
 seemed to be promoted. 
 
 The two soft associates, however, reigned for 
 some time without visible disagreement, till at last 
 Luxury betrayed her charge, and let in Disease 
 to seize upon her worshippers. Rest then flew 
 away, and left the place to the usurpers ; who 
 employed all their arts to fortify themselves in 
 their possession, and to strengthen the interest 
 of each other. 
 
 Rest had not always the same enemy ; in some 
 places she escaped the incursions of Disease ; 
 but had her residence invaded by a more slow 
 and subtle intruder, for very frequently, when 
 every thing was composed and quiet, when there 
 was neither pain within, nor danger without, 
 when every flower was in bloom, and every gale 
 freighted with perfumes, Satiety would enter with 
 a languishing and repining look, and throw her- 
 self upon the couch placed and adorned for the 
 accommodation of Rest No sooner was she 
 seated than a general gloom spread itself on 
 every side, the groves immediately lost their ver- 
 dure, and their inhabitants desisted from their 
 melody, the breeze sunk in sighs, and the flow- 
 ers- contracted their leaves, and shut up their 
 odours. Nothing was seen on every side but 
 multitudes wandering about they knew not 
 whither, in quest they knew not of what ; no 
 
 voice was heard but of complaints that mention- 
 ed no pain, and murmurs that could tell of no. 
 misfortune. 
 
 Rest had now lost her authority. Her fol- 
 lowers again began to treat her with contempt; 
 some of them united themselves more closely to 
 Luxury, who promised by her arts to drive Satie- 
 ty away ; and others, that were more wise, or 
 had more fortitude, went back again to Labour, 
 by whom they were indeed protected from Satie- 
 ty, but delivered up in time to Lassitude, and 
 forced by her to the bowers of Rest. 
 
 Thus Rest and Labour equally perceived their 
 reign of short duration and uncertain tenure, and 
 their empire liable to inroads from those who 
 were alike enemies to both. They each found 
 their subjects unfaithful, and ready to desert them 
 upon every opportunity. Labour saw the riches 
 which he had given always carried away as an 
 offering to Rest, and Rest found her votaries in 
 every exigence flying from her to beg help of La- 
 bour. They, therefore, at last determined upon 
 an interview, in which they agreed to divide the 
 world between them, and govern it alternately, 
 allotting the dominion of the day to one, and 
 that of the night to the other, and promised to 
 guard the frontiers of each other, so that, when- 
 ever hostilities were attempted, Satiety should 
 be intercepted by Labour, and Lassitude expel- 
 led by Rest. Thus the ancient quarrel was ap- 
 peased, and as hatred is often succeeded by its 
 contrary, Rest afterwards became pregnant by 
 Labour, and was delivered of Health, a benevo- 
 lent goddess, who consolidated the union of her 
 parents, and contributed to the regular vicissi- 
 tudes of their reign, by dispensing her gifts to 
 those only who shared their lives in just propor- 
 tions between Rest and Labour. 
 
 No. 34.] SATURDAY, JULY 14, 1750. 
 
 Kim sine vano 
 
 Av.ra.rum et silvte metu. HOR. 
 
 Alarmed with every rising gale, 
 
 la every wood, in every vale ELPHINSTON. 
 
 I HAVE been censured for having hitherto dedica- 
 ted so few of my speculations to the ladies ; and 
 indeed the moralist, whose instructions are ac- 
 commodated only to one half of the human spe- 
 cies, must be confessed not sufficiently to have 
 extended his views. Yet it is to be considered, 
 that masculine duties afford more room for coun- 
 sels and obseivations, as they are less uniform, 
 and connected with things more subject to vicis- 
 situde and accident ; we therefore find that in 
 philosophical discourses which teach by precept, 
 or historical narratives that instruct by example, 
 the peculiar virtues or faults of women fill but a 
 small part ; perhaps, generally, too small, for so 
 much of our domestic happiness is in their hands, 
 and their influence is so great upon our earliest 
 years, that the universal interest of the world 
 requires them to be well instructed in their pro- 
 vince ; nor can it be thought proper that the quali 
 ties by which so much pain or pleasure may be 
 triven, should be left to the direction of chance. 
 to I have, therefore, willingly given a place in my 
 paper to a letter, which, perhaps, may not be 
 wholly useless to them whose chief ambition is to
 
 64 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 34. 
 
 please, as it shows how certainly the end is miss- 
 ed by absurd and injudicious endeavours at dis- 
 tinction. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I AM a young gentleman at my own disposal, 
 with a considerable estate ; and having passed 
 through the common forms of education, spent 
 some time in foreign countries, and made myself 
 distinguished since my return in the politest 
 company, I am now arrived at that part of life in 
 which every man is expected to settle, and pro- 
 vide for the continuation of his lineage. I with- 
 stood for some time the solicitations and remon- 
 strances of my aunts and uncles, but at last was 
 persuaded to visit Anthea, an heiress, whose land 
 lies contiguous to mine, and whose birth and 
 beauty are without objection. Our friends de- 
 clared that we were born for each other ; all those 
 on both sides who had no interest in hindering 
 our union, contributed to promote it, and were 
 conspiring to hurry us into matrimony, before we 
 had any opportnnity of knowing one another. I 
 was, however, too old to be given away without 
 my own consent ; and having happened to pick 
 up an opinion, which to many of my relations 
 seemed extremely odd, that a man might bo un- 
 happy with a large estate, determined to obtain 
 a nearer knowledge of the person with whom I 
 was to pass the remainder of my time. To pro- 
 tract the courtship was by no means difficult, for 
 Anthea had a wonderful facility of evading ques- 
 tions which I seldom repeated, and of barring 
 approaches which I had no great eagerness to 
 press. 
 
 Thus the time passed away in visits and civili- 
 ties without any ardent professions of love, or 
 formal offers of settlements. I often attended 
 her to public places, in which, as is well known, 
 all behaviour is so much regulated by custom, 
 that very little insight can be gained into the 
 private character, and therefore I was not yet 
 able to inform myself of her humour and incli- 
 nations. 
 
 At last I ventured to propose to her to make 
 one of a small party, and spend a day in viewing 
 a seat and gardens a few miles distant ; and hav- 
 ing, upon her compliance, collected the rest of the 
 company, I brought, at the hour, a coach which 
 I had borrowed from an acquaintance, having 
 delayed to buy one myself till I should have an 
 opportunity of taking the lady's opinion, for 
 whose use it was intended. Anthea came down, 
 but as she was going to step into the coach, start- 
 ed back with great appearance of terror, and 
 told us that she durst not enter, for the shocking 
 colour of the lining had so much the air of the 
 mourning-coach in which she followed her aunt's 
 funeral three years before, that she should never 
 have her poor dear aunt out of her head. 
 
 I knew that it was not for lovers to argue with 
 their mistresses ; I therefore sent back the coach, 
 and got another more gay. Into this we all en- 
 tered, the coachman began to drive, and we were 
 amusing ourselves with the expectation of what 
 we should see, when, upon a small inclination 
 of the carriage, Anthea screamed out that we 
 were overthrown. We were obliged to fix all 
 our attention upon her, which she took care to 
 keep up by renewing her outcries, at every cor- 
 
 ner where we had occasion to turn ; at intervals 
 she entertained us with fretful complaints of the 
 uneasiness of the coach, and obliged me to call 
 several times on the coachman to take care and 
 drive without jolting. The poor fellow endea- 
 voured to please us, and therefore moved verj 
 slowly, till Anthea found out that this pace would 
 only keep us longer on the stones, and desired 
 that I would order him to make more speed. 
 He whipped his horses, the coach jolted again, 
 and Anthea very complaisantly told us how 
 much she repented that she made one of our 
 company. 
 
 At last we got into the smooth road, and be- 
 gan to think our difficulties at an end, when, on 
 a sudden, Anthea saw a brook before us, which 
 she could not venture to pass. We were, there- 
 fore, obliged to alight, that we might walk over 
 the bridge ; but when we came to it, we found it 
 so narrow, that Anthea durst not set her foot 
 upon it, and was content, after long consultation, 
 to call the coach back, and with innumerable 
 precautions, terrors and lamentations, crossed 
 the brook. 
 
 It was necessary after this delay to mend our 
 pace, and directions were accordingly given to 
 the coachman, when Anthea informed us, that 
 it was common for the axle to catch fire with a 
 quick motion, and begged of me to look out every 
 minute, lest we should all be consumed. I was 
 forced to obey, and give her from time to time 
 the most solemn declarations that all was safe, 
 and that I hoped we should reach the place with- 
 out losing our lives either by fire or water. 
 
 Thus we passed on, over ways soft and hard, 
 with more or with less speed, but always with 
 new vicissitudes of anxiety. If the ground was 
 hard, we were jolted; if soft, we were sinking. 
 If we went fast we should be overturned; if slow- 
 ly, we should never reach the place. At length 
 she saw something which she called a cloud, and 
 began to consider that at that time of the year it 
 frequently thundered. This seemed to be the 
 capital terror, for after that the coach was suffer- 
 ed to move on ; and no danger was thought too 
 dreadful to be encountered, provided she could 
 get into a Jiouse before the thunder. 
 
 Thus our whole conversation passed in dan- 
 gers, and cares, and fears, and consolations, and 
 stories of ladies dragged in the mire, forced to 
 spend all the night on a heath, drowned in ri- 
 vers, or burnt with lightning; and no sooner had 
 a hairbreadth escape set us free from one calami- 
 ty, but we were threatened with another. 
 
 At length we reached the house where we in- 
 tended to regale ourselves, and I proposed to 
 Anthea the choice of a great number of dishes, 
 which the place, being well provided for enter- 
 tainment, happened to afford. She made some 
 objection to every thing that was offered ; one 
 thing she hated at that time of the year, another 
 she could not bear since she had seen it spoiled 
 at Lady Feedwell's table, another she was sure 
 they could not dress at this house, and another 
 she could not touch without French sauce. At 
 last, she fixed her mind upon salmon, but there 
 was no salmon in the house. It was however 
 procured with great expedition, and when it 
 came to the table, she found that her fright had 
 taken away her stomach, which indeed she 
 thought no great loss, for she could never believe 
 that any thing at an inn could be cleanly got.
 
 No. 35,] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 65 
 
 Dinner was now over, and the company pro- 
 posed, for I was now past the condition of mak- 
 ing overtures, that we should pursue our original 
 design of visiting the gardens. Anthea declared 
 that she could not imagine what pleasure we ex- 
 pected from the sight of a few green trees and a 
 little gravel, and two or three pits of clear water ; 
 that for her part she hated walking till the cool 
 of the evening, and thought it very likely to rain ; 
 and again wished that she had stayed at home. 
 We then reconciled ourselves to our disappoint- 
 ment, and began to talk on common subjects, 
 when Anthena told us that since we came to see 
 gardens, she would not hinder our satisfaction. 
 We all arose, and walked through the inclosures 
 for some time, with no other trouble than the ne- 
 cessity of watching lest a frog should hop across 
 the way, which Anthea told us would certainly 
 kill her, if she should happen to see him. 
 
 Frogs, as it fell out, there were none ; but when 
 we were within a furlong of the gardens, Anthea 
 saw some sheep, and heard the wether clink his 
 bell, which she was certain was not hung upon 
 him for nothing, and therefore no assurances nor 
 entreaties should prevail upon her to go a step 
 further ; she was sorry to disappoint the compa- 
 ny, hut her life was dearer to her than ceremony. 
 
 We came back to the inn, and Anthea now 
 discovered that there was no time to be lost in 
 returning, for the night would come upon us, and 
 a thousand misfortunes might happen in the dark. 
 The horses were immediately harnessed, and 
 Anthea, having wondered what could seduce her 
 to stay so long, was eager to set out. But we 
 had now a new scene of terror, every man we 
 saw was a robber, and we were ordered some- 
 times to drive hard, lest a traveller whom we 
 t>aw behind should overtake us ; and sometimes 
 to stop, lest we should come up to him who was 
 passing before us. She alarmed many an ho- 
 nest man, by begging him to spare her life as he 
 passed by the coach, and drew me into fifteen 
 quarrels with persons who increased her fright, 
 by kindly stopping to inquire whether they could 
 assist us. At last we came home, and she told 
 her company next day what a pleasant ri3e she 
 had been taking. 
 
 I suppose, Sir, I need not inquire of you what 
 deductions may be made from this narrative, nor 
 what happiness can arise from the society of that 
 woman who mistakes cowardice for elegance, 
 and imagines all delicacy to consist in refusing 
 to be pleased. 
 
 1 am, &c. 
 
 No. 35.] TUESDAY, JULY 17, 1750. 
 
 ITowpronuba Juno, 
 
 fion Hymenavs adesl, non illi gratia lecto. 
 
 Without connubial Juno's aid they wd ; 
 Nor Hymen nor the Graces bless the bed. 
 
 ELPHINSTON. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 As you have hitherto delayed the performance 
 of the promise, by which you gave us reason to 
 hope for another paper upon matrimony, I ima- 
 gine you desirous of collecting more materials 
 
 than your own experience or observation can 
 supply ; and I shall therefore lay candidly before 
 you an account of my own entrance into the 
 conjugal state. 
 
 I was about eight and twenty years old, when 
 having tried the diversions of the town till I be- 
 gan to be weary, and being awakened into at- 
 tention to more serious business, by the failure 
 of an attorney, to whom I had implicitly trusted 
 the conduct of my fortune, I resolved to take my 
 estate into my own care, and methodise my whole 
 life acording to the strictest rules of economical 
 prudence. 
 
 In pursuance of this scheme I took leave of 
 my acquaintance, who dismissed me with num- 
 berless jests upon my new system ; having first 
 endeavoured to divert me from a design so little 
 worthy of a man of wit, by ridiculous accounts 
 of the ignorance and rusticity into which many 
 had sunk in their retirement, after having distin- 
 guished themselves in taverns and play-houses, 
 and given hopes of rising to uncommon eminence 
 among the gay part of mankind. 
 
 When I came first into the country, which, by 
 a neglect not uncommon among young heirs, I 
 had never seen since the death of my father, I 
 found every thing in such confusion, that being 
 utterly without practice in business, I had great^ 
 difficulties to encounter in disentangling the per- 
 plexities of my circumstances ; they however 
 gave way to diligent application ; and I perce;-- 
 ed that the advantage of keeping my own ac- 
 counts would very much overbalance the time 
 which they could require. 
 
 I had now visiteo 1 my tenants, surveyed my 
 land, and repaired the old house, which, for some 
 years, had been running to decay. These proofs 
 of pecuniary wisdom began to recommend me as 
 a sober, judicious, thriving gentleman, to all my 
 graver neighbours of the country, who never fail- 
 ed to celebrate my management in opposition to 
 Thriftless and Latterwit, two smart fellows, who 
 had estates in the same part of the kingdom, 
 which they visited now and then in a frolic, to 
 take up their rents beforehand, debauch a milk- 
 maid, make a feast for the village, and tell sto- 
 ries of their own intrigues, and then rode post 
 back to town to spend their money. 
 
 It was doubtful, however, for some time, whe- 
 ther I should be able to hold my resolution ; but 
 a short perseverance removed all suspicions. I 
 rose every day in reputation, by the decency of 
 my conversation and the regularity of my con- 
 duct, and was mentioned with a great regard at 
 the assizes, as a man very fit to be put in coin , 
 mission for the peace. 
 
 During the confusion of my affairs, and the 
 daily necessity of visiting farms, adjusting con- 
 tracts, letting leases, and superintending repairs, 
 I found very little vacuity in my life, and there- 
 fore had not many thoughts of marriage ; but, in 
 a little while the tumult of business subsided, and 
 the exact method which I had established ena- 
 bled me to despatch my accounts with great fa- 
 cility. I had, therefore, now upon my hands, the 
 task of finding means to spend" my time, without 
 falling back into the poor amusements which I 
 had hitherto indulged, or changing them for the 
 sports of the field, which I saw pursued with so 
 much eagerness by the gentlemen of the country, 
 that they were indeed the only pleasures in 
 which I could promise myself any partaker.
 
 66 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 30. 
 
 The inconvenience of this situation naturally 
 disposed me to wish for a companion, and the 
 known value of my estate, with my reputation 
 for frugality and prudence, easily gained me ad- 
 mission into every family ; for I soon found that 
 no inquiry was made after any other virtue, nor 
 any testimonial necessary, but of my freedom 
 from incumbrances, and my care of what they 
 termed the main chance. I saw, not without in- 
 dignation, the eagerness with which the daugh- 
 ters, wherever I came, were set out to show ; nor 
 could I consider them in a state much different 
 from prostitution, when I found them ordered to 
 play their airs before me, and to exhibit, by some 
 seeming chance, specimens of their music, their 
 work, or their housewifery. No sooner was I 
 placed at table, than the young lady was called 
 upon to pay me some civility or other ; nor could 
 I find means of escaping, from either father or 
 mother, some account of their daughter's excel- 
 lences, with a declaration that they were now 
 leaving the world, and had no business on this 
 side the grave, but to see their children happily 
 disposed of; that she whom I had been pleased 
 to compliment at table was indeed the chief plea- 
 sure of their age, so good, so dutiful, so great a 
 relief to her mamma in the care of the house, and 
 so much her papa's favourite for her cheerfulness 
 and wit, that it would be with the last reluctance 
 that they should part ; but to a worthy gentleman 
 in the neighbourhood, whom they might often 
 visit, they would not so far consult their own 
 gratification, as to refuse her; and their tender- 
 ness should be shown in her fortune, whenever 
 a suitable settlement was proposed. 
 
 As I knew these overtures not to proceed from 
 any preference of me before another equally rich, 
 I could not but look with pity on young persons 
 condemned to be set to auction, and made cheap 
 by injudicious commendations ; for how could 
 they know themselves offered and rejected a 
 hundred times, without some loss of that soft 
 elevation, and maiden dignity, so necessary to 
 the completion of female excellence? 
 
 I shall not trouble you with a history of the 
 stratagems practised upon my judgment, or the 
 allurements tried upon my heart, which, if you 
 have, in any part of your life, been acquainted 
 with rural politics you will easily conceive. Their 
 arts have no great variety, they think nothing 
 worth their care but money, and supposing its 
 influence the same upon all the world, seldom 
 endeavour to deceive by any other means than 
 r alse computations. 
 
 I will not deny that, by hearing myself loudly 
 commended for my discretion, I began to set 
 some value upon my character, and was unwill- 
 ing to lose my credit by marrying for love. I 
 therefore resolved to know the fortune of the lady 
 whom I should address, before I inquired after 
 her wit, delicacy, or beauty. 
 
 This determination led me to Mitissa, the 
 daughter of Chrysophilus, whose person was at 
 least without deformity, and whose manners 
 were free from reproach, as she had been bred 
 up at a distance from all common temptations. 
 To Mitissa therefore I obtained leave from her 
 parents to pay my court, and was referred by her 
 again to her father, whose direction she was re- 
 solved to follow. The question then was, only, 
 what should be settled? The old gentleman 
 made an enormous demand, with which I refus- 
 
 ed to comply. Mitissa was ordered to exert hci 
 power; she told me, that if I could refuse her papa 
 I had no love for her; that she was an unhappy 
 creature, and that I was a perfidious man ; then 
 she burst into tears, and fell into fits. All this, 
 as I was no passionate lover, had little effect. 
 She next refused to see me, and because I thought 
 myself obliged to write in terms of distress, they 
 had once hopes of starving me into measures ; 
 but, finding me inflexible, the father complied 
 with my proposal, and told me he liked me the 
 more for being so good at a bargain. 
 
 I was now married to Alitissa, and was to ex- 
 perience the happiness of a match made without 
 passion. Mitissa soon discovered that she was 
 equally prudent with myself, and had taken a 
 husband only to be at her own command, and 
 have a chariot at her own call. She brought with 
 her an old maid recommended by her mother, 
 who taught her all the arts of domestic manage- 
 ment, and was, on every occasion, her chief agenl 
 and directress. They soon invented one reason 
 or other to quarrel with all my servants, and 
 either prevailed on me to turn them away, or 
 treated them so ill that they left me of themselves, 
 and always supplied their places with some 
 brought from my wife's relations. Thus they es- 
 tablished a family, over which I had no authori- 
 ty, and which was in a perpetual conspiracy 
 against me ; for Mitissa considered herself as 
 having a separate interest, and thought nothing 
 her own, but what she laid up without my know- 
 ledge. For this reason she brought me false ac- 
 counts of the expenses of the house, joined with 
 my tenants in complaints of hard times, and by 
 means of a steward of her own, took rewards for 
 soliciting abatements of the rent. Her great 
 hope is to outlive me, that she may enjoy what 
 she has thus accumulated, and therefore she is 
 always contriving some improvements of her 
 jointure land, and once tried to procure an in- 
 junction to hinder me from felling timber upon it 
 for repairs. Her father and mother assist her in 
 her projects, and are frequently hinting that she 
 is ill used, and reproaching me with the presents 
 that other ladies receive from their husbands. 
 
 Such, Sir, was my situation for seven years, 
 till at last my patience was exhausted, and hav- 
 ing one day invited her father to my house, I laid 
 the state of my affairs before him, detected my 
 wife in several of her frauds, turned out her stew- 
 ard, charged a constable with her maid, took my 
 business in my own hands, reduced her to a set- 
 tled allowance, and now write this account to 
 warn others against marrying those whom they 
 have no reason to esteem. 
 
 I am, &c. 
 
 SATCRDAY, JULY 21, 1750. 
 
 ovro voprji; 
 
 No. 36.] 
 
 V A//' 
 
 - Piping on their reeds the shepherds go, 
 
 Nor fear an ambush nor suspect a foe. POPE. 
 
 THERE is scarcely any species of poetry that has 
 allured more readers, or excited more writers, 
 than the pastoral. It is generally pleasing, be- 
 cause it entertains the mind with representations
 
 No. 36.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 67 
 
 of scenes familiar to almost every imagination, 
 and of which all can equally judge whether they 
 are well described. It exhibits a life, to which we 
 have been always accustomed to associate peace, 
 and leisure, and innocence: and therefore we 
 readily set open the heart for the admission of 
 its images, which contribute to drive away cares 
 and perturbations, and suffer ourselves, without 
 resistance, to be transported to elysian regions, 
 where we are to meet with nothing but joy, and 
 plenty, and contentment ; where every gale whis- 
 pers pleasure, and every shade promises repose. 
 
 It has been maintained by some, who love to 
 talk of what they do not know, that pastoral is 
 the most ancient poetry; and, indeed, since it is 
 probable that poetry is nearly of the same anti- 
 quity with rational nature, and since the life of 
 the first men was certainly rural, we may reasona- 
 bly conject'.:--, that, as their ideas would neces- 
 sarily be borrowed from those objects with which 
 they are acquainted, their composures being filled 
 chiefly with such thoughts on the visible creation 
 as must occur to the first observers, were pastor- 
 al hymns, like those which Milton introduces the 
 original pair singing, in the day of innocence, to 
 the praise of their Maker. 
 
 For the same reason that pastoral poetry was 
 the first employment of the human imagination, 
 it is generally the first literary amusement of our 
 minds. We have seen fields, and meadows, and 
 groves, from the time that our eyes opened upon 
 life ; and are pleased with birds, and brooks, and 
 breezes, much earlier than we engage among the 
 actions and passions of mankind. We are there- 
 fore delighted with rural pictures, because we 
 know the original at an age when our curiosity 
 can be very little awakened by descriptions of 
 courts which we never beheld, or representations 
 of passions which we never felt. 
 
 The satisfaction received from this kind of writ- 
 ing not only begins early, but lasts long ; we do 
 not, as we advance into the intellectual world, 
 throw it away among other childish amusements 
 and pastimes, but willingly return to it in any 
 hour of indolence and relaxation. The images 
 of true pastoral have always the power of excit- 
 'ng delight, because the works of nature, from 
 which they are drawn, have always the same or- 
 der and beauty, and continue to force themselves 
 upon our thoughts, being at once obvious to the 
 most careless regard, and more than adequate to 
 the strongest reason, and severest contemplation. 
 Our inclination to stillness and tranquillity is sel- 
 dom much lessened by long knowledge of the 
 busy and tumultuary part of the world. In child- 
 hood we turn our thoughts to the country, as to 
 the region of pleasure ; we recur to it in old age 
 as a port of rest, and perhaps with that secondary 
 and adventitious gladness, which every man feels 
 on reviewing those places, or recollecting those 
 occurrences, that contributed to his youthful en- 
 joyments, and bring him back to the prime of 
 life, when the world was gay with the bloom of 
 novelty, when mirth wantoned at his side, and 
 hope sparkled before him. 
 
 The sense of this universal pleasure has in- 
 vited numbers icithout number to try their skill in 
 pastoral performances in which they have gene- 
 rally succeeded after the manner of other imita- 
 tors, transmitting the same images in the same 
 combination from one to another, till he that 
 reads the title of a poem, may guess at the whole 
 
 series of the composition ; nor will a man, after 
 the perusal of thousands of these performances, 
 find his knowledge enlarged with a single view of 
 nature not produced before, or his imagination 
 amused with any new application of those views 
 to moral purposes. 
 
 The range of pastoral is indeed narrow: for 
 though nature itself, philosophically considered, 
 be inexhaustible, yet its general effects on the eye 
 and on the ear are uniform, and incapable of 
 much variety of description. Poetry cannot 
 dwell upon the minuter distinctions, by which 
 one species differs from another, without depart- 
 ing from that simplicity of grandeur which fills the 
 imagination ; nor dissect the latent qualities of 
 things, without losing its general power of grati- 
 fying every mind by recalling its conceptions. 
 However, as each age makes some discoveries, 
 and those discoveries are by degrees generally 
 known, as new plants or modes of culture are in- 
 troduced, and by little and little become common, 
 pastoral might receive, from time to time, small 
 augmentations, and exhibit once in a century a 
 scene somewhat varied. 
 
 But pastoral subjects have been often, like 
 others, taken into the hands of those that were 
 not qualified to adorn them, men to whom the 
 face of nature was so little known, that they have 
 drawn it only after their own imagination, and 
 changed or distorted her features, that their por- 
 traits might appear something more than servile 
 copies from their predecessors. 
 
 Not only the images of rural life, but the oc- 
 casions on which they can be properly produced, 
 are few and general. The state of a man con 
 fined to the employments and pleasures of the 
 country, is so little diversified, and exposed to so 
 few of those accidents which produce perplexities, 
 terrors, and surprises, in more complicated trans- 
 actions, that he can be shown but seldom in such 
 circumstances as attract curiosity. His ambition 
 is without policy, and his love without intrigue. 
 He has no complaints to make of his rival, but 
 that he is richer than himself; nor any disas- 
 ters to lament, but a cruel mistress, or a bad 
 harvest. 
 
 The conviction of the necessity of some new 
 source of pleasure induced Sannazarius to remove 
 the scene from the fields to the sea, to substitute 
 fishermen for shepherds, and derive his senti- 
 ments from the piscatory life ; for which he has 
 been censured by succeeding critics, because the 
 sea is an object of terror, and by no means pro- 
 per to amuse the mind, and lay the passions 
 asleep. Against this objection he might be de- 
 fended by the established maxim, that the poet 
 has a right to select his images, and is no more 
 obliged to show the sea in a storm, than the land 
 under an inundation ; but may display all the 
 pleasures, and conceal the dangers, of the water, 
 as he may lay his shepherd under a shady beech, 
 without giving him an ague, or letting a wild 
 beast loose upon him. 
 
 There are, however, two defects in the pisca- 
 tory eclogue, which perhaps cannot be supplied. 
 The sea, though in hot countries it is considered 
 by those who live, like Sannazarius, upon the 
 coast, as a place of pleasure and diversion, has 
 notwithstanding, much less variety than the land, 
 and therefore will be sooner exhausted by a de- 
 scriptive writer. When he has once shown the 
 sun rising or setting upon it, curled its water*
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 37. 
 
 with Hie vernal breeze, rolled the waves in gentle 
 succession to the shore, and enumerated the fish 
 sporting in the shallows, he has nothing remain- 
 ini* but what is common to all other poetry, the 
 co'mplaint of a nymph for a drowned lover, or the 
 indignation of a fisher that his oysters are refused, 
 and Alycon's accepted. 
 
 Another obstacle to the general reception of 
 this kind of poetry, is the ignorance of maritime 
 pleasures, in which the greater part of mankind 
 must always live. To all the inland inhabitants 
 of every region, the sea is only known as an im- 
 mense diffusion of waters, over which men pass 
 from one country to another, and in which life is 
 frequently lost. They have therefore no oppor- 
 tunity of tracing in their own thoughts the de- 
 scriptions oi winding shores and calm bays, nor 
 can look on the poem in which they arc mention- 
 ed, with other sensations than on a sea chart, or 
 the metrical geography of Dionysius. 
 
 This defect Sannazarius was hindered from 
 perceiving by writing in a learned language to 
 readers generally acquainted with the works of 
 nature ; but if he had made his attempt in any 
 vulgar tongue, he would soon have discovered 
 how vainly he had endeavoured to make that 
 loved, which was not understood. 
 
 I am afraid it will not be found easy to improve 
 the pastorals of antiquity, by any great additions 
 or diversifications. Our descriptions may indeed 
 differ from those of Virgil, as an English from an 
 Italian summer, and, in some respects, as mo- 
 dern from ancient life ; but as nature is in both 
 countries nearly the same, and as poetry has to 
 do rather with the passions of men, which are 
 uniform, than their customs, which are changea- 
 ble, the varieties, which time or place can fur- 
 nish, will be inconsiderable ; and I shall endea- 
 vour to show, in the next paper, how little the 
 latter ages have contributed to the improvement 
 of the rustic muse. 
 
 No. 37.] TUESDAY, JULY 24, 1750. 
 
 Canto gun solittu, si quando amenta rocabat, 
 Amphion Dircaus. VIRG. 
 
 Such strains I sing as once Amphion play'd 
 When list'ning Hocks the powerful call obey'd. 
 
 ELPHINSTON. 
 
 IN writing or judging of pastoral poetry, neither 
 the authors nor critics of latter times seem to have 
 paid sufficient regard to the originals left us by 
 antiquity, but have entangled themselves with 
 unnecessary difficulties, by advancing principles, 
 which having no foundation in the nature oi 
 things are wholly to be rejected from a species ol 
 composition, in which, above all others, mere na- 
 ture is to he regarded. 
 
 It is therefore necessary to inquire after some 
 more distinct and exact idea of this kind of writ- 
 ing. This may, I think, be easily found in th 
 pastorals of Virgil, from whose opinion it will not 
 appear very safe to depart, if we consider that 
 every advantage of nature and of fortune, con- 
 curred to complete his productions ; that he was 
 born with great accuracy and severity of judg- 
 ment, enlightened with all the learning of one o 
 the brightest ages, and embellished with the ele- 
 gance of the Roman court ; that he employed hii 
 powers rather in improving, than inventing, am 
 
 therefore must have endeavoured to recompense 
 ;he want of novelty by exactness; that taking 
 Theocritus for his original, he found pastoral far 
 .dvanced towards perfection, and that having so 
 great a rival, he must have proceeded with un- 
 common caution. 
 
 If we search the writings of Virgil, for the true 
 definition of a pastoral, it will be found a poem in 
 which any action or passion is represented by its ef- 
 fects upon a country life. Whatsoever therefore 
 may, according to the common course of things, 
 :iappen in the country, may afford a subject for 
 a pastoral poet. 
 
 In this definition, it will immediately occur to 
 those who are versed in the writings of the mo- 
 dern critics, that there is no mention of the golden 
 age. I cannot indeed easily discover why it is 
 thought necessary to refer descriptions of a rural 
 state to remote times, nor can I perceive that 
 any writer has consistently preserved the Arca- 
 dian manners and sentiments. The only reason, 
 that I have read, on which this rule has been 
 founded, is, that, according to the custom of mo- 
 dern life, it is improbable that shepherds should 
 be capable of harmonious number?, or delicate 
 sentiments ; and therefore the reader must exalt 
 his ideas of the pastoral character, by carrying 
 his thoughts back to the age in which the care 
 of herds and flocks was the employment of the 
 wisest and greatest men. 
 
 These reasoners seem to have been led into 
 their hypothesis, by considering pastoral, not in 
 general, as a representation of rural nature, and 
 consequently as exhibiting the ideas and senti- 
 ments of those, whoever they are, to whom the 
 country affords pleasure or employment, but 
 simply as a dialogue, or narrative of men actual- 
 ly tending sheep, and busied in the lowest and 
 most laborious offices ; from whence they very 
 readily concluded, since characters must neces- 
 sarily be preserved, that either the sentiments 
 must sink to the level of the speakers, or the 
 speakers must be raised to the height of the sen 
 timents. 
 
 In consequence of these original errors, a thou 
 sand precepts have been given, which have only 
 contributed to perplex and confound. Some 
 have thought it necessary that the imaginary man 
 ners of the golden age should be universally pre 
 served, and have therefore believed, that nothing 
 more could be admitted in pastoral, than lilies 
 and roses, and rocks and streams, among which 
 are heard the gentle whispers of chaste fondness, 
 or the soft complaints of amorous impatience. 
 In pastoral, as in other writings, chastity of sen 
 timent ought doubtless to be observed, and puri- 
 ty of manners to be represented ; not because the 
 poet is confined to the image's of the golden age, 
 but because, having the subject in his own choice, 
 he ought always to consult the interest of virtue. 
 These advocates for the golden age lay down 
 other principles, not very consistent with their 
 general plan ; for they tell vis, that, to support 
 the character of the shepherd, it is proper that 
 all refinement should be avoided, and that some 
 slight instances of ignorance should be interspers- 
 ed. Thus the shepherd in Virgil is supposed to 
 have forgot the name of Anaximander, and in 
 Pope the term Zodiac is too hard for a rustic ap- 
 prehension. But if we place our shepherds in 
 their primitive condition, we may give them 
 learning among their other qualifications ; and if
 
 No. 38.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 69 
 
 we suffer them to allude at all to things of later 
 existence, which, perhaps, cannot with any great 
 propriety be allowed, there can be no danger of 
 making them speak with too much accuracy, 
 since they conversed with divinities, and trans- 
 mitted to succeeding ages the arts of life. 
 
 Other writers, having the mean and despicable 
 condition of a shepherd always before them, con- 
 ceive it necessary to degrade the language of pas- 
 toral by obsolete terms and rustic words, which 
 they very learnedly call Doric, without reflecting 
 that they thus became authors of a mangled dia- 
 lect, which no human being ever could have spo- 
 ken, that they may as well refine the speech as 
 the sentiments of their personages, and that none 
 of the inconsistencies which they endeavour to 
 avoid, is greater than that of joining elegance of 
 thought with coarseness of diction. Spenser be- 
 gins one of his pastorals with studied barbarity ; 
 
 Diggon Davie. I bid her good day ; 
 Or, Diggon her is, or I missay. 
 
 Dig. Her was her while it was daylight, 
 But iioiv her is a most wretched wight. 
 
 What will the reader imagine to be the subject 
 on which speakers like these exercise their elo- 
 quence ? Will he not be somewhat disappointed, 
 when he finds them met together to condemn 
 the corruptions of the church of Rome ? Surely, 
 at the same time that a shepherd learns theolo- 
 gy, he may gain some acquaintance with his na- 
 tive language. 
 
 Pastoral admits of all ranks of persons, be- 
 cause persons of all ranks inhabit the country. 
 It excludes not, therefore, on account of the char- 
 acters necessary to be introduced, any elevation 
 or delicacy of sentiment ; those ideas only are im- 
 proper, which not owing their original to rural 
 objects, are not pastoral. Such is the exclama- 
 tion in Virgil, 
 
 Aanc scio quid sit Amor, duris in cautibus ilium 
 Ismarus, out Rhotli/pe, out extremi Garamantes, 
 Ifec generis nostri puerum, nee sanguinis, edunt. 
 
 1 know thee, Love, in deserts thou wert bred, 
 
 And at the dugs of savage tigers fed ; 
 
 Alien of birth, usurper of the plains. DRYDEN. 
 
 which Pope endeavouring to copy, was carried 
 to still greater impropriety: 
 
 I know thee. Love, wild as the raging main 
 More fierce than tigers on the Libyan plain 
 Thou wert from Etna's burning entrails torn ; 
 Begot in tempests, and in thunders born! 
 
 Sentiments like these, as they have no ground 
 in nature, are indeed of little value in any poem; 
 but in pastoral the}- are particularly liable to cen- 
 sure, because it wants that exaltation above com- 
 mon life, which in tragic or heroic writings often 
 reconciles us to bold flights and daring figures. 
 
 Pastoral being the representation of an action or 
 passion, by its effects upon a country life, has no- 
 thing peculiar but its confinement to rural ima- 
 gery, without which it ceases to be pastoral. 
 This is its true characteristic, and this it cannot 
 lose by any dignity of sentiment, or beauty of 
 diction. The Pollio of Virgil, with all its eleva- 
 tion, is a composition truly bucolic, though re- 
 jected by the critics ; for all the images are either 
 taken from the country, or from the religion of 
 the age common to all parts of the empire. 
 
 The Silenus is. indeed of a more disputable 
 
 kind, because though the scene lies in the coun 
 try, the song, being religious and historical, had 
 been no less adapted to any other audience or 
 place. Neither can it well be defended as a fic- 
 tion ; for the introduction of a god seems to im- 
 ply the golden age, and yet he alludes to many 
 subsequent transactions, and mentions Gallus, 
 the poet's contemporary. 
 
 It seems necessary to the perfection of this po- 
 em that the occasion which is supposed to pro- 
 duce it be at least not inconsistent with a coun- 
 try life, or less LJtely to interest those who have 
 retired into places of solitude and quiet, than the 
 more busy part of mankind. It is therefore im- 
 proper to give the title of a pastoral to verses, in 
 which the speakers, after the slight menlion of 
 their flocks, fall to complaints of errors in the 
 church, and corruptions in the government, or to 
 lamentations of the death of some illustrious per- 
 son, whom, when once the poet has called a 
 shepherd, he has no longer any labour upon his 
 hands, but can make the clouds weep, and lilies 
 wither, and the sheep hang their heads, without 
 art or learning, genius or study. 
 
 It is part of Claudian's character of his rustic, 
 that he computes his time not by the succession 
 of consuls, but of harvests. Those who pass 
 their days in retreats distant from the theatres of 
 business, are always least likely to hurry theh 
 imagination with public anairs. 
 
 The facility of treating actions or events in the 
 pastoral style, has incited many writers, from 
 whom more judgment might have been expect- 
 ed, to put the sorrow or the joy which the occa- 
 sion required into the mouth of Daphne or of 
 Thyrsis ; and as one absurdity must naturally be 
 expected to make way to another, they have 
 written with an utter disregard both of life and 
 nature, and filled their productions with mytho- 
 logical allusions, with incredible fictions and with 
 sentiments which neither passion nor reason 
 could have dictated, since the change which reli- 
 gion has made in the whole system of the world. 
 
 No. 38.] SATURDAY, JULY 28, 1750. 
 
 Auream quisquis mediocritatem 
 Diligit, tutus caret obsoleti 
 Sordibiis tecti, caret invidenda 
 
 Subrius aula. HOS 
 
 The man within the golden mean, 
 
 Who can his boldest wish contain, 
 
 Securely views the ruin'd cell, 
 
 Where sordid want and sorrow dwell , 
 
 And in himself serenely great, 
 
 Declines an envied room of state. FRANCIS 
 
 AMONG many parallels which men of imagina 
 tion have drawn between the natural and moral 
 state of the world, it has been observed that hap 
 piness, as well as virtue, consists in mediocrity ; 
 that to avoid every extreme is necessary, even to 
 him who has no other care than to pass through 
 the present state with ease and safety ; and that 
 the middle path is the road of security, on eithei 
 side of which are not only the pitfalls of vice, bu 
 the precipices of ruin. 
 
 Thus the maxim of Cleobulus the Lindian, 
 Tpov amarov, mediocrity is best, has been long con- 
 sidered as a universal principle, extended through 
 the whole compass of life and nature. The ex- 
 perience of every age seems to have given it new
 
 70 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 38 
 
 confirmation, and to show that nothing, how- 
 ever specious or alluring, is pursued with pro- 
 priety, or enjoyed willi safety, beyond certain 
 limits. 
 
 Even the gifts of nature, which may truly be 
 considered as the most solid and durable of all 
 terrestrial advantages, are found, when they ex- 
 ceed the middle point, to draw the possessor into 
 many calamities, easily avoided by others that 
 have been less bountifully enriched or adorned. 
 We see every day women perish with infamy, by 
 having been too willing to set their beauty to 
 show ; and others, though not with equal guilt 
 or misery, yet with very sharp remorse, lan- 
 
 fuishing in decay, neglect, and obscuiity, for 
 aving rated their youthful charms at too high a 
 price. And, indeed, if the opinion of Bacon be 
 thought to deserve much regard, very few sighs 
 would be vented for eminent and superlative ele- 
 gance of form ; " for beautiful women," says he, 
 " are seldom of any great accomplishments, be- 
 cause they, for the most part, study behaviour 
 rather than virtue." 
 
 Health and vigour, and a happy constitution of 
 the corporeal frame, are of absolute necessity to 
 the enjoyment of the comforts, and to the per- 
 formance of the duties of life, and requisite in yet 
 a greater measure to the accomplishment of any 
 thing illustrious or distinguished ; yet even these, 
 if we can judge by their apparent consequences, 
 are sometimes not very beneficial to those on 
 whom they are most liberally bestowed. They 
 that frequent the chambers of the sick will gene- 
 rally find the sharpest pains, and most stubborn 
 maladies, among them whom confidence of the 
 force of nature formerly betrayed to negligence 
 and irregularity ; and that superfluity of strength, 
 which was at once their boast and their snare, 
 has often, in the latter part of life, no other effect 
 than that it continues them long in impotence and 
 anguish. 
 
 These gifts of nature are, however, always 
 blessings in themselves, and to be acknowledged 
 with gratitude io him that gives them; since 
 they are, in their regular and legitimate effects, 
 productive of happiness, and prove pernicious 
 only by voluntary corruption or idle negligence. 
 And as there is little danger of pursuing them 
 with too much ardour or anxiety, because no 
 skill or diligence can hope to procure them, the 
 uncertainty of their influence upon our lives is 
 mentioned, not to depreciate their real value, but 
 to repress the discontent and envy to which the 
 want of them often gives occasion in those who 
 do not enough suspect their own frailty, nor con- 
 sider how much less is the calamity of riot pos- 
 sessing great powers, than of not using them 
 aright 
 
 Of all those things that make us superior to 
 others, there is none so much within the reach of 
 our endeavours as riches, nor any thing more 
 eagerly or constantly desired. Poverty is an evil 
 always in our view, an evil complicated with so 
 many circumstances of uneasiness and vexation, 
 that every man is studious to avoid it. Some de- 
 gree of riches is therefore required, that we may 
 lie exempt from the gripe of necessity ; when this 
 purpose is once attained, we naturally wish for 
 more, that the evil which is regarded with so 
 much horror, may be yet at a greater distance 
 from us ; as he that has once felt or dreaded the 
 paw of a savage, will not be at rest till thev are I 
 
 parted by some barrier, which may take away al. 
 possibility of a second attack. 
 
 To this point, if fear be not unreasonably in- 
 dulged, Cleobulus would, perhaps, not refuse to 
 extend his mediocrity. But it almost always 
 happens, that the man who grows rich changes 
 his notions of poverty, states his wants by some 
 new measure, and from flying the enemy that 
 pursued him, bends his endeavours to overtake 
 those whom he sees before him. The power of 
 gratifying his appetites increases their demands ; 
 a thousand wishes crowd in upon him, importu- 
 nate to be satisfied, and vanity and ambition open 
 prospects to desire, which still grow wider, as 
 they are more contemplated. 
 
 Thus in time want is enlarged without bounds: 
 an eagerness for increase of possessions deluges 
 the soul, and we sink into the gulfs of insatiabili- 
 ty ; only because we do not sufficiently consider, 
 that all real need is very soon supplied, and all 
 real danger of its invasion easily precluded ; that 
 the claims of vanity, being without limits, must 
 be denied at last : and that the pain of repressing 
 them is less pungent before they have been long 
 accustomed to compliance. 
 
 Whosover shall look heedfully upon those who 
 are eminent for their riches, will not think their 
 condition such as that he should hazard his quiet, 
 and much less his virtue to obtain it. For all that 
 great wealth generally gives above a moderate 
 fortune, is more room for the freaks of caprice, 
 and more privilege for ignorance and vice, a 
 quicker succession of flatteries, and a larger cir- 
 cle of voluptuousness. 
 
 There is one reason seldom remarked, -which 
 makes riches less desirable. Too much wealth 
 is very frequently the occasion of poverty. He 
 whom the wantonness of abundance has once 
 softened, easily sinks into neglect of his affairs , 
 and he that thinks he can afford to be negligent, 
 is not far from being poor. He will soon be in- 
 volved in perplexities, which his inexperience will 
 render unsurmountable ; he will fly for help to 
 those whose interest it is that he should be more 
 distressed, and will be at last torn to pieces by 
 the vultures that always hover over fortunes in 
 decay. 
 
 When the plains of India were burnt up by a 
 long continuance of drought, Harriet and Ras- 
 chid, two neighbouring shepherds, faint with 
 thirst, stood at the common boundary of their 
 grounds, with their flocks and herds panting 
 round them, and in extremity of distress prayed 
 for water. On a sudden the air was becalmed, 
 the birds ceased to chi;p, and the flocks to bleat. 
 They turned their eyes every way, and saw a 
 being of mighty stature advancing through the 
 valley, whom they knew upon his nearer ap- 
 proach to be the Genius of Distribution. In one 
 hand he held the sheaves of plenty, and in the 
 other the sabre of destruction. The shepherds 
 stood trembling, and would have retired before 
 him ; but he called to them with a voice gentle 
 as the breeze that plays in the evening among 
 the spices of Sabaea; "Fly not from your bene- 
 factor, children of the dust! I am come to offer 
 you gifts, which only your own folly can make 
 vain. You here pray for water, and water I 
 will bestow; let me know with how much you 
 will be satisfied: speak not rashly; consider, 
 that of whatever can he enjoyed by the body, ex- 
 cess is no less dangerous than scarcity. Wh<m
 
 No. 39.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER 
 
 .71 
 
 you remember the pain of thirst, do not forget 
 the danger of suffocation. Now, Hamet, tell me 
 your request." 
 
 " O Being, kind and bene5cent," says liamet, 
 " let thine eye pardon my con.'usion. I entreat 
 a little brook, which in summer shall never be 
 dry, and in winter never overflow." " It is grant- 
 ed," replies the Genius ; and immediately he 
 opened the ground with his sabre, and a foun- 
 tain bubbling up under their feet, scattered its 
 rills over the meadows: the flowers renewed 
 their fragrance, the trees spread a greener foli- 
 age, and the flocks and herds quenched their 
 thirst. 
 
 Then turning to Raschid, the Genius invited 
 him likewise to offer his petition. "I request," 
 says Raschid, "that thou wilt turn the Ganges 
 through my grounds, with all his waters, and all 
 their inhabitants." Hamet was struck with the 
 greatness of his neighbour's sentiments, and se- 
 cretly repined in his heart, that he had not made 
 the same petition before him ; when the Genius 
 spoke, " Rash man, be not so insatiable ! remem- 
 ber, to thee that is nothing which thou canst not 
 use ; and how are thy wants greater than the 
 wants of Hamet?" Raschid repeated his desire, 
 and pleased himself with the mean appearance 
 that Hamet would make in the presence of the 
 proprietor of the Ganges. The Genius then re- 
 tired towards the river, and the two shepherds 
 stood waiting the event. As Raschid was look- 
 ing with contempt upon his neighbour, on a sud- 
 den was heard the roar of torrents, and they found 
 by the mighty stream that the mounds of the 
 Ganges were broken. The flood rolled forward 
 into the lands of Raschid, his plantations were 
 torn up, his flocks overwhelmed, he was swept 
 away before it, and a crocodile devoured him. 
 
 No. 39.] TUESDAY, JULY 31, 1750. 
 
 tnfdix nulli lene nupta marito. AUSONIUS. 
 
 Unblefs'd, still doom'd to wed with misery. 
 
 THE condition of the frmale sex has been fre- 
 quently the subject of compassion to medical 
 writers, because their constitution of body is such, 
 that every state of life brings its peculiar diseas- 
 es ; they are placed, according to the proverb, 
 between Scylla and Charybdis, with no other 
 choice than of dangers equally formidable ; and 
 whether they embrace marriage, or determine 
 upon a single life, are exposed, in consequence 
 of their choice, to sickness, misery, and death. 
 
 It were to be wished that so great a degree of 
 natural infelicity might not be increased by ad- 
 ventitious and artificial miseries ; and that beings, 
 whose beauty we cannot behold without admira- 
 tion, and whose delicacy we cannot contemplate 
 without tenderness, might be suffered to enjoy 
 every alleviation of their sorrows. But, however 
 it has happened, the custom of the world seems 
 to have been formed in a kind of conspiracy 
 against them, though it does not appear but they 
 had themselves an equal share in its establish- 
 ment; and prescriptions which, by whomsoever 
 they were begun, are now of long continuance, 
 and by consequence of great authority, seem to 
 have almost excluded them from content, in 
 whatsoever condition they shall pass their lives. 
 
 If they refuse the society of men, and continue 
 in that state which is reasonably supposed to 
 place happiness most in their own power, they 
 seldom give those that frequent their conversa- 
 tion any exalted notions of the blessing of liber- 
 ty ; for whether it be that they are angry to see 
 with what inconsiderate eagerness other heed- 
 less females rush into slavery, or with what ab- 
 surd vanity the married ladies boast the change 
 of their condition, and condemn the heroines, 
 who endeavour to assert the natural dignity of 
 their sex ; whether they are conscious that like 
 barren countries they are free, only because they 
 were never thought to deserve the trouble of a 
 conquest, or imagine that their sincerity is not 
 always unsuspected, when they declare their con- 
 tempt of men ; it is certain, that they generally 
 appear to have some great and incessant cause 
 of uneasiness, and that many of them have at last 
 been persuaded by powerful rhetoricians, to try 
 the life which they had so long contemned, and 
 put on the bridal ornaments at a time when they 
 least became them. 
 
 What are the real causes of the impatience 
 which the ladies discover in a virgin state, I shall 
 perhaps take some other occasion to examine. 
 That it is not to be envied for its happiness, ap- 
 pears from the solicitude with \vhich it ia avoid- 
 ed ; from theopinion universally prevalent among 
 the sex, that no woman continues long in it but 
 because she is not invited to forsake it ; from the 
 disposition always shown to treat old maids as 
 the refuse of the world; and from the willing- 
 ness with which it is often quitted at last, by 
 those whose experience has enabled them to 
 judge at leisure, and decide with authority. 
 
 Yet such is life, that whatever is proposed, it 
 is much easier to find reasons for rejecting than 
 embracing. Marriage, though a certain security 
 from the reproach and solitude of antiquated vir- 
 ginity, has yet, as it is usually conducted, many 
 disadvantages, that take away much from the 
 pleasure which society promises, and might af- 
 ford, if pleasures and pains were honestly shared, 
 and mutual confidence inviolably preserved. 
 
 The miseries, indeed, which many ladies suffer 
 under conjugal vexations, are to be considered 
 with great pity, because their husbands are often 
 not taken by them as objects of affection, but 
 forced upon them by authority and violence, or 
 by persuasion and importunity, equally resistless 
 when urged by those whom they have been al- 
 ways accustomed to reverence and obey ; and it 
 very seldom appears that those who are thus de- 
 spotic in the disposal of their children, pay any 
 regard to their domestic and personal felicity, or 
 think it so much to be inquired whether they will 
 be happy, as whether they will be rich. 
 
 It may be urged, in extenuation of this crime, 
 which parents, not in any other respect to be 
 numbered with robbers and assassins, frequently 
 commit, that in their estimation, riches and hap- 
 piness are equivalent terms. They have passed 
 their lives with no other wish than of adding 
 acre to acre, and filling one bag after another, and 
 imagine the advantage of a daughter sufficiently 
 considered, when they have secured her a large 
 jointure, and given her reasonable expectations 
 of living in the midst of those pleasures with 
 which she had seen her father and mother so- 
 lacing their age. 
 
 There is an economical oracle received among
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 40. 
 
 the prudential part of the world, which advises 
 fath.-rs to marry their dan ^liters, lest they should 
 marry tlutnsrlves ; by which I suppose it is im- 
 plied, that women left to their own conduct ge- 
 nerally unite themselves with such partners as 
 can contribute very little to their felicity. Who 
 was the authorof this maxim, or with what inten- 
 tion it was originally uttered, I have not yet dis- 
 covered ; but imagine, that however solemnly it 
 may be transmitted, or however implicitly receiv- 
 ed, it can confer no authority which nature has 
 denied; it cannot license Titius to be unjust, lest 
 Caia should he imprudent ; nor give right to im- 
 prison for life, lest liberty should be ill employed. 
 
 That the ladies have sometimes incurred im- 
 putations which might naturally produce edicts 
 not much in their favour, must be confessed by 
 their warmest advocates; and I have indeed sel- 
 dom observed, that when the tenderness or virtue 
 of their parents has preserved them from forced 
 marriage, and left them at large to choose their 
 own path, in the labyrinth of life, they have 
 made any great advantage of their liberty ; they 
 commonly take the opportunity of independence 
 to trifle away youth and lose their bloom in a 
 hurry of diversions, recurring in a succession too 
 quick to leave room for any settled reflection ; 
 tney see the world without gaining experience, 
 and at last regulate their choice by motives tri- 
 fling as those of a girl, or mercenary as those of 
 a miser. 
 
 Melanthia came to town upon the death of 
 her father, with a very large fortune, and with 
 the reputation of a much larger; she was there- 
 fore followed and caressed by many men of 
 rank, and by some of understanding ; but having 
 an insatiable desire of pleasure, she was not at 
 leisure, from the park, the gardens, the theatres, 
 visits, assemblies, and masquerades, to attend 
 seriously to any proposal, but was still impatient 
 for a new flatterer, and neglected marriage as al- 
 ways in her power ; till in time her admirers fell 
 away, wearied with expense, disgusted at her 
 folly, or offended by her inconstancy ; she heard 
 of concerts to which she was not invited, and was 
 more than once forced to sit still at an assembly 
 for want of a partner. In this distress chance 
 threw in her way Philotryphus, a man vain, glit- 
 tering, and thoughtless as herself, who had spent 
 a small fortune in equipage and dress, and was 
 shining in the last suit for which his tailor would 
 give him credit. He had been long endeavour- 
 ing to retrieve his extravagance by marriage, and 
 therefore soon paid his court to Melanthia, who, 
 after some weeks of insensibility, saw him at a 
 ball, and was wholly overcome by his perform- 
 ance ia a minuet. They married ; but a man 
 cannot always dance, and Philotryphus had no 
 other method of pleasing ; however, as neither 
 was in any great degree vicious, they lived toge- 
 ther with no other unhappiness than vacuity of 
 mind, and that tastelessncss of life, which pro- 
 ceeds from a satiety of juvenile pleasures, .and an 
 utter inability to fill their place by nobler employ- 
 ments. As they have known the fashionable 
 world at the same time, they agree in their no- 
 tions of all those subjects on which they ever 
 speak ; and, being able to add nothing to the ideas 
 of each other, are much inclined to conversation, 
 but very often join in one wish, " That they could 
 Bleep more and think less." 
 
 Argyris, after having refused a thousand offers, 
 
 at last consented to marry Cotylus, the younger 
 brother of a duke, a man without elegance of 
 mien, beauty of person, or force of understand- 
 ing; who, while he courted her, could not al- 
 ways forbear allusions to her birth, and hints how 
 cheaply she would purchase an alliance to so 
 illustrious a family. His conduct from the hour 
 of his marriage has been insufferably tyrannical, 
 nor has he any other regard to her than what 
 arises from his desire that her appearance may 
 not disgrace him. Upon this principle, however, 
 he always orders that she should be gayly dress- 
 ed, and splendidly attended ; and she has, among 
 all her mortifications, the happiness to take place 
 of her elder sister. 
 
 No. 40.] SATURDAY, AUGUST 4, 1750. 
 
 -Aiee dicet, cur ego amicum 
 
 Offendam in nugis 3 Ha, miga seria ducent 
 In mala derisitm scmcl. 
 
 Nor say, for trifles why should I displease 
 The man I love ? For trifles such as these 
 To serious mischiefs lead the man I love, 
 If once the flatterer's ridicule he prove. 
 
 IT has been remarked, that authors are genus iri- 
 tabtte, a generation very easily put out of temper, 
 and that they seldom fail of giving proofs of their 
 irascibility upon the slightest attack of criticism, 
 or the most gentle or modest offer of advice and 
 information. 
 
 Writers being best acquainted with one ano- 
 ther, have represented this character as prevail 
 ing among men of literature, which a more ex- 
 tensive view of the world would have shown 
 them to be diffused through all human nature, to 
 mingle itself with every species of ambition and 
 desire of praise, and to discover its effects with 
 greater or less restraint, and under disguises more 
 or less artful, in all places and all conditions. 
 
 The quarrels of writers, indeed, are more ob- 
 served, because they necessarily appeal to the 
 decision of the public. Their enmities are incit- 
 ed by applauses from their parties, and prolong- 
 ed by treacherous encouragement for general 
 diversion ; and when the contest happens to rise 
 high between men of genius and learning, its 
 memory is continued for the same reason as its 
 vehemence was at first promoted, because it gra 
 tifies the malevolence or curiosity of readers, and 
 relieves the vacancies of life with amusement and 
 laughter. The personal disputes, therefore, of 
 rivals in wit are sometimes transmitted to pos- 
 terity, when the grudges and heart-burnings of 
 men less conspicuous, though carried on with 
 equal bitterness, and productive of greater evils, 
 are exposed to the knowledge of those only whom 
 they nearly affect, and suffered to pass ofF and 
 be forgotten among common and casual transac- 
 tions. 
 
 The resentment which the discovery of a fault 
 or folly produces, must bear a certain proportion 
 to our pride, and will regularly be more acrimo- 
 nious as pride is more immediately the principle 
 of action. In whatever therefore we wish or 
 imagine ourselves to excel, we shall always be 
 displeased to have our claims to reputation dis- 
 puted ; and more displeased, if the accomplish 
 ment be such as can expect reputation only for
 
 No. 40.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 73 
 
 its reward. For this reason it is common to find 
 men break out into rage at any insinuations to 
 the disadvantage of their wit, who have borne 
 with great patience reflections on their morals ; 
 and of women it has been always known, that 
 no censures wound so deeply, or rankle so long, 
 as that which charges them with want of beauty. 
 
 As men frequently fill their imaginations with 
 trifling pursuits, and please themselves most with 
 things of small importance, I have often known 
 very severe and lasting malevolence excited by 
 unlucky censures, which would have fallen with- 
 out any effect, had they not happened to wound 
 a part remarkably tender. Gustulus, who va- 
 lued himself upon the nicety of his palate, disin- 
 herited his eldest son, for telling him that the 
 wine, which he was then commending, was the 
 same which he had sent away the day before not 
 fit to be drunk. Proculus withdrew his kindness 
 from a nephew, whom he had always consider- 
 ed as the most promising genius of the age, for 
 happening to praise in his presence the graceful 
 horsemanship of Marius. And Fortunio, when 
 he was privy-counsellor, procured a clerk to be 
 dismissed from one of the public offices, in which 
 he was eminent for his skill and assiduity, be- 
 cause he had been heard to say that there was 
 another man in the kingdom on whose skill at 
 billiard's he would lay his money against For- 
 tunio's. 
 
 Felicia and Floretta had been bred up in one 
 house, and shared all the pleasures and endear- 
 ments of infancy together. They entered upon 
 life at the same time, and continued their confi- 
 dence and friendship^ consulted each other in 
 every change of their dress, and every admission 
 of a new lover; thought every diversion more en- 
 tertaining whenever it happened that both were 
 present, and when separated justified the con- 
 duct, and celebrated the excellencies, of one an- 
 other. Such was their intimacy, and such their 
 fidelity, till a birth-night approached, when Flo- 
 retta took one morning an opportunity, as they 
 were consulting upon new clothes, to advise her 
 friend not to dance at the ball, and informed her 
 that her performance the year before had not 
 answered the expectation which her other accom- 
 plishments had raised. Felicia commended her 
 sincerity, and thanked her for the caution; but 
 told her that she danced to please herself, and 
 was in very little concern what the men might 
 take the liberty of saying, but that if her appear- 
 ance gave her dear Floretta any uneasiness, she 
 would stay away. Floretfa had now nothing 
 left but to make new protestations of sincerity 
 and affection, with which Felicia was so well sa- 
 tisfied, that they parted with more than usual 
 fondness. They still continued to visit, with this 
 only difference, that Felicia was more punctual 
 than before, and often declared how high a va- 
 lue she put upon sincerity, how much she thought 
 that goodness to be esteemed which would ven- 
 ture to admonish a friend of an error, and with 
 what gratitude advice was to be received, even 
 when it might happen to proceed from mistake. 
 
 In a few months, Felicia, with great serious- 
 ness, told Floretta, that though her beauty was 
 such as gave charms to whatever she did, and 
 her qualifications so extensive, that she could not 
 fail of excellence in any attempt, yet she thought 
 herself obliged by the duties of friendship to in- 
 form her, that if ever she betrayed want of judg- 
 K 
 
 ment, it was by too frequent compliance with so 
 licitations to sing, for that her manner was some 
 what ungraceful, and her voice had no great 
 compass. It is true, says Floretta, when I sung 
 three nights ago at Lady Sprightly's I was hoarse 
 with a cold ; but I sing for my own satisfaction, 
 and am not in the least pain whether 1 am liked. 
 However, my dear Felicia's kindness is not the 
 less, and I shall always think myself happy in BO 
 true a friend. 
 
 From this time they never saw each other with- 
 out mutual professions of esteem, and declara- 
 tions of confidence, but went soon after into the 
 country to visit their relations. When they came 
 back, they were prevailed on, by the importunity 
 of new acquaintance, to take lodgings in different 
 parts of the town, and had frequent occasion, 
 when they met, to bewail the distance at which 
 they were placed, and the uncertainty which 
 each experienced of finding the other at home. 
 
 Thus are the fondest and firmest friendships 
 dissolved, by such openness and sincerity as in- 
 terrupt our enjoyment of our own approbation, 
 or recall us to the remembrance of those failings 
 which we are more willing to indulge than to 
 correct. 
 
 It is by no means necessary to imagine, that 
 he who is offended at advice, was ignorant of 
 the fault, and resents the admonition as a false 
 charge ; for perhaps it is most natural to be en 
 raged, when there is the strongest conviction of 
 our own guilt. While we can easily defend out 
 character, we are no more disturbed at an accu 
 sation, than we are alarmed by an enemy whom 
 we are sure to conquer ; and whose attack, there- 
 fore, will bring us honour without danger. But 
 when a man feels the reprehension of a friend 
 seconded by his own heart, he is easily heated in- 
 to resentment and revenge, either because he 
 hoped that the fault of which he was conscious 
 had escaped the notice of others; or that his 
 friend had looked upon it with tenderness and ex- 
 tenuation, and excused it for the sake of his other 
 virtues ; or had considered him as too wise to 
 need advice, or too delicate to be shocked with 
 reproach: or, because we cannot feel without 
 pain those reflections roused which we have been 
 endeavouring to lay asleep ; and when pain has 
 produced anger, who would not willingly believe, 
 that it ought to be discharged on others, rather 
 than on himself? 
 
 The resentment produced by sincerity, what- 
 ever be its immediate cause, is so certain, and 
 generally so keen, that very few have magnani 
 mity sufficient for the practice of a duty, which, 
 above most others, exposes its votaries to hard- 
 ships and persecution ; yet friendship without it is 
 of very little value, since the great use of so close 
 an intimacy is, that our virtues may be guarded 
 and encouraged, and our vices repressed in their 
 first appearance by timely detection and salutary 
 remonstrances. 
 
 It is decreed by Providence, that nothing truly 
 valuable shall be obtained in our present state, 
 but with difficulty and danger. He that hopes 
 for that advantage which is to be gained from un- 
 restrained communication, must sometimes ha- 
 zard, by unpleasing truths, that friendship which 
 he aspires to merit. The chief rule to be observ- 
 ed in the exercise of this dangerous office, is to 
 preserve it pure from all mixture of interest or 
 vanity ; to forbear admonition or reproof, when
 
 74 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 41 
 
 our consciences tell us that they are incited, not 
 by the hopes of reforming faults, but the desire 
 of showing our discernment, or gratifying our 
 own pride by the mortification of another. It is 
 not indeed certain, that the most refined caution 
 will tind a proper time for bringing a man to the 
 knowledge of his own failings, or the most zeal- 
 ous benevolence reconcile him to that judgment, 
 by which they are detected ; but he who endea- 
 vours only the happiness of him whom he re- 
 proves, will always have either the satisfaction 
 of obtaining or deserving kindness; if he succeeds, 
 he benefits his friend ; and if he fails, he has at 
 least the consciousness that he suffers icr only 
 doing well. 
 
 No. 41.] TUESDAY, AUGUST 7, 1750. 
 
 Nulla recordanti lux est ingrata gravisque, 
 
 Ifullafuil citjus non meminisse velit. 
 Ampliat alalis spatium sibi vir bonus, hoc est 
 
 yivere bis, vita posse priore frui. MART. 
 
 No day's remembrance shall the good regret, 
 Nor wish one bitter moment to forget ; 
 They stretch the limits of this narrow span, 
 And, by enjoying, live past life again. F. LEWIS. 
 
 So few of the hours of life are filled up with ob- 
 jects adequate to the mind of man, and so fre- 
 quently are we in want of present pleasure or 
 employment, that we are forced to have recourse 
 every moment to the past and future for supple- 
 mental satisfactions, and relieve the vacuities of 
 our being, by recollection of former passages, or 
 anticipation of events to come. 
 
 I cannot but consider this necessity of search- 
 ing on every side for matter on which the atten- 
 tion may be employed, as a strong proof of the 
 superior and celestial nature of the soul of man. 
 We have no reason to believe that other creatures 
 have higher faculties, or more extensive capaci- 
 ties, than the preservation of themselves, or their 
 species requires ; they seem always to be fully 
 employed, or to be completely at ease without 
 employment, to feel few intellectual miseries or 
 pleasures, and to have no exuberance of under- 
 standing to lay out. upon curiosity or caprice, but 
 to have their minds exactly adapted to their bo- 
 dies, with few other ideas than such as corporeal 
 pain or pleasure impress upon them. 
 
 Of memory, which makes so large a part of the 
 excellence of the human soul, and which has so 
 much influence upon all its other powers, but a 
 small portion has been allotted to the animal 
 world. We do- Hot find the grief with which the 
 dams lament the loss of their young, proportion- 
 ate to the tenderness with which they caress, the 
 assiduity with which they feed, or the vehemence 
 with which they defend them. Their regard for 
 their offspring, when it is before their eyes, is not, 
 in appearance, less than that of a human parent; 
 but when it is taken away, it is very soon for- 
 gotten, and, after a short absence, if brought 
 again, wholly disregarded. 
 
 That they have very little remembrance of any- 
 thing once out of the reach of their senses, and 
 scarce any power of comparing the present with 
 the past, and regulating their conclusions from 
 experience, may be gathered from this, that their 
 intellects are produced in their full perfection 
 1 he sparrow that was hatched last spring makes 
 
 her first nest the ensuing season, of the same 
 materials, and with the same art, as in any fol- 
 lowing year; and the hen conducts and shelters 
 her first brood of chickens with all the prudence 
 that she ever attains. 
 
 It has been asked by men who love to perplex 
 any thing that is plain to common understand- 
 ings, how reason differs from instinct: and Prior 
 has with no great propriety made Solomon him- 
 self declare, that to distinguish them is the fooVs 
 ignorance, and the pedant's pride. To give an ac- 
 curate answer to a question, of which the terms 
 are not completely understood, is impossible ; we 
 do not know in what either reason or instinct 
 consist, and therefore cannot tell with exactness 
 how they differ; but surely he that contemplates 
 a ship and a bird's nest, will not be long without 
 finding out, that the idea of the one was impress- 
 ed at once, and continued through all the pro- 
 gressive descents of the species, without varia- 
 tion or improvement ; and that the other is the 
 result of experiments compared with experi- 
 ments ; has grown, by accumulated observation, 
 from less to greater excellence ; and exhibits the 
 collective knowledge of different ages and vari- 
 ous professions. 
 
 Memory is the purveyor of reason, the power 
 which places those images before the mind upon 
 which the judgment is to be exercised, and which 
 treasures up the determinations that are once 
 passed, as the rules of future action, or grounds 
 of subsequent conclusions. 
 
 It is, indeed, the faculty of remembrance, which 
 may be said to place us in the class of moral 
 agents. If we were to act only in consequence 
 of some immediate impulse, and receive no di- 
 rection from internal motives of choice, we should 
 be pushed forward by an invincible fatality, with- 
 out power or reason for the most part to prefei 
 one thing to another, because we could make no 
 comparison but of objects which might both hap 
 pen to be present. 
 
 We owe to memory not only the increase of 
 our knowledge and our progress in rational in- 
 quiries, but many other intellectual pleasures. 
 Indeed, almost all that we can be said to enjoy 
 is past or future ; the present is in perpetual mo- 
 tion, leaves us as soon as it arrives, ceases to bo 
 present before its presence is well perceived, and 
 is only known to have existed by the effects which 
 it leaves behind. The greatest part of our ideas 
 arises, therefore, from the view before or behind 
 us, and we are happy or miserable, according as 
 we are affected by the survey of our life, or our 
 prospect of future existence. 
 
 With regard to futurity, when events are at 
 such a distance from us that we cannot take the 
 whole concatenation into our view, we have ge- 
 nerally power enough over our imagination to 
 turn it upon pleasing scenes, and can promise 
 ourselves, riches, honours, and delights without 
 intermingling those vexations and anxieties with 
 which all human enjoyments are polluted. If fear 
 breaks in on one side, and alarms us with dan- 
 gers and disappointments, we can call in hope on 
 the other, to solace us with rewards, and escapes, 
 and victories; so that we are seldom without 
 means of palliating remote evils, and can gene- 
 rally soothe ourselves to tranquillity, whenever 
 any troublesome presage happens to attack us. 
 
 It is therefore, I believe, much more common 
 for the solitary and thoughtful, to amuse them-
 
 No. 42.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 75 
 
 selves with schemes of the future, than reviews 
 of the past. For the future is pliant and ductile, 
 and will be easily moulded by a strong fancy 
 into any form: but the images which memory 
 presents are of a stubborn and untractable na- 
 ture, the objects of remembrance have already 
 existed, and left their signature behind them im- 
 pressed upon the mind, so as to defy all attempts 
 of razure or of change. 
 
 As the satisfactions, therefore, arising from 
 memory are less arbitrary, they are more solid, 
 and are, indeed, the only joys which we can call 
 our own. Whatever we have once reposited, as 
 Dryden expresses it, in the sacred treasure of the 
 past, is out of the reach of accident, or violence, 
 nor can be lost either by our own weakness, or 
 another's malice: 
 
 JVon tamen irritum 
 
 Qiiodcunque retro est effieift, neque 
 Dijjingct, infcctumque reddet, 
 Quodfugicnsscmelhora vixit. 
 
 Be fair or foul, or rain or shine. 
 
 The joys I have possess'd, in spite of fate are mine. 
 
 Not Heaven itself upon the past has power, 
 
 But what has boon, has been, and I have had my hour. 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 There is certainly no greater happiness than 
 to be able to look back on a life usefully and 
 virtuously employed, to trace our own progress 
 in existence, by such tokens as excite neither 
 shame nor sorrow. Life, hi which nothing has 
 been done or suffered, to distinguish one day 
 from another, is to him that has passed it as if 
 it had never been, except that he is conscious 
 ho will he has husbanded the great deposit of his 
 Creator. Life, made memorable by crimes, and 
 diversified through its several periods by wicked- 
 ness, is indeed easily reviewed, but reviewed 
 only with horror and remorse. 
 
 The great consideration which ought to influ- 
 ence us in the use of the present moment, is to 
 arise from the effect, which, as well or ill applied, 
 it must have upon the time to come ; for though 
 its actual existence, be inconceivably short, yet 
 its effects are unlimited; and there is not the 
 smallest point of time but may extend its con- 
 sequences, either to our hurt or our advantage, 
 through all eternity, and give us reason to re- 
 member it for ever, with anguish or exultation. 
 
 The time of life, in which memory seems par- 
 ticularly to claim predominance over the other 
 faculties of the mind, is our declining age. It 
 has been remarked by former writers, that old 
 men are generally narrative, and fall easily into 
 recitals of past transactions, and accounts of 
 persons known to them in their youth. When 
 we approach the verge of the grave it is more 
 eminently true : 
 
 Vita summa brevis spem nos retat inchoare longam. 
 
 Life's span forbids thee to extend thy cares, 
 And stretch thy hopes beyond thy years. 
 
 CREECH. 
 
 We have no longer any possibility of great vi- 
 cissitudes in our favour : the changes which are 
 to happen in the world will come too late for our 
 accommodation ; and those who have no hop 
 before them, arid to whom their present state is 
 painful and irksome, must of necessity turn 
 their thoughts back to try what retrospect will 
 
 afford. It ought, therefore, to be the care of 
 those who wish to pass the last hours with com- 
 fort, to lay up such a treasure of pleasing ideas, 
 as shall support the expenses of that time, which 
 is to depend wholly upon the fund already ac- 
 quired. 
 
 Petite hinc,jiwenesqne seneiqne, 
 
 t'incm animu certnm, mistrisque viatica cants. 
 
 Seek here, ye young, the anchor of your mind; 
 Here, suffering age, a bless'd provision find 
 
 EI.PH1NSTOH 
 
 In youth, however unhappy, we solace our- 
 selves with the hope of better fortune, and how- 
 ever vicious, appease our consciences with in- 
 tentions of repentance ; but the time comes at 
 last, in which life has no more to promise, in 
 which happiness can be drawn only from recol- 
 lection, and virtue will be all that we can recol 
 lect with pleasure. 
 
 No. 42.] SATURDAY, AUGUST 11, 1750. 
 
 Miki tardajhtuni inffrataque tempora. 
 
 ROB. 
 
 How heavily my time revolves along ! 
 
 ELPHINSTON 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 MR. RAMBLER, 
 
 I AM no great admirer of grave writings, ana 
 therefore very frequently lay your papers aside 
 before I have read them through ; yet I cannot but 
 confess that, by slow degrees, you have raised my 
 opinion of your understanding; and that, though 
 I believe it will be long before I can be prevailed 
 upon to regard you with much kindness, you 
 have, however, more of my esteem than those 
 whom I sometimes make happy with opportuni- 
 ties to fill my tea-pot, or pick up my fan. I shall 
 therefore choose you for the confidant of my dis- 
 tresses, and ask your counsel with regard to the 
 means of conquering or escaping them, though 
 I never expect from you any of that softness and 
 pliancy, which constitutes the perfection of a 
 companion for the ladies: as, in the place where 
 I now am, I have recourse to the mastiff for pro- 
 tection, though I have no intention of making 
 him a lap-dog. 
 
 My mamma is a very fine lady, who has more 
 numerous arid more frequent assemblies at her 
 house than any other person in the same quar- 
 ter of the town. I was bred from my earliest 
 infancy in a perpetual tumult of pleasure, and 
 remember to have heard of little else than mes- 
 sages, visits, play-houses, and balls ; of the awk- 
 wardness of one woman, and the coquetry of 
 another ; the charming convenience of some 
 rising fashion, the difficulty of playing a new 
 game, the incidents of a masquerade, and the 
 dresses of a court-night. I knew before I was 
 ten years old all the rules of paying and receiving 
 visits, and to how much civility every one of my 
 acquaintance was entitled ; and was able to re- 
 turn, with the proper degree of reserve or of vi- 
 vacity, the stated and established answer to every 
 compliment ; so that I was very soon celebrated 
 as a wit and a beauty, and had heard before I was
 
 76 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 42 
 
 thirteen ail Uiat is ever said to a young lady. My 
 mother was generous to so uncommon a degree 
 as to be pleased with my advances into lite, and 
 allowed me without envy or reproof, to enjoy the 
 sain.' happiness with herself; though most wo- 
 men about her own age were very angry to see 
 young girls so forward, and many line gentlemen 
 told her how cruel it was to throw new chains 
 upon mankind, and to tyi mnize over them at the 
 same time with her own charms and those of her 
 daughter. 
 
 I have now lived two and twenty years, and 
 have passed of each year nine months in town, 
 and three at Richmond; so that my time has 
 been spent uniformly in the same company, and 
 the same amusements, except as fashion has in- 
 troduced new diversions, or the revolutions of 
 the gay world have afforded new successions of 
 wits and beaus. However, my mother is so 
 good an economist of pleasure, that I have no 
 spare hours upon my hands ; for every morning 
 brings some new appointment, and every night 
 is hurried away by the necessity of making our 
 appearance at different places, and of being with 
 one lady at the opera, and with another at the 
 card-table. 
 
 When the time came of settling our scheme 
 of felicity for the summer, it was determined that 
 I should pay a visit to a rich aunt in a remote 
 county. As you know the chief conversation of 
 all tea-tables, in the spring, arises from a com- 
 munication of the manner in which time is to be 
 passed till winter, it was a great relief to the bar- 
 renness of our topics, to relate the pleasures that 
 were in store for me, to describe my uncle's seat, 
 with the park and gardens, the charming walks 
 and beautiful waterfalls ; and every one told 
 me how much she envied me, and what satis- 
 faction she had once enjoyed in a situation of the 
 same kind. 
 
 As we were all credulous in our own favour, 
 and willing to imagine some latent satisfaction in 
 any thing which we have not experienced, I will 
 confess to you without restraint, that I had suf- 
 fered my head to be filled with expectations of 
 some nameless pleasure in a rural life, and that 
 I hoped for the happy hour that should set me 
 free from noise, and nutter, and ceremony, dis- 
 miss me to the peaceful shade, and lull me in 
 content and tranquillity. To solace myself under 
 the misery of delay, I sometimes heard a studi- 
 ous lady of my acquaintance read pastorals ; I 
 wan delighted with scarce any talk but of leav- 
 ing the town, and never went to bed without 
 dreaming of groves, and meadows, and frisking 
 lambs. 
 
 At length I had all my clothes in a trunk, and 
 saw the coach at the door ; I sprung in with ec- 
 stacy, quarrelled with my maid for being too long 
 in taking leave of the other servants, and rejoiced 
 as the ground grew less, wliich lay between me 
 and the completion of my wishes. A few days 
 brought me to a large old house, encompassed on 
 three sides with woody hills, and looking from 
 the front on a gentle river, the sight of which re- 
 newed all my expectations of pleasure, and gave 
 me some regret for having lived so long without 
 the enjoyment which these delightful scenes were 
 now to afford me. My aunt carne out to receive 
 me, but in a dress so far removed from the pre- 
 it fashion, that I could scarcely look upon her 
 without laughter, which would have been no 
 
 kind requital for the trouble which she had taken 
 to make herself fine against my arrival. The 
 night and the next morning were driven along 
 with inquiries about our family ; my aunt then 
 explained our pedigree, and told me stories of 
 my great grandfather's bravery in the civil wars; 
 nor was it less than three days before I could 
 persuade her to leave me to myself. 
 
 At last economy prevailed ; she went in the 
 usual manner about her own affairs, and 1 was at 
 liberty to range in the wilderness, and sit by the 
 cascade. The novelty of the objects about me 
 pleased me for a while, but after a few days they 
 were new no longer, and I soon began to per- 
 ceive that the country was not my element ; that 
 shades, and flowers, and lawns, and waters, had 
 very soon exhausted all their power of pleasing, 
 and that I had not in myself any fund of satisfac- 
 tion, with which I could supply the loss of my 
 customary amusements. 
 
 I unhappily told my aunt, in the first warmth 
 of our embraces, that I had leave to stay with her 
 ten weeks. Six only are yet gone, and how shall 
 I live through the remaining four ? I go out, and 
 return ; I pluck a flower, and throw it away ; I 
 catch an insect, and when I have examined its 
 colours, set it at liberty; I fling a pebble into the 
 water, and see one circle spread after another. 
 When it chances to rain, I walk in the great hall, 
 and watch the minute-hand upon the dial, or play 
 with a litter of kittens, which the cat happens to 
 have brought in a lucky time. 
 
 My aunt is afraid I shall grow melancholy, 
 and therefore encourages the neighbouring gen 
 try to visit us. They came at first with great 
 eagerness to see the fine lady from London, hut 
 when we met we had no common topic on which 
 we could converse, they had no curiosity after 
 plays, operas, or music : and I find as little satis- 
 faction from the accounts of the quarrels or alli- 
 ances of families, whose names, when once I can 
 escape, I shall never hear. The women have 
 now seen me, know how my gown is made, and 
 are satisfied ; the men are generally afraid of me, 
 and say little, because they think themselves not 
 at liberty to talk rudely. 
 
 Thus I am condemned to*solitude ; the clay 
 moves slowly forward, and I see the dawn with 
 uneasiness, because I consider that night is at a 
 great distance. I have tried to sleep by a brook, 
 but find its murmurs ineffectual : so that I am 
 forced to be awake at least twelve hours, -without 
 visits, without cards, without laughter, and with- 
 out flattery. I walk because I am disgusted 
 with sitting still, and sit down because I am 
 weary with walking. I have no motive to ac- 
 tion, nor any object of love, or hate, or fear, or 
 inclination. I cannot dress with spirit, for I have 
 neither rival nor admirer; I cannot dance with- 
 out a partner ; nor be kind or cruel, without a 
 lover. 
 
 Such is the life of Euphelia, and such it is like- 
 ly to continue for a month to come. I have not 
 yet declared against existence, nor called upon 
 the Destinies to cut my thread ; but I have sin- 
 cerely resolved not to condemn myself to such 
 another summer, nor too hastily to flatter my 
 self with happiness. Yet I have heard, Mr. 
 Rambler, of those who never thought themselves 
 so much at ease as in solitude, and cannot but 
 suspect it to be some way or other my own fault, 
 that, without great pain, either of mind or body,
 
 No. 43.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 77 
 
 I am thus weary of myself: that the current of 
 youth stagnates and that I am languishing in a 
 dead calm, for want of some external impulse. 
 I shall therefore think you a benefactor to our 
 sex, if you will teach me the art of living alone ; 
 for I am confident that a thousand and a thou- 
 sand and a thousand ladies, who affect to talk 
 with ecstacies of the pleasures of the country, 
 are in reality like me, longing for the winter, 
 and wishing to be delivered from themselves by 
 company and diversion. 
 
 I am, Sir, yours, EUPHELIA. 
 
 No. 43.] TUESDAY, AUGUST 14, 1750. 
 
 Flumine perpctuo torrens solet acrius ire, 
 Scd tamen hccc brevis est, Ma perennis aqua. 
 
 OVID. 
 
 In course impetuous soon the torreut dries, 
 The brook a constant peaceful stream supplies. 
 
 r. LEWIS. 
 
 IT is observed by those who have written on the 
 constitution of the human body, and the original 
 of those diseases by which it is afflicted, that eve- 
 ry man comes into the world morbid, that there 
 is no temperature so exactly regulated but that 
 some humour is fatally predominant, and that we 
 are generally impregnated, in our first entrance 
 upon life, with the seeds of that malady, which, 
 in time, shall bring us to the grave. 
 
 This remark has been extended by others to 
 the intellectual faculties. Some that imagine 
 themselves to have looked with more than com- 
 mon penetration into human nature, have endea- 
 voured to persuade us that each man is born with 
 a mind formed peculiarly for certain purposes, 
 and with desires unalterably determined to par- 
 ticular objects, from which the attention cannot 
 be long diverted, and which alone, as they are 
 well or ill pursued, must produce the praise or 
 blame, the happiness or misery of his future life. 
 
 This position has not, indeed, been hitherto 
 proved with strength proportionate to the assur- 
 ance with which it has been advanced, and per- 
 haps will never gain much prevalence by a close 
 examination. 
 
 If the doctrine of innate ideas be itself disputa- 
 ble, there seems to be little hope of establishing 
 an opinion, which supposes that even complica- 
 tions of ideas have been given us at our birth, 
 and that we are made by nature ambitious, or 
 covetous, before we know the meaning of either 
 power or money. 
 
 Yet as every step in the progression of exist- 
 ence changes our position with respect to the 
 things about us, so as to lay us open to new as- 
 saults and particular dangers, and subjects us to 
 inconveniences from which any other situation 
 is exempt ; as a public or a private life, youth 
 and age, wealth and poverty, have all some evil 
 closely adherent, which cannot wholly be escap- 
 ed but by quitting the state to which it is annex- 
 ed, and submitting to the incumbrances of some 
 other condition ; so it cannot be denied that 
 every difference in the structure of the mind has 
 its advantages and its wants ; and that failures 
 and defects being inseparable from humanity, 
 however the powers of understanding be extended 
 or contracted, there will on one side or the other 
 always be an avenue to error and miscarriage. 
 
 There seem to be some souls suited to great, 
 and others to little employments : some formed 
 to soar aloft, and take in wide views, and others 
 to grovel on the ground, and confine their regard 
 to a narrow sphere. Of these the one is always 
 in danger of becoming useless by a daring negli- 
 gence, the other by a scrupulous solicitude ; the 
 one collects many ideas, but confused and indis- 
 tinct ; the other is busied in minute accuracy, but 
 without compass and without dignity. 
 
 The general error of those who possess power- 
 ful and elevated understandings, is, that they form 
 schemes of too great extent, and flatter them- 
 selves too hastily with success ; they feel their 
 own force to be great, and by the complacency 
 with which every man surveys himself, imagine 
 it still greater : they therefore look out for under- 
 takings worthy of their abilities, and ngage in 
 them with very little precaution, for they imagine 
 that without premeditated measures, they shall 
 be able to find expedients in all difficulties. They 
 are naturally apt to consider all prudential max- 
 ims as below their regard, to treat with contempt 
 those securities and resources which others know 
 themselves obliged to provide, and disdain to ac- 
 complish their purposes by established means, 
 and common gradations. 
 
 Precipitation, thus incited by the pride of intel- 
 lectual superiority, is very fatal to great designs. 
 The resolution of the combat is seldom equal to 
 the vehemence of the charge. He that meets 
 with an opposition which he did not expect, loses 
 his courage. The violence of his first onset is 
 succeeded by a lasting and unconquerable lan- 
 guor ; miscarriage makes him fearful of giving 
 way to new hopes ; and the contemplation of an 
 attempt in which he has fallen below his own ex- 
 pectations is painful and vexatious ; he therefore 
 naturally turns his attention to more pleasing ob- 
 jects, and habituates his imagination to other en- 
 tertainments, till, by slow degrees, he quits his 
 first pursuit, and suffers some other project to 
 take possession of his thoughts, in which the 
 same ardour of mind promises him again certain 
 success, and which disappointments of the same 
 kind compel him to abandon. 
 
 Thus too much vigour in the beginning of an 
 undertaking often intercepts and prevents the 
 steadiness and perseverance always necessary 
 in the condi?"* of a complicated scheme, where 
 many interests are to be connected, many move- 
 ments to be adjusted, and the joint effort of dis- 
 tinct and independent powers to be directed to a 
 single point. In all important events which have 
 been suddenly brought to pass, chance has been 
 the agent rather than reason ; and therefore, how- 
 ever those who seemed to preside in the transac- 
 tion, may have been celebrated by such as loved 
 or feared" them, succeeding times have commonly 
 considered them as fortunate rather than prudent. 
 Every design in which the connexion is regularly 
 traced from the first motion to the last, must be 
 formed and executed by calm intrepidity, and re- 
 quires not only courage which danger cannot 
 turn aside, but constancy which fatigues cannot 
 weary, and contrivance which impediments can- 
 not exhaust. 
 
 All the performances of human art, at which 
 we look with praise or wonder, are instances of 
 the resistless force of perseverance ; it is by this 
 that the quarry becomes a pyramid, and that dis- 
 tant countries are united with canals. If a man
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [JN 7 o. 44 
 
 was to compare the effect of a single stroke of the 
 Dick-axe, or of one impression of the spade, with 
 the general design and last result, he would be 
 overwhelmed by the sense of their disproportion ; 
 yet those petty operations, incessantly continued, 
 in time surmount the greatest difficulties, and 
 mountains are levelled, and oceans bounded, by 
 the slender force of human beings. 
 
 It is therefore of the utmost importance that 
 those who have any intention of deviating from 
 the beaten roads of life, and acquiring a reputa- 
 tion superior to names hourly swept away by 
 time among the refuse of fame, should add to 
 their reason, and their spirit, the power of persist- 
 ing in their purposes; acquire the art of sapping 
 what they cannot batter, and the habit of van- 
 quishingobstinate resistance by obstinate attacks. 
 
 The student who would build his knowledge 
 on solid foundations, and proceed by just degrees 
 to the pinnacles of truth, is directed by the great 
 philosopher of France to begin by doubting of his 
 own existence. In like manner, whoever would 
 complete any arduous and intricate enterprise, 
 should, as soon as his imagination can cool after 
 the first blaze of hope, place before his own eyes 
 every possible embarrassment that may retard or 
 defeat him. He should first question the proba- 
 bility of success, and then endeavour to remove 
 the objections that he has raised. It is proper, 
 says old Markham,* to exercise your horse on 
 the more inconvenient side of the course, that if 
 he should, in the race, be forced upon it, he may 
 not be discouraged ; and Horace advises his po- 
 etical friend to consider every day as the last 
 which he shall enjoy, because that will always 
 give pleasure which we receive beyond our hopes. 
 If we alarm ourselves beforehand with more diffi- 
 culties than we really find, we shall be animated 
 by unexpected facility with double spirit ; and if 
 we find our cautions and fears justified by the 
 consequence, there will however happen nothing 
 against which provision has not been made, no 
 sudden shock will be received, nor will the main 
 scheme be disconcerted. 
 
 There is, indeed, some danger lest he that too 
 scrupulously balances probabilities, and too per- 
 spicaciously foresees obstacles, should remain 
 always in a state of inaction, without venturing 
 upon attempts on which he may perhaps spend 
 his labour without advantage. But. previous de- 
 spondence is not the fault of those for whom this 
 essay is designed ; they who require to be warn- 
 ed against precipitation, will not suffer more fear 
 to intrude into their contemplations than is ne- 
 cessary to allay the effervescence of an agitated 
 fancy. As Das Cartes has kindly shown how a 
 man may prove to himself his own existence, if 
 once he can be prevailed upon to question it, so 
 the ardent and adventurous will not be long with- 
 out finding some plausible extenuation of the 
 greatest difficulties. Such, indeed, is the uncer- 
 tainty of all human affairs, that security and de- 
 spair are equal follies ; and as it is presumption 
 and arrogance to anticipate triumphs, it is weak- 
 ness aud cowardice to prognosticate miscarriages. 
 Tho nnmb?rs that have been stopped in their ca- 
 r.XT of happiness are sufficient to show the unccr- 
 
 * Gervase Slarkham, in his book entitled "Perfect 
 Horsemanship,'' l-m >. 1671. He was a dramatic poet, and 
 voluminous writer, on various subjects. 
 
 tainty of human foresight ; but there arc not 
 wanting contrary instances of such success ob- 
 tained against all appearances, as may warrant 
 the boldest flights of genius, if they are supported 
 by unshaken perseverance. 
 
 No. 44.] SATURDAY, AUGUST 18, 1750. 
 
 *Ovap IK Ai6s ten. HOMER. 
 Dreams descend from Jove. POPE. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I HAD latelya\ery remarkahledream, which made 
 so strong an impression on me, that I remember 
 it every word ; and if you are not better employ- 
 ed, you may read the relation of it as follows : 
 
 Methought I was in the midst of a very enter- 
 taining set of company, and extremely delighted 
 in attending to a lively conversation, when on a 
 sudden I perceived one of the most shocking 
 figures imagination can frame advancing towards 
 me. She was dressed in black, her skin was con- 
 tracted into a thousand wrinkles, her eyes deep 
 sunk in her head, and her complexion pale and 
 livid as the countenance of death. Her looks 
 were filled with terror and unrelenting severity, 
 and her hands armed with whips and scorpion's. 
 As soon as she came near, with a horrid frown, 
 and a voice that chilled my verv blood, she bid 
 me follow her. I obeyed, and she led me through 
 rugged, paths, beset with briars and thorns, into 
 a deep solitary valley. Wherever she passed, 
 the fading verdure withered beneath her steps ; 
 her pestilential breath infected the air with ma- 
 lignant vapours, obscured the lustre of the sun, 
 and involved the fair face of heaven in universal 
 gloom. Dismal howlings resounded through the 
 forest, from every baleful tree the night raven ut- 
 tered his dreadful note, and the prospect was fill- 
 ed with desolation and horror. In the midst of 
 this tremendous scene my execrable guide ad- 
 dressed me in the following manner : 
 
 "Retire with me, O rash unthinking mortal, 
 from the vain allurements of a deceitful world, 
 and learn that pleasure was not designed the por- 
 tion of human life. Man was born to mourn and 
 to be wretched ; this is the condition of all below 
 the stars, and whoever endeavours to oppose it, 
 acts in contradiction to the will of Heaven. Fly 
 then from the fatal enchantments of youth and 
 social delight, and here consecrate the solitary 
 hours to lamentation and wo. Misery is the duty 
 of all sublunary beings, and every enjoyment is 
 an offence to the Deity, who is to be worshipped 
 only by the mortification of every sense of plea- 
 sure, and the everlasting exercise of sighs ano 
 tears." 
 
 This melancholy picture of life quite sunk my 
 spirits, and seemed to annihilate every principle 
 of joy within me. I threw myself beneath a blast- 
 ed yew, where the winds blew cold and dismal 
 round my head, and dreadful apprehensions chill- 
 ed my heart. Here I resolved to lie till the hand 
 of death, which I impatiently invoked, should 
 put an end to the miseries of a life so deplorably 
 wretched. In this sad situation I espied on one 
 hand of me a deep muddy river, whose heavy 
 waves rolled on in slow sullen murmurs. Here
 
 No. 44.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 I determined to plunge, and was just upon the i 
 brink, when I found myself suddenly drawn back. 
 I turned about, and was surprised by the sight of 
 the loveliest object I had ever beheld. The most 
 engaging charms of youth and beauty appeared 
 in all her form : effulgent glories sparkled in her 
 eyes, and their awful splendours were softened 
 by the gentlest looks of compassion and peace. 
 At her approach the frightful spectre, who had 
 before tormented me, vanished away, and with 
 her all the horrors she had caused. The gloomy 
 clouds brightened into cheerful sunshine, the 
 groves recovered their verdure, and the whole re- 
 gion looked gay and blooming as the garden of 
 Eden. I was quite transported at this unexpect- 
 ed change, and reviving pleasure began to glad 
 my thoughts, when, with a look of inexpressible 
 sweetness, my beauteous deliverer thus uttered 
 her divine instructions : 
 
 " My name is Religion. I am the offspring of 
 Truth and Love, and the parent of Benevolence, 
 Hope, and Joy. That monster from whose 
 power I have freed you is called Superstition, she 
 is the child of Discontent, and her followers are 
 Fear and Sorrow. Thus different as we are, she 
 has often the insolence to assume my name and 
 character, and seduces unhappy mortals to think 
 us the same, till she at length drives them to the 
 borders of despair, that dreadful abyss into which 
 you were just going to sink. 
 
 " Look round and survey the various beauties 
 f the globe, which Heaven has destined for the 
 seat of the human race, and consider whether a 
 world thus exquisitely framed could be meant for 
 the abode of misery and pain. For what end has 
 the lavish hand of Providence diffused such innu- 
 merable objects of delight, but that all might re- 
 joice in the privilege of existence, and be filled 
 with gratitude to the beneficent Author of it? 
 Thus to enjoy the blessings he has sent, is virtue 
 and obedience ; and to reject them, merely as 
 means of pleasure, is pitiable ignorance or absurd 
 perverseness. Infinite goodness is the source of 
 created existence ; the proper tendency of every 
 rational being, from the highest order of rap- 
 tured seraphs, to the meanest rank of men, is to 
 rise incessantly from lower degrees of happiness 
 to higher. They have each faculties assigned 
 them for various orders of delights." 
 
 "What," cried I, "is this the language of Re- 
 ligion ? Does she lead her votaries through flow- 
 ery paths, and bid them pass an unlaborious life ? 
 Where are the painful toils of virtue, the morti- 
 fications of penitence, the self-denying exercises 
 of saints and heroes i" 
 
 " The true enjoyments of a reasonable being," 
 answered she mildly, "do notconsistin unbound- 
 ed indulgence, or luxurious ease, in the tumult 
 of passions, the languor of indolence, or the flut- 
 ter of light amusements. Yielding to immoral 
 pleasure corrupts the mind, living to animal and 
 trifling ones debases it : both in their degree dis- 
 qualify it for its genuine good, and consign it 
 over to wretchedness. Whoever would be real- 
 ly happy, must make the diligent and regular 
 exercise of his superior powers his chief atten- 
 tion, adoring the perfections of his Maker, ex- 
 pressing good will to his fellow creatures, culti- 
 vating inward rectitude. To his lower faculties 
 he must allow such gratifications as will, by re- 
 freshing him, invigorate his nobler pursuits. In 
 I he regions inhabited by angelic natures, unmin- 
 
 gled felicity for ever blooms, joy flows there with 
 a perpetual and abundant stream, nor needs 
 there any mound to check its course. Beings 
 conscious of a frame of mind originally diseased, 
 as all the human race has cause to be, must use 
 the regimen of a stricter self-government. Who- 
 ever has been guilty of voluntary excesses must 
 patiently submit both to the painful workings ot 
 nature, and needful severities of medicine, in or 
 der to his cure. Still he is entitled to a moderate 
 share of whatever alleviating accommodations 
 this fair mansion of his merciful Parent affords, 
 consistent with his recovery. And in proportion 
 as this recovery advances, the liveliest joy will 
 spring from his secret sense of an amended and 
 improving heart. So far from the horrors of de- 
 spair is the condition even of the guilty. Shud- 
 der, poor mortal, at the thought of the gulf into 
 which thou wast but now going ta plunge. 
 
 " While the most faulty have ever encourage- 
 ment to amend, the more innocent soul will be 
 supported with still sweeter consolations under 
 all its experience of human infirmities ; support- 
 ed by the gladdening assurances that every sin- 
 ceie endeavour to outgrow them shall be assisted, 
 accepted, and rewarded. To such a one the 
 lowliest self-abasement is but a deep-laid found- 
 ation for the most elevated hopes ; since they 
 who faithfully examine and acknowledge what 
 they are, shall be enabled under my conduct to 
 become what they desire. The Christian and 
 the hero are inseparable ; and to aspirings of un- 
 assuming trust, and filial confidence, are set no 
 bounds. To him who is animated with a view 
 of obtaining approbation from the Sovereign ol 
 the universe, no difficulty is insurmountable. Se- 
 cure in this pursuit of every needful aid, his con 
 flict with the severest pains and trials, is little 
 more than the vigorous exercise of a mind in 
 health. His patient dependence on that Provi- 
 dence which looks through all eternity, his silent 
 resignation, his ready accommodation of his 
 thoughts and behaviour to its inscrutable ways, 
 is at once the most excellent sort of self-denial, 
 and a source of the most exalted transports. So 
 ciety is the true sphere of human virtue. In so 
 cial, active life, difficulties will perpetually be 
 met with ; restraints of many kinds will be ne 
 cessary ; and studying to behave right in res 
 pect of these is a discipline of the human heart, 
 useful to others, and improving to itself. Suf 
 fering is no duty, but wnere it is necessary to 
 avoid guilt, or to'do good ; nor pleasure a crime, 
 but where it strengthens the influence of bad in 
 clinations, or lessens the generous activity of 
 virtue. The happiness allotted to man in his 
 present state, is indeed faint and low, compared 
 with his immortal prospects and noble capaci- 
 ties ; but yet whatever portion of it the distribut- 
 ing hand of Heaven offers to each individual, is 
 a needful support and refreshment for the present 
 moment, so far as it may not hinder the attaining 
 of his final destination. 
 
 " Return then with me from continual misery 
 to moderate enjoyment and grateful alacrity. Re- 
 turn from (he contracted views of solitude to the 
 proper duties of a relative and dependent being. 
 Religion is not confined to cells and closets, nor 
 restrained to sullen retirement. These are the 
 eloomy doctrines of Superstition, by which she 
 endeavours to break those chains of benevolence 
 and social affection, that link the welfare of every
 
 80 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 45. 
 
 particular with that of the whole. Remember 
 that the greatest honour you can pay to the Au- 
 thor oi' your being is by such a cheerful behaviour, 
 as discovers a mind satisfied with his dispensa- 
 tions." 
 
 Here my preceptress paused, anc. 1 was going 
 to express my acknowledgments for her discourse, 
 when a ring of bells from the neighbouring vil- 
 lage, and a new rising sun darting his beams 
 through my windows, awaked me.* 
 
 I am yours, &c. 
 
 No. 45.] TUESDAY, AUGUST 21, 1750. 
 
 "Hirtp /ityiaTtj ylyverai aiartpla, 
 "Orav yvvrj vobf avipa ftfi ii^oaraTfi, 
 NDv <5' f;0>a irdvra. - 
 
 This is the chief felicity of life, 
 
 That concord smiles on the connubial bed ; 
 
 But now 'tis hatred all. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 THOUGH, in the dissertations which you have 
 given us on marriage, very just cautions are laid 
 down against the common causes of infelicity and 
 the necessity of having, in that important choice, 
 the first regard to virtue, is carefully inculcated ; 
 yet I cannot think the subject so much exhausted, 
 but that a little reflection would present to the 
 mind many questions, in the discussion of which 
 great numbers are interested, and many precepts 
 which deserve to be more particularly and forci- 
 bly impressed. 
 
 You seem, like most of the writers that have 
 gone before you, to have allowed as an uncon- 
 tested principle, that marriage is generally unhap- 
 py : but I know not whether a man, who pro- 
 fesses to think for himself, and concludes from 
 his own observations, does not depart from his 
 character when he follows the crowd thus impli- 
 citly, and receives maxims without recalling 
 them to a new examination, especially when 
 they comprise so wide a circuit of life, and include 
 such variety of circumstances. As I have an 
 equal right with others to give my opinion of the 
 objects about me, and a better title to determine 
 concerning that state which I have tried, than 
 many who talk of it without experience, I am 
 unwilling to be restrained by mere authority from 
 advancing what, I believe, an accurate view of 
 the world will confirm, that marriage is not com- 
 monly unhappy, otherwise than as life is unhap- 
 py; and that most of those who complain of con- 
 nubial miseries, have as much satisfaction as their 
 nature would have admitted, ov their conduct 
 procured, in any other condition. 
 
 It is, indeed, common to hear both sexes re- 
 pine at their change, relate the happiness of their 
 earlier years, blame the folly and rashness of 
 their own choice, and warn those whom they see 
 coming into the world against the same precipi- 
 tance and infatuation. But it is to be remem- 
 bcp-d, that the days which they so much wish to 
 call back, arc the days not only of celibacy, but 
 
 - This pnpcr, and No. 100, were written by the late Mrs. 
 lizobeth Lnrter, of Deal in Kent, who died February 19, 
 
 1800 C. 
 
 of youth, the days of novelty and improvement, 
 of ardour and of hope, of health and vigour of 
 body, of gayety and lightness of heart. It is 
 not easy to surround life with any circumstances 
 in which youth will not be delightful ; and I am 
 afraid that whether married or unmarried, we 
 shall find the vesture of terrestrial existence more 
 heavy and cumbrous, the longer it is worn. 
 
 That they censure themselves for the indisure 
 tion of their choice, is not a sufficient proof that 
 they have chosen ill, since we see the same dis- 
 content at every other part of life which we can- 
 not change. Converse with almost any man, 
 grown old in a profession, and you will rind him 
 regretting that he did not enter into some different 
 course, to which he too late finds his genius bet- 
 ter adapted, or in which he discovers that wealth 
 and honour are more easily attained. "The 
 merchant," says Horace, " envies the soldier, 
 and the soldier recounts the felicity of the mer- 
 chant ; the lawyer, when his clients harass him, 
 calls out for the quiet of the countryman ; and 
 the countryman, when business calls him to 
 town, proclaims that there is no happiness but 
 amidst opulence, and crowds." Every man re- 
 counts the inconveniences of his own station, and 
 thinks those of any other less, because he has 
 not felt them. Thus the married praise the ease 
 and freedom of a single state, and the single fly 
 to marriage from the weariness of solitude. From 
 all our observations we may collect with certain- 
 ty, that misery is the lot of man, but cannot dis- 
 cover in what particular condition it will find 
 most alleviations ; or whether all external ap- 
 pendages are not, as we use them, the causes 
 either of good or ill. 
 
 Whoever feels great pain, naturally hopes for 
 ease from change of posture ; he changes it, and 
 finds himself equally tormented : and of the 
 same kind are the expedients by which we en- 
 deavour to obviate or elude those uneasinesses, 
 to which mortality will always be subject. It is 
 not likely that the married state is eminently 
 miserable, since we see such numbers, whom the 
 death of their partners has set free from it, enter- 
 ing it. again. 
 
 Wives and husbands are, indeed, incessantly 
 complaining of each other ; and there would be 
 reason for imagining that almost every house was 
 infested with perverseness or oppression beyond 
 human sufferance, did we not know upon how 
 small occasions some minds burst out into la- 
 nentations and reproaches, and how naturally 
 every animal revenges his pain upon those who 
 happen to be near, without any nice examination 
 of its cause. We are always willing to fancy 
 ourselves within a little of happiness, and when, 
 with repeated efforts, we cannot reach it, per- 
 suade ourselves that it is intercepted by an ill- 
 paired mate, since, if we could find any other 
 obstacle, it would be our own fault that it was 
 not removed. 
 
 Anatomists have often remarked that though 
 our diseases are sufficiently numerous and se- 
 vere, yet when we inquire into the structure of 
 the body, the tenderness of some parts, the mi- 
 nuteness of others, and the immense multiplicity 
 of animal functions that must concur to the health- 
 ful and vigorous exercise of all our powers, there 
 appears reason to wonder rather that we are pre- 
 served so long, than that we perish so soon, and 
 that our frame subsists for a single day, or hour,
 
 No. 46.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 81 
 
 without disorder, rather than that it should be 
 broken or obstructed by violence of accidents o 
 length of time. 
 
 The same reflection arises in my mind, upon 
 observation of the manner in which marriage is 
 frequently contracted. When I see the avari- 
 cious and crafty taking companions to their ta- 
 bles a nd their beds without any inquiry, but af- 
 ter farms and money; or the giddy and thought- 
 less uniting themselves for life to those whom 
 they have only seen by the light of tapers at a 
 ball ; when parents make articles for their chil- 
 dren, without inquiring after their consent; when 
 some marry for heirs to disappoint their brothers, 
 and others throw themselves into the arms oi 
 those whom they do not love, because they have 
 found themselves rejected where they were more 
 solicitous to please ; when some marry because 
 their servants cheat them, some because they 
 squander their own money, some because their 
 houses are pestered with company, some because 
 they will live like other people, and some only 
 because they are sick of themselves, I am not so 
 much inclined to wonder that marriage is some- 
 times unhappy, as that it appears so little loaded 
 with calamity ; and cannot but conclude that so- 
 ciety has something in itself eminently agreeable 
 to human nature, when I find its pleasures so 
 great, that even the ill choice of a companion can 
 hardly overbalance them. 
 
 By the ancient custom of the Muscovites, the 
 men and women never saw each other till they 
 were joined beyond the power of parting. It may 
 be suspected that by this method many unsuita- 
 ble matches were produced, and many tempers 
 associated that were not qualified to give pleasure 
 to each other. Yet perhaps, among a people so 
 little delicate, where the paucity of gratifications, 
 and the uniformity of life, gave no opportunity 
 for imagination to interpose its objections, there 
 was not much danger of capricious dislike ; and 
 while they felt neither cold nor hunger, they 
 might live quietly together, without any thought 
 of the defects of one another. 
 
 Amongst us whom knowledge has made nice, 
 and affluence wanton, there are, indeed, more 
 cautions requisite to secure tranquillity ; and yet 
 if we observe the manner in which those con- 
 verse, who have singled out each other for mar- 
 riage, we shall, perhaps, not think that the Rus- 
 sians lost much by their restraint. For the whole 
 endeavour of both parties, during the times of 
 courtship, is to hinder themselves from being 
 known, and to disguise their natural temper, and 
 real desires, in hypocritical imitation, studied 
 compliance, and continual affectation. From the 
 time that their love is avowed, neither sees the 
 other but in a mask, and the cheat is managed of- 
 ten on both sides with so much art, and discovered 
 afterward with so much abruptness, that each 
 has reason to suspect that some transformation 
 has happened on the wedding night, and that, by 
 a strange imposture, one has been courted, and 
 another married. 
 
 I desire you, therefore, Mr. Rambler, to ques- 
 tion all who shall hereafter come to you with ma- 
 trimonial complaints, concerning their behaviour 
 in the time of courtship, and inform them that 
 they are neither to wonder nor repine, when a 
 contract begun with fraud has ended in disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 I am, &c. 
 
 Xo. 46.] SATURDAY, JUNE 25, 1750. 
 
 Genus, etproavos, et qv<e non fecimvs ipsi. 
 
 Vix ca nustra toco OVIT> 
 
 Nought from my birth or ancestors I claim; 
 All is my own, my honour and my shame 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 SINCE I find that you have paid so much rrgara 
 to my complaints as to publish them, I am in- 
 clined by vanity, or gratitude, to continue our cor 
 respondence ; and, indeed, without either of these 
 motives, am glad of an opportunity to write, for 
 I am not accustomed to keep in any thing that 
 swells my heart, and have here none with whom 
 I can freely converse. While I am thus em- 
 ployed, some tedious hours will slip away, and 
 when I return to watch the clock, I shall find 
 that I have disburdened myself of part of the 
 day. 
 
 You perceive that I do not pretend to write 
 with much consideration of any thing but my own 
 convenience ; and, not to conceal from you my 
 real sentiments, the little time which I have 
 spent, against my will, in solitary meditation, 
 has not much contributed to my veneration for 
 authors, I have now sufficient reason to suspect, 
 that, with all your splendid professions of wis- 
 dom, and seeming regard for truth, you have 
 very little sincerity ; that you either write what 
 you do not think, and willingly impose upon 
 mankind, or that you take no care to think right, 
 but while you set up yourselves as guides, mis- 
 lead your followers by credulity or negligence ; 
 that you produce to the public whatever notions 
 you can speciously maintain, or elegantly ex- 
 press, without inquiring whether they are just, 
 and transcribe hereditary falsehoods from old 
 authors perhaps as ignorant and careless as 
 yourselves. 
 
 You may perhaps wonder that I express my- 
 self with so much acrimony on a question in 
 which women are supposed to have very little 
 nterest ; and you are likely enough, for I have 
 seen many instances of the sauciness of scholars, 
 to tell me, that I am more properly employed in 
 )laying with my kittens, than in giving myself 
 airs of criticism, and censuring the learned. But 
 fou are mistaken, if you imagine that, I am to be 
 ntimidated by your contempt, or silenced by 
 your reproofs. As I read, I have a right to judge; 
 as 1 am injured, I have a right to complain ; and 
 these privileges, which I have purchased at so 
 dear a rate, I shall not easily be persuaded to 
 resign. 
 
 To read has, indeed, never been my business, 
 but as there are hours of leisure in the most ac- 
 tive life, I have passed the superfluities of time, 
 which the diversions of the town left upon my 
 hands, in turning over a large collection of tra- 
 gedies and romances, where, amongst other sen- 
 timents, common to all authors of this class, I 
 have found almost every page filled with the 
 charms and happiness of a country life : that 
 life to which every statesman in the highest ele- 
 vation of his prosperity is contriving to retire ; 
 that life to which every tragic heroine in some 
 scene or other wishes to have been born, and 
 which is represented as a certain refuge from
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 47. 
 
 folly, from anxiety, from passion, and from 
 guilt. 
 
 It was impossible to read so many passionate 
 exclamations, and soothing descriptions, with- 
 out feeling some desire to enjoy the state in which 
 all this felicity was to be enjoyed ; and therefore 
 I received with raptures the invitation of my 
 good aunt, and expected that by some unknown 
 influence I should find all hopes and fears, 
 jealousies and competitions, vanish from my 
 heart upon my first arrival at the seats of inno- 
 cence and tranquillity; that I should sleep in 
 halcyon bowers, and wander in elysian gardens, 
 where I should meet with nothing but softness 
 of benevolence, the candour of simplicity, and 
 the cheerfulness of content ; where I should see 
 reason exerting her sovereignty over life, with- 
 out any interruption from envy, avarice, or am- 
 bition, and every day passing in such a manner 
 as the severest wisdom should approve. 
 
 This, Mr. Rambler, I tell you I expected, and 
 this I had by a hundred authors been taught to 
 expect. By this expectation I was led hither, 
 and here I live in perpetual uneasiness, without 
 any other comfort than that of hoping to return 
 to London. 
 
 Having, since I wrote my former letter, been 
 driven, by the mere necessity of escaping from 
 absolute inactivity, to make myself more ac- 
 quainted with the affairs and inhabitants of this 
 place, I am now no longer an absolute stranger 
 to rural conversation and employments, but am 
 far from discovering in them more innocence or 
 wisdom, than in the sentiments or conduct of 
 those with whom I have passed more cheerful 
 and more fashionable hours. 
 
 It is common to reproach the tea-table, and the 
 park, with giving opportunities and encourage- 
 ment to scandal. I cannot wholly clear them 
 from the charge ; but must, however, observe, 
 in favour of the modish prattlers, that, if not by 
 principle, we are at least by accident less guilty 
 of defamation than the country ladies. For hav- 
 ing greater numbers to observe and censure, we 
 are commonly content to charge them only with 
 their own faults or follies, and seldom give way 
 to malevolence, but such as arises from some in- 
 jury or affront, real or imaginary, offered to our- 
 selves. But in these distant provinces, where 
 the same families inhabit the same houses from 
 age to age, they transmit and recount the faults 
 of a whole succession. I have been informed 
 how every estate in the neighbourhood was 
 originally got, and find, if I may credit the ac- 
 counts given me, that there is not a single acre 
 in the hands of the right owner. I have been 
 told of intrigues between beaux, and toasts that 
 have been now three centuries in their quiet 
 graves, and am often entertained with traditional 
 scandal on persons of whose names there would 
 nave been no remembrance, had they not com- 
 mitted somewhat that might disgrace their de- 
 scendants. 
 
 In one of my visits I happened to commend 
 the air and dignity of a young lady, who had just 
 left the company ; upon which two grave matrons 
 looked with great slyness at each other, and the 
 elder asked me whether I had ever seen the pic- 
 ture of Henry the Eighth. You may imagine that 
 I did not immediately perceive the propriety of 
 the question: but after having waited a while for 
 information, I was told that the lady's grandmo- 
 
 ther had a great-great-grandruothor that was an 
 attendant on Anna Bullen, and supposed to have 
 been too much a favourite of the king. 
 
 If once there happens a quarrel between the 
 principal persons of two families, the malignity 
 is continued without end, and it is common for 
 old maids to fall out about some election, in 
 which their grandfathers were competitors ; the 
 heart-burnings of the civil war are not yet extin- 
 guished ; there are two families in the neighbour 
 hood who have destroyed each other's game from 
 the time of Philip and Mary ; and when an ac- 
 count came of an inundation, which had injured 
 the plantations of a worthy gentleman, one of 
 the hearers remarked, with exultation, that he 
 might now have some notion, of the ravages com- 
 mitted by his ancestors in their retreat from Bos- 
 worth. 
 
 Thus malice and hatred descend here with an 
 inheritance, and it is necessary to be well versed 
 in history, that the various factions of thiscountry 
 may be understood. You cannot expect to be 
 on good terms with families who are resolved to 
 love nothing in common ; and, in selecting youi 
 intimates, you are perhaps to consider which 
 party you most favour in the barons' wars. I 
 have often lost the good opinion of my aunt's vi- 
 sitants by confounding the interests of York and 
 Lancaster, and was once censured for sitting si- 
 lent when William Rufus was called a tyrant. 
 I have, however, now thrown aside all pretences 
 to circumspection, for I find it impossible in less 
 than seven years to learn all the requisite cau- 
 tions. At London, if you know your company, 
 and their parents, you are safe ; but. you are here 
 suspected of alluding to the slips of great-grand- 
 mothers, and of reviving contests which were de- 
 cided in armour by the redoubted knights of an- 
 cient times. I hope therefore that you will not 
 condemn my impatience, if I am weary of attend- 
 ing where nothing can be learned, and of quar- 
 relling where there is nothing to contest, and that 
 you will contribute to divert me while I stay here 
 by some facetious performance. 
 I am, Sir, 
 
 EUPHELIA. 
 
 No. 47.] TUESDAY, AUGUST 28, 1750. 
 
 Quanquam his solatiis aequicscam, debilitor et fraiiffor 
 cadem ilia kumanitate qua me, ut hoc ipsum permitte- 
 rem t induxit. JVon idea tamen dim durior fieri : nee ig- 
 noro alias hvjusmodi casus nihil amplivs voearc quum 
 damnum ; toque sibi magnos homines ct sapientes vi- 
 deri. Qwt an magni sapientesque sint, nescio : huminis 
 non stint. Hominis est enim ajfici ditlort, sentire : re- 
 sistere tamen, et solatia admittere ; non solatiis non 
 egere. ri.ix. 
 
 These proceedings have afforded me some comfort in my 
 distress ; notwithstanding which, I am still dispirited and 
 unhinged by the same motives of humanity that induced 
 me to grant such indulgences. However, I by no means 
 wish to become less susceptible of tenderness. I know 
 these kind of misfortunes would be estimated by other 
 persons only as common losses, and from such sensations 
 they would conceive themselves great and wise men. I 
 shall not determine either their greatness or their wis- 
 dom; but I am certain they have no humanity. It is the 
 part of a man to be affected with grief, to feel sorrow, at 
 the same time that lie is to resist it, and to admit of com 
 fort. Earl of Orrery. 
 
 OF the passions with which the mind of man 13 
 agitated, it may be observed, that they naturally
 
 JVo. 47.J 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 S3 
 
 hasten towards their own extinction, by inciting 
 and quickening the attainment of their objects. 
 Thus fear urges our flight, and desire animates 
 our progress ; and if there are some which per- 
 haps may be indulged till they outgrow the good 
 appropriated to their satisfaction, as it is fre- 
 quently observed of avarice and ambition, yet 
 their immediate tendency is to some means of 
 happiness really existing, and generally within 
 the prospect. The miser always imagines that 
 there is a certain sum that will fill his heart to 
 the brim ; and every ambitious man, like King 
 Pyrrhus, has an acquisition in his thoughts that 
 is to terminate his labours, after which he shall 
 pass the rest of his life in ease or gayety, in re- 
 pose or devotion. 
 
 Sorrow is perhaps the only affection of the 
 breast that can be excepted from this general re- 
 mark, and it therefore deserves the particular at- 
 tention of those who have assumed the arduous 
 province of preserving the balance of the mental 
 constitution. The other passions are diseases 
 indeed, but they necessarily direct us to their 
 proper cure. A man at once feels the pain and 
 knows the medicine, to which he is carried with 
 greater haste as the evil which requires it is more 
 excruciating, and cures himself by unerring in- 
 stinct, as the wounded stags of Crete are related 
 by JEAinn to have recourse to vulnerary herbs. 
 But for sorrow there is no remedy provided by 
 nature ; it is often occasioned by accidents irre- 
 parable, and dwells upon objects that have lost 
 or changed their existence ; it requires what it 
 cannot hope, that the laws of the universe should 
 be repealed ; that the dead should return, or the 
 past should be recalled. 
 
 Sorrow is not that regret for negligence or er- 
 ror which may animate us to future care or acti- 
 vity, or that repentance of crimes for which, how- 
 ever irrevocable, our Creator has promised to ac- 
 cept it as an atonement; the pain which arises 
 from these causes has very salutary effects, and 
 is every hour extenuating itself by the reparation 
 of those miscarriages that produce it. Sorrow 
 is properly that state of the mind in which our 
 desires are fixed upon the past, without looking 
 forward to the future, an incessant wish that 
 something were otherwise than it has been, a 
 tormenting and harassing want of some enjoy- 
 ment or possession which we have lost, and 
 which no endeavours can possibly regain. Into 
 such anguish many have sunk upon some sudden 
 diminution of their fortune, an unexpected blast 
 of their reputation, or the loss of children or of 
 friends. They have suffered all sensibility of 
 pleasure to be destroyed by a single blow, have 
 given up for ever the hopes of substituting any 
 other object in the room of that which they la- 
 ment, resigned their lives to gloom and despond- 
 ency, and worn themselves out in unavailing 
 .Tiisery. 
 
 Yet so much is this passion the natural conse- 
 quence of tenderness and endearment, that how- 
 ever painful and however useless, it is justly re- 
 proachful not to feel it on some occasions ; and 
 so widely and constantly has it always prevailed, 
 that the laws of some nations, and the customs 
 of others, have limited a time for the external 
 appearances of grief caused by the dissolution of 
 close alliances, and the breach of domestic union. 
 
 It seems determined by the general suffrage of 
 mankind, that sorrow is to a certain point lauda- 
 
 ble, as the offspring of love, or at least pardon- 
 able, as the effect of weakness ; but that it ought 
 not to be suffered to increase by indulgence, but 
 must give way, after a stated time, to social du 
 ties, and the common avocations of life. It is at 
 first unavoidable, and therefore must be allowed, 
 whether with or without our choice ; it may after- 
 wards be admitted as a decent and affectionate 
 testimony of kindness and esteem; something 
 will be extorted by nature, and something may 
 be given to the world. But all beyond the bursts 
 of passion, or the forms of solemnity, is not only 
 useless, but culpable ; for we have no right to 
 sacrifice, to the vain longings of affection, that 
 time which Providence allows us for the task of 
 our station. 
 
 Yet it too often happens that sorrow, thus law- 
 fully entering, gains such a firm possession of 
 the mind, that it is not afterward to be ejected ; 
 the mournful ideas, first violently impressed and 
 afterwards willingly received, so much engross 
 the attention, as to predominate in every thought, 
 to darken gayety, an d perplex ratiocination. An 
 habitual sadness seizes upon the soul, and the 
 faculties are chained to a single object, which 
 can never be contemplated but with hopeless 
 uneasiness. 
 
 From this state of dejection it is very difficult 
 to rise to cheerfulness and alacrity ; and therefore 
 many, who have laid down rules of intellectual 
 health, think preservatives easier than remedies, 
 and teach us not to trust ourselves with favour- 
 ite enjoyments, not to indulge the luxury of fond- 
 ness, but to keep our minds always suspended 
 in such indifference, that we may change the ob- 
 jects about us without emotion. 
 
 An exact compliance with this rule might, per- 
 haps, contribute to tranquillity, but surely it 
 would never produce happiness. He that re- 
 gards none so much as to be afraid of losing them, 
 must live for ever without the gentle pleasures 
 of sympathy and confidence ; he must feel no 
 melting fondness, no warmth of benevolence, nor 
 any of those honest joys which nature annexes 
 to the power of pleasing. And as no man can 
 justly claim more tenderness than he pays, he 
 must forfeit his share in that officious and watch- 
 ful kindness which love only can dictate, and 
 those lenient endearments by which love only 
 can soften life. He may justly be overlooked 
 and neglected by such as have more warmth in 
 their heart ; for who would be the friend of him, 
 whom, with whatever assiduity he may be court- 
 ed, and with whatever services obliged, his prin- 
 ciples will not suffer to make equal returns, and 
 who, when you have exhausted all the instances 
 of good-will, can only be prevailed on not to be 
 an enemy ? 
 
 An attempt to preserve life in a state of neu- 
 trality and indifference, is unreasonable and vain. 
 If by excluding joy we could shut out grief, the 
 scheme would deserve very serious attention ; 
 but since, however we may debar ourselves from 
 happiness, misery will find its way at many in- 
 lets, and the assaults of pain will force our re- 
 gard, though we may withhold it from the invita- 
 tions of pleasure, we may surely endeavour to 
 raise life above the middle point of apathy at one 
 time, since it will necessarily sink below it at 
 another. 
 
 But though it cannot be reasonable not to gain 
 happiness for fear of losing it, yet it must be con-
 
 84 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 fessed, that in proportion to the pleasure of pos- 
 session, will be for some time our sorrow for the 
 loss ; it is therefore the province of the moralist 
 to inquire whether such pains may not quickly 
 give way to mitigation. Some have thought that 
 the most certain way to clear the heart from its 
 embarrassment is to drag it by force into scenes 
 of merriment. Others imagine, that such a tran- 
 sition is too violent, and recommend rather to 
 soothe it into tranquillity, by making it acquaint- 
 ed with miseries more dreadful and afflictive, and 
 diverting to the calamities of others the regard 
 which we are inclined to fix too closely upon our 
 own misfortunes. 
 
 It may be doubted whether either of those re- 
 medies will be sufficiently powerful. The effi- 
 cacy of mirth it is not always easy to try, and 
 the indulgence of melancholy may be suspected 
 to be one of those medicines, which will destroy, 
 if it happens not to cure. 
 
 The safe and general antidote against sorrow 
 is employment. It is commonly observed, that 
 among soldiers and seamen, though there is 
 much kindness, there is little grief; they see their 
 friend fall without any of that lamentation which 
 is indulged in security and idleness, because they 
 have no leisure to spare from the care of them- 
 selves ; and whoever shall keep his thoughts 
 equally busy, will find himself equally unaffected 
 with irretrievable losses. 
 
 Time is observed generally to wear out sor- 
 row, and its effects might doubtless be accelerat- 
 ed by quickening the succession, and enlarging 
 the variety of objects. 
 
 Si tempore longo 
 
 Leniri poterit luctus, tu sperne morari, 
 Qui sapiet sibi tempits erit. GROTIUS. 
 
 'Tis long ere time can mitigate your grief; 
 To wisdom fly, she quickly brings relief. 
 
 F. LEWIS. 
 
 Sorrow is a kind of rust of the soul, which eve- 
 ry new idea contributes in its passage to scour 
 away. It is the putrefaction of stagnant life, and 
 is Remedied by exercise and motion. 
 
 [No. 4S. 
 
 No. 48.] SATURDAY, SEPT. 1, 1750. 
 !fo est vivere, sed valere, vita. 
 For life is not to live, but to be well. 
 
 ELPHINSTON. 
 
 AMONG the innumerable follies, by which we lay 
 up in our youth repentance and remorse for the 
 succeeding part of pur lives, there is scarce any 
 against which warnings are of less efficacy than 
 the neglect of health. When the springs of mo- 
 tion arc yet elastic, when the heart bounds with 
 vigour, and the eye sparkles with spirit, it is with 
 difficulty that we are taught to conceive the im- 
 becility that every hour is bringing upon us, or to 
 imagine that the nerves which are now braced 
 with so much strength, and the limbs which play 
 with so much activity, will lose all their power 
 under the gripe of time, relax with numbness, and 
 
 totter with debility. 
 To the arguments 
 
 which have been used 
 
 against complaints under the miseries of life, the 
 phil jsophers have, I think, forgot to add the in- 
 
 credulity of those to whom we recount our suf 
 ferings. But if the purpose of lamentation be to 
 excite pity, it is surely superfluous for age and 
 weakness to tell their plaintive stories; for pity 
 presupposes sympathy, and a little attention will 
 show them, that those who do not feel pain, sel- 
 dom think that it is felt; and a short recollection 
 will inform almost every man, that he is only re- 
 paid the insult which he has given, since he may 
 remember how often he has mocked infirmity, 
 laughed at its cautions, and censured its im- 
 patience. 
 
 The valetudinarian race have made the care 
 of health ridiculous by suffering it to prevail over 
 all other considerations, as the miser has brought 
 frugality into contempt, by permitting the love 
 of money not to share, but to engross, his mind: 
 they both err alike, by confounding the means 
 with the end ; they grasp at health only to be 
 well, as at money only to be rich ; and forget 
 that every terrestrial advantage is chiefly valua- 
 ble as it furnishes abilities for the exercise of 
 virtue. 
 
 Health is indeed so necessary to all the duties, 
 as well as pleasures, of life, that the crime of 
 squandering it is equal to the folly ; and he that 
 for a short gratification brings weakness and 
 diseases upon himself, and for the pleasure of a 
 few years passed in the tumults of diversion and 
 clamours of merriment, condemns the maturer 
 and more experienced part of his life to the cham- 
 ber and the couch, may be justly reproached, 
 not only as a spendthrift of his own happiness, 
 but as a robber of the public ; as a wretch that 
 has voluntarily disqualified himself for the busi- 
 ness of his station, and refused that part which 
 Providence assigns him in the general task of 
 human nature. 
 
 There are perhaps very few conditions more 
 to be pitied than that of an active and elevated 
 mind, labouring under the weight of a distem- 
 pered body. The time of such a man is always 
 spent in forming schemes, which a change of 
 wind hinders him from executing, his powers 
 fume away in projects and in hope, and the day 
 of action never arrives. He lies down delighted 
 with the thoughts of to-morrow, pleases his am- 
 bition with the fame he shall acquire, or his be- 
 nevolence with the good he shall confer. But in 
 the night the skies are overcast, the temper of 
 the air is changed, he wakes in languor, impa- 
 tience and distraction, and has no longer any 
 wish but for ease, nor any attention but to mi- 
 sery. It may be said that disease generally be- 
 gins that equality which death completes; the 
 distinctions which set one man so much above 
 another are very little perceived in the gloom of 
 a sick chamber, where it will be vain to expect 
 entertainment from the gay, or instruction from 
 the wise ; where all human glory is obliterated, 
 the wit is clouded, the reasoner perplexed, and 
 the hero subdued ; where the highest and bright- 
 est of mortal beings finds nothing left him but the 
 consciousness of innocence. 
 
 There is among the fragments of the Greek 
 poets a short hymn to Health, in which her 
 power of exalting the happiness of life, of height- 
 ening the gifts of fortune, and adding enjoyment 
 to possession, is inculcated with so much force 
 and beauty, that no one, who has ever languished 
 under the discomforts and infirmities of a linger 
 ing disease, can read it without feeling the ima
 
 No. 49.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 85 
 
 ges dance in his heart, and adding from his own 
 experience new vigour to the wish, and from his 
 own imagination new colours to the picture. 
 The particular occasion of this little composition 
 is not known, but it is probable that the author 
 had been sick, and in the first raptures of re- 
 turning vigour addressed Health in the following 
 
 'tyltia xpt<T@i<?Ta Ma/capuv, 
 
 Mcra aou vaioipi 
 Td \c.irc6fiivov ffioras 
 Sfi &i jioi Ttpoijipiav avvotKo; UTJI. 
 Ei yap TI$ >j TrAoProu %ap<S >} rt/c/ur, 
 
 Taj tulai/ionds T' avdpuirois 
 Ba(r<A);'<5oj do^as, >j trodwv, 
 Ofcf Kpv<piois 'A.(f>poSin/s apicvaiv Oiiotvofitv, 
 "H t rif aAAa OcoScv dvdpwiroif rtpi^iy, 
 
 "H rroviav a^Ttvoa -nit^avrai' 
 Mtrd (7(0, j-uiKtiioa vYyieia, 
 Ttflr/At Trai'ra, Kat \djnrti %apiTtav cap' 
 
 20V Of ^<opif, oii&eis, ci>&ain<i>v TTfAtt' 
 
 "Health, most venerable of the powers of hea- 
 ven ! with thee may the remaining part of my 
 life be passed, nor do thou refuse to bless me 
 with thy residence. For whatever there is of 
 beauty or of pleasure in wealth, in descendants, 
 or in sovereign command, the highest summit of 
 human enjoyment, or in those objects of human 
 desire which we endeavour to chase into the 
 toils of love; whatever delight, or whatever so- 
 lace is granted by the celestials, to softejj our fa- 
 tigues, in thy presence, thou parent of happiness, 
 all those joys spread out and flourish; in thy 
 presence blooms the spring of pleasure, and with- 
 out thee no man is happy." 
 
 Such is the power of health, that without its 
 co-operation every other comfort is torpid and 
 lifeless, as the powers of vegetation without the 
 sun. And yet this bliss is commonly thrown 
 away in thoughtless negligence, or in foolish ex- 
 periments on our own strength ; we let it perish 
 without remembering its value, or waste it to 
 show how much we have to spare ; it is some- 
 times given up to the management of levity and 
 chance, and sometimes sold for the applause of 
 jollity and debauchery. 
 
 Health is equally neglected, and with equal 
 impropriety, by the votaries of business and the 
 followers of pleasure. Some men ruin the fabric 
 of their bodies by incessant revels, and others by 
 intemperate studies ; some batter it by excess, 
 and others sap it by inactivity. To the noisy 
 rout of bacchanalian rioters, it will be to little 
 purpose that advice is offered, though it requires 
 no great abilities to prove, that he loses pleasure 
 who loses health ; their clamours are too loud for 
 the whispers of caution, and they run the course 
 of life with too much precipitance to stop at the 
 call of wisdom. Nor perhaps will they that are 
 busied in adding thousands to thousands, pay 
 much regard to him that shall direct them to has- 
 ten more slowly to their wishes. Yet since lov- 
 ers of money are generally cool, deliberate and 
 thoughtful, they might surely consider, that the 
 greater good ought not to be sacrificed to the 
 less. Health is certainly more valuable than 
 money, because it is by health that money is pro- 
 cured ; but thousands and millions, are of small 
 avail to alleviate the protracted tortures of the 
 gout, to repair the broken organs of sense, or re- 
 
 suscitate the powers of digestion. Poverty is, 
 indeed, an evil from which we naturally fly ; bul 
 let us not run from one enemy to another, nor 
 take shelter in the arms of sickness. 
 
 Projecere animam ! guam vellenl tcthere in alto 
 Nunc et pauperiem, et duros perferre laborei ! 
 
 VIRG. 
 
 For healthful indigence in vain they pray, 
 In quest of wealth who throw their lives away 
 
 Those who lose their health in an irregular and 
 impetuous pursuit of literary accomplishments 
 are yet less to be excused ; for they ought to 
 know that the body is not forced beyond its 
 strength, but with the loss of more vigour than is 
 proportionate to the effect produced. Whoever 
 takes up life beforehand, by depriving himself of 
 rest and refreshment, must not only pay back the 
 hours, but pay them back with usury ; and for 
 the gain of a few months but half enjoyed must 
 give up years' to the listlessness of languor, and 
 the implacability of pain. They whose endea- 
 vour is mental excellence, will learn, perhaps too 
 late, how much it is endangered by diseases of 
 the body, and find that knowledge may easily be 
 lost in the starts of melancholy, the flights of im- 
 patience, and the peevishness of decrepitude. 
 
 No. 49.] TUESDAY, SEPT. 4, 1750. 
 
 Jfon omnis mortar, muliaque pars mei 
 fitabit Lib it inn m, usque ego posttra 
 Crescam laude recens. HOR. 
 
 Whole Horace shall not die ; his songs shall save 
 The greatest portion from the greedy grave. 
 
 CREECH. 
 
 THE first motives of human actions are those ap- 
 petites which Providence has given to man in 
 common with the rest of the inhabitants of the 
 earth. Immediately after our birth, thirst and 
 hunger incline us to the breast, which we draw 
 by instinct, like other young creatures, and when 
 we are satisfied, we express our uneasiness by im- 
 portunate and incessant cries, till we have Ob- 
 tained a place or posture proper for repose. 
 
 The next call that rouses us from a state of in- 
 activity, is that of our passions ; we quickly be- 
 gin to be sensible of hope and fear, love and ha- 
 tred, desire and aversion ; these arising from the 
 power of comparison and reflection, extend their 
 range wider, as our reason strengthens, and our 
 knowledge enlarges. At first we have no thought 
 of pain, but when we actually feel it ; we after- 
 wards begin to fear it, yet not before it approaches 
 us very nearly : but by degrees we discover it at 
 a greater distance, and find it lurking in remote 
 consequences. Ouf terror in time improves into 
 caution, and we learn to look round with vigil- 
 ance and solicitude, to stop all the avenues at 
 which misery can enter, and to perform or en- 
 dure many things in themselves toilsome and un- 
 pleasing, because we know by reason or by ex- 
 perience, that our labour will be overbalanced by 
 the reward, that it will either procure some posi- 
 tive good, or avert some evil greater than itself. 
 
 But as the soul advances to a fuller exercise of 
 its powers, the animal appetites and the passions 
 immediately arising from them, are not sufficient
 
 66 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 49 
 
 to find it employment; the wants of nature are 
 soon supplied, the fear of their return is easily 
 precluded, and something more is necessary to re- 
 lieve the long intervals of inactivity, and to give 
 those faculties, which cannot lie wholly quies- 
 cent, some particular direction. For this reason, 
 new desires and artificial passions are by degrees 
 produced ; and, from having wishes only in con- 
 sequence of our wants, we begin to feel wants in 
 consequence of our wishes ; we persuade our- 
 selves to set a value upon things which are of no 
 use, but because we have agreed to value them ; 
 things which can neither satisfy hunger nor miti- 
 gate pain, nor secure us from any real calamity, 
 and which therefore, we find of no esteem among 
 those nations, whose artless and barbarous man- 
 ners keep them always anxious for the necessa- 
 ries of life. 
 
 This is the original of avarice, vanity, ambi- 
 tion, and generally of all those desires which arise 
 from the comparison of our condition with that of 
 others. He that thinks himself poor because his 
 neighbour is richer ; he that, like Caesar, would 
 rather be the first man of a village, than the se- 
 cond in the capital of the world, has apparently 
 kindled in himself desires which he never receiv- 
 ed from nature, and acts upon principles esta- 
 blished only by the authority of custom. 
 
 Of those adscititious passions, some, as ava- 
 rice and envy, are universally condemned : some, 
 as friendship and curiosity, generally praised; 
 but there are others about which the suffrages of 
 the wise are divided, and of which it is doubted, 
 whether they tend most to promote the happi- 
 ness or increase the miseries of mankind. 
 
 Of this ambiguous and disputable kind is the 
 love of fame, a desire of filling the minds of 
 others with admiration, and of being celebrated 
 by generations to come with praises which we 
 Bhall not hear. This ardour has been considered 
 by some, as nothing better than splendid mad- 
 ness, as a flame kindled by pride, and fanned by 
 folly ; for what, say they, can be more remote 
 from wisdom, than to direct all our actions by the 
 hope of that which is not to exist till we ourselves 
 are in the grave ? To pant after that which can 
 n^per be possessed, and of which the value thus 
 widely put. upon it, arises from this particular 
 condition, that, during life, it is not to be obtain- 
 td ? To gain the favour, and hear the applauses 
 of our contemporaries, is indeed equally desira- 
 ble with any other prerogative of superiority, be- 
 cause fame may be of use to smooth the paths of 
 life, to terrify opposition, and fortify tranquillity ; 
 but to what end shall we be the darlings of man- 
 kind, when we can no longer receive any bene- 
 fits from their favour ? It is more reasonable to 
 wish for reputation, while it may yet be enjoyed, 
 as Anacreon calls upon his companions to give 
 him for present use the wine and garlands which 
 they purpose to bestow upon his tomb. 
 
 The advocates for the love of fame allege in its 
 vindication, that it is a passion natural and uni- 
 versal ; a flame lighted by Heaven, and always 
 burning with greatest vigour in the most en- 
 larged and elevated minds. That the desire of 
 being praised by posterity implies a resolution to 
 deserve their praises, and that the folly charged 
 upon it, is only a noble and disinterested gene- 
 rosity, which is not felt, and therefore not un- 
 derstood, by those who have been always accus- 
 
 tomed to refer every thing to themselves, and 
 whose selfishness has contracted their under- 
 standings. That the soul of man, formed for 
 eternal life, naturally springs forward beyond the 
 limits of corporeal existence, and rejoices to con- 
 sider herself as co-operating with future ages, 
 and as co-extended with endless duration. That 
 the reproach urged with so much petulance, the 
 reproach of labouring for what cannot be enjoyed, 
 is founded on an opinion which may with great 
 probability be doubted ; for since we suppose the 
 powers of the soul to be enlarged by its separa- 
 tion, why should we conclude that its knowledge 
 of sublunary transactions is contracted or ex- 
 tinguished. 
 
 Upon an attentive and impartial review of the 
 argument, it will appear that the love of fame is 
 to be regulated rather than extinguished ; and 
 that men should be taught not to be wholly care- 
 less about their memory, but to endeavour that 
 they may be remembered chiefly for their virtues, 
 since no other reputation will be able to transmit 
 any pleasure beyond the grave. 
 
 It is evident that fame, considered merely as 
 the immortality of a name, is not less likely to 
 be the reward of bad actions than of good ; he 
 therefore has no certain principle for the regula- 
 tion of his conduct, whose single aim is not to be 
 forgotten. And history will inform us, that this 
 blind and undistinguishing appetite of renown has 
 always been uncertain in its effects, and directed 
 by accident or opportunity, indifferently to the 
 benefit or devastation of the world. When The- 
 mistocles complained that the trophies of Miltia- 
 des hindered him from sleep, he was animated by 
 them to perform the same services in the same 
 cause. But Caesar, when he wept at the sight of 
 Alexander's picture, having no honest opportu- 
 nities of action, let his ambition break out to the 
 ruin of his country. 
 
 If, therefore, the love of fame is so far indulged 
 by the mind as to become independent and pre- 
 dominant, it is dangerous and irregular; but it 
 may be usefully employed as an inferior and se- 
 condary motive, and will serve sometimes to re- 
 vive our activity, when we begin^to languish and 
 lose sight of that more certain, more valuable, and 
 more durable reward, which ought always to be 
 our first hope and our last. But it must be 
 strongly impressed upon our minds that virtue is 
 not to be pursued as one of the means to fame, 
 but fame to be accepted as the only recompense 
 which mortals can bestow on virtue ; to be ac- 
 cepted with complacence, but not sought with 
 eagerness. Simply to be remembered is no ad- 
 vantage ; it is a privilege which satire as well as 
 panegyric can confer, and is not more enjoyed by 
 Titus or Constantino, than by Timocreon of 
 Rhodes, of whom we only know from his epitaph, 
 that he had eaten many a meal, drank many a fla- 
 gon, and uttered many a reproach. 
 
 IIoXAa (fiaywv. KOI froXAii 7Tiv, KOI roXXa Kax' ciiruv 
 'Af&fxiirous, Kcifiai TifiOKptW vPoiios. 
 
 The true satisfaction which is to be drawn from 
 the consciousness that we shall share the atten- 
 tion of future times, must arise from the hope, 
 that with our name, our virtues will be propagat- 
 ed ; and that those whom we cannot benefit in 
 our lives, may receive instruction from our ex- 
 amples, and incitement from our renown.
 
 No. SO.] 
 
 No. 50.] SATURDAY, SEPT. 8, 1750. 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 87 
 
 Credebant hoc grande nefas, el morte piandum, 
 Sijuvenis vetulu non assurreicrat ; et si 
 Jiarbato cuicunque jntcr, licet ipse viderct 
 PLura domifruga, et majores gland is itceri-os. 
 
 JUV. 
 
 And had not men the hoary head revered, 
 And boys paid reverence when a man appear'd 
 Botli must have died, though richer skins they wore, 
 And saw more heaps of acorus iii their store. 
 
 CREECH. 
 
 1 HAVE always thought it the business of those 
 who turn their speculations upon the living world, 
 to commend the virtues as well as to expose the 
 faults of their contemporaries, and to confute a 
 false as well as to support a just accusation ; not 
 only because it is peculiarly the business of a mo- 
 nitor to keep his own reputation untainted, lest 
 those who can once charge him with partiality, 
 should indulge themselves afterwards in disbe- 
 lieving him at pleasure ; but because he may 
 find real crimes sufficient to give full employ- 
 ment to caution or repentance, without distracting 
 the mind by needless scruples and vain solicitudes. 
 
 There are certain fixed and stated reproaches 
 that one part of mankind has in all ages thrown 
 upon another, which are regularly transmitted 
 through continued successions, and which he 
 that has once suffered them is certain to use with 
 the same undistinguishing vehemence, when he 
 has changed his station, and gained the prescrip- 
 tive right of inflicting on others what he had for- 
 merly endured himself. 
 
 To these hereditary imputations, of which no 
 man sees the justice, till it becomes his interest 
 to see it, very little regard is to be shown ; since 
 it does not appear that they are produced by ra- 
 tiocination or inquiry, but received implicitly, or 
 caught by a kind of instantaneous contagion and 
 supported rather by willingness to credit, than 
 ability to prove them. 
 
 It has been always the practice of those who 
 are desirous to believe themselves made venera- 
 ble by length of time, to censure the new comers 
 into life, 1'or want of respect to gray hairs and 
 sage experience, for heady confidence in their 
 own understandings, for hasty conclusions upon 
 partial views, for disregard of counsels, which 
 their fathers and grandsires are ready to afford 
 them, and a rebellious impatience of that subor- 
 dination to which youth is condemned by na- 
 ture, as necessary to its security from evils into 
 which it would be otherwise precipitated, by the 
 rashness of passion, and the blindness of igno- 
 rance. 
 
 Every old man complains of the growing de- 
 pravity of the world, of the petulance and inso- 
 lence of the rising generation. He recounts the 
 decency and regularity of former times, and cele- 
 brates the discipline and sobriety of the age in 
 which his youth was passed ; a happy age, which 
 is now no more to be expected, since confusion 
 has broken in upon the world and thrown down 
 all the boundaries of civility and reverence. 
 
 It is not sufficiently considered how much he 
 assumes who dares to claim the privilege of com- 
 plaining ; for as every- man has, in his own opinion, 
 a full share of the miseries of life, he is inclined to 
 consider all clamorous uneasiness as a proof of 
 impatience rather than of affliction, and to ask, 
 What merit has this man to show, by which he 
 
 has acquired a right to repine at the distributions 
 of nature ? Or, why does he imagine that ex- 
 emptions should be granted him from the gene- 
 ral condition of man ? We find ourselves excited 
 rather to captiousness than pity, and instead of 
 being in haste to soothe his complaints by sym- 
 pathy and tenderness, we inquire, whether the 
 pain be proportionate to the lamentation ; and 
 whether, supposing the affliction real, it is not the 
 effect of vice and lolly, rather than calamity. 
 
 The querulousness and indignation which is 
 observed so often to disfigure the last scene of 
 life, naturally leads us to inquiries like these. 
 For surely it will be thought at the first view of 
 things, that if age be thus contemned and ridi- 
 culed, insulted and neglected, the crime must at 
 least be equal on either part. They who have 
 had opportunities of establishing their authority 
 over minds ductile and unresisting, they who 
 have been the protectors of helplessness, and the 
 instructors of ignorance, and who yet retain in 
 their own hands the power of wealth, and the 
 dignity of command, must defeat their influence 
 by their own misconduct, and make use of all 
 these advantages with very "little skill, if they 
 cannot secure to themselves an appearance of 
 respect, and ward off open mockery, and declar- 
 ed contempt. 
 
 The general story of mankind will evince, that 
 lawful and settled authority is very seldom re- 
 sisted when it is well employed. Gross corrup- 
 tion, or evident imbecility is necessary to the sup- 
 pression of that reverence with which the majority 
 of mankind look upon their governors ; on those 
 whom they see surrounded by splendour, and for- 
 tified by power. For though men are drawn by 
 their passions into forgetfulness of invisible re- 
 wards and punishments, yet they are easily kept 
 obedient to those who have temporal dominion 
 in their hands, till their veneration is dissipated 
 by such wickedness and folly as can neither be 
 defended nor concealed. 
 
 It may, therefore, very reasonably be suspect- 
 ed that the old draw upon themselves the great- 
 est part of those insults which they so much 
 lament, and that age is rarely despised but when 
 it is contemptible. If men imagine that excess 
 of debauchery can be made reverend by time, 
 that knowledge is the consequence of long life, 
 however idly and thoughtlessly employed, that 
 priority of birth will supply the want of steadi 
 ness or honesty, can it raise much wonder thai 
 their hopes are disappointed, and that they see 
 their posterity rather willing to trust their own 
 eyes in their progress into life, than enlist them 
 selves under guides who have lost their way? 
 
 There are, indeed, many truths which time 
 necessarily and certainly teaches, and which 
 might, by those who have learned them from ex- 
 perience, be communicated to their successors at 
 a cheaper rate ; but dictates, though liberally 
 enough bestowed, are generally without effect, 
 the teacher gains few proselytes by instruction 
 which his own behaviour contradicts ; and young 
 men miss the benefit of counsel, because they are 
 not very ready to believe that those who fall be- 
 low them in practice, can much excel them in 
 theory. Thus the progress of knowledge is re- 
 tarded, the world is kept long in the same state 
 and every new race is to gain the prudence of 
 their predecessors by committing and redressing 
 the same miscarriages.
 
 83 
 
 THE RAM13LER. 
 
 [No. 61 
 
 To secure to the old that influence which they 
 are willing to claim, and which might so much 
 contribute to the improvement of the arts of life, 
 it is absolutely necessary that they give them- 
 selves up to the duties of declining years ; and 
 contentedly resign to youth its levity, its plea- 
 sures, its frolics, and its fopperies. It is a hope- 
 less endeavour to unite the contrarieties of spring 
 and winter; it is unjust to claim the privileges of 
 age, and retain the playthings of childhood. The 
 young always form magnificent ideas of the wis- 
 dom and gravity of men, whom they consider as 
 placed at a distance from them in the ranks of ex- 
 istence, and naturally look on those whom they 
 find trifling with long beards with contempt and 
 indignation, like that which women feel at the 
 effeminacy of men. If dotards will contend with 
 boys in those performances in which boys must 
 alwavs excel them ; if they will dress crippled 
 limbs in embroidery, endeavour at gayety with 
 faltering voices, and darken assemblies of plea- 
 sure with the ghastliness of disease, they may 
 well expect those who find their diversions ob- 
 structed will hoot them away ; and that if they 
 descend to competition, with youth, they must 
 hear the insolence of successful rivals. 
 
 Lnsisti satis, edisti satis, atgve bibisti : 
 Tempus abire tibi est. 
 
 You've had your share of mirth, of meat and drink ; 
 "Tis time to quit the scene 'tis time to think. 
 
 ELPHINSTON. 
 
 Another vice of age, by which the rising gene- 
 ration may be alienated from it, is severity and 
 censoriousness, that gives no allowance to the 
 failings of early life, that expects artfulness from 
 childhood and constancy from youth, that is pe- 
 remptory in every command, and inexorable to 
 every failure. There are many who live merely 
 to hinder happiness, and whose descendants can 
 only tell of long life, that it produces suspicion, 
 malignity, peevishness, and persecution : and 
 yet even these tyrants can talk of the ingratitude 
 of the age, cursa their heirs for impatience, and 
 wonder that young men cannot take pleasure in 
 their father's company. 
 
 He that would pass the latter part of life with 
 honour and decency, must, when he is young, 
 consider that he shall one day be old ; and re- 
 member, when he is old, that he has once been 
 young. In youth he must lay up knowledge for 
 his support, when his powers of acting shall for- 
 sake him ; and in age forbear to animadvert 
 with rigoui on faults which experience only can 
 correct. 
 
 No. 51.] TUESDAT, SEPT. 11, 1750. 
 
 Stultus labor eft eneptiarum. MART. 
 
 How foolish is the toil of trifling cares '. 
 
 ELPHISSTON. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 As you have allowed a place in your paper to 
 Euphelia's letters from the country, and appear 
 to think no form of human life unworthy of your 
 attention, I have resolved, after many struggles 
 with idleness and diffidence, to give you some 
 
 ccount of my entertainment in this sober seasor 
 of universal retreat, and to describe to yoa the 
 employments of those who look with contempt 
 on the pleasures and diversions of polite life, and 
 mploy all their powers of censure and invective 
 upon the uselessness, vanity, and folly, of dress, 
 visits, and conversation. 
 
 When a tiresome and vexatious journey of 
 four days had brought me to the house, where 
 invitation, regularly sent for seven years toge- 
 ther, had at last induced me to pass the summer, 
 I was surprised, after the civilities of my first re- 
 ception, to find, instead of the leisure and tran- 
 quillity, which a rural life always promises, and, 
 'i well conducted, might always afford, a confus- 
 ed wildness of care, and a tumultuous hurry of 
 diligence, by which every face was clouded, and 
 every motion agitated. The old lady, who was 
 my father's relation, was, indeed, very full of the 
 happiness which she received from my visit, and 
 according to the forms of obsolete breeding, in 
 sisted that I should recompense the long delay 
 of my company with a promise not to leave her till 
 winter. But, amidst all her kindness and caress- 
 es, she very frequently turned her head aside, and 
 whispered, with anxious earnestness, some ordci 
 to her daughters, which never failed to send them 
 out with unpolite precipitation. Sometimes her 
 impatience would not suffer her to stay behind ; 
 she begged my pardon, she must leave me for a 
 moment; she went, and returned and sat down 
 again, but was again disturbed by some new 
 care, dismissed her daughters with the same tre 
 pidation, and followed them with the same coun 
 tenance of business and solicitude. 
 
 However I was alarmed at this show of eager 
 ness and disturbance, and however my curiosity 
 was excited by such busy preparations as natu- 
 rally promised some great event, I was yet IOG 
 much a stranger to gratify myself with inquiries; 
 but finding none of the family in mourning, I 
 pleased 'myself with imagining that I should 
 rather see a wedding than a funeral. 
 
 At last we sat down to supper, when I was in- 
 formed that one of the young ladies, after whom 
 I thought myself obliged to inquire, was under a 
 necessity of attending some affair that could not 
 be neglected : soon afterward my relation began 
 to talk of the regularity of her family, and the 
 inconvenience of London hours ; and at last let 
 me know that they had purposed that night to 
 go to bed sooner than was usual, because they 
 were to rise early in the morning to make cheese- 
 cakes. This hint sent me to my chamber, to 
 which I was accompanied by all the ladies, who 
 begged me to excuse some large sieves of leaves 
 and flowers that covered two-thirds of the floor, 
 for they intended to distil them when they were 
 dry, and they had no other room that so conveni- 
 ently received the rising sun. 
 
 The scent of the plants hindered me from rest, 
 and therefore I rose early in the morning with u 
 resolution to explore my new habitation. I stole 
 unperceived by my busy cousins into the garden, 
 where I found nothing either more great or ele- 
 gant, than in the same number of acres cultivated 
 for the market. Of the gardener I soon learned 
 that his lady was the greatest manager in that 
 part of the country, and that I was come hithei 
 at the time in which I might learn to make more 
 pickles and conserves, than could be seen at any 
 other house a hundred miles round.
 
 No. 51.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 89 
 
 It was not long before her ladyship gave me 
 sufficient opportunities of knowing her character, 
 for she was too much pleased with her own ac- 
 complishments to conceal them, and took occa- 
 sion, from some sweetmeats which she set next 
 day upon the table, to discourse for two long 
 hours upon robs and gellies ; laid down the best 
 methods of conserving, reserving, and preserving 
 all sorts of fruit; told us with great contempt of 
 the London lady in the neighbourhood, by whom 
 these terms were very often confounded ; and 
 hinted how much she should be ashamed to set 
 before company, at her own house, sweetmeats 
 of so dark a colour as she had often seen at Mis- 
 tress Sprightly's. 
 
 It is, indeed, the great business of her life, to 
 watch the skillet on the fire, to see it simmer with 
 the due degree of heat, and to snatch it off at 
 the moment of projection ; and the employments 
 to which she has bred her daughters, are to turn 
 rose-leaves in the shade, to pick out the seeds of 
 currants with a quill, to gather fruit without bruis- 
 ing it, and to extract bean-flower water for the 
 skin. Such are the tasks with which every day, 
 since I came hither, has begun and ended, to 
 which the early hours of life are sacrificed, and 
 in which that time is passing away which never 
 shall return. 
 
 But to reason or expostulate are hopeless at- 
 tempts. The lady has settled her opinions, and 
 maintains the dignity of her own performances 
 with all the firmness of stupidity accustomed to 
 be flattered. Her daughters having never seen 
 any house but their own, believe their mother's 
 excellence on her own word. Her husband is a 
 mere sportsman, who is pleased to see his table 
 well furnished, and thinks the day sufficiently 
 successful, in which he brings home a leash of 
 hares to be potted by his wife. 
 
 After a few days I pretended to want hooks, 
 out my lady soon told mo that none of her books 
 would suit my taste ; for her part she never loved 
 to sc-e young women give their minds to such fol- 
 lies, by which they would only learn to use hard 
 words ; she bred up her daughters to understand 
 a house, and whoever should marry them, if they 
 knew any thing of good cookery, would never 
 repent it. 
 
 There are, however, some things in the culi- 
 nary science too sublime for youthful intellects, 
 mysteries into which they must not be initiated 
 till the years of serious maturity, and which are 
 referred to the day of marriage, as the supreme 
 qualification for connubial life. She makes an 
 orange pudding, which is the envy of all the 
 neighbourhood, and which she has hitherto found 
 means of mixing and baking with such secrecy, 
 that the ingredient to which it owes its flavour 
 has n?vor b?en discovered. She indeed, con- 
 ducts this great affair with all the caution that 
 human policy can suggest It is never known 
 beforehand when this pudding will be produced; 
 sh.2 takes the ingredients privately into her own 
 closet, employs her maids and daughters in dif- 
 ferent parts of the house, orders the oven to be 
 heated for a pie, and places the pudding in it 
 with her own hands, the mouth of the oven is 
 then stopped, and all inquiries are vain. 
 
 The composition of the pudding she has, how- 
 ever, promised Clarinda, that if she pleases her 
 in marriage, she shall be told without reserve. 
 But the art of making English capers she has not 
 M 
 
 yet persuaded herself to discover, but seems ra 
 solved that secret shall perish with her, as somt 
 alchymists have obstinately suppressed the art o f 
 transmuting metals. 
 
 I once ventured to lay my fingers on her book 
 of receipts, which she left upon the table, having 
 intelligence that a vessel of gooseberry wine had 
 burst the hoops. But though the importance of 
 the event sufficiently engrossed her care, to pre- 
 vent any recollection of the danger to which her 
 secrets were exposed, I was not able to make use 
 of the golden moments ; for this treasure of here- 
 ditary knowledge was so well concealed by th 
 manner of spelling used by her grandmother, hor 
 mother, and herself, that I was totally unable to 
 understand it, and lost the opportunity of con 
 suiting the oracle, for want of knowing the lan- 
 guage in which its answers were returned. 
 
 It is, indeed, necessary, if I have any regard to 
 her ladyship's esteem, that I should apply mysell 
 to some of these economical accomplishments 
 for I overheard her two days ago, warning her 
 daughters, by my mournful example, against ne- 
 gligence of pastry, and ignorance in carving; for 
 you saw, said she, that, with all her pretensions 
 to knowledge, she turned the partridge the wrong 
 way when she attempted to cut it, and, I believe, 
 scarcely knows the difference between paste rais 
 ed, and paste in a dish. 
 
 The reason, Mr. Rambler, why I have laid 
 Lady Bustle's character before you, is a desire to 
 be informed whether, in your opinion, it is wor- 
 thy of imitation, and whether I shall throw away 
 the books which I have hitherto thought it my 
 duty to read, for the lady's closet opened, the com- 
 plete servant maid, and the court cook, and resign 
 all curiosity after right and wrong, for the art of 
 scalding damascenes, without bursting them, and 
 preserving the whiteness of pickled mushrooms. 
 
 Lady Bustle has, indeed, by this incessant ap- 
 plication to fruits and flowers, contracted her 
 cares into a narrow space, and set herself free 
 from many perplexities with which other minds 
 are disturbed. She has no curiosity after the 
 events of a war, or the fate of heroes in distress ; 
 she can hear, without the least emotion, the ra- 
 vage of a fire, or devastations of a storm ; her 
 neighbours -row rich or poor, come into the world 
 or go out of it, without regard, while she is press- 
 ing the jelly-bag, or airing the store-room ; but I 
 cannot perceive that she is more free from dis- 
 quiets than those whose understandings take a 
 wider range. Her marigolds, when they are 
 almost cured, are often scattered by the wind, 
 and the rain sometimes falls upon fruit when it 
 ought to be gathered dry. While her artificial 
 wines are fermenting, her whole life is restless- 
 ness and anxiety. Her sweetmeats are not 
 always bright, and the maid sometimes forgets 
 the just proportions of salt and pepper, when veni- 
 son is to be baked. Her conserves mould, her 
 wines sour, and pickles mother ; and, like all the 
 rest of mankind, she is every day mortified with 
 the defeat of her schemes, and the disappoint- 
 ment of her hopes. 
 
 With regard to vice and virtue she seems a 
 kind of neutral being. She has no crime but luxu- 
 ry, nor any virtue but chastity ; she has no desire 
 to be praised but for her cookery ; nor wishes any 
 ill to the rest of mankind, but that whenever they 
 aspire to a feast, their custards may be whevJBk, 
 and their pie- crusts tough.
 
 90 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 52. 
 
 I am now very impatient to know whether I 
 am to look on these ladies as the great patterns 
 of our sex, and to consider conserves and pickles 
 as the business of my life ; whether the censures 
 which I now suffer be just, and whether the brew- 
 ers of wines, and the distillers of washes', have a 
 right to look with insolence on the weakness of 
 
 CORNELIA. 
 
 No. 52.] SATURDAY, SEPT. 15, 1750. 
 
 Qtwtiesjlenti Theaeita heroa 
 
 Siate modum, diiit negue enimfortuna guerenda 
 Sola tua eat, aimilea aliorvm respice caaus, 
 Mitiua ittaferet. OVID - 
 
 How oft in vain the son of Theseus said, 
 The stormy sorrows be with patience laid ; 
 Nor are thy fortunes to be wept alone ; 
 Weigh other's woes, and learn to bear thy own. 
 
 CATCOTT. 
 
 AMONG the various methods of consolation, to 
 which the miseries inseparable from our present 
 state have given occasion, it has been, as I have 
 already remarked, recommended by some writers 
 to put the sufferer in mind of heavier pressures, 
 and more excruciating calamities, than those of 
 which he has himself reason to complain. 
 
 This has, in all ages, been directed and prac- 
 tised ; and, in conformity to this custom, Lipsius, 
 the great modern master of the Stoic philosophy, 
 has, in his celebrated treatise on steadiness of 
 mind, endeavoured to fortify the breast against 
 too much sensibility of misfortune, by enumerat- 
 ing the evils which have in former ages fallen 
 upon the world, the devastation of wide-extended 
 regions, the sack of cities, and massacre of na- 
 tions. And the common voice of the multitude 
 uninstructed by precept, and unprejudiced by au- 
 thority, which, in questions that relate to the 
 heart of man, is, in my opinion, more decisive 
 than the learning of Lipsius, seems to justify the 
 efficacy of this procedure ; for one of the first 
 comforts which one neighbour administers to ano- 
 ther, is a relation of the like infelicity, combined 
 with circumstances of greater bitterness. 
 
 But this medicine of the mind is like many re- 
 medies applied to the body, of which, though we 
 see the effects, we are unacquainted with the 
 manner of operation, and of which, therefore, 
 some, who are unwilling to suppose any thing 
 out of the reach of their own sagacity, have been 
 inclined to doubt whether they have really those 
 virtues for wh'ch they are celebrated, and whether 
 their reputaUo.i is not the mere gift of fancy, pre- 
 judice, and credulity. 
 
 Consolation, or comfort, are words which, in 
 their proper acceptation, signify some alleviation 
 of that pain to which it is not in our power to af- 
 ford the proper and adequate remedy ; they im- 
 ply rather an augmentation of the power of bear- 
 ing than a diminution of the burden. A prison- 
 er is relieved by him that sets him at liberty, but 
 receives comfort from such as suggest considera- 
 tions by which he is made patient under the in- 
 convenience of confinement. To that grief which 
 arises from a great loss, he only brings the true 
 remedy who makes his friend's condition the 
 same as before ; but he may be properly termed 
 a comforter, who by persuasion extenuates the 
 pain of poverty, and shows in the style ofHesiod, 
 that half is more than the whole. 
 
 It is, perhaps, not immediately obvious, how it 
 can lull the memory of misfortune, or appease 
 the throbbings of anguish, to hear that others are 
 more miserable ; others, perhaps, unknown or 
 wholly indifferent, whose prosperity raises no 
 envy, and whose fall can gratify no resentment. 
 Some topics of comfort arising, like that which 
 *ave hope and spirit to the captive of Sesostris, 
 rom the perpetual vicissitudes of life, and muta- 
 bility of human affairs, may as properly raise the 
 dejected as depress the proud, and have an im- 
 mediate tendency to exhilarate and revive. But 
 low can it avail the man who languishes in the 
 2;loom of sorrow without prospect of emerging 
 nto the sunshine of cheerfulness, to hear that 
 others are sunk yet deeper in the dungeon of 
 misery, shackled with heavier chains, and sur- 
 rounded with darker desperation? 
 
 The solace arising from this consideration, 
 seems indeed the weakest of all others, and is 
 perhaps never properly applied, but in cases 
 where there is no place for reflections of more 
 speedy and pleasing efficacy. But even from such 
 calamities life is by no means free ; a thousand 
 11s incurable, a thousand losses irreparable, a 
 thousand difficulties insurmountable, are known, 
 or will be known, by all the sons of men. Native 
 deformity cannot be rectified, a dead friend can- 
 not return, and the hours of youth trifled away 
 in folly, or lost in sickness, cannot be restored. 
 
 Under the oppression of such melancholy, it 
 tias been found useful to take a survey of the 
 world, to contemplate the various scenes of dis- 
 tress in which mankind are struggling round us, 
 and acquaint ourselves with the terribiles visa for- 
 ma, the various shapes of misery, which make 
 havoc of terrestrial happiness, range all corners 
 almost without restraint, trample down our hopes 
 at the hour of harvest, and, when we have buill 
 our schemes to the top, ruin their foundations. 
 
 The first effect of this meditation is, that il 
 furnishes a new employment for the mind, and 
 engages the passions on remoter objects ; as kings 
 have sometimes freed themselves from a subject 
 too haughty to be governed, and too powerful to 
 be crushed, by posting him in a distant province, 
 till his popularity has subsided or his pride been 
 repressed. The attention is dissipated by varie- 
 ty, and acts more weakly upon any single part, 
 as that torrent may be drawn off to different chan- 
 nels, which, pouring down in one collected body, 
 cannot be resisted. This species of comfort is, 
 therefore, unavailing, in severe paroxysms of cor- 
 poreal pain, when the mind is every instant call- 
 ed back to misery, and in the first shock of any 
 sudden evil ; but will certainly be of use against 
 encroaching melancholy, and a settled habit oi 
 gloomy thoughts. 
 
 It is further advantageous, as it supplies us 
 with opportunities of making comparisons in our 
 own favour. We know that very little of the 
 pain, or pleasure, which does not begin and end 
 in our senses, is otherwise than relative ; we are 
 rich or poor, great or little, in proportion to the 
 number that excel us, or fall beneath us, in any 
 of these respects ; and, therefore, a man, whose 
 uneasiness arises from reflection on any misfor- 
 tune that throws him below those with whom he 
 was once equal, is comforted by finding that he 
 is not yet the lowest. 
 
 There is another kind of comparison, less tend- 
 ing towards the vice of envy, very well illustrated
 
 No. 53.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 91 
 
 by an old poet,* whose system will not afford 
 man\' reasonable motives to content. "It is," 
 says he, " pleasing to look from shore upon the 
 tumults of a storm, and to see a ship struggling 
 with the billows ; it is pleasing, not because the 
 pain of another can give us delight, but because 
 we have a stronger impression of the happiness 
 of safety.' 1 Thus, when we look abroad, and 
 behold the multitudes that are groaning under 
 evils heavier than those which we have experi- 
 enced, we shrink back to our own state, and in- 
 stead of repining that so much must be felt, learn 
 to rejoice that we have not more to feel. 
 
 By this observation of the miseries of others, 
 fortitude is strengthened, and the mind brought to 
 a more extensive knowledge of her own powers. 
 As the heroes of action catch the flame from one 
 to another, so they, to whom Providence has al- 
 lotted the harder task of suffering with calmness 
 and dignity, may animate themselves by the re- 
 membrance of those evils which have been laid on 
 others, perhaps naturally as weak as themselves, 
 and bear up with vigour and resolution against 
 their own oppressions, when they see it possible 
 that more severe afflictions may be borne. 
 
 There is still another reason why, to many 
 minds, the relation of other men's infelicity may 
 give a lasting and continual relief. Some, not 
 well instructed in the measures by whiph Provi r 
 dence distributes happiness, are perhaps misled 
 by divines, who, as Bellarmine makes temporal 
 prosperity one of the characters of the true church, 
 nave represented wealth and ease 
 
 ease as the certain 
 
 concomitants of virtue, and the unfailing result of 
 the Divine approbation. Such sufferers are de- 
 jected in their misfortunes, not so much for what 
 they feel, as for what they dread ; not because 
 they cannot support the sorrows, or endure the 
 wants, of their present condition, but because 
 they consider them as only the beginnings of 
 more sharp and more lasting pains. To these 
 mourners it is an act of the highest charity to re- 
 present the calamities which not only virtue has 
 suffered, but virtue has incurred ; to inform them 
 that one evidence of a future state, is the uncer- 
 tainty of any present reward for goodness ; and 
 to remind them, from the highest authority, of the 
 distresses and penury of men of whom the world 
 was not worthy. 
 
 No. 53.J TUESDAY, SEPT. 18, 1750. 
 
 Epigram Vet. 
 
 Husband thy possessions. 
 
 THERE is scarcely among the evils of human life 
 any so generally dreaded as poverty. Every 
 other species of misery, those, who are not much 
 accustomed to disturb the present moment with 
 reflection, can easily forget, because it is not al- 
 ways forced upon their regard; but it is impos- 
 sible to pass a day or an hour in the confluxes of 
 men, without seeing how much indigence is ex- 
 posed to contumely, neglect, and insult ; and, in 
 its lowest state, to hunger and nakedness ; to in- 
 juries against which every passion is in arms, and 
 to wants which nature cannot sustain. 
 
 Lucretius. C. 
 
 Against other evils the heart is often hardened 
 by true or by false notions of dignity and reputa- 
 tion ; thus we see dangers of every kind faced 
 with willingness, because bravery in a pood or 
 bad cause is never without its encomiasts and ad- 
 mirers. But in the prospect of poverty, there is 
 nothing but gloom and melancholy ; the mind 
 and body suffer together ; its miseries bring no 
 alleviations ; it is a state in which every virtue is 
 obscured, and in which no conduct can avoid re- 
 proach ; a state in which cheerfulness is insen- 
 sibility, and dejection sullenness, of which the 
 hardships are without honour, and the labours 
 without reward. 
 
 Of these calamities there seems not to be want- 
 ing a general conviction ; we hear on every side 
 the noise of trade, and see the streets thronged 
 with numberless multitudes, whose faces are 
 clouded with anxiety, and whose steps are hur- 
 ried by precipitation, from no other motive than 
 the hope of gain ; and the whole world is put in 
 motion, by the desire of that wealth, which is 
 chiefly to be valued as it secures us from pover- 
 ty ; for it is more useful for defence than acquisi- 
 tion, and is not so much able to procure good as 
 to exclude evil. 
 
 Yet there are always some whose passions or 
 follies lead them to a conduct opposite to the ge- 
 neral maxims and practice of mankind ; some who 
 seem to rush upon poverty with the same eager- 
 ness with which others avoid it, who see their 
 revenues hourly lessened, and the estates which 
 they inherit from their ancestors mouldering 
 away, without resolution to change their course 
 of life ; who persevere against all remonstrances, 
 and go forward with full career, though they see 
 before them the precipice of destruction. 
 
 It is not my purpose in this paper, to expostu- 
 late with such as ruin their fortunes by expensive 
 schemes of buildings and gardens, which they 
 carry on with the same vanity that prompted them 
 to begin, choosing, as it happens in a thousand 
 other cases, the remote evil before the lighter, and 
 deferring the shame of repentance till they incur 
 the miseries of distress. Those for whom I in- 
 tend my present admonitions, are the thought- 
 less, the negligent, and the dissolute, who having, 
 by the viciousness of their own inclinations, or 
 the seducements of alluring companions, been 
 engaged in habits of expense, and accustomed to 
 move in a certain round of pleasures dispropor- 
 tioned to their condition, are without power to 
 extricate themselves from the enchantments ol 
 customs, avoid the thought because they know it 
 will be painful, and continue from day to day, 
 and from month to month, to anticipate their re- 
 venues, and sink every hour deeper into the gulfs 
 of usury and extortion. 
 
 This folly has less claim to pity, because it can- 
 not be imputed tp the vehemence of sudden pas- 
 sion ; nor can the mischief which it produces be 
 extenuated as the effect of any single act, which 
 rage, or desire, might execute before there could 
 be time for an appeal to reason. These men are 
 advancing towards misery by soft approaches, 
 and destroying themselves, not by the violence 
 of a blow, which when once given, can never be 
 recalled, but by a slow poison, hourly repeated, 
 and obstinately continued. 
 
 This conduct is so absurd when it is examined 
 
 by the unprejudiced eye of rational judgment, 
 
 i that nothing but experience could evince its pos-
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 sibility ; yet absurd as it is, the sudden fall of some 
 families, and the sudden rise of others, prove it 
 to be common; and every year sees many wretch- 
 es reduced to contempt and want, by their costly 
 sacrifices to pleasure and vanity. 
 
 It is the fate of almost every passion, when it 
 nas passed the bounds which nature prescribes, 
 to counteract its own purpose. Too much rage 
 hinders the warrior from circumspection, too much 
 eagerness of profit hurts the credit of the trader, 
 too much ardour takes away from the lover that 
 easiness 6f address with which ladies are delight- 
 ed. Thus extravagance, though dictated by va- 
 nity, and incited by voluptuousness, seldom pro- 
 cures ultimately either applause or pleasure. 
 
 If praise be justly estimated by the character 
 of those from whom it is received, little satisfac- 
 tion will be given to the spendthrift by the enco- 
 miums which he purchases. For who are they 
 that animate him in his pursuits, but young men, 
 thoughtless and abandoned like himself, unac- 
 quainted with all on which the wisdom of nations 
 has impressed the stamp of excellence, and de- 
 void alike of knowledge and of virtue ! By whom 
 is his profusion praised, but by wretches who 
 consider him as subservient to their purposes, si- 
 rens that entice him to shipwreck, and Cyclops 
 that are gaping to devour him ? 
 
 Every man whose knowledge, or whose vir- 
 tue, can give value to his opinion, looks with 
 scorn, or pity, neither of which can afford much 
 gratification to pride, on him whom the panders 
 ofluxury have drawn into the circle of their influ- 
 ence, and whom he sees parcelled out among the 
 different ministers of folly, and about to be torn 
 to pieces by tailors and jockeys, vintners and 
 attorneys, who at once rob and ridicule him, and 
 who are secretly triumphing over his weakness, 
 when they present new incitements to his appe- 
 tite, and heighten his desires by counterfeited 
 applause. 
 
 Such is the praise that is purchased by prodi- 
 gality. Even when it is yet not discovered to be 
 false, it is the praise only of those whom it is re- 
 proachful to please, and whose sincerity is cor- 
 rupted by their interest ; men who live by the 
 riots which they encourage, and who know that 
 whenever their pupil grows wise, they shall lose 
 their power. Yet with such flatteries, if they 
 could last, might the cravings of vanity, which is 
 seldom very delicate, be satisfied ; but the time is 
 always hastening forward when this triumph, 
 poor as it is, shall vanish, and when those who 
 now surround him with obsequiousness and com- 
 pliments, fawn among his equipage, and animate 
 his riots, shall turn upon him with insolence, and 
 reproach him with the vices promoted by them- 
 selves. 
 
 And as little pretensions has the man who 
 squanders his estate, by vain or vicious expenses 
 to greater degrees of pleasure than are obtained 
 by others. To make any happiness sincere, it is 
 necessary that we believe it. to be lasting ; since 
 whatever we suppose ourselves in danger of 
 losing, must be enjoyed with solicitude and un- 
 easiness, and the more value we set upon it, the 
 more must the present possession be embittered. 
 How can he then be envied for his felicity, who 
 knows that its continuance cannot be expected, 
 and who is conscious that a very short time will 
 give him up to the gript of poverty, which will be 
 harder to be borne, as he has given wav to more 
 
 excesses, wantoned in greater abundance, and 
 indulged his appetites with more profuseness? 
 
 It appears evident that frugality is necessary 
 even to complete the pleasure of expense ; for it 
 may be generally remarked of those who squan- 
 der what they know their fortune not sufficient 
 to allow, that in their most jovial expense, there 
 always breaks out some proof of discontent and 
 mpatience ; they either scatter with a kind of wild 
 desperation, and affected lavishness, as criminals 
 brave the gallows when they cannot escape it, 
 or pay their money with a peevish anxiety, and 
 endeavour at once to spend idly, and to save 
 meanly: having neither firmness to deny their 
 passions, nor courage to gratify them, they mur- 
 mur at their own enjoyments, and poison the 
 bowl of pleasure by reflection on the cost. 
 
 Among these men there is often the vocifera- 
 tion of merriment, but very seldom the tranquilli- 
 ty of cheerfulness ; they inflame their imagina- 
 tions to a kind of momentary jollity, by the help 
 of wine and riot, and consider it as the first busi- 
 ness of the night to stupify recollection, and lay 
 that reason asleep which disturbs their gayety 
 and calls upon them to retreat from ruin. 
 
 But this poor broken satisfaction is of short con- 
 tinuance, and must be expiated by a long series of 
 misery and regret. In a short time the creditor 
 grows impatient, the last acre is sold, the pas- 
 sions and appetites still continue their tyranny, 
 with incessant calls for their usual gratifications, 
 and the remainder of life passes away in vain re- 
 pentance, or impotent desire. 
 
 No. 54.] SATURDAY, SEPT. 22, 1750. 
 
 Truditur dies die, 
 Novteque pergirnt intcrire lunte 
 
 Tu secanda marmora 
 Locas sub ipsumfur.us ; et snpulchn 
 
 Immemor, struts domos. HOB 
 
 Day presses on the heels of day, 
 
 And moons increase totlicir decay ; 
 
 But you, with thoughtless pride elate, 
 
 Unconscious of impending fate, 
 
 Command the pillar'd dome to rise, 
 
 When lo! thy tomb forgotten lies. FRANCIS 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I HAVE lately been called, from a mingled file 
 of business and amusement, to attend the last 
 hours of an old friend ; an office which has filled 
 me, if not with melancholy, at least with serious 
 reflections, and turned my thoughts towards the 
 contemplation of those subjects, which though of 
 the utmost importance, and of indubitable cer- 
 tainty, are generally secluded from our regard, by 
 the jollity of health, the hurry of employment, and 
 even by the calmer diversions of study and specula- 
 tion ; or if they become accidental topics of con- 
 versation and argument, yet rarely sink deep into 
 the heart, but give occasion only to some subtil- 
 ties of reasoning, or elegances of declamation, 
 which are heard, applauded, and forgotten. 
 
 It is, indeed, not hard to conceive how a man 
 accustomed to extend his views through a long 
 concatenation of causes and effects, to trace 
 things from their origin to their period, and com 
 pare means with ends, may discover the weak- 
 ness of human schemes ; detect the fallacie.- by
 
 No. 54.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 93 
 
 which mortals are deluded ; show the insufficien- 
 cy of wealth, honours, and power, to real happi- 
 ness ; and please himself, and his auditors, with 
 learned lectures on the vanity of life. 
 
 But though the speculatist may see and show 
 the folly of terrestrial hopes, fears, and desiies, 
 every hour will give proofs that he never felt it 
 Trace him through the day or year, and you will 
 find him acting upon principles which he has in 
 common with the illiterate and unenlightened, 
 angry and pleased, like the lowest of the vulgar, 
 pursuing with the same ardour, the same de- 
 signs, grasping, with all the eagerness of trans- 
 port, those riches which he knows he cannot 
 keep, and swelling with the applause which he 
 has gained by proving that applause is of no value. 
 
 The only conviction that rushes upon the soul, 
 and takes away from our appetites and passions 
 the power of resistance, is to be found, where I 
 have received it, at the bed of a dying friend. 
 To enter this school of wisdom is not the peculiar 
 privilege of geometricians ; the most sublime and 
 important precepts require no uncommon oppor- 
 tunities, nor laborious preparations ; they are en- 
 forced without the aid of eloquence, and under- 
 stood without skill in analytic science. Every 
 tongue can utter them, and every understanding 
 can conceive them. He that wishes in earnest 
 to obtain just sentiments concerning his condi- 
 tion, and would be intimately acquainted with 
 the world, may find instructions on every side. 
 He that desires to enter behind the scene, which 
 every art has been employed to decorate, and 
 every passion labours to illuminate, and wishes 
 to see life stripped of those ornaments which 
 make it glitter on the stage, and exposed in its 
 natural meanness, impotence, and nakedness, 
 may find all the delusion laid open in the cham- 
 ber of disease : he will there find vanity divested 
 of her robes, power deprived of her sceptre, and 
 hypocrisy without her mask. 
 
 The friend whom I have lost was a man emi- 
 nent for genius, and, like others of the same 
 class, sufficiently pleased with acceptance and ap- 
 plause. Being caressed by those who have pre- 
 ferments and riches in their disposal, he consider- 
 ed himself as in the direct road of advancement, 
 and had caught the flame of ambition by ap- 
 proaches to its object But in the midst of his 
 hopes, his projects, and his gayeties, he was 
 seized by a lingering disease, which, from its first 
 stage, he knew to be incurable. Here was an 
 end of all his visions of greatness and happi- 
 ness ; from the first hour that his health declined, 
 all his former pleasures grew tasteless. His 
 friends expected to please him by those accounts 
 of the growth of his reputation, which were for- 
 merly certain of being well received ; but they 
 soon found how little he was now affected by 
 compliments, and how vainly they attempted, by 
 flattery, to exhilarate the languor of weakness, 
 and relieve the solicitude of approaching death. 
 Whoever would kr.ow how much piety and vir- 
 tue surpass all external goods, might here have 
 seen them weighed against each other, where all 
 that gives motion to the active, and elevation to 
 the eminent, all that sparkles in the eye of hope, 
 and pants in the bosom of suspicion, at once be- 
 came dust in the balance, without weight and 
 without regard. Riches, authority, and praise, 
 lose all their influence when they are considered 
 as riches which to-morrow shall be bestowed 
 
 upon another, authority which shall this night 
 expire for ever, and praise which, however merit- 
 ed, or however sincere, shall, after a few mo- 
 ments, be heard no more. 
 
 In those hours of seriousness and wisdom, no- 
 thing appeared to raise his spirits, or gladden his 
 heart, but the recollection of acts of goodness ; 
 nor to excite his attention, but some opportunity 
 for the exercise of the duties of religion. Every 
 thing that terminated on this side of the grave 
 was received with coldness and indifference, and 
 regarded rather in consequence of the habit of 
 valuing it, than from any opinion that it deserved 
 value; it had little more prevalence over his 
 mind than a bubble that was now broken, a 
 dream from which he was awake. His whole 
 powers were engrossed by the consideration of 
 another state, and all conversation was tedious, 
 that had not some tendency to disengage him 
 from human affairs, and open his prospects into 
 futurity. 
 
 It is now past ; we have closed his eyes, and 
 heard him breathe the groan of expiration. At 
 the sight of this last conflict, I felt a sensation 
 never known to me before ; a confusion of pas- 
 sions, an awful stillness of sorrow, a gloomy ter- 
 ror without a name. The thoughts that entered 
 my soul were too strong to be diverted, and too 
 piercing to be endured ; but such violence can- 
 not be lasting, the storm subsided in a short timr*, 
 I wept, retired, and grew calm. 
 
 I have from that time frequently revolved in 
 my mind the effects which the observation of 
 death produces, in those who are not wholly 
 without the power and use of reflection ; for by 
 far the greater part it is wholly unregarded. 
 Their friends and their enemies sink into the 
 grave without raising any uncommon emotion, 
 or reminding them that they are themselves on 
 the edge of the precipice, and that they must 
 soon plunge into the gulf of eternity. 
 
 It seems to me remarkable that death increases 
 our veneration for the good, and extenuates our 
 hatred of the bad. Those virtues which once we 
 envied, as Horace observes,because they eclipsed 
 our own, can now no longer obstruct our reputa- 
 tion, and we have therefore no interest to sup 
 press their praise. That wickedness, which we 
 feared for its malignity, is 'now become impo- 
 tent, and the man whose name filled us with 
 alarm, and rage, and indignation, can at last be 
 considered only with pity or contempt. 
 
 When a friend is carried to his grave, we at 
 once find excuses for every weakness, and palli 
 ations of every fault ; we recollf.-ct a thousand en 
 dearments, which before glided ofF our minds 
 without impression, a thousand favours unrc- 
 paid, a thousand duties unperformed, and wish, 
 vainly wish, for his return, not so much that we 
 may receive, as that we may bestow, happiness, 
 and recompense that kindness which before we 
 never understood. 
 
 There is not, perhaps, to a mind woll instruct- 
 ed, a more painful occurrence than the death of 
 one whom we have injured without reparation. 
 Our crime seems now irretrievable, it is indelibly 
 recorded, and the stamp of fate is fixed upon it. 
 We consider, with the most afflictive anguish, 
 the pain which we have given, and now cannot 
 alleviate, and the losses which we have caused, 
 and now cannot repair. 
 
 Of the same kind are the emotions which the
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 55. 
 
 death of an emulator or competitor produces. 
 Whoci-tr had qualities to alarm our jealousy, 
 had excellence to deserve our fondness ; and to 
 whatever ardour of opposition interest may in- 
 flame us, no mnn ever outlived an enemy, whom 
 he did not then wish to have made a friend. 
 Those who are versed in literary history know, 
 that the elder Scaliger was the redoubted antago- 
 nist of Cardan and Erasmus ; yet at the death of 
 each of his great rivals he relented, and complain- 
 ed that they were snatched away from him before 
 their reconciliation was completed. 
 
 Tune etiam mortem ? Ah ! quid me linqvis, Erasme, 
 Ante meut quam sit conciliate amor ? 
 
 Art thou too fallen 1 ere anger could subside 
 And love return, has great Ercsmus died ? 
 
 Such are the sentiments with which we finally 
 review the effects of passion, but which we some- 
 times delay till we can no longer rectify our er T 
 rors. Let us therefore make haste to do what 
 we shall certainly at last wish to have done ; let 
 as return the caresses of our friends, and endea- 
 vour by mutual endearments to heighten that 
 tenderness which is the balm of life. Let us be 
 quick to repent of injuries while repentance may 
 not be a barren anguish, and let us open our eyes 
 to every rival excellence, and pay eaily and will- 
 ingly those honours which justice will compel us 
 to pay at last. 
 
 ATHANATUS. 
 
 No. 55.] TUESDAY, SEPT. 25, 1750. 
 
 Mature propior desinefuneri 
 
 Inter ludcrc virgines, 
 Et stellis ncbulam spargere candidia : 
 
 Aon fiquid Pholoen satis 
 Et te, Cklori, decet. 
 
 Now near to death that comes but slow, 
 Now thou art stepping down below; 
 Sport not amongst the blooming maids, 
 But think on ghosts and empty shades: 
 What suits with Pholoe in her bloom, 
 Gray Chloris, will not thee become ; 
 A bed is different from a tomb. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 1 HAVE been but a little time conversant in the 
 wond, yet I have already had frequent oppor- 
 tunities of observing the little efficacy of remon- 
 strance and complaint, which, however extorted 
 by oppression, or supported by reason, are de- 
 tested by one part of the world as rebellion, cen- 
 sured by another as peevishness, by some heard 
 with an appearance of compassion, only to be- 
 tray any of those sallies of vehemence and re- 
 sentment, which are apt to break out upon en- 
 couragement, and by others passed over with in- 
 difference and neglect, as matters in which they 
 have no concern, and which, if they should endea- 
 vour to examine or regulate, they might draw 
 mischief upon themselves. 
 
 Yet since it is no less natural for those who 
 think themselves injured to complain, than for 
 others to neglect their complaints, I shall venture 
 to lay my case before you, in hopes that you will 
 enforce my opinion, if you think it just, or endea- 
 vour to rectify my sentiments, if I am mistaken 
 
 [ expect, at least that you will divest yourself of 
 sartiality, and that whatever your age or solemni- 
 ;y may be, you will not, with the dotard's inso- 
 ence, pronounce me ignorant and foolish, per- 
 verse and refractory, only because you perceive 
 :hat I am young. 
 
 My father dying when I was but ten years old, 
 eft me, and a brother two years younger than 
 myself, to the care of my mother, a woman of 
 )irth and education, whose prudence or virtue he 
 lad no reason to distrust. She felt, for some 
 .ime, all the sorrow which nature calls forth, upon 
 he final separation of persons dear to one ano- 
 ,her ; and as her grief was exhausted by its own 
 violence, it subsided into tenderness for me and 
 my brother, and the year of mourning was spent 
 n caresses, consolations, and instruction, in cele- 
 >ration of my father's virtues, in professions of 
 jerpetual regard to his memory, and hourly in- 
 stances of such fondness as gratitude will not 
 easily suffer me to forget. 
 
 But when the term of this mournful felicity waa 
 expired, and my mother appeared again without 
 he ensigns of sorrow, the ladies of her acquaint- 
 ance began to tell her, upon whatever motives, 
 that it was time to live like the rest of the world ; 
 a powerful argument, which is seldom used to a 
 woman without effect. Lady Giddy was inces- 
 santly relating the occurrences of the town, and 
 Vlrs. Gravely told her privately, with great ten 
 derness, that it began to be publicly observed how 
 much she overacted her part, and that most of 
 ier acquaintance suspected her hope of procur- 
 ng another husband to be the true ground of all 
 ;hat appearance of tenderness and piety. 
 
 All the officiousness of kindness and folly waa 
 msied to change her conduct. She was at one 
 time alarmed with censure, and at another fired 
 with praise. She was told of balls, where others 
 shone only because she was absent; of new 
 comedies, to which all the town was crowding ; 
 and of many ingenious ironies, by which domes- 
 tic diligence, was made contemptible. 
 
 It is difficult for virtue to stand alone against 
 Tear on one side, and pleasure on the other; 
 especially when no actual crime is proposed, and 
 prudence itself can suggest many reasons for re- 
 axatiori and indulgence. My mamma was at 
 !ast persuaded to accompany Miss Giddy to a 
 play. She was received with a boundless pro- 
 fusion of compliments, and attended home by a 
 very fine gentleman. Next day she was with less 
 difficulty prevailed on to play at Mrs. Gravely's, 
 and came home gay and lively ; for the distinc- 
 tions that had been paid her awakened her vani- 
 ty, and good luck had kept her principles of fru- 
 gality from giving her disturbance. She now 
 made her second entrance into the world, and 
 her friends were sufficiently industrious to pre- 
 vent any return to her former life ; every morning 
 brought messages of invitation, and every even- 
 ing was passed in places of diversion, from which 
 she for some time complained that she had rather 
 be absent. In a short time she began to feel the 
 happiness of acting without control, of being un- 
 accountable for her hours, her expenses, and her 
 company; and learned by degrees to drop an 
 expression of contempt, or pity, at the mention 
 of ladies whose husbands were suspected of re- 
 straining their pleasures, or their play, and con- 
 fessed that she loved to go and come as she pleased 
 I was still favoured with some incidental pre
 
 No. 56.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 95 
 
 cepts and transient endearments, and was now 
 and then fondly kissed for smiling like my papa : 
 but most part of her morning was spent in com- 
 paring the opinion of her maid and milliner, con- 
 triving some variation in her dress, visiting shops, 
 and sending compliments ; and the rest of the 
 day was too short for visits, cards, plays, and 
 concerts. 
 
 She now began to discover that it was impos- 
 sible to educate children properly at home. Pa- 
 rents could not have them always in their sight ; 
 the society of servants was contagious; company 
 produced boldness and spirit; emulation excited 
 industry ; and a large school was naturally the 
 first step into the open world. A thousand other 
 reasons she alleged, some of little force in them- 
 selves, but so well seconded by pleasure, vanity, 
 and idleness, that they soon overcame all the re- 
 maining principles of kindness and piety, and 
 both I and my brother were despatched to board- 
 ing schools. 
 
 How my mamma spent her time when she was 
 thus disburdened I am not able to inform you, 
 but I have reason to believe that trifles and amuse- 
 ments took still faster hold of her heaft. At 
 first, she visited me at school, and afterwards 
 wrote to rne ; but, in a short time, both her visits 
 and her letters were at an end, and no other no- 
 tice was taken of me than to remit money for my 
 support. 
 
 When I came home at the vacation, I found 
 myself coldly received, with an observation, "that 
 this girl will presently be a woman." I was, 
 after the usual stay, sent to school again, and 
 overheard my mother say, as I was a-going, 
 "Well, now I shall recover.'' 
 
 In six months more I came again, and with 
 the usual childish alacrity, was running to my 
 mother's embrace, when she stopped me with ex- 
 clamations at the suddenness and enormity of my 
 growth, having, she said, never seen any body 
 shoot up so much at. my age. She was sure no 
 other girls spread at that rate, and she hated to 
 have children to look like women before their 
 time. I was disconcerted, and retired without 
 hearing any thing more than, "Nay, if you are 
 angry, Madam Steeple, you may walk off." 
 
 When once the forms of civility are violated, 
 there remains little hope of return to kindness or 
 decency. My mamma made this appearance of 
 resentment a reason for continuing her maligni- 
 ty ; and poor Miss Maypole, for that was my ap- 
 pellation, was never mentioned or spoken to but 
 with some expression of anger or dislike. 
 
 She had yet the pleasure of dressing me like a 
 child, and I know not when I should have been 
 thought fit to change my habit, had I not been 
 rescued by a maiden sister of my father, who 
 could not bear to see women in hanging sleeves, 
 and therefore presented me with brocade for a 
 gown, for which I should have thought myself 
 under great obligations, had she not accompa- 
 nied her favour with some hints that my mamma 
 might now consider her age, and give me her 
 ear-rings, which she had shown long enough in 
 public places. 
 
 I nov,- left the school, and came to live with my 
 mamma, who ?onsidered me as a usurper that 
 had seized the rights of a woman before they 
 were due, and was pushing down the precipice 
 of age, that I might reign without a superior. 
 While I am thus beheld with jealousy and sus- 
 
 picion, you will readily believe that it is difficult 
 to please. Every word and look is an offence. 
 I never speak, but I pretend to some qualities 
 and excellences, which it is criminal to possess ; 
 if I am gay, she thinks it early enough to co- 
 quette ; if I am grave, she hates a prude in bibs; 
 if I venture into company, I am in haste for a 
 husband ; if I retire to my chamber, such matron- 
 like ladies are lovers of contemplation. I am on 
 one pretence or other generally excluded from 
 her assemblies, nor am I ever suffered to visit at 
 the same place with my mamma. Every one 
 wonders why she does not bring Miss more into 
 the world, and when she comes home in vapours, 
 I am certain that she has heard either of my 
 beauty or my wit, and expect nothing for the en- 
 suing week but taunts and menaces, contradic- 
 tion and reproaches. 
 
 Thus I live in a state of continual persecution, 
 only because I was born ten years too soon, and 
 cannot stop the course of nature or of time, but 
 am unhappily a woman before my mother can 
 willingly cease to be a girl. I believe you would 
 contribute to the happiness of many families, it, 
 by any arguments or persuasions, you could 
 make mothers ashamed of rivalling their children ; 
 if you could show them, that though they may re- 
 fuse to grow wise, they must inevitably grow old ; 
 and that the proper solaces of age are not music 
 and compliments, but wisdom and devotion; 
 that those who are so unwilling to quit the world 
 will soon be driven from it ; and that it is there- 
 fore their interest to retire while there yet remain 
 a few hours for nobler employments. 
 
 I am, &c. 
 
 No. 56.] SATURDAY, SEPT. 29, 1750. 
 
 Valtat res ludicra, si me 
 
 Palma negata macrum, donata redueit opimum. 
 
 HOR 
 
 Farewell the stage ; for humbly I disclaim 
 
 Such fond pursuits of pleasure, or of fame, 
 
 If I must sink in shame, or swell with pride, 
 
 As the gay palm is granted or denied. FRANCIS 
 
 NOTHING is more unpleasing than to find that 
 offence has been received when none was intend 
 ed, and that pain has been given to those who 
 were not guilty of any provocation. As the great 
 end of society is mutual beneficence, a good man 
 is always uneasy when he finds himself acting in 
 opposition to the purposes of life ; because, though 
 his conscience may easily acquit him of malice 
 prepense, of settled hatred or contrivances of mis- 
 chief, yet he seldom can be certain, that he has 
 not failed by negligence or indolence ; that he 
 has not been hindered from consulting the com- 
 mon interest by too much regard to his own ease, 
 or too much indifference to the happiness of 
 others. 
 
 Nor is it necessary, that, to feel this uneasiness, 
 the mind should be extended to any great dif- 
 fusion of generosity, or melted by uncommon 
 warmth of benevolence ; for that prudence which 
 the world teaches, and a quick sensibility of pri- 
 vate interest, will direct us to shun needless en- 
 mities ; since there is no man whose kindness we 
 may not some time want, or by whose malice we 
 may not some time suffer. 
 
 I have therefore frequently looked with won-
 
 96 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 56. 
 
 der, and now and then with pity, at the thought- 
 lessness with which some alienate from them- 
 selves the affections of all whom chance, busi- 
 ness, or inclination, brings in their way. When 
 we sec a man pursuing some darling interest, 
 without much regard to the opinion of the world, 
 we justly consider him as corrupt and danger- 
 ous, but are not long in discovering his motives ; 
 we see him actuated by passions which are hard 
 to be resisted, and deluded by appearances which 
 have dazzled stronger eyes. But the greater part 
 of those who set mankind at defiance by hourly 
 irritation, and who live but to infuse malignity, 
 and multiply enemies, have no hopes to foster, 
 no designs to promote, nor any expectations of 
 attaining power by insolence, or of climbing to 
 greatness by trampling on others. They give up 
 all the sweets of kindness, for the sake of pee- 
 vishness, petulance, or gloom ; and alienate the 
 world by neglect of the common forms of civili- 
 ty, and breach of the established laws of conver- 
 sation. 
 
 Every one must, in the walks of life, have met 
 with men of whom all speak with censure, though 
 they are not chargeable with any crime, and 
 whom none can be persuaded to love, though a 
 reason can scarcely be assigned why they should 
 be hated ; and who, if their good qualities and 
 actions sometimes force a commendation, have 
 their panegyric always concluded with confes- 
 sions of disgust ; " he is a good man, but I cannot 
 like him." Surely such persons have sold the 
 esteem of the world at too low a price, since they 
 have lost one of the rewards of virtue, without 
 gaining the profits of wickedness. 
 
 This ill economy of fame is sometimes the ef- 
 fect of stupidity : men whose perceptions are 
 languid and sluggish, who lament nothing but 
 loss of money, and feel nothing but a blow, are 
 often at a difficulty to guess why they are encom- 
 passed with enemies, though they neglect all 
 those arts by which men are endeared to one an- 
 other. They comfort themselves that they have 
 lived irreproachably ; that none can charge them 
 with having endangered his life, or diminished 
 his possessions ; and therefore conclude that they 
 suffer by some invincible fatality, or impute the 
 malice of their neighbours to ignorance or envy. 
 They wrap themselves up in their innocence, and 
 enjoy the congratulations of their own hearts, 
 without knowing or suspecting that they are 
 every day deservedly incurring resentments, by 
 withholding from those with whom they con- 
 verse, that regard, or appearance of regard, to 
 which every one is entitled by the customs of the 
 world. 
 
 There are many injuries which almost every 
 man feels, though he does not complain, and 
 which, upon those whom virtue, elegance, or va- 
 nity, have made delicate and tender, fix deep and 
 lasting impressions; as there are many arts of 
 graciotisness and conciliation, which are to be 
 practised without expense, and by which those 
 may be made our friends, who have never receiv- 
 ed from us any real benefit Such arts, when 
 they include neither guilt nor meanness, it is sure- 
 ly reasonable to learn, for who would want that 
 love which is so easily to be gained ? And such 
 injuries are to be avoided ; for who would be 
 hated without profit ! 
 
 Some, indeed, there are, for whom the excuse 
 of ignorance or negligence cannot be alleged, be- 
 
 ;ause it is apparent that they are not only care- 
 less of pleasiiig, but studious to offend ; that they 
 contrive to make all approaches to them difficult 
 and vexatious, and imagine that they aggrandize 
 themselves by wasting the time of others in use 
 .ess attendance, by mortifying them with slights, 
 and teasing them with affronts. 
 
 Men of this kind are generally to be found 
 among those that have not mingled much in gene- 
 al conversation, but spent their lives amidst the 
 obsequiousness of dependents, and the flattery 
 of parasites ; and by long consulting only their 
 own inclination, have forgotten that others have 
 :laim to the same deference. 
 
 Tyranny thus avowed is indeed an exuberance 
 of pride, by which all mankind is so much en- 
 raged, that it is never quietly endured, except in 
 hose who can reward the patience which they 
 ;xact ; and insolence is generally surrounded 
 only by such whose baseness inclines them to 
 think nothing insupportable that produces gain, 
 and who can laugh at scurrility and rudeness 
 with a luxurious table and an open purse. 
 
 But though all wanton provocations and con 
 temptuous insolence are to be diligently avoided, 
 there is no less danger in timid compliance and 
 tame resignation. It is common for soft and fear 
 ful tempers to give themselves up implicitly to 
 the direction of the bold, the turbulent, and the 
 overbearing ; of those whom they do not believe 
 wiser or better than themselves ; to recede from 
 the best designs where opposition must be en- 
 countered, and to fall off from virtue for fear of 
 censure. 
 
 Some firmness and resolution is necessary to 
 the discharge of duty ; but it is a very unhappy 
 state of life in which the necessity of such strug- 
 gles frequently occurs ; for no man is defeated 
 without some resentment, which will be continu- 
 ed with obstinacy while he believes himself in 
 the right, and exerted with bitterness, if even to 
 his own conviction he is detected in the wrong. 
 
 Even though no regard be had to the external 
 consequences of contrariety and dispute, it must 
 be painful to a worthy mind to put others in pain, 
 and there will be danger lest the kindest nature 
 may be vitiated by too long a custom of debate 
 and contest. 
 
 I am afraid that I may be taxed with insen- 
 sibility by many of my correspondents, who be- 
 lieve their contributions unjustly neglected. And, 
 indeed, when I sit before a pile of papers, of which 
 each is the production of laborious study, and tho 
 offspring of a fond parent, I, who know the pas- 
 sions of an author, cannot remember how long 
 they have lain in my boxes unregarded, without 
 imagining to myself the various changes of sor- 
 row, impatience, and resentment, which the writ- 
 ers must have felt in this tedious interval. 
 
 These reflections are still more awakened, 
 when, upon perusal, I find some of thorn calling 
 for a place in the next paper, a place which they 
 have never yet obtained : others writing in a style 
 of superiority and haughtiness, as secure of de- 
 ference, and above fear of criticism ; others hum- 
 bly offering their weak assistance with softness 
 and submission, which they believe impossible to 
 be resisted ; some introducing their compositions 
 with a menace of the contempt which he that re 
 fuses them will incur; others applying privately 
 to the booksellers for their interest and solicita- 
 tion ; every one by different ways endeavouring
 
 No. 57.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 97 
 
 to secure the bliss of publication. I cannot but 
 consider myself as placed in a very incommodi- 
 ous situation, where I am forced to repress confi- 
 dence, which it is pleasing to indulge, to repay 
 civilities with appearances of neglect, and so fre- 
 quently to offend those by whom I never was of- 
 fended. 
 
 I know well how rarely an author, fired with 
 the beauties of his new composition, contains his 
 raptures in his own bosom, and how naturally he 
 imparts to his friends his expectation of renown ; 
 and as 1 can easily conceive the eagerness with 
 which a new paper is snatched up, by one who 
 expects to find it filled with his own production, 
 and perhaps has called his companions to share 
 the pleasure of a second perusal, I grieve for the 
 disappointment which he is to feel at the fatal in- 
 spection. His hopes, however, do not yet for- 
 sake him ; he is certain of giving lustre the next 
 day. The next day comes, and again he pants 
 with expectation, and having dreamed of laurels 
 and Parnassus, casts his eyes upon the barren 
 page, with which he is doomed never more to be 
 delighted. 
 
 For such cruelty what atonement can be made? 
 For such calamities what alleviation can be found ? 
 I am afraid that the mischief already done must 
 be without reparation, and all that deserves my 
 care is prevention for the future. Let therefore 
 the next friendly contributor, whoever he be, ob- 
 serve the cautions of Swift, and write secretly in 
 his own chamber, without communicating his de- 
 sign to his nearest friend, for the nearest friend 
 will be pleased with an opportunity of laughing. 
 Let him carry it to the post himself, and wait in 
 silence for the event. If it is published and prais- 
 ed, he may then declare himself the author; if it 
 be suppressed, he may wonder in private without 
 much vexation ; and if it be censured, he may 
 join in the cry, and lament the dulness of the 
 writing generation. 
 
 No. 57.] TUESDAY, OCTOBER 2, 1750. 
 
 ffon inteUigvnt homines qiuim magnum vectigal sitpar- 
 simonia. TCLL. 
 
 The world has not yet learned the riches of frugality. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I AM always pleased when I see literature made 
 useful, and scholars descending from that eleva- 
 tion, which, as it raises them above common life, 
 must likewise hinder them from beholding the 
 ways of men otherwise than in a cloud of bus- 
 tle and confusion. Having lived a life of busi- 
 ness, and remarked how seldom any occurrences 
 emerge for which great qualities are required, I 
 have learned the necessity of regarding little 
 things ; and though I do not pretend to give laws 
 to the legislators of mankind, or to limit the range 
 of those powerful minds that carry light and heat 
 through all the regions of knowledge, yet I have 
 long thought, that the greatest part of those who 
 lose themselves in studies by which I have not 
 found that they grow much wiser, might, with 
 more ad vantage both to the public and themselves 
 apply their understandings to domestic arts, and 
 store their minds with axioms of humble pru- 
 dence and private economy. 
 N 
 
 Your late paper on frugality was very elegant 
 and pleasing, but in my opinion, not sufficiently 
 adapted to common readers, who pay little re- 
 gard to the music of periods, the artifice of con- 
 nexion, or the arrangement of the flowers of rhe- 
 toric ; but require a few plain and cogent in 
 structions, which may sink into the mind by their 
 own weight 
 
 Frugality is so necessary to the happiness of 
 the world, so beneficial in its various forms to 
 every rank of men, from the highest of human 
 potentates, to the lowest labourer or artificer; 
 and the miseries which the neglect of it produces 
 are so numerous and so grievous, that it ought to 
 be recommended with every variation of address, 
 and adapted to every class of understanding. 
 
 Whether those who treat morals as a science 
 will allow frugality to be numbered among the 
 virtues, I have not thought it necessary to inquire. 
 For I, who draw my opinions from a careful ob- 
 servation of the world, am satisfied with know- 
 ing what is abundantly sufficient for practice, 
 that if it be not a virtue, it is, at least, a quality, 
 which can seldom exist without some virtues, and 
 without which few virtues can exist. Frugality 
 may be termed the daughter of Prudence, the 
 sister of Temperance, and the parent of Liberty. 
 He that is extravagant will quickly become poor, 
 and poverty will enforce dependance, and invite 
 corruption ; it will almost always produce a pas- 
 sive compliance with the wickedness of others ; 
 and there are few who do not learn by degrees to 
 practise those crimes which they cease to cen- 
 sure. 
 
 If there are any who do not dread poverty as 
 dangerous to virtue, yet mankind seem unani- 
 mous enough in abhorring it as destructive to 
 happiness ; and all to whom want is terrible upon 
 whatever principle, ought to think themselves 
 obliged to learn the sage maxims of our parsimo- 
 nious anceetors, and attain the salutary arts of 
 contracting expense ; for without frugality none 
 can be rich, and with it very few would be poor. 
 
 To most other acts of virtue or exertions ot 
 wisdom, a concurrence of many circumstances 
 is necessary, some previous knowledge must be 
 attained, some uncommon gifts of nature pos- 
 sessed, or some opportunity produced by an ex- 
 traordinary combination ofthings ; but the mere 
 power of saving what is already in our hands, 
 must be easy of acquisition to every mind ; and 
 as the example of Bacon may show, that the 
 highest, intellect cannot safely neglect it, a thou- 
 sand instances will every day prove, that the 
 meanest may practise it with success. 
 
 Riches cannot be within the reach of great 
 numbers, because to be rich, is to possess more 
 than is commonly placed in a single hand ; and, 
 if .many could obtain the sum which now makes 
 a man wealthy, the name of wealth must then be 
 transferred to still greater accumulations. But 
 I am not certain that it is equally impossible to 
 exempt the lower clasees of mankind from po- 
 verty ; because, though whatever be the wealth 
 of the community, some will always have least, 
 and he that has less than any other is compara- 
 tively poor ; yet I do not see any coactive neces- 
 sity that many should be without the indispensa- 
 ble conveniences of life ; but am sometimes in- 
 clined to imagine, that, casual calamities excepted, 
 there might, by universal prudence, be procured 
 a universal exemption from want ; and that he
 
 98 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 58. 
 
 who should happen to have least, might notwith- 
 standing have enough. 
 
 But without entering too far into speculations 
 which I do not remember that any political cal- 
 culator has attempted, and in which the most 
 perspicacious reasoner may be easily bewildered, 
 it is evident that they to whom Providence has 
 allotted no other care but of their own fortune and 
 their own virtue, which make far the greater part 
 of mankind, have snfficient incitements to per- 
 sonal frugality, since, whatever might be its gene- 
 ral effect upon provinces or nations, by which it 
 is never likely to be tried, we know with certain- 
 ty, that there is scarcely any individual entering 
 the world, who, by prudent parsimony, may not 
 reasonably promise himself a cheerful compe- 
 tence in the decline of life. 
 
 The prospect of penury in age is so gloomy 
 and ternfying, that every man who looks before 
 him must resolve to avoid it; and it must be 
 avoided generally by the science of sparing. For, 
 though in every age there are some, who by bold 
 adventures, or by favourable accidents, rise sud- 
 denly to riches, yet it is dangerous to indulge 
 hopes of such rare events : and the bulk of man- 
 kind must owe their affluence to small and gra- 
 dual profits, below which their expense must be 
 resolutely reduced. 
 
 You must not therefore think me sinking be- 
 low the dignity of a practical philosopher, when 
 I recommend to the consideration of your read- 
 ers, from the statesman to the apprentice, a posi- 
 tion replete with mercantile wisdom, A penny 
 saved is two-pence got; which may, I think, be ac- 
 commodated to all conditions, by observing not 
 only that they who pursue any lucrative employ- 
 ment will save time when they forbear expense, 
 and that the time may be employed to the in- 
 crease of profit ; but that they who are above 
 uch minute considerations will find, by every 
 victory over appetite or passion, new strength 
 added to the mind, will gain the power of refus- 
 ing those solicitations by which the young and 
 vivacious are hourly assaulted, and in time set 
 themselves above the reach of extravagance and 
 folly. 
 
 It may, perhaps, be inquired by those who are 
 willing rather to cavil than to learn, what is the 
 just measure of frugality ? and when expense, 
 not absolutely necessary, degenerates into profu- 
 sion ? To such questions no general answer can 
 be returned ; since the liberty of spending, or 
 necessity of parsimony, may be varied without 
 end, by different circumstances. It may, howe- 
 ver, be laid down as a rule never to be broken, 
 that a WMIJI'S voluntary expense should not exceed 
 his revenue. A maxim so obvious and incontro- 
 vertible, that the civil law ranks the prodigal with 
 the madman, and debars them equally from the 
 conduct of their own affairs. Another precept 
 arising from the former, and indeed included in 
 it, is yet necessary to be distinctly impressed 
 upon the warm, the fanciful, and the brave ; Let 
 no man anticipate uncertain profits. Let no man 
 presume to spend upon hopes, to trust his own 
 abilities for means of deliverance from penury, to 
 give a loose to his present desires, and leave the 
 reckoning to fortune or to virtue. 
 
 To these cautions, which I suppose are, at 
 least among the graver part of mankind, undis- 
 puted, I will add another, Let no man squander 
 against his inclination. "With this precept it may 
 
 be, perhaps, imagined easy to comply; yet il 
 those whom profusion has buried in prisons, or 
 driven into banishment, were examined, it would 
 be found that very few were ruined by their own 
 choice, or purchased pleasure with the loss of 
 their estates ; but that they suffered themselves 
 to be borne away by the violence of those with 
 whom they conversed, and yielded reluctantly to 
 a thousand prodigalities, either from a trivial 
 emulation of wealth and spirit, or a mean fear of 
 contempt and ridicule ; an emulation for the 
 prize of folly, or the dread of the laugh of fools. 
 1 am, Sir, 
 
 Your humble servant, 
 
 SOPHRON.- 
 
 No. 58.] SATURDAY, OCTOBER 6, 1750. 
 
 -Improba 
 
 Crescunt divititt, tamcn 
 
 Curia nescia quid stmptr al/cst rci. IIOR. 
 
 But, while in heaps, his wicked wealth ascends, 
 
 He is not of his wish possess'd ; 
 There's something wanting still to make him bless'd. 
 
 FRANCIS. 
 
 As the love of money has been, in all ages, one 
 of the passions that have given great disturbance 
 to the tranquillity of the world, there is no topic 
 more copiously treated by the ancient moralists 
 than the folly of devoting the heart to the accu- 
 mulation of riches. They who are acquainted 
 with these authors need not be told how riches 
 excite pity, contempt, or reproach, whenever 
 they are mentioned ; with what numbers of ex- 
 amples the dangers of large possessions is illus- 
 trated ; and how all the powers of reason and 
 eloquence have been exhausted in endeavours to 
 eradicate a desire, which seems to have en- 
 trenched itself too strongly in the mind to be 
 driven out, and which, perhaps, had not lost its 
 power, even over those who declaimed against 
 it, but would have broken out in the poet or the 
 sage, if it had been excited by opportunity, and 
 invigorated by the approximation of its proper 
 object. 
 
 Their arguments have been, indeed, so unsuc- 
 cessful, that I know not whether it can be shown, 
 that by all the wit and reason which this favour- 
 ite cause has called forth, a single convert was 
 ever made ; that even one man has refused to be 
 rich, when to be rich was in his power, from the 
 conviction of the greater happiness of a narrow 
 fortune ; or disburdened himself of wealth when 
 he had tried its inquietudes, merely to enjoy the 
 peace and leisure and security of a mean and un- 
 envied state. 
 
 It is true, indeed, that many have neglected 
 opportunities of raising themselves to honours 
 and to wealth, and rejected the kindest offers of 
 fortune ; but however their moderation may be 
 boasted by themselves, or admired by such as 
 only view them at a distance, it will be, perhaps, 
 seldom found that they value riches less, but that 
 they dread labour or danger more than others ; 
 they are unable to rouse themselves to action, to 
 strain the race of competition, or to stand the 
 shock of contest; but though they, therefore, 
 decline the toil of climbing, they nevertheless 
 wish themselves aloft, and would willingly enio-v 
 what they dare not seize.
 
 No. 59.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 99 
 
 Others have retired from high stations, and vo- 
 luntarily condemned themselves to privacy and 
 obscurity. But even these will not afford many 
 occasions of triumph to the philosopher ; for they 
 have commonly either quitted that only which they 
 thought themselves unable to hold, and prevented 
 disgrace by resignation ; or they have been in- 
 duced to try new measures by general incon- 
 stancy, which always dreams of happiness in 
 novelty, or by a gloomy disposition, which is dis- 
 gusted in the same degree with every state, and 
 wishes every scene of life to change as soon as 
 it is beheld. Such men found high and low 
 stations equally unable to satisfy the wishes of a 
 distempered mind, and were unable to shelter 
 themselves in the closest retreat from disappoint- 
 ment, solicitude, and misery. 
 
 Yet though these admonitions have been thus 
 neglected by those, who either enjoyed riches, or 
 were able to procure them, it is not rashly to be 
 determined that they are altogether without use ; 
 for since far the greatest part of mankind must be 
 confined to conditions comparatively mean, and 
 placed in situations from which they naturally 
 look up with envy to the eminences before them, 
 those writers cannot be thought ill employed that 
 have administered remedies to discontent almost 
 universal, by showing, that what we cannot reach 
 may very well be forborne, that the inequality of 
 distribution, at which we murmur, is for the most 
 part less than it seems, and that the greatness, 
 which we admire at a distance, has much fewer 
 advantages, and much less splendour, when we 
 are suffered to approach it. 
 
 It is the business of moralists to detect the 
 frauds of fortune, and to show that she imposes 
 upon the careless eye, by a quick succession of 
 shadows, which will shrink to nothing in the 
 gripe : that she disguises life in extrinsic orna- 
 ments, which serve only for show, and are laid 
 aside in the hours of solitude, and of pleasure; 
 and that when greatness aspires either to felicity 
 or to wisdom, it shakes off those distinctions 
 which dazzle the gazer, and awe the supplicant. 
 
 It may be remarked, that they whose condition 
 has not afforded them the light of moral or reli- 
 gious instruction, and who collect all their ideas 
 by their own eyes, and digest them by their own 
 understandings, seem to consider those who are 
 placed in ranks of remote superiority, as almost 
 another and higher species of beings. As them- 
 selves have known little other misery than the 
 consequences of want, they are with difficulty per- 
 suaded that where there is wealth there can be 
 sorrow, or that those who glitter in dignity, and 
 glide along in affluence, can be acquainted with 
 pains and cares like those which lie heavy upon 
 the rest of mankind. 
 
 This prejudice is, indeed, confined to the low- 
 est meanness, and the darkest ignorance ; but it is 
 so confined only because others have been shown 
 its folly, and its falsehood, because it has been 
 opposed in its progress by history and philosophy, 
 and hindered from spreading its infection by pow- 
 erful preservatives. 
 
 The doctrine of the contempt of wealth, 
 though it has not been able to extinguish avarice 
 or ambition, or suppress that reluctance with 
 which a man passes his days in a state of inferi- 
 ority, must, at least, have made the lower condi- 
 tions less grating and wearisome, and has conse- 
 quently contributed to the general security of 
 
 life, by hindering that fraud and violence, rapine 
 and circumvention, which must have been pro- 
 duced by an unbounded eagerness of wealth, 
 arising from an unshaken conviction that to be 
 rich is to be happy. 
 
 Whoever finds himself incited, by some vio 
 lent impulse of passion, to pursue riches as thf 
 chief end of being, must surely be so much alarm 
 ed by the successive admonitions of those whoso 
 experience and sagacity have recommended them 
 as the guides of mankind, as to stop and consider 
 whether he is about to engage in an undertaking 
 that will reward his toil, and to examine, before 
 he rushes to wealth, through right and wrong, 
 what it will confer when he has acquired it; and 
 his examination will seldom fail to repress his 
 ardour, and retard his violence. 
 
 Wealth is nothing in itself, it is not useful but 
 when it departs from us ; its value is found only 
 in that which it can purchase, which, if we sup- 
 pose it put to its best use by those that possess 
 it, seems not much to deserve the desire or envy 
 of a wise man. It is certain that, with regard to 
 corporeal enjoyment, money can neither open 
 new avenues to pleasure, nor block up the pas- 
 sages of anguish. 
 
 Disease and infirmity still continue to torture 
 and enfeeble, perhaps exasperated by luxury, or 
 promoted by softness. With respect to the mind, 
 it has rarely been observed, that wealth contri- 
 butes much to quicken the discernment, enlarge 
 the capacity, or elevate the imagination; but may, 
 by hiring flattery, or laying diligence asleep, con- 
 firm error and harden stupidity. 
 
 Wealth cannot confer greatness, for nothing 
 can make that great, which the decree of nature 
 has ordained to be little. The bramble may be 
 placed in a hot-bed, but can never become an oak. 
 Even rovalty itself is not able to give that dignity 
 which it happens not to find, but oppresses feeble 
 minds, though it may elevate the strong. The 
 world has been governed in the name of kings, 
 whose existence has scarcely been perceived by 
 any real effects beyond their own palaces. 
 
 When therefore the desire of wealth is taking 
 hold of the heart, let us look round and see how 
 it operates upon those whose industry or fortune 
 has obtained it. When we find them oppressed 
 with their own abundance, luxurious without 
 pleasure, idle without ease, impatient and queru- 
 lous in themselves, and despised or hated by the 
 rest of mankind, we shall soon be convinced, that 
 if the real wants of our condition are satisfied, 
 there remains little to be sought with solicitude, 
 or desired with eagerness. 
 
 No. 59.] TUESDAY, OCTOBER 9, 1750. 
 
 Eit aliqnid,fatale malum per verba levare : 
 Hoc querulam Prognen Halcyonenque facit. 
 
 Hoc erat in snlo quare Ptzantius antro 
 Voce faligarr.t Lr.mnia saxa sua. 
 
 Strangtilat inclusus dolor, atque exastuat intus : 
 Cogitur et vires multiplicare suas. OVID 
 
 Complaining oft gives respite to our grief; 
 From hence the wretched Progne sought relief; 
 Hence the Poenntian chief his fate, deplores, 
 And vents his sorrow to the Lemniaii shores : 
 In vain by secrecy he would assuage 
 Our cares ; conceal'd they gather tenfold rage. 
 
 F. LEWIS
 
 100 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 0. 
 
 t is common to distinguish men by the names 
 of animals which they are supposed to resemble. 
 Thus a hero is frequently termed a lion, and a 
 statesman a fox, an extortioner gains the appella- 
 tion of vulture, and a fop the title of monkey. 
 There is also among the various anomalies of 
 character, which a survey of the world exhibits, 
 a species of beings in human form, which may 
 be properly marked out as the screech-owls of 
 mankind. 
 
 These screech-owls seem to be settled in an 
 opinion that the great business of life is to com- 
 plain, and that they were born for no other pur- 
 pose than to disturb the happiness of others, to 
 lessen the little comforts, and shorten the short 
 pleasures of our condition, by painful remem- 
 brances of the past, or melancholy prognostics of 
 the future ; their only care is to crush the rising 
 hope, to damp the kindling transport, and allay 
 the golden hours of gayety with the hateful dross 
 of grief and suspicion. 
 
 To those whose weakness of spirits, or timidity 
 of temper, subjects them to impressions from 
 others, and who are apt to suffer by fascination, 
 and catch the contagion of misery, it is extremely 
 unhappy to live within the compass of a screech- 
 owl's voice ; for it will often fill their ears in the 
 hour of dejection, terrify them with apprehensions 
 which their own thoughts would never have pro- 
 duced, and sadden, by intruded sorrows, the day 
 which might have been passed in amusements or 
 in business ; it will burden the heart with unne- 
 cessary discontents, and weaken for a time that 
 love of life which is necessary to the vigorous 
 prosecution of any undertaking. 
 
 Though I have, like the rest of mankind, many 
 failings and weaknesses, I have not yet, by either 
 friends or enemies, been charged with supersti- 
 tion ; I never count the company which I enter, 
 and I look at the new moon indifferently over 
 either shoulder. I have, like most other philoso- 
 phers, often heard the cuckoo without money in 
 my pocket, and have been sometimes reproached 
 as fool-hardy for not turning down my eyes when 
 a raven flew over my head. I never go home ab- 
 ruptly because a snake crosses my way, nor have 
 any particular dread of a climacterical year : yet I 
 confess that, with all my scorn of old women, and 
 their tales, I consider it as an unhappy day when 
 I happen to be greeted, in the morning, by Sus- 
 pirius the screech-owl. 
 
 I have now known Suspirius fifty-eight years 
 and four months, and have never yet passed an 
 hour with him in which he has not made some 
 attack upon my quiet. When we were first ac- 
 quainted, his great topic was the misery of youth 
 without riches ; and whenever we walked out 
 together he solaced me with a long enumeration 
 of pleasures, which, as they were beyond the 
 reach of my fortune, were without the verge of 
 my desires, and which I should never have con- 
 sidered as the objects of a wish, had not his un- 
 seasonable representations placed them in my 
 sight 
 
 Another of his topics is the neglect of merit, 
 with which he never fails to amuse every man 
 whom he sees not eminently fortunate. If he 
 meets with a young officer, he always informs 
 him of gentlemen whose personal courage is un- 
 questioned, and whose military skill qualifies 
 them to command armies, that have, notwith- 
 standing all their merit, grown old with subal- 
 
 tern commissions. For a genius in the c' i-rch, 
 he is always provided with a curacy for life. The 
 lawyer he informs of many men of great parts 
 and deep study, who have never had an opportu- 
 nity to speak in the courts : and meeting Serc- 
 nus the physician, " Ah, doctor," says he, " what, 
 a-foot still, when so man}- blockheads are rat- 
 tling in their chariots ? I told you seven years 
 ago that you would never meet with encourage- 
 ment, and I hope you will now take more notice, 
 when I tell you that your Greek, and your dili- 
 gence, and your honesty, will never enable you 
 to live like yonder apothecary, who prescribes to 
 his own shop, and laughs at the physician." 
 
 Suspirius has, in his time, intercepted fifteen 
 authors in their way to the stage ; persuaded nine 
 and thirty merchants to retire from a prosperous 
 trade for fear of bankruptcy, broke off a hundred 
 and thirteen matches by prognostications of un- 
 happiness, and enabled the small pox to kill 
 nineteen ladies, by perpetual alarms of the loss 
 of beauty. 
 
 Whenever my evil stars bring us together, he 
 never fails to represent to me the folly of my pur- 
 suits, and informs me that we are much older 
 than when we begun our acquaintance, that the 
 infirmities of decrepitude are coming fast upon 
 me, that whatever I now get, I shall enjoy but a 
 little time, that fame is to a man tottering on the 
 edge of the grave of very little importance, and 
 that the time is at hand when I ought to look for 
 no other pleasures than a good dinner and an 
 easy chair. 
 
 Thus he goes on in his unharmonious strain, 
 displaying present miseries, and foreboding more, 
 wKTiKipal- atel Savartyopos, every syllable is loaded 
 with misfortune, and death is always brought 
 nearer to the view. Yet, what always raises my 
 resentment and indignation, I do not perceive 
 that his mournful meditations have much effect 
 upon himself. He talks and has long talked of 
 calamities, without discovering otherwise than 
 by the tone of his voice that he feels any of the 
 evils which he bewails or threatens, but has the 
 same habit of uttering lamentations, as others of 
 telling stories, and falls into expressions of con- 
 dolence for past, or apprehension of future mis- 
 chiefs, as all men studious of their ease have re- 
 course to those subjects upon which they can 
 most fluently or copiously discourse. 
 
 It is reported of the Sybarites, that they de- 
 stroyed all their cocks, that they might dream 
 out their morning dreams without disturbance. 
 Though I would not so far promote effeminacy 
 as to propose the Sybarites for an example, yet 
 since there is no man so corrupt or foolish, but 
 something useful may be learned from him, I 
 could wish that, in imitation of a people not of- 
 ten to be copied, some regulations might be made 
 to exclude screech-owls from all company, as 
 the enemies of mankind, and confine them to 
 some proper receptacle, where they may mingle 
 sighs at leisure, and thicken the gloom of one 
 another. 
 
 Thou prophet of evil, says Homer's Agamem- 
 non, thou neverfortellest me good, but the joy of thy 
 heart is to predict misfortunes. Whoever is if the 
 same temper, might there find the means of in- 
 dulging his thoughts, and improving his vein of 
 denunciation, and the flock of screech-owls, 
 might hoot together without injury to the rest of 
 the world. Yet, though I have so little kindness
 
 No. 60.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 101 
 
 - 
 
 for this dark generation, I am very far from in- 
 tending to debar the soft and tender mind from 
 the privilege of complaining, when the sigh arises 
 from the desire not of giving pain, but of gaining 
 ease. To hear complaints with patience, even 
 when complaints are vain, is one of the duties 
 of friendship ; and though it must be allowed that 
 he suffers most like a hero that hides his grief in 
 silence, 
 
 Spemvultasimulat,premit altum corde dolorem. 
 His outward smiles conceal'd his inward smart. 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 yet it cannot be denied, that he who complains 
 acts like a man, like a social being, who looks for 
 help from his fellow-creatures. Pity is to many 
 of the unhappy a source of comfort in hopeless 
 distress, as it contributes to recommend them to 
 themselves, by proving that they have not lost 
 the regard of others ; and heaven seems to indi- 
 cate the duty even of barren compassion, by in- 
 clining us to weep for evils which we cannot 
 remedy. 
 
 No. 60.] SATURDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1750. 
 
 Qi d sit pulchrum quid tttrpe, quid utile, quid non, 
 Plcnius ac melius Chrysippo et Cranlore dicit. 
 
 HOR. 
 
 Whose works the beautiful and base contain, 
 
 Of vice and virtue more instructive rules, 
 
 Than all the sober sages of the schools. FRANCIS. 
 
 ALL joy or sorrow for the happiness or calamities 
 of others is produced by an act of the imagina- 
 tion, that realizes the event however fictitious, or 
 approximates it however remote, by placing us, 
 for a time, in the condition of him whose fortune 
 we contemplate ; so that we feel, while the de- 
 ception lasts, whatever motions would be excited 
 by the same good or evil happening to ourselves. 
 
 Our passions are therefore more strongly mov- 
 ed, in proportion as we can more readily adopt 
 the pains or pleasure proposed to our minds, by 
 recognizing them as once our own, or consider- 
 ing them as naturally incident to our state of life. 
 It is not easy for the most artful writer to give us 
 an interest in happiness or misery, which we 
 think ourselves never likely to feel, and with 
 whieh we have never yet been made acquainted. 
 Histories of the downfall of kingdoms, and revo- 
 lutions of empires, a re read with great tranquillity : 
 the imperial tragedy pleases common auditors only 
 by its pomp of ornament and grandeur of ideas ; 
 and the men whose faculties have been engrossed 
 by business, and whose heart never fluttered but 
 at the rise or fall of stocks, wonders how the at- 
 tention can be seized, or the affection agitated, 
 by a tale of love. 
 
 Those parallel circumstances and kindred ima- 
 ges to which we readily conform our minds, are, 
 above all oth?r writings, to be found in narratives 
 of the lives of particular persons ; and therefore 
 no species of writing seems more worthy of cul- 
 tivation than biography, since none can be more 
 delightful or more useful, none can more cer- 
 tainly enchain the heart by irresistible interest, 
 or more widely diffuse instruction to every diver- 
 shy of condition. 
 
 The general and rapid narratives of history, 
 vhich involve a thousand fortunes in the busi- 
 
 ness of a day, and complicate innumerable inci- 
 dents in one great transaction, afford few lessons 
 applicable to private life, which derives its com- 
 forts and its wretchedness from the right or wrong 
 management of things, which nothing but their 
 frequency makes considerable, Parva si nonfnmt 
 quotidie, says Pliny, and which can have no place 
 in those relations which never descend below the 
 consultation of senates, the motions of armies, 
 and the schemes of conspirators. 
 
 I have often thought that there has rarely pass- 
 ed a life of which a judicious and faithful narrative 
 would not be useful. For, not only every man 
 has, in the mighty mass of the world, great num- 
 bers in the same condition with himself, to whom 
 his mistakes and miscarriages, escapes and expe- 
 dients, would be of immediate and apparent use; 
 but there is such a uniformity in the state of man, 
 considered apart from adventitious and separable 
 decorations and disguises, that there is scarce any 
 possibility of good or ill, but is common to human 
 kind. A great part of the time of those who are 
 placed at the greatest distance by fortune, or by 
 temper, must unavoidably pass in the same man- 
 ner ; and though, when the claims of nature are 
 satisfied, caprice, and vanity, and accident, begin 
 to produce discriminations and peculiarities, yet 
 the eye is not very heedful or quick, which cannot 
 discover the same causes still terminating their 
 influence in the same effects, though sometimes 
 accelerated, sometimes retarded, or perplexed by 
 multiplied combinations. We are all prompted 
 by the same motives, all deceived by the same 
 fallacies, all animated by hope, obstructed by dan- 
 ger, entangled by desire, and seduced by pleasure. 
 
 It is frequently objected to relations of particu- 
 lar lives, that they are not distinguished by any 
 striking or wonderful vicissitudes. The scholar, 
 who passed his life among his books, the mer 
 chant, who conducted only his own affairs, the 
 priest, whose sphere of action was not extended 
 beyond that of his duty, are considered as no pro 
 per objects of public regard, however they might 
 have excelled in their several stations, whatever 
 might have been their learning, integrity, and pi- 
 ety. But this notion arises from false measures 
 of excellence and dignity, and must be eradicated 
 by considering, that, in the esteem of uncorrupted 
 reason, what is of most use is of most value. 
 
 It is, indeed, not improper to take honest ad- 
 vantages of prejudice, and to gain attention by a 
 celebrated name ; but the business of the biogra 
 pher is often to pass slightly over those perform 
 ances and incidents, which produce vulgar great- 
 ness, to lead the thoughts into domestic privacies, 
 and display the minute details of daily life, where 
 exterior appendages are cast aside, and men ex- 
 cel each other only by prudence and by virtue. 
 The account of Thuanus is, with great propriety, 
 said by its author to have been written, that it 
 might lay open to posterity the private and fa- 
 miliar character of that man, cujus ingenium et 
 candorem ex ipsius Scriptis sunt dim sember mira- 
 turi, whose candour and genius will to the end of 
 time be by his writings preserved in admiration. 
 
 There are many invisible circumstances which, 
 whether we read as inquirers after natural or mo- 
 ral knowledge, whether we intend to enlarge our 
 science, or increase our virtue, are more import- 
 ant than public occurrences. Thus Sallust, the 
 great master of nature, has not forgotten in his 
 account of Cataline, to remark, that his walk was
 
 102 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 61. 
 
 note quick, and again slow, as an indication of a 
 inind revolving something with violent commo- 
 tion. Thus the story of Melancthon affords a 
 striking lecture on the value of time, by informing 
 us, that when he made an appointment, he ex- 
 pected not only the hour but the minute to be 
 fixed, that the day might not run out in the idleness 
 of suspense : and all the plans and enterprises 
 of De Witt are now of less importance to the 
 world than that part of his personal character, 
 which represents him as careful of his health, and 
 negligent of his life. 
 
 But biography has often been allotted to writ- 
 ers who seem very little acquainted with the nature 
 of their task, or very negligent about the perform- 
 ance. They rarely afford any other account than 
 might be collected from public papers, but ima- 
 gine themselves writing a life when they exhibit 
 a chronological series of actions or preferments ; 
 and so little regard the manners or behaviour of 
 their heroes, that more knowledge may be gained 
 of a man's real character, by a short conversation 
 with one of his servants, than from a formal and 
 studied narrative, begun with his pedigree, and 
 ended with his funeral. 
 
 If now and then they condescend to inform the 
 world of particular facts, they are not always so 
 happy as to select the most important. I know 
 not well what advantage posterity can receive 
 from the only circumstance by which Tickell has 
 distinguished Addison from the rest of mankind, 
 the irregularity of his pulse : nor can I think my- 
 self overpaid for the time spent in reading the life 
 of Malherb, by being enabled to relate, after the 
 learned biographer, that Malherb had two predo- 
 minant opinions ; one, that the looseness of a 
 single woman might destroy all her boast of an- 
 cient descent ; the other, that the French beg- 
 gars made use very improperly and barbarously 
 of the phrase noble Gentleman, because either 
 word included the sense of both. 
 
 There are, indeed, some natural reasons why 
 these narratives are often written by such as were 
 not likely to give much instruction or delight, and 
 why most accounts of particular persons are bar- 
 ren and useless. If a life be delayed till interest 
 and envy are at an end, we may hope for impar- 
 tiality, but must expect little intelligence ; for the 
 incidents which give excellence to biography are 
 of a volatile and evanescent kind, such as soon 
 escape the memory, and are rarely transmitted 
 by tradition. We know how few can portray 
 a living acquaintance, except by his most promi- 
 nent and observable particularities, and the grosser 
 features of his mind ; and it may be easily ima- 
 gined how much of this little knowledge may be 
 lost in imparting it, and how soon a succession 
 of copies will lose all resemblance of the original. 
 
 If the biographer writes from personal know- 
 ledge, and makes haste to gratify the public cu- 
 riosity, there is danger least his interest, his fear, 
 his gratitude, or his tenderness, overpower his 
 fidelity, and tempt him to conceal, if not to invent. 
 There are many who think it an act of piety to 
 hide the faults or failings of their friends, even 
 when they can no longer suffer by their detection ; 
 we therefore see whole ranks of characters adorn- 
 ed with uniform panegyric, and not to be known 
 from one another, but by extrinsic and casual 
 circumstances. " Let me remember," says Hale, 
 " when I find myself inclined to pity a criminal, 
 that there is likewise a pity due to the country." 
 
 If we owe regard to the memory of the dead, 
 there is yet more respect to be paid to knowledge, 
 to virtue, and to truth. 
 
 No. 61.] TUESDAY, OCTOBER 16, 1750. 
 
 Falsus honor juvat, ct mendax infamia terret 
 Quern, nisi mendosum et mendacem ? HOR. 
 
 False praise can charm, unreal shame control, 
 Whom, but a vicious or a sickly soul ? FRANCIS 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 IT is extremely vexatious to a man of eager and 
 thirsty curiosity to be placed at a great distance 
 from the fountain of intelligence, and not only 
 never to receive the current of report til! it has sa- 
 tiated the greatest part of the nation, but at last 
 to find it mudded in its course, and corrupted with 
 taints or mixtures from every channel through 
 which it flowed. 
 
 One of the chief pleasures of my life is to hear 
 what passes in the world, to know what are the 
 schemes of the politic, the aims of the busy, and 
 the hopes of the ambitious ; what changes of pub- 
 lic measures are approaching ; who is likely to 
 be crushed in the collision of parties ; who is 
 climbing to the top of power, and who is tottering 
 on the precipice of disgrace. But as it is very 
 common for us to desire most what we are least 
 qualified to obtain, I have suffered this appetite 
 of news to outgrow all the gratifications which 
 my present situation can afford it; for being 
 placed in a remote country, I am condemned al- 
 ways to confound the future with the past, 
 to form prognostications of events no longer 
 doubtful, and to consider the expediency of 
 schemes already executed or defeated. I am 
 perplexed with a perpetual deception in my pros- 
 pects, like a man pointing his telescope at a re- 
 mote star, which before the light reaches his eye 
 has forsaken the place from which it was emitted. 
 
 The mortification of being thus always behind 
 the active world in my reflections and discove- 
 ries, is exceedingly aggravated by the petulance 
 of those whose health, or business, or pleasure, 
 brings them hither from London. For, without 
 considering the insuperable disadvantages of my 
 condition, and the unavoidable ignorance which 
 absence must produce, they often treat me with 
 the utmost superciliousness of contempt, for not 
 knowing what no human sagacity can discover ; 
 and sometimes seem to consider me as a wretch 
 scarcely worthy of human converse, when I hap- 
 pen to talk of the fortune of a bankrupt, or pro- 
 pose the healths of the dead, when I warn them 
 of mischiefs already incurred, or wish for mea- 
 sures that have been lately taken. They seem 
 to attribute to the superiority of their intellects 
 what they only owe to the accident of their con- 
 ditions, and think themselves indisputably entitled 
 to airs of insolence and authority, when they find 
 another ignorant of facts, which, because they 
 echoed in the streets of London, they suppose 
 equally public in all other places, and known 
 where they could neither be seen, related, nor 
 conjectured. 
 
 To this haughtiness they are indeed too much 
 encouraged by the respect which, they receive 
 amongst us, for no other reason than that they 
 come from London. For no sooner is the ?r-
 
 No. 61.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 103 
 
 rival of one of these disseminators of knowledge 
 known in the country, than we crowd about him 
 from every quarter, and by innumerable inquiries 
 flatter him into an opinion of his own importance. 
 He sees himself surrounded by multitudes, who 
 propose their doubts, and refer their controver- 
 sies, to him, as to a being descended from some 
 nobler region, and he grows on a sudden oracu- 
 lous and infallible, solves all difficulties, and sets 
 all objections at defiance. 
 
 There is, in my opinion, great reason for sus- 
 pecting, that they sometimes take advantage of 
 this reverential modesty, and impose upon rustic 
 understandings, with a false show of universal 
 intelligence ; for I do not find that they are will- 
 ing to own themselves ignorant of any thing, or 
 that they dismiss any inquirer with a positive and 
 decisive answer. The court, ihe city, the park, 
 and exchange, are to those men of unbounded 
 observation equally familiar, and they are alike 
 ready to tell the hour at which stocks will rise, or 
 the ministry be changed. 
 
 A short residence at London entitles a man to 
 knowledge, to wit, to politeness, and to a despot- 
 ic and dictatorial power of prescribing to the rude 
 multitude, whom he condescends to honour with 
 a biennial visit ; yet, I know not well upon what 
 motives, I have lately found myself inclined to 
 cavil at this prescription, and to doubt whether it 
 be not, on some occasions, proper to withhold our 
 veneration, till we are more authentically con- 
 vinced of the merits of the claimant. 
 
 It is well remembered here, that, about seven 
 years ago, one Frolic, a tall boy, with lank hair, 
 remarkable for stealing eggs, and sucking them, 
 was taken from the school in this parish, and sent 
 up to London to study the law. As he had given 
 amongst us no proofs of a genius designed by 
 nature for extraordinary performances, he was, 
 from the time of his departure, totally forgotten, 
 nor was there any talk of his vices or virtues, his 
 good or his ill fortune, till last summer a report 
 burst upon us, that Mr. Frolic was comedown in 
 the first post-chaise which this village had seen, 
 having travelled with such rapidity that one of his 
 postilions had broken his leg, and another nar- 
 rowly escaped suffocation in a quicksand ; but 
 that Mr. Frolic seemed totally unconcerned, for 
 such things were never heeded at London. 
 
 Mr. Frolic next day appeared among the gen- 
 tlemen at their weekly meeting on the bowling- 
 green, and now were seen the effects of a Lon- 
 don education. His dress, his language, his 
 ideas, were all new, and he did not much endea- 
 vour to conceal his contempt of every thing that 
 differed from the opinions, or practice of the 
 modish world. He showed us the deformity of 
 our skirts and sleeves, informed us where hats 
 of the proper size were to be sold, and recom- 
 mended to us the reformation of a thousand ab- 
 surdities in our clothes, our cooker}', and our 
 conversation. When any of his phrases were 
 unintelligible, he could not suppress the joy of 
 confessed superiority, but. frequently delayed the 
 explanation, that he might enjoy his triumph over 
 our barbarity. 
 
 When he is pleased to entertain us with a story, 
 he takes care to crowd into it names of streets, 
 squares, and buildings, with which he knows we 
 are unacquainted. The favourite topics of his 
 discourse are the pranks of drunkards, and the 
 tricks put upon country gentlemen by porters and 
 
 link-boys. When he is with ladies, he tells them 
 of the innumerable pleasures to which he can in- 
 troduce them ; but never fails to hint how much 
 they will be deficient, at their first arrival, in the 
 knowledge of the town. What it is to know the 
 toicn, he has not indeed hitherto informed us, 
 though there is no phrase so frequent in his 
 mouth, nor any science which he appears to think 
 of so great a value, or so difficult attainment 
 
 But my curiosity has been most engaged by 
 the recital of his own adventures and achieve- 
 ments. I have heard of the union of various cha- 
 racters in single persons, but never met with such 
 a constellation of great qualities as this man's 
 narrative affords. Whatever has distinguished 
 the hero ; whatever has elevated the wit ; what- 
 ever has endeared the lover, are all concentrated 
 in Mr. Frolic, whose life has, for seven years, 
 been a regular interchange of intrigues, dangers, 
 and waggeries, and who has distinguished him 
 self in every character that can be feared, envied, 
 or admired. 
 
 I question whether all the officers of the royal 
 navy can bring together, from all their journals, 
 a collection of so many wonderful escapes as this 
 man has known upon the Thames, on which he 
 has been a thousand and a thousand timed on 
 the point of perishing, sometimes by the terrors 
 of foolish women in the same boat, sometimes 
 by his own acknowledged imprudence in passing 
 the river in the dark, and sometimes by shooting 
 the bridge under which he has rencountered 
 mountainous waves and dreadful cataracts. 
 
 Nor less has been his temerity by land, nor 
 fewer his hazards. He has reeled with giddi- 
 ness on the top of the monument ; he has crossed 
 the street amidst the rush of coaches ; he has 
 been surrounded by robbers without number ; 
 he has headed parties at the playhouse ; he has 
 scaled the windows of every toast, of whatever 
 condition ; he has been hunted for whole winters 
 by his rivals ; he has slept upon bulks, he has 
 cut chairs, he has bilked coachmen ; he has re- 
 scued his friends from the bailiffs ; has knocked 
 down the constable, has bullied the justice, and 
 performed many other exploits, that have filled 
 the town with wonder and with merriment. 
 
 But yet greater is the fame of his understand 
 ing than his bravery ; for he informs us, that he 
 at London, the established arbitrator of all 
 points of honour, and the decisive judge of all 
 performances of genius ; that no musical per- 
 former is in reputation till the opinion of Frolic 
 has ratified his pretensions ; that the theatres 
 suspend their sentence till he begins the clap or 
 hiss, in which all are proud to concur ; that no 
 public entertainment has failed or succeeded, but 
 because he opposed or favoured it ; that all con- 
 troversies at the gaming-table are referred to his 
 determination ; that he adjusts the ceremonial at 
 every assembly, and prescribes every fashion of 
 pleasure or of dress. 
 
 With every man whose name occurs in the 
 papers of the day, he is intimately acquainted ; 
 and there are very few posts, either in <te state 
 or army, of which he has not more or less influ- 
 enced die disposal. He has been very frequently 
 consulted both upon war and peace ; but the time 
 is not yet come when the nation shall know how 
 much it is indebted to the genius of Frolic. 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding all these declarations, I 
 cannot hitherto persuade myself to see that Mr
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 62. 
 
 Frolic has more wit, or knowledge, or courage, 
 than the rest of mankind, or that any uncommon 
 enlargement of his faculties has happened in the 
 , , of | 1IS absence. For when he talks 011 sub- 
 jeou known to the rest of the company he has 
 no advantage over us, but by catches of inter- 
 ruption, briskness of interrogation, and pertness 
 of contempt ; and therefore if he has stunned the 
 world with his name, and gained a place in the 
 first ranks of humanity, I cannot but conclude, 
 that either a little understanding confers emi- 
 nence at London, or that Mr. Frolic thinks us 
 unworthy of the exertion of his powers, or that 
 his faculties are benumbed by rural stupidity, as 
 the magnetic needle loses its animation in the 
 polar climes. 
 
 I would not, however, like many hasty philo- 
 sophers, search after the cause till I am certain 
 of the effect ; and therefore I desire to be inform- 
 ed whether you have yet heard the great name 
 of Mr. Frolic. If he is celebrated by other 
 tongues than his own, I shall willingly propagate 
 his praise ; but if he has swelled amongst us 
 with empty boasts, and honours conferred only 
 by himself, I shall treat him with rustic sincerity, 
 and drive him as an impostor from this part of 
 the kingdom to some region of more credulity. 
 I am, &c. 
 
 RURICOLA. 
 
 No. 62.] SATURDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1750. 
 
 flunc ego Triptolemi cuperem conscendere currus, 
 Misit in ignotam gui rude semen kumum : 
 
 Nuncfgo Medea vellem franare dracones, 
 Quo* habuit fugiens arce, Corinthe, tua ; 
 
 Nunc egojaciandas optarem sumere pennas, 
 
 Sive tuas, Perseu ; Vadale, sive iuas. OVID. 
 
 Now would I mount his car, whose bounteous hand 
 
 First sowed with teeming seed the furrow'd land ; 
 
 Now to Medea's dragons fix my reins, 
 
 That swiftly bore her from Corinthian plains ; 
 
 Now on Daedalian waxen pinions stray, 
 
 Or those which wafted Perseus on his way. 
 
 F. LEWIS. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, . ' , 
 
 I AM a young woman of a very large fortune 
 which, if my parents would have been persuade( 
 to comply with the rules and customs of the po 
 lite part of mankind, might long since have raiset 
 me to the highest honours of the female world 
 but so strangely have they hitherto contrived U 
 waste my life, that I am now on the borders o 
 twenty, without having ever danced but at ou 
 monthly assembly, or been toasted but among 
 few gentlemen of the neighbourhood, or seen an_ 
 company in which it was worth a wish to be dis 
 languished. 
 
 My father having impaired his patrimony i 
 soliciting a place at court, at last grew wis 
 enough to cease his pursuit ; and, to repair th 
 consequences of expensive attendance and negl 
 gence of his affairs, married a lady much olde 
 than himself, who had lived in the fashionabl 
 world till she was considered as an incumbranc 
 upon parties of pleasure, and as I can collect fron 
 incidental informations, retired from gay assern 
 blies just time enough to escape the mortificatio 
 of universal neglect 
 
 She was, however, still rich, and not yet wrin- 
 led ; my father was too distressfully embarrass- 
 d to think much on any thing but the means oi 
 xtrication, and though it is not likely that he 
 ranted the delicacy which polite conversation 
 ill always produce in understandings not rc- 
 larkably defective, yet he was contented with a 
 natch, by which he might be set free from incon- 
 eniences that would have destroyed all the plea- 
 ures of imagination, and taken from softness and 
 eauty the power of delighting. 
 
 As they were both somewhat disgusted with 
 icir treatment in the world, and married, though 
 without any dislike of each other, yet principally 
 or the sake of setting themselves free from de- 
 endence on caprice or fashion, they soon retired 
 ito the country, and devoted their lives to rural 
 usiness and diversions. 
 
 They had not much reason to regret the change 
 if their situation ; for their vanity, which had so 
 ong been tormented by neglect and disappoint- 
 ment, was here gratified with every honour that 
 ould be paid them. Their long familiarity with 
 public life, made them the oracles of all those 
 who aspired to intelligence or politeness. My 
 Father dictated politics, my mother prescribed the 
 node, and it was sufficient to entitle any family 
 o some consideration, that they were known to 
 isit at Mrs. Courtly's. 
 
 In this state they were, to speak in the style of 
 tovelists, made happy by the birth of your cor- 
 respondent. My parents had no other child, I 
 was therefore not brow-beaten by a saucy bro- 
 ther, or lost in a multitude of co-heiresses, whose 
 brtunes being equal, would probably have con- 
 erred equal ment, and procured equal regard ; 
 and as my mother was now old, my understand- 
 ng and my person had fair play, my inquiries 
 were not checked, my advances towards import- 
 ance were not repressed, and I was soon suffer- 
 ed to tell my own opinions, and early accustom- 
 ed to hear my own praises. 
 
 By these accidental advantages I was much 
 exalted above the young ladies with whom I con- 
 versed, and was treated by them with groat defer- 
 ence. I saw none who did not seem to confess 
 my superiority, and to be held in awe by the 
 splendour of my appearance ; for the fondness of 
 my father made him pleased to see me dressed, 
 and my mother had no vanity nor expenses to 
 hinder her from concurring with his inclination. 
 
 Thus, Mr. Rambler, I lived without much de- 
 sire after any thing beyond the circle of our visits ; 
 and here I should have quietly continued to por- 
 tion out my time among my books and my needle, 
 and my company, had not my curiosity been 
 every moment excited by the conversation of my 
 parents, who, whenever they sit down to familiar 
 prattle, and endeavour the entertainment of each 
 other, immediately transport themselves to Lon- 
 don, and relate some adventure in a hackney 
 coach, some frolic at a masquerade, some conver- 
 sation in the Park, or some quarrel at an assem- 
 bly, display the magnificence of a birth-night, 
 relate the conquests of maids of honour, or give 
 a history of diversions, shows, and entertain- 
 ments, which I had never known but from their 
 accounts. 
 
 I am so well versed in the history of the gay 
 world, that I can relate, with great punctuality, 
 the lives of all the last race of wits and beauties; 
 can enumerate, with exact chronology, the whole
 
 No. 63.J 
 
 THE RAMBLER, 
 
 105 
 
 succession of celebrated singers, musicians, trage- 
 dians, comedians, and harlequins ; can tell to the 
 last twenty years all the changes of fashions ; and 
 am, indeed, a complete antiquary with respect to 
 head-dresses, dances, and operas. 
 
 ^ ou will easily imagine, Mr. Rambler, that I 
 could not hear these narratives, for sixteen years 
 together, without suffering some impressions, and 
 wishing myself nearer to those places where every 
 hour brings some new pleasure, and life is diversi- 
 fied with an inexhausted succession of felicity. 
 
 I indeed often asked my mother why she left a 
 place which she recollected with so much delight, 
 and why she did not visit London once a year, 
 like some other ladies, and initiate me in the 
 world by showing me its amusements, its gran- 
 deur, and its variety. But she always told me 
 that the days which she had seen were such as 
 will never come again, that all diversion is now 
 degenerated, that the conversation of the present 
 age is insipid, that their fashions are unbecoming, 
 their customs absurd, and their morals corrupt ; 
 that, there is no ray left of the genius which en- 
 lightened the times that she remembers ; that no 
 one who had seen, or heard, the ancient perform- 
 ers, would be able to bear the bunglers of this 
 despicable age: and that there is now neither 
 politeness, nor pleasure, nor virtue, in the world. 
 She therefore assures me that she consults my 
 happiness by keeping me at home, for I should 
 now find nothing but vexation and disgust, and 
 she should be ashamed to see me pleased with 
 such fopperies and trifles, as take up the thoughts 
 of the present set of young people. 
 
 With this answer I was kept quiet for several 
 years, and thought it no great inconvenience to 
 be confined to the country, till last summer a 
 young gentleman and his sister came down to 
 pass a few months with one of our neighbours. 
 They had generally no great regard for the 
 country ladies, but distinguished me by a parti- 
 cular complaisance, and as we grew intimate 
 gave me such a detail of the elegance, the splen- 
 dour, the mirth, the happiness of the town, that 
 I am resolved to be no longer buried in ignorance 
 and obscurity, but to share with other wits the 
 joy of being admired, and divide with other beau- 
 tics the empire of the world. 
 
 I do not find, Mr. Rambler, upon a deliberate 
 and impartial comparison, that I am excelled by 
 Belinda in beauty, in wit, in judgment, in know- 
 ledge, or in any thing, but a kind of gay, lively 
 familiarity, by which she mingles with strangers 
 as with persons long acquainted, and which ena- 
 bles her to display her powers without any ob- 
 struction, hesitation, or confusion. Yet she can 
 relate a thousand civilities paid to her in public, 
 can produce, from a hundred lovers, letters filled 
 with praises, protestations, ecsiiciee, and despair; 
 has been handed by dukes to her chair ; has been 
 the occasion of innumerable quarrels ; has paid 
 twenty visits in an afternoon ; been invited to six 
 balls in an evening, and been forced to retire to 
 lodgings in the country from the importunity of 
 courtship, and the fatigue of pleasure, 
 
 I tell you, Mr. Rambler, I will stay here no 
 longer. I have at last prevailed upon ray mother 
 to send me to town, and shall set out in three 
 weeks on the grand expedition. I intend to live 
 in public, and to crowd into the winter every plea- 
 sure which money can purchase, and every ho- 
 nour which beauty can obtain. 
 
 But this tedious interval how shall I endure? 
 Cannot you alleviate the misery of delay by some 
 pleasing description of the entertainments of the 
 town ? I can read, I can talk, I can think of no- 
 thing else ; and if you will not soothe my impa- 
 tience, heighten my ideas, and animate my hopes, 
 you may write for those who have more leisure, 
 but are not to expect any longer the honour of 
 being read by those eyes which are now intent 
 only on conquest and destruction. 
 
 RHODOCLIA. 
 
 No. 63.] TUESDAY, OCTOBER 23, 1750. 
 
 -Habebat sespe ditcentos, 
 
 Sape decem servos ; modo reges atque tetrarchae, 
 Omnia magna loquens : modo, sit mihi mensa tripes, a 
 Concha satis puri, et toga, qua defender e frigus, 
 Quamvie craesa queat. HOR. 
 
 Now with two hundred slaves he crowds his train ; 
 
 Now walks with ten. In high and haughty strain 
 
 At morn, of kings and governors he prates ; 
 
 At night, " A frugal table, O ye fates, 
 
 A little shell the sacred salt to hold, 
 
 And clothes, though coarse, to keep me from the cold 
 
 FRANCU 
 
 IT has been remarked, perhaps, by every writtl 
 who has left behind him observations upon life, 
 that no man is pleased with his present state ; 
 which proves equally unsatisfactory, says Ho- 
 race, whether fallen upon by chance or chosen 
 with deliberation ; we are always disgusted with 
 some circumstance or other of our situation, and 
 imagine the condition of others more abundant 
 in blessings, or less exposed to calamities. 
 
 This universal discontent has been generally 
 mentioned with great severity of censure, as un 
 reasonable in itself, since of two, equally envious 
 of each other, both cannot have the larger share 
 of happiness, and as tending to darken life with 
 unnecessary gloom, by withdrawing our minds 
 from the contemplation and enjoyment of that 
 happiness which our state affords us, and fixing 
 our attention upon foreign objects, which we only 
 behold to depress ourselves, and increase our 
 misery by injurious comparisons. 
 
 When this opinion of the felicity of others pre- 
 dominates in the heart, so as to excite resolutions 
 of obtaining, at whatever price, the condition to 
 which such transcendent privileges are supposed 
 to be annexed ; when it bursts into action, and 
 produces fraud, violence, and injustice, it is to be 
 pursued with all the rigour of legal punishments. 
 But while operating only upon the thoughts, it 
 disturbs none but him who has happened to ad- 
 mit it, and however it may interrupt content, 
 makes no attack on piety or virtue, I cannot think 
 it so far criminal or ridiculous, but that it maj- 
 deserve some pity, and admit some excuse. 
 
 That all are equally happy, or miserable, I sup- 
 pose none is sufficiently enthusiastica! to main- 
 tain ; because though we cannot judge of the con- 
 dition of others, yet every man has found frequent 
 vicissitudes in his own state, and must therefore 
 be convinced that life is susceptible of more or 
 less felicity. What then shall forbid us to endea- 
 vour the alteration of that which is capable of 
 being improved, and to grasp at augmentations 
 of good, when we know it possible to be increas- 
 ed, and believe that any particular change of 
 situation will increase it ?
 
 IOG 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 IJN'o. 03. 
 
 If he that finds liimself uneasy may reasonably 
 make efforts to rid himself from vexation, all 
 mankind have a sufficient plea for some degree 
 of restlessness, and the fault seems to be little 
 more than too much temerity of conclusion, in 
 favour of something not yet experienced, and too 
 much readiness to believe, that the misery which 
 our own passions and appetites produce, is 
 brought upon us .by accidental causes and ex- 
 ternal efficients. 
 
 It is, indeed, frequently discovered by us, that 
 we complained too hastily of peculiar hardships, 
 and imagined ourselves distinguished by embar- 
 rassments, in which other classes of men are 
 equally entangled. We often change a lighter 
 for a greater evil, and wish ourselves restored 
 again to the state from which we thought it de- 
 sirable to be delivered. But this knowledge 
 though it is easily gained by the trial, is not al- 
 ways attainable any other way ; and that error 
 cannot justly be reproached which reason could 
 not obviate, nor prudence avoid. 
 
 To take a view at once distinct and compre- 
 hensive of human life, with all its intricacies of 
 combination, and varieties of connexion, is be- 
 yond the power of mortal intelligences. Of the 
 state with which practice has not acquainted us 
 we snatch a glimpse, we discern a point, and re- 
 gulate the rest by passion and by fancy. In this 
 inquiry every favourite prejudice, every innate 
 desire, is busy to deceive us. We are unhappy, 
 at least less happy than our nature seems to ad- 
 mit; we necessarily desire the melioration of our 
 lot ; what we desire we very reasonably seek, 
 and what we seek we are naturally eager to be- 
 lieve that we have found. Our confidence is 
 often disappointed, but our reason is not con- 
 vinced, and there is no man who does not hope 
 for something which he has not, though perhaps 
 his wishes lie inactive, because he foresees the 
 difficulty of attainment. As among the numerous 
 students of Hermetic philosophy, not one appears 
 to have desisted from the task of transmutation, 
 from conviction of its impossibility, but from 
 weariness of toil, or impatience of delay, a broken 
 body, or exhausted fortune. 
 
 Irresolution and immutability are often the 
 faults of men whose views are wide and whose 
 imagination is vigorous and excursive because 
 they cannot confine their thoughts within their 
 own boundaries of action, but are continually 
 ranging over all the scenes of human existence, 
 and consequently are often apt to conceive that 
 they fall upon new regions of pleasure, and start 
 new possibilities of happiness. Thus they are 
 busied with a perpetual succession of schemes, 
 and pass their lives in alternate elation and sor- 
 row, for want of that calm and immoveable ac- 
 quiescence in their condition, by which men of 
 slower understandings are fixed for ever to a 
 certain point, or led or: in the plain beaten track 
 which their fathers and grandsires have trodden 
 before them. 
 
 Of two conditions of life equally inviting to 
 the prospect, that will always have the disadvan- 
 tage which we have already tried ; because the 
 evils which we have felt we cannot extenuate ; 
 and though we have, perhaps from nature, the 
 power as well of aggravating the calamity which 
 we fear, as of heightening the blessing we ex- 
 pect, yet in those meditations which we indulge 
 y choice, and which are not forced upon the mind 
 
 by necessity, we have always x.it ait of fixing 
 our regard upon the more pleasing images, and 
 suffer hope to dispose the lights by which we 
 look upon futurity. 
 
 The good and ill of different modes of life are 
 sometimes so equally opposed, that perhaps no 
 man ever yet made his choice between them upon 
 a full conviction and adequate knowledge ; and 
 therefore fluctuation of will is not more wonder- 
 ful, when they are proposed to the election, than 
 oscillations of a beam charged with equal weights. 
 The mind no sooner imagines itself determined 
 by some prevalent advantage, than some conve- 
 nience of equal weight is discovered on the other 
 side, and the resolutions which are suggested by 
 the nicest examination, are often repented as soon 
 as they are taken. 
 
 Eumenes, a young man of great abilities, inhe- 
 rited a large estate from a father long eminent in 
 conspicuous employments. His father harassed 
 with competitions, and perplexed with multipli- 
 city of business, recommended the quiet of a pri- 
 vate station with so much force, that Eutnenes 
 for some years resisted every motion of ambi- 
 tious wishes ; but being once provoked by the 
 sight of oppression, which he could not tedrcss, 
 he began to think it the duty of an honest, man 
 to enable himself to protect others, and gradually 
 felt a desire of greatness, excited by a thousand 
 projects of advantage to his country. His for- 
 tune placed him in the senate, his knowledge 
 and eloquence advanced him at court, and he 
 possessed that authority and influence which 
 he had resolved to exert for the happiness of 
 mankind. 
 
 He now became acquainted with greatness, 
 and was in a short time convinced, that in pro- 
 portion as the power of doing well is enlarged, 
 the temptations to do ill are multiplied and en- 
 forced. He felt himself every moment in dan 
 ger of being either seduced or driven from his 
 honest purposes. Sometimes a friend was to be 
 gratified, and sometimes a rival to be crushed, 
 by means which his conscience could not ap- 
 prove. Sometimes he was forced to comply 
 with the prejudices of the public, and sometimes 
 with the schemes of the ministry. He was by 
 degrees wearied with perpetual struggles to 
 unite policy and virtue, and went back to retire- 
 ment as the shelter of innocence, persuaded that 
 he could only hope to benefit mankind, by a 
 blameless example of private virtue. Here he 
 spent some years in tranquillity and beneficence ; 
 but finding that corruption increased and false 
 opinions in government prevailed, he thought 
 himself again summoned to posts of public trust, 
 from which new evidence of his own weakness 
 again determined him to retire. 
 
 Thus men may be made inconstant by virtue 
 and by vice, by too much or too little thought ; 
 yet inconstancy, however dignified by its mo- 
 tives, is always to be avoided, because life allows 
 us but a smalt time for inquiry and experiment, 
 and he that steadily endeavours at excellence, in 
 whatever employment, will more benefit man- 
 kind than he that hesitates in choosing his part 
 till he is called to the performance. The travel- 
 ler that resolutely follows a rough and winding 
 path, will sooner reach the end of his journey 
 than he that is always changing his direction, 
 and wastes the hours of day-light in looking fo? 
 smoother ground and shorter passages.
 
 No. G4.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 107 
 
 No. 64.] SATURDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1750. 
 Idim velle, ti idem nolle, ea demumfirma amicitia cat. 
 
 * SALLUST. 
 
 To live in friendship is to have the same desires and the 
 same aversions. 
 
 WHEN Socrates was building himself a house at 
 Athens, being asked by one that observed the 
 littleness of the design, why a man so eminent 
 would not have an abode more suitable to his 
 dignity ? he replied, that he should think himself 
 sufficiently accommodated if he could see that 
 narrow habitation filled with real friends. Such 
 was the opinion of this great master of human 
 life, concerning the infrequency of such a union 
 of minds as might deserve the name of friendship, 
 that among the multitudes whom vanity or curi- 
 osity, civility or veneration, crowded about him, 
 he did not expect, that very spacious apartments 
 would be necessary to contain all that should re- 
 gard him with sincere kindness, or adhere to him 
 with steady fidelity. 
 
 So many qualities are indeed requisite to the 
 possibility of friendship, and so many accidents 
 must concur to its rise and its continuance, that 
 the greatest part of mankind content themselves 
 without it, and supply its place as they can, with 
 interest and dependance. 
 
 Multitudes are unqualified for a constant and 
 warm reciprocation of benevolence, as they are 
 incapacitated for any other elevated excellence, 
 by perpetual attention to their interest, and unre- 
 sisting subjection to their passions. Long habits 
 may superinduce inability to deny any desire, or 
 repress, by superior motives, the importunities 
 of any immediate gratification, and an inveterate 
 selfishness will imagine all advantages diminished 
 in proportion as they are communicated. 
 
 But not only this hateful and confirmed cor- 
 ruption, but many varieties of disposition, not in- 
 consistent with common degrees of virtue, may 
 exclude friendship from the heart. Some ardent 
 enough in their benevolence, and defective nei- 
 ther in officiousness nor liberality, are mutable 
 and uncertain, soon attracted by new objects, dis- 
 gusted without ofience, and alienated without en- 
 mity. Others are soft and flexible, easily influ- 
 enced by reports or whispers, ready to catch 
 alarms from every dubious circumstance, and to 
 listen to every suspicion which envy and flattery 
 shall suggest, to follow the opinion of every con- 
 fident adviser, and move by the impulse of the 
 last breath. Some are impatient of contradiction, 
 more willing to go wrong by their own judgment, 
 than to be indebted for a better or a safer way to 
 the sagacity of another, inclined to consider 
 counsel as insult, and inquiry as want of confi- 
 dence, and to confer their regard on no other 
 terms than unreserved submission and implicit 
 compliance. Some are dark and involved, equal- 
 ly careful to conceal good and bad purposes ; 
 and pleased with producing effects by invisible 
 means, and showing their design only in its exe- 
 cution. Others are universally communicative, 
 alike open to every eye, and equally profuse of 
 their own secrets and those of others, without 
 the necessary vigilance of caution, or the honest 
 arts of prudent integrity, ready to accuse with- 
 out malice, and to betray without treachery. 
 Any of these may be useful to the community, 
 and pass through the world with the reputation 
 
 of good purposes and uncorrupted morals, but 
 :hey are unfit for close and tender intimacies. 
 He cannot properly be chosen for a friend, whose 
 dndness is exhaled by its own we.rmth, or frozen 
 sy the first blast of slander ; he cannot be a use- 
 iul counsellor who will hear no opinion but his 
 own ; he will not much invite confidence whose 
 principal maxim is to suspect; nor can the can- 
 dour and frankness of that man be much esteem- 
 id, who spreads his arms to human kind, and 
 makes every man without distinction, a denizen 
 of his bosom. 
 
 That friendship may be at once fond and last- 
 ing, there must not only be equal virtue on each 
 part, but virtue of the same kind ; not only the 
 same end must be proposed, but the same means 
 must be approved by both. We are often, by 
 superficial accomplishments and accidental en- 
 dearments, induced to love those whom we can- 
 not esteem ; we are sometimes, by great abilities, 
 and incontestable evidences of virtue, compelled 
 to esteem those whom we cannot love. But 
 friendship, compounded of esteem and love, de- 
 rives from one its tenderness, and its permanence 
 from the other; and therefore requires not only 
 that its candidates should gain the judgment, but 
 that they should attract the affections ; that they 
 should not only be firm in the day of distress, but 
 gay in the hour of jollity ; not only useful in exi- 
 gences, but pleasing in familiar life ; their pre- 
 sence should give cheerfulness as well as cou- 
 rage, and dispel alike the gloom of fear and oi 
 melancholy. 
 
 To this mutual complacency is generally re- 
 quisite a uniformity of opinions, at least of those 
 active and conspicuous principles which discri- 
 minate parties in government, and sects in reli- 
 gion, and which every day operate more or less 
 on the common business of life. For though 
 great tenderness has, perhaps, been sometimes 
 known to continue between men eminent in con- 
 trary factions ; yet such friends are to be shown 
 rather as prodigies than examples, and it is no 
 more proper to regulate our conduct by such in- 
 stances, than to leap a precipice, because some 
 have fallen from it and escaped with life. 
 
 It cannot but be extremely difficult to preserve 
 private kindness in the midst of public opposi- 
 tion, in which will necessarily be involved a 
 thousand incidents extending then- influence to 
 conversation and privacy. Men engaged, by 
 moral or religious motives, in contrary parties, 
 will generally look with different eyes upon 
 every man, and decide almost every question 
 upon different principles. When such occasions 
 of dispute happen, to comply is to betray our 
 cause, and to maintain friendship by ceasing to 
 deserve it ; to be silent is to lose the happiness 
 and dignity of independence, to live in perpetual 
 constraint, and to desert, if not to betray : and 
 who shall determine which of two friends shall 
 yield, where neither believes himself mistaken, 
 and both confess the importance of the question ? 
 What then remains but contradiction and de- 
 bate ? And from those what can be expected, but 
 acrimony, and vehemence, the insolence of tri- 
 umph, the vexation of defeat, and, in time, a 
 weariness of contest, and an extinction of bene- 
 volence ? Exchange of endearments and in- 
 tercourse of civility may continue, indeed, as 
 boughs may for a while be verdant, when the 
 root is wounded but the poison of discord is
 
 103 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 65. 
 
 infused, and though the countenance may pre- 
 serve its smile, the heart is hardening and con- 
 tracting. 
 
 That man will not be long agreeable, whom 
 we see only in times of seriousness and severity ; 
 and, therefore, to maintain the softness and se- 
 renity of benevolence, it is necessary that friends 
 partake each other's pleasures as well as cares, 
 and be led to the same diversions by similitude 
 of taste. This is, however, not to be considered 
 as equally indispensable with conformity of prin- 
 ciples, because any man may honestly, according 
 to the precepts of Horace, resign the gratifica- 
 tions of taste to the humour of another, and 
 friendship may well deserve the sacrifice of plea- 
 sure, though not of conscience. 
 
 It was once confessed to me by a painter, 
 that no professor of his art ever loved another. 
 This declaration is so far justified by the know- 
 ledge of life, as to damp the hopes of warm and 
 constant friendship between men whom their 
 studies have made competitors, and whom every 
 favourer and every censurer are hourly inciting 
 against each other. The utmost expectation 
 that experience can warrant, is, that they should 
 forbear open hostilities and secret machinations 
 and, when the whole fraternity is attacked, be 
 able to unite against a common foe. Some, 
 however, though few, may perhaps be found, in 
 whom emulation has not been able to overpower 
 generosity, who are distinguished from lower 
 beings by nobler motives than the love of fame, 
 and can preserve the sacred flame of friendship 
 from the gusts of pride, and the rubbish of in- 
 terest. 
 
 Friendship is seldom lasting but between 
 equals, or where the superiority on one side is 
 reduced by some equivalent advantage on the 
 other. Benefits which cannot be repaid, and 
 obligations which cannot be discharged, are not 
 commonly found to increase affection ; they ex- 
 cite gratitude, indeed, and heighten veneration ; 
 but commonly take away that easy freedom and 
 familiarity of intercourse, without which, though 
 there may be fidelity, and zeal, and admiration, 
 there cannot be friendship. Thus imperfect are 
 all earthly blessings ; the great effect of friend- 
 ship is beneficence, yet by the first act of un- 
 common kindness it is endangered, like plants 
 that bear their fruit and die. Yet this consider- 
 ation ought not to restrain bounty, or repress 
 compassion ; for duty is to be preferred before 
 convenience, and he that loses part of the plea- 
 sures of friendship by his generosity, gains in its 
 place the gratulation of his conscience. 
 
 No. 65.] TUESDAY, OCT. 30, 1750. 
 
 -Garrit aniles 
 
 Ex re fabelltu.- 
 
 The cheerful sage, when solemn dictates fail, 
 Conceals the moral counsel in a tale. 
 
 OBIDAH, the son of Abensina, left the caravan- 
 sary early in the morning, and pursued his jour- 
 ney through the plains of Indostan. He was 
 fresh and vigorous with rest ; he was animated 
 with hope ; he was incited by desire ; he walked 
 swiftly forward over the valleys, and saw the 
 hills gradually rising before him. As he passed 
 along, liis < urs were delighted with the morning 
 -'ii'j of the bi,<t of paradise, he \\us fanned hv 
 
 the last flutters of the sinking breeze, and sprink- 
 led with dew by groves of spices ; he sometimes 
 contemplated the towering height of the oak, 
 monarch of the hills ; and sometimes caught the 
 gentle fragrance of the primrose, eldest daughter 
 of the spring ; all his senses were gratified, and 
 all care was banished from his heart. 
 
 Thus he went on till the sun approached his 
 meridian, and the increasing heat preyed upon 
 his strength ; he then looked round about him 
 for some more commodious path. He saw, on 
 his right hand, a grove that seemed to wave in 
 shades as a sign of invitation ; he entered it, and 
 found the coolness and verdure irresistibly plea- 
 sant. He did not, however, forget whither he 
 was travelling, but found a narrow way bordered 
 with flowers, which appeared to have the same 
 direction with the main road, and was pleased 
 that, by this happy experiment, he had found 
 means to unite pleasure with business, and to 
 gain the rewards of diligence, without suffering 
 its fatigues. He, therefore, still continued to 
 walk for a time, without the least remission of 
 his ardour, except that he was sometimes tempted 
 to stop by the music of the birds whom the heat 
 had assembled in the shade ; and sometimes 
 amused himself with plucking the flowers that 
 covered the banks on either side, or the fruits 
 that hung upon the branches. At last the green 
 path began to decline from its first tendency, and 
 to wind among hills and thickets, cooled with 
 fountains and murmuring with water-falls. Here 
 Obidah paused for a time, and began to consider 
 whether it were longer safe to forsake the known 
 and common track ; but remembering that the 
 heat was now in its greatest violence, and that 
 the plain was dusty and uneven, he resolved to 
 pursue the new path which he supposed only to 
 make a few meanders, in compliance with the 
 varieties of the ground, and to end at last in the 
 common road. 
 
 Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed 
 his pace, though he suspected that he was not 
 gaining ground. This uneasiness of his mind 
 inclined him to lay hold on every new object, and 
 give way to every sensation that might soothe 
 or divert him. He listened to every echo, he 
 mounted every hill for a fresh prospect, he turned 
 aside to every cascade, and pleased hiinself with 
 tracing the course of a gentle river that rolled 
 among the trees, and watered a 'arge region with 
 innumerable circumvolutions. In these amuse- 
 ments the hours passed away uncounted, his 
 deviations had perplexed his memory, and he 
 knew not towards what point to travel. He 
 stood pensive and confused, afraid to go forward 
 lest he should go wrong, yet conscious that the 
 time of loitering was now past. While he was 
 thus tortured with uncertainty, the sky was over- 
 spread with clouds, the day vanished from before 
 him, and a sudden tempest gathered round his 
 head. He was now roused by his danger to a 
 quick and painful remembrance of his folly ; he 
 now saw how happiness is lost when ease is 
 consulted ; he lamented the unmanly impatience 
 that prompted him to seek shelter in the grove, 
 and despised the petty curiosity that led him on 
 from trifle to trifle. While he was thus reflect- 
 ing, the air grew blacker, and a clap of thunder 
 broke his meditation. 
 
 He now resolved to do what remained yet in 
 his power, to tread back the pround which he
 
 No. 66.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 109 
 
 had passed, and try to find some isuue where the 
 wood might open into the plain. He prostrated 
 himself on the ground, and commended his life 
 to the Lord of nature. He rose with confidence 
 and tranquillity, and pressed on with his sabre in 
 his hand, for the beasts of the desert were in mo- 
 tion, and on every hand were heard the mingled 
 howls of rage and fear, and ravage and expira- 
 tion ; all the horrors of darkness and solitude sur- 
 rounded him : the winds roared in the woods, 
 and the torrents tumbled from the hills, 
 
 %ci/jiappoi. irora/jioi, Kar Special peovres, 
 ydyKciav c\iji6d\\c.TOv oSptfiov vSiap, 
 T<j>v&f TC rrj\6<re SOVTTOV cv ovptaiv CK\VC TTOI////V. 
 
 W'ork'd into sudden rage by wintry showers, 
 Down the steep hill the roaring torrent pours! 
 The mountaia shepherd hears the distant noise. 
 
 Thus forloni and distressed, he wandered 
 through the wild, without knowing whither he 
 was going, or whether he was every moment 
 drawing nearer to safety or to destruction. At 
 length not fear but labour began to overcome him ; 
 his breath grew short, and his knees trembled, 
 and he was on the point of lying down in resig- 
 nation to his fate, when he beheld through the 
 brambles the glimmer of a taper. He advanced 
 towards the light, and finding that it proceeded 
 from the cottage of a hermit, he called humbly at 
 the door, and obtained admission. The old man 
 set before him such provisions as he had collect- 
 ed for himself, on which Obidah fed with eager- 
 ness and gratitude. 
 
 When the repast was over, " Tell me," said the 
 hermit, " by what chance thou hast been brought 
 hither ; I have been now twenty years an inhabit- 
 ant of the wilderness, in which I never saw a man 
 before. 1 ' Obidah then related the occurrences 
 of his jouro<=y, wiuiout any concealment or pal- 
 liation. 
 
 " Son," said the hermit, " let the errors and fol- 
 lies, the dangers and escape of this day, sink deep 
 into thy heart. Remember, my son, that human 
 life is the journey of a day. We rise in the morn- 
 ing of youth full of vigour and full of expectation ; 
 we set forward with spirit and hope, with gayety 
 ind with diligence, and travel on a while in the 
 Itraight road of piety towards the mansions of 
 rest. In a short time we remit our fervour, and 
 endeavour to find some mitigation of our duty, 
 and some more easy means of obtaining the same 
 end. We then relax our vigour, and resolve no 
 longer to be terrified wilh crimes at a distance, 
 but rely upon our own constancy, and venture 
 to approach what we resolve never to touch. We 
 thus enter the bowers of ease, and repose in the 
 shades of security. Here the heart softens, and 
 vigilance subsides ; we are then willing to inquire 
 whether another advance cannot be made, and 
 whether we may not, at least, turn our eyes upon 
 the gardens of pleasure. We approach them 
 with scruple and hesitation; we enter them, but 
 enter timorous and trembling, and always hope 
 to pass through them without losing the road of 
 virtue, which we, for awhile, keep in our sight, 
 and to which we propose to return. But temp- 
 tation succeeds temptation, and one compliance 
 prepares us for another; we in time lose the hap- 
 piness of innocence, and solace our disquiet with 
 sensual gratifications. By degrees we let fall 
 fhr remembrance of our original intention, and 
 
 quit the only adequate obje^. e rational desire 
 We entangle ourselves in business, immerge our- 
 selves in luxury, and rove through tha labyrinths 
 of inconstancy, till the darkness of old age begins 
 to invade us, and disease and anxiety obstruct 
 our way. We then look back upon our lives 
 with horror, with sorrow, with repentance ; and 
 wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not 
 forsaken the ways of virtue. Happy are they, 
 my son, who shall learn from thy example not 
 to despair, but shall remember that though the 
 day is past, and their strength is wasted, there 
 yet remains one effort to be made ; that reform- 
 ation is never hopeless, nor sincere endeavoura 
 ever unassisted ; that the wanderer may at length 
 return after all his errors, and that he who im- 
 plores strength and courage from above shalt 
 find danger and difficulty give way before him. 
 Go now, my son, to thy repose, commit thyself 
 to the care of Omnipotence, and when the morn- 
 ing calls again to toil, begin anew thy journey 
 and thy life." 
 
 No. 66.] SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1750. 
 
 Fauci dignoscerepossunt 
 
 Vcra boiiti, atque illis multum diverse., remote 
 Erroris nebula. juv 
 
 How few 
 
 Know their own good ; or, knowing it, pursue '/ 
 How void of reason are our hopes and fears ? 
 
 URVDEN. 
 
 THE folly of human wishes and pursuits has al- 
 ways been a standing subject of mirth and de- 
 clamation, and has been ridiculed and lamented 
 from age to age ; till perhaps the fruitless repe- 
 tition of complaints and censures may be justly 
 numbered among the subjects of censure and 
 complaint. 
 
 Some of these instructers of mankind have not 
 contented themselves with checking the over- 
 flows of passion, and lopping the exuberance of 
 desire, but have attempted to destroy the root as 
 well as the branches ; and not only to confine 
 the mind within bounds, but to smooth it for ever 
 by a dead calm. They have employed their rea 
 son and eloquence to persuade us, that nothing 
 is worth the wish of a wise man, have repre- 
 sented all earthly good and evil as indifferent, 
 and counted among vulgar errors the dread of 
 pain, and the love of life. 
 
 It is almost always the unhappiness of a victo- 
 rious disputant, to destroy his own authority by 
 claiming too many consequences, or diffusing 
 his proposition to an indefensible extent. When 
 we have heated our zeal in a cause, and elated 
 our confidence with success, we are naturally in- 
 clined to pursue the same train of reasoning to 
 establish some collateral truth, to remove some 
 adjacent difficulty, and to take in the whole com- 
 prehension of our system. As a prince, in the 
 ardour of acquisition, is willing to secure his first 
 conquest by the addition of another, add? for- 
 tress to fortress, and city to city, till despair and 
 opportunity tuin his enemies upon him, and he 
 loses in a moment the glory of a reign. 
 
 The philosophers having found an easy victory 
 over those desires which we produce in ourselves, 
 and which terminate in some imaginary slate of 
 happiness unknown and unattainable, proceeded
 
 no 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 to make further inroads upon the heart, and at- 
 tacked at last our senses and our instincts. They 
 continued to war upon nature with arms, by 
 which only folly could be conquered ; they there- 
 fore lost the trophies of their former combats, 
 and were considered no longer with reverence 
 or regard. 
 
 Yet it cannot be with justice denied, that these 
 men have been very useful monitors, and have 
 left many proofs of strong reason, deep pene- 
 tration, and accurate attention to the affairs of 
 life, which it is now our business to separate from 
 the foam of a boiling imagination, and to apply 
 judiciously to our own use. They have shown that 
 most of the conditions of life, which raise the envy 
 of the timorous, and rouse the ambition of the 
 daring, are empty shows of felicity, which when 
 they become familiar, lose their power of delight- 
 ing ; and that the most prosperous and exalted 
 have very few advantages over a meaner and more 
 obscure fortune, when their dangers and solici- 
 tudes are balanced against their equipage, their 
 banquets, and their palaces. 
 
 It is natural for every man uninstructed to 
 murmur at his condition, because, in the general 
 infelicity of life, he feels his own miseries, with- 
 out knowing that they are common to all the rest 
 of the species ; and, therefore, though he will not 
 be less sensible of pain by being told that others 
 are equally tormented, he will at least be freed 
 from the temptation of seeking, by perpetual 
 changes, that ease which is no where to be found ; 
 and, though his disease still continues, he escapes 
 the hazard of exasperating it by remedies. 
 
 The gratifications which affluence of wealth, 
 extent of power, and eminence of reputation con- 
 fer, must be always, by their own nature, confined 
 to a very small number; and the life of the greater 
 part of mankind must be lost in empty wishes 
 and painful comparisons, were not the balm of 
 philosophy shed upon us, and our discontent at 
 the appearances of an unequal distribution sooth- 
 ed and appeased. 
 
 It seemed, perhaps, below the dignity of the 
 great masters of moral learning, to descend to 
 familiar life, and caution mankind against that 
 petty ambition, which is known among us by 
 the name of Vanity ; which yet had been an un- 
 dertaking not unworthy of the longest beard, and 
 most solemn austerity. For though the passions 
 of little minds, acting in low stations, do not fill 
 the world with bloodshed and devastations, or 
 mark, by great events, the periods of time, yet 
 they torture the breast on which they seize, in 
 fest those that are placed within the reach of 
 their influence, destroy private quiet and private 
 virtue, and undermine insensibly the happiness 
 of the world. 
 
 The desire of excellence is laudable, but is 
 very frequently ill directed. We fall, by chance, 
 into some class of mankind, and without consult- 
 ing nature or wisdom, resolve to gain their regard 
 by those qualities which they happen to esteem. 
 I once knew a man remarkably dim-sighted, who, 
 by conversing much with country gentlemen, 
 found himself irresistibly determined to sylvan 
 honours. His great ambition was to shoot fly- 
 ing, and he therefore spent whole days in the 
 woods pursuing game ; which, before he was 
 near enough to see them, his approach frighted 
 iway. 
 
 When it happens that the desire tends to ob- 
 
 jects which produce no competition, it may be 
 overlooked with some indulgence, because, how- 
 ever fruitless or absurd, it cannot have ill effects 
 upon the morals. But most of our enjoyments 
 owe their value to the peculiarity of possession, 
 and when they are rated at too high a value, give 
 occasion to stratagems of malignity, and incite 
 opposition, hatred, and defamation. The con- 
 test of two rural beauties for preference and dis- 
 tinction, is often sufficiently keen and rancorous 
 to fill their breasts with all those passions, which 
 are generally thought the curse only of senates, 
 of armies, and of courts, and the rival dancers 
 of an obscure assembly have their partisans and 
 abettors, often not less exasperated against each 
 other than those who are promoting the interests 
 of rival monarchs. 
 
 It is common to consider those whom we find 
 infected with an unreasonable regard for trifling 
 accomplishments, as chargeable with all the con- 
 sequences of their folly, and as the authors of 
 their own unhappiness ; but perhaps, those 
 whom we thus scorn or detest, have more claim 
 to tenderness than has been yet allowed them. 
 Before we permit our severity to break loose 
 upon any fault or error, we ought surely to con- 
 sider how much we have countenanced or pro- 
 moted it. We see multitudes busy in the pursuit 
 of riches, at the expense of wisdom and of vir- 
 tue ; but we see the rest of mankind approving 
 their conduct, and inciting their eagerness, by 
 paying that regard and deference to wealth, 
 which wisdom and virtue only can deserve. We 
 see women universally jealous of the reputation 
 of their beauty, and frequently look with con- 
 tempt on the care with which they study their 
 complexions, endeavour to preserve, or to supply 
 the bloom of youth, regulate every ornament, 
 twist their hair into curls, and shade their faces 
 from the weather. We recommend the care ot 
 their nobler part, and tell them how little addi- 
 tion is made by all their arts to the graces of the 
 mind. But when was it known that female 
 goodness or knowledge was able to attract that 
 officiousness, or inspire that ardour, which beauty 
 produces whenever it appears ? And with what 
 hope can we endeavour to persuade the ladies 
 that the time spent at the toilet is lost in vanity 
 when they have every moment some new con 
 viction, that their interest is more effectually pro 
 moted by a riband well disposed, than by the 
 brightest act of heroic virtue ? 
 
 In every instance of vanity it will be found 
 that the blame ought to be shared among more 
 than it generally reaches ; all who exalt trifles by 
 immoderate praise, or instigate needless emula 
 lation by invidious incitements, are to be consi 
 sidered as perverters of reason, and corrupters o: 
 the world ; and since every man is obliged tc 
 promote happiness and virtue, he should be care- 
 ful not to mislead unwary minds, by appearing 
 to set too high a value upon things by which no 
 real excellencs is conferred. 
 
 No.67.] TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 1750. 
 
 Ai o fXir/^tf $6aKovai tyvydfas oij Xoyoj, 
 KaXoif fi\irrov<riv opftaai, ^/XXoixrt Si. EURIP 
 
 Exiles, the proverb says, subsist on hope 
 Delusive hope still points to <li.-t.mt goorl, 
 To good that mocks approach.
 
 No. 67.] 
 
 THE RAMBLEI 
 
 111 
 
 THERE is no temper so generally indulged as 
 hope ; other passions operate by starts on parti- 
 cular occasions, or in certain parts of life ; but 
 hope begins with the first power of comparing 
 our actual with our possible state, and attends us 
 through every stage and period, always urging 
 us forward to new acquisitions, and holding out 
 some distant blessing to our view, promising us 
 either relief from pain, or increase of happiness. 
 
 Hope is necessary in every condition. The 
 miseries of poverty, of sickness, of captivity, 
 would, without this comfort, be insupportable ; 
 nor does it appear that the happiest lot of terres- 
 trial existence can set us above the want of this 
 general blessing ; or that life, when the gifts of 
 nature and of fortune are accumulated upon it, 
 would not still be wretched, were it not elevated 
 and delighted by the expectation of some new 
 possession, of some enjoyment yet behind, by 
 which the wish shall be at last satisfied, and the 
 heart filled up to its utmost extent 
 
 Hope is, indeed, very fallacious, and promises 
 what it seldom gives ; but its promises are more 
 valuable than the gifts of fortune, and it seldom 
 frustrates us without assuring us of recompensing 
 the delay by a greater bounty. 
 
 I was musing on this strange inclination which 
 every man feels to deceive himself, and consider- 
 ing the advantages and dangers proceeding from 
 this gay prospect of futurity, when, falling asleep, 
 on a sudden I found myself placed in a garden, 
 of which my sight could descry no limits. Every 
 scene about me was gay and gladsome, light 
 with sunshine, and fragrant with perfumes ; the 
 ground was painted with all the variety of spring, 
 and all the choir of nature was singing in the 
 groves. When I had recovered from the first 
 raptures, with which the confusion of pleasure 
 had for a time entranced me, I began to take a 
 particular and deliberate view of this delightful 
 region. I then perceived that I had yet higher 
 gratifications to expect, and that at a small dis- 
 tance from me, there were brighter flowers, clearer 
 fountains, and more lofty groves, where tjie birds, 
 which I yet heard but faintly, were exerting all 
 the power of melody. The trees about me were 
 beautiful with verdure, and fragrant with blos- 
 soms ; but I was tempted to leave them by the 
 sight of ripe fruits, which seemed to hang only to 
 be plucked. I therefore walked hastily forwards, 
 but found, as I proceeded, that the colours of the 
 field faded at my approach, the fruit fell before I 
 reached it, the birds flew, still singing before me, 
 and though I pressed onward with great celerity, 
 I was still in sight of pleasures of which I could 
 not yet gain the possession, and which seemed to 
 mock my diligence, and to retire as I advanced. 
 
 Though I was confounded with so many al- 
 ternations of joy and grief, I yet persisted to 
 go forward, in hopes that these fugitive delights 
 would in time be overtaken. At length I saw 
 an -enumerable multitude of every age and sex, 
 *-.> seemed all to partake of some general felici- 
 ty ; for every cheek was flushed with confidence, 
 and every eye sparkled with eagerness : yet each 
 appeared to have some particular and secret 
 pleasure, and very few were willing to communi- 
 cate their intentions, or extend their concern be- 
 yond themselves. Most of them seemed, by the 
 rapidity of their motion, too busy to gratify the 
 curiosity of a stranger, and therefore I was con- 
 ent for a while to gaze upon them, without in- 
 
 terrupting them with troublesome inquiries. At 
 last I observed one man worn with time, and 
 unable to struggle in the crowd : and therefore, 
 supposing him more at leisure, I began to accost 
 him : but he turned from me with anger, and told 
 me he must not be disturbed, for the great hour 
 of projection was now come when Mercury should 
 lose his wings, and slavery should no longer dig 
 the mine for gold. 
 
 I left him, and attempted another, whose soft- 
 ness of mien, and easy movement, gave me rea- 
 son to hope for a more agreeable reception ; but 
 he told me with a low bow, that nothing would 
 make him more happy than an opportunity ot 
 serving me, which he could not now want, for a 
 place which he had been twenty years soliciting 
 would be soon vacant From him I had recourse 
 to the next, who was departing in haste to take 
 possession of the estate of an uncle, who by the 
 course of nature could not live long. He that 
 followed was preparing to dive for treasure in a 
 new-invented bell ; and another was on the point 
 of discovering the longitude. 
 
 Being thus rejected wheresoever I applied my- 
 self for information,.! began to imagine it best to 
 desist from inquiry, and try what my own obser- 
 vation would discover : but seeing a young man, 
 gay and thoughtless, I resolved upon one more 
 experiment, and was informed that I was in the 
 garden of Hope, the daughter of Desire, and that 
 all those whom I saw thus tumultuously bustling 
 round me were incited by the promises of Hope, 
 and hastening to seize the gifts which she held 
 in her hand. 
 
 I turned my sight upward, and saw a goddess 
 in the bloom of youth sitting on a throne ; around 
 her lay all the gifts of fortune, and all the bless- 
 ings of life were spread abroad to view ; she had 
 a perpetual gayety of aspect, and every one ima- 
 gined that her smile, which was impartial and 
 general, was directed to himself, and triumphed 
 in his own superiority to others, who had conceiv- 
 ed the same confidence from the same mistake. 
 
 I then mounted an eminence, from which I had 
 a more extensive view of the whole place, and 
 could with less perplexity consider the different 
 conduct of the crowds that filled it. From this 
 station I observed, that the entrance into the 
 garden of Hope was by two gates, one of which 
 was kept by Reason, and the other by Fancy. 
 Reason was surly and scrupulous, and seldom 
 turned the key without many interrogatories, and 
 long hesitation ; but Fancy was a kind and gentle 
 portress, she held her gate wide open, and wel- 
 comed all equally to the district under her super- 
 intendency : so that the passage was crowded by 
 all those who either feared the examination of 
 Reason, or had been rejected by her. 
 
 From the gate of Reason there was a way to 
 the throne of Hope, by a craggy, slippery, and 
 winding path, called the Strait of Difficulty, which 
 those who entered with the permission of the 
 guard endeavoured to climb. But though they 
 surveyed the way very cheerfully before they 
 begq.n to rise, and marked out the several stages 
 of their progress, they commonly found unexpect- 
 ed obstacles, and were obliged frequently to stop 
 on the sudden, where they imagined the waj 
 plain and even. A thousand intricacies embar- 
 rassed them, a thousand slips threw them back, 
 and a thousand pitfalls impeded their advance. 
 So formidable were the dangers, and so frequent
 
 112 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. C8 
 
 the miscarriages, that many returned from the 
 first attempt, and many fainted in the midst of 
 the way, and only a very small number were led 
 up to the summit of Hope, by the hand of Forti- 
 tude. Of these few the greater part, when they 
 Had obtained the gift which Hope had promised 
 them, regretted the labour which it cost, and felt 
 in their success the regret of disappointment ; the 
 rest retired with their prize, and were led by Wis- 
 dom to the bowers of Content 
 
 Turning then towards the gate of Fancy, I 
 could find no way to the seat of Hope ; but though 
 she sat full in view, and held out her gifts with 
 an air of invitation, which filled every heart with 
 rapture, the mountain was, on that side inacessi- 
 bly steep, but so channelled and shaded, that 
 none perceived the impossibility of ascending it, 
 but each imagined himself to have discovered a 
 way to which the rest were strangers. Many 
 expedients were indeed tried by this industrious 
 tribe, of whom some were making themselves 
 wings, which others were contriving to actuate 
 by the perpetual motion. But with all their la- 
 bour and all their artifices, they never rose above 
 the ground, or quickly fell .back, nor ev.er ap- 
 proached the throne of Hope, but continued still 
 to gaze at a distance, and laughed at the slow 
 progress of those whom they saw toiling in tho 
 Strait of Difficulty. 
 
 Part of the favourites of Fancy, when they had 
 entered the garden, without making, like the 
 rest, an attempt to climb the mountain, turned 
 immediately to the vale of Idleness, a calm and 
 undisturbed retirement, from whence they could 
 always have Hope in prospect, and to which they 
 pleased themselves with believing that she in- 
 tended speedily to descend. These were indeed 
 scorned by all the rest ; but they seemed very 
 little affected by contempt, advice, or reproof, 
 but were resolved to expect at ease the favour of 
 the goddess. 
 
 Among this gay race I was wandering, and 
 found them ready to answer all my questions, 
 and willing to communicate their mirth; but 
 turning round, I saw two dreadful monsters en- 
 tering the vale, one of whom I knew to be Age, 
 and the other Want. Sport and revelling were 
 now at an end, and a universal shriek of affright 
 and distress burst out and awaked me. 
 
 No. 68.] SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1750. 
 
 t'ivendum recte, cum propter plurima, turn hit 
 Prtscipue causis, ut linguas mancipiorum 
 Contemnas; nam lingua malipanpetaima servi. 
 
 JUV. 
 
 Let us live well : were it alone for this 
 
 The baneful tongues of servants to despise : 
 
 Slander, that worst of poisons, ever finds 
 
 An easy entrance to ignoble minds. HERVEY. 
 
 THE younger Pliny has very justly observed, that 
 of actions that deserve our attention, the most 
 splendid are not always the greatest Fame, and 
 wonder, and applause, are not excited but by 
 external and adventitious circumstances, often 
 distinct and separate from virtue and heroism. 
 Eminence of station, greatness of effect, and all 
 the favours of fortune, must concur to place ex- 
 cellence in public view; but fortitude, diligence 
 and patience, divested of their show, glide unob- 
 
 served through the crowd of life, and suffer and 
 act, though with the same vigour and constancy, 
 yet without pity and without praise. 
 
 This remark may be extended to all parts of 
 life. Nothing is to be estimated by its effect 
 upon common eyes and common ears. A thou- 
 sand miseries make silent and invisible inroads 
 on mankind, and the heart feels innumerable 
 throbs, which never break into complaint. Per- 
 haps, likewise, our pleasures are for the most part 
 equally secret, and most are borne up by some 
 private satisfaction, some internal consciousness, 
 some latent hope, some peculiar prospect, which 
 they never communicate, but reserve for solitary 
 hours, and clandestine meditation. 
 
 The main of life is, indeed, composed of small 
 incidents and petty occurrences ; of wishes for 
 objects not remote, and grief for disappointments 
 of no fatal consequence ; of insect vexations which 
 sting us and fly away, impertinences which buzz 
 a while about us, and are heard no more ; of me- 
 teorous pleasures which dance before us and are 
 dissipated ; of compliments which glide oft' the 
 soul like other music, and are forgotten by him 
 that gave and him that received them. 
 
 Such is the general heap out of which every 
 man is to cull his own condition : for as the chy- 
 mists tell us, that all bodies arc resolvable into the 
 same elements, and that the boundless variety 
 of things arises from the different proportions ot 
 very few ingredients ; so a few pains and a few 
 pleasures are all the materials of human life, and 
 of these the proportions are partly allotted by 
 Providence, and partly left to the arrangement 
 of reason and of choice. 
 
 As these are well or ill disposed, man is for the 
 most part happy or miserable. For very few are 
 involved in great events, or have their thread ot 
 life entwisted with the chain of causes on which 
 armies or nations are suspended ; and even those 
 who seem wholly busied in public affairs, and 
 elevated above low cares, or trivial pleasures, 
 pass the chief part of their time in familiar and 
 domestic scenes ; from these they came into pub- 
 lic life, to these they are every hour recalled by 
 passions not to be suppressed ; in these they have 
 the reward of their toils, and to these at last they 
 retire. 
 
 The great end of prudence is to give cheerful- 
 ness to those hours which splendour cannot gild, 
 and acclamation cannot exhilarate ; those soft in- 
 tervals of unbended amusement, in which a man 
 shrinks to his natural dimensions, and throws 
 aside the ornaments or disguises, which he feels 
 in privacy to be useless incumbrances, and to 
 lose all effect when they become familiar. To 
 be happy at home is the ultimate result of all am- 
 bition, the end to which every enterprise and la- 
 bour tends, and of which every desire prompts 
 the prosecution. 
 
 It is, indeed, at home that every man must be 
 known by those who would make a just estimate 
 either of his virtue or felicity ; for smiles and em- 
 broidery are alike occasional, and the mind is 
 often dressed for show in painted honour and fic- 
 titious benevolence. 
 
 Every man must have found some whose lives, 
 in every house but their own, were a continual 
 series of hypocrisy, and who concealed under 
 lair appearances bad qualities, which, whenever 
 they thought themselves out of the reach of cen- 
 sure, broke out from their restraint, like winds
 
 No. 69.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 113 
 
 imprisoned in their caverns, and whom every one 
 had reason to love, but they whose love a wise 
 man is chiefly solicitous to procure. And there 
 are others who, without any show of general 
 goodness, and without the attractions by which 
 popularity is conciliated, are received among 
 their own families as bestowers of happiness, 
 and reverenced as instructors, guardians, and be- 
 nefactors. 
 
 The most authentic witnesses of any man's cha- 
 racter are those who know him in his own fami- 
 ly, and see him without any restraint or rule of 
 conduct, but such as he voluntarily prescribes to 
 himself. If a man carries virtue with him into 
 his private apartments, and takes no advantage 
 of unlimited power, or probable secrecy ; if we 
 trace him through the round of his time, and find 
 that his character, with those allowances which 
 mortal frailty must always want, is uniform and 
 regular, we have all the evidence of his sincerity 
 that one man can have with regard to another : 
 and, indeed, as hypocrisy cannot be its own re- 
 ward, we may, without hesitation, determine that 
 his heart is pure. 
 
 The highest panegyric, therefore, that private 
 virtue can receive, is the praise of servants. For, 
 however vanity or insolence may look down with 
 contempt on the suffrage of men undignified by 
 wealth, and unenlightened by education, it very 
 seldom happens that they commend or blame 
 without justice. Vice and virtue are easily dis- 
 tinguished. Oppression, according to Harring- 
 ton's aphorism, will be felt by those who cannot 
 see it ; and, perhaps, it falls out very often that, 
 in moral questions, the philosophers in the gown, 
 and in the livery, differ not so much in their sen- 
 timents, as in their language, and have equal 
 power of discerning right, though they cannot 
 point it out to others with equal address. 
 
 There are very few faults to be committed in 
 solitude, or without some agents, partners, con- 
 federates, or witnesses ; and, therefore, the serv- 
 ant must commonly know the secrets of a mas- 
 ter, who has any secrets to intrust ; and failings, 
 merely personal, are so frequently exposed by 
 that security which pride and folly generally pro- 
 duce, and so inquisitively watched by that desire 
 of reducing the inequalities of condition, which 
 the lower orders of the world will always feel, 
 that the testimony of a menial domestic can sel- 
 dom be considered as defective for want of know- 
 ledge. And though its impartiality may be some- 
 times suspected, it is at least as credible as that 
 of equals, where rivalry instigates censure, or 
 friendship dictates palliations. 
 
 The danger of betraying our weakness to our 
 servants, and the impossibility of concealing it 
 from them, maybe justly considered as one mo- 
 tive to a regular and irreproachable life. For no 
 condition is more hateful or despicable, than his 
 who has put himself in the power of his servant ; 
 in the power of him whom, perhaps, he has first 
 corrupted by making him subservient to his 
 vices, and whose fidelity he therefore cannot en- 
 force by any precepts of honesty or reason. It 
 is seldom known that authority thus acquired, is 
 possessed without insolence, or that the master 
 is not forced to confess, by his tameness or for- 
 bearance, that he has enslaved himself by some 
 foolish confidence. And his crime is equally 
 punished, whatever part he takes of the choice to 
 which he is reduced ; and he is from that fatal 
 
 hour, in which he sacrificed his dignity to his 
 passions, in perpetual dread of insolence or de- 
 famation ; of a controller at home, or an accuser 
 abroad. He is condemned to purchase, by con- 
 tinual bribes, that secrecy which bribes never se-- 
 cured, and which, after a long course of submis- 
 sion, promises, and anxieties, he will find violated 
 in a fit of rage, or in a frolic of drunkenness. 
 
 To dread no eye, and to suspect no tongue, is 
 the great prerogative of innocence ; an exemp- 
 tion granted only to invariable virtue. But guilt 
 has always its horrors and solicitudes : and, to 
 make it yet more shameful and detestable, it is 
 doomed often to stand in awe of those, to whom 
 nothing could give influence or weight, but their 
 power of betraying. 
 
 No. 69.] TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1750. 
 
 Flct quoqite, ut in specula rugas adtpexit aniles, 
 Tyndaris ; et scrum, cur sit bis rapta, requirit 
 Tempus edax return, tuque invidiosa retustas 
 Omnia destruitis : vitiataque dentibus avi 
 Paullatim lenta consumitis omnia morte. ovio 
 
 The dreaded wrinkles when poor Helen spied, 
 Ah ! why this second rape ? with tears she cried 
 Time, thou devourer, and thou envious age, 
 Who all destroy with keen corroding rage, 
 Beneath your jaws, whate'er have pleased or please 
 Must sink, consumed by swift or slow degrees. 
 
 ELPHINSTON. 
 
 AN old Greek epigrammatist, intending to show 
 the miseries that attend the last stage of man, 
 imprecates on them, who are so foolish as to 
 wish for long life, the calamity of continuing to 
 grow old from century to century. He thought 
 that no adventitious or foreign pain was requi- 
 site ; that decrepitude itself was an epitome of 
 whatever is dreadful ; and nothing could be add- 
 ed to the curse of age, but that it should be ex- 
 tended beyond its natural limits. 
 
 The most indifferent or negligent spectator 
 can indeed Scarcely retire without heaviness of 
 heart, from a view of the last scenes of the tra- 
 gedy of life, in which he finds those who, in the 
 'ormer parts of the drama, were distinguished by 
 opposition of conduct, contrariety of designs, and 
 dissimilitude of personal qualities, all involved in 
 one common distress, and all struggling with 
 affliction which they cannot hope to overcome. 
 
 The other miseries, which waylay our passage 
 through the world, wisdom may escape, and for- 
 titude may conquer ; by caution and circumspec- 
 tion tve may steal along with very little to obstruct 
 or incommode us ; by spirit and vigour we may 
 force a Way, and reward the vexation of contest 
 by the pleasures of victory. But a time must 
 come when our policy and bravery shall be 
 equally useless ; when we shall all sink into 
 helplessness and sadness, without any power of 
 receiving solace from the pleasures that have for- 
 merly delighted us, or any prospect of emerging 
 nto a second possession of the blessings that we 
 tiave lost. 
 
 The industry of man has, indeed, not been 
 wanting in endeavours to procure comforts for 
 these hours of dejection and melancholy, and to 
 gild the dreadful gloom with artificial light. The 
 most usual support of old age is wealth. He 
 whose possessions are large, and whose chests 
 are full, imagines himself always fortified against
 
 14 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 70. 
 
 invasions on his authority. If he has lost all 
 other means of government, if his strength and 
 his reason fail him, he can at last alter Ins will ; 
 and therefore, all that have hopes must likewise 
 Have fears, and he may still continue to give laws 
 to such as have not ceased to regard their own 
 interest 
 
 This is indeed too frequently the citadel of the 
 dotard, the last fortress to which age retires, and 
 in which he makes the stand against the upstart 
 race that seizes his domains, disputes his com- 
 mands, and cancels his prescriptions. But here, 
 though there maybe saiety, there is no pleasure ; 
 and what remains is but a proof that more was 
 once possessed. 
 
 Nothing seems to have been more universally 
 dreaded by the ancients than orbity, or want of 
 children ; and, indeed, to a man who has sur- 
 vived all the companions of his youth, all who 
 have participated his pleasures and his cares, 
 have been engaged in the same events, and filled 
 their minds with the same conceptions, this full- 
 peopled world is a dismal solitude. He stands 
 forlorn and silent, neglected or insulted, in the 
 midst of multitudes, animated with hopes which 
 he cannot share, and employed in business which 
 he is no longer able to forward or retard ; nor 
 can he find any to whom his life or his death are 
 of importance, unless he has secured some do- 
 mestic gratifications, some tender employments, 
 and endeared himself to some whose interest 
 and gratitude may unite them to him. 
 
 So different are the colours of life as we look 
 forward to the future, or backward to the past ; 
 and so different the opinions and sentiments which 
 this contrariety of appearance naturally produces, 
 that the conversation of the old and young ends 
 generally with contempt or pity on either side. 
 To a young man entering the world with ful- 
 ness of hope, and ardour of pursuit, nothing is so 
 unpleasing as the cold caution, the faint expecta- 
 tions, the scrupulous diffidence, which experi- 
 ence and disappointments certainly infuse ; and 
 the old man wonders in his turn that the world 
 never can grow wiser, that neither precepts, nor 
 testimonies, can cure boys of their credulity and 
 sufficiency ; and that not one can be convinced 
 that snares are laid for him, till he finds himself 
 entangled. 
 
 Thus one generation is always the scorn and 
 wonder of the other, and the notions of the old 
 and young are like liquors of different gravity 
 and texture which never can unite. The spirits 
 of youth sublimed by health, and volatilized by 
 passion, soon leave behind them the phlegmatic 
 sediment of weariness and deliberation, and burst 
 out in temerity and enterprise. The tenderness, 
 therefore, which nature infuses, and which long 
 habits of beneficence confirm, is necessary to re- 
 concile such opposition ; and an old man must 
 be a father to bear with patience those follies and 
 absurdities which he will perpetually imagine 
 himself to find in the schemes and expectations, 
 the pleasures and the sorrows, of those who have 
 not yet been hardened by time, and chilled by 
 frustration. 
 
 Yet, it may be doubted, whether the pleasure 
 of seeing children ripening into strength, be not 
 overbalanced by the pain of seeing some fall in 
 the blossom, and others blasted in their growth : 
 some shaken down with storms, some tainted 
 with cankers, and some shrivelled in the shade : 
 
 and whether he that extends his care beyond 
 himself, does not multiply his anxieties more than 
 his pleasures, and weary himself to no purpose, 
 by superintending what he cannot regulate. 
 
 But though age be to every order of human 
 beings sufficiently terrible, it is particularly to be 
 dreaded by fine ladies, who have had no other 
 end or ambition than to fill up the day and the 
 night with dress, diversions, and flattery ; and 
 who, having made no acquaintance with know- 
 ledge, or with business, have constantly caught 
 all their ideas from the current prattle of the 
 hour, and been indebted for all their happiness to 
 compliments and treats. With these ladies age 
 begins early, and very often lasts long ; it begins 
 when their beauty fades, when their mirth loses 
 its sprightliness, and their motion its ease. From 
 that time, all which gave them joy vanishes from 
 about them ; they hear the praises bestowed on 
 others, which used to swell their bosoms with 
 exultation. They visit the seats of felicity, and 
 endeavour to continue the habit of being delight- 
 ed. But pleasure is only received when we be- 
 lieve that we give it in return. Neglect and pe- 
 tulance inform them that their power and their 
 value are past ; and what then remains but a 
 tedious and comfortless uniformity of time, with- 
 out any motion of the heart, or exercise of tho 
 reason. 
 
 Yet, however age may discourage us by its 
 appearance from considering it in prospect, we 
 shall all by degrees certainly be old ; and there- 
 fore we ought to inquire what provision can be 
 made against that time of distress ? what happi- 
 ness can be stored up against the winter of life? 
 and how we may pass our latter years with se 
 renity and cheerfulness ? 
 
 If it has been found by the experience of man 
 kind, that not even the best seasons of life are 
 able to supply sufficient gratifications, without 
 anticipating uncertain felicities, it cannot surely 
 be supposed that old age, worn with labours, ha- 
 rassed with anxieties, and tortured with diseases, 
 should have any gladness of its own, or feel any 
 satisfaction from the contemplation of the pre- 
 sent. All the comfort that can now be expected 
 must be recalled from the past, or borrowed from 
 the future ; the past is very soon exhausted, all 
 the events or actions of which the memory can 
 afford pleasure are quickly recollected ; and the 
 future lies beyond the grave, where it can be 
 reached only by virtue and devotion. 
 
 Piety is the only proper and adequate relief of 
 decaying man. He that grows old without reli- 
 gious hopes, as he declines into imbecility, and 
 feels pains and sorrows incessantly crowdinc 
 upon him, falls into a gulf of bottomless misery, 
 in which every reflection must plunge him deep- 
 er, and where he finds only new gradations of 
 anguish and precipices of horror. 
 
 No. 70.] SATURDAY, Nov. 17, 1750. 
 
 Argentea proles, 
 
 -ditro detenor, fulvo pretiorior are. ono 
 
 Succeeding times a silver age behold, 
 Excelling brass, but more excell'd by gold 
 
 DRYDEN 
 
 HESIOD, in his celebrated distribution of mankind 
 divides them into three orders of intellect. "The
 
 No. 70.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 115 
 
 first place," says he, " belongs to him that can 
 by his own powers discern what is right and fit, 
 and penetrate to the remoter motives of action. 
 The second is claimed by him that is willing to 
 hear mstruction, and can perceive right and 
 wrong when they are shown him by another; but 
 he that has neither acuteness nor docility, who 
 can neither find the way by himself, nor will be 
 led by others, is a wretch without use or value." 
 
 If we survey the moral world, it will be found 
 that the same division maybe made of men, with 
 regard to their virtue. There are some whose 
 principles are so firmly fixed, whose conviction 
 is so constantly present to their minds, and who 
 have raised in themselves such ardent wishes for 
 the approbation of God, and the happiness with 
 which he has promised to reward obedience and 
 perseverance, that they rise above all other cares 
 and considerations, and uniformly examine every 
 action and desire, by comparing it with the Di- 
 vine commands. There are others in a kind of 
 equipoise between good and ill ; who are moved 
 on the one part by riches or pleasures, by the 
 gratifications of passion and the delights of sense; 
 and, on the other, by laws of which they own the 
 obligation, and rewards of which they believe the 
 reality, and whom a very small addition of weight 
 turns either way. The third class consists of be r 
 ings immersed in pleasures, or abandoned to pas- 
 sion, without any desire of higher good, or any 
 effort to extend their thoughts beyond immediate 
 and gross satisfactions. 
 
 The second class is so much the most numer 
 rous, that it may be considered as comprising 
 the whole body of mankind. Those of the last 
 are not very many, and those of the first are very 
 few ; and neither the one nor the other fall much 
 under the consideration of the moralist, whose 
 precepts are intended chiefly for those who are 
 endeavouring to go forward up the steeps of vir- 
 tue, not for those who have already reached the 
 summit, or those who are resolved to stay for 
 ever in their present situation. 
 
 To a man not versed in the living world, but 
 accustomed to judge only by "speculative reason, 
 it is scarcely credible that any one should be in 
 this state of indifference, or stand undetermined 
 and unengaged, ready to follow the first call to 
 either side. It seems certain, that either a man 
 must believe that virtue will make him happy, 
 and resolve therefore to be virtuous, or think 
 that he may be happy without virtue, and there- 
 fore cast off all care but for his present interest. 
 It seems impossible that conviction should be on 
 one side, and practice on the other; and that he 
 who has seen the right way should voluntarily 
 shut his eyes, that he may quit it with more tran- 
 quillity. Yet all these absurdities are every hour 
 to be found; the wisest and best men deviate 
 from known and acknowledged duties, by inad- 
 vertency or surprise; and most are good no 
 longer than while temptation is away, than while 
 their passions are without excitements, and their 
 opinions are free from the counteraction of any 
 other motive. 
 
 Among the sentiments which almost every 
 man changes as he advances into years, is the 
 expectation of uniformity of character. He that 
 without acquaintance with the power of desire, 
 the cogency of distress, the complications of af- 
 fairs, or the force of partial influence, has filled 
 his mind with the excellence of virtue, and, hav- 
 
 ing never tried his resolution in any encounters 
 with hope or fear, believes it able to stand firm 
 whatever shall oppose it, will be always clamor- 
 ous against the smallest failure, ready to exact 
 the utmost punctualities of right, and to consider 
 every man that fails in any part of his duty, as 
 without conscience and withouj merit ; unwor- 
 thy of trust or love, of pity or regard ; as an ene- 
 my whom all should join to drive out of society, 
 as a pest which all should avoid, or as a weed 
 which all should trample. 
 
 It is not but by experience, that we are taught 
 the possibility* of retaining some virtues, and re- 
 jecting others, or of being good or bad to a par 
 ticular degree. For it is very easy to the soli 
 tary reaeoner, to prove, that the same arguments 
 by which the mind is fortified against one crime 
 are of equal force against all, and the conse- 
 quence very naturally follows, that he whom 
 they fail to move on any occasion, has either 
 never considered them, or has by some fallacy 
 taught himself to evade their validity ; and that, 
 therefore, when a man is known to be guilty ot 
 one crime, no farther evidence is needful of his 
 depravity and corruption. 
 
 Yet, such is the state of all mortal virtue, that 
 it is always uncertain and variable, sometimes 
 extending to the whole compass of duty, and 
 sometimes shrinking into a narrow space, and 
 fortifying only a few avenues of the heart, while 
 all the rest is left open to the incursions of appe- 
 tite, or given up to the dominion of wickedness. 
 Nothing therefore is more unjust than to judge 
 of man by too short an acquaintance, and too 
 slight inspection ; for it often happens that, in the 
 loose, and thoughtless, and dissipated, there is a 
 secret radical worth which may shoot out by 
 proper cultivation; that the spark of heaven, 
 though dimmed and obstructed, is not yet ex- 
 tinguished, but may, by the breath of counsel 
 and exhortation, be kindled into flame. 
 
 To imagine that every one who is not com- 
 pletely good is irrecoverably abandoned, is to 
 suppose that all are capable of the same degrees 
 of excellence ; it is indeed to exact from all that 
 perfection which none ever can attain. And 
 since the purest virtue is consistent with some 
 vice, and the virtue of the greatest number with 
 almost an equal proportion of contrary qualities, 
 let none too hastily conclude, that all goodness 
 is lost, though it may for a time be clouded and 
 overwhelmed ; for most minds are the slaves of 
 external circumstances, and conform to any hand 
 that undertakes to mould them, roll down any 
 torrent of custom in which they happen to be 
 caught, or bend to any importunity that bears 
 hard against them. 
 
 It may be particularly observed of women, that 
 they are for the most, part good or bad, as they 
 fall among those who practise vice or virtue ; and 
 that neither education nor reason gives them 
 much security against the influence of example. 
 Whether it be that they have less courage to 
 stand againsf opposition, or that their desire of 
 admiration makes them sacrifice their principles 
 to the poor pleasure of worthless praise, it is 
 certain, whatever be the cause, that female good- 
 ness seldom keeps its ground against laughter, 
 flattery, or fashion. 
 
 For this reason, everyone should consider him- 
 self as entrusted, not only with his own conduct, 
 but with that of others ; and as accountable, not
 
 110 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 71. 
 
 only for the duties which he neglects, or the crime 
 that lu- commit*, but for that negligence and ir- 
 regularity which he may encourage or inculcate. 
 Every man, in whatever station, has, or endea- 
 vours to have, his followers, admirers, and imi- 
 tators, and has therefore the influence of Ins ex- 
 ample to watch with care ; he ought to avoid not 
 only crimes, hut the appearance of crimes ; and 
 not only to practise virtue, but to applaud, coun- 
 tenance, and support it. For it is possible that 
 for want of attention, we may teach others faults 
 from which ourselves.are free, or, by a cowardly 
 desertion of a cause which we ourselves approve, 
 may pervert those who fix their eyes upon us, 
 and, having no rule of their own to guide their 
 course, are easily misled by the aberrations of 
 that example which they choose for their di- 
 rections. 
 
 No. 71.] TUESDAY, Nov. 20, 1750. 
 
 fivere guodprapere. pauper, V>tc injttiZi? annis 
 Da veniam,properat vivero nemo satis. MART. 
 
 True, Sir, to live I haste, your pardon give, 
 For tell me, who makes haste enough to live 1 
 
 F. LEWIS. 
 
 MANY words and sentences are so frequently 
 heard in the mouths of men, that a superficial 
 observer is inclined to believe, that they must 
 contain some primary principle, some great rule 
 of action, which it is proper always to have pre- 
 sent to the attention, and by which the use of 
 every hour is to be adjusted. Yet, if we con- 
 sider the conduct of those sententious philoso- 
 phers, it will often be found that they repeat these 
 aphorisms, merely because they have somewhere 
 heard them, because they have nothing else to 
 say, or because they think veneration gained by 
 such appearances of wisdom, but that no ideas 
 are annexed to the words, and that, according to 
 the old blunder of the followers of Aristotle, their 
 souls are mere pipes or organs, which transmit 
 sounds, but do not understand them. 
 
 Of this kind is the well-known and well attesU 
 ed position, that life is short, which may he heard 
 among mankind by an attentive auditor, many 
 times a day, but which never yet within my reach 
 of observation left any impression upon the mind ; 
 and perhaps, if my readers will turn their thoughts 
 back upon their old friends, they will find it diffi- 
 cult to call a single man to remembrance, who 
 appeared to know that life was short till he was 
 about to lose it. 
 
 It is observable that Horace, in his account of 
 the characters of men, as they are diversified by 
 the various influence of time, remarks, that the 
 old man is dilator, spe langus, given to procrasti- 
 nation, and inclined to extend his hopes to a great 
 distance. So. far are we generally from thinking 
 what we often say of the shortness of life, that at 
 the time when it is necessarily shortest, we form 
 projects which we delay to execute, indulge such 
 expectations as nothing but a long train of events 
 can gratify, and suffer those passions to gain upon 
 us, which are only excusable in the prime of life. 
 These reflections were lately excited in my 
 mind, by an evening's conversation with my friend 
 Prospero, who, at the age of fifty-five, has bought 
 an estate, and is now contriving to dispose and 
 
 cultivate it with uncommon elegance. His great 
 pleasure is to walk among stately trees, and lie 
 musing in the heat of noon under their shade ; he 
 is therefore maturely considering how he shall 
 dispose his walks and his grovss, and has at last 
 determined to send for the best plans from Italy, 
 and forbear planting till the next season. 
 
 Thus is life trifled away in preparations to do 
 what never can be done, if it be left unattempted 
 till all the requisites which imagination can sug- 
 gest are gathered together. Where our design 
 terminates only in our own satisfaction, the mis- 
 take is of no great importance ; for the pleasure 
 of expecting enjoyment is often greater than that 
 of obtaining it, and the completion of almost every 
 wish is found a disappointment ; but when many 
 others are interested in an undertaking, when 
 any design is formed, in which the improvement 
 or security of mankind is involved, nothing is 
 more unworthy either of wisdom or benevolence, 
 than to delay it from time to time, or to forget 
 how much every day that passes over us, takes 
 away from our power, and how soon an idle pur- 
 pose to do an action sinks into a mournful wish 
 that it had once been done. 
 
 We are frequently importuned, by the baccha 
 nalian writers, to lay hold on the present hour, to 
 catch the pleasures within our reach, and remem- 
 ber that futurity is not at our command. 
 
 T4 p&Sov aKjid^ti /3ai>' X" J " ''" 
 
 Zr/Twv Ivpijacis ou p6$o>', u/./ui /3arov. 
 
 Soon fades the rose ; once past the fragrant hour, 
 The loiterer finds a bramble tor a flower. 
 
 But surely these exhortations, may with equal 
 propriety, be applied to better purposes ; it may 
 be at least inculcated that pleasures are more 
 safely postponed than virtues, and that greater 
 loss is suffered by missing an opportunity of 
 doing good, than an hour of giddy frolic and 
 noisy meiriment. 
 
 When Baxter had lost a thousand pounds, 
 which he had laid up for the erection of a school, 
 he used frequently to mention the misfortune as 
 an incitement to be charitable while God gives 
 the power of bestowing, and considered himself 
 as culpable in some degree for having left a good 
 action in the hands of chance, and suffered his 
 benevolence to be defeated for want, of quickness 
 and diligence. 
 
 It is lamented by Hearne, the learned antiqua- 
 ry of Oxford, that this general forgetfulness of 
 the fragility of life, has remarkably infected the 
 students of monuments and records ; as their em 
 ployment consists in first collecting, and aftei 
 wards in arranging or abstracting, what libraries 
 afford them, they ought to amass no more than 
 they can digest ; but when they have undertaken 
 a work, they go on searching and transcribing, 
 call for new supplies, when they are already 
 overburdened, and at last leave their work un- 
 finished. It is, says he, the business of a good an- 
 tiquary, as of a good man, to have mortality always 
 before him. 
 
 Thus, not only in the slumber of sloth, but in 
 the dissipation of ilWirected industry, is the 
 shortness of life generally forgotten. As some 
 men lose their hours in laziness, because they 
 suppose, that there is time enough for the repa- 
 ration of neglect; others busy themselves in pro- 
 viding that no length o.f life may want employ-
 
 No. 72.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 117 
 
 ment ; and it often happens, that sluggishness 
 and activity are equally surprised by the last 
 summons, and perish not more differently from 
 each other, than the fowl that received the shot 
 in her flight, from her that is killed upon the bush. 
 
 Among the many improvements made by the 
 last centuries in human knowledge, may be num- 
 bered the exact calculations of the value of life ; 
 but whatever may be their use in traffic, they 
 seem very little to have advanced morality. They 
 have hitherto been rather applied to the acquisi- 
 tion of money, than of wisdom ; the computer re- 
 fers none of his calculations to his own tenure, 
 but persists, in contempt of probability, to fore- 
 tell old age to himself, and believes that he is 
 marked out to reach the utmost verge of human 
 existence, and see thousands and ten thousands 
 fall into the grave. 
 
 So deeply is this fallacy rooted in the heart, 
 and so strongly guarded by hope and fear against 
 the approach of reason, that neither science nor 
 experience can shake it, and we act as if life 
 were without end, though we see and confess its 
 uncertainty and shortness. 
 
 Divines have, with great strength and ardour, 
 shown the absurdity of delaying reformation and 
 repentance ; a degree of folly, indeed, which sets 
 eternity to hazard. It is the same weakness, in 
 proportion to the importance of the neglect, to 
 transfer any care, which now claims our atten- 
 tion, to a future time ; we subject ourselves to 
 needles* dangers from accidents which early dili- 
 gence would have obviated, or perplex our minds 
 by vain precautions, and make provision for the 
 execution of designs, of which the opportunity 
 once missed never will return. 
 
 As he that lives longest lives but a little while, 
 every man may be certain that he has no time to 
 waste. The duties of life_are commensurate to its 
 duration, and every day brings its task, which if 
 neglected is doubled on the morrow. But he 
 that has already trifled away those months and 
 years, in which he should have laboured, must 
 remember that he has now only a part of that of 
 which the whole is little ; and that since the few 
 moments remaining are to be considered as the 
 last trust of Heaven, not one is to be lost. 
 
 No. 72.] SATURDAY, Nov. 24, 1750. 
 
 Omnis Aristippum decuit color, el stalus, et res, 
 Tentantetn majora, fere presentibv? ttqiium. HR- 
 
 Yet Aristippus every dress became, 
 
 In every various change of life the same ; 
 
 And though he aim'd at things of higher kind, 
 
 Yet to the present held an equal mind. FRANCIS, 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 THOSE who exalt themselves into the chair of 
 instruction, without inquiring whether any will 
 submit to their authority, have not sufficiently 
 considered how much of human life passes in little 
 incidents, cursory conversation, slight business, 
 and casual amusements ; and therefore they have 
 endeavoured only to inculcate the more awful 
 virtues, without condescending to regard those 
 petty qualities, which grow important only by 
 their frequency, and which, though they produce 
 no single acts of heroism, nor astonish us by 
 great events, yet are every moment exerting their 
 
 influence upon us, and make the draught of life 
 sweet or bitter by imperceptible instillations. 
 They operate unseen and unregarded, as change 
 of air makes us sick or healthy, though we breathe 
 it without attention, and only know the particles 
 that impregnate it by their salutary or malignant 
 effects. 
 
 You have shown yourself not ignorant of the 
 value of those subaltern endowments, yet have 
 hitherto neglected to recommend good-humour 
 to the world, though a little reflection will show 
 you that it is the balm of being, the quality to 
 which all that adorns or elevates mankind must 
 owe its power of pleasing. Without good-hu- 
 mour, learning and bravery can only confer that 
 superiority which swells the heart of the lion in 
 the desert, where he roars without reply, and ra- 
 vages without resistance* Without good-hu- 
 mour, virtue may awe by its dignity, and amaze 
 by its brightness ; but must always be viewed at 
 a distance, and will scarcely gain a friend or at- 
 tract an imitator. 
 
 Good-humour may be defined a habit of being 
 pleased ; a constant and perennial softness of 
 manner, easiness of approach, and suavity of dis- 
 position ; like that which every man perceives in 
 himself, when the first transports of new felicity 
 have subsided, and his thoughts are only kept 
 in motion by a slow succession of soft impulses. 
 Good-humour is a state between gayety and un- 
 concern, the act or emanation of a mind at leisure 
 to regard the gratification of another. 
 
 It is imagined by many, that whenever they 
 aspire to please, they are required to be merry, 
 and to show the gladness of their souls by flights 
 of pleasantry, and bursts of laughter. But 
 though these men may be for a time heard with 
 applause and admiration, they seldom delight us 
 long. We enjoy them a little, and then retire 
 to easiness and good-humour, as the eye gazes 
 awhile on eminence glittering with the sun, but 
 soon turns aching away to verdure and to flowers. 
 
 Gayety is to good-humour as animal perfumes 
 to vegetable fragrance ; the one overpowers 
 weak spirits, and the other recreates and revives 
 them. Gayety seldom fails to give some pain ; 
 the hearers either strain their faculties to accom^ 
 pany its towerings, or are left behind in envy and 
 despair. Good-humour boasts no faculties which 
 every one does not believe in his own power, and 
 pleases principally by not offending. 
 
 It is well known that the most certain way to 
 give any man pleasure, is to persuade him that 
 you receive pleasure from him, to encourage him 
 to freedom and confidence, and to avoid any such 
 appearance of superiority as may overbear and 
 depress him. We see many that by this art only, 
 spend their days in the midst of caresses, invita- 
 tions, and civilities ; and without any extraordi- 
 nary qualities or attainments, are the universal 
 favourites of both sexes, and certainly find a friend 
 in every place, The darlings of the world will, 
 indeed, be generally found such as excite neither 
 jealousy nor fear, and are not considered as can- 
 didates for any eminent degree of reputation, but 
 content themselves with common accomplish- 
 ments, and endeavour rather to solicit kindness 
 than to raise esteem ; therefore, in assemblies 
 and places of resort, it seldom fails to happen, 
 that though at the entrance of some particular 
 person, every face brightens with gladness, and 
 every hand is extended in salutation, yet if you
 
 118 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 73. 
 
 pursue him beyond the first exchange of civilities, 
 you will lind him of very small importance, and 
 only welcome to the company, as one by whom 
 all conceive themselves admired, and with whom 
 any one is at liberty to amuse himself when he 
 can find no other auditor or companion ; as one 
 with whom all are at ease, who will hear a jest 
 without criticism, and a narrative without con- 
 tradiction, who laughs with every wit, and yields 
 to every disputer. 
 
 There are many whose vanity always inclines 
 them to associate with those from whom they 
 have no reason to fear mortification ; and there 
 are times in which the wise and the knowing are 
 willing to receive praise without the labour of de- 
 serving it, in which the most elevated mind is 
 willing to descend, and the most active to be at 
 rest All therefore are at some hour or another 
 fond of companions whom they can entertain 
 upon easy terms, and who will relieve them from 
 solitude, without condemning them to vigilance 
 and caution. We are most inclined to love 
 when we have nothing to fear, and he th.at en- 
 courages us to please ourselves, will not be long 
 without preference in our affection to those whose 
 learning holds us at the distance of pupils, or 
 whose wit calls all attention from us, and leaves 
 us without importance and without regard. 
 
 It is remarked by Prince Henry, when he sees 
 Fal staff" lying on the ground, that he could have 
 better spared a better man. He was well ac- 
 quainted with the vices and follies of him whom 
 he lamented ; but while his conviction compelled 
 him to do justice to superior qualities, his tender- 
 ness still broke out at the remembrance of Fal- 
 staffj of the cheerful companion, the loud buffoon, 
 with whom he had passed his time in all the 
 luxury of idleness, who had gladded him with 
 un envied merriment, and whom he could at once 
 enjoy and despise. 
 
 You may perhaps think this account of those 
 who are distinguished for their good humour, 
 not very consistent with the praises which I have 
 bestowed upon it. But surely nothing can more 
 evidently show the value of this quality, than that 
 it recommends those who are destitute of all 
 other excellences, and procures regard to the tri- 
 fling, friendship to the worthless, and affection 
 to the dull. 
 
 Good humour is indeed generally degraded by 
 the characters in which it is found ; for, being 
 considered as a cheap and vulgar quality, we find 
 it often neglected by those that, having excel- 
 lences of higher reputation and brighter splen- 
 dour, perhaps imagine that they hav e sqme right to 
 gratify themselves at the expense of others, and 
 are to demand compliance rather than to practice 
 it. It is by some unfortunate mistake that al- 
 most all those who have any claim to esteem or 
 love, press their pretensions" with too little con- 
 sideration of others. This mistake, my own in- 
 terest, as well as my zeal for general happiness, 
 makes me desirous to rectify ; for I have a friend, 
 who, because he knows his own fidelity and use- 
 fulness, is never willing to sink into a companion: 
 I have a wife, whose beauty first subdued me, 
 and whose wit confirmed her conquest, but whose 
 beauty now serves no other purpose than to enti- 
 tle her to tyranny, and whose wit is only used to 
 ustify perverseness. 
 
 Surely nothing can be more unreasonable than 
 to lose the will to please, when we are conscious 
 
 of the power, or show more ciuelty than to choose 
 any kind of influence before that of kindness. 
 He that regards the welfare of others, should 
 make his virtue approachabie, that it may be 
 loved and copied ; and he that considers the 
 want which every man feels, or will feel, of ex- 
 ternal assistance, must rather wish to be sur- 
 rounded by those that love him, than by those 
 that admire his excellences, or solicit his favours ; 
 for admiration ceases with novelty, and interest 
 gains its end and retires. A man whose great 
 qualities want the ornament of superficial attrac- 
 tions, is like a naked mountain with mines of 
 gold, which will be frequented only till the trea- 
 sure is exhausted. 
 
 I am, &c. 
 
 PHILOMIDES. 
 
 No. 73.] TUESDAY, Nov. 27, 1750. 
 
 Slulte, quid O frustra votis puerilibue optca\ 
 Qu<z non uila tulit, fertve, ftretve diet. OVID. 
 
 Why thinks the fool, with childish hope, to see 
 What neither is, nor was, nor e'er shall be 1 
 
 ELPHINSTON. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 IF you feel any of that compassion which you 
 recommend to others, you will not disregard a 
 case which I have reason from observation to be- 
 lieve very common, and which I know by expe- 
 rience to be very miserable. And though the 
 querulous are seldom received with great ardour 
 of kindness, I hope to escape the mortification of 
 finding that my lamentations spread the conta- 
 gion of impatience, and produce anger rather 
 than tenderness. I write not merely to vent the 
 swelling of my heart, but to inquire by what 
 means I may recover my tranquillity : and shall 
 endeavour at brevity in my narrative, having 
 long known that complaint quickly tires, howe- 
 ver elegant or however just. 
 
 I was born in a remote county, of a family that 
 boasts alliances with the greatest names in En- 
 glish history, and extends its claims of affinity to 
 theTudors and Plantagenets. My ancestors by 
 little and little wasted their patrimony, till my 
 father had not enough left for the support of a 
 family, without descending to the cultivation of 
 his own grounds, being condemned to pay three 
 sisters the fortunes allotted them by my grandfa- 
 ther, who is suspected to have made his will 
 when he was incapable of adjusting properly the 
 claims of his children, and who, perhaps, with- 
 out design, enriched his daughters by beggaring 
 his son. My aunts being, at the death of their fa- 
 ther, neither young nor beautiful, nor very emi- 
 nent for softness of behaviour, were suffered to 
 live unsolicited, and by accumulating the interest 
 of their portions, grew every day richer and 
 prouder. My father pleased himself with fore- 
 seeing that the possessions of those ladies must 
 revert at last to the hereditary estate, and, that 
 his family might lose none of its dignity, resolved 
 to keep me untainted with a lucrative employ- 
 ment : whenever therefore I discovered any in- 
 clination to the improvement of my condition, my 
 mother never failed to put me in mind of my 
 birth, and charged me to do nothing with which
 
 No. 73.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 119 
 
 I might be reproached when I should come to 
 my aunt's estate. 
 
 In all the perplexities or vexations which want 
 of money brought upon us, it was our constant 
 practice to have recourse to futurity. If any 
 of our neighbours surpassed us in appearance, 
 we went home and contrived an equipage, with 
 which the death of my aunts was to supply us. 
 If any purseproud upstart was deficient in re- 
 spect, vengeance was referred to the time in 
 which our estate was to be repaired. We register- 
 ed every act of civility and rudeness, inquired the 
 number of dishes at every feast, and minuted the 
 furniture of every house, that we might, when the 
 hourof affluence should come, be able to eclipse all 
 their splendour, and surpass all their magnificence. 
 
 Upon plans of elegance, and schemes of plea- 
 sure, the day rose and set, and the year went 
 round unregarded, while we were busied in lay- 
 ing out plantations on ground not yet our own, 
 and deliberating whether the manor-house should 
 he rebuilt or repaired. This was the amusement 
 of our leisure, and the solace of our exigences ; 
 we met together only to contrive how our ap- 
 proaching fortune should be enjoyed ; for in this 
 our conversation always ended, on whatever sub- 
 ject it began. We had none of the collateral in- 
 terests, which diversify the life of others with 
 joys and hopes, but had turned our whole atten- 
 tion on one event, which we could neither hasten 
 nor retard, and had no other object of curiosity 
 than the health or sickness of my aunts, of which 
 we were careful to procure very exact and early 
 intelligence. 
 
 This visionary opulence for a while soothed 
 our imagination, but afterwards fired our wishes, 
 and exasperated our necessities, and my father 
 could not always restrain himself from exclaim- 
 ing, that no creature had so many lives as a cat 
 and an old maid. At last upon the recovery of 
 his sister from an ague, which she was supposed 
 to have caught by sparing fire, he began to lose 
 his stomach, and four months afterwards sunk 
 into the grave. 
 
 My mother, who loved her husband, survived 
 him but a little while, and left me the sole heir of 
 their lands, their schemes, and their wishes. As 
 I had not enlarged my conceptions either by 
 books or conversation, I differed only from my 
 father by the freshness of my cheeks, and the 
 vigour of my step : and, like him, gave way to 
 no thoughts but of enjoying the wealth which 
 my aunts were hoarding. 
 
 At length the eldest fell ill. I paid the civili- 
 ties and compliments which sickness requires 
 with the utmost punctuality. I dreamed every 
 night of escutcheons and white gloves, and in- 
 quired every morning at an early hour, whether 
 there were any news of my dear aunt At last 
 a messenger was sent to inform me that I must 
 come to her without the delay of a moment I 
 went and heard her last advice, but opening her 
 will, found that she had left her fortune to her 
 second sister. 
 
 I hung my head ; the youngest sister threat- 
 ened to be married, and every thing was disap- 
 pointment and discontent. I was in danger of 
 losing irreparably one third of my hopes, and 
 was condemned still to wait for the rest. Of part 
 of my terror I was soon eased ; for the youth, 
 whom his relations would have compelled to 
 marry the old lady, after innumerable stipula- 
 
 tions, articles, and settlements, ran away with 
 the daughter of his father's groom ; and my aunt, 
 upon this conviction of the perfidy of man, resolv- 
 ed never to listen more to amorous addresses. 
 
 Ten years longer I dragged the shackles of ex- 
 pectation, without ever suffering a day to pass in 
 which I did not compute how much my chance 
 was improved of being rich to-morrow. At last 
 the second lady died, after a short illness, which 
 yet was long enough to afford her time for the 
 disposal of her estate, which she gave to me after 
 the death of her sister. 
 
 I was now relieved from part of my misery ; a 
 large fortune, though not in my power, was cer- 
 tain and unalienable; nor was there now any 
 danger that I might at last be frustrated of my 
 hopes by fret of dotage, the flatteries of a cham- 
 ber-maid, the whispers of a tale-bearer, or the of- 
 ficiousness of a nurse. But my wealth was yet 
 in reversion, my aunt was to be buried before I 
 could emerge to grandeur and pleasure ; and 
 there was yet, according to rny father's observa- 
 tion, nine lives between me and happiness. 
 
 I however lived on, without any clamours of 
 discontent, and comforted myself with consider- 
 ing that all are mortal, and they who are conti- 
 nually decaying, must at last be destroyed. 
 
 But let no man from this time suffer his felicity 
 to depend on the death of his aunt The good 
 gentlewoman was very regular in her hours, and 
 simple in her diet ; and in walking or sitting still, 
 waking or sleeping, had always in view the pre- 
 servation of her health. She was subject to no 
 disorder but hypochondriac dejection ; by which, 
 without intention, she increased my miseries, for 
 whenever the weather was cloudy, she would 
 take her bed and send me notice that her time 
 was come. I went with all the haste of eager- 
 ness, and sometimes received passionate injunc- 
 tions to be kind to her maid, and directions how 
 the last offices should be performed ; but if be- 
 fore my arrival the sun happened to break out, or 
 the wind to change, I met her at the door, or 
 found her in the garden, bustling and vigilant, 
 with all the tokens of long life. 
 
 Sometimes, however, she fell into distempers, 
 and was thrice given over by the doctor, yet she 
 found means of slipping through the gripe of 
 death, and after having tortured me three months 
 at each time with violent alternations of hope 
 and fear, came out of her chamber without any 
 other hurt than the loss of flesh, which in a few 
 weeks she recovered by broths and jellies. 
 
 As most have sagacity sufficient to guess at 
 the desires of an heir, it was the constant prac- 
 tice of those who were hoping at second hand, 
 and endeavoured to secure my favour against the 
 time when I should be rich, to pay their court, by 
 informing me that my aunt began to droop, that 
 she had lately a bad night, that she coughed fee- 
 bly, and that she could never climb May hill ; or, 
 at least, that the autumn would carry her ofE 
 Thus was I flattered in the winter with the pierc- 
 ing winds of March, and in summer with the fogs 
 of September. But she lived through spring and 
 fall, and set heat and cold at defiance, till, after 
 near half a century, I buried her on the four- 
 teenth of last June, aged ninety-three years, 61 e 
 months, and six days. 
 
 For two months after her death I was rich, 
 and was pleased with that obsequiousness and 
 reverence which wealth instantaneously pro
 
 120 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 74 
 
 cures. But this joy is now past, and I have re- 
 turned again to my old habit of wishing. Being 
 accustomed to give the future full power over my 
 mind, and to start away from the scene before 
 me to some expected enjoyment, I deliver up my- 
 self to the tyranny of every desire which fancy 
 suggests, and long for a thousand things which 
 [ am unable to procure. Money has much less 
 power than is ascribed to it by those that want 
 it. I had formed schemes which I cannot exe- 
 cute, I had supposed events which do not come 
 to pass, and the rest of my life must pass in crav- 
 ing solicitude, unless you can find some remedy 
 for a mind corrupted with an inveterate disease 
 of wishing, and unable to think on any thing but 
 wants, which reason tells me will never be sup- 
 plied. 
 
 I am, &c. 
 
 CUPIDUS. 
 
 No. 74.] SATURDAY, DEC. 1, 1750. 
 
 Rizatur de lana sape caprina. HOE. 
 
 For nought tormented, she for nought torments. 
 
 ELPHINSTON. 
 
 MEN seldom give pleasure when they are not 
 pleased themselves ; it is necessary, therefore, to 
 cultivate an habitual alacrity and cheerfulness, 
 that in whatever state we may be placed by Pro- 
 vidence, whether we are appointed to confer or 
 receive benefits, to implore or to afford protec- 
 tion, we may secure the love of those with whom 
 we transact. For though it is generally imagin- 
 ed, that he who grants favours, may spare any 
 attention to his behaviour, and that usefulness 
 will always procure friends ; yet it has been 
 found, that there is an art of granting requests, 
 an art very difficult of attainment ; that officious- 
 ness and liberality may be so adulterated, as to 
 lose the greater part of their effect ; that compli- 
 ance may provoke, relief may harass, and libera- 
 . lity distress. 
 
 No disease of the mind can more fatally disa- 
 ble it from benevolence, the chief duty of social 
 beings, than ill humour or peevishness ; for 
 though it breaks not out in paroxysms of outrage, 
 nor bursts into clamour, turbulence, and blood- 
 shed, it wears out happiness by slow corrosion, 
 and small injuries incessantly repeated. It may 
 be considered as the canker of life, that destroys 
 its vigour, and checks its improvement, that 
 creeps on with hourly depredations, and taints 
 and vitiates what it cannot consume. 
 
 Peevishness, when it has been so far indulged, 
 as to outrun the motions of the will, and discover 
 itself without premeditation, is a species of de- 
 pravity in the highest degree disgusting and of- 
 fensive, because no rectitude of intention, nor 
 toftness of address, can ensure a moment's ex- 
 tmption from affront and indignity. While we 
 are courting the favour of a peevish man, and ex- 
 rrting ourselves in the most diligent civility, an 
 imlucky syllable displeases, an unheeded circum- 
 stance raffles and exasperates ; and in the mo- 
 ment when we congratulate ourselves upon hav- 
 )ig gained a friend, our endeavours are frustrated 
 ft once ; and all our assiduity forgotten in the 
 casual tumult of some trifling irritation. 
 
 This troublesom<f impatience is sometimes no- 
 
 thing more than the symptoms of some deeper 
 malady. He that is angry without daring to 
 confess his resentment, or sorrowful without the 
 liberty of telling his grief, is too frequently in- 
 clined to give vent to the fermentations of his 
 mind at the first passages that are opened, and 
 to let his passions boil over upon those whom 
 accident throws in his way. A painful and te- 
 dious course of sickness frequently produces such 
 an alarming apprehension of the least increase 
 of uneasiness, as keeps the soul perpetually on 
 the watch, such a restless and incessant solici- 
 tude, as no care or tenderness can appease, and 
 can only be pacified by the cure of the distemper, 
 and the removal of that pain by which it is ex- 
 cited. 
 
 Nearly approaching to this weakness, is :.he 
 captiousness of old age. When the strength is 
 crushed, the senses are dulled, and the common 
 pleasures of life become insipid by repetition, we 
 are willing to impute our uneasiness to causes 
 not wholly out of our power, and please ourselves 
 with fancying that we suffer by neglect, unkind- 
 ness, or any evil which admits a remedy, rather 
 than by the decays of nature, which cannot be 
 prevented or repaired. We therefore revenge 
 our pains upon those on whom we resolve to 
 charge them ; and too often drive mankind away 
 at the time we have the greatest need of tender- 
 ness and assistance. 
 
 But though peevishness may sometimes claim 
 our compassion, as the consequence or concomi- 
 tant of misery, it is very often found, where no- 
 thing can justify or excuse its admission. It is 
 frequently one of the attendants on the prosper 
 ous, and is employed by insolence in exacting 
 homage, or by tyranny in harassing subjection. 
 It is the offspring of idleness or pride ; of idle- 
 ness anxious for trifles ; or pride unwilling to en- 
 dure the least obstruction of her wishes. Those 
 who have long lived, in solitude, indeed naturally 
 contract thisunsocial quality, because, havinglong 
 had only themselves to please, they do not readil) 
 depart from their own inclinations ; their singu 
 larities therefore are only blameable, when they 
 have imprudently or morosely withdrawn them- 
 selves from the world ; but there are others, who 
 have, without any necessity, nursed up this habit 
 in their minds, by making implicit submissive- 
 ness the condition of their favour, and suffering 
 none to approach them, but those who nevei 
 speak but to applaud, or move but to obey. 
 
 He that gives himself up to his own fancy, and 
 converses with none but such as he hires to lull 
 him on the down of absolute authority, to sooth? 
 him with obsequiousness, and regale him with 
 flattery, soon grows too slothful for the labour o) 
 contest, too tender for the asperity of contradic- 
 tion, and too delicate for the coarseness of truth, 
 a little opposition oftends, a little restraint en- 
 rages, and a little difficulty perplexes him ; having 
 been accustomed to see every thing give way to 
 his humour, he soon forgets his own littleness, 
 and expects to find the world roiling at his heck, 
 and all mankind employed to acommodale and 
 delight him. 
 
 Tetrica had a large fortune bequeathed to hex 
 by an aunt, which made her very parly inde- 
 pendent, and placed her in a state of superiority 
 to all about her. Having no superfluity ol un 
 derstanding, she was soon intoxicated by the 
 flatteries of her maid, who informed her that
 
 No. 75.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 121 
 
 ladies, such as she, had nothing to do but take 
 pleasure their own way ; that she wanted nothing 
 from others, and had therefore no reason to value 
 their opinion ; that money was every thins ; and 
 that they who thought themselves ill-treated, 
 should look for better usage among their equals. 
 Warm with these generous sentiments, Te- 
 trica came forth into the world, in which she en- 
 deavoured to force respect by haughtiness of mien 
 and vehemence of language ; but having neither 
 birth, beauty, nor wit, in any uncommon degree, 
 she suffered such mortifications from those who 
 thought themselves at liberty to return her insults, 
 as reduced her turbulence to cooler malignity, 
 and taught her to practise her arts of vexation 
 only where she might hope to tyrannize without 
 resistance. She continued from her twentieth to 
 her fifty-fifth year to torment all her inferiors with 
 so much diligence, that she has formed a princi- 
 ple of disapprobation, and finds in every place 
 something to grate her mind, and disturb her 
 quiet 
 
 If she takes the air, she is offended with the 
 heat or cold, the glare of the sun, or the gloom of 
 the clouds ; if she makes a visit, the room in 
 which she is to be received, is too light, or too 
 dark, or furnished with something which she can- 
 not see without aversion. Her tea is never of 
 the right sort ; the figures on the China give her 
 disgust Where there are children, she hates 
 the gabble of brats ; where there are none, she 
 cannot bear a place without some cheerfulness 
 and rattle. If many servants are kept in a house, 
 she never fails to tell how Lord Lavish was ru- 
 ined by a numerous retinue ; if few, she relates 
 the story of a miser that made his company wait 
 on themselves. She quarrelled with one family, 
 because she had an unpleasant view from their 
 windows ; with another, because the squirrel 
 leaped within two yards of her ; and with a third, 
 because she could not bear the noise of the parrot. 
 Of milliners and mantua-makers she is the 
 proverbial torment She compels them to alter 
 their work, then to unmake it, and contrive it 
 after another fashion ; then changes her mind, 
 and likes it better as it was at first ; then will 
 have a small improvement. Thus she proceeds 
 till no profit can recompense the vexation ; they 
 at last leave the clothes at her house and refuse 
 to serve her. Her maid, the only being that can 
 endure her tyranny, professes to take her own 
 course, and hear her mistress talk. Such is the 
 consequence of peevishness ; it can be borne only 
 when it is despised. 
 
 It sometimes happens that too close an atten- 
 tion to minute exactness, or a too rigorous habit 
 of examining every thing by the standard of per- 
 fection, vitiates the temper, rather than improves 
 the understanding, and teaches the mind to dis- 
 cern faults with unhappy penetration. It is inci- 
 dent likewise to men of vigorous imagination to 
 please themselves too much with futurities, and 
 to fret because those expectations are disappoint- 
 ed, which should never have been formed. Know- 
 ledge and genius are often enemies to quiet, by 
 suggesting ideas of excellence, which men and 
 the performances of men cannot attain. But let 
 no man rashly determine, that his unwillingness 
 to be pleased is a proof of understanding, unless 
 his superiority appears from less doubtful evi- 
 dence; for though peevishness may sometimes 
 justly boast its descent from learning or from wit 
 
 it is much oftener of base extraction, the child of 
 vanity, and nursling of ignorance. 
 
 No. 75.] TUESDAY, DEC. 4, 1750. 
 
 tHligitur nemo, nisi cui Fortima secunda ett, 
 Qaff, simid intonuit, proximo quaquefugat. 
 
 When smiling Fortune spreads her golden ray, 
 All crowd around to flatter and obey: 
 But when she thunders from an angry sky, 
 Our friends, our flatterers, our lovers fly. 
 
 MISS A. w * 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 THE diligence with which you endeavour to culti- 
 vate the knowledge of nature, manners, and life, 
 will perhaps incline you to pay some regard to 
 the observations of one who has been taught to 
 know mankind by unwelcome information, and 
 whose opinions are the result, not of solitary con 
 jectures, but of practice and experience. 
 
 I was bom to a large fortune, and bred to the 
 knowledge of those arts which are supposed to 
 accomplish the mind, and adorn the person of a 
 woman. To these attainments, which custom 
 and education almost forced upon me, I added 
 some voluntary acquisitions by the use of books, 
 and the conversation of that species of men whom 
 the ladies generally mention with terror and aver- 
 sion under the name of scholars, but whom I 
 have found a harmless and inoffensive order of 
 beings not so much wiser than ourselves, but that 
 they may receive as well as communicate know- 
 ledge, and more inclined to degrade their own 
 character by cowardly submission, than to over- 
 bear or oppress us with their learning or their wit 
 
 From these men, however, if they are by kind 
 treatment ertcouraged to talk, something may be 
 gained, which, embellished with elegancy, and 
 softened by modesty, will always add dignity and 
 value to female conversation ; and from my ac- 
 quaintance with the bookish part of the world, I 
 derived many principles of judgment and max- 
 ims of prudence, by which I was enabled to draw 
 upon myself the general regard in every place of 
 concourse or pleasure. My opinion was the 
 great rule of approbation, my remarks were re 
 nembered by those who desired the second de- 
 gree of fame, my mien was studied, my dress 
 was imitated, my letters were handed from one 
 "amily to another, and read by those who copied 
 them as sent to themselves ; my visits were soli- 
 cited as honours, and multitudes boasted of an 
 mtimdcy with Melissa, who had only seen me by 
 accident, and whose familiarity had never pro- 
 ceeded beyond the exchange of a compliment, 01 
 return of a courtesy. 
 
 I shall make no scruple of confessing that I 
 was pleased with this universal veneration, be 
 cause I always considered it as paid to my in 
 xinsic qualities and inseparable merit, and verj 
 ;asily persuaded myself that fortune had no pai< 
 n my superiority. When I looked upon mj 
 glass, 1 saw youth and beauty, with health thai 
 might give me reason to hope their continuance ; 
 when I examined my mind, I found some strength 
 of judgment, and fertility of fancy : and was told 
 
 ' Anna Williams.
 
 122 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 75. 
 
 that every action was grace, and that every ac- 
 cent was persuasion. 
 
 In this manner my life passed like a continual 
 triumph amidst acclamations, and envy, and 
 courtship, and caresses : to please Melissa was 
 the general ambition, and every stratagem of art- 
 ful flattery was practised upon me. To be flat- 
 tered is grateful, even when we know that our 
 praises are not believed by those who pronounce 
 them; for they prove, at least, our power, and 
 show that our favour is valued, since it is pur- 
 chased by the meanness of falsehood. But, per- 
 haps, the \latterer is not often detected; for an 
 honest mind is not apt to suspect, and no one ex- 
 erts the power of discernment with much vigour 
 when self-love favours the deceit. 
 
 The number of adorers, and the perpetual dis- 
 traction of my thoughts by new schemes of plea- 
 sure, prevented me from listening to any of those 
 who crowd in multitudes to give girls advice, 
 and kept me unmarried and unengaged to my 
 twenty-seventh year, when, as I was towering 
 in all the pride of uncontested excellency, with a 
 face yet little impaired, and a mind hourly im- 
 proving, the failure of a fund, in which my money 
 was placed, reduced me to a frugal competency, 
 which allowed little beyond neatness and inde- 
 pendence. 
 
 I bore the diminution of my riches without any 
 outrages of sorrow, or pusillanimity of dejection. 
 Indeed, I did not know how much I had lost, for, 
 having always heard and thought more of my wit 
 and beauty, than of my fortune, it did not sud- 
 denly enter my imagination, that Melissa could 
 sink beneath her established rank, while her 
 form and her mind continued the same ; that she 
 could cease to raise admiration but by ceasing to 
 deserve it, or feel any stroke but from the hand 
 of time. 
 
 It was in my power to have concealed the loss, 
 and to have married, by continuing the same ap- 
 pearance, with all the credit of my original for- 
 tune ; but I was not so far sunk in my own es- 
 teem, as to submit to the baseness of fraud, or 
 to desire any other recommendation than sense 
 and virtue. I therefore dismissed my equipage, 
 sold those ornaments which were become unsuit- 
 able to my new condition, and appeared among 
 those with whom I used to converse with less 
 glitter, but with equal spirit. 
 
 I found myself received at every visit with sor- 
 row beyond what is naturally felt for calamities 
 in which we have no part, and was entertained 
 with condolence and consolation so frequently 
 repeated, that my friends plainly consulted rather 
 their own gratification than my relief. Some 
 from that time refused my acquaintance, and for- 
 bore, without any provocation, to repay my visits ; 
 some visited me, but after a longer interval than 
 usual, and every return was still with more delay ; 
 nor did any of my female acquaintances fail to 
 introduce the mention of my misfortunes, to com- 
 pare my present and former condition, to tell me 
 now much it must trouble me to want the splen- 
 dour which I became so well, to look at plea- 
 sures which I had formerly enjoyed, and to sink 
 o a level with those by whom I had been con- 
 sidered as moving in a higher sphere, and who 
 had hitherto approached me with reverence and 
 submission, which I was now no longer to ex- 
 pect. 
 
 Observations like Ihese are commonly nothing 
 
 better than covert insults, which serve to give 
 vent to the flatulence of pride, but they are now 
 and then imprudently uttered by honesty and 
 benevolence, and inflict pain where kindness is 
 intended; I will, therefore, so far maintain my 
 antiquated claim to politeness, as to venture the 
 establishment of this rule, that no one ought to 
 remind another of misfortunes of which the suf- 
 ferer does not complain, and which there are no 
 means proposed of alleviating. You have no 
 right to excite thoughts which necessarily give 
 pain whenever they return, and which perhaps 
 might not have revived but by absurd and un- 
 seasonable compassion. 
 
 My endless train of lovers immediately with- 
 drew, without raising any emotions. The great- 
 er part had indeed always professed to court, as 
 it is termed, upon the square, had inquired my 
 fortune, and offered settlements; these had un- 
 doubtedly a right to retire without censure, since 
 they had openly treated for money, as necessary 
 to their happiness, and who can tell how little 
 they wanted any other portion? I have always 
 thought the clamours of women unreasonable, 
 who imagine themselves injured because the men, 
 who followed them upon the supposition of a 
 greater fortune, reject them when they are dis- 
 covered to have less. I have never known any 
 lady, who did not think wealth a title to some 
 stipulations in her favour: and surely what is 
 claimed by the possession of money is justly for- 
 feited by its loss. She that has once demanded 
 a settlement has allowed the importance of for- 
 tune ; and when she cannot show pecuniary 
 merit, why should she think her cheapener oblig- 
 ed to purchase ? 
 
 My lovers were not all contented with silent 
 desertion. Some of them revenged the neglect 
 which they had formerly endured by wanton and 
 superfluous insults, and endeavoured to mortify 
 me, by paying, in my presence, those civilities to 
 other ladies, which were once devoted only to 
 me. But, as it had been my rule to treat men 
 according to the rank of their intellect, I had 
 never suffered any one to waste his life in sus- 
 pense, who could have employed it to better pur- 
 poses, and had therefore no enemies but cox- 
 combs, whose resentment and respect were equal- 
 ly below my consideration. 
 
 The only pain which I have felt from degra- 
 dation, is the loss of that influence which I had 
 always exerted on the side of virtue, in the de- 
 fence of innocence, and the assertion of truth. 
 I now find my opinions slighted, my sentiments 
 criticised, and my arguments opposed by those 
 that used to listen to me without reply, and strug- 
 gle to be first in expressing their conviction. 
 
 The female disputants have wholly thrown ofi 
 my authority ; and if I endeavour to enforce my 
 reasons by an appeal to the scholars that happen 
 to be present, the wretches are certain to pay 
 their court by sacrificing me and my system to a 
 finer gown ; and I am every hour insulted with 
 contradiction by cowards, who could never find 
 till lately that Melissa was liable to error. 
 
 There are two persons only whom I cannot 
 charge with having changed their conduct with 
 my change of fortune. One is an old curate 
 that has passed his life in the duties of his pro- 
 fession, with great reputation for his knowledge 
 and piety ; the other is a lieutenant of dragoons. 
 The parson made no difficulty in the height of
 
 No. 76.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 123 
 
 my elevation to check me when I was pert, and 
 instruct me when I blundered ; and if there is any 
 alteration, he is now more timorous lest his free- 
 dom should be thought rudeness. The soldier 
 never paid me any particular addresses, but very 
 rigidly observed all the rules of politeness, which 
 he is now so far from relaxing, that whenever 
 he serves the tea, he obstinately carries me the 
 first dish, in defiance of the frowns and whispers 
 of the table. 
 
 This, Mr. Rambler, is to see the icorld. It is 
 impossible for those that have only known afflu- 
 ence and prosperity, to judge rightly of themselves 
 or others. The rich and the powerful live in a 
 perpetual masquerade, in which all about them 
 wear borrowed characters ; and we only discover 
 in what estimation we are held, when we can no 
 longer gives hopes or fears. 
 
 I am, &c. 
 
 MELISSA. 
 
 No. 76.] SATURDAY, DEC. 8, 1750. 
 
 Silvia ubi passim 
 
 Palantes error certo de tramitr, pellit, 
 
 nie sinistrorsum, hie deztrorsum abit ; unus utrique 
 
 Error, sed variis illuditpartibus. HOR. 
 
 While mazy error draws mankind astray 
 
 From truth's sure path, each takes his devious way ? 
 
 One to the right, one to the left recedes, 
 
 Alike deluded as each fancy leads. 
 
 ELPHINSTON. 
 
 IT is easy for every man, whatever be his cha- 
 racter with others, to find reasons for esteeming 
 himself, and therefore censure, contempt, or con- 
 viction of crimes, seldom deprive him of his own 
 favour. Those, indeed, who can see only exter- 
 nal facts, may look upon him with abhorrence ; 
 but when he calls himself to his own tribunal, he 
 finds every fault, if not absolutely effaced, yet so 
 much palliated by the goodness of his intention, 
 and the cogency of the motive, that very little 
 guilt or turpitude remains ; and when he takes a 
 survey of the whole complication of his charac- 
 ter, he discovers so many latent excellences, so 
 many virtues that want but an opportunity to ex- 
 ert themselves in act, and so many kind wishes 
 for universal happiness, that he looks on himself 
 as suffering unjustly under the infamy of single 
 failings, while the general temper of his mind is 
 unknown or unregarded. 
 
 It is natural to mean well, when only abstract- 
 ed ideas of virtue are proposed to the mind, and 
 no particular passion turns us aside from recti- 
 tude; and so willing is every man to flatter him- 
 eelf, that the difference between approving laws, 
 and obeying them, is frequently forgotten ; he 
 that acknowledges the obligations of morality, 
 and pleases his vanity with enforcing them to 
 others, concludes himself zealous in the cause of 
 virtue, though he has no longer any regard to her 
 precepts, than they conform to his own desires ; 
 and counts himself among her warmest lovers, 
 because he praises her beauty, though every ri- 
 val steals away his heart. 
 
 There are, however, great numbers who have 
 little recourse to the refinements of speculation, 
 but who yet live at peace with themselves, by 
 means which require less understanding, or less 
 attention. When their hearts are burthened 
 with the consciousness of a crime, instead of 
 
 seeking for some remedy within themselves, they 
 look round upon the rest of mankind, to find 
 others tainted with the same guilt ; they please 
 themselves with observing, that they have num- 
 bers on their side ; and that, though they are 
 hunted out from the society of good men, they 
 are not likely to be condemned to solitude. 
 
 It may be observed, perhaps without excep- 
 tion, that none are so industrious to detect wick- 
 edness, or so ready to impute it, as they whose 
 crimes are apparent and confessed. They envy 
 an unblemished reputation, and what they envy 
 they are busy to destroy ; they are unwilling to 
 suppose themselves meaner and more corrupt 
 than others, and therefore willingly pull down 
 from their elevations those with whom they can- 
 not rise to an equality. No man yet was ever 
 wicked without secret discontent, and according 
 to the different degrees of remaining virtue, or 
 unextinguished reason, he either endeavours to 
 reform himself, or corrupt others ; either to re- 
 gain the station which he has quitted, or pre- 
 vail on others to imitate his defection. 
 
 It has always been considered as an alleviation 
 of misery not to suffer alone, even when union 
 and society can contribute nothing to resistance 
 or escape ; some comfort of the same kind seems 
 to incite wickedness to seek associates, though 
 indeed another reason may be given ; for as guilt 
 is propagated the power of reproach is diminish- 
 ed, and among numbers equally detestable every 
 individual may be sheltered from shame, though 
 not from conscience. 
 
 Another lenitive, by which the throbs of the 
 breast are assuaged, is the contemplation not 01 
 the same, but of different crimes. He that can- 
 not justify himself by his resemblance to others, 
 is ready to try some other expedient, and to in- 
 quire what will rise to his advantage from oppo- 
 sition and dissimilitude. He easily finds some 
 faults in every human being, which he weighs 
 against his own, and easily makes them prepon- 
 derate while he keeps the balance in his own 
 hand, and throws in or takes out at his pleasure 
 circumstances that make them heavier or lighter. 
 He then triumphs in his comparative purity, and 
 sets himself at ease, not because he can refute the 
 charges advanced against him, but because he 
 can censure his accusers with equal justice, and 
 no longer fears the arrows of reproach, when he 
 has stored his magazine of malice with weapons 
 equally sharp and equally envenomed. 
 
 This practice, though never just, is yet spe- 
 cious and artful, when the censure is directed 
 against deviations to the contrary extreme. The 
 man who is branded with cowardice, may, with 
 some appearance of propriety, turn all his force 
 of argument against a stupid contempt of life, 
 and rash precipitation into unnecessary danger. 
 Every recession from temerity is an approach to- 
 wards cowardice; and though it be confessed 
 that bravery, like other virtues, stands between 
 faults on either hand, yet the place of the middle 
 point may always be disputed ; he may therefore 
 often impose upon careless understandings, by 
 turning the attention wholly from himself, and 
 keeping it fixed invariably on the opposite fault ; 
 and by showing how many evils are avoided by 
 his behaviour, he may conceal for a time those 
 which are incurred. 
 
 But vice has not always opportunities or ad- 
 dress for such artful subterfuges ; men often ex
 
 124 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 |No. 77. 
 
 tenuate their own guilt, only by vague and gene- 
 ral charges upon others, or endeavour to gain rest 
 to themselves, by pointing some otlter prey to the 
 pursuit of censure. 
 
 Every whisper of infamy is industriously cir- 
 culated, every hint of suspicion eagerly improved, 
 and every failure of conduct joyfully published 
 by those whose interest it is, that the eye and 
 voice of the public should be employed on any 
 rather than on themselves. 
 
 All these artifices, and a thousand others equal- 
 ly vain and equally despicable, are incited by that 
 conviction of the deformity of wickedness, from 
 which none can set himself free, and by an ab- 
 surd desire to separate the cause from the effects, 
 and to enjoy the profit of crimes without suffering 
 the shame. Men are willing to try all methods 
 of reconciling guilt and quiet, and when their 
 understandings are stubborn and uncomplying, 
 raise their passions against them, and hope to 
 overpower their own knowledge. 
 
 It is generally not so much the desire of men, 
 sunk into depravity, to deceive the world as them- 
 selves; for when no particular circumstances 
 make them dependent on others, infamy disturbs 
 them little, but as it revives their remorse, and is 
 echoed to them from their own hearts. The sen- 
 tence most dreaded is that of reason and con- 
 science, which they would engage on their side 
 at any price but the labours of duty and the sor- 
 rows of repentance. For this purpose every se- 
 ducement and fallacy is sought, the hopes still 
 rest upon some new experiment till life is at an 
 end; and the last hour steals on unperceived, 
 while the faculties are engaged in resisting rea- 
 son, and repressing the sense of the Divine dis- 
 approbation. 
 
 No. 77.] TUESDAY, DEC. 11, 1750. 
 
 Os dignum aterno nitidum quod fulgeat attro, 
 Si mallet laudare Iteurn, cui sordida monstra 
 Prtztulit, et liquidam temeravit crimine vocem. 
 
 PRUDENT. 
 
 A golden statue such a wit might claim, 
 Had God and virtue raised the noble flame ; 
 But ah ! how lewd a subject has he sung ! 
 What rile obscenity profanes his tongue 
 
 AMONG those whose hopes of distinction, or 
 riches, arise from an opinion of their intellectual 
 attainments, it has been, from age to age, an es- 
 tablished custom, to complain of the ingratitude 
 of mankind to their instructors, and the discou- 
 ragement which men of genius and study suffer 
 from avarice and ignorance, from the prevalence 
 of false taste, and the encroachment of barbarity. 
 
 Men are most powerfully affbcted by those evils 
 which themselves feel, or which appear before 
 their own eyes ; and as there has never been a 
 time of such general felicity, but that many have 
 failed to obtain the rewards to which they had, 
 in their own judgment, a just claim, some offend- 
 ed writer has always declaimed, in the rage of 
 disappointment, against his age or nation ; nor is 
 there one who has not fallen upon times more 
 unfavourable to learning than any former cen- 
 tury, or who does not wish that he had been re- 
 served in the insensibility of non-existence to 
 some happier hour, when literary merit shall no 
 
 longer be de'spised, and the gifts and caresses of 
 mankind shall recompense the toils of study, and 
 add lustre to the charms of wit. 
 
 Many of these clamours are undoubtedly to 
 be considered only as the bursts of pride never 
 to be satisfied, as the prattle of affectation mimic- 
 ing distresses unfelt, or as the common-places of 
 vanity solicitous for splendour of sentences and 
 acuteness of remark. Yet it cannot be denied, 
 that frequent discontent must proceed from fre- 
 quent hardships; and though it is evident, that 
 not more than one age or people can deserve the 
 censure of being more averse from learning than 
 any other, yet at all times knowledge must have 
 encountered impediments, and wit been morti- 
 fied with contempt, or harassed with persecution. 
 
 It is not necessary, however, to join immedi- 
 ately in the outcry, or to condemn mankind as 
 pleased with ignorance, or always envious of su- 
 perior abilities. The miseries of the learned have 
 been related by themselves ; and since they have 
 not been found exempt from that partiality with 
 which men look upon their own actions and suf- 
 ferings, we may conclude that they have not for- 
 gotten to deck their cause with the brightest or- 
 naments and strongest colours. The logician 
 collected all his subtilties when they were to be 
 employed in his own defence ; and the master of 
 rhetoric exerted against his adversary all the arts 
 by which hatred is embittered, and indignation 
 inflamed. 
 
 To believe no rnan in his own cause, is the 
 standing and perpetual rule of distributive justice. 
 Since, therefore, in the controversy between the 
 learned and their enemies, we have only the 
 pleas of one party, of the party more able to de- 
 lude our understandings, and engage our pas- 
 sions, we must determine our opinion by facts 
 uncontested, and evidences on each side allowed 
 to be genuine. 
 
 By this procedure, I know not whether the 
 students will find their cause promoted, or their 
 compassion which they expect much increased. 
 Let their conduct be impartially surveyed ; let 
 them be allowed no longer to direct attention at 
 their pleasure, by expatiating on their own de- 
 serts ; let neither the dignity of knowledge over- 
 awe the judgment, nor the graces of elegance 
 seduce it. It will then, perhaps, be found, that 
 they were not able to produce claims to kinder 
 treatment, butprovoked the calamities which they 
 suffered, and seldom wanted friends, but when 
 they wanted virtue. 
 
 That few men, celebrated for theoretic wis 
 dom, live with conformity to their precepts, must 
 be readily confessed; and we cannot wonder 
 that the indignation of mankind rises with great 
 vehemence against those who neglect the duties 
 which they appear to know with so strong con- 
 viction the necessity of performing. Yet since 
 no man has power of acting equal to that of think- 
 ing, I know not whether the speculatist may not 
 sometimes incur censures too severe, and by 
 those who form ideas of his life from their know- 
 ledge of his books, be considered as worse than 
 others, only because he was expected to be better. 
 
 He, by whose writings the heart is rectified, 
 the appetites counteracted, and the passions re- 
 pressed, may be considered as not unprofitable to 
 the great republic of humanity, even though his 
 behaviour should not always exemplify his rules. 
 His instructions may diffuse their influence to re-
 
 No. 78.] THE RAMBLER. 
 
 gions, in which it will not be inquired, whether 
 the author be albm an ater, good or bad ; to times, 
 when all his faults and all his follies shall be lost 
 in forgetfulness, among things of no concern or 
 importance to the world ; and he may kindle in 
 thousands and ten thousands that flame which 
 burnt but dimly in himself, through the fumes of 
 passion or the damps of cowardice. The vi- 
 cious moralist may be considered as a taper, by 
 which we are lighted through the labyrinth of 
 complicated passions, he extends his radiance 
 further than his heat, and guides all that are 
 within view, but burns only those who make too 
 near approaches. 
 
 Yet since good or harm must be received for 
 the most part from those to whom we are fa- 
 miliarly known, he whose vices overpower his 
 virtues, in the compass to which his vices can 
 extend, has no reason to complain that he meets 
 not with affection or veneration, when those 
 with whom he passes his life are more corrupted 
 by his practice than enlightened by his ideas. 
 Admiration begins where acquaintance ceases ; 
 and his favourers are distant, but his enemies at 
 hand. 
 
 Yet many have dared to boast of neglected 
 merit, and to challenge their age for cruelty and 
 folly, of whom it cannot -be alleged that they have 
 endeavoured to increase the wisdom or virtue of 
 their readers. They have been at once profli- 
 gate in their lives, and licentious in their compo- 
 sitions ; have not only forsaken the paths of vir- 
 tue, but attempted to lure others after them. 
 They have smoothed the road of perdition, co- 
 vered with flowers the thorns of guilt, and taught 
 temptation sweeter notes, softer blandishments, 
 and stronger allurements. 
 
 It has been apparently the settled purpose of 
 some writers, whose powers and acquisitions 
 place them high in the ranks of literature, to set 
 fashion on the side of wickedness ; to recom- 
 mend debauchery and lewdness, by associating 
 them with qualities most likely to dazzle the dis- 
 cernment, and attract the affections ; and to show 
 innocence and goodness with such attendant 
 weaknesses as necessarily expose them to con- 
 tempt and derision. 
 
 Such naturally found intimates among the 
 corrupt, the thoughtless, and the intemperate; 
 passed their lives amidst the levities of sportive 
 idleness, or the warm professions of drunken 
 friendship ; and fed their hopes with the promises 
 of wretches, whom their precepts had taught to 
 scoff' at truth. But when fools had laughed away 
 their sprightliness, and the languors of excess 
 could no longer be relieved, they saw their pro- 
 tectors hourly drop away, and wondered and 
 stormed to find themselves abandoned. Whe- 
 ther their companions persisted in wickedness, 
 or returned to virtue, they were left equally with- 
 out assistance ; for debauchery is selfish and ne- 
 gligent, and from virtue the virtuous only can ex- 
 pect regard. 
 
 It is said by Florus of Gataline, who died in 
 the midst of slaughtered enemies, that his death 
 had beenittustrious, had it been suffered for his coun- 
 try. Of the wits who have languished away life 
 under the pressure of poverty, or in the restless- 
 ness of suspense, caressed and rejected, flattered 
 and despised, as they were of more or less use 
 to those who styled themselves their patrons, it 
 inigjit be observed, that their miseries would en- 
 
 125 
 
 force compassion, had they been brought upon 
 them by honesty and religion. 
 
 The wickedness of a loose or profane author is 
 more atrocious than that of the giddy libertine, 
 or drunken ravisher. not only because it extends 
 its effects wider, as a pestilence that taints the 
 air is more destructive than poison infused in a 
 draught, but because it is committed with cool 
 deliberation. By the instantaneous violence ot 
 desire, a good man may sometimes be surprised 
 before reflection can come to his rescue ; when 
 the appetites have strengthened their influence 
 by habit, they are not easily resisted or suppress- 
 ed ; but for the frigid villany of studious lewd- 
 ness, for the calm malignity of laboured impiety, 
 what apology can be invented ? What punish- 
 ment can be adequate to the crime of him who 
 retires to solitudes for the refinement of debauch- 
 ery; who tortures his fancv, and ransacks his 
 memory, only that he may leave the world less 
 virtuous than he found it ; that he may intercept 
 the hopes of the rising generation ; and spread 
 snares for the soul with more dexterity. 
 
 What were their motives, or what their ex- 
 cuses, is below the dignity of reason to examine. 
 If having extinguished in themselves the distinc- 
 tion of right and wrong, they were insensible of 
 the mischief which they promoted, they deserved 
 to be hunted down by the general compact, as no 
 longer partaking of social nature ; if influenced 
 by the corruption of patrons, or readers, they sa 
 crificed their own convictions to vanity or inte- 
 rest, they were to be abhorred with more acri- 
 mony than he that murders for pay ; since they 
 committed greater crimes without greater tempt- 
 ations. 
 
 Of him to inhom much is given, much shall be re- 
 quired. Those, whom God has favoured with 
 superior faculties, and made eminent for quick- 
 ness of intuition, and accuracy of distinctions, 
 will certainly be regarded as culpable in his eye, 
 for defects and deviations which, in souls less 
 enlightened, may be guiltless. But, surely, none 
 can think without horror on that man's condi- 
 tion, who has been more wicked in proportion as 
 he had more means of excelling in virtue, and 
 used the light imparted from Heaven only to em- 
 bellish folly and shed lustre upon crimes. 
 
 No. 78.] SATURDAY, DEC. 15, 1750. 
 
 Mors sola fatetvr 
 
 Quantttla sint hominum corpugcnla. . Jtnr. 
 
 Death only this mysterious truth unfolds, 
 
 The mighty soul how small a body%plds. DRYDEN. 
 
 CORPORAL sensation is known to depend so much 
 upon novelty, that custom takes away from ma- 
 ny things their power of giving pleasure or pain. 
 Thus a new dress becomes easy by wearing it, 
 and the palate is reconciled by degrees to dishes 
 which at first disgusted it. That by long habit 
 of carrying a burden, we lose, in great part, our 
 sensibility of its weight, any man may be con- 
 vinced by putting on for an hour the armour of 
 our ancestors ; for he will scarcely believe that 
 men would have had much inclination to marches 
 and battles, encumbered and oppressed, as he 
 will find himself, with the ancient panoply. Yet 
 the heroes that overrun regions, and stormed 
 towns in iron accoutrements, he knows not
 
 126 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 78. 
 
 to have been bigger, and has no reason to ima- 
 gine them stronger, than the present race of 
 men- he therefore must conclude, that their 
 peculiar powers were conferred only by peculiar 
 habits, and that their familiarity with the dress 
 of war enabled them to move in it wijh ease, vi- 
 gour, and agility. 
 
 Yet it seems to be the condition of our present 
 state, that pain should be more fixed and perma- 
 nent than pleasure. Uneasiness gives way by 
 slow degrees, and is long before it quits its pos- 
 session of the sensory ; but all our gratifications 
 are volatile, vagrant, and easily dissipated. The 
 fragrance of the jessamine bower is lost after the 
 enjoyment of a few moments, and the Indian 
 wanders among his native spices without any 
 sense of their exhalations. It is, indeed, not ne- 
 cessary to show by many instances what all man- 
 kind confess, by an incessant call for variety, and 
 restless pursuit of enjoyments, which they value 
 only because unpossessed. 
 
 Something similar, or analogous, may be ob- 
 served in effects produced immediately upon the 
 mind ! nothing can strongly strike or affect us, 
 but what is rare or sudden. The most import- 
 ant events, when they become familiar, are no 
 longer considered with wonder or solicitude, and 
 that which at first filled up our whole attention, 
 and left no place for any other th6ught, is soon 
 thrust aside into some remote repository of the 
 mind, and lies among other lumber of the me- 
 mory, overlooked and neglected. Thus far the 
 mind resembles the body, but here the similitude 
 is at an end. 
 
 The manner in which external force acts upon 
 the body is very little subject to the regulation of 
 the will ; no man can at pleasure obtund or invi- 
 gorate his senses, prolong the agency of any im- 
 pulse, or continue the presence of any image 
 traced upon the eye, or any sound infused into the 
 ear. But our ideas are more subjected to choice ; 
 we can call them before us, and command their 
 stay, we can facilitate and promote their recur- 
 rence, we can either repress their intrusion, or 
 hasten their retreat. It is therefore the business 
 of wisdom and virtue, to select among number- 
 less objects striving for our notice, such as may 
 enable us to exalt our reason, extend our views, 
 and secure our happiness. But this choice is to 
 be made with very little regard to rareness or fre- 
 quency ; for nothing is valuable merely because 
 it is either rare or common, but because it is 
 adapted to some useful purpose, and enables us 
 to supply some deficiency of our nature. 
 
 Milton has judiciously represented the father 
 of mankind, as seized with norror and astonish- 
 ment at the signt of death, exhibited to him on 
 the mount of vision. For surely, nothing can so 
 much disturb the passions, or perplex the intel- 
 lects of man, as the disruption of his union with 
 visible nature ; a separation from all that has hi- 
 therto delighted or engaged him ; a change not 
 only of the place, but the manner of his being; an 
 entrance into a state not simply which he knows 
 not, but which perhaps he has not faculties to 
 know; an immediate and perceptible communi- 
 cation with the Supreme Being, and, what is 
 above all distressful and alarming, the final sen- 
 tence and unalterable allotment. 
 
 Yet we to whom the shortness of life has given 
 frequent occasions of contemplating mortality, 
 can, without emotion, see generations of men 
 
 pass away, and are at leisure to establish modes 
 of sorrow, and adjust the ceremonial of death. 
 We can look upon funeral pomp as a common 
 spectacle in which we have no concern, and turn 
 away from it to trifles and amusements, without 
 dejection of look, or inquietude of heart 
 
 It is, indeed, apparent from the constitution of 
 the world, that there must be a time for other 
 thoughts ; and a perpetual meditation upon the 
 last hour, however it may become the solitude of 
 a monastery, is inconsistent with many duties of 
 common life. But surely the remembrance of 
 death ought to predominate in our minds, as an 
 habitual and settled principle, always operating, 
 though not always perceived; and our attention 
 should seldom wander so far from our own con- 
 dition, as not to be recalled and fixed by sight of 
 an event, which must soon, we know not how 
 soon, happen likewise to ourselves, and of which, 
 though we cannot appoint the time, we may se- 
 cure the consequence. 
 
 Every instance of death may justly awaken 
 our fears and quicken our vigilance, but its fre- 
 quency so much weakens its effect, that we are 
 seldom alarmed unless some close connexion is 
 broken, some scheme frustrated, or some hope 
 defeated. Many therefore seem to pass on from 
 youth to decrepitude, without any reflection on 
 the end of life, because they are wholly involved 
 within themselves, and look on others only as 
 inhabitants of the common earth, without any 
 expectation of receiving good, or intention of be- 
 stowing it. 
 
 Events, of which we confess the importance, 
 excite little sensibility, unless they affect us more 
 nearly than as sharers in the common interest of 
 mankind ; that desire which every man feels of 
 being remembered and lamented, is often morti- 
 fied when we remark how little concern is caused 
 by the eternal departure even of those who have 
 passed their lives with public honours, and been 
 distinguished by extraordinary performances. It 
 is not possible to be regarded with tenderness 
 except by a few. That merit which gives great- 
 ness and renown, diffuses its influence to a wide 
 compass, but acts weakly on every single breast; 
 it is placed at a distance from common spectators, 
 and shines like one of the remote stars, of which 
 the light reaches us but not the heat. The wit, 
 the hero, the philosopher, whom their tempers or 
 their fortunes have hindered from intimate rela- 
 tions, die, without any other effect than that ot 
 adding a new topic to the conversation of the day. 
 They impress none with any fresh conviction of 
 the fragility of our nature, because none had any 
 particular interest in their lives or was united 
 to them by a reciprocation of benefits and en 
 dearments. 
 
 Thus it often happens, that those who in their 
 lives were applauded and admired, are laid at 
 last in the ground without the common honour ot 
 a stone ; because by those excellences with which 
 many were delighted, none had been obliged, and 
 though they had many to celebrate, they had none 
 to love them. 
 
 Custom so far regulates the sentiments, at 
 least of common minds, that I believe men may 
 be generally observed to grow less tender as they 
 advance in age. He who, when life was new, 
 melted at the loss of every companion, can look 
 in time, without concern, upon the grave into 
 which his last friend was thrown, and into which
 
 No. 79.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 127 
 
 himself is ready to fall; not that he is more will- 
 ing to die than formerly, but that he is more fa- 
 miliar to the death of others, and therefore is not 
 alarmed so far as to consider how much nearer 
 he approaches to his end. But this is to submit 
 tamely to the tyranny of accident, and to suffer 
 our reason to lie useless. Every funeral may 
 justly be considered as a summons to prepare 
 for that state, into which it shows us that we 
 must some time enter; and the summons is 
 more loud and piercing, as the event of which it 
 warns us is at less distance. To neglect at any 
 time preparation for death, is to sleep on our 
 post at a siege ; but to omit it in old age, is to 
 sleep at an attack. 
 
 It has always appeared to me one of the most 
 striking passages in the visions of duevedo, 
 which stigmatizes those as fools who complain 
 that they failed of happiness by sudden death. 
 "How" says he, "can death be sudden to a be- 
 ing who always knew that he must die, and that 
 the time of his death was uncertain?" 
 
 Since business and gayety are always drawing 
 our attention away from a future state, some ad- 
 monition is frequently necessary to recall it to 
 our minds; and what can more properly renew 
 the impression than the examples of mortality 
 which every day supplies? The great incentive 
 to virtue is the reflection that we must die ; it will 
 therefore be useful to accustom ourselves, when- 
 ever we see a funeral, to consider how soon we 
 may be added to the number of those whose pro- 
 bation is past, and whose happiness or misery 
 shall endure for ever. 
 
 No. 79.] TUESDAY, DEC. 18, 1750. 
 
 Tarn sape nostrum decipi Fabullum, quid 
 Miraris, Aule. ? Semper bonus homo tiro eat. 
 
 MARTi 
 
 You wonder I've so little wit, 
 
 Friend John, so often to be bit. 
 
 None better guard against a cheat 
 
 Than he who is a knave complete. F. LEWIS. 
 
 SUSPICION, however necessary it may be to our 
 safe passage through ways beset on all sides by 
 fraud and malice, has been always considered, 
 when it exceeds the common measures, as a 
 token of depravity and corruption; and a Greek 
 writer of sentences has laid down, as a standing 
 maxim, that he who believes not another on his oath, 
 knoics himself to be perjured. 
 
 We can form our opinions of that which we 
 know not, only by placing it in comparison with 
 something that we know ; whoever therefore is 
 overrun with suspicion, and detects artifice and 
 stratagem in every proposal, must either have 
 learned by experience or observation the wicked- 
 ness of mankind, and been taught to avoid fraud 
 by having often suffered or seen treachery, or he 
 must derive his judgment from the consciousness 
 of his own disposition, and impute to others the 
 same inclinations which he feels predominant in 
 himself. 
 
 To learn caution by turning our eyes upon 
 life, and observing the arts by which negligence 
 is surprised, timidity overborne, and credulity 
 amused, requires either great latitude of converse 
 and long acquaintance with business, or uncom- 
 mon activity of vigilance, and acuteness of pene- 
 
 tration. When, therefore, a young man, not dis- 
 tinguished by vigour of intellect, comes into the 
 world full of scruples and diffidence ; makes a 
 bargain with many provisional limitations ; hesi- 
 tates in his answer to a common question, lest 
 more shc^fe be intended than he can immediately 
 discover^Tias a long reach in detecting the pro- 
 jects of his acquaintance ; considers every ca- 
 ress as an act of hypocrisy, and feels neither gra- 
 titude nor affection from the tenderness of his 
 friends, because he believes no one to have any 
 real tenderness but for himself; whatever ex- 
 pectations this early sagacity may raise of his 
 future eminence or riches I can seldom forbear 
 to consider him as a wretch incapable of gene- 
 rosity or benevolence ; as a villain early com- 
 pleted beyond the need of common opportuni- 
 ties and gradual temptations. 
 
 Upon men of this class instruction and admo- 
 nition are generally thrown away, because they 
 consider artifice and deceit as proofs of under- 
 standing ; they are misled at the same time by 
 the two great seducers of the world, vanity and 
 interest, and not only look upon those who act 
 with openness and confidence, as condemned by 
 their principles to obscurity and want, but as 
 contemptible for narrowness of comprehension, 
 shortness of views, and slowness of contrivance. 
 
 The world has been long amused with the 
 mention of policy in public transactions, and of 
 art in private affairs ; they have been considered 
 as the effects of great qualities, and as unattain- 
 able by men of the common level : yet I have 
 not found many performances either of art or 
 policy, that required such stupendous efforts of 
 intellect, or might not have been effected by false- 
 hood and impudence, without the assistance of 
 any other powers. To profess what he does not 
 mean, to promise what he cannot perform, to 
 flatter ambition with prospects of promotion, and 
 misery with hopes of relief, to soothe pride with 
 appearances of submission, and appease enmity 
 by blandishments and bribes, can surely imply 
 nothing more or greater than a mind devoted 
 wholly to its own purposes, a face that cannot 
 blush, and a heart that cannot feel. 
 
 These practices are so mean and base, thi .t he 
 who finds in himself no tendency to use them, 
 cannot easily believe that they are considered by 
 others with less detestation ; he therefore suffers 
 himself to slumber in false security, and becomes 
 a prey to those who applaud their own subtilty 
 because they know how to steal upon his sleep, 
 and exult in the success which they could never 
 have obtained, had they not attempted a man 
 better than themselves, who was hindered from 
 obviating their stratagems, not by folly, but by 
 innocence. 
 
 Suspicion is, indeed, a temper so uneasy and 
 restless, that it is very justly appointed the con- 
 comitant of guilt. It is said, that no torture is 
 equal to the inhibition of sleep long continued ; 
 a pain to which the state of that man bears a 
 very exact analogy, who dares never give rest to 
 his vigilance and circumspection, but considers 
 himself as surrounded by secret foes, and fears 
 to entrust his children, or Mi friend, with the se- 
 cret that throbs in his breast and the anxieties 
 that break into his face. To avoid, at this ex- 
 pense, those evils to which easiness and friend- 
 ship might have exposed him, is surely to buy 
 safety at too dear a rate, and, in the language 01
 
 128 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 80. 
 
 the Roman satirist, to save life by losing all fo 
 which a wise man would live.* 
 
 When in the diet of the German empire, as 
 Camerarius relates, the princes were once dis- 
 playing their felicity, and each boasting the ad- 
 vantages of his own dominion, one wflkpossess- 
 cd a cidiiitry not remarkable for the gwmdeur oi 
 its cities, or the fertility of its soil, rose to speak, 
 and the rest listened between pity and contempt, 
 till he declared, in honour of his territories, that 
 he could travel through them without a guard, 
 and if he was weary, sleep in safety upon the lap 
 of the first man whom he should meet ; a com- 
 mendation which would have been ill exchanged 
 for the boast of palaces, pastures, or streams. 
 
 Suspicion is not less an enemy to virtue than 
 to happiness ; he that is already corrupt is na- 
 turally suspicious, and he that becomes suspi- 
 cious'will quickly be corrupt. It is too common 
 for us to learn the frauds by which oursehes have 
 suffered ; men who are once persuaded that de- 
 ceit will be employed against them, sometimes 
 think the same arts justified by the necessity of 
 defence. Even they whose virtue is too well es- 
 tablished to give way to example, or be shaken 
 by sophistry, must yet feel their love of mankind 
 diminished with their esteem, and grow less zeal- 
 ous for the happiness of those by whom they 
 imagine their own happiness endangered. 
 
 Thus we find old age, upon which suspicion 
 has been strongly impressed, by long intercourse 
 with the world, inflexible and severe, not easily 
 softened by submission, melted by complaint, or 
 subdued by supplication. Frequent experience 
 of counterfeited miseries, and dissembled virtue, 
 in time overcomes that disposition to tenderness 
 and sympathy, which is so powerful in our young- 
 er years ; and they that happen to petition the old 
 for compassion or assistance, are doomed to lan- 
 guish without regard, and suffer for the crimes of 
 men who have formerly been found undeserving 
 or ungrateful. 
 
 Historians are certainly chargeable with the 
 depravation of mankind, when they relate with- 
 out censure those stratagems of war by which 
 the virtues of an enemy are engaged to his de- 
 struction. A ship comes before a port, weather- 
 beaten and shattered, arid the crew implore the 
 liberty of repairing their breaches, supplying 
 themselves with necessaries, or burying their 
 dead. The humanity of the inhabitants inclines 
 them to consent ; the strangers enter the town 
 with weapons concealed, fall suddenly upon their 
 benefactors, destroy those that make resistance, 
 and become masters of the place ; they return 
 home rich with plunder, and their success is re- 
 corded to encourage imitation. 
 
 But surely war has its laws, and ought to be 
 conducted with some regard to the universal in- 
 terest of man. Those may justly be pursued as 
 enemies to the community of nature, who suffer 
 hostility to vacate the unalterable laws of right, 
 and pursue their private advantage by means 
 which, if once established, must destroy kind- 
 ness, cut off from every man all hopes of assist- 
 ance from another, and fill the world with per- 
 petual suspicion ant! implacable malevolence. 
 Whatever is thus gained ought to be restored, 
 and those who have conquered by such treachery 
 
 * Propter vitam vivendi perdere causas. 
 
 may be justly denied the protection of their na- 
 tive country. 
 
 Whoever commits a fraud is guilty not only of 
 the particular injury to him whom he deceives, 
 but of the diminution of that confidence which 
 constitutes" not only the ease but the existence ol 
 society. He that suffers by imposture has too 
 often his virtue more impaired than his fortune. 
 But as it is necessary not to invite robbery by 
 supineness, so it is our duty not to suppress ten- 
 derness by suspicion ; it is better to suffer wrong 
 than to do it, and happier to be sometimes cheat- 
 ed than not to trust. 
 
 No. 80.] SATURDAY, DEC. 22, 1750. 
 
 Vides ut alta stet nive candidum 
 Soracte, nee jam sustineant onus 
 Silvtc laborantes HOH. 
 
 Sehold ycm mountain's hoary height 
 Made higher with new mounts of snow; 
 
 Again behold the winter's weight 
 Oppress the labdtiring woods below. DRYDEJ 
 
 As Providence has rrtade the human soul an 
 active being always impatient for novelty, and 
 struggling for something yet unenjoyed with 
 unwearied progression, the \*oTH seems to have 
 been eminently adapted to this disposition of the 
 mind ; it is formed to raise expectations by con- 
 stant vicissitudes, and to obviate satiety by per- 
 petual change. 
 
 Wherever we turn our eyes, we find some- 
 thing to revive our curiosity, and engage our at- 
 tention. In the dusk of the morning we watch 
 the rising of the sun, and see the day diversify 
 the clouds, and open new prospects in its gradual 
 idvance. After a few hours we see the shades 
 lengthen, and the light decline, till the sky is re- 
 signed to a m'ultitude of shining orbs different 
 'rom each other in magnitude and splendour. 
 The earth varies its appearance as we move up- 
 on it ; the woods offer their shades, and the fields 
 their harvests ; the hill flatters with an extensive 
 view, and the valley invites with shelter, fra- 
 grance, and flowers. 
 
 The poets have numbered among the felicities 
 of the golden age, an exemption from the change 
 of seasons, and a perpetuity of spring; but I am 
 not certain that in this state of imaginary happi- 
 ness they have made sufficient provision for that 
 nsatiable demand of new gratifications, which 
 seems particularly to characterize the nature of 
 man. Our sense of delight is in a great measure 
 comparative, and arises at once from the sensa- 
 :ions which we feel, and those which we remem- 
 ber : thus ease after torment is pleasure for a time, 
 and we are very agreeably recreated, when the 
 body, chilled with the weather, is gradually re- 
 covering its natural tepidity ; but the joy ceases 
 when we have forgot the cold ; we must fall be- 
 low ease again, if we desire to rise above it, and 
 purchase new felicity by voluntary pain. It is 
 therefore not unlikely that however the fancy 
 may be amused with the description of regions 
 in which no wind is heard but the gentle zephyr 
 and no scenes are displayed but valleys enamel- 
 led with unfading flowers, and woods waving 
 their perennial verdure, we should soon grow 
 weary of uniformity, find our thoughts languish 
 tor want of other subjects, call on Heaven for our
 
 No. 81.] THE RAMBLER. 
 
 wonted round of seasons, and think ourselves 
 liberally recompensed for the inconveniences of 
 summer and winter, by new perceptions of the 
 calmness and mildness of the intermediate varia- 
 tions. 
 
 Every season has its particular power of strik- 
 ing the mind. The nakedness and asperity of 
 the wintry world always fill the beholder with 
 pensive and profound astonishment ; as the va- 
 riety of the scene is lessened, its grandeur is in- 
 creased ; arid the mind is swelled at once by the 
 mingled ideas, of the present and the past, of the 
 beauties which have vanished from the eyes, and 
 the waste and desolation that are now before 
 them. 
 
 It is observed by Milton, that he who neglects 
 to visit the country in spring, and rejects the plea- 
 sures that are then in their first bloom and fra- 
 grance, is guilty of sullenness against nature. If 
 we allot different duties to different seasons, he 
 may be charged with equal disobedience to the 
 voice of nature, who looks on the bleak hills and 
 leafless woods, without seriousness and awe. 
 Spring is the season of gayety, and winter of ter- 
 ror ; in spring the heart of tranquillity dances to 
 the melody of the groves, and the eye of benevo- 
 lence sparkles at the sight of happiness and plen- 
 ty. In the winter, compassion melts at univer- 
 sal calamity, and the tear of softness starts at the 
 waitings of hunger, and the cries of the creation 
 in distress. 
 
 Few minds have much inclination to indulge 
 heaviness and sorrow, nor do I recommend them 
 beyond the degree necessary to maintain in its 
 full vigour that habitual sympathy and tender- 
 ness, which, in a world of so much misery, is 
 necessary to the ready discharge of our most im- 
 portant duties. The winter therefore is general- 
 ly celebrated as the proper season for domestic 
 merriment and gayety. We are seldom invited 
 by the votaries of pleasure to look abroad for any 
 other purpose, than that we may shrink back 
 with more satisfaction to our coverts, and when 
 we have heard the howl of the tempest, and felt 
 the gripe of the frost, congratulate each other 
 with more gladness upon a close room, an easy 
 chair, a large fire, and a smoking dinner. 
 
 Winter brings natural inducements to jollity 
 and conversation. Differences, we know, are 
 never so effectually laid asleep, as by some com- 
 mon calamity : sin enemy unites all to whom he 
 threatens danger. The rigour of winter brings 
 generally to the same fire-side, those, who by the 
 opposition of inclinations, or difference of em- 
 ployment, moved in various directions through 
 the other parts of the year ; and when they have 
 met, and find it their mutual interest to remain 
 together, they endear each other by mutual com- 
 pliances, and often wish for the continuance of 
 the social season, with all its bleakness and all 
 its severities. 
 
 To the men of study and imagination the win- 
 ter is generally the chief time of labour. Gloom 
 and silence produce composure of mind and con- 
 centration of ideas ; and the privation of external 
 pleasure naturally causes an effort to find enter- 
 tainment within. This is the time, in which those 
 whom literature enables to find amusements for 
 themselves, have more than common convictions 
 of their own happiness. When they are con- 
 demned by the elements to retirement, and de- 
 barred from most of the diversions which are 
 R 
 
 129 
 
 called in to assist the flight of time, they can find 
 new subjects of inquiry, and preserve themselves 
 from that weariness, which hangs always flag- 
 ging upon the vacant mind. 
 
 It cannot indeed be expected of all to be poets 
 and philosophers ; it is necessary that the greater 
 part of mankind should be employed in the mi- 
 nute business of common life ; minute, indeed, 
 not if we consider its influence upon our happi- 
 ness, but if we respect the abilities requisite to 
 conduct it. These must necessarily be more de- 
 pendent on accident for the means of spending 
 agreeably those hours which their occupations 
 leave unengaged, or nature obliges them to allow 
 to relaxation. Yet even on these I would will 
 ingly impress such a sense of the value of time, 
 as may incline them to find out for their careless 
 hours amusements of more use and dignity than 
 the common games, which not only weary the 
 mind without improving it, but strengthen the 
 passions of envy and avarice, and often lead to 
 fraud and to profusion, to corruption and to ruin. 
 It is unworthy of a reasonable being to spend 
 any of the little time allotted us, without some 
 tendency, either direct or oblique, to the end o< 
 our existence. And though every moment can 
 not be laid out on the formal and regular improve 
 ment of our knowledge, or in the stated practice 
 of a moral or religious duty, yet none should be 
 so spent as to exclude wisdom or virtue, or pass 
 without possibility of qualifying us more or less 
 for the better employment of those which are to 
 come. 
 
 It is scarcely possible to pass an hour in honest 
 conversation, Without being able, when we rise 
 from it, to please ourselves with having given or 
 received some advantages ; but a man may shuf- 
 fle cards, or rattle dice, from noon to midnight, 
 without tracing any new idea in his mind, or be- 
 ing able to recollect the day by any other token 
 than his gain or loss, and a confused remem 
 brance ofagitated passions and clamorous alter 
 cations. 
 
 However, as experience is of more weight than 
 precept, any of my readers, who are contriving 
 how to spend the dreary months before them, 
 may consider which of their past amusements 
 fills them now with the greatest satisfaction, and 
 resolve to repeat those gratifications of which the 
 pleasure is most durable. 
 
 No. 81.] TUESDAY, DEC. 16, 1750. 
 
 Discite Justitiuin moniti VIBG 
 
 Hear, and be just. 
 
 AMONG questions which have been discussed, 
 without arty approach to decision, may be num- 
 bered the precedency, or superior excellence of 
 one virtue to another, which has long furnished 
 a subject of dispute to men whose leisure sent 
 them out into the intellectual world in search of 
 employment, and who have, perhaps, been some- 
 times withheld from the practice of their favour- 
 ite duty, by zeal for its advancement, and dili 
 gence in its celebration. 
 
 The intricacy of this dispute may be alleged 
 as a proof of that tenderness for mankind which 
 Providence has, I think, universally displayed, 
 by making attainments easy in proportion as
 
 130 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 81 
 
 they are necessary. That all the duties of mo- 
 rality ought to be practised, is without difficulty 
 discoverable, because ignorance or uncertainty 
 would immediately involve the world in confu- 
 sion and distress; but which duty ought to be 
 most esteemed, we may continue to debate with- 
 out inconvenience ; so all be diligently performed 
 as there is opportunity or need : for upon prac- 
 tice, not upon opinion, depends the happiness of 
 mankind : and controversies, merely speculative, 
 are of small importance in themselves, however 
 they may have sometimes heated a disputant, or 
 provoked a faction. 
 
 Of the Divine Author of our religion it is im- 
 possible to peruse the evangelical histories, with- 
 out observing how little he favoured the vanity 
 of inquisitiveness; how much more rarely he 
 condescended to satisfy curiosity than to relieve 
 distress ; and how much he desired that his fol- 
 lowers should rather excel in goodness than in 
 knowledge. His precepts tend immediately to 
 the rectification of the moral principles, and the 
 direction of daily conduct, without ostentation, 
 without art, at once irrefragable and plain, such 
 as well-meaning simplicity may readily conceive, 
 and of which we cannot mistake the meaning, 
 but when we are afraid to find it. 
 
 The measure of justice prescribed to us, in our 
 transactions with others, is remarkarkably clear 
 and comprehensive : Whatsoever ye would that 
 men should do unto you, even so do unto them. A 
 law by which every claim of right may be imme- 
 diately adjusted as far as the private conscience 
 requires to be informed ; a law, of which every 
 man may find the exposition in his own breast, 
 and which may always be observed without any 
 other qualifications than honesty of intention, and 
 purity of will. 
 
 Over this law, indeed, some sons of sophistry 
 have bfcen subtle enough to throw mists, which 
 have darkened their own eyes. To perplex this 
 universal principle, they have inquired whether a 
 man, conscious to himself of unreasonable wishes, 
 be bound to gratify them in another. But surely 
 there needed no long deliberation to conclude that 
 the desires, which are to be considered by us as 
 the measure of right, must be such as we approve, 
 and that we ought to pay no regard to those ex- 
 pectations in others, which we condemn in our- 
 selves, and which, however they may intrude 
 upon our imagination, we know it our duty to 
 resist and suppress. 
 
 One of the most celebrated cases which have 
 been produced as requiring some skill in the di- 
 rection of conscience to adapt them to this great 
 rule, is that of a criminal asking mercy of his judge, 
 who cannot but know, that if he was in the state 
 of the supplicant he should desire that pardon 
 which he now denies. The difficulty of this so- 
 phism will vanish, if we remember that the par- 
 ties are, in reality, on one side the criminal, and 
 on the other the community, of which the magis- 
 trate is only the minister, and by which he is in- 
 trusted with the public safety. The magistrate, 
 therefore, in pardoning a man unworthy of par- 
 don, betrays the trust with which he is invested, 
 gives away what is not his own, and, apparently, 
 does to others what he would not that others 
 should do to him. Even the community, whose 
 right is still greater to arbitrary grants of mercy, 
 is bound by those laws which regard the great 
 republic of mankind, and cannot justify such for- 
 
 bearance as may promote wickedness, and lessen 
 the general confidence and security in which all 
 have an equal interest, and which all are there- 
 fore bound to maintain. For this reason the 
 state has not a right to erect a general sanctuary 
 for fugitives, or give protection to such as have 
 forfeited their lives by crimes against the laws of 
 common morality equally acknowledged by all 
 nations, because no people can, without infrac- 
 tion of the universal league of social beings, in- 
 cite, by prospects of impunity and safety, those 
 practices in another dominion, which they would 
 themselves punish in their own. 
 
 One occasion of uncertainty and hesitation, 
 in those "by whom this great rule has been com- 
 mented and dilated, is the confusion of what the 
 exacter casuists are careful to distinguish, debts 
 of justice, and debts of charity. The immediate 
 and primary intention of this precept is to establish 
 a rule of justice ; and I know not whether inven- 
 tion, or sophistry, can start a single difficulty to 
 retard its application, when it is thus expressed 
 and explained, let every man allow the claim of right 
 in another, which he should think himself entitled to 
 make in the like circumstances. 
 
 The discharge of the debts of charity, or duties 
 which we owe to others, not merely as requires 
 by justice, but as dictated by benevolence, ad 
 mils in its own nature greater complication oj 
 circumstances, and greater latitude of choice. 
 Justice is indispensably and universally necessa- 
 ry, and what is necessary must always be limited, 
 uniform and distinct. But beneficence, though 
 in general equally enjoined by our religion, and 
 equally needful to the conciliation of the Divine 
 favour, is yet, for the most part, with regard to 
 its single acts, elective and voluntary. We may 
 certainly, without injury to our fellow-beings, al- 
 low in.the distribution of kindness something to 
 our affections, and change the measure of our 
 liberality, according to our opinions and pros- 
 pects, our hopes and fears. This rule therefore 
 is not equally determinate and absolute, with re- 
 spect to offices of kindness, and acts of liberality ; 
 because liberality and kindness, absolutely deter- 
 mined, would lose their nature ; for how could 
 we be called tender, or charitable, for giving that 
 which we are positively forbidden to withhold ? 
 
 Yet, even in adjusting the extent of our bene 
 licence, no other measure can be taken than this 
 precept affords us, for we can only know what 
 others suffer for want, by considering how we 
 should be affected in the same state ; nor can 
 we proportion cmr assistance by any other rule 
 than that of doing what we should then expect 
 from others. It indeed generally happens that 
 the giver and receiver differ in their opinions of 
 generosity ; the same partiality to his own inte- 
 rest inclines one to large expectations, and the 
 other to sparing distributions. Perhaps the in- 
 firmity of human nature will scarcely suffer a man 
 groaning under the pressure of distress, to judge 
 rightly of the kindness of his friends, or think 
 they have done enough till his deliverance is 
 completed ; not therefore what we might wish, 
 but what we could demand from others, we are 
 obliged to grant, since, though we can easily 
 know how much we might claim, it is impossi- 
 ble to determine what we should hope. 
 
 But in all inquiries concerning the practice of 
 voluntary and occasional virtues, it is safest for 
 minds not oppressed with superstitious fears to
 
 .No. 82.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 131 
 
 determine against their own inclinations, and 
 secure themselves from deficiency, by doing more 
 than they believe strictly necessary. For of this 
 every man may be certain, that if he were to ex- 
 change conditions with his dependent, he should 
 expect more than, with the utmost exertion of his 
 ardour, he now will prevail upon himself to per- 
 form ; and when reason has no settled rule, and 
 our passions are striving to mislead us, it is surely 
 the part of a wise man to err on the side of safety. 
 
 No. 82.] SATURDAY, DEC. 29, 1750. 
 
 Omnia Cattor emit, sicfiet ut omnia vendat. MART. 
 Who buys without discretion, buys to sell. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 IT will not be necessary to solicit your good-will 
 by any formal preface, when I have informed 
 you, that I have long been known as the most 
 laborious and zealous virtuoso that the present 
 age has had the honour of producing, and that 
 inconveniences have been brought upon me by 
 en unextinguishable ardour of curiosity, and an 
 unshaken perseverance in the acquisition of the 
 productions of art and nature. 
 
 It was observed, from my entrance into the 
 world, that I had something uncommon in my 
 disposition, and that there appeared in me very 
 early tokens of superior genius. I was always 
 an enemy to trifles ; the playthings which my 
 mother bestowed upon me I immediately broke, 
 that I might discover the method of their struc- 
 ture, and the causes of their motions : of all the 
 toys with which children are delighted I valued 
 only my coral, and as soon as I could speak, 
 asked like Pieresc, innumerable questions, which 
 the maids about me could not resolve. As I 
 grew older I was more thoughtful and serious, 
 and instead of amusing myself with puerile di- 
 versions, made collections of natural rarities, and 
 never walked in the fields without bringing 
 home stones of remarkable forms, or insects of 
 some uncommon species. I never entered an 
 old house, from which I did not take away the 
 painted glass, and often lamented that I was not 
 one of that happy generation who demolished 
 the convents and monasteries, and broke win- 
 dows by law. 
 
 Being thus early possessed by a taste for solid 
 knowledge, I passed my youth with very little 
 disturbance from passions and appetites ; and 
 having no pleasure in the company of boys and 
 girls, who talked of plays, politics, fashions, or 
 love, I carried on my inquiries with incessant 
 diligence, and had amassed more stones, mosses, 
 and shells, than are to be found in many cele- 
 brated collections, at an age in which the great- 
 est part of young men are studying under tutors, 
 or endeavouring to recommend themselves to no- 
 tice by their dress, their air, and their levities. 
 
 When I was two-and-twenty years old, I be- 
 came, by the death of my father, possessed of a 
 small estate in land, with a very large sum ol 
 money in the public funds, and must confess 
 that I did not much lament him, for he was a 
 man of mean parts, bent rather upon growing 
 rich than wise. He once fretted at the expense 
 of only ten shillings, which he happened to over- 
 
 lear me offering for the sting of a hornet, though 
 t was a cold moist summer, in which very few 
 lornets had been seen. He often recommended 
 o me the study of physic, in which, said he, you 
 nay at once gratify your curiosity after natural 
 listory, and increase your fortune by benefiting 
 mankind. I heard him, Mr. Rambler, with pity, 
 and, as there was no prospect of elevating a mind 
 ormed to grovel, suffered him to please himself 
 with hoping that I should some time follow his 
 advice. For you know that there are men with 
 whom, when they have once settled a notion in 
 their heads, it is to very little purpose to dispute. 
 Being now left wholly to my own inclinations, 
 very soon enlarged the bounds of my curiosity, 
 and contented myself no longer with such rari- 
 ies as required only judgment and industry, and 
 when once found, might be had for nothing. I 
 ow turned my thoughts to exotics and antiques, 
 and became so well known for my generous pa- 
 ronage of ingenious men, that my levee was 
 3rowded with visitants ; some to see my museum, 
 and others to increase its treasures, by selling me 
 whatever they had brought from other countries 
 I had always a contempt for that narrowness 
 f conception, which contents itself with culti 
 mating some single corner of the field of science , 
 took the whole region into my view, and wished 
 t of yet greater extent. But no man's power 
 can be equal to his will. I was forced to proceed 
 >y slow degrees, and to purchase what chance 
 ir kindness happened to present. I did not how- 
 ver proceed without some design, or imitate the 
 ndiscretion of those who begin a thousand col- 
 ections, and finish none. Having been always 
 lover of geography, I determined to collect the 
 maps drawn in the rude and barbarous times, be- 
 ore any regular surveys, or just observations ; 
 and have, at a great expense, brought together a 
 volume, in which, perhaps, not a single country 
 s laid down according to its true situation, and 
 jy which, he that desires to know the errors of 
 ;he ancient geographers may be amply informed. 
 But my ruling passion is patriotism : my chief 
 care has been to procure the products of our own 
 country ; and as Alfred received the tribute of 
 the Welsh in wolves' heads, I allowed my te- 
 nants to pay their rents in butterflies, till I had 
 xhausted the papilionaceous tribe. I then di- 
 rected them to the pursuit of other animals, and 
 obtained, by this easy method, most of the grubs 
 and insects, which land, air, or water, can supply. 
 T have three species of earth-worms not known 
 to the naturalists, have discovered a new ephe- 
 mera, and can show four wasps that were taken 
 torpid in their winter quarters. I have, from my 
 own ground, the longest blade of grass upon re- 
 cord, and once accepted, as a half year's rent for 
 a field of wheat, an ear containing more grains 
 than had been s,een before upon a single stem. 
 
 One of my tenants so much neglected his own 
 interest, as to supply me, in a whole summer, 
 with only two horse-flies, and those of little more 
 than the common size ; and I was upon the brink 
 of seizing for arrears, when his good fortune 
 threw a white mole in his way, for which he was 
 not only forgiven, but rewarded. 
 
 These, however, were petty acquisitions, and 
 made at small expense ; nor should I have ven- 
 tured to rank myself among the virtuosi without 
 better claims. I have suffered nothing worthy 
 the regard of a wise man to escape my notice: I
 
 132 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 83. 
 
 have ransacked the old and the new world, and 
 been equally attentive to past ages and the pre- 
 sent. For the illustration of ancient history, I 
 can show a marble, of which the inscription, 
 though it is not now legible, appears from some 
 broken remains of the letters, to have been Tus- 
 can, and therefore probably engraved before the 
 foundation of Rome. I have two pieces of por- 
 phyry found among the ruins of Ephesus, and 
 three letters broken off by a learned traveller 
 from the monuments of Persepolis; a piece of 
 stone which paved the Areopagus of Athens, 
 *nd a plate without figures or characters, which 
 was found at Corinth, and which I therefore be- 
 fieve to be that metal which was once valued be- 
 fore gold. I have sand gathered out of the Gra- 
 nicus; a fragment of Trajan's bridge over the 
 Danube ; some of the mortar which cemented 
 the watercourse of Tarquin ; a horse-shoe broken 
 on the Flaminian way ; and a turf with five dai- 
 oies dug from the field of Pharsalia. 
 
 1 do not wish to raise the envy of unsuccessful 
 collectors, by too pompous a display of my sci- 
 entific wealth, but cannot forbear to observe, that 
 there are few regions of the globe which are not 
 honoured with some memorial in my cabinets. 
 The Persian monarchs are said to have boasted 
 the greatness of their empire, by being served at 
 their tables with drink from the Ganges and the 
 Danube ; I can show one vial, of which the water 
 was formerly an icicle on the crags of Caucasus, 
 and another that contains what once was snow 
 on the top of Atlas ; in a third is dew brushed 
 from a banana in the gardens of Ispahan ; and, 
 in another, brine that has rolled in the Pacific 
 ocean. I flatter myself that I am writing to a 
 man who will rejoice at the honour which my 
 labours have procured to my country ; and there- 
 fore I shall tell you that Britain can, by my care, 
 boast of a snail that has crawled upon the wall of 
 China; a humming bird which an American 
 princess wore in her ear; the tooth of an ele- 
 phant who carried the GLueen of Siam ; the skin 
 of an ape that was kept in the palace of the great 
 Mogul ; a riband that adorned one of the maids 
 of a Turkish sultana; and a, scimitar once 
 wielded by a soldier of Abas the Great, 
 
 In collecting antiquities of every country, I 
 have been careful to choose only by intrinsic 
 worth, and real usefulness, without regard to 
 party or opinions. I have therefore a lock of 
 Cromwell's hair in a box turned from a piece of 
 the royal oak ; and keep in the same drawers, 
 sand scraped from the coffin of King Richard, 
 and a commission signed by Henry the Seventh. 
 I have equal veneration for the ruff of Elizabeth, 
 and the shoe of Mary of Scotland ; and should 
 lose, with like regret, a tobacco-pipe of Raleigh, 
 and a stirrup of King James. I have paid the 
 same price for the glove of Lewis, and a thimble 
 of dueen Mary ; for a fur cap of the Czar, and, 
 a boot of Charles of Sweden. 
 
 You will easily imagine that these accumula- 
 tions were not made witho.ut some diminution of 
 my fortune ; for I was so well known to spare 
 no cost, that at every sale some bid against me 
 for hire, some for sport, and some for malice ; 
 and if I asked the pnce of any thing, it was suf- 
 ficient to double the demand. For curiouity, 
 trafficing thus with avarice, the wealth of India 
 had not been enough ; and I, by little and little, 
 transferred all my money from the funds to my 
 
 closet : here I was inclined to stop, and live 
 upon my estate in literary leisure, but the sale of 
 the Harleian Collection shook my resolution ; I 
 mortgaged my land, and purchased thirty me- 
 dals, which I could never find before. I have at 
 length bought till I can buy no longer, and the 
 cruelty of my creditors has seized my repository 
 I am therefore condemned to disperse what the 
 labour of an age will not reassemble. I submit 
 to that which cannot be opposed, and shall, in a 
 short time, declare a sale. I have, while it is yet 
 in my power, sent you a pebble, picked up by 
 Tavernier on the banks of the Ganges ; for which 
 I desire no other recompense than that you will 
 recommend my catalogue to the public. 
 
 ClUISftCILIUS. 
 
 No. 83.] TUESDAY, JAN. 1, 1751. 
 
 Nisi utile est quod facias, stulta est gloria. PHJED. 
 All useless science is an empty boast. 
 
 THE publication of the letter in my last paper has 
 naturally led me to the consideration of that 
 thirst after curiosities, which often draws con- 
 tempt and ridicule upon itself, but which is per- 
 haps no otherwise blameable, than as it wants 
 those circumstantial recommendations which add 
 lustre even to moral excellences, and are absolute- 
 ly necessary to the grace and beauty of indiffer- 
 ent actions. 
 
 Learning confers so much superiority on those 
 who possess it, that they might probably have es- 
 caped all censures had they been able to agree 
 among themselves ; but as envy and competition 
 have divided the republic of letters into factions, 
 they have neglected the common interest ; each 
 has called in foreign aid, and endeavoured to 
 strengthen his own cause by the frown of power, 
 the hiss of ignorance, and the clamour of popu- 
 larity. They have all engaged in feuds, till by 
 mutual hostilities they demolished those outworks 
 which veneration had raised for their security, 
 and exposed themselves to barbarians, by whom 
 every region of science is equally laid waste. 
 
 Between men of different studies and profes- 
 sions, may be observed a constant reciprocation 
 of reproaches. The collector of shells and stones 
 derides the folly of him who pastes leaves and 
 flowers upon paper, pleases himself with colours 
 that are perceptibly fading, and amasses with 
 care what cannot be preserved. The hunter of 
 insects stands amazed that any man can waste 
 his short time upon lifeless matter, while many 
 tribes of animals yet want their history. Every 
 one is inclined not only to promote his own study, 
 but to exclude all others from regard, and having 
 heated his imagination with some favourite pur- 
 suit, wonders that the rest of mankind are not 
 seized with same passion. 
 
 There are, indeed, many subjects of study 
 which seem but remotely allied to useful know- 
 ledge, and of little importance to happiness or 
 virtue ; nor is it easy to forbear some sallies of 
 merriment, or expressions of pity, when we see a 
 man wrinkled with attention, arid emaciated with 
 solicitude, in the investigation of questions, of 
 which, without visible inconvenience, the world 
 may expire in ignorance. Yet it is dangerous to 
 discourage well-intended labours or innocent cu-
 
 No. 83.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 riosity ; for he who ia employed in searches, 
 which by any deduction of consequences tend to 
 the benefit of life, is surely laudable, in compari- 
 son of those who spend their time in counteract- 
 ing happiness, and filling the world with wrong 
 and danger, confusion and remorse. No man 
 can perform so little as not to have reason to 
 congratulate himself on his merits, when he be 
 holds the multitudes that live in total idleness, 
 and have never yet endeavoured to be useful. 
 It is impossible to determine the limits of in- 
 
 3uiry, or to foresee what consequences a new 
 iscovery may produce. He who suffers not his 
 faculties to lie torpid, has a chance, whatever be 
 his employment, of doing good to his fellow-crea- 
 tures. The man that first ranged the woods in 
 search of medicinal springs, or climbed the moun- 
 tains for salutary plants, has undoubtedly merit- 
 ed the gratitude of posterity, how much soever 
 his frequent miscarriages might excite the scorn 
 of his contemporaries. If what appears little be 
 universally despised, nothing greater can be at- 
 tained ; for all that is great was at first little, and 
 rose to its present bulk by gradual accessions, 
 and accumulated labours. 
 
 Those who lay out time or money in assem- 
 bling matter for contemplation, are doubtless 
 entitled to some degree of respect, though in a 
 flight of gayety, it be easy to ridicule their trea- 
 suie, or in a tit of sullenness to despise it. A 
 man who thinks only on the particular object 
 before him, goes not away much illuminated by 
 having enjoyed the privilege of handling the tooth 
 of a shark, or the paw of a white bear ; yet there 
 is nothing more worthy of admiration to a philo 
 sophical eye than the structure of animals, by 
 which they are qualified to support life in the 
 elements or climates to which they are appropria- 
 ted ; and of all natural bodies, it must be general- 
 ly confessed that they exhibit evidences of infi- 
 nite wisdom, bear their testimony to the supreme 
 reason, and excite in the mind new raptures of 
 gratitude and new incentives to piety. 
 
 To collect the productions of art, and exam- 
 ples of mechanical science or manual ability, is 
 unquestionably useful, even when the things 
 themselves are of small importance, because it is 
 always advantageous to know how far the hu- 
 man powers have proceeded, and how much ex- 
 perience has found to be within the reach of dili- 
 gence. Idleness and timidity often despair with- 
 out beinff overcome, and forbear attempts for fear 
 of being defeated ; and we may promote the in- 
 vigoration of faint endeavours, by showing what 
 has been already performed. It may sometimes 
 happen that the greatest efforts of ingenuity have 
 been exerted in trifles ; yet the same principles 
 and expedients may be applied to more valuable 
 purposes, and the movements, which put into ac- 
 tion machines of no use but to raise the wonder 
 of ignorance, may be employed to drain fens, or 
 manufacture metals, to assist the architect, or 
 preserve the sailor. 
 
 For the utensils, arms, or dresses of foreign na- 
 tions, which make the greatest part of many col- 
 lections, I have little regard, when they are valu- 
 ed only because they are foreign, and can suggest 
 no improvement of our own practice. Yet they 
 are not all equally useless, nor can it be always 
 enfelv determined which should be rejected or re- 
 tame'd : for they may sometimes unexpectedly 
 contribute to the illustration of history, and to 
 
 the knowledge of the natural commodities of the 
 country, or of the genius and customs of its in 
 habitants. 
 
 Rarities there are of yet a lower rank, which 
 owe their worth merely to accident, and which 
 can convey no information, nor satisfy any ra- 
 tional desire. Such are many fragments of anti- 
 quity, as urns and pieces of pavement ; and things 
 held in veneration only for having been once the 
 property of some eminent person, as the armour 
 of King Henry ; or for having been used on some 
 remarkable occasion, as the lantern of Guy Faux. 
 The loss or preservation of these seems to be a 
 tiling indifferent, nor can I perceive why the pos- 
 session of them should be coveted. Yet, per- 
 haps, even this curiosity is implanted by nature ; 
 and, when I find Tully confessing of himself, 
 that he could not forbear at Athens to visit the 
 walks and houses which the old philosophers had 
 frequented or inhabited, and recollect the reve- 
 rence which every nation, civil and barbarous, 
 has paid to the ground where merit has been bu- 
 ried,* I am afraid to declare against the general 
 voice of mankind, and am inclined to believe, 
 that this regard, which we involuntarily pay to 
 the meanest relic of a man great and illustrious, 
 is intended as an incitement to labour, and an 
 encouragement to expect the same renown, if it 
 be sought by the same virtues. 
 
 The virtuoso, therefore, cannot be said to be 
 wholly useless ; but perhaps he may be some- 
 times culpable, for confining himself to business 
 below his genius, and losing, in petty specula- 
 tions, those hours by which, if he had spent them 
 in nobler studies, he might have given new light 
 to the intellectual world. It is never without 
 grief that I find a man capable of ratiocination 
 or invention enlisting himself in this secondary 
 class of learning ; for when he has once discover- 
 ed a method of gratifying his desire of eminence 
 by expense rather than by labour, and known 
 the sweets of a life blessed at once with the ease 
 of idleness, and the reputation of knowledge, he 
 will not easily be brought to undergo again the 
 toil of thinking, or leave his toys and trinkets for 
 arguments and principles ; arguments which re- 
 quire circumspection and vigilance, and princi- 
 ples which cannot be obtained but by the drudg- 
 ery of meditation. He will gladly shut himself 
 up for ever with his shells and metals, like the 
 companions of Ulysses, who, having tasted the 
 fruit of Lotos, would not, even by the hope of 
 seeing their own country, be tempted again to 
 the dangers of the sea. 
 
 'AXX' avrou (}OV\OVTO fitr 1 avipaai \wro<j>dyoi<ri t 
 AuirJv fff-KTiiftevoi fiivifitv, v6arov Tt \dOecr6at. 
 
 Whoso tastes, 
 
 Insatiate riots in the sweet repasts ; 
 
 Nor other home nor other care intends, 
 
 But quits his house, his country, and his friends 
 
 POPE, 
 
 Collections of this kind are of use to the learn- 
 ed, as heaps of stones and piles of timber are ne- 
 cessary to the architect. But to dig the quarry 
 or to search the field, requires not much of 
 any quality beyond stubborn perseverance ; and 
 
 * See this sentiment illustrated by a most splendid pas- 
 sage in Dr. Johnson's " Journey to tiio Western Islands," 
 vol. viii. p. 395-6. C.
 
 134 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 84. 
 
 though genius must often lie inactive without this 
 humble assistance, yet this can claim little praise, 
 because every man can afford it. 
 
 To mean understandings, it is sufficient ho- 
 nour to be numbered amongst the lowest labour- 
 ers of learning; but different abilities must find 
 different tasks. To hew stone would have been 
 unworthy of Palladio ; and to have rambled in 
 search of shells and flowers, had but ill suited 
 with the capacity of Newton. 
 
 No. 84.] SATURDAY, JAN. 5, 1751. 
 
 Cunarum ftteras motor, Charideme, mearum, 
 Et paeri custos, assidvusque comes. 
 
 Jam mihi nigrescvnt tonsa sudaria barba, 
 
 Sed tibi non crevi : te noster tillicus horret : 
 Te dispensator, te damns ipsapavet. 
 
 Corripis, observas, qur.reris, suspiria duds, 
 Ei vix aferulis abstinet ira manum. 
 
 You rock'd my cradle, were my guide 
 
 In youth, still tending at my side : 
 
 But now, dear Sir, my beard is grown, 
 
 Still I'm a child to thee alone. 
 
 Our steward, butler, cook, and all 
 
 You fright, nay even the very wall ; 
 
 You pry, and frown, and growl, and chide, 
 
 And scarce will lay the rod aside. F. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 You seem in all your papers to be an enemy to 
 tyranny, and to look with impartiality upon the 
 world ; I shall therefore lay my case before you, 
 and hope by your decision to be set free from un- 
 reasonable restraints, and enabled to justify my- 
 self against the accusations which spite and pee- 
 vishness produce against me. 
 
 At the age of five years I lost my mother, and 
 my father, being not qualified to superintend the 
 education of a girl, committed me to the care of 
 his sister, who instructed me with the authority, 
 and, not to deny her what she may justly claim, 
 with the affection of a parent. She had not very 
 elevated sentiments or extensive views, but her 
 principles were good and her intentions pure; 
 dnd though some may practise more virtues, 
 scarce any commit fewer faults. 
 
 Under this good lady, I learned all the com- 
 mon rules of decent behaviour, and standing 
 maxims of domestic prudence ; and might have 
 grown up by degrees to a country gentlewoman, 
 without any thoughts of ranging beyond the 
 neighbourhood, had not Flavia come down, last 
 summer, to visit her relations in the next village. 
 I was taken, of course, to compliment the stran- 
 ger, and was, at the first sight, surprised at the 
 unconcern with which she saw herself gazed at 
 by the company whom she had never known be- 
 fore ; at the carelessness with which she received 
 compliments, and the readiness with which she 
 returned them. I found she had something which 
 1 perceived myself to want, and could not but 
 wish to be like her, at once easy and officious, at- 
 tentive and unembarrassed. I went home, and 
 for four days could think and talk of nothing but 
 Miss Flavia : though my aunt told me that she 
 was a forward flirt, and thought herself wise be- 
 fore her time. 
 
 In a little time she repaid my visit, and raised 
 in my heart a new confusion of love and admira- 
 tion. I soon saw her again, and still found new 
 
 charms in her air, conversation, and behaviour. 
 You, who have perhaps seen the world, may 
 have observed, that formality soon ceases between 
 young persons. I know not how others are af- 
 fected on such occasions, but I found myself irre- 
 sistibly allured to friendship and intimacy, by the 
 familiar complaisance and airy gayety of Flavia ; 
 so that in a few weeks I became her favourite, 
 and all the time was passed with me, that she 
 could gain from ceremony and visit. 
 
 As she came often to me, she necessarily spent 
 some hours with my aunt, to whom she paid 
 great respect by low courtesies, submissive com- 
 pliance, and soft acquiescence ; but as I became 
 gradually more accustomed to her manners, 1 
 discovered that her civility was general ; that 
 there was a certain degree of deference shown by 
 her to circumstances and appearances ; that many 
 went away flattered by her humility, whom she 
 despised in her heart ; that the influence of far 
 the greatest part of those with whom she con- 
 versed, ceased with their presence ; and that 
 sometimes she did not remember the names of 
 them, whom, without any intentional insincerity 
 or false commendation, her habitual civility had 
 sent away with very high thoughts of their own 
 importance. 
 
 It was not long before I perceived, that my 
 aunt's opinion was not of much weight in Flavia's 
 deliberations, and that she was looked upon by 
 her as a woman of narrow sentiments, without 
 knowledge of books, or observations on man- 
 kind. I had hitherto considered my aunt, as en- 
 titled by her wisdom and experience to the high- 
 est reverence, and could not forbear to wonder 
 that any one so much younger should venture to 
 suspect her of error or ignorance ; but my sur- 
 prise was without uneasiness, and being now ac 
 customed to think Flavia always in the right, I 
 readily learned from her to trust my own reason, 
 and to believe it possible, that they who had lived 
 longer might be mistaken. 
 
 Flavia had read much, and used so often to 
 converse on subjects of learning, that she put all 
 the men in the country to flight, except the old 
 parson, who declared himself much delighted 
 with her company, because she gave him oppor- 
 tunities to recollect the studies of his younger 
 years, and, by some mention of ancient storj , 
 had made him rub the dust off his Homer, which 
 had laid unregarded in his closet. With Homer, 
 and a thousand other names familiar to Flavia, 
 I had no acquaintance, but began by comparing 
 her accomplishments with my own, to repine at 
 my education, and wish that I had not been so 
 long confined to the company of those from whom 
 nothing but housewifery was to be learned. I 
 then set myself to peruse such books as Flavia 
 recommended, and heard her opinion of their 
 beauties and defects. I saw new worlds hourly 
 bursting upon my mind, and was enraptured at 
 the prospect of diversifying life with endless en- 
 tertainment. 
 
 The old lady finding that a large screen, which 
 I had undertaken to adorn with Turkey-work 
 against winter, made very slow advances, and 
 that I had added in two months but three leaves 
 to a flowered apron then in the frame, took the 
 alarm, and with all the zeai of honest folly ex- 
 claimed against my new acquaintance, who had 
 filled me with idle notions, and turned my head 
 with books. But she had now lost her authority
 
 No. 85.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 135 
 
 for I began to find innumerable mistakes in her 
 opinions, and improprieties in her language ; and 
 therefore thought myself no longer bound to pay 
 much regard to one who knew little beyond her 
 needle and her dairy, and who professed to think 
 that nothing more is required of a woman than to 
 see that the house is clean, and that the maids 
 go to bed, and rise at a certain hour. 
 
 She seemed however to look upon Flavia as 
 seducing me, and to imagine that when her in- 
 fluence was withdrawn, I should return to my 
 allegiance, she therefore contented herself with 
 remote hints, and gentle admonitions, intermixed 
 with "sage histories of the miscarriages of wit, 
 and disappointments of pride. But since she 
 has found, that though Flavia is departed, I still 
 persist in my new scheme, she has at length, lost 
 her patience, she snatches my book out of my 
 hand, tears my paper if she finds me writing, 
 burns Flavia's letters before my face when she 
 can seize them, and threatens to lock me up, and 
 to complain to my father of my perverseness. If 
 women, she says, would but know their duty and 
 their interest, they would be careful to acquaint 
 themselves with family affairs, and many a penny 
 might be saved ; for while the mistress of the 
 house is scribbling and reading, servants are 
 junketing, and linen is wearing out. She then 
 takes me round the rooms, shows me the worked 
 hangings, and chairs of tent-stitch, and asks, 
 whether all this was done with a pen and a book ? 
 
 I cannot deny that I sometimes laugh and 
 sometimes am sullen ; but she has not delicacy 
 enough to be much moved either with my mirth 
 or my gloom, if she did not think the interest 
 of the family endangered by this change of my 
 manners. She had for some years marked out 
 young Mr. Surly, an heir in the neighbourhood, 
 remarkable for his love of fighting-cocks, as an 
 advantageous match ; and was extremely pleased 
 with the civilities which he used to pay me, till 
 under Flavia's tuition 1 learned to talk of sub- 
 jects which he could not understand. This, she 
 says, is the consequence of female study ; girls 
 grow too wise to be advised, and too stubborn to 
 be commanded ; but she is resolved to try who 
 shall govern, and will thwart my humour till she 
 breaks my spirit. 
 
 These menaces, Mr. Rambler, sometimes make 
 me quite angry ; for I have been sixteen these 
 ten weeks, and think myself exempted from the 
 dominion of a governess, who has no pretensions 
 to more sense or knowledge than myself. I am 
 resolved, since I am as tall and as wise as other 
 women, to be no longer treated like a girl. Miss 
 Flavia has often told me, that ladies of my age 
 go to assemblies and routes, without their mp- 
 thers and their aunts ; I shall, therefore, from 
 this time, leave asking advice, and refuse to give 
 accounts. I wish you would state the time at 
 which young ladies may judge for themselves, 
 which I am sure you cannot but think ought to 
 begin before sixteen ; if you are inclined to delay 
 it longer, I shall have very little regard to your 
 opinion. 
 
 My aunt often tells me of the advantages of 
 experience, and of the deference due to seniority ; 
 and both she and all the antiquated part of the 
 world, talk of the unreserved obedience which 
 they paid to the commands of their parents, and 
 the undoubting confidence with which they lis- 
 tened to their precepts ; of the te-r O rs which they 
 
 felt at a frown, and the humility with which they 
 supplicated forgiveness whenever they had of- 
 fended. I cannot but fancy that this boast is too 
 general to be true, and that the young and old 
 were always at variance. I have, however, told 
 my aunt, that I will mend whatever she will 
 prove to be wrong ; but she replies that she has 
 reasons of her own, and that she is sorry to live 
 in an age when girls have the impudence to ask 
 for proofs. 
 
 I beg once again, Mr. Rambler, to know whe 
 ther I am not as wise as my aunt, and whether, 
 when she presumes to check me as a baby, I 
 may not pluck up a spirit and return her inso 
 lence ? I shall not proceed to extremities with- 
 out your advice, which is therefore impatiently 
 expected by 
 
 MYRTILLA. 
 
 P. S. Remember I am past sixteen. 
 
 No. 85.] TUESDAY, JAN. 8, 1751. 
 
 Olio, si tollas periere Cvpidinis arcus 
 Contempttequejacent, et fine luce faces. -OVID. 
 
 At busy hearts in vain Love's arrows fly ; 
 Dimm'd, scorn'd, and impotent, his torches lie. 
 
 MANY writers of eminence in physic have laid 
 out their diligence upon the consideration of those 
 distempers to which men are exposed by particu- 
 lar states of life, and very learned treatises have 
 been produced upon the maladies of the camp, 
 the sea, and the mines. There are, indeed, few 
 employments which a man accustomed to anato- 
 mical inquiries, and medical refinements, would 
 not find reasons for declining as dangerous to 
 health, did not his learning or experience inform 
 him, that almost every occupation, however in- 
 convenient or formidable, is happier and safer 
 than a life of sloth. 
 
 The necessity of action is not only demonstra 
 ble from the fabric of the body, but evident from 
 observation of the universal practice of mankind, 
 who, for the preservation of health, in those 
 whose rank or wealth exempts them from the 
 necessity of lucrative labour, have invented sports 
 and diversions, though not of equal use to the 
 world with manual trades, yet of equal fatigue 
 to those who practise them, and differing only 
 from the drudgery of the husbandman or manu- 
 facturer, as they are acts of choice, and therefore 
 performed without the painful sense of compul- 
 sion. The huntsman rises early ; pursues his 
 game through all the dangers and obstructions 
 of the chase, swims rivers, and scales precipices, 
 till he returns home no less harassed than the 
 soldier, and has perhaps sometimes incurred as 
 great hazard of wounds or death ; yet he has no 
 motive to incite his ardour ; he is neither subject 
 to the commands of a general, nor dreads any 
 penalties for neglect and disobedience ; he has 
 neither profit nor honour to expect from his perils 
 and his conquests, but toils without the hope of 
 mural or civic garlands, and must content him- 
 self with the praise of his tenants and compan- 
 ions. 
 
 But such is the constitution of man, that la- 
 bour maybe styled its own reward ; nor will any 
 external incitements be requisite, if it be consider- 
 ed how much happiness is pained, and how much
 
 136 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 85. 
 
 misci) escaped, by frequent and violent agitation 
 of tho body. 
 
 Ease is'the utmost that can be hoped from a 
 sedentary, and inactive habit; ease, a neutral 
 state between pain and pleasure. The dance of 
 spirits, the bound of vigour, readiness of enter- 
 prise, and defiance of fatigue, are reserved for him 
 that braces his nerves, and hardens his fibres, 
 that keeps his limbs pliant with motion, and by 
 fiequent exposure fortifies his frame against the 
 common accidents of cold and heat. 
 
 With ease, however, if it could be secured, 
 many would be content ; but nothing terrestrial 
 can be kept at a stand. Ease, if it is not rising 
 into pleasure, will be falling towards pain ; and 
 whatever hope the dreams of speculation may 
 suggest of observing the proportion between nu- 
 triment and labour, and keeping the body in a 
 healthy state by supplies exactly equal to its 
 waste, we know that in effect, the vital powers, 
 unexcited by motion, grow gradually languid ; 
 that, as their vigour fails, obstructions are gene- 
 rated; and that from obstructions proceed most 
 of those pains which wear us away slowly with 
 periodical tortures, and which, though they some- 
 times suffer life to be long, condemn it to be use- 
 less, chain us down to the couch of misery, and 
 mock us with the hopes of death. 
 
 Exercise cannot secure us from that dissolution 
 to which we are decreed ; but, while the soul and 
 body continue united, it can make the association 
 pleasing, and give probable hopes that they shall 
 be disjoined by an easy separation. It was a 
 principle among the ancients, that acute diseases 
 are from heaven, and chronical from ourselves ; 
 the dart of death indeed falls from heaven, but 
 we poison it by our own misconduct ; to die is 
 the fate of man, but to die with lingering anguish 
 is generally his folly.* 
 
 It is necessary to that perfection of which our 
 present, state is capable, that the mind, and body 
 should both be kept in action ; that neither the 
 faculties of the one nor of the other be suffered to 
 grow lax or torpid for want of use; that neither 
 health be purchased by voluntary submission to 
 ignorance, nor knowledge cultivated at the ex- 
 pense of that health, which must enable it either 
 to give pleasure to its possessor, or assistance to 
 others. It is too frequently the pride of students, 
 to despise those amusements and recreations, 
 which give to the rest of mankind strength of 
 limbs and cheerfulness of heart. Solitude and 
 contemplation are indeed seldom consistent with 
 such skill in common exercises or sports as are 
 necessary to mtke them practised with delight, 
 and no man is willing to do that of which the 
 necessity is not pressing and immediate, when 
 he knows that his awkwardness must make him 
 ridiculous. 
 
 Lvdere gtiineacit, campettribns ahgtinet armis 
 
 fmlortuii/ue pilic, diaeive, trochivc, guieacit, 
 
 fft tpiaaec riaum tollant impunc corona. HOR. 
 
 Ih that's unskilful will not toss a ball. 
 
 Nor run, nor wrestle, for he fears the fall ; 
 
 He justly fears to meet deserved disgrace, 
 
 And that the ring will hiss the baffled ass. CREECH. 
 
 *This passage was once strangely supposed by some 
 reader* to recommend suicide, instead of exercise, which 
 is surely the more obvious meaning. See, however, a. let- 
 ter from Dr. Johnson on the subject, in "Boswell's Life " 
 vol. iv. p. 162. C 
 
 Thus the man of learning is often resigned, 
 almost by his own consent, to languor and pain ; 
 and while in the prosecution of his studies he 
 suffers the weariness of labour, is subject by his 
 course of life to the maladies of idleness. 
 
 It was, perhaps, from the observation of this 
 mischievous omission in those who are employed 
 about intellectual objects, that Locke has, in his 
 " System of Education," urged the necessity of a 
 trade to men of all ranks and professions, that 
 when the mind is weary with its proper task, it 
 may be relaxed by a slighter attention to some 
 mechanical operation ; and that while the vital 
 functions are resuscitated and awakened by vi- 
 gorous motion, the understanding may be re- 
 strained from that vagrance and dissipation by 
 which it relieves itself after a long intenseness ot 
 thought, unless some allurement be presented 
 that may engage application without anxiety. 
 
 There is so little reason for expecting frequent 
 conformity to Locke's precept, that it is not ne- 
 cessary to inquire whether the practice of me- 
 chanical arts might not give occasion to petty 
 emulation, and degenerate ambition, and whether 
 if our divines and physicians were taught the 
 lathe and the chisel, they would not think more ot 
 their tools than their books ? as Nero neglected 
 the care of his empire for his chariot and his fid- 
 dle. It is certainly dangerous to be too much 
 pleased with little things ; but what is there 
 which may not be perverted ? Let us remember 
 how much worse employment might have been 
 found for those hours, which a manual occupation 
 appears to engross ; let us compute the profit with 
 the loss, and when we reflect how often a genius 
 is allured from his studies, consider likewise that 
 perhaps by the same attractions he is sometimes 
 withheld from debauchery, or recalled from ma- 
 lice, from ambition, from envy, and from lust. 
 
 I have always admired the wisdom of those 
 by whom our female education was instituted, for 
 having contrived, that every woman, of whatever 
 condition, should be taught some arts of manufac- 
 ture, by which the vacuities of recluse and domes- 
 tic leisure may be filled up. These arts are more 
 necessary, as the weakness of their sex, and the 
 general system of life debar ladies from many em- 
 ployments which, by diversifying the circum- 
 stances of men, preserve them from being can- 
 kered by the rust of their own thoughts. I know 
 not how much of the virtue and happiness of the 
 world may be the consequence of this judicious 
 regulation. Perhaps the most powerful fancy 
 might be unable to figure the confusion and 
 slaughter that would be produced by so many 
 piercing eyes and vivid understandings, turned 
 loose upon mankind, with no other business than 
 to sparkle and intrigue, to perplex and to destroy. 
 
 For my part, whenever chance brings within 
 my observation a knot of misses busy at their 
 needles, I consider myself as in the school of vir- 
 tue ; and though I have no extraordinary skill in 
 plain work or embroidery, look upon their opera- 
 tions with as much satisfaction as their govern- 
 ess, because I regard them as providing a secu- 
 rity against the most dangerous cnsnarers of the 
 soul, by enabling themselvoj to exclude idleness 
 from their solitary moments, and with idleness 
 her attendant train of passions, fancies, and chi- 
 meras, fears, sorrows, and desires. Ovid and Cer- 
 vantes will inform their that love has no power 
 but over those whom he catches unemployed ;
 
 No. 86.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 137 
 
 and Hector in the Iliad, when he sees Andro- 
 mache overwhelmed with terrors, sends her for 
 consolation to the loom and the distaff 
 
 It is certain that any wild wish or vain imagi- 
 nation never takes such firm possession of the 
 mind, as when it is found empty and unoccupied. 
 The old peripatetic principle, that Nature abhore 
 a vacuum, may be properly applied to the intellect, 
 which will embrace any thing, however absurd 
 or criminal, rather than be wholly without an ob- 
 ject. Perhaps every man may date the predomi- 
 nance of those desires that disturb his life and 
 contaminate his conscience, from some unhappy 
 hour when too much leisure exposed him to their 
 incursions; for he has lived with little observa- 
 tion either on himself or others, who does not 
 know that to be idle is to be vicious. 
 
 No. 8C.] SATURDAY, JAN. 12, 1751. 
 
 Legitimumque sonum digitis callemvset atire. 
 
 By fingers, or by ear, we numbers scan. 
 
 ELPHINSTON. 
 
 ONE of the ancients has observed, that the bur- 
 den of government is increased upon princes by 
 the virtues of their immediate predecessors. It 
 is,- indeed, always dangerous to be placed in a 
 state of unavoidable comparison with excellence, 
 and the danger is still greater when that excel- 
 lence is consecrated by death ; when envy and 
 interest cease to act against it, and those pas- 
 sions by which it was at first vilified and oppos- 
 ed, now stand in its defence, and turn their ve- 
 hemence against honest emulation. 
 
 He that succeeds a celebrated writer has the 
 same difficulties to encounter ; he stands under 
 the shade of exalted merit, and is hindered from 
 rising to his natural height, by the interception of 
 those beams which should invigorate and quicken 
 him. He applies to that attention which is al- 
 ready engaged, and unwilling to be drawn off 
 from certain satisfaction ; or perhaps to an atten- 
 tion already wearied, and not to be recalled to 
 the same object. 
 
 One of the old poets congratulates himself that 
 he has the untrodden regions of Parnassus be- 
 fore him, and that his garland will be gathered 
 from plantations which no writer had yet culled. 
 But the imitator treads a beaten walk, and with 
 all his diligence can only hope to find a few flow- 
 ers or branches untouched by his predecessor, 
 the refuse of contempt, or the omissions of negli- 
 gence. The Macedonian conqueror, when he 
 was once invited to hear a man that sung like a 
 nightingale, replied with contempt, " that he had 
 heard the nightingale herself;" and the same 
 treatment must every man expect, whose praise 
 is, that he imitates another. 
 
 Yet, in the midst of these discouraging reflec- 
 tions, I am about to offer to my reader some ob- 
 servations upon " Paradise Lost," and hope, that, 
 however I may fall below the illustrious writer 
 who has so long dictated to the commonwealth 
 of learning, my attempt may not be wholly use- 
 less. There are, in every age, new errors to 
 be rectified, and new prejudices to be opposed. 
 False taste is always busy to mislead those that 
 are entering upon the regions of learning ; and 
 the traveller, uncertain of his way, and forsaken 
 
 by the sun, will be pleased to see a fainter oro 
 arise on the horizon, that may rescue him from 
 total darkness, though with weak and borrowed 
 lustre. 
 
 Addison, though he has considered this poem 
 under most of the general topics of criticism, has 
 barely touched upon the versification ; not proba- 
 bly because he thought the art of numbers un- 
 worthy of his notice, for he knew with what mi- 
 nute attention the ancient critics considered the 
 disposition of syllables, and had himself given 
 hopes of some metrical observations upon the 
 great Roman poet ; but being the first who un- 
 dertook to display the beauties, and point out the 
 defects of Milton, he had many objects at once 
 before him, and passed willingly over those which 
 were most barren of ideas, and required labour 
 rather than genius. 
 
 Yet versification, or the art of modulating his 
 numbers, is indispensably necessary to a poet. 
 Every other power by which the understanding 
 is enlightened, or the imagination enchanted, may 
 be exercised in prose. But the poet has this pe- 
 culiar superiority, that to all the powers which 
 the perfection of every other composition can re 
 quire, he adds the faculty of joining music with 
 reason, and of acting at once upon the senses 
 and the passions. I suppose there are few who 
 do not feel themselves touched by poetical melo 
 dy, and who will not confess that they are more 
 or less moved by the same thoughts, as they arc 
 conveyed by different sounds, and more affected 
 by the eame words in one order than in another. 
 The perception of harmony is. indeed conferred 
 upon men in degrees very unequal ; but there are 
 none who do not perceive it, or to whom a regu- 
 lar series of proportionate sounds cannot give 
 delight 
 
 In treating on the versification of Milton I am 
 desirous to be generally understood, and shall 
 therefore studiously decline the dialect of gram 
 marians ; though, indeed, it is always difficult, 
 and sometimes scarcely possible, to deliver the 
 precepts of an art, without the terms by which 
 the peculiar ideas of that art are expreseed, and 
 which had not been invented but because the Ian 
 guage already in use was insufficient If, there 
 fore, I shall sometimes seem obscure, it may be 
 imputed to this voluntary interdiction, and to a 
 desire of avoiding that offence which is always 
 given by unusual words. 
 
 The heroic measure of the English language 
 may be properly considered as pure or mixed. 
 It is pure when the accent rests upon every se- 
 cond syllable through the whole line. 
 
 Courage uncertain dangers may abate, 
 
 But who can hearth' approach of certain fate. 
 
 DEYDEN. 
 
 Jlere Love his golden phafts employs, here lights 
 His constant lamp, and waves his pfirple wings, 
 Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile 
 Of harlots, loveless, juyless, imendeared. MILTON. 
 
 The accent may be observed, in the second line 
 of Dryden, and the second and fourth of Milton, 
 to repose upon every second syllable. 
 
 The repetition of this sound or percussion at 
 equal times, is the most complete harmony of 
 which a single verse is capable, and should there- 
 fore be exactly kept in distichs, and generally in 
 the last line of a paragraph, that the ear may rest 
 without any senee of imperfection.
 
 138 
 
 TTIE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 87 
 
 But, to preserve the series of sounds ""trans- 
 posed in a long composition, is not only very dim- 
 cult, but tiresome and disgusting; for we arc soon 
 wearied with the perpetual recurrence of the same 
 cadence. Necessity has therefore enforced the 
 mixed measure, in which some variation of the 
 accents is allowed ; this, though it always injures 
 the harmony of the line, considered by itself, yet 
 compensates the loss by relieving us from the 
 continual tyranny of the same sound, and makes 
 us more sensible of the harmony of the pure 
 measure. 
 
 Of these mixed numbers every poet affords us 
 innumerable instances, and Milton seldom has 
 two pure lines together, as will appear if any of 
 his paragraphs be read with attention merely to 
 the music. 
 
 Thus at their shady lodge arrived both stood, 
 
 Both turn'd, and under open sky adored 
 
 The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heaven, 
 
 Which they beheld ; the moon's resplendent globe, 
 
 And slurry pale : tliou also mad'st the night, 
 
 Maker omnipotent : and thou tho day, 
 
 Which we in our appointed work employ'd 
 
 Have finish'd, happy in our mutual help, 
 And mutual love, the crown of all our bli. 
 
 liss 
 
 Ordain'd by thee; and this delicious place, 
 For us too large ; where thy abundance wants 
 Partakers, and uncropp'd falls to the ground ; 
 But thou hast promised from us two a race 
 To fill the earth, who shall with us extol 
 Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, 
 And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. 
 
 In this passage it will be at first observed that 
 all the lines are not equally harmonious, and up- 
 on a nearer examination it will be found that only 
 the fifth and ninth lines are regular, and the rest 
 are more or less licentious with respect to the ac- 
 cent. In some the accent is equally upon two 
 syllables together, and in both strong. As 
 
 Thus at their shady lodge arrived, both stood, 
 
 Both turn'd, and under open sky adored 
 
 The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heaven. 
 
 In others the accent is equally upon two sylla- 
 bles, but upon both weak. 
 
 a race 
 
 To fill the earth, who shall with us extol 
 Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, 
 And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. 
 
 In the first pair of syllables the accent may devi- 
 ate from the rigour of exactness, without any un- 
 pleasing diminution of harmony, as may be ob- 
 served in the lines already cited, and more re- 
 markably in this, 
 
 Thou also mads't the night, 
 Maker omnipotent ! and thou the day. 
 
 But, excepting in the first pair of syllables, 
 which may be considered as arbitrary, a poet who, 
 not having the invention or knowledge of Milton, 
 has more need to allure his audience by musical 
 cadences, should seldom suffer more than one 
 aberration from the rule in any single verse. 
 
 There are two lines in this passage more re- 
 markably unharmonious : 
 
 -This delicious place, 
 
 For us too large ; uhrrr thy abundance wants 
 Partakers, and uncropp'd falls to the ground. 
 
 Here the third pair of syllables in the first, and 
 fourth pair in the second verse, have their accents 
 
 retrograde or inverted ; the first syllable being 
 strong or acute, and the second weak. The de- 
 triment which the measure suffers by this inver- 
 sion of the accents is sometimes less perceptible, 
 when the verses are carried one into another, but 
 s remarkably striking in this place, where the 
 vicious verse concludes a period, and is yet more 
 offensive in rhyme, when we regularly attend to 
 :he flow of every single line. This will appeal 
 jy reading a couplet in which Cowley, an authoi 
 not sufficiently studious of harmony, has commit 
 ted the same fault. 
 
 -his harmless life 
 
 Does with substantial blessedness abound, 
 And the soft wings of peace cover him round. 
 
 [n these the law of metre is very grossly violated 
 by mingling combinations of sound directly op- 
 posite to each other; as Milton expresses in his 
 sonnet, by committing short and long, and setting 
 one part of the measure at variance with the rest. 
 The ancients, who had a language more capable 
 of variety than ours, had two kinds of verse, the 
 Iambic, consisting of short and long syllables al 
 ternately, from which our heroic measure is de 
 rived, and the Trochaic, consisting in a like altera 
 tion of long and short. These were considered 
 as opposites, and conveyed the contrary images 
 of speed and slowness ; to confound them, there- 
 fore, as in these lines, is to deviate from the es- 
 tablished practice. But where the senses are to 
 judge, authority is not necessary, the ear is suffi- 
 cient to detect dissonance, nor should I have 
 sought auxiliaries on such an occasion against 
 any name but that of Milton. 
 
 No. 87.] TUESDAY, JAN. 15, 1751. 
 
 Invidus, iracxndnf, inert, vinosus, amator, 
 Nemo adeoferus est, ut non mitescere possit, 
 Si modo cullura patientem commodet aurem. 
 
 HOK 
 
 The slave to envy, anger, wine, or love, 
 The wretch of sloth, its excellence shall prove ; 
 Fierceness itself shall hear its rage away, 
 When listening calmly to th' instructive lay. 
 
 FRANCIS. 
 
 THAT few things are so liberally bestowed, or 
 squandered with so little effect, as good advice, 
 has been generally observed ; and many sage po- 
 sitions have been advanced concerning the rea- 
 sons of this complaint, and the means of remov- 
 ing it. It is indeed an important and noble in- 
 quiry, for little would be wanting to the happi- 
 ness of life, if every man could conform to the 
 right as soon as he was shown it. 
 
 This perverse neglect of the most salutary 
 precepts, and stubborn resistance of the most 
 pathetic persuasion, is usually imputed to him 
 by whom the counsel is received, and we often 
 hear k mentioned as a sign of hopeless depravi- 
 ty, that though good advice was given, it has 
 wrought no reformation. 
 
 Others, who imagine themselves to have quick- 
 er sagacity and deeper penetration, have found 
 out that the inefficacy of advice is usually the 
 fault of the counsellor, and rules have been laid 
 down, by which this important duty may be suc- 
 cessfully performed: we are directed by what 
 tokens to discover the favourable moment at 
 which the heart is disposed for the operation cJ
 
 o. 87.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 139 
 
 truth and reason, with what address to adminis- 
 ter, and with what vehicles to disguise the cathar- 
 tics of the soul. 
 
 But, notwithstanding this specious expedient, 
 we find the world yet in the same state : advice 
 is still given, but still received with disgust; nor 
 has it appeared that the bitterness of the medi- 
 cine has been yet abated, or its power increased, 
 by any methods of preparing it. 
 
 If we consider the manner in which those who 
 assume the office of directing the conduct of 
 others execute their undertaking, it will not be 
 very wonderful that their labours, however zeal- 
 ous or affectionate, are frequently useless. For 
 what is the advice that is commonly given? A 
 few general maxims, enforced with vehemence 
 and inculcated with importunity, but failing for 
 want of particular reference and immediate ap- 
 plication. 
 
 It is not often that any man can have so much 
 knowledge of another, as is necessary to make 
 instruction useful. We are sometimes not our- 
 selves conscious of the original motives of our 
 actions, and when we know them, our first care 
 is to hide them from the sight of others, and often 
 from those most diligently, whose superiority 
 either of power or understanding may entitle 
 them to inspect our lives ; it is therefore very pro- 
 bable that he who endeavours the cure of our in- 
 tellectual maladies, mistakes their cause; and 
 that his prescriptions avail nothing, because he 
 knows not which of the passions or desires is 
 vitiated. 
 
 Advice, as it always gives a temporary appear- 
 ance of superiority, can never be very grateful, 
 even when it is most necessary or most judicious. 
 But for the same reason every one is eager to in- 
 struct his neighbours. To be wise or to be vir- 
 tuous, is to buy dignity and importance at a high 
 price ; but when nothing is necessary to eleva- 
 tion but detection of the follies or the faults of 
 others, no man is so insensible to the voice of 
 fame as to linger on the ground. 
 
 Tentanda via est, qua me quogue passim 
 
 Tollere kumo, victorque virumvolitareper ora. 
 
 VIRG. 
 
 New ways I must attempt, my grovelling name 
 To raise aloft, and wing my flight to fame. 
 
 DRTDEN. 
 
 Vanity is so frequently the apparent motive 
 of advice, that we, for the most part, summon 
 our powers to oppose it without any very accu- 
 rate inquiry whether it is right. It is sufficient 
 that another is growing great in his own eyes, 
 at our expense, and assumes authority over us 
 without our permission ; for many would con- 
 tentedly suffer the consequences of their own 
 mistakes, rather than the insolence of him who 
 triumphs as .their deliverer. 
 
 It is, indeed, seldom found that any advanta- 
 ges are enjoyed with that moderation which the 
 uncertainty of all human good so powerfully en- 
 forces; and therefore the adviser may justly sus- 
 Kect, that he has inflamed the opposition which 
 e laments by arrogance and superciliousness. 
 He may suspect, but needs not hastily to con- 
 demn himself, for he can rarely be certain that 
 the softest language or most humble diffidence 
 would have escaped resentment ; since scarcely 
 any degree of circumspection ran prevent or ob- 
 
 viate the rage with which the slothful, the impo- 
 tent, and the unsuccessful, vent their discontent 
 upon those that excel them. Modesty itself, if it 
 is praised, will be envied ; and there are minds 
 so impatient of inferiority, that their gratitude is 
 a species of revenge, and they return benefits, 
 not because recompense is a pleasure, but be- 
 cause obligation is a pain. 
 
 The number of those whom the love of them- 
 selves has thus far corrupted, is perhaps not 
 great ; but there are few so free from vanity, as 
 not to dictate to those who will hear their in- 
 structions with a visible sense of their own bene- 
 ficence : and few to whom it is not unpleasing to 
 receive documents, however tenderly and cau- 
 tiously delivered, or who are not willing to raise 
 themselves from pupilage, by disputing the pro- 
 positions of their teacher. 
 
 It was the maxim, I think, of Alphonsus of 
 Arragon, that dead counsellors are safest. The 
 ?rave puts an end to flattery and artifice, and the 
 information that we receive from books is pure 
 Prom interest, fear, or ambition. Dead counsel- 
 lors are likewise most instructive ; because they 
 are heard with patience and with reverence. 
 We are not unwilling to believe that man wiser 
 than ourselves, from whose abilities we may re- 
 ceive advantage, without any danger of rivalry 
 or opposition, and who affords us the light of his 
 experience, without hurting our eyes by flashes 
 of insolence. 
 
 By the consultation of books, whether of dead 
 or living authors, many temptations to petulance 
 and opposition, which occur in oral conferences, 
 are avoided. An author cannot obtrude his ser- 
 vice unasked, nor can be often suspected of any 
 malignant intention to insult his readers with his 
 knowledge or his wit. Yet so prevalent is the 
 habit of comparing ourselves with others, while 
 they remain within the reach of our passions, 
 that books are seldom read with complete im- 
 partiality, but by those from whom the writer is 
 placed at such a distance that his life or death is 
 indifferent. 
 
 We see that volumes may be perused, and 
 perused with attention, to little effect ; and that 
 maxims of prudence, or principles of virtue, may 
 be treasured in the memory without influencing 
 the conduct. Of the numbers that pass theL 
 lives among books, very few read to be made 
 wiser or better, apply any general reproof of vice 
 to themselves, or try their own manners by ax 
 ioms of justice. They purpose either to con 
 sume those hours for which they can find no 
 other amusement, to gain or preserve that respect 
 which learning has always obtained ; dr to gratify 
 their curiosity with knowledge, which, like trea- 
 sures buried and forgotten, is of no use to others 
 or themselves. 
 
 "The preacher (says a French author) may 
 spend an hour in explaining and enforcing a pre 
 cept of religion, without feeling any impression 
 from his own performance, because he may have 
 no further design than to fill up his hour." A 
 student may easily exhaust his life in comparing 
 divines and moralists, without any practical re- 
 gard to morality or religion ; he may be learning 
 not to live, but to reason ; he may regard only 
 the elegance of style, justness of argument, and 
 accuracy of method ; and may enable himself to 
 criticise with judgment, and dispute with subtili- 
 ty, while the chief use of his volumes is unthought
 
 140 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 88. 
 
 of, his mind is unaffected, and his life is unre- 
 
 But though truth and virtue are thus frequently 
 defeated by pride, obstinacy or folly, we are not 
 allowed to desert them ; for whoever can furnish 
 arms which they hitherto have not employed, 
 may enable them to gain some hearts which 
 would have resisted any other method of attack. 
 Every man of genius has some arts of fixing the 
 attention peculiar to himself, by which, honestly 
 exerted, he may benefit mankind ; for the argu- 
 ments for purity of life fail of their due influence, 
 not because they have been considered and con- 
 futed, but because they have been passed over 
 without consideration. To the position of Tully, 
 that if Virtue could be seen, she must be loved, 
 may be added, that if Trutli could be heard, she 
 must be obeyed. 
 
 No. 88.] SATURDAY, JAN. 19, 1751. 
 
 Cumtabulis animum censoris sumet honesti : 
 Audebit, queccunque minus splendoris habebunt, 
 Et fine pondere erunt, et hnnore indignaferentnr, 
 Vtrba Movere loco, quamvis invita recedant, 
 Et versentur adhuc intra penetralia Vesta* HOR. 
 
 But he that bath a curious piece design'd, 
 
 When he begins must take a censor's mind, 
 
 Severe and honest ; and what words appear 
 
 Too light and trivial, or too weak to bear 
 
 The weighty sense, nor worth the reader's care, 
 
 Shake off; though stubborn, they are loath to move, 
 
 And though we fancy, dearly though we love. CREECH. 
 
 "THERE is no reputation for genius," says duin- 
 tilian, " to be gained by writing on things, which, 
 however necessary, have little splendour or show. 
 The height of a building attracts the eye, but the 
 foundations lie without regard. Yet since there 
 is not any way to the top of science, but from the 
 lowest parts, I shall think nothing unconnected 
 with the art of oratory, which he that wants can- 
 not be an orator." 
 
 Confirmed and animated by this illustrious pre- 
 cedent, I shall continue my inquiries into Mil- 
 ton's art of versification. Since, however minute 
 the employment may appear, of analysing lines 
 into syllables, and whatever ridicule may be in- 
 curred by a solemn deliberation upon accents 
 and pauses, it is certain, that without this petty 
 knowledge no man can be a poet ; and that from 
 the proper disposition of single sounds results 
 that harmony that adds force to reason, and gives 
 grace to sublimity ; that shackles attention, and 
 governs passions. 
 
 That verse may be melodious and pleasing, it 
 is necessary, not only that the words be so ranged 
 as that the accent may fall on its proper place, 
 but that the syllables themselves be so chosen as 
 to flow smoothly into ene another. This is to be 
 effected by a proportionate mixture of vowels and 
 consonants, and by tempering the mute conso- 
 nants with liquids and semivowels. The Hebrew 
 grammarians have observed, that it is impossible 
 to pronounce two consonants without the inter- 
 vention of a vowel, or without some emission of 
 the breath between one and the other ; this is 
 longer and more perceptible, as the sounds of the 
 consonants are less harmonically conjoined, and, 
 by consequence the flow of the verse is longer 
 interrupted. 
 
 It is pronounced by Dryden, that a line of 
 
 monosyllables is almost always harsh. This, 
 with regard to our language, is evidently true, 
 not because monosyllables cannot compose har- 
 mony, but because our monosyllables being of 
 Teutonic original, or formed by contraction, 
 commonly begin and end with consonants, as, 
 
 Every lower faculty 
 
 Of sense, whereby they hear, see, smell, touch, taste. 
 
 The difference of harmony arising principally 
 from the collocation of vowels and consonants, 
 will be sufficiently conceived by attending to the 
 following passages : 
 
 Immortal Amarant there grows 
 
 And flowers aloft, shading the fount of life, 
 
 And where the river of bliss through midst of heaven 
 
 Rolls o'er Ely sian flowers her amber stream; 
 
 With these that neverfade, the spirits elect 
 
 Jiind their resplendent locks inwreath'd with beams 
 
 The same comparison that I propose to be 
 made between the fourth and sixth verses of this 
 passage may be repeated between the last lines 
 of the following quotations : 
 
 Under foot the violet, 
 
 Crocus, and hyacinth, with rich inlay 
 
 Broidered the ground, more coloured than icilh stone 
 
 Of costliest emblem. 
 
 Here in close recess, 
 
 With flowers, garlands, and sweet-smelling herbs. 
 Espoused Eve first deck'd her nuptial bed ; 
 And heavenly choirs the hymenean svng. 
 
 Milton, whose ear had been accustomed, not 
 only to the music of the ancient tongues, which, 
 however vitiated by our pronunciation, excel all 
 that are now in use, but to the softness of the 
 Italian, the most mellifluous of all modern poetry, 
 seems fully convinced of the unfitness of our lan- 
 guage for smooth versification, and is therefore 
 pleased with an opportunity of calling in a softer 
 word to his assistance: for this reason, and I be- 
 lieve for this only, he sometimes indulges himself 
 in a long series of proper names, and introduces 
 them where they add little but music to his poem. 
 
 -The richer seat 
 
 Of Atabalipa, and yetunspoil'd 
 Guiana, whose great city Gerion's sons 
 Call El Dorado 
 
 The moon The Tuscan artist views 
 At evening, from the top of Fesole 
 Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands. 
 
 He has indeed been more attentive to his syi 
 lables than to his accents, and does not often of- 
 fend by collisions of consonants, or openings of 
 vowels upon each other, at least not more often 
 than other writers who have had less important 
 or complicated subjects to take off" their care from 
 the cadence of their lines. 
 
 The great peculiarity of Milton's versification, 
 compared with that of later poets, is the elision 
 of one vowel before another, or the suppression 
 of the last syllable of a word ending with a vowel, 
 when a vowel begins the following word. As 
 
 Knowledge 
 
 Oppresses else with surfeit, and soon turns 
 Wisdom to folly, as nourishment to wind. 
 
 This license, though now disused in English 
 poetry, was practised by our old writers, and is 
 allowed in many other languages ancient and 
 modern, and therefore the critics on " Paradise
 
 No. 89.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 141 
 
 Lost" have, without much deliberation, commend- 
 ed Milton for continuing it* But one language 
 cannot communicate its rules to another. We 
 have already tried and rejected the hexameter of 
 the ancients, the double close of the Italians, and 
 the alexandrine of the French ; and the elision of 
 vowels, however graceful it may seem to other 
 nations, may be very unsuitable to the genius of 
 the English tongue. 
 
 There is reason to believe that we have negli- 
 gently lost part of our vowels, and that the silent 
 e, which our ancestors added to the most of our 
 monosyllables, was once vocal. By this detrun- 
 cation of our syllables, our language is over- 
 stocked with consonants, and it is more necessa- 
 ry, to add vowels to the beginning of words, than 
 to cut them off from the end. 
 
 Milton therefore seems to have somewhat mis- 
 taken the nature of our language, of which the 
 chief defect is ruggedness and asperity, and has 
 left our harsh cadences yet harsher. But his eli- 
 sions are not all equally to be censured ; in some 
 syllables they may be allowed, and perhaps in a 
 few may be safely imitated. The abscission of 
 a vowel is undoubtedly vicious when it is strong- 
 ly sounded, and makes, with its associate conso- 
 nant, a full and audible syllable. 
 
 What Le gives, 
 
 Spiritual, may to purest spirits be found, 
 ffo ingrateful food, and food alike these pure 
 Intelligential substances require. 
 
 Fruits, Hesperian fables true, 
 If true, here only, and of delicious taste. 
 
 -Evening now approach'd, 
 
 For we have alsu our evening and our morn. 
 
 Of guests he makes them slaves^ 
 InhospitaiJy, and kills their infant males. 
 
 And vital Virtue infused, and vital warmth, 
 Throughout the fluid mass. 
 
 God made Ihce of choice his own, and of his own 
 To serve him. 
 
 I believe every reader will agree, that in all 
 those passages, though not equally in all, the 
 music is injured, and in some the meaning ob- 
 scured. There are other lines in which the vow- 
 el is cut off, but it is so faintly pronounced in 
 common speech, that the loss of it in poetry is 
 scarcely perceived ; and therefore such compli- 
 ance with the measure may be allowed. 
 
 Xature breeds 
 
 Perverse, all monstrous, all prodigious things, 
 Abominate, inutterafr/e ; and worse 
 Than fables yet have fuign'd 
 
 From the shore 
 
 They view'd the vast iiumnasura&fe abyss, 
 Impenetrafi/e, impal'd with circling fire. 
 
 To none communicad/t in earth or heaven. 
 
 Yet even these contractions increase the rough- 
 ness of a language too rough already ; and though 
 in Ions poems they may be sometimes suffered, 
 it never can be faulty to forbear them. 
 
 ' In the original Rambler, in folio, our author's opinion 
 appeal's different, and is thus expressed: "This license, 
 though an innovation in English poetry, is yet allowed in 
 many other languages ancient and modern, and therefore 
 Ibe critics on ' Paradise Lost' have, without much delibera- 
 Jion, commended Milton for introducing h." 
 
 Milton frequently uses in his poems the hy. 
 permetrical or redundant line of eleven syllables 
 
 -Thus it shall befall 
 
 Him whom to worth in woman over-trusting 
 Lets her will rule. 
 
 I also err'd in over-much admiring-. 
 
 Verses of this kind occur almost in every 
 page ; but, though they are not unpleasing or 
 dissonant, they ought to be admitted into heroic 
 poetry, since the narrow limits of our language 
 allow us no other distinction of epic and tragic 
 measures, than is afforded by the liberty of chang- 
 ing at will the terminations of the dramatic lines, 
 and bringing them by that relaxation of metrical 
 rigour nearer to prose. 
 
 No. 89.] TUESDAY, JAN. 22, 1751. 
 
 Dulee ett desipere in loco. HOE. 
 
 Wisdom at proper times is well forgotten. 
 
 LOCKE, whom there is no reason to suspect of 
 being a favourer of idleness or libertinism, has 
 advanced, that whoever hopes to em ploy any part 
 of his time with efficacy and vigour, must allow 
 some of it to pass in trifles. It is beyond the 
 powers of humanity to spend a whole life in pro- 
 found study and intense meditation, and the most 
 rigorous exacters of industry and seriousness 
 have appointed hours for relaxation and amuse 
 ment. 
 
 It is certain, that, with or without our consent, 
 many of the few moments allotted us will slide 
 imperceptibly away, and that the mind will break, 
 from confinement to its stated task, into sudden 
 excursions. Severe and connected attention is 
 preserved but for a short time ; and when a man 
 shuts himself up in his closet, and bends his 
 thoughts to the discussion of any abstruse ques- 
 tion, he will find his faculties continually stealing 
 away to more pleasing entertainments. He often 
 perceives himself transported, he knows not 
 how, to distant tracts of thought, and returns to 
 his first object as from a dream, without knowing 
 when he forsook it, or how long he has been ab- 
 stracted from it. 
 
 It has been observed that the most studious 
 are not always the most learned. There is, in- 
 deed, no great difficulty in discovering that this 
 difference of proficiency may arise from the dif- 
 ference of intellectual powers, of the choice of 
 books, or the convenience of information. But 
 I believe it likewise frequently happens that the 
 most recluse are not the most vigorous prosecut- 
 ors of study. Many impose upon the world, and 
 many upon themselves by an appearance of se- 
 vere and exemplary diligence, when they, in real- 
 ity, give themselves up to the luxury of fancy, 
 please their minds with regulating the past, or 
 planning out the future ; place themselves at will 
 in varied situations of happiness, and slumber 
 away their days in voluntary visions. In the 
 journey of life some are left behind because they 
 are naturally feeble and slow : some because they 
 miss the way, and many because they leave it by 
 choice, and, instead of pressing onward with a 
 steady pace, delight themselves with momentary 
 deviations, turn aside to pluck every flower, and 
 repose in every shade.
 
 142 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 89. 
 
 There is nothing more fatal to a man whose 
 business is to think, than to have learned the art 
 of regaling his mind with those airy gratifications. 
 Other vices or follies are restrained by fear, re- 
 formed by admonition, or rejected by the convic- 
 tion which the comparison of our conduct with 
 that of others may in time produce. But tliis in- 
 visible riot of the mmd, this secret prodigality of 
 being, is secure from detection, and fearless of 
 reproach. The dreamer retires to his apart- 
 ments, shuts out the cares and interruptions of 
 mankind, and abandons himself to his own fancy ; 
 new worlds rise up before him, one image is 
 followed by another, and a long succession of 
 delights dances round liim. He is at last called 
 back to life by nature, or by custom, and enters 
 peevish into society, because he cannot model it 
 toJiis own will. He returns from his idle ex- 
 cursions with the asperity, though not with the 
 knowledge, of a student, and hastens again to 
 the same felicity with the eagerness of a man 
 bent upon the advancement of some favourite 
 science. The infatuation strengthens by degrees, 
 and, like the poison of opiates, weakens his 
 powers, without any external symptom of malig- 
 nity. 
 
 It happens, indeed, that these hypocrites of 
 learning are in time detected, and convinced by 
 disgrace and disappointment of the difference 
 between the labour of thought, and the sport of 
 musing. But this discovery is often not made till 
 it is too late to recover the time that has been 
 fooled away. A thousand accidents may indeed, 
 awaken drones to a more early sense of their 
 danger and their shame. But they who are con- 
 vinced of the necessity of breaking from this ha- 
 bitual drowsiness, too often relapse in spite of 
 their resolution ; for these ideal seducers are 
 always near, and neither any particularity of time 
 nor place is necessary to their influence ; they 
 invade the soul without warning, and have often 
 charmed down resistance before their approach 
 is perceived or suspected. 
 
 This captivity, however, it is necessary for 
 every man to break, who has any desire to be 
 wise or useful, to pass his life with the esteem of 
 others, or to look back with satisfaction from his 
 old age upon his earlier years. In order to re- 
 
 gain liberty,he must find the means of flyingfrom 
 imself ; he must, in opposition to the stoic pre- 
 cept, teach his desires to fix upon eternal things ; 
 he must adopt the joys and the pains of others, 
 and excite in his mind the want of social plea- 
 sures and amicable communication. 
 
 It is, perhaps, not impossible to promote the 
 cure of this mental malady, by close application 
 to some new study, which may pour in fresh 
 ideas, and keep curiosity in perpetual motion. 
 But study requires solitude, and solitude is a 
 state dangerous to those who are too much ac- 
 customed to sink into themselves. Active em- 
 ployment or public pleasure is generally a neces- 
 sary part of this intellectual regimen, without 
 which, though some remission may be obtained, 
 a complete cure will scarcely be effected. 
 
 This is a formidable and obstinate disease of 
 the intellect, of which, when it has once become 
 radicated by time, the remedy is one of the hard- 
 eat tasks of reason and of virtue. Its slightest 
 attacks therefore, should be watchfully opposed ; 
 and he that finds the frigid and narcotic infection 
 
 beginning to seize him, should turn his whole at- 
 tention against it, and check it at the first disco- 
 very by proper counteraction. 
 
 The great resolution to be formed, when hap- 
 piness and virtue are thus formidably invaded, 
 is, that no part of life be spent in a state of neu 
 trality or indifference; but that some pleasure 
 be found for every moment that is not devoted to 
 labour; and that, whenever the necessary busi 
 ness of life grows irksome or disgusting, an im- 
 mediate transition be made to diversion and 
 gayety. 
 
 t After the exercises which the health of the 
 body requires, and which have themselves a na- 
 tural tendency to actuate and invigorate the mind, 
 the most eligible amusement of a rational being 
 seems to be that interchange of thoughts which 
 is practised in free and easy conversation ; where 
 suspicion is banished by experience, and emula- 
 tion by benevolence ; where every man speaks 
 with no other restraint than unwillingness to of- 
 fend, and hears with no other disposition than 
 desire to be pleased. 
 
 There must be a time in which every man tri- 
 fles ; and the only choice that nature offers us, is, 
 to trifle in company or alone. To join profit 
 with pleasure, has been an old precept among 
 men who have had very different conceptions ot 
 profit. All have agreed that our amusements 
 should not terminate wholly in the present mo- 
 ment, but contribute more or less to future ad- 
 vantage. He that amuses himself among well 
 chosen companions, can scarcely fail to receive, 
 from the most careless and obstreperous merri- 
 ment which virtue can allow, some useful hints; 
 nor can converse on the most familiar topics, 
 without some casual information. The loose 
 sparkles of thoughtless wit may give new light to 
 the mind, and the gay contention for paradoxical 
 positions rectify the opinions. 
 
 This is the time in which those friendships that 
 give happiness or consolation, relief or security, 
 are generally formed. A wise and good man is 
 never so amiable as in his unbended and familiar 
 intervals. Heroic generosity, or philosophical 
 discoveries, may compel veneration and respect, 
 but love always implies some kind of natural or 
 voluntary equality, and is only to be excited by 
 that levity and cheerfulness which disencumber 
 all minds from awe and solitude, invite the mo 
 dest to freedom, and exalt the timorous to confi 
 dence. This easy gayety is certain to please, 
 whatever be the character of him that exerts it ; 
 if our superiors descend from their elevation, \ve 
 love them for lessening the distance at which we 
 are placed below them ; and inferiors, from whom 
 we can receive no lasting advantage, will always 
 keep our affections while their sprightliness and 
 mirth contribute to our pleasure. 
 
 Every man finds himself differently affected 
 by the sight of fortresses of war, and palaces of 
 pleasure ; we look on the height and strength ot 
 the bulwarks with a kind of gloomy satisfaction. 
 for we cannot think of defence without admitting 
 images of danger; but we range delighted and 
 jocund through the gay apartments of the pa- 
 lace, because nothing is impressed by them on 
 the mind but joy and festivity. Such is the dif- 
 ference between great and amiable characters; 
 with protectors we are safe, with companions we 
 are happy.
 
 No. 90.] THE RAMBLER. 
 
 No. 90.] SATURDAY, JAN. 26, 1751. 
 
 In tenui labor. VIRG. 
 
 What toil in slender things ! 
 
 IT is very difficult to write on the minuter parts 
 of literature without failing either to please or in- 
 struct. Too much nicety of detail disgusts the 
 greatest part of readers, and to throw a multitude 
 of particulars under general heads, and lay down 
 rules of extensive comprehension, is to common 
 understandings of little use. They who under- 
 take these subjects are therefore always in dan- 
 ger, as one or other inconvenience arises to their 
 imagination, of frighting us with rugged science, 
 or amusing us with empty sound. 
 
 In criticising the work of Milton, there is, in- 
 deed, opportunity to intersperse passages that 
 can hardly fail to relieve the languors of atten- 
 tion ; and since, in examining the variety and 
 choice of the pauses with which he has diversi- 
 fied his numbers, it will be necessary to exhibit 
 the lines in which they are to be found, perhaps 
 the remarks may be well compensated by the 
 examples, and the irksomeness of grammatical 
 disquisitions somewhat alleviated. Milton form- 
 ed his scheme of versification by the poets of 
 Greece and Rome, whom he proposed to himself 
 for his models, so far as the difference of his lan- 
 guage from theirs would permit the imitation. 
 There are indeed many inconveniences insepa- 
 rable from our heroic measure compared with 
 that of Homer and Virgil ; inconveniences, which 
 it is no reproach to Milton not to have overcome, 
 because they are in their own nature insupera- 
 ble ; but against which he has struggled with so 
 much art and diligence, that he may at least be 
 said to have deserved success. 
 
 The hexameter of the ancients may be consi- 
 dered as consisting of fifteen syllables, so melo- 
 diously disposed, that, as every one knows who 
 has examined the poetical authors, very pleas- 
 ing and sonorous lyric measures are formed 
 from the fragments of the heroic. It is, indeed, 
 scarce possible to break them in such a manner, 
 but that invenias etiam disjecta membra poeta, 
 some harmony will still remain, and the due 
 proportions of sound will always be discovered. 
 This measure therefore allowed great variety of 
 pauses, and great liberties of connecting one 
 verse with another, because wherever the line 
 was interrupted, either part singly was musical. 
 But the ancients seem to have confined this pri- 
 vilege to hexameters; for in their other mea- 
 sures, though longer than the English heroic, 
 those who wrote after the refinements of versifi- 
 cation, venture so seldom to change their pauses, 
 that every variation may be supposed rather a 
 compliance with necessity than the choice of 
 judgment. 
 
 Milton was constrained within the narrow li- 
 mits of a measure not very harmonious in the ut- 
 most perfection ; the single parts, therefore, into 
 which it was to be sometimes broken by pauses, 
 were in danger of losing the very form of verse. 
 This has, perhaps, notwithstanding all his care, 
 sometimes happened. 
 
 As harmony is the end of poetical measures, no 
 part of a verse ought to be so separated from the 
 rest as not to remain still more harmonious than 
 prose, or to show, by the disposition of the tones, 
 that it is part of a verse. This rule in the old 
 
 143 
 
 hexameter might be easily observed, but in En- 
 glish will very frequently be in danger of viola- 
 tion; for the order and regularity of accents can- 
 not well be perceived in a succession of fewer 
 than three syllables, which will confine the En- 
 glish poet to only five pauses ; it being supposed 
 that when he connects one line with another, he 
 should never make a full pause at less distance 
 than that of three syllables from the beginning or 
 end of a verse. 
 
 That this rule should be universally and in- 
 dispensably established, perhaps cannot be 
 granted; something may be allowed to variety, 
 and something to the adaptation of the numbers 
 to the subject ; but it will be found generally 
 necessary, and the ear will seldom fail to suffer 
 by its neglect. 
 
 Thus when a single syllable is cut off from the 
 rest, it must either be united to the line with 
 which the sense connects it, or be sounded alone. 
 If it be united to the other line, it corrupts its har- 
 mony ; if disjoined, it must standalone, and with 
 regard to music be superfluous ; for there is no 
 harmony in a single sound, because it has no 
 proportion to another. 
 
 -Hypocrites austerely talk; 
 
 Defaming as impure what God declares 
 
 Pure ; and commands to some, leaves free to all. 
 
 When two syllables likewise are abscinded 
 from the rest, they evidently want some associ 
 ate sounds to make them harmonious. 
 
 -Eyes- 
 
 more wakeful than to drowse, 
 Charm'd with Arcadian pipe, the past'ral reed 
 Of Hermes, or his opiate rod. Meanwhile 
 To re-salute the world with sacred light 
 Leucothea waked. 
 
 He ended, and the Son gave signal high 
 To the bright minister that watch'd : he blew 
 His trumpet. 
 
 First in the east his glorious lamp was seen, 
 Regent of day j aud all th' horizon round 
 Invested with bnVht rays, jocund to run 
 His longitude through heaven's high road; the gray 
 Dawn, and the Pleiades, before him danced, 
 Shedding sweet influence. 
 
 The same defect is perceived in the following 
 line, where the pause is at the second syllable 
 from the beginning 
 
 -The race 
 
 Of that wild rout that tore the Thracian bard 
 In Rhodope where woods and rooks had ears 
 To rapture, till the savage clamour drown'd 
 Both harp and voice ; nor could the Muse defend 
 Her son. So fail not thou, who thee implores 
 
 When the pause falls upon the third syllable 
 or the seventh, the harmony is better preserved 
 but as the third and seventh are weak syllables' 
 the period leaves the ear unsatisfied, and in ex 
 pectation of the remaining part of the verse. 
 
 -He, with his horrid crew, 
 
 Lay vanquish'd rolling in tho fiery gulf, 
 Confounded though immortal. But his doom 
 Reserved him to more wrath ; for now the thought 
 Both of lost happiness and lasting pain 
 Torments At m. 
 
 God, with frequent intercourse, 
 Thither will send his winged messengers 
 On errands of supernal grace. So sung 
 The glorious train ascending. 
 
 It may be, I think, established as a rule, that a 
 pause which concludes a period should be made
 
 144 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 91 
 
 for the most part upon a strong syllable, as the 
 fourth and sixth; but those pauses which only 
 suspend the sense may be placed upon the weak- 
 er. Thus the rest in the third line of the firs' 
 passage satisfies the ear better than in the fourth 
 and the close of the second quotation better than 
 of the third. 
 
 The evil soon 
 
 Drawn back, redounded (as a flood) on those 
 From whom it sprung ; impossible to mix 
 With blessedness. 
 
 What we by day 
 
 Lop overgrown, or prune, or prop, or bind, 
 One night or two with wauton growth derides, 
 Tending to wild. 
 
 The paths and bowers doubt not but our joint hands 
 Will keep from wilderness with ease as wide 
 As we need walk, till younger hands ere long 
 Assist us. 
 
 The rest in the fifth place has the same incon- 
 venience as in the seventh and third, that the syl- 
 lable is weak. 
 
 Beast now with beast 'gan war, and fowl with fowl, 
 And fish with fish, to graze the herb all leaving, 
 Devour'd each other ; Nor stood much in awe 
 Of man, but fled him, or with countenance grim, 
 Glared on him passing. 
 
 The noblest and most majestic pauses which 
 our versification admits, are upon the fourth and 
 sixth syllables, which are both strongly sounded 
 in a pure and regular verse, and at either of 
 which the line is so divided, that both members 
 participate of harmony. 
 
 But now at last the sacred influence 
 Of light appears, and from the walls of heaven 
 Shoots far into the bosom of dim night 
 A glimmering dawn : here nature first begins 
 Her farthest verge, and chaos to retire. 
 
 But far above all others, if I can give any cre- 
 dit to my own ear, is the rest upon the sixth syl- 
 lable, which, taking in a complete compass of 
 sound, such as is sufficient to constitute one of 
 our lyric measures, makes a full and solemn 
 close. Some passages which conclude at this 
 stop, I could never read without some strong 
 emotions of delight or admiration. 
 
 Before the hills appear'd, or fountain flow'd, 
 Thou with the eternal wisdom didst converse, 
 + Wisdom thy sister, and with her didst play 
 
 In presence of the almighty Father, pleased 
 . With thy celestial song. 
 
 Or other worlds they seem'd, or happy isles, 
 Like those Hesperian gardens famed of old, 
 Fortunate fields, and groves, and flowery vales, 
 Thrice happy isles ! But who dwelt happy there, 
 He stay'd not to inquire. 
 
 He blew 
 
 His trumpet, heard in Oreb since, perhaps 
 When God descended ; and, perhaps, once more 
 To sound at general doom. 
 
 If the poetry of Milton be examined, with re- 
 gard to the pauses and flow of his verses into 
 each other, it will appear that he has performed 
 all that our language would admit; and the com- 
 parison of his numbers with those who have cul- 
 tivated the same manner of writing, will show 
 that he excelled as much in the lower as the 
 higher parts of his art, and that his skill in har- 
 mony was not less than his invention or his 
 learning 
 
 No. 91.] TUESDAY, JAN. 29, 1751. 
 
 Dulcis inexpertis cultura potentis amid, 
 
 Ezpertvs metuit. HOR 
 
 To court the great ones, and to soothe their pride. 
 
 Seems a sweet task to those that never tried ; 
 
 But those that have, know well that danger's near. 
 
 CREECH. 
 
 THE Sciences having long seen their votaries la>- 
 bouring for the benefit of 'mankind without re- 
 ward, put up their petition to Jupiter for a more 
 equitable distribution of riches and honours. Ju- 
 piter was moved at their complaints, and touched 
 with the approaching miseries of men, whom the 
 Sciences, wearied with perpetual ingratitude, 
 were now threatening to forsake, and who would 
 have been reduced by their departure to feed in 
 dens upon the mast of trees, to hunt their prey in 
 deserts, and to perish under the paws of animals 
 stronger and fiercer than themselves. 
 
 A synod of the celestials was therefore con- 
 vened, in which it was resolved, that Patronage 
 should descend to the assistance of the Sciences. 
 Patronage was the daughter of Astrea, by a mor- 
 tal father, and had been educated in the school 
 of Truth, by the goddesses, whom she was now 
 appointed to protect. She had from her mother 
 that dignity of aspect, which struck terror into 
 false merit, and from her mistress that reserve, 
 which made her only accessible to those whom 
 the Sciences brought into her presence. 
 
 She came down with the general acclamation 
 of all the powers that favour learning. Hope 
 danced before her, and Liberality stood at her 
 side, ready to scatter by her direction the gifts 
 which Fortune, who followed her, was com- 
 manded to supply. As she advanced towards 
 Parnassus, the cloud which had long hung over 
 t, was immediately dispelled. The shades, be- 
 bre withered with drought, spread their original 
 verdure, and the flowers that had languished with 
 :hilness brightened their colours, and invigorated 
 heir scents ; the Muses tuned their harps and 
 :xerted their voices ; and all the concert of na- 
 ure welcomed her arrival. 
 
 On Parnasses she fixed her residence, in a pa 
 ace raised by the Sciences, and adorned with 
 whatever could delight the eye, elevate the ima- 
 gination, or enlarge the understanding. Here 
 she dispersed the gifts of Fortune with the im- 
 >artiality of Justice, and the discernment of Truth. 
 3er gate stood always open, and Hope sat at the 
 >ortal, inviting to entrance, all whom the Sciences 
 numbered in their train. The court was there- 
 ore thronged with innumerable multitudes, of 
 whom, though many returned disappointed, sel- 
 dom any had confidence to complain ; for Pa- 
 ronage was known to neglect few, but for want 
 of the due claims to her regard. Those therefore, 
 who had solicited her favour without success, 
 generally withdrew from public notice, and either 
 diverted their attention to meaner employments, 
 or endeavoured to supply their deliciences by 
 loser application. 
 
 In time, however, the number of those who 
 lad miscarried in their pretensions grew so great, 
 hat they became less ashamed of their repulses; 
 and, instead of hiding their disgrace in retire- 
 ment, began to besiege the gates of the palace, 
 ind obstruct the entrance of such as they thought 
 ikely to be more caressed. The decisions of 
 ""'atronage, who was but half a goddess, had 
 >een sometimes erroneous; and though she al
 
 No. 92.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 145 
 
 ways made haste to rectify aer mistakes, a few 
 instances of her fallibility encouraged every one 
 to appeal from her judgment to his own, and that 
 of his companions, who are always ready to cla- 
 mour in the common cause, and elate each other 
 with reciprocal applause. 
 
 Hope was a steady friend to the 'disappointed, 
 and Impudence incited them to accept a second 
 invitation, and lay their claim again before Pa- 
 tronage. They were again, for the most part, 
 sent back with ignominy, but found hope not 
 alienated, and Impudence more resolutely zeal- 
 ous ; they therefore contrived new expedients, 
 and hoped at last to prevail by their multitudes, 
 which were always increasing, and their perse- 
 verance, which Hope and Impudence forbade 
 them to relax. 
 
 Patronage having been long a stranger to the 
 heavenly assemblies, began to degenerate to- 
 wards terrestrial nature, and forgot the precepts 
 of Justice and Truth. Instead of confining her 
 friendship to the Sciences, she suffered herself, 
 by little and little, to contract an acquaintance 
 with Pride the son of Falsehood, by whose em- 
 braces she had two daughters, Flattery and Ca- 
 price. Flattery was nursed by Liberality, and 
 Caprice by Fortune, without any assistance from 
 the lessons of the Sciences. 
 
 Patronage began openly to adopt the senti- 
 ments and imitaFe the manners of her husband, 
 by whose opinions she now directed her deci- 
 sions with very little heed to the precepts of 
 Truth ; and as her daughters continually gained 
 upon her affections, the Sciences lost their influ- 
 ence, till none found much reason to boast of 
 their reception, but those whom Caprice or Flat- 
 tery conducted to her throne. 
 
 The throngs who had so long waited, and so 
 often been dismissed for want of recommenda- 
 tion from the Sciences, were delighted to see the 
 power of those rigorous goddesses tending to 
 its extinction. Their patronesses now renewed 
 their encouragements. Hope smiled at the dp- 
 proach of Caprice, and Impudence was always at 
 hand to introduce her clients to Flattery. 
 
 Patronage had now learned to procure herself 
 reverence by ceremonies and formalities, and, in- 
 stead of admitting her petitioners to an immedi- 
 ate audience, ordered the antechamber to be 
 erected, called among mortals the Hall of Ex- 
 pectation. Into this hall the entrance was easy 
 to those whom Impudence had consigned to 
 Flattery, and it was therefore crowded with a 
 promiscuous throng, assembled from every cor- 
 ner of the earth, pressing forward with the ut- 
 most eagerness of desire, and agitated with all 
 the anxieties of competition. 
 
 They entered this general receptacle with ar- 
 dour and alacrity, and made no doubt of speedy 
 access, under the conduct of Flattery, to the pre- 
 sence of Patronage. But it generally happened 
 that they were here left to their destiny, for the 
 inner doors were committed to Caprice, who 
 opened and shut them, as it seemed, by chance, 
 and rejected or admitted without any settled rule 
 of distinction. In the mean time, the miserable 
 attendants were left to wear out their lives in al- 
 ternate exultation and dejection, delivered up to 
 the sport of Suspicion, who was always whisper- 
 ing in to their ear designs against them which were 
 never formed, and of Envy, who diligently point- 
 ed out the good fortune of one or other of their 
 
 competitors. Infamy flew round the hall, and 
 scattered mildews from her wings, with which 
 every one was stained ; Reputation followed her 
 with slower flight, and endeavoured to hide the 
 blemishes with paint, which was immediately 
 brushed away, or separated of itself, and left 
 the stains more visible ; nor were the spots of In- 
 famy eter effaced, but with limpid water effused 
 by the hand of Time from a well which sprung 
 up beneath the throne of Truth. 
 
 It frequently happened that Science, unwill- 
 ing to lose the ancient prerogative of recom- 
 mending to Patronage, would lead her followers 
 into the Hall of Expectation ; but they were soon 
 discouraged from attending ; for not only Envy 
 and Suspicion incessantly tormented them, but 
 Impudence considered them as intruders, and in- 
 cited Infamy to blacken them. They therefore 
 quickly retired, but seldom without some spots 
 which they could scarcely wash away, and which 
 showed that they had once waited in the Hall 
 of Expectation. 
 
 The rest continued to expect the happy mo- 
 ment, at which Caprice should beckon them to 
 approach ; and endeavoured to propitiate her, 
 not with Homerical harmony, the representation 
 of great actions, or the recital of noble sentiments, 
 but with soft and voluptuous melody, intermin- 
 gled with the praises of Patronage and Pride, by 
 whom they were heard at once with pleasure 
 and contempt. 
 
 Some were indeed admitted by Caprice, when 
 they least expected it, and heaped by Patronage 
 with the gifts of Fortune ; but they were from 
 that time chained to her footstool, and condemn- 
 ed to regulate their lives by her glances and her 
 nods ; they seemed proud of their manacles, and 
 seldom complained of any drudgery however ser- 
 vile, or any affront however contemptuous ; yet 
 they were often, notwithstanding their obedi- 
 ence, seized on a sudden by Caprice, divested of 
 their ornaments, and thrust back into the Hall 
 of Expectation. 
 
 Here they mingled again with the tumult, and 
 all, except a few whom experience had taught to 
 seek happiness in the regions of liberty, continued 
 to spend hours, and days and years, courting the 
 smile of Caprice by the arts of Flattery ; till at 
 length new crowds pressed in upon them, and 
 drove them forth at different outlets into the ha- 
 bitations of Disease, and Shame, and Poverty, 
 and Despair, where they passed the rest of their 
 lives in narratives of promises and breaches of 
 faith, of joys and sorrows, of hopes and disap- 
 pointments. 
 
 The Sciences, after a thousand indignities, re- 
 tired from the palace of Patronage, and having 
 long wandered over the world in grief and dis- 
 tress, were .led at last to the cottage of Independ- 
 ence, the daughter of Fortitude ; where they 
 were taught by Prudence and Parsimony to sup- 
 port themselves in dignity and quiet. 
 
 No. 92.] SATURDAY, FEB. 2, 1751. 
 
 Jam nunc minaci mvrmure cornuum 
 
 Perstringis aures,jam litui strepunt. HOR 
 
 Lo ! now the clarion's voice I hear, 
 
 Its threatening- murmurs pierce my ear, 
 
 And in thy lines with brazen breath 
 
 The trumpet sounds the charge of death. FRANCIS. 
 
 IT has been long observed, that the idea of beau 
 ty is vague and undefined, different in different
 
 146 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. i>2. 
 
 minds, and diversified by time or place. It lias 
 been a term hitherto used to signify that which 
 pleases us we know not why, and in our appro- 
 bation of which we can justify ourselves only by 
 the concurrence of numbers, without much power 
 of enforcing our opinion upon others by any ar- 
 gument, but example and authority. It is, in- 
 deed, so little subject to the examinations of rea- 
 son, that Paschal supposes it to end where de- 
 monstration begins, and maintains, that without 
 incongruity ana absurdity we cannot speak of 
 geometrical beauty. 
 
 To trace all the sources of that various plea- 
 sure which we ascribe to the agency of beauty, or 
 to disentangle all the perceptions involved in its 
 idea, would, perhaps, require a very great part 
 ot the life of Aristotle or Plato. It is, however, 
 in many cases apparent that this quality is mere- 
 ly relative and comparative; that we pronounce 
 things beautiful because they have something 
 which we agree, for whatever reason, to call 
 beauty, in a greater degree than we have been 
 accustomed to find it in other things of the same 
 kind ; and that we transfer the epithet as our 
 knowledge increases, and appropriate it to higher 
 excellence, when liigher excellence comes within 
 our view. ' 
 
 Much of the beauty of writing is of this kind, 
 and therefore Boileau justly remarks, that the 
 books which have stood the test of time, and been 
 admired through all the changes which the mind 
 of man has suffered from the various revolutions 
 of knowledge, and the prevalence of contrary 
 customs, have a better claim to our regard than 
 any modern can boast, because the long continu- 
 ance of their reputation proves that they are ade- 
 quate to our faculties, and agreeable to nature. 
 
 It is, however, the task of criticism to establish 
 principles; to improve opinion into knowledge; 
 and to distinguish those means of pleasing which 
 depend upon known causes and rational deduc- 
 tion, from the nameless and inexplicable ele- 
 gancies which appeal only to the fancy, from 
 which we feel delight, but know not how they 
 produce it, and which may well be termed the 
 enchantress of the soul. Criticism reduces those 
 regions of literature under the dominion of 
 science, which have hitherto known only the 
 anarchy of ignorance, the caprices of fancy, and 
 the tyranny of prescription. 
 
 There is nothing in the art of versifying so 
 much exposed to the power of imagination as the 
 accommodation of the sound to the sense, or the 
 representation of particular images, by the flow 
 of the verse in which they are expressed. Every 
 student has innumerable passages, in which he, 
 and perhaps he alone, discovers such resem- 
 blances ; and since the attention of the present 
 race of poetical readers seems particularly turned 
 upon this species of elegance, I shall endeavour 
 to examine how much these conformities have 
 been observed by the poets, or directed by the cri- 
 tics, how far they can be established upon na- 
 ture and reason, and on what occasions they 
 have been practised by Milton. 
 
 Homer, the father of all poetical beauty, has 
 been particularly celebrated by Dionysius of 
 Halicarnassus, as he that, of all the poets, exhi- 
 bited the greatest variety of sound ; " for there 
 are, (says he,) innumerable passages, in which 
 length of time, bulk of body, extremity of pas- 
 Bion, and stillness of repose ; or, in which, on 
 
 the contrary, brevity, speed, and eagerness, are 
 evidently marked out by the sound of the sylla- 
 bles. Thus the anguish and slow pace with 
 which the blind Polypheme groped out with his 
 hands the entrance of his cave, are perceived in 
 the cadence of the verses which describe it. 
 
 x/' fie 
 
 re Ka ucivwv 
 
 Meantime the Cyclop raging with his wound, 
 Spreads his wide arras, and searches rouu- and round. 
 
 POPF. 
 
 The critic then proceeds to show, that the ef- 
 forts of Achilles struggling in his armour against 
 the current of a river, sometimes resisting, and 
 sometimes yielding, may be perceived in the eli- 
 sions of the syllables, the slow succession of the 
 feet, and the strength of the consonants. 
 
 Atlvov (5' a/* 
 
 f ov&e 
 
 So oft the surge, in watery mountains spread, 
 Beats on his back, or bursts upon his head ; 
 Yet, dauntless still, the adverse flood he braves, 
 And still indignant bounds above the waves, 
 Tired by the tides, his knees relax with toil; 
 Wash'd from beneath him, slides the slimy soil. 
 
 POPE. 
 
 When Homer describes the crush of men 
 dashed against a rock, he collects the most un- 
 pleasing and harsh sounds. 
 
 Xtrv Si &6<jt [tdpipas, wore crKv\axas irorl vaij; 
 K.6itT' tK &' tyxityaXos %and&is pic,Stvs oc yaiav. 
 
 - His bloody hand 
 
 Suatch'd two, unhappy ! of my martial band, 
 And dash'd like dogs against the stony floor ; 
 The pavement swims with brains and mingled gore. 
 
 POPE. 
 
 And when he would place before the eyes some- 
 thing dreadful and astonishing, he makes choice 
 of the strongest vowels, and the letters of most 
 difficult utterance. 
 
 T^ <5' *( rpyu> ^AwrupuJTrij earc^dviaro 
 Acuuv iefKoftevt]' rrcpi it A('/IO? re <p60os Tt. 
 
 Tremendous Gorgon frowu'd upon its field, 
 And circling terrors fill'd th' expressive shield, 
 
 Many other examples Dionysius produces; 
 but these will sufficiently show, that either ho 
 was fanciful, or we have lost the genuine pro- 
 nunciation ; for I know not whether, in any one 
 of these instances, such similitude can be dis- 
 covered. It seems, indeed, probable, that the 
 veneration with which Homer was read, pro- 
 duced many supposititious beauties; for though 
 it is certain, that the sound of many of his verses 
 very justly corresponds with the things express- 
 ed, yet, when the force of his imagination, which 
 gave him full possession of every object, is con- 
 sidered, together with the flexibility of his lan- 
 guage, of which the syllables might be often con- 
 tracted or dilated at pleasure, it will seem un- 
 likely that such conformity should happen less 
 frequently even without design. 
 
 It is not however to be doubted, that Virgil, 
 who wrote amidst the light of criticism, and who 
 owed so much of his success to art and labour, 
 endeavoured among other excellences, to exhibit 
 this similitude ; nor has he been less happy in 
 this than in the other graces of versification.
 
 No. 92.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 147 
 
 This felicity of his numbers was, at the revival 
 of learning, displayed with great elegance by 
 Vida, in his Art of Poetry. 
 
 Haud sutis est illisutcunque olaudere versum. 
 Omnia sed numeris vocum conconlibus aptant, 
 Atque sono quaecunque canunt iinitantur, et apta 
 Verborum facie, et quaosito carminis ore. 
 Nam diversa opus est veluti dare versibusora, 
 Hie raelior motuque pedura, et pernicibus alls, 
 Molle viam tacito lapsu per levia radit : 
 Ille autem membris, ac mole ignavius ingens 
 Incedit tardu iiioliinme subsidendo. 
 Ecce aliquis suhit egregio pulcherrimus ore, 
 Cui laetum membris Venus omnibus afflat honorem. 
 Contra alius rudis, informes ostendit et arturi, 
 Hirsutumqiie superciliura, ac caudam sinuosam, 
 
 Ingrutus visu, sonitu illaetabilis ipso. 
 
 Ergo ubi jam nautne spumas satis sere rueates 
 
 Incubuere mari, videas spumare, reductis 
 
 Convulsum remis, rostrisque strideutibus tequor. 
 
 Tune longe sale saxa sonant, tune et freta ventis 
 
 lacipiunt agitata tumescere : littore fluctus 
 
 Illidunt rauco, atque refracta remurmurat unda 
 
 Ad scopulos, cumulo insequitur pra ruptus aquae mons. 
 
 Cum vero ex alto speculatus c:erula Nereus 
 
 Leiiiit in morem stagni, placidseque paludis, 
 
 Labitur uncta vadis abies, natat uncta carina. 
 
 Verba etiam res exiguas angusta sequuntur, 
 
 Ingeutesque juvant ingentia : cuncta gigantem 
 
 Vasta decent, vultus immanes, pectora lata, 
 
 Et magni membrorum artus, magna ossa, lacertique. 
 
 Atque adeo, siquid geritur molimine magno, 
 
 Adde moram, et pariter tecum quoque verba laborent 
 
 Segnia ; sen quaudo vi multa gleba coactis 
 
 ^Sternum frangenda bidentibus, oequore seu cum 
 
 Cornua velatarum obvertimus antennarum. 
 
 At mora si fuerit damno properare jubebo. 
 
 Si se forte cava extulerit mala vipera terra, 
 
 Tolle moras, cape saxa maim, cape robora, pastor ; 
 
 Ferte citi namiuas, date tela, repellite pestem. 
 
 Ipse etiara versus ruat, in prcecepsque feratur, 
 
 Immenso cum proecipitans ruitOceano nox, 
 
 Aut cum perculsus graviter procumbit huini bos. 
 
 Cumque etiam requies rebus datur, ipsa quoque ultro 
 
 Carmina paulisper cursu cessare videbis 
 
 In medio interrupta : quierunt cum freta ponti, 
 
 Postquam aura? posuere, quiescere protiiius ipsura 
 
 Cernere erit, mediisque incosptis sistere versum. 
 
 Quid die am, senior cum telum imbelle sine ictu 
 
 Invalidus jacit, et defectis viribus aeger 1 
 
 Num quoque turn versus segni pariter pede languet : 
 
 Sanguis liebet, frigent effoeta; in corpore vires. 
 
 Fortem autem juveuem deceat prorumpere in arces, 
 
 Evertisse domes, praefractaque quadrupedantum 
 
 Pectora pectoribus perrumpere, sternere turres 
 
 Ingentes, totaque, ferum dare funera campo. 
 
 'Tisnot enough his verses to complete, 
 In measure, numbers, or determined feet. 
 To all, proportiou'd terms he must dispense, 
 And make the sound a pics "ire of the sense ; 
 The correspondent words exactly frame, 
 The look, the features, and the mien the same. 
 With rapid feet and wings, without delay, 
 This swiftly flies, and smoothly skims away: 
 This blooms with youth and beauty in his face, 
 And Venus breathes on every limb a grace ; 
 That, of rude form, his uncouth members shows, 
 Looks horrible, and frowns with his rough brows ; 
 His monstrous tail, in many a fold and wind, 
 Voluminous and vast, curls up behind; 
 At once the image and the lines appear 
 Rude to i he eye, and frightful to the ear. 
 Lo ! when the sailors steer the ponderous ships, 
 And plough, witli brazen beaks, the foamy deep* 
 Incumbent on the main that roars around, 
 Beneath their labouring oars the waves resound; 
 Tile prows wide echoing through the dark profound 
 To the loud call each distant rock replies; 
 Toss'd by the storm the towering surges rise ; 
 While the hoarse ocean beats the sounding shore, 
 nash'd from the strand, the flying waters roar. 
 Flash at the shock, and gathering in a heap, 
 The liquid mountains rise, and overhang the deep. 
 But when blue Neptune from his car surveys, 
 And calms at one regard the raging seas, 
 Stretch' i like a peaceful lake the deep subsides, 
 And the pitch'd vessel o'er the surface glides. 
 
 When things are small, the terms should still be so ; 
 
 For low words please us, when the theme is low 
 
 But when some giant, horrible and grim, 
 
 Enormous in his gait, and vast in every limb. 
 
 Stalks towering on ; the swelling words must rise 
 
 In just proportion to the monster's size. 
 
 If some large weight his huge arms strive to shove, 
 
 The verse too labours ; the throng'd words scarce move, 
 
 When each stiff clod beneath the ponderous plough 
 
 Crumbles and breaks, tlr encumber' J lines march slow 
 
 Nor less, when pilots catch the friendly gales, 
 
 Unfurl their shrouds, and hoist the wide-stretch'd sails 
 
 But if the poem suffers from delay, 
 
 Let the lines fly precipitate away, 
 
 And when the viper issues from the brake, 
 
 Be quick ; with stones, and brands, and fire, attack 
 
 His rising crest, and drive the serpent back. 
 
 When night descends, or stunn'd by numerous strokei, 
 
 And groaning, to the earth drops the vast ox ; 
 
 The line too sinks with correspondent sound, 
 
 Flat with the steer, and headlong to the ground. 
 
 When the wild waves subside, and tempests cease, 
 
 And hush the roarings of the sea to peace ; 
 
 So oft we see the interrupted strain 
 
 Stopp'd in the midst and with the silent main 
 
 Paused for a space at last it glides again. 
 
 When Priam strains his aged arm, to throw 
 
 His unavailing javelin at the foe ; 
 
 (His blood congeal'd, and every nerve unstrung) 
 
 Then with the theme complies the artful song ; 
 
 Like him, the solitary numbers flow, 
 
 Weak, trembling, melancholy, stiff, and slow 
 
 Not so young Pyrrhus, who with rapid force 
 
 Beats down embattled armies in his course. 
 
 The raging youth in trembling Ilion falls. 
 
 Bursts her strong gates, and shakes her lofty walla ; 
 
 Provokes his flying courser to his speed, 
 
 In full career to charge the warlike steed : 
 
 He piles the field with mountains of the slain ; 
 
 He pours, he storms, he thunders thro' the plain. 
 
 PITT. 
 
 From the Italian gardens Pope seems to have 
 transplanted this flower, the growth of happier 
 climates, into a soil less adapted to its nature, and 
 less favourable to its increase. 
 
 Soft is the strain, when Zephyr gently blows, 
 
 And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows, 
 
 But when loud billows lash the sounding shore, 
 
 The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar. 
 
 When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 
 
 The line too labours, and the words move slow ; 
 
 Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain, 
 
 Flies o'er the unbending corn and skims along the main. 
 
 From these lines, laboured with great atten- 
 tion, and celebrated by a rival wit, may be judg- 
 ed what can be expected from the most diligent 
 endeavours after this imagery of sound. The 
 verse intended to represent the whisper of the 
 vernal breeze, must be confessed not much to 
 excel in softness or volubility ; and the smooth 
 stream runs with a perpetual clash of jarring 
 consonants. The noise and turbulence of the 
 torrent is, indeed distinctly imaged, for it requires 
 very little skill to make our language rough ; but 
 in these lines, which mention the effort of Ajax, 
 there is no particular heaviness, obstruction, or 
 delay. The swiftness of Camilla is rather con- 
 trasted than exemplified ; why the verse should 
 be lengthened to express speed, will not easily 
 be discovered. In the dactyls used for that pur- 
 pose by the ancients, two short syllables were 
 pronounced with such rapidity, as to be equal 
 only to one long ; they, therefore, naturally ex- 
 hibit the act of passing through a long space in a 
 short time. But the Alexandrine, by its pause 
 in the midst, is a tardy and stately measure ; and 
 the word unbending one of the most sluggish and 
 slow which our language affords, cannot much 
 accelerate its motion.
 
 148 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 93. 
 
 These rules and these examples have (aught 
 our present critics to inquire very studiously and 
 minutely into sounds and cadences, it is there- 
 fore useful to examine with what skill they have 
 proceeded; what discoveries they have made; 
 and whether any rules can be established which 
 may guide us hereafter in such researches. 
 
 No. 93.] TUESDAY, FEB. 5, 1751. 
 
 Experiar quid concedatur in illot 
 
 Quorum Plaminia, tegitur dais atquc Latina. 
 
 JUV. 
 
 More safely truth to urge her claim presumes, 
 On names now found alone on books arid tombs. 
 
 THERE are few books on which more time is 
 spent by young students, than on treatises which 
 deliver the characters of authors ; nor any which 
 oftener deceive the expectation of the reader, or 
 fill his mind with more opinions which the pro- 
 gress of his studies and the increase of his know- 
 ledge oblige him to resign. 
 
 Baillet has introduced his collection of the de- 
 cisions of the learned, by an enumeration of the 
 prejudices which mislead the critic, and raise the 
 passions in rebellion against the judgment. His 
 catalogue, though large, is imperfect ; and who 
 can hope to complete it ? The beauties of writing 
 have been observed to be often such as cannot 
 in the present state of human knov/ledge be 
 evinced by evidence, or drawn out into demon- 
 strations; they are therefore wholly subject to 
 the imagination, and do not force their effects 
 upon a mind preoccupied by unfavourable sen- 
 timents, nor overcome the counter-action of a 
 false principle or of stubborn partiality. 
 
 To convince any man against his will is hard, 
 but to please him against his will is justly pro- 
 nounced by Dryden to be above the reach of hu- 
 man abilities. Interest and passion will hold out 
 long against t ne closest siege of diagrams and 
 syllogisms, b,ut they are absolutely impregnable 
 to imagery and sentiment ; and will for ever bid 
 defiance to the most powerful strains of Virgil or 
 Homer, though they may give way in time to the 
 batteries of Euclid or Archimedes. 
 
 In trusting therefore to the sentence of a critic, 
 we are in danger not only from that vanity which 
 exalts writers too often to the dignity of teachj 
 hig what they are yet to learn, from that negli- 
 gence which sometimes steals upon the most vi- 
 gilant caution, and that fallibility to which the 
 condition of nature has subjected every human 
 understanding ; but from a thousand extrinsic 
 and accidental causes, from every thing which 
 can excite kindness or malevolence, veneration 
 or contempt. 
 
 Many of those who have determined with great 
 boldness upon the various degrees of literary me- 
 rit, may be justly suspected of having passed 
 Rentence, as Seneca remarks of Claudius, 
 
 Una tantum parle audita, 
 Sape el nulla, 
 
 without much knowledge of the cause before 
 them : for it will not easily be imagined of Lang- 
 bane, Borrichitus, or Rapin, that they had very 
 accurately perused all the books which they praise 
 or censure ; or that, even if nature and learning 
 had qualified them for judges, they could read 
 for ever with the attention necessary to just cri- 
 
 ticism. Such performances, however, are ot 
 wholly without their use ; for they are commonly 
 just echoes to the voice of fame, and transmit the 
 general suffrage of mankind when they have no 
 particular motives to suppress it. 
 
 Critics, like the rest of mankind, are very fre- 
 quently misled by interest. The bigotry with 
 which editors regard the authors whom they 
 illustrate or correct, has been generally remarked. 
 Dryden was known to have written most of his 
 critical dissertations only to recommend the work 
 upon which he then happened to be employed : 
 and Addison is suspected to have denied the ex- 
 pediency of poetical justice, because his own 
 Cato was condemned to perish in a good cause. 
 
 There are prejudices which authors, not other- 
 wise weak or corrupt, have indulged without 
 scruple ; and perhaps some of them are so com- 
 plicated with our natural affections, that they 
 cannot easily be disentangled from the heart. 
 Scarce any can hear with impartiality a compari- 
 son between the writers of his own and another 
 country: and though it cannot, I think, be charged 
 equally on all nations, that they are blinded with 
 this literary patriotism, yet there are none that do 
 not look upon their authors with the fondness of 
 affinity, and esteem them as well for the place 
 of their birth, as for their knowledge or their wit. 
 There is, therefore, seldom much respect due to 
 comparative criticism, when the competitors are 
 of different countries, unless the judge is of a na- 
 tion equally indifferent to both. The Italians 
 could not for a long time believe, that there was 
 any learning beyond the mountains ; and the 
 French seem generally persuaded, that there are 
 no wits or reasoners equal to their own. I can 
 scarcely conceive that if Scaliger had not consi- 
 dered himself as allied to Virgil, by being born 
 in the same country, he would have found his 
 works so much superior to those of Homer, or 
 have thought the controversy worthy of so much 
 zeal, vehemence and acrimony. 
 
 There is, indeed, one prejudice, and only one, 
 by which it may be doubted whether it is any dis- 
 honour to be sometimes misguided. Criticism 
 has so often given occasion to the envious and 
 ill-natured, of gratifying their malignity, that 
 some have thought it necessary to recommend 
 the virtue of candour without restriction, and to 
 preclude all future liberty of censure. Writers 
 possessed \vith this opinion are continually en- 
 forcing civility and decency, recommending to 
 critics the proper diffidence of themselves, and 
 inculcating the veneration due to celebrated 
 
 imes. 
 
 I am not of opinion that these professed ene- 
 mies of arrogance and severity have much more 
 benevolence or modesty than the rest of man- 
 kind ; or that they feel in their own hearts, anv 
 other intention than to distinguish themselves I j 
 their softness and delicacy. Some are modes'i 
 because they are timorous, and some are lavish 
 of praise because they hope to be repaid. 
 
 There is, indeed, some tenderness due to li ' 
 ing writers, when they attack none of those truths 
 which are of importance to the happiness of man- 
 kind, and have committed no other offence than 
 that of betraying their own ignorance ordulness. 
 I should think it cruelty to crush an insect who 
 had provoked me only by buzzing in my ear ; and 
 would not willingly interrupt the dream of harm- 
 less stupidity, or destroy the jest which makes
 
 No. 94.] THE RAMBLER. 
 
 its author laugh. Yet I am far from thinking 
 this tenderness universally necessary, for he that 
 writes may be considered as a kind of general 
 challenger, whom every one has a right to at- 
 tack ; since he quits the common rank of life, 
 steps forward beyond the lists, and offers his 
 merit to the public judgment. To commence 
 author is to claim praise, and no man can justly 
 aspire to honour, but at the hazard of disgrace. 
 
 But, whatever be decided concerning contem- 
 poraries, whom he that knows the treachery of 
 the human heart, and considers how often we 
 gratify our own pride or envy, under the appear- 
 ance of contending for elegance and propriety, 
 will find himself not much inclined to disturb ; 
 there can surely be no exemptions pleaded to se- 
 cure them from criticism, who can no longer suf- 
 fer by reproach, and of whom nothing now re- 
 mains but their writings and their names. Upon 
 these authors the critic is undoubtedly at full 
 liberty to exercise the strictest severity, since he 
 endangers only his own fame ; and like ^Eneas, 
 when he drew his sword in the infernal regions, 
 encounters phantoms which cannot be wounded. 
 He may, indeed, pay some regard to established 
 reputation ; but he can by that show of reverence 
 consult only his own security, for all other mo- 
 tives are now at an end. 
 
 The faults of a wrkcr of acknowledged excel- 
 lence are more dangerous, because the influence 
 of his example is more extensive ; and the inte- 
 rest of learning requires that they ehould be disco- 
 vered and stigmatised, before they have the sanc- 
 tion of antiquity conferred upon them, and become 
 precedents of indisputable authority. 
 
 It has, indeed, been advanced by Addison, as 
 one of the characteristics of a true critic, that he 
 points out beauties rather than faults. But it is j 
 rather natural to a man of learning and genius to 
 apply himself chiefly to the study of writers who 
 have more beauties than faults to be displayed : 
 for the duty of criticism is neither to depreciate, 
 nor dignify by partial representations, but,to hold 
 out the light of reason, whatever it may discover ; 
 and to promulgate the determinations of truth, 
 whatever she shall dictate. 
 
 No. 94] SATURDAY, FEB. 9, i751. 
 
 -Bonus atquejidus 
 
 fudex per obstantes catervas 
 Explicuit sua victor arma. HOR. 
 
 Perpetual magistrate is he 
 
 Wlio keeps strict justice full in sight; 
 Who bids the crowd at awful distance gaze, 
 And yirtue's arms victoriously displays. FRANCIS. 
 
 THE resemblance of poetic numbers to the sub- 
 ject which they mention or describe, maybe con- 
 sidered as general or particular; as consisting in 
 the flow and structure of a whole passage taken 
 together, or as comprised in the sound of some 
 emphatical and descriptive words, or in the ca- 
 dence and harmony of single verses. 
 
 The general resemblance of the sound to the 
 sense is to be found in every language which ad- 
 mits of poetry, in every author whose force of 
 fancy enables him to impress images strongly on 
 his own mind, and whose choice and variety of 
 language readily supplies him with just represent- 
 .tions. To such a writer it is natural to change 
 
 149 
 
 his measure with his subject, even without any 
 effort of the understanding, or intervention of the 
 judgment. To revolve jollity and mirth necessa- 
 rily tunes the voice of a poet to gay and sprightly 
 notes, as it fires his eye with vivacity ; and re- 
 flection on gloomy situations and disastrous 
 events, will sadden his numbers, as it will cloud 
 his countenance. But in such passages there is 
 only the similitude of pleasure to pleasure, and 
 of grief to grief, without any immediate applica- 
 tion to particular images. The same flow of 
 joyous versification will celebrate the jollity of 
 marriage, and the exultation of triumph ; and the 
 same languor of melody will suit the complaints 
 of an absent lover, as of a conquered king. 
 
 It is scarcely to be doubted, that on many oc- 
 casions we make the music which we imagine 
 ourselves to hear, that we modulate the poem by 
 our own disposition, and ascribe to the numbers 
 the effects of the sense. We may observe in life, 
 that it is not easy to deliver a pleasant message 
 in an unpleasing manner, and that we readily as- 
 sociate beauty and deformity with those whom 
 for any reason we love or hate. Yet it would be 
 too daring to declare that all the celebrated 
 adaptations of harmony are chimerical, that Ho- 
 mer had no extraordinary attention to the me- 
 lody of his verse when he described a nuptial 
 festivity ; 
 
 Nv//^aj <5' CK $a\aft<i>v, Sa'tSiav, vTro\aiiiropevau>Vi 
 Hyivcov avd aerm, jroAuj 6' liptvaios opwpet . 
 
 Here sacred pomp, and genial feast delight 
 
 And solemn dance, and hymeneal rite ; 
 
 Along the street the new-made brides are led. 
 
 With torches flaming to the nuptial bed ; 
 
 The youthful dancers in a circle bound 
 
 To the soft flute, and cittern's silver sound. POPE. 
 
 that Vida was merely fanciful, when he supposed 
 Virgil endeavouring to represent by uncommon 
 sweetness of numbers the adventitious beauty of 
 
 Os, humerosque Deo similis : namgue ipse vccoram 
 Ctzsaricm nato genitrix, lumenque juventa 
 Purpureum, et la,tos oculis cfflarat honor es. 
 
 The Trojan chief appear'd in open sight) 
 August in visage, and serenely bright ; 
 His mother goddess with her hands divine, 
 Had form'd his curling locks, and made his temples shine 
 And given his rolling.cyes a sparkling grace, 
 And breath'd a youthful vigour on his face. DRYDEN. 
 
 or that Milton did not intend to exemplify the 
 harmony which he mentions : 
 
 Fountains ! and ye that warble as ye flow, ' 
 Melodious murmurs ! warbling tune his praise. 
 
 That Milton understood the force of sounds 
 well adjusted, and knew the compass and variety 
 of the ancient measures, cannot be doubted ; 
 since he was both a musician and a critic ; but 
 he seems to baye considered these conformities 
 of cadence as either not often attainable in our 
 language, or as petty excellences unworthy of his 
 ambition : for it will not be found that he has al- 
 ways assigned the same cast of numbers to the 
 same objects. He has given in two passages 
 very minute descriptions of angelic beauty ; but 
 though the images are nearly the same, the num- 
 bers will be found upon comparison very dif- 
 ferent : 
 
 And now a strippling cherub he appears, 
 Not of the prime, yet such as in his faca
 
 150 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 94. 
 
 Youth smiled celestial, and to every limb 
 Suitable grace diffused, so well he feign d ; 
 Under a coronet his flowing huir 
 In curls uu either cheekplay'd ; icings he wore 
 Of many a colvur'd plume, sprinkled with gold. 
 
 Some of the lines of this description are remark- 
 ably defective in harmony, and therefore by no 
 means correspondent with that symmetrical ele- 
 gance and easy grace which they are intended to 
 exhibit. The failure, however, is fully compen- 
 sated by the representation of Raphael, which 
 equally delights the ear and imagination : 
 
 A seraph wing'd; six wings he wore to shade 
 His lineaments Divine ; the pair that clad 
 Each shoulder broad, came mantling o'er his breast 
 With regal ornament : the middle pair 
 Girt like a starry zone his waist, and round 
 Skirted his loins and thighs, with downy gold, 
 Ard colours dipp'd in heaven : the third his feet 
 Sh idow'd from either heel with feather'd mail, 
 Sky-tinctur'd grain ! like Maia's son he stood, 
 And shook his plumes, that heavenly fragrance fill'd 
 The circuit wide. 
 
 The adumbration of particular and distinct 
 inages by an exact and perceptible resemblance 
 of sound, is sometimes studied, and sometimes 
 casual. Every language has many words form- 
 ed in imitation of the noises which they signify. 
 Such are Strider, Balo, and Beatus, in Latin ; 
 and in English to growl, to buzz, to hiss, and to 
 jar. Words of this kind give to a verse the pro- 
 per similitude of sound, without much labour of 
 the writer, and such happiness is therefore rather 
 to be attributed to fortune than skill ; yet they 
 are sometimes combined with great propriety, 
 and undeniably contribute to enforce the im- 
 pression of the idea. We hear the passing ar- 
 row in this line of Virgil ; 
 
 Et fugit horrendum stridens elapsa sagitta , 
 
 Th' impetuous arrow whizzes on the wing POPE. 
 
 and the creaking of hell-gates, in the description 
 bv Milton j 
 
 Open fly 
 
 With impetuous recoil and jarring sound 
 Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate 
 Harsh thunder. 
 
 But many beauties of this kind, which the mo- 
 derns, and perhaps the ancients, have observed, 
 seem to be the product of blind reverence acting 
 upon fancy. Dionysius himself tells us that the 
 sound of Homer's verses sometimes exhibits the 
 idea of corporeal bulk : is not this a discovery 
 nearly approaching to that of the blind man, who 
 after long inquiry into the nature of the scarlet 
 colour, found that it represented pothing so 
 much as the clangour of a trumpet ? The repre- 
 sentative power of poetic harmony consists of 
 sound and measure; of the force of the syllables 
 singly considered, and of the time in which they 
 are pronounced. Sound can resemble nothing 
 but sound, and time can measure nothing but 
 motion and duration. 
 
 The critics, however, have struck out other si- 
 militudes ; nor is there any irregularity of num- 
 bers which credulous admiration cannot discover 
 to be eminently beautiful. Thus the propriety 
 of each of these lines has been celebrated by 
 writers whose opinion the world has reason to 
 regard ; 
 
 Verlilur interea catlum, et ruit occano nut. 
 
 Meantime the rapid heavens roll'd Jown the light, 
 And 011 the shaded ocean rush'd the night. DRYDEN. 
 
 Sternitur, exanimisque trcmens,procnmbit humi bos. 
 
 Down drops the beast, nor needs a second wound ; 
 But sprawls in pangs of death, and spurns the ground. 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 Parturittnt mantes, naseitur ridiculus mus. 
 
 The mountains labour, and a mouse is born. ROSCOMMON. 
 
 If all these observations are just, there must be 
 some remarkable conformity between the sud 
 den succession of night to day, the fall of an ox 
 under a blow, and the birth of a mouse from a 
 mountain ; since we are told of all these images, 
 that they are very strongly impressed by the 
 same form and termination of the verse. 
 
 We may, however, without giving way to en- 
 thusiasm, admit that some beauties of this kind 
 may be produced. A sudden stop at an unusual 
 syllable may image the cessation of action, or the 
 pause of discourse ; and Milton has very hap 
 pily imitated the repetitions of an echo : 
 
 1 fled, and cried out death : 
 
 Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sigh'd 
 From all her caves, and back resounded death. 
 
 The measure of time in pronouncing may be 
 varied so as very strongly to represent, not only 
 modes of external motion, but the quick or slow 
 succession of ideas, and consequently the pas- 
 sions of the mind. This at least was the power 
 of the spondaic and dactylic harmony, but our 
 language can reach no eminent diversities of 
 sound. We can indeed sometimes, by encum- 
 bering and retarding the line, show the difficulty 
 of a progress made by strong efforts and with 
 frequent interruptions, or mark a slow and 
 heavy motion, Thus Milton has imaged the 
 toil of Satan struggling through chaos ; 
 
 So he with difficulty and labour hard 
 Mov'd on : with difficulty and labour he 
 
 thus he has described the leviathans or whales ' 
 Wallowing unwieldy, enormous in their gait 
 
 But he has at other times neglected such repre- 
 sentations, as may be observed in the volubility 
 and levity of these lines, which express an action 
 tardy and reluctant. 
 
 Descent and fall 
 
 To us is adverse. Who but felt of late, 
 When the fierce fos hung on our brol><-i rp 1r 
 Insulting, and pursued us through the (!<]>. 
 With what confusion and Liburiuus Lifjln 
 We sunk thus low J Th' ascent is easy then. 
 
 In another place, he describes the gentle glide 
 of ebbing waters in a line remarkably rough and 
 halting. 
 
 Tripping ebb ; that stole 
 
 With soft foot tow'rds the deep who now had stopp'd 
 His sluices. 
 
 It is not, indeed, to be expected, that the sound 
 should always assist the meaning, but it ought 
 never to counteract it; and therefore Milton has 
 here certainly committed a fault like that of the 
 player, who looked on the earth when he im-
 
 No. 95.] THE RAMBLER. 
 
 plored the heavens, and to the heavens when he 
 addressed the earth,. 
 
 Those who are determined to find in Milton 
 an assemb.age of all the excellences which have 
 ennobled all other poets, will perhaps be offended 
 that I do not celebrate his versification in higher 
 terms ; for there are readers who discover that in 
 this passage, 
 
 So stretch'd out huge in length the arch fiend lay, 
 
 a long form is described in a long line ; but the 
 truth is, that length of body is only mentioned in 
 a 5/010 line, to which it has only the resemblance 
 of time to space, of an hour to a maypole. 
 
 The same turn of ingenuity might perform 
 wonders upon the description of the ark : 
 
 Then from the mountains hewing timber tall, 
 
 Began to build a vessel of huge bulk ; 
 
 Measured by cubit, length and breadth, and height. 
 
 In these lines the poet apparently designs to fix 
 the attention upon bulk ; but this is effected by 
 the enumeration, not by the measure ; for what 
 analogy can there be between modulations of 
 sound, and corporeal dimensions ? 
 
 Milton, indeed, seems only to have regarded 
 this species of embellishment so far as not to re- 
 ject it when it came unsought; which would 
 often happen to a mind so vigorous, employed 
 upon a subject so various and extensive. He 
 had, indeed, a greater and a nobler work to per- 
 form ; a single sentiment of moral or religious 
 truth, a single image of life or nature, would 
 have been cheaply lost for a thousand echoes of 
 the cadence to the sense ; and he who had un- 
 dertaken to vindicate the ways of God to man, might 
 have been accused of neglecting his cause, had 
 lie lavished much of his attention upon syllables 
 and sounds. 
 
 151 
 
 No. 95.] TUESDAY, FEB. 12, 1751. 
 
 Parcus Dcorum cultor, et infrequens, 
 
 Insanicntis dum sapicntia 
 Consultus erro ; nunc retrorsum 
 Vr.la dare, atque Her arc cursus 
 
 Coger relictos. HOR. 
 
 A fugitive from Heaven and prayer, 
 I mock'd at all religious fear, 
 
 Deep scienc'd in the mazy lore 
 Of mad philosophy : but now 
 Hoist sail, r.nd back my voyage plow 
 
 To that blest harbour, which I left before. 
 
 FRANCIS. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 THERE are many diseases both of the body and 
 mind, which it is far easier to prevent than to 
 cure, and therefore I hope you will think me em- 
 ployed in an office not useless either to learning 
 or virtue, if I describe the symptoms of an intel- 
 lectual malady, which, though at first it seizes 
 only the passions, will, if not speedily remedied, 
 infect the reason, and, from blasting the blos- 
 soms of knowledge, proceed in time to canker 
 the root. 
 
 I was born in the house of discord. My pa- 
 rents were of unsuitable ages, contrary tempers, 
 and different religions, and therefore employed 
 
 the spirit and acuteness which nature had very 
 liberally bestowed upon both in hourly disputes, 
 and incessant contrivances to detect each other 
 in the wrong ; so that from the first exertions of 
 reason I was bred a disputant, trained up in all 
 the arts of domestic sophistry, initiated in a thou- 
 sand low stratagems, nimble shifts, and sly con- 
 cealments; versed in all the terms of altercation, 
 and acquainted with the whole discipline offend- 
 ing and proving. 
 
 It was necessarily my care to preserve the 
 kindness of both the controvertists, and therefore 
 I had very early formed the habit of suspending 
 my judgment, of hearing arguments with indif- 
 ference, inclining as occasion required to either 
 side, and of holding myself undetermined be- 
 tween them till I knew for what opinion I might 
 conveniently declare. 
 
 Thus, Sir, I acquired very early the skill of dis- 
 putation ; and as we naturally love the arts in 
 which we believe ourselves to excel, I did not let 
 my abilities lie useless, nor suffer my dexterity to 
 be lost for want of practice. I engaged in per- 
 petual wrangles with my schoolfellows, and was 
 never to be convinced or repressed by any other 
 arguments than blows, by which my antagonists 
 commonly determined the controversy, as I was, 
 like the Roman orator, much more eminent for 
 eloquence than courage. 
 
 At the university I found my predominant am 
 bition completely gratified by the study of logic. 
 I impressed upon my memory a thousand axioms, 
 and ten thousand distinctions, practised every 
 form of syllogism, passed all my days in the 
 schools of disputation, and slept every night with 
 Smiglecius* on my pillow. 
 
 You will not doubt but such a genius was soon 
 raised to eminence by such application: I was 
 celebrated in my third year for the most artful 
 opponent that the university could boast, and 
 became the terror and envy of all the candidates 
 for philosophical reputation. 
 
 My renown, indeed, was not purchased but 
 at the p.rice of all my time and all my studies. I 
 never spoke but to contradict, nor declaimed but 
 in defence of a position universally acknowledged 
 to be false, and therefore worthy, in my opinion, 
 to be adorned with all the colours of false repre- 
 sentation, and strengthened with all the arts of 
 fallacious subtilty. 
 
 My father, who had no other wish than to see 
 his son richer than himself, easily concluded that 
 I should distinguish myself among the professors 
 of the law ; and, therefore, when I had taken my 
 first degree, despatched me to the Temple with 
 a paternal admonition, that I should never suffer 
 myself to feel shame, for nothing but modesty 
 could retard my fortune. 
 
 Vitiated, ignorant, and heady, as I was, I had 
 not yet lost my reverence for virtue, and there- 
 fore could not receive such dictates without hor- 
 ror ; but however, was pleased with his determi- 
 nation of my course of life, because he placed me 
 in the way that leads soonest from the prescribed 
 walks of discipline and education, to the open 
 fields of liberty and choice. 
 
 I was now in the place where every one catch- 
 es the contagion of vanity, and soon began to 
 
 A Polish writer, whose " Logic" was formerly held 
 in great estimation in this country as well as on the cor 
 tinent
 
 152 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 96 
 
 distinguish myself by sophisms and paradoxes 
 I declared war against all received opinions and 
 established rules, and levelled my batteries par- 
 ticularly against those universal principles which 
 had stood unshaken in all the vicissitudes of lite- 
 rature, and are considered as the inviolable tem- 
 ples of truth, or the impregnable bulwarks of 
 science. 
 
 I applied myself chiefly to those parts of learn- 
 ing which have filled the world with doubt and 
 perplexity, and could readily produce all the ar- 
 guments relating to matter and motion, time and 
 space, identity and infinity. 
 
 I was equally able and equally willingto main- 
 tain the system of Newton or Descartes, and 
 favoured occasionally the hypothesis of Ptolemy, 
 or that of Copernicus. I sometimes exalted ve- 
 getables to sense, and sometimes degraded ani- 
 mals to mechanism. 
 
 Nor was I less inclined to weaken the credit 
 of history, or perplex the doctrines of polity. I 
 was always of the party which I heard the com- 
 pany condemn. 
 
 Among the zealots of liberty I could harangue 
 with great copiousness upon the advantages of 
 absolute monarchy, the secrecy of its counsels, 
 and the expedition of its measures ; and often ce- 
 lebrated the blessings produced by the extinction 
 of parties, and preclusion of debates. 
 
 Among the assertors of regal authority, I ne- 
 ver failed to declaim with republican warmth 
 upon the original charter of universal liberty, the 
 corruption of courts, and the folly of voluntary 
 submission to those whom nature has levelled 
 with ourselves. 
 
 I knew the defects of every scheme of govern- 
 ment, and the inconveniences of every law. I 
 sometimes showed how much the condition of 
 mankind would be improved, by breaking the 
 world into petty sovereignties, and sometimes 
 displayed the felicity and peace which universal 
 monarchy would diffuse over the earth. 
 
 To every acknowledged fact I found innume- 
 rable objections ; for it was my rule, to judge of 
 history only by abstracted probability, and there- 
 fore I made no scruple of bidding defiance to tes- 
 timony. I have more than once questioned the 
 existence of Alexander the Great; and having 
 demonstrated the folly of erecting edifices like 
 the pyramids of Egypt, I frequently hinted my 
 suspicion that the world had been long deceived, 
 and that they were to be found only in the nar- 
 ratives of travellers. 
 
 It had been happy for me could I have fco'rifiried 
 my scepticism to historical controversies, and 
 philosophical disquisitions ; but having now vio- 
 lated my reason, and accustomed myself to in- 
 quire not after proofs but objections, I had per- 
 piexed truth with falsehood, till my ideas were 
 confused, my judgment embarrassed, and m'y in- 
 tellects distorted. The habit of considering eve- 
 ry proposition as p.like uncertain, left me no test 
 by which any tenet could be tried ; every opinion 
 presented both sides with equal evidence, and my 
 fallacies began to operate upon my own mind in 
 more important inquiries. It was at last the 
 sport of my vanity to weaken the obligations of 
 moral duty, and efface the distinctions of good 
 and evil, till I had deadened the sense of convic- 
 tion, and abandoned my heart to the fluctuations 
 of uncertainty, without anchor and without com- 
 pass, without satisfaction of curiosity, or peace of 
 
 conscience, without principles of reason, or mo- 
 tives of action. 
 
 Such is the hazard of repressing the first per- 
 ceptions of truth, of spreading for diversion the 
 snares of sophistry, and engaging reason against 
 its own dctbrmination. 
 
 The disproportions of absurdity grow less and 
 less visible, as we are reconciled by degrees to 
 the deformity of a mistress ; and falsehood by 
 long use is assimilated to the mind, as poison to 
 the body. 
 
 I had soon the mortification of seeing my con- 
 versation courted only by the ignorant or wicked, 
 by either boys who were enchanted by novolty, 
 or wretches, who, having long disobeyed virtue 
 and reason, were now desirous of my assistance 
 to dethrone them. 
 
 Thus alarmed, I shuddered at my own corrup- 
 tion, and that pride by which I had been seduced, 
 contributed to reclaim me. I was weary of con- 
 tinual irresolution, and a perpetual equipoise of 
 the mind; and ashamed of being the favourite of 
 those who were scorned and shunned by the rest 
 of mankind: 
 
 I therefore retired from all temptation to dispute, 
 prescribed a new regimen to my understanding, 
 and resolved, instead of rejecting all established 
 opinions which I could not prove, to tolerate 
 though not adopt all which I could not confute. 
 I forbore to heat my imagination with needless 
 controversies, to discuss questions confessedly 
 uncertain, and refrained Steadily from gratifying 
 my vanity by the support of falsehood. 
 
 By this method I am at length recovered from 
 my argumental delirium, and find myself in the 
 state of one awakened from the confusion and tu- 
 mult of a feverish dream. I rejoice in the new 
 possession of evidence and reality, and step on 
 from truth to truth with confidence and quiet 
 I am, Sir, &c. 
 
 PERTINAX. 
 
 No. 96.] SATURDAY, FEB. 16, 1751. 
 
 Qitod si Platonis miisa pkrsonat verum, 
 Qworf quisque disr.it, immemor rccordatur. 
 
 BOETHIUS 
 
 Truth in Platonic ornaments bedeck'd 
 Inforccd we love, unheeding recollect. 
 
 IT is reported of the Persians, by an ancient 
 writer, that the sum of their education consisted 
 in teaching youth to ride, to shoot with the bow, 
 and to speak truth: 
 
 The bow and the horse were easily mastered, 
 but it would have been happy if we had been 
 informed by what arts veracity was cultivated, 
 and by what preservatives a Persian mind was 
 secured against the temptations to falsehood. 
 
 There are, indeed, in the present corruption of 
 mankind, many incitements to forsake truth, the 
 need of palliating our own faults, and the con- 
 venience of imposing on the ignorance or credu- 
 lity of others, so frequently occur; so many im- 
 mediate evils are to be avoided, and so many 
 present gratifications obtained, by craft and de- 
 lusion, that very few of those who arc much en- 
 tangled in life, have spirit and constancy sutfi- 
 sient to support them in the steady practice of 
 open veracity. 
 
 In order that all men may be taught to speak
 
 No. 96.J THE RAMBLER. 
 
 truth, it is necessary that all likewise shouk 
 learn to hear it ; for no species of falsehood is 
 more frequent than flattery, to which the cow- 
 ard is betrayed by fear, the dependant by inte- 
 rest, and the friend by tenderness. Those who 
 are neither servile nor timorous, are yet desirous 
 to bestow pleasure ; and while unjust demands 
 of praise continue to be made, there will always 
 be some whom hope, fear, or kindness, will dis- 
 pose to pay them. 
 
 The guilt of falsehood is very widely extended, 
 and many whom their conscience can scarcely 
 charge with stooping to a lie, have vitiated the 
 morals of others by their vanity, and patronised 
 the vice which they believe themselves to abhor. 
 
 Truth is, indeed, not often welcome for its own 
 sake ; it is generally unpleasing because contrary 
 to our wishes and opposite to our practice : and 
 as our attention naturally follows our interests, 
 we hear unwillingly what we are afraid to know, 
 and soon forget what we have no inclination to 
 impress upon our memories. 
 
 For this reason many arts of instruction have 
 been invented, by which the reluctance against 
 truth may be overcome ; and as physic is given 
 to children in confections, precepts have been 
 hidden under a thousand appearances, that man- 
 kind may be bribed by pleasure to escape de- 
 struction. 
 
 While the world was yet in its infancy, Truth 
 carne among mortals from above, and Falsehood 
 from below. Truth was the daughter of Jupi- 
 ter and wisdom ; Falsehood was the progeny of 
 Folly impregnated by the wind. They advanced 
 with equal confidence to seize the dominion of 
 the new creation : and, as their enmity and their 
 force were well known to the celestials, all the 
 eyes ofheaven were turned upon the contest. 
 
 Truth seemed conscious of superior power and 
 juster claim, and therefore came on towering and 
 majestic, unassisted and alone ; Reason indeed 
 always attended her, but appeared her follower, 
 rather than companion. Her march was slow 
 and stately, but her motion was perpetually pro- 
 gressive, and when once she had grounded her 
 foot, neither gods nor men could force her to 
 retire. 
 
 Falsehood always endeavoured to copy the 
 mien and attitudes of Truth, and was very suc- 
 cessful in the arts of mimicry. She was sur- 
 rounded, animated, and supported, by innume- 
 rable legions of appetites and passions ; but, 
 like other feeble commanders, was obliged often 
 to receive law from her allies. Her motions were 
 sudden, irregular, and violent ; for she had no 
 steadiness nor constancy. She often gained 
 conquests by hasty incursions, which she never 
 hoped to keep by her own strength, bui main- 
 tained by the help of the passions, whom she ge- 
 nerally found resolute and faithful. 
 
 It sometimes happened that the antagonists 
 met in full opposition. In these encounters, 
 Falsehood always invested her head with clouds, 
 and commanded Fraud to place ambushes about 
 her. In her left hand she bore the shield of Im- 
 pudence, and the quiver of Sophistry rattled on 
 her shoulder. All the passions attended at her 
 call ; Vanity clapped her wings before, and Ob- 
 stinacy supported her behind. Thus guarded 
 and assisted, she sometimes advanced against 
 Truth, and sometimes waited the attack ; but 
 always endeavoured to skirmish at a distance, 
 
 153 
 
 perpetually shifted her ground, and let fly her 
 arrows in different directions ; for she certainly 
 found that her strength failed, whenever the eye 
 of Truth darted full upon her. 
 
 Truth had the awtul aspect though not the 
 thunder of her father, and when the long conti- 
 nuance of the contest brought them near to one 
 another, Falsehood let the arms of Sophistry fall 
 from her grasp, and holding up the shield of Im- 
 pudence with both her hands, sheltered herself 
 amongst the passions. 
 
 Truth, though she was often wounded, always 
 recovered in a short time ; but it was common 
 for the slightest hurt, received by Falsehood, to 
 spread its malignity to the neighbouring parts, 
 and to burst open again when it seemed to have 
 been cured. 
 
 Falsehood, in a short time, found by experi- 
 ence that her superiority consisted only in the 
 celerity of her course, and the changes of her 
 posture. She therefore ordered Suspicion to beat 
 the ground before her, and avoided with great 
 care to cross the way of Truth, who as she never 
 varied her point, but moved constantly upon the 
 same line, was easily escaped by the oblique and 
 desultory movements, the quick retreats, and ac- 
 tive doubles which Falsehood always practised, 
 when the enemy began to raise terror by her ap- 
 proach. 
 
 By this procedure Falsehood every hour en 
 croached upon the world and extended her em- 
 pire through all climes and regions. Wherever 
 she carried her victories she left the passions in 
 full authority behind her ; who were so well 
 pleased with command, that they held out with 
 great obstinacy when Truth came to seize their 
 posts, and never failed to retard her progress, 
 though they could not always stop it ; they yield- 
 ed at last with great reluctance, frequent rallies, 
 and sullen submission ; and always inclined to 
 revolt when Truth ceased to awe them by her 
 immediate presence. 
 
 Truth, who, when she first descended from 
 the heavenly palaces, expected to have been re- 
 ceived by universal acclamation, cherished with 
 kindness, heard with obedience and invited to 
 spread her influence from province to province, 
 now found, that, wherever she came, she must 
 force her passage. Every intellect was preclud- 
 ed by Prejudice, and every heart preoccupied by 
 Passion. She indeed advanced, but she advanced 
 slowly ; and often lost the conquests which she 
 left behind her, by sudden insurrections of the 
 appetites, that shook off their allegiance, and 
 ranged themselves again under the banner of 
 ler enemy. 
 
 Truth, however, did not grow weaker by the 
 struggle, for her vigour was unconquerable ; yet 
 she was provoked to see herself thus baffled and 
 mpeded by an enemy, whom she looked on with 
 contempt, and who had no advantage but such 
 as she owed to inconstancy, weakness and arti- 
 ice. She, therefore, in the anger of disappoint- 
 ment, called upon her father Jupiter to restablish 
 icr in the skies, and leave mankind to the disor 
 dcr and misery which they deserved, by submit- 
 ing willingly to the usurpation of Falsehood. 
 
 Jupiter compassionated the world too much to 
 jrant her request, yet was willing to ease her 
 labours and mitigate her vexation. He com- 
 manded her to consult the Muses by what me- 
 thods she might obtain an easier reception, and
 
 .54 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 97. 
 
 re'-en without the toil of incessant war. It was 
 then discovered that she obstructed her own pro- 
 gress by the severity of her aspect, and the so- 
 femnity of her dictates ; and that men would 
 never willingly admit her, till they ceased to fear 
 her, since, by giving themselves up to Falsehood, 
 they seldom made any sacrifice of their ease or 
 pleasure, because she took the shape that was 
 most engaging, and always suffered herself to 
 be dressed and painted by Desire. The Muses 
 wove, in the loom of Pallas, a loose and change- 
 able robe, like that in which Falsehood captivated 
 her admirers ; with this they invested Truth, and 
 named her Fiction. She now went out again to 
 conquer with more success ; for when she de- 
 manded entrance of the Passions, they often mis- 
 took her for Falsehood, and delivered up their 
 charge: but when she had once taken posses- 
 sion, she was soon disrobed by Reason, and 
 shone out, in her original form, with native efful- 
 gence and resistless dignity. 
 
 No. 97.] TUESDAY, FEB. 19, 1751. 
 
 Fttcundn culpa, secula nuptias 
 Primum inguinavtre, et genus, et domoi. 
 Hocfonte derlvata clades 
 
 In patriam populumque fluxit. HOR. 
 
 Fruitful of crimes, this age first stain'd 
 
 Their hapless offspring, and profaned 
 
 The nuptial bed ; from whence the woes, 
 
 Which various and unnumber'd rose 
 
 From this polluted fountain head, 
 
 O'er Rome and o'er the nations spread. FRANCIS. 
 
 THE reader is indebted for this day's entertain- 
 ment to an author from whom the age has re- 
 ceived greater favours, who has enlarged the 
 knowledge of human nature, and taught the pas- 
 sions to move at the command of virtue* 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 SIR, 
 
 WHEN the " Spectator" was first published in 
 single papers, it gave me so much pleasure, that 
 it is one of the favourite amusements of my age 
 to recollect it ; and when I reflect on the foibles 
 of those times, as described in that useful work, 
 and compare them with the vices now reigning 
 among us. I cannot but wish that you would oftener 
 take cognizance of the manners of the better half 
 of the human species, that if your precepts and 
 observations be carried down to posterity, the 
 Spectators may show to the rising generation 
 what were the fashionable follies of their grand- 
 mothers, the " Rambler" of their mothers, and 
 that from both they may draw instruction and 
 warning. 
 
 When I read those Spectators which took no- 
 tice of the misbehaviour of young women at 
 church, by which they vainly hope to attract ad- 
 mirers, I used to pronounce such forward young 
 women Seekers, in order to distinguish them by 
 a mark of infamy from those who had patience 
 and decency to stay till they were sought. 
 
 But I have lived to see such a change in the 
 manners of women, that I would now be willing 
 to compound with them for that name, although 
 I then thought it disgraceful enough, if they 
 would deserve no worse ; since now they are too 
 generally given up to negligence of domestic bu- 
 siness, to idle amusements, and to wicked rackets, 
 without any settled view at all but of squandering 
 time. 
 
 In the time of the " Spectator," excepting 
 sometimes in appearance in the ring, sometimes 
 at a good and chosen play, sometimes on a visit 
 at the house of a grave relation, the young ladies 
 contented themselves to be found employed in 
 domestic duties ; for then routs, drums, balls, as- 
 semblies, and such-like markets for women, were 
 not known. 
 
 Modesty and diffidence, gentleness and meek- 
 ness, were looked upon as the appropriate virtues 
 and characteristic graces of the sex. And if a 
 forward spirit pushed itself into notice, it was ex- 
 posed in print as it deserved. 
 
 The churches were almost the only places 
 where single women were to be seen by stran- 
 gers. Men went thither expecting to see them, 
 and perhaps too much for that only purpose. 
 
 But some good often resulted, however impro- 
 per might be their motives. Both sexes were in 
 the way of their duty. The man must be aban- 
 doned, indeed, who loves not goodness in ano- 
 ther ; nor were the young fellows of that age so 
 wholly lost to a sense of right, as pride and con- 
 ceit have since made them afiect to be. When 
 therefore they saw a fair-one, whose decent be- 
 haviour and cheerful piety showed her earnest in 
 her first duties, they had the less doubt, judging 
 politically only, that she would have a conscien- 
 tious regard to her second. 
 
 With what ardour have I seen watched for, the 
 rising of a kneeling beauty ; and what additional 
 charms has devotion given to her recommunicat- 
 ed features ! 
 
 The men were often the better for what they 
 heard. Even a Saul was once found prophesying 
 among the prophets whom he had sent out to de- 
 stroy. To a man thus put into good humour by 
 a pleasing object, religion itself looked more amia- 
 ble. The Men Seekers of the Spectator's time 
 loved the holy place for the object's sake, and 
 loved the object for her suitable behaviour in it. 
 
 Reverence mingled with their love, and they 
 thought that a young lady of such good princi- 
 ples must be addressed only by the man who at 
 least made a show of good principles, whether 
 his heart was yet quite right or not. 
 
 Nor did the young lady's behaviour, at any 
 time of the service, lessen this reverence. Her 
 eyes were her own, her ears the preacher's. Wo- 
 men are always most observed when they seem 
 themselves least to observe, or to lay out for ob- 
 servation. The eye of a respectful lover loves 
 rather to receive confidence from the withdrawn 
 eye of the fair-one, than to find itself obliged to 
 retreat. 
 
 When a young gentleman's affection was thus 
 laudably engaged,he pursued its natural dictates ; 
 keeping then was a rare, at least a secret and 
 scandalous vice, and a wife was the summit of 
 his wishes. Rejection was now dreaded, and 
 pre-engagement apprehended. A woman whom 
 he loved, he was ready to think must be admired 
 by all the world. His fears, his uncertainties, 
 increased his love. 
 
 Every inquiry lie made into the lady's domes- 
 tic excellence, which, when a wife is to be cho- 
 sen, will surely not be neglected, confirmed him 
 in his choice. He opens his heart to a common 
 friend, and honestly discovers the state of his for- 
 tune. His friend applies to those of the young 
 lady, whose parents, if they approve of his pro- 
 posals, disclose them to their daughter.
 
 JSo. 97.1 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 155 
 
 She perhaps is not an absolute stranger to the 
 passion of the young gentleman. His eyes, his 
 assiduities, his constant attendance at a church, 
 whither, till oflate, he used seldom to come, and 
 a thousand little observances that he paid her, 
 had very probably first forced her to regard, and 
 then inclined her to favour him. 
 
 That a young lady should be in love, and the 
 love of the young gentleman undeclared, is a he- 
 terodoxy which prudence, and even policy, must 
 not allow. But, thus applied to, she is all resig- 
 nation to her parents. Charming resignation, 
 which inclination opposes not. 
 
 Her relations applaud her for her duty; friends 
 meet ; points are adjusted ; delightful perturba- 
 tions, and hopes, and a few lover's Tears, fill up 
 the tedious space till an interview is granted ; for 
 the young lady had not made herself cheap at pub- 
 lic places. 
 
 The time of interview arrives. She is mo- 
 destly reserved; he is not confident. He declares 
 his passion; the consciousness of her own worth, 
 and his application to her parents, take from her 
 any doubt of his sincerity ; and she owns herself 
 obliged to him for his good opinion. The in- 
 quiries of her friends into his character, have 
 taught her that his good opinion deserves to be 
 valued. 
 
 She tacitly allows of his future visits; he re- 
 news them ; the regard of each for the other is 
 confirmed ; and when he presses for the favour 
 of her hand, he receives a declaration of an en- 
 tire acquiescence with her duty, and a modest ac- 
 knowledgement of esteem for him. 
 
 He applies to her parents therefore for a near 
 day; and thinks himself under obligation to them 
 for the cheerful and affectionate manner with 
 which they receive his agreeable application. 
 
 With this prospect of future happiness, the 
 marriage is celebrated. Gratulations pour in 
 from every quarter. Parents and relations on 
 both sides, brought acquainted in the course of 
 the courtship, can receive the happy couple with 
 countenances illumined, and joyful hearts. 
 
 The brothers, the sisters, the friends of one 
 family, are the brothers, the sisters, the friends 
 of the other. The two families, thus made one, 
 are the world to the young couple. 
 
 Their home is the place of their principal de- 
 light, nor do they ever occasionally quit it but 
 they find the pleasure of returning to it aug- 
 mented in proportion to the time of their absence 
 from it. 
 
 Oh, Mr. Rambler . forgive the talkativeness, 
 of an old man ! When I courted and married my 
 Lactitia, then a blooming beauty, every thing 
 passed just so! But how is the case now? The 
 ladies, maidens, wives, and "widows, are engross- 
 ed by places of open resort and general entertain- 
 ment, which fill every quarter of the metropolis, 
 and being constantly frequented, make home irk- 
 some Breakfasting-places, dining-places, routs, 
 drums, concerts, balls, plays, operas, masque- 
 rade for the evening, and even for all night; and 
 lately, public sales of the goods of broken house- 
 keepers, which the general dissoluteness of man- 
 ners has contributed to make very frequent, come 
 in as another seasonable relief to these modern 
 time-killers. 
 
 In the summer there are in every country- 
 town assemblies ; Tunbridge, Bath, Cheltenham, 
 Scarborough ! What expense of dress and equi- 
 
 page is required to qualify the frequenters for 
 such emulous appearance. , 
 
 By the natural infection of example, the lowest 
 people have places of sixpenny resort, and gam- 
 ing-tables for pence, Thus servants are now in 
 duced to fraud and dishonesty, to support extra- 
 vagance, and supply their losses. 
 
 As to the ladies who frequent those public 
 places, they are not ashamed to show their face* 
 wherever men dare go, nor blush to try who shall 
 stare most impudently, or who shall laugh loud- 
 est on the public walks. 
 
 The men who would make good husbands, if 
 they visit those places, are frighted at wedlock, 
 and resolved to live single, except they are bought 
 at a very high price. They can be spectators 
 of all that passes, and if they please, more than 
 spectators, at the expense of others. The com- 
 panion of an evening, and the companion for life, 
 require very different qualifications. 
 
 Two thousand pounds in the last age, with a 
 domestic wife, would go farther than ten thou- 
 sand in this. Yet settlements are expected, that 
 often, to a mercantile man especially, sink a for- 
 tune into uselessness : and pin-money is stipu- 
 lated for, which makes a wife independent, and 
 destroys love, by putting it out of a man's power 
 to lay any obligation upon her, that might en- 
 gage gratitude, and kindle affection. When to 
 all this the card-tables are added, how can a pru 
 dent man think of marrying ? 
 
 And when the worthy men know not where to 
 find wives, must not the sex be left to the fop- 
 lings, the coxcombs, the libertines of the age, 
 whom they help to make such ? And need even 
 these wretches marry to enjoy the conversation 
 of those who render their company so cheap ? 
 
 And what, after all, is the benefit which the 
 gay coquette obtains by her flutters ? As she is 
 approachable by every man without requiring, 
 I will not say incense or adoration, but even com- 
 mon complaisance, every fop treats her as upon 
 the level, looks upon her light airs as invitations, 
 and is on the watch to take the advantage : she 
 has companions, indeed, but no lovers ; for love 
 is respectful and timorous ; and where among all 
 her followers will she find a husband ? 
 
 Set, dear Sir, before the youthful, the gay, the 
 inconsiderate, the contempt as well as the danger 
 to which they are exposed. At one time or other, 
 women not utterly thoughtless, will be convinced 
 of the justice of your censure, and the charity of 
 your instruction. 
 
 But should your expostulations and reproofs 
 have no effect upon those who are far gone in 
 fashionable folly, they may be retailed from their 
 mouths to their nieces, (marriage will not often 
 have entitled these to daughters.) when they, 
 the meteors of a day, find themselves elbowed 
 off" the stage of vanity by other flutterers ; for 
 the most admired women cannot have many 
 Tunbridge, many Bath seasons to blaze in ; 
 since even fine faces, often seen, are less regard- 
 ed than new faces, the proper punishment of 
 showy girls, for rendering themselves so impoli- 
 ticly cheap. I am, Sir, 
 
 Your sincere admirer, &c.* 
 
 * This paper was written by Richardson, the author of 
 " Clarissa," " Pamela," &c. and although mean end hack- 
 neyed in style and sentiment, was the only paf er which 
 had a great sale during the publication of the " '.ambler," 
 in its original form.
 
 156 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 98. 
 
 No. 98.J SATURDAY, FEB. 23. 1751. 
 
 Qua nee Sarmentue iniquat 
 
 Casaris ad mtnsas, nee vilis Galba tulisset. Juv- 
 Which not Sarmentus brook'd at Ctesar's board, 
 Nor grov'liug Galba from his haughty lord. 
 
 ELPHINSTON. 
 
 TO THE AUTHOR OF THE RAMBLER. 
 
 MR. RAMBLER, 
 
 You have often endeavoured to impress upon 
 your readers an observation of more truth than 
 novelty, that life passes for the most part, in 
 petty transactions ; that our hours glide away 
 in trifling amusements and slight gratifications ; 
 and that there very seldom emerges any occasion 
 that can call forth great virtue or great abilities. 
 
 It very commonly happens that speculation 
 has no influence on conduct. Just conclusions, 
 and cogent arguments, formed by laborious stu- 
 dy, and diligent inquiry, are often reposited in 
 the treasuries of memory, as gold in the miser's 
 chest, useless alike to others and himself. As 
 some are not richer for the extent of their pos- 
 sessions, others are not wiser for the multitude 
 of their ideas. 
 
 You have truly described the state of human 
 beings, but it may be doubted whether you have 
 accommodated your precepts io your descrip- 
 tion; whether you have not generally consi- 
 dered your readers as influenced by the tragic 
 passions, and susceptible of pain or pleasure only 
 from powerful agents, and from great events. 
 
 To an author who writes not for the improve- 
 ment of a single art, or the establishment of a 
 controverted doctrine, but equally intends the 
 advantage, and equally courts the perusal of all 
 the classes of mankind, nothing can justly seem 
 unworthy of regard, by which the pleasure of 
 conversation may be increased, and the daily 
 satisfaction of familiar life secured from interrup- 
 tion and disgust. 
 
 For this reason you would not have injured 
 your reputation, if you had sometimes descended 
 to the minuter duties of social beings, and en- 
 forced the observance of tho?e little civilities and 
 ceremonious delicacies, which, inconsiderable as 
 they may appear to the man of science, and diffi- 
 cult as they may prove to be detailed with dig- 
 nity, yet contribute to the regulation of the world, 
 by facilitating the intercourse between one man 
 and another, and of which the French have suffi- 
 ciently testified their esteem, by terming the 
 knowledge and practice of them Scaroir vivre, 
 the art of living. 
 
 Politeness :$ one of those advantages which 
 we never estimate rightly but by the inconveni- 
 ence of its loss. Its influence upon the man- 
 ners is constant and uniform, so that, like an 
 equal motion, it escapes perception. The cir- 
 cumstances of every action are so adjusted to 
 each other, that we do not see where any error 
 could have been committed, and rather acqui- 
 esce in its propriety than admire its exactness. 
 
 But as sickness shows us the value of ease, a 
 Iktle familiarity with those who v/ere never 
 taught to endeavour the gratification of others, 
 but regulate their behaviour merely by their own 
 will, will soon evince the necessity of established 
 modes and formalities to the happiness and 
 quiet of common life. 
 
 Wisdom and virtue are by no means suffi- 
 < ient, without the supplemental laws of good- 
 
 breeding, to secure freedom from degenerating 
 to rudeness, or self-esteem from swelling into 
 insolence ; a thousand incivilities may be com- 
 mitted, and a thousand offices neglected, with- 
 out any remorse of conscience, or reproach from 
 reason. 
 
 The true effect of genuine politeness seems to 
 be rather ease than pleasure. The power of 
 delighting must be conferred by nature, and can- 
 not be delivered by precept, or obtained by imi- 
 tation : but though it be the privilege of a very 
 small number to ravage and to charm, every 
 man may hope by rules and caution not to give 
 pain, and may, therefore, by the help of good- 
 breeding, enjoy the kindness of mankind, though 
 he should have no claim to higher distinctions. 
 
 The universal axiom in which all complai- 
 sance is included, and from which flow all the 
 formalities which custom has established in ci- 
 vilized nations is, That no man shall give any pre- 
 ference to himself, A rule so comprehensive and 
 certain, that, perhaps, it is not easy for the mind 
 to imagine an incivility, without supposing it to 
 be broken. 
 
 There are, indeed, in every place, some parti- 
 cular modes of the ceremonial part of good- 
 breeding, which being arbitrary and accidental, 
 can be learned only by habitude and conversa- 
 tion ; such are the forms of salutation, the dif- 
 ferent gradations, of reverence, and all the adjust- 
 ments of place and precedence. These, however, 
 may be often violated without offence, if it be 
 sufficiently evident, that neither malice nor pride 
 contributed to the failure ; but will not atone, 
 however rigidly observed, for the tumour of in 
 solence, or petulance of contempt. 
 
 I have, indeed, not found among any part ol 
 mankind, less real and rational complaisance, 
 than among those who have passed their time in 
 paying and receiving visits, in frequenting public 
 entertainments, in studying the exact measures 
 of ceremony, and in watching all the variations 
 of fashionable courtesy. 
 
 They know, indeed, at what hour they may 
 beat the door of an acquaintance, how many 
 steps they must attend him towards the gate, and 
 what interval should pass before his visit is re- 
 turned ; but seldom extend their care beyond the 
 exterior and unessential parts of civility, nor re- 
 fuse their own vanity any gratification, howevei 
 expensive to the quiet of another. 
 
 Trypherus is a man remarkable for splendoui 
 and expense ; a man, that having been originally 
 placed by his fortune and rank in the first class 
 of the community, has acquired that air of dig 
 nity, and that readiness in the exchange of com 
 pliments, which courts, balls, and levees, easily 
 confer. 
 
 But Trypherus, without any settled purposes 
 of malignity, partly by his ignorance of human 
 nature, and partly by the habit of contemplating 
 with great satisfaction his own grandeur and 
 riches, is hourly giving disgust to those whom 
 chance or expectation subject to his vanity. 
 
 To a man whose fortune confines him to a 
 small house, he declaims upon the pleasure of 
 spacious apartments, and the convenience of 
 changing his lodging-room in different parts of 
 the year ; tells him that he hates confinement ; 
 and concludes, that if his chamber was less, he 
 should never wake without thinking of a prison 
 
 To Eucretas, a man of birth eoual to himself.
 
 No 99.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 157 
 
 hut of much less estate he showed his services 
 of plate, and remarked that such things were, 
 indeed, nothing better than costly trifles, but that 
 no man must pretend to the rank of a gentleman 
 without them ; and that for his part, if his estate 
 was smaller, he should not think of enjoying but 
 increasing it, and would inquire out a trade for 
 his eldest son. 
 
 He has, in imitation of some more acute ob- 
 server than himself, collected a great many shifts 
 and artifices by which poverty is concealed ; and 
 among the ladies of small fortune, never fails to 
 talk of frippery and slight silks, and the conve- 
 nience of a general mourning. 
 
 I have been insulted a thousand times with a 
 catalogue of his pictures, his jewels, and his ra- 
 rities, which, though he knows the humble neat- 
 ness of my habitation, he seldom fails to conclude 
 by a declaration, that wherever he sees a house 
 meanly furnished, he despises the owner's taste, 
 or pities his poverty. 
 
 This, Mr. Rambler, is the practice of Tryphe- 
 rus, by which he has become the terror of all who 
 are less wealthy than himself, and has raised in- 
 numerable enemies without rivalry, and without 
 malevolence. 
 
 Yet though all are not equally culpable with 
 Trypherus, it is scarcely possible to find any man 
 who doos not frequently, like him, indulge his 
 own pride by forcing others injo a comparison 
 with himself when he knows the advantage is on 
 his side, without considering that unnecessarily 
 to obtrude unpleasing ideas, is a species of op- 
 pression ; and that it is little more criminal to 
 deprive another of some real advantage, than to 
 interrupt that foigetfulness of its absence which 
 is the next happiness to actual possession. 
 
 I am, &c. EDTROPHTS. 
 
 JNo. 99.] TUESDAY, FEB. 26, 1751. 
 
 Scilicet ingeniis aliqua est concordiajunctis, 
 
 Et servat studii f&dern quisque sui, 
 Rusticus agricolam, miles J 'era bella gerentem, 
 
 Rectorcm dubia navita puppis amat. OVID. 
 
 Congenial passions souls together bind, 
 And every calling mingles with its kind ; 
 Soldier unites with soldier, swain with swain, 
 The mariner with him that roves the main. 
 
 F. LEWIS. 
 
 LT has been ordained by Providence, for the 
 conservation of order in the immense variety of 
 nature, and for the regular propagation of the se- 
 veral classes of life with which the elements are 
 peopled, that every creature should be drawn by 
 some secret attraction to those of his ovyn kind ; 
 and that not only the gentle and domestic ani- 
 mals which naturally unite into companies, or 
 cohabit by pairs, should continue faithful to their 
 species ; but even those ravenous and ferocious 
 savages which Aristotle observes never to be 
 gregarious, should range mountains and deserts 
 in search of one another, rather than pollute the 
 world with a monstrous birth. 
 
 As the perpetuity and distinction of the lower 
 tribes of the creation require that they should be 
 determined to proper mates by some uniform mo- 
 tive of choice, or some cogent principle of in- 
 stinct ; k is necessary, likewise, that man, whose 
 wider capacity demands more gratifications, and 
 who feels in himself innumerable wants, which a 
 life of solitude cannot supply, and innumerable 
 powers to which it cannot give employment, 
 
 should be led to suitable companions by particular 
 influence ; and, among many beings of the same 
 nature with himself, he may select some for inti- 
 macy and tenderness, and improve the condition 
 of his existence, by superadding friendship to 
 humanity, and the love of individuals to that of 
 the species. 
 
 Other animals are so formed that they seem 
 to contribute very little to the happiness of each 
 other, and know neither joy, nor grief, nor love, 
 nor hatred, but as they are urged by some desire 
 immediately subservient either to the support of 
 their own lives, or to the continuation of their 
 race ; they therefore seldom appear to regard 
 any of the minuter discriminations which distin- 
 guish creatures of the same kind from one ano- 
 ther. 
 
 But if man were to feel no incentives to kind- 
 ness, more than his general tendency to conge- 
 nial nature, Babylon or London, with all their 
 multitudes, would have to him the desolation of 
 a wilderness, his affections, not compressed into 
 a narrower compass, would vanish, like elemental 
 fire in boundless evaporation ; he would languish , 
 in perpetual insensibility ; and though he might, 
 perhaps, in the first vigour of youth, amuse him- 
 self with the fresh enjoyments of life, yet, when 
 curiosity should cease, and alacrity subside, he 
 would abandon himself to the fluctuations of 
 chance, without expecting help against any ca- 
 lamity, or feeling any wish for the happiness of 
 others. 
 
 To love all men is our duty, so far as it in 
 eludes a general habit of benevolence, and readi- 
 ness of occasional kindness ; but to love all equal- 
 ly is impossible ; at least impossible without the 
 extinction of those passions which now produce 
 all our pains and all our pleasures ; without the 
 disuse, if not the abolition, of some of our facul- 
 ties, and the suppression of all our hopes and 
 fears in apathy and indifference. 
 
 The necessities of our condition require a thou- 
 sand offices of tenderness, which mere regard for 
 the species will never dictate. Every man has 
 frequent grievances which only the solicitude of 
 friendship will discover and remedy, and which 
 would remain for ever unheeded in the mighty 
 heap of human calamity, were it only surveyed by 
 the eye of general benevolence, equally attentive 
 to every misery. 
 
 The great community of mankind is, there- 
 fore necessarily broken into smaller independ- 
 ent societies ; these form distinct interests, which 
 are too frequently opposed to each other, and 
 which they who have entered into the league of 
 particular governments falsely think it virtue to 
 promote, however destructive to the happiness 
 of the rest of the worlu. 
 
 Such unions are again separated into subordi- 
 nate classes and combinations, and social life is 
 perpetually branched out into minuter subdi- 
 visions, till it terminates in the last ramifications 
 of private friendship. 
 
 That friendship may at once be fond and last- 
 ing, it has been already observed in these papers, 
 that a conformity of inclinations is necessary. No 
 man can have much kindness for him by whom 
 he does not believe himself esteemed, and no- 
 thing so evidently proves esteem as imitation. 
 
 That benevolence is always strongest which 
 arises from participation of the same pleasures, 
 since we are naturally most willing to revive in
 
 158 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 100. 
 
 our minds the memory of persons, with whom 
 the idea of enjoyment is connected. 
 
 It is commonly, therefore, to little purpose that 
 any one endeavours to ingratiate himself with 
 such as he cannot accompany in their amuse- 
 ments and diversions. Men have been known 
 to rise to favour and to fortune, only by being 
 skilful in the sports with which their patron hap- 
 pened to be delighted, by concurring with his 
 taste for some particular species of curiosities, by 
 relishing the same wine, or applauding the same 
 cookery. 
 
 Even those whom wisdom or virtue have 
 placed above regard to such petty recommenda- 
 tions, must nevertheless be gained by similitude 
 of manners. The highest and noblest enjoy- 
 ment of familiar life, the communication of know- 
 ledge and reciprocation of sentiments, must 
 always presuppose a disposition to the same in- 
 quiry, and delight in the same discoveries. 
 
 With what satisfaction could the politician lay 
 his schemes for the reformation of laws, or his 
 comparison of different forms of government, be- 
 fore the chymist, who has never accustomed his 
 thoughts to any other object than salt and sul- 
 phur ? or how could the astronomer, in explain- 
 ing his calculations and conjectures, endure the 
 coldness of a grammarian, who would lose sight 
 of Jupiter and all his satellites, for a happy ety- 
 mology of an obscure word, or a better explica- 
 tion of a controverted line ? 
 
 Every man loves merit of the same kind with 
 his own, when it is not likely to hinder his ad- 
 vancement or his reputation; for he not only 
 best understands the worth of those qualities 
 which ne labours to cultivate, or the usefulness 
 of the art which he practises with success, but 
 always feels a reflected pleasure from the praises 
 which, though given to another, belong equally 
 to himself. 
 
 There is indeed no need of research and re- 
 finement to discover that men must generally se- 
 lect their companions from their own state of life, 
 since there are not many minds furnished for 
 great variety of conversation, or adapted to mul- 
 tiplicity of intellectual entertainments. 
 
 The sailor, the academic, the lawyer, the me- 
 chanic, and the courtier, have all a cast or look 
 peculiar to their own fraternity, have fixed their at- 
 tention upon the same events, have been engaged 
 in affairs of the same soil., and make use of allu- 
 sions and illustrations which themselves only can 
 understand. 
 
 To be infected with the jargon of a particular 
 profession, and to know only the language of a 
 single rank of mortals, is indeed sufficiently de- 
 spicable. But as limits must be always set to 
 the excursions of the human mind, there will be 
 some study which every man more zealously pro- 
 secutes, some darling subject on which he is 
 principally pleased to converse ; and he that can 
 most inform or best understand him, will cer- 
 tainly be welcomed with particular regard. 
 
 Such partiality is not wholly to be avoided, nor 
 is it culpable, unless suffered so far to predomi- 
 nate as to produce aversion from every other 
 kind of excellence, and to shade the lustre of dis- 
 similar virtues. Those, therefore, whom the lot 
 of life has conjoined, should endeavour constantly 
 to approach towards the inclination of each other, 
 invigorate every motion of concurrent desire, and 
 fan every spark of kindred curiosity, 
 
 It has been justly observed, that discord gene- 
 rally operates in little things ; it is inflamed to 
 its utmost vehemence by contrariety of taste, 
 oftener than of principles ; and might therefore 
 commonly be avoided by innocent conformity, 
 which, if it was not- at first the motive, ought 
 always to be the consequence, of indissoluble 
 
 No. 100.] SATURDAY, MARCH 2, 175L 
 
 Omne vafer intium ridcnti Flaccns amico 
 Tangit, et admissus circumpracordia ludit. 
 
 PERSIL'S 
 
 Horace, with sly insinuating grace, 
 Laugh'd at his friend, and look'd him in the face ; 
 Would raise a blush where secret vice lie found, 
 And tickle while he gently probed the wound. 
 With seeming innocence the crowd beguiled, 
 But made the desperate passes when he smiled. 
 
 DEYDES 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 As very many well-disposed persons, by the un 
 avoidable necessity of their affairs, are so unfor- 
 tunate as to be totally buried in the country, 
 where they labour under the most deplorable ig 
 norance of what is transacting among the polite 
 part of mankind, I cannot help thinking, that, 
 as a public writer, you should fake the case of 
 these truly compassionable objects under your 
 consideration. 
 
 These unhappy languishers in obscurity should 
 be furnished with such accounts of the employ- 
 ments of people of the world, as may engage 
 them in their several remote corners to a lauda 
 ble imitation ; or, at least so far inform and pre 
 pare them, that if by any joyful change of situa- 
 tion they should be suddenly transported into 
 the gay scene, they may not gape, and wonder, 
 and stare, and be utterly at a loss how to behave 
 and make a proper appearance in it. 
 
 It is inconceivable how much the welfare of 
 all the country towns in the kingdom might be 
 promoted, if you would use your charitable en- 
 deavours to raise in them a noble emulation of 
 the manners and customs of higher life. 
 
 For this purpose you should give a very cleat 
 and ample description of the whole set of polite 
 acquirements ; a complete history of forms, fa 
 shions, frolics, of routs, drums, hurricanes, 
 balls, assemblies, ridottos, masquerades, auc 
 tions, plays, operas, puppet-shows, and bear 
 gardens ; of all those delights which profitably 
 engage the attention of the most sublime cha- 
 racters, and by which they have brought to such 
 amazing perfection the whole art and mystery 
 of passing day after day, week after week, and 
 year after year, without the heavy assistance of 
 any one thing that formal creatures are pleased 
 to call useful and necessary. 
 
 In giving due instructions through what steps 
 to attain this summit of human excellence, you 
 may add such irresistible arguments in its fa- 
 vour, as must convince numbers, who in other 
 instances do not seem to want natural under 
 standing, of the unaccountable error of supposing 
 they were sent into the world for any other pur 
 pose but to flutter, sport, and shine. For, after 
 all, nothing can be clearer than that an ever- 
 lasting round of diversion, and the more lively
 
 No. 101.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 159 
 
 and hurrying the better, is the most important 
 end of human life. 
 
 It is really prodigious, so much as the world is 
 improved, that there should in these days be per- 
 sons so ignorant and stupid as to think it neces- 
 sary to misspend their time, and trouble their 
 heads about any thing else than pursuing the 
 present fancy ; for what else is worth living 
 for? 
 
 It is time enough surely to think of conse- 
 quences when they come ; and as for the anti- 
 quated notions of duty, they are not to be met 
 with in any French Novel, or any book one ever 
 looks into, but derived almost wholly from the 
 writings of authors, who lived a vast many ages 
 ago ; and who, as they were totally without any 
 idea of those accomplishments, which now cha- 
 racterise people of distinction, have been for some 
 time sinking apace into utter contempt. It does 
 not appear that even their most zealous admirers, 
 for some partisans of his own sort every writer 
 will have, can pretend to say they were ever at 
 one ridotto. 
 
 In the important article of diversions, the cere- 
 monial of visits, the ecstatic delight of unfriendly 
 intimacies, and unmeaning civilities, they are ab- 
 solutely silent. Blunt truth, and downright ho- 
 nesty, plain clothes, staying at home, hard work, 
 few words, and those unenlivened with censure 
 or double meaning, are what they recommend as 
 the ornaments and pleasures of life. Little oaths, 
 polite dissimulation, tea-table scandal, delightful 
 indolence, the glitter of finery, the triumph of 
 precedence, the enchantments of flattery, they 
 seem to have had no notion of, and I cannot but 
 laugh to think what a figure they would have 
 made in a drawing-room, and how frighted they 
 would have looked at a gaming-table. 
 
 The noble zeal of patriotism that disdains 
 authority, and tramples on laws for sport, was 
 absolutely the aversion of these tame wretches. 
 
 Indeed one cannot discover any one thing they 
 pretend to teach people, but to be wise and good ; 
 acquirements infinitely below the consideration 
 of persons of taste and spirit, who know how to 
 spend their time to so much better purpose. 
 
 Among other admirable improvements, pray, 
 Mr. Rambler, do not forget to enlarge on the 
 very extensive benefit of playing at cards on Sun- 
 days ; a practice of such infinite use, that we may 
 modestly expect to see it prevail universally in 
 all parts of this kingdom. 
 
 To persons of fashion, the advantage is obvi- 
 ous ; because, as for some strange reason or 
 other, which no fine gentleman or fine lady 
 has yet been able to penetrate, there is neither 
 play, nor masquerade, nor bottled conjurer, nor 
 any other thing worth living for, to be had on a 
 Sunday ; if it were not for the charitable assist- 
 ance of whist or bragg, the genteel part of man- 
 kind must, one day in seven, necessarily suffer a 
 total extinction of being. 
 
 Nor are the persons of high rank the only gain- 
 ers by so salutary a custom, which extends its 
 good influence, in some degree, to the lower or- 
 ders of people ; but were it quite general, how 
 much better and happier would the world be than 
 it is even now ? 
 
 It is hard upon poor creatures, be they ever so 
 mean, to deny them those enjoyments and liber- 
 ties which are equally open for all. Yet if serv- 
 ants were taught to go to church on this dav, 
 
 spend some part of it in reading or receiving in- 
 struction in a family way, and the rest in mere 
 friendly conversation, the poor wretches would 
 infallibly take it into their heads, that they were 
 obliged to be sober, modest, diligent, and" faith- 
 ful to their masters and mistresses. 
 
 Now surely no one of common prudence or 
 humanity would wish their domestics infected 
 with such strange and primitive notions, or laid 
 under such unmerciful restraints: all which may, 
 in a great measure, be prevented by the preva- 
 lence of the good-humoured fashion, that I would 
 have you recommend. For when the lower kind 
 of people see their betters, with a truly laudable 
 spirit, insulting and flying in the face of those 
 rude, ill-bred dictators, piety and the laws, they 
 are thereby excitfd and admoni-shed, as far as 
 actions can admonish and excite, and taught that 
 they too have an equal right of setting them at 
 defiance in such instances as their particular ne- 
 cessities and inclinations may require ; and thua 
 is the liberty of the whole human species mighti- 
 ly improved and enlarged. 
 
 In short, Mr. Rambler, by a Taithful represent- 
 ation of the numberless benefits of a modish life, 
 you will have done yourpart in promoting what 
 every body seems to confess the true purpose of 
 human existence, perpetual dissipation. 
 
 By encouraging people to employ their whole 
 attention on trifles, and make amusement their 
 sole study, you will teach them how to avoid 
 many very uneasy reflections. 
 
 All the soft feelings of humanity, the sympa- 
 thies of friendship, all natural temptations to the 
 care of a family, and solicitude about the good 
 or ill of others, with the vvhole train of domestic 
 and social affections, which create such daily 
 anxieties and embarrassments, will be happily 
 stifled and suppressed in a round of perpetual 
 delights ; and all serious thoughts, but particu- 
 larly that of hereafter, be banished out of the 
 world ; a most perplexing apprehension, but 
 luckily a most groundless one too, as it is so 
 very clear a case, that nobody ever dies. 
 I am, &c. 
 
 CHARIESSA.* 
 
 No. 101.] TUESDAY, MARCH 5, 1751. 
 
 Mellajubes Hyllaa tilri vel Hymettia. nasci, 
 Et thy ma Cecropia Corsica ponit api. MAkT. 
 
 Alas ! dear Sir, you try in vain, 
 Impossibilities to gain ; 
 No bee from Corsica's rank juice, 
 Hybloean honey can produce. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 SIR, 
 
 HAVING by several years of continual study 
 treasured in my mind a great number of princi- 
 ples and ide&s, and obtained by frequent ex- 
 ercise the power of applying them with pro- 
 priety, and combining them with readiness, I 
 resolved to quit the university, where I consider- 
 ed myself as a gem hidden in the mine, and to 
 mingle in the crowd of public life. I was na- 
 turally attracted by the company of those who 
 
 * Written by Mrs. Carter of Deal, the only survivor oj 
 the writers of that age. C.
 
 160 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 101 
 
 were of the same age with myself; and, finding 
 that my academical gravity contributed very iittle 
 to my reputation, applied my faculties to jocula- 
 rity and burlesque. Thus, in a short time, I had 
 heated my imagination to such a state of activity 
 and ebullition, that upon every occasion it fumed 
 away in bursts of wit, and evaporations of gay e- 
 ty. I became on a sudden the idol of the coffee- 
 house, was in one winter solicited to accept the 
 presidentship of five clubs; was dragged by vio- 
 lence to every new play, and quoted in every 
 controversy upon theatrical merit ; was in every 
 public place surrounded by a multitude of hum- 
 ble auditors, who retailed in other places of re- 
 sort my maxims and my jests, and was boasted 
 as their intimate and companion by many, who 
 had no other pretensions to my acquaintance, 
 than that they had drank chocolate in the same 
 room. 
 
 You will not wonder, Mr. Rambler, that I 
 mention my success with some appearance of 
 triumph and elevation. Perhaps no kind of su- 
 periority is more nattering or alluring than that 
 which is conferred by the powers of conversa- 
 tion, by extemporaneous sprightliness of fancy, 
 copiousness of language, and fertility of senti- 
 ment. In other exertions of genius, the greater 
 part of the praise is unknown and unenjoyed ; 
 the writer, indeed, spreads his reputation to a 
 wider extent, but receives little pleasure or ad- 
 vantage from the diffusion of his name, and only 
 obtains a kind of nominal sovereignty over re- 
 gions which pay no tribute. The colloquial wit 
 has always his own radiance reflected on him- 
 self, and enjoys all the pleasure which he be- 
 stows ; he finds his power confessed by every 
 one that approaches him, sees friendship kin- 
 dling with rapture, anil attention swelling into 
 praise. 
 
 The desire which every man feels of import- 
 ance and esteem, is so much gratified by finding 
 an assembly, at his entrance, brightened with 
 gladness and hushed with expectation, that the 
 recollection of such distinctions can scarcely fail 
 to be pleasing whensoever it is innocent And 
 my conscience does not reproach me with any 
 mean or criminal effects of vanity; since I al- 
 ways employed my influence on the side of vir- 
 tue, and never sacrificed my understanding or 
 my religion to the pleasure of applause. 
 
 There were many whom either the desire of 
 enjoying my pleasantry, or the pride of being 
 thought to enjoy it, brought often into my com- 
 
 Eany : but 1 was caressed in a particular manner 
 y Demochares, a gentleman of large estate, and 
 a liberal disposition. My fortune being by no 
 means exuberant, inclined rne to be pleased with 
 a friend who was willing to be entertained at his 
 own charge. I became by daily invitations ha- 
 bituated to his table, and, as he believed my ac- 
 quaintance necessary to the character of ele- 
 gance, which he was desirous of establishing, I 
 lived in all the luxury of affluence, without ex- 
 pense, or dependence, and passed my life in a 
 perpetual reciprocation of pleasure, with men 
 brought together by similitude of accomplish- 
 ments, or desire of improvement. 
 
 But all power has its sphere of activity, be- 
 yond which it produces no effect. Demochares 
 being called by his affairs into the country, ima- 
 gined that he should increase his popularity by 
 roming among his neighbours accompanied by 
 
 a man whose abilities were so generally allowed. 
 The report presently spread through half the 
 country that Demochares was arrived, and had 
 brought with him the celebrated Hilarius, by 
 whom such merriment would be excited, as had 
 never been enjoyed or conceived before. I knew, 
 indeed, the purpose for which I was invited, 
 and, as men do not look diligently out for pos- 
 sible miscarriages, was pleased to find myselt 
 courted upon principles of interest, and consi- 
 dered as capable of reconciling factions, com- 
 posing feuds, and uniting a whole province in 
 social happiness. 
 
 After a few days spent in adjusting his domes- 
 tic regulations, Demochares invited all the gen- 
 tlemen of his neighbourhood to dinner, and did 
 not forget to hint how much my presence was 
 expected to heighten the pleasure of the feast 
 He informed me what prejudices my reputation 
 had raised in my favour, and represented the sa- 
 tisfaction with which he should see me kindle up 
 the blaze of merriment, and should remark the 
 various effects that my fire would have upon such 
 diversity of matter. 
 
 This declaration, b'y which he intended to 
 quicken my vivacity, filled me with solicitude. I 
 felt an ambition of shining which I never knew 
 before ; and was therefore embarrassed with an 
 unusual fear of disgrace. I passed the night in 
 planning out to myself the conversation of the 
 coming day; recollected all my topics of raillery, 
 proposed proper subjects of ridicule, prepared 
 smart replies to a thousand questions, accommo- 
 dated answers to imaginary repartees, and form- 
 ed a magazine of remarks, apophthegms, tales, 
 and illustrations. 
 
 The morning broke at last in the midst of 
 these busy meditations. I rose with the palpita- 
 tions of a champion on the day of combat ; and, 
 notwithstanding all my efforts, found my spirits 
 sunk under the weight of expectation. The 
 company soon after began to drop in, and every 
 one, at his entrance, was introduced to Hilarius. 
 What conception the inhabitants of this region 
 had formed of a wit, I cannot yet discover ; but 
 observed that they all seemed, after the regular 
 exchange of compliments, to turn away disap- 
 pointed ; and that while we waited for dinner, 
 they cast their eyes first upon me and then upon 
 each other, like a theatrical assembly waiting for 
 a show. 
 
 From the uneasiness of this situation, I was 
 relieved by the dinner; and as every attention 
 was taken up by the business of the hour, I 
 sunk quietly to a level with the rest, of the com- 
 pany. But no sooner were the dishes removed, 
 than, instead of cheerful confidence and familiar 
 prattle, a universal silence again showed their 
 expectation of some unusual performance. My 
 friend endeavoured to rouse them by healths and 
 questions, but they answered him with great 
 brevity, and immediately relapsed into their for- 
 mer taciturnity. 
 
 I had waited in hope of some opportunity to 
 divert them, but could find no pass opened for a 
 single sally ; and who can be merry without an 
 object of mirth ? After a few faint e'ffprts, which 
 produced neither applause nor opposition, I was 
 content to mingle with the mass, to put round the 
 glass in silence, and solace myself with my own 
 contemplations. 
 
 My friend looked round him : the gucsta
 
 No. 102.1 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 161 
 
 stared at one another : and if now and then a 
 few syllables were uttered with timidity and 
 hesitation, there was none ready to make any 
 reply. All our faculties were frozen, and every 
 minute took away from our capacity of pleasing, 
 and disposition to be pleased. Thug passed the 
 hours to which so much happiness was decreed; 
 the hours which had, by a kind of open procla- 
 mation, been devoted to wit, to mirth, and to 
 Hilarius. 
 
 At last the night came on, and the necessity of 
 parting freed us from the persecutions of each 
 other. 1 heard them as they walked along the 
 court, murmuring at the loss of the day, and in- 
 quiring whether any man would pay a second 
 visit to a house haunted by a wit ? 
 
 Demochares, whose benevolence is greater 
 than his penetration, having flattered his hopes 
 with the secondary honour which he was to gain 
 by my sprightliness and elegance, and the aflec- 
 tion with which he should be followed for a per- 
 petual banquet of gayety, was not able to con- 
 ceal his vexation and resentment, nor would ea- 
 sily be convinced, that 1 had not sacrificed his in- 
 terest to sullenness and caprice, and studiously 
 endeavoured to disgust his guests, and suppress- 
 ed my powers of delighting, in obstinate and 
 premeditated silence. I am informed that the 
 reproach of their ill reception is divided by the 
 gentlemen of the country between us; some be- 
 ing of opinion that my friend is deluded by an 
 impostor, who, though he has found some art of 
 gaining his favour, is afraid to speak before men 
 of more penetration ; and others concluding, that 
 I think only London the proper theatre of my 
 abilities, and disdain to exert my genius for the 
 praise of rustics. 
 
 I believe, Mr. Rambler, that it has sometimes 
 happened to others, who have the good or ill 
 fortune to be celebrated for wits, to fall under 
 the same censures upon the like occasions. I 
 hope, therefore, that you will prevent any mis- 
 representations of such failures, by remarking, 
 that invention is not wholly at the command 
 of its possessor; that the power of pleasing is 
 very often obstructed by the desire ; that all 
 expectation lessens surprise, yet some surprise 
 is necessary to gayety ; and that those who de- 
 sire to partake of the pleasure of wit must con- 
 tribute to its production, since the mind stag- 
 nates without external ventilation, and that effer- 
 vescence of the fancy, which flashes into tran- 
 sport, can be raised only by the infusion of dis- 
 similar ideas. 
 
 Vo. 102.] SATURDAY, MARCH 9, 1751. 
 
 Ipsa quoque assidu/i labuntur tempora motu 
 Non secus acjlumen : nequt enim consistere flumen, 
 lYec levis hora potcst ; sed ut undo, impellitur undo, 
 Urgeturque prior veniente, urgetque prior em, 
 Tempora sicfugiuntpariter,pariterque sequuntur. 
 
 OVID. 
 
 With constant motion as the moments glide, 
 
 Behold in running life the rolling tide, 
 
 For none can stem by art, or stop by power, 
 
 The flowing ocean, or the fleeting hour ; 
 
 But wave by wave pursii'd arrives on shore, 
 
 And each impell'd behind impels before: 
 
 So time on time revolving we descry; 
 
 So minutes follow, and so minutes fly. ELPHINSTON. 
 
 "LiFE," says Seneca, "is a voyage, in the pro- 
 gress of which we are perpetually changing our 
 
 scenes: we first leave childhood behind us, then 
 youth, then the years of ripened manhood, then 
 the better and more pleasing part of old age." 
 The perusal of this passage having excited in 
 me a train of reflections on the state of man, 
 the incessant fluctuation of his wishes, the gra- 
 dual change of his disposition to all external 
 objects, and the thoughtlessness with which he 
 floats along the stream of time, I sunk into a 
 slumber amidst my meditations, and, on a sud- 
 den, found my ears filled with the tumult of 
 labour, the shouts of alacrity, the shrieks of 
 alarm, the whistle of winds, and the dash of 
 waters. 
 
 My astonishment for a time repressed my cu- 
 riosity ; but soon recovering myself so far as to 
 inquire whither we were going, and what was 
 the cause of such clamour and confusion, I was 
 told that we were launching out into the ocean 
 of life; that we had already passed the streights 
 of infancy, in which multitudes had perished, 
 some by the weakness and fragility of their ves 
 sels, and more by the folly, perverseness, or ne- 
 gligence, of those who undertook to steer them ; 
 and that we were now on the main sea, aban- 
 doned to the winds and billows, without any 
 other means of security than the care of the pi- 
 lot, whom it was always in our power to choose 
 among great numbers that offered their direction 
 and assistance. 
 
 I then looked round with anxious eagerness ; 
 and first turning my eyes behind me, saw a 
 stream flowing through flowery islands, which 
 every one that sailed along seemed to behold 
 with pleasure: but no sooner touched, than the 
 current, which, though not noisy or turbulent, 
 was yet irresistible, bore him away. Beyond 
 these islands all was darkness, nor could any of 
 the passengers describe the shore at which he 
 first embarked; 
 
 Before me, and on each side, was an expanse 
 of waters violently agitated, and covered with 
 so thick a mist, that the most perspicacious eye 
 could see but a little way. It appeared to be 
 full of rocks and whirlpools, for many sunk un- 
 expectedly while they were courting the gale 
 with full sails, and insulting those whom they 
 had left behind. So numerous, indeed, were 
 the dangers, and so thick the darkness, that no 
 caution could confer security. Yet there were 
 many, who, by false intelligence, betrayed their 
 followers into whirlpools, or by violence pushed 
 those whom they found in their way against the 
 rocks. 
 
 The current was invariable and insurmount- 
 able ; but though it was impossible to sail against 
 it, or to return to the place that was once passed, 
 yet it was not so violent as to allow no oppor- 
 tunities for dexterity or courage, since, though 
 none could retreat back from danger, yet they 
 might often avoid it by oblique direction. 
 
 It was, however, not very common to steer 
 with much care or prudence; for by some uni- 
 versal infatuation, every man appeared to think 
 himself safe, though he saw his consorts every 
 moment sinking round him ; and no sooner had 
 the waves closed over them, than their fate and 
 their misconduct were forgotten; the voyage 
 was pursued with the same jocund confidence ; 
 every man congratulated himself upon the sound- 
 ness of his vessel, and believed himself able to 
 stem the whirlpool in which his friend was swal
 
 162 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 10a 
 
 lowed, or glide over the rocks on which he was 
 dashed nor was it often observed that the sight 
 of a wreck made any man change his course ; 
 if he turned aside for a moment, lie soon forgot 
 the rudder, and left himself again to the disposal 
 of chance. 
 
 This negligence did not proceed from mdit- 
 ference or from weariness of their present con- 
 dition ; for not one of those who thus rushed 
 upon destruction, failed, when he was sinking, 
 to call loudly upon his associates for that help 
 which could not now be given him ; and many 
 spent their last moments in cautioning others 
 against the folly by which they were intercepted 
 in the midst of their course. Their benevolence 
 was sometimes praised, but their admonitions 
 were unregarded. 
 
 The vessels in which we had embarked being 
 confessedly unequal to the turbulence of the 
 stream of life, were visibly impaired in the course 
 of the voyage ; so that every passenger was cer- 
 tain, that how long soever he might, by favour- 
 able accidents, or by incessant vigilance, be pre- 
 served, he must sink at last. 
 
 This necessity of perishing might have been 
 expected to sadden the gay, and intimidate the 
 daring, at least to keep the melancholy and ti- 
 morous in perpetual torments, and hinder them 
 from any enjoyment of the varieties and gratifi- 
 cations which nature offered them as the solace 
 of their labours ; yet in effect, none seemed less 
 to expect destruction than those to whom it was 
 most dreadful ; they all had the art of conceal- 
 ing their danger from themselves ; and those 
 who knew their inability to bear the sight of the 
 terrors that embarrassed their way, took care 
 never to look forward, but found some amuse- 
 ment for the present moment, and generally 
 entertained themselves by playing with Hope, 
 who was the constant associate ofthe voyage of 
 life. 
 
 Yet all that Hope ventured to promise, even 
 to those whom she favoured most, was, not that 
 they should escape, but that they should sink 
 last ; and with this promise every one was satis- 
 fied, though he laughed at the rest for seeming 
 to believe it Hope, indeed, apparently mocked 
 the credulity of her companions ; for, in propor- 
 tion as their vessels grew leaky, she redoubled 
 her assurances of safety ; and none were more 
 busy in making provisions for a long voyage, 
 than they whom all but themselves saw likely to 
 perish soon by irreparable decay. 
 
 In the midst ofthe current of life was the gulf 
 of Intemperance, a dreadful whirlpool, interspersed 
 with rocks, of which the pointed crags were con- 
 cealed under water, and the tops covered with 
 herbage, on which Ease spread couches of re- 
 pose, and with shades, where Pleasure warbled 
 the song of invitation. Within sight of these 
 rocks all who sailed on the ocean of life must 
 necessarily pass. Reason, indeed, was always 
 at hand to steer the passengers through a nar- 
 row outlet by which they might escape; but 
 very few could, by her entreaties or remon- 
 strances, be induced to put the rudder into her 
 hand, without stipulating that she should ap- 
 proach so near unto the rocks of Pleasure, that 
 they might solace themselves with a short enjoy- 
 ment of that delicious region, after which they 
 always determined to pursue their course with- 
 out any other deviation. 
 
 Reason was too often prevailed upon so far 
 by these promises, as to venture her charge with- 
 in the eddy of the gulf of Intemperance, where 
 indeed, the circumvolution was weak, but yet 
 interrupted the course of the vessel, and drew it, 
 by insensible rotations, towards the centre. She 
 then repented her temerity, and with all her force 
 endeavoured to retreat ; but the draught of the 
 gulf was generally too strong to be overcome ; 
 and the passenger, having danced in circles with 
 a pleasing and giddy velocity, was at last over- 
 whelmed and lost. Those few whom Reason 
 was able to extricate, generally suffered so 
 many shocks upon the points which shot out 
 from the rocks of Pleasure, that they were un- 
 able to continue their course with the same 
 strength and facility as before, but floated along 
 timorously and feebly, endangered by every 
 breeze, and shattered by every ruffle of the wa- 
 ter, till they sunk, by slow degrees, after long 
 struggles, and innumerable expedients, always 
 repining at their own folly, and warning others 
 against the first approach of the gulf of Intem- 
 perance. 
 
 There were artists who professed to repair the 
 breaches and stop the leaks ofthe vessels which 
 had been shattered on the rocks of Pleasure. 
 Many appeared to have great confidence in 
 their skill, and some, indeed, were preserved 
 by it from sinking, who had received only a 
 single blow ; but I 'remarked that few vessels 
 lasted long which had been much repaired, nor 
 was it found that the artists themselves continued 
 afloat longer than those who had least of their 
 assistance. 
 
 The only advantage which in the voyage of 
 life, the cautious had above the negligent, was, 
 that they sunk later, and more suddenly! for 
 they passed forward till they had sometimes 
 seen all those in whose company they had is- 
 sued from the streights of infancy, perish in the 
 way, and at last were overset by a cross breeze, 
 without the toil of resistance, or the anguish of 
 expectation. But such as had often fallen 
 against the rocks of Pleasure, commonly sub- 
 sided by sensible degrees, contended long with 
 the encroaching waters, and harassed themselves 
 by labours that scarce Hope herself could flatter 
 with success. 
 
 As I was looking upon the various fate of the 
 multitude about me, I was suddenly alarmed 
 with an admonition from some unknown 
 Power : " Gaze not idly upon others, when 
 thou thyself art sinking. Whence is this 
 thoughtless tranquillity, when thou and they 
 are equally endangered?" I looked, and seeing 
 the gulf of Intemperance before me, started and 
 awaked. 
 
 No. 103.] TUESDAY, MARCH 12, 1751. 
 
 Scire volunt secrcta damns, atque inde timeri. JUT. 
 
 They search the secrets of the house, and so 
 
 Are worshipped there, and fear'd for what they know? 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 CURIOSITY is one of the permanent and certain 
 characteristics of a vigorous intellect. Every ad- 
 vance into knowledge opens new prospects, and 
 produces new incitements to further progress. 
 All the attainments possible in our present state
 
 No. 103.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 IGc 
 
 are evidently inadequate to our capacities of en- 
 joyment ; conquest serves no purpose but that of 
 kindling ambition, discovery has no effect but of 
 raising expectation ; the gratification of one de- 
 sire encourages another; and, after all our la- 
 bours, studies, and inquiries, we are continually 
 at the same distance from the completion of our 
 schemes, have still some wish importunate to be 
 satisfied, and some faculty restless and turbulent 
 for want of its enjoyment. 
 
 The desire of knowledge, though often ani- 
 mated by extrinsic and adventitious motives, 
 seems on many occasions to operate without 
 subordination to any other principle ; we are 
 eager to see and hear, without intention of re- 
 ferring our observations to a further end ; we 
 climb a mountain for a prospect of the plain ; 
 we run to the strand in a storm, that we may 
 contemplate the agitation of the water; we 
 range from city to city, though we profess nei- 
 ther architecture nor fortification ; we cross seas 
 only to view nature in nakedness, or magnifi- 
 cence in ruins; we are equally allured by no- 
 velty of every kind, by a desert or a palace, a 
 cataract or a cavern, by every thing rude and 
 every thing polished, every thing great and 
 every thing little ; we do not see a thicket but 
 with some temptation to enter it, nor remark an 
 insect flying before us but with an inclination to 
 pursue it. 
 
 This passion is, perhaps, regularly heightened 
 in proportion as the powers of the mind are ele- 
 vated and enlarged. Lucan therefore introduces 
 Caisar speaking with dignity suitable to the 
 grandeur of his designs and the extent of his 
 capacity, when he declares to the high-priest of 
 Egypt, that he has no desire equally powerful 
 with that of finding the origin of the Nile, and 
 that he would quit all the projects of the civil 
 war for a sight of those fountains which had 
 been so long concealed. And Homer, when he 
 would furnish the Sirens with a temptation, to 
 which his hero, renowned for wisdom, might 
 yield without disgrace, makes them declare, 
 that none ever departed from them but with in- 
 crease of knowledge. 
 
 There is, indeed, scarce any kind of ideal ac- 
 quirement which may not be applied to some use, 
 or which may not at least gratify pride with oc- 
 casional superiority; but whoever attends the 
 motions of his own mind will find, that upon the 
 first appearance of an object, or the first start of 
 a question, his inclination to a nearer view, or 
 more accurate discussion, precedes all thoughts 
 of profit, or of competition ; and that his desires 
 take wing by instantaneous impulse, though their 
 flight may be invigorated, or their efforts renew- 
 ed, by subsequent considerations. The gratifi- 
 cation of curiosity rather frees us from uneasi- 
 ness than confers pleasure ; we are more pained 
 by ignorance than delighted by instruction. Cu- 
 riosity is the thirst of the soul ; it inflames and 
 torments us, and makes us taste every thing with 
 joy, however, otherwise insipid, by which it may 
 be quenched. 
 
 It is evident that the earliest searchers after 
 knowledge must have proposed knowledge only 
 as their reward ; and that science, though per- 
 haps the nursling of interest, was the daughter 
 of curiosity : for who can believe that they who 
 first watched the course of the stars, foresaw the 
 use of their discoveries to the facilitation of com- 
 
 'merce, or the mensuration of time? They were 
 delighted with the splendour of the nocturnal 
 skies, they found that the lights changed their 
 places ; what they admired they were anxious to 
 understand, and in time traced their revolutions. 
 
 There are indeed, beings in the form of men, 
 who appear satisfied with their intellectual pos- 
 sessions, and seem to live without desire of en- 
 larging their conceptions ; before whom the 
 world passes without notice, and who are equally 
 unmoved by nature or art. 
 
 This negligence is sometimes only the tempo- 
 rary effect of a predominant passion ; a lover 
 finds no inclination to travel any path, but that 
 which leads to the habitation of his mistress ; a 
 trader can pay little attention to common occur- 
 rences, when his fortune is endangered by a 
 storm. It is frequently the consequence of a 
 total immersion in sensuality ; corporeal plea- 
 sures may be indulged till the memory of every 
 other kind of happiness is obliterated ; the mind, 
 long habituated to a lethargic and quiescent state, 
 is unwilling to wake to the toil of thinking ; and 
 though she may sometimes be disturbed by the 
 obtrusion of new ideas, shrinks back again to 
 ignorance and rest. 
 
 But, indeed, if we except them to whom the 
 continual task of procuring the supports of life 
 denies all opportunities of deviation from their 
 own narrow track, the number of such as live 
 without the ardour of inquiry is very small, 
 though many content themselves with cheap 
 amusements, and waste their lives in researches 
 of no importance. 
 
 There is no snare more dangerous to busy and 
 excursive minds, than the cobwebs of petty in- 
 quisitiveness, which entangle them in trivial 
 employments and minute studies, and detain 
 them in a middle state, between the tediousness 
 of total inactivity, and the fatigue of laborious 
 efforts, enchant them at once with ease and no- 
 velty, and vitiate them with the luxury of learn- 
 ing The necessity of doing something, and the 
 fear of undertaking much, sinks the historian to 
 a genealogist, the philosopher to a journalist ot 
 the weather, and the mathematician to a con- 
 structor of dials. 
 
 It is happy when those who cannot content 
 themselves to be idle, nor resolve to be industri- 
 ous, are at least Employed without injury to 
 others ; but it seldom happens that we can con- 
 tain ourselves long in a neutral state, or forbear 
 to sink into vice, when we are no longer soaring 
 towards virtue. 
 
 Nugaculus was distinguished in his earlier 
 years by an uncommon liveliness of imagination, 
 quickness of sagacity, and extent of knowledge 
 When he entered into life, he applied himsel. 
 with particular inquisitiveness to examine the 
 various motives of human actions, the compli- 
 cated influence of mingled affections, the differ- 
 ent modifications of interest and ambition, and 
 the various causes of miscarriage and success 
 both in public and private affairs. 
 
 Though his friends did not discover to what 
 purpose all these observations were collected, or 
 how Nugaculus would much improve his virtue 
 or his fortune by an incessant attention to changes 
 of countenance, bursts of inconsideration, sallies 
 of passion, and all the other casualities by which 
 he used to trace a character, yet they could not 
 deny the study of human nature to be worthy of
 
 164 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 104 
 
 a wise man ; they therefore flattered his vanity, 
 applauded his discoveries, and listened with sub- 
 missive modesty to his lectures on the uncertain- 
 ty of inclination, the weakness of resolves, and the 
 instability of temper, to his account of the various 
 motives which agitate the mind, and his ridicule 
 of the modern dream of a ruling passion. 
 
 Such was the first incitement of Nugaculus to 
 a close inspection into the conduct of mankind. 
 He had no interest in view, and therefore no de- 
 sign of supplantation ; he had no malevolence, 
 and therefore detected faults without any inten- 
 tion to expose them ; but having once found the 
 art of engaging his attention upon others, he had 
 no inclination to call it back to himself, but has 
 passed his time in keeping a watchful eye upon 
 every rising character, and lived upon a small 
 estate without any thought of increasing it. 
 
 He is, by continual application, become a ge- 
 neral master of secret history, and can give an 
 account of the intrigues, private marriages, com- 
 petitions, and stratagems of half a century. He 
 knows the mortgages upon every man's estate, 
 the terms upon which every spendthrift raises 
 his money, the real and reputed fortune of every 
 lady, the jointure stipulated by every contract, 
 and the expectations of every family from maid- 
 en aunts and childless acquaintances. He can 
 relate the economy of every house, knows how 
 much one man's cellar is robbed by his butler, 
 and the land of another underlet by his steward; 
 he can tell where the manor-house is falling, 
 though large sums are yearly paid for repairs ; 
 and where the tenants are felling woods without 
 the consent of the owner. 
 
 To obtain all this intelligence, he is inadvert- 
 ently guilty of a thousand acts of treachery. He 
 sees no man's servant without draining him of his 
 trust ; he enters no family without flattering the 
 children into discoveries ; he is a perpetual spy 
 upon the doors of his neighbours; and knows, by 
 long experience, at whatever distance, the looks 
 of a creditor, a borrower, a lover, and a pimp. 
 
 Nugaculus is not ill-natured, and therefore his 
 industry has not hitherto been very mischievous 
 to others, or dangerous to himself: but since he 
 cannot enjoy this knowledge but by discovering 
 it, and, if he had no other motive to loquacity, is 
 obliged to traffic like the chymists, and purchase 
 one secret with another ; he* is every day more 
 hated as he is more known ; for he is considered 
 by great numbers as one that has their fame and 
 their happiness in his power, and no man can 
 much love him of whom he lives in fear. 
 
 Thus has an intention, innocent at first, if not 
 laudable, the intention of regulating his own be- 
 haviour by the experience of others, by an acci- 
 dental declension to minuteness, betrayed Nuga- 
 culus, not only to a foolish, but vicious waste of a 
 life which might have been honourably passed in 
 public services, or domestic virtues. He has lost 
 his original intention, and given up his mind to 
 employments that engross, but do not improve it. 
 
 No. 104.] SATURDAY, MARCH 16, 1751. 
 
 ffikil est quod credere de ae 
 
 ffon poisit jw. 
 
 None e'er rejects hyperboles of praise. 
 
 THE apparent insufficiency of every individual to 
 his own happiness qr safety, compels us to seek 
 
 from one another assistance and support. The 
 necessity of joint efforts for the execution of any 
 great or extensive design, the variety of powers 
 disseminated in the species, and the proportion 
 between the defects and excellences of different 
 persons, demand an interchange of help, and 
 communication of intelligence, and by frequent 
 reciprocations of beneficence unite mankind in 
 society and friendship. 
 
 If it can be imagined that there ever was a 
 time when the inhabitants of any country were 
 in a state of equality, without distinction of rank, 
 or peculiarity of possessions, it is reasonable to 
 believe that every man was then loved in pro- 
 portion as he could contribute by his strength 
 or his skill to the supply of natural wants ; there 
 was then little room for peevish dislike, or ca- 
 pricious favour ; the affection admitted into the 
 heart was rather esteem than tenderness ; and 
 kindness was only purchased by benefits. But 
 when by force or policy, by wisdom or by for- 
 tune, property and superiority were introduced 
 and established, so that many were condemned 
 to labour for the support of a few, then they 
 whose passions swelled above their wants, na- 
 turally laid out their superfluities upon pleasure , 
 and those who could not gain friendship by ne- 
 cessary offices, endeavoured to promote their 
 interest by luxurious gratifications, and to create 
 needs, which they might be courted to supply 
 
 The desires of mankind are much more nume 
 rous than their attainments, and the capacity of 
 imagination much larger than the actual enjoy- 
 ment. Multitudes are therefore unsatisfied with 
 their allotment ; and he that hopes to improve 
 his condition by the favour of another, and either 
 finds no room for the exertion of great qualities, 
 or perceives himself excelled by his rivals, will, 
 by other expedients, endeavour to become agree- 
 able where he cannot be important, and learn, by 
 degrees, to number the art of pleasing among 
 the most useful studies, and most valuable ac- 
 quisitions. 
 
 This art, like others, is cultivated in propor- 
 tion to its usefulness, and will always flourish 
 most where it is most rewarded ; for this reason 
 we find it practised with great assiduity under 
 absolute governments, where honours and riches 
 are in the hands of one man, whom all endea- 
 vour to propitiate, and who soon becomes so 
 much accustomed to compliance and officious- 
 ness, as not easily to find, in the most delicate 
 address, that novelty which is necessary to pro- 
 cure attention. 
 
 It is discovered by a very few experiments, 
 that no man is much pleased with a companion, 
 who does not increase, in some respect, his fond- 
 ness of himself; and therefore, he that wishes 
 rather to be led forward to prosperity by the gen- 
 tle hand of favour, than to force his way by la- 
 bour and merit, must consider with more care 
 how to display his patron's excellences than his 
 own ; that whenever he approaches, he may fill 
 the imagination with pleasing dreams, and chase 
 away disgust and weariness by a perpetual suc- 
 cession of delightful images. 
 
 This may, indeed, sometimes be effected by 
 turning the attention upon advantages which are 
 really possessed, or upon prospects which reason 
 spreads before hope ; for whoever can deserve 
 or require to be courted, has generally, either 
 from nature or from fortune, gifts, which he may
 
 No. 105.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 165 
 
 review with satisfaction, and of which, when he 
 is artfully recalled to the contemplation, he will 
 seldom be displeased. 
 
 But those who have once degraded their un- 
 derstanding to an application only to the pas- 
 sions, and who have learned to derive hope from 
 any other sources than industry and virtue, sel- 
 dom retain dignity and magnanimity sufficient to 
 defend them against the constant recurrence of 
 temptation to falsehood. He that is too desirous 
 to be loved, will soon learn to flatter, and when 
 he has exhausted all the variations of honest 
 praise, and can delight no longer with the civi- 
 lity of truth, he will invent new topics of pane- 
 gyric, and break out into raptures at virtues and 
 beauties conferred by himself. 
 
 The drudgeries of dependence would, indeed, 
 be aggravated by hopelessness of success, if no 
 indulgence was allowed to adulation. He that 
 will obstinately confine his patrorj to hear only 
 the commendations which he deserves, will soon 
 be forced to give way to others, that regale him 
 with more compass of music. The greatest 
 human virtue bears no proportion to human 
 vanity. We always think ourselves better than 
 we are, and are generally desirous that others 
 should think us still better than we think our- 
 selves. To praise us for actions or dispositions 
 which deserve praise, is not to confer a benefit, 
 but to pay a tribute. We have always pretenr 
 sions to fame, which, in our own hearts, we 
 know to be disputable, and which we are desir- 
 ous to strengthen by a new suffrage ; we have 
 always hopes which we suspect to be fallacious, 
 and of which we eagerly snatch at every con- 
 firmation. 
 
 It may, indeed, be proper to make the first ap- 
 proaches under the conduct of truth, and to se- 
 cure credit to future encomiums, by such praise 
 as may be ratified by the conscience ; but the 
 mind once habituated to the lusciousness of eu- 
 logy, becomes, in a short time, nice and fastidi- 
 ous, and like a vitiated palate, is incessantly call- 
 ing for higher gratifications. 
 
 It is scarcely credible to what degree discern- 
 ment may be dazzled by the mist of pride, and 
 wisdom infatuated by the intoxication of flattery; 
 or how low the genius may descend by succes- 
 sive gradations of servility, and how swiftly it 
 may fall down the precipice of falsehood. No 
 man can, indeed, observe, without indignation, 
 on what names, both of ancient and modern 
 times, the utmost exuberance of praise has been 
 lavished, and by what hands ithas been bestowed. 
 It has never yet been found, that the tyrant, the 
 plunderer, the oppressor, the most hateful of the 
 hateful, the most profligate of the profligate, have 
 been denied any celebrations which they were 
 willing to purchase, or that wickedness and folly 
 have not found correspondent flatterers through 
 all their subordinations, except when they have 
 been associated with avarice or poverty, and 
 have wanted either inclination or ability to hire a 
 panegyrist. 
 
 As there is no character so deformed as to 
 fright away from it the prostitutes of praise, 
 there is no degree of encomiastic veneration 
 which pride has refused. The emperors of Rome 
 suffered themselves to be worshipped in their 
 lives with altars and sacrifices ; and in an age 
 more enlightened, the terms peculiar to the 
 praise and worship of the Supreme Being, have 
 
 been applied to wretches whom it was the re- 
 proach of humanity to number among men; and 
 whom nothing but riches or power hindered 
 those that read or wrote their deification, from 
 hunting into the toils of justice, as distuibers of 
 the peace of nature. 
 
 There are, indeed, many among the poetical 
 flatterers, who must be resigned to infamy with- 
 out vindications, and whom we must confess to 
 have deserted the cause of virtue for pay : they 
 have committed, against full conviction, the 
 crime of obliterating the distinctions between 
 good and evil, and, instead of opposing the en- 
 croachments of vice, have incited her progress, 
 and celebrated her conquests. But there is a 
 lower class of sycophants, whose understanding 
 has not made them capable of equal guilt. Every 
 man of high rank is surrounded with numbers, 
 who have no other rule of thought or action, than 
 his maxims and his conduct ; whom the honour 
 of being numbered among his acquaintance re- 
 conciles to all his vices, and all his absurdities ; 
 and who easily persuade themselves to esteem 
 him, by whose regard they consider themselves 
 as distinguished and exalted. 
 
 It is dangerous for mean minds to venture 
 themselves within the sphere of greatness. Stu- 
 pidity is soon blinded by the^plendour of wealth, 
 and cowardice is easily fettered in the shackles 
 of dependance. To solicit patronage, is, at least, 
 in the event, to set virtue to sale. None can be 
 pleased without praise, and few can be praised 
 without falsehood ; few can be assiduous with- 
 out servility, and none can be servile without 
 corruption. 
 
 No. 105.] TUESDAY, MARCH 19, 1751. 
 
 Animorum 
 
 bnpulsu, et caeca ma^naq'ue cupidine ducti. JUT 
 
 Vain man runs headlong, to caprice resigned 
 Impell'd by passion, and with folly blind. 
 
 I WAS lately considering, among other objects of 
 speculation, the new attempt of a universal re- 
 gister, an office in which every man may lodge an 
 account of his superfluities and wants, of what- 
 ever he desires to purchase or to sell. My ima- 
 gination soon presented to me the latitude to 
 which this design may be extended by integrity 
 and industry, and the advantages which may be 
 justly hoped from a general mart of intelligence, 
 when once its reputation shall be so established, 
 that neither reproach nor fraud shall be feared 
 from it; when an application to it shall not be 
 censured as the last resource of desperation, nor 
 its informations suspected as the fortuitous sug- 
 gestions of men obliged not to appear ignorant. 
 A place where every exuberance may be dis- 
 charged, and every deficiency supplied ; where 
 every lawful passion may find its gratifications, 
 and every honest curiosity receive satisfaction ; 
 where the stock of a nation, pecuniary and in- 
 tellectual may be brought together, and where 
 all conditions of humanity may hope to find re- 
 lief, pleasure, and accommodation; must equally 
 deserve the attention of the merchant and philo- 
 sopher, of him who mingles in the tumult of bu- 
 siness, and him who only lives to amuse himself 
 with the various employments and pursuits oi
 
 106 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 105 
 
 others. Nor will it be an uninstructing school to 
 the greatest masters of method and despatch, if 
 such multiplicity can be preserved from embar- 
 rassment, and such tumult from inaccuracy. 
 
 NVhile 1 was concerting this splendid project, 
 and filling my thoughts with its regulations, its 
 conveniences, its variety, and its consequences, 
 I sunk gradually into slumber: but the same 
 images, though less distinct, still continued to 
 float upon my fancy. I perceived myself at the 
 gate of an immense edifice, where innumerable 
 multitudes were passing without confusion : 
 every face on which I fixed my eyes, seemed 
 settled in the contemplation of some important 
 purpose, and every foot was hastened by eager- 
 ness and expectation. I followed the crowd 
 without knowing whither I should be drawn, 
 and remained a while in the unpleasing state of 
 an idler, where all other beings were busy, giv- 
 ing place every moment to those who had more 
 importance in their looks. Ashamed to stand 
 ignorant, and afraid to ask questions, at last I 
 saw a lady sweeping by me, whom, by the quick- 
 ness of her eyes, the agility of her steps, and a 
 mixture of levity and impatience, I knew to be 
 my long-loved protectress, Curiosity. " Great 
 goddess," said I, " may thy votary be permitted 
 to implore thy favonr; if thou hast been my di- 
 rectress from the first dawn of reason ; if I have 
 followed thee through the maze of life with inva- 
 riable fidelity; if I have turned to every new call, 
 and quitted at thy nod one pursuit for another ; 
 if I have never stopped at the invitations of for- 
 tune, nor forgotten thy authority in the bowers 
 of pleasure ; inform me now whither Chance has 
 conducted me." 
 
 " Thou art now," replied the smiling power, 
 " in the presence of Justice and of Truth, whom 
 the father of gods and men has sent down to 
 register the demands and pretensions of man- 
 kind, that the world may at last be reduced to 
 order, and that none may complain hereafter of 
 being doomed to tasks for which they are un- 
 qualified, of possessing faculties for which they 
 cannot find employment, or virtues that languish 
 unobserved for want of opportunities to exert 
 them, of being encumbered with superfluities 
 which they would willingly resign, or of wast- 
 ing away in desires which ought to be satisfied. 
 Justice is now to examine every man's wishes, 
 and Truth is to record them ; let us approach, 
 and observe the progress of this great trans- 
 action." 
 
 She then moved forward, and Truth, who 
 knew her among the most faithful of her fol- 
 lowers, beckoned her to advance, till we were 
 placed near the seat of Justice. The first who 
 required the assistance of the office, came for- 
 ward with a slow pace, and tumour of dignity, 
 and shaking a weighty purse in his hand, de- 
 manded to be registered by Truth, as the Mae- 
 cenas of the present age, the chief en courager of 
 literary merit, to whom men of learning and 
 wit might apply in any exigence or distress with 
 certainty of succour. Justice very mildly in- 
 quired, whether he had calculated the expense 
 of such a declaration ? Whether he had been 
 informed what number of petitioners would 
 swarm about him? Whether he could distin- 
 guish idleness and negligence from calamity, os- 
 tentation from knowledge, or vivacity from wit ? 
 To these questions he seemed not well provided 
 
 with a reply, but repeated his desire to be record- 
 ed a patron. Justice then offered to register his 
 proposal on these conditions, that he should 
 never suffer himself to be flattered ; that he 
 should never delay an audience when he had 
 nothing to do; and that he should never en- 
 courage followers without intending to reward 
 them. These terms were too hard to be accept- 
 ed ; for what, said he, is the end of patronage, 
 but the pleasure of reading dedications, holding 
 multitudes in suspense, and enjoying their 
 hopes, their fears, and their anxiety, flattering 
 them to assiduity, and, at last, dismissing them 
 for impatience ? Justice heard his confession, 
 and ordered his name to be posted upon the 
 gate among cheats and robbers, and public 
 nuisances, which all were by that notice warned 
 to avoid. 
 
 Another required to be made known as the 
 discoverer of a new art of education, by which 
 languages and sciences might be taught to all 
 capacities, and all inclinations, without fear of 
 punishment, pain of confinement, loss of any part 
 of the gay mein of ignorance, or any obstruction 
 of the necessary progress in dress, dancing, or 
 cards. 
 
 Justice and Truth did not trouble this great 
 adept with many inquiries ; but finding his ad- 
 dress awkward and his speech barbarous, or 
 dered him to be registered as a tall fellow who 
 wanted employment, and might serve in any 
 post where the knowledge of reading and writing 
 was not required. 
 
 A man of a very grave and philosophic aspect, 
 required notice to be given of his intention to set 
 out, a certain day, on a submarine voyage, and 
 of his willingness to take in passengers for no 
 more than double the price at which they might 
 sail above water. His desire was granted, and 
 he retired to a convenient stand, in expectation 
 of filling his ship, and growing rich in a short 
 time by the secrecy, safety, and expedition of 
 the passage. 
 
 Another desired to advertise the curious, that 
 he had, for the advancement of true knowledge, 
 contrived an optical instrument, by which those 
 who laid out their industry on memorials of the 
 changes of the wind, might observe the direction 
 of the weathercocks on tha hitherside of the 
 lunar world. 
 
 Another wished to be known as the author of 
 an invention, by which cities or kingdoms might 
 be made warm in winter by a single fire, a ket- 
 tle, and pipe. Another had a vehicle by which a 
 man might bid defiance to floods, and continue 
 floating in an inundation, without any inconve- 
 nience, till the water should subside. Justice 
 considered these projects as of no importance 
 but to their authors, and therefore scarcely con- 
 descended to examine them ; but Truth refused 
 to admit them into the register. 
 
 Twenty different pretenders came in one hour 
 to give notice of a universal medicine, by which 
 all diseases might be cured or prevented, and life 
 protracted beyond the age of Nestor. But. Jus- 
 tice informed them, that one universal medicine 
 was sufficient, and she should delay the notifica- 
 tion till she saw who could longest preserve his 
 own life. 
 
 A thousand other claims and offers were exhi 
 bited and examined. I remarked, among this 
 mighty multitude, that, of intellectual advan-
 
 No. 106.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 167 
 
 tages, many had great exuberance, and few con- 
 fessed any want ; of every art there were a hun- 
 dred professors for a single pupil ; but of other 
 attainments, such as riches, honours, and prefer- 
 ments, I found none that had too much, but 
 thousands and ten thousands that thought them- 
 selves entitled to a larger dividend. 
 
 It often happened, that old misers, and women 
 married at the close of life, advertised their want 
 of children ; nor was it uncommon for those who 
 had a numerous offspring, to give notice of a son 
 or daughter to be spared ; but, though appear- 
 ances promised well on both sides, the bargain 
 seldom succeeded ; for they soon lost their incli- 
 nation to adopted children, and proclaimed their 
 intentions to promote some scheme of public 
 charity ; a thousand proposals were immediately 
 made, among which they hesitated till death 
 precluded the decision. 
 
 As I stood looking on this scene of confusion, 
 Truth condescended to ask me, what was my 
 business at her office ? I was struck with the 
 unexpected question, and awaked by my efforts 
 to answer it. 
 
 No. 106.] SATURDAY, MARCH 23, 1751. 
 
 Opinionum commenta delct dies, nature judicia con 
 Jirmat. Cic. 
 
 Time obliterates the fictions of opinion, and confirms the 
 decisions of nature. 
 
 IT is necessary to the success of flattery, that it 
 be accommodated to particular circumstances or 
 characters, and enter the heart on that side where 
 the passions stand ready to receive it A lady 
 seldom listens with attention to any praise but 
 that of her beauty ; a merchant always expects 
 to hear of his influence at the bank, his import- 
 ance on the exchange, the height of his credit, 
 and the extent of his traffic : and the author will 
 scarcely be pleased without lamentations of the 
 neglect of learning, the conspiracies against ge- 
 nius, and the slow progress of merit, or some 
 praises of the magnanimity of those who encoun- 
 ter poverty and contempt in the cause of know- 
 ledge, and trust for the reward of their labours to 
 the judgment and gratitude of posterity. 
 
 An assurance of unfading laurels, and immor- 
 tal reputation is the settled reciprocation of 
 civility between amicable writers. To raise 
 monuments more durable than brass, and more con- 
 spicuous than pyramids, has been long the com- 
 mon boast of literature ; but among the innume- 
 rable architects that erect columns to themselves, 
 for the greater part, either for want of durable 
 materials, or of art to dispose them, see their 
 edifices perish as they are towering to comple- 
 tion, and those few that for a while attract the 
 eye of mankind, are generally weak in the foun- 
 dation, and soon sink by the saps of time. 
 
 No place affords a more striking conviction of 
 the vanity of human hopes, than a public library ; 
 for who can see the wall crowded on every side 
 by mighty volumes, the works of laborious me- 
 ditation and accurate inquiry, now scarcely 
 known but by the catalogue, and preserved only 
 to increase the pomp of learning, without con- 
 sidering how many hours have been wasted in 
 vain endeavours, how often imagination has an- 
 ticipated the praises of futurity, how many statues 
 
 have risen to the eye of vanity, how many ideal 
 converts have elevated zeal, how often wit has 
 exulted in the eternal infamy of his antagonists, 
 and dogmatism has delighted in the gradual ad- 
 vances of his authority, the immutability of his 
 decrees, and the perpetuity of his power? 
 
 Non unquam dedit 
 
 Documentafors major a, quam fragili loco 
 Slarent superbi. 
 
 Instilling chance ne'er call'd with louder voice 
 On swelling mortal? to be proud no more. 
 
 Of the innumerable authors whose perform- 
 ances are thus treasured up in magnificent ob- 
 scurity, most are forgotten, because they never 
 deserved to be remembered,and owed the honours 
 which they once obtained, not to judgment or to 
 genius, to labour or to art, but to the prejudice of 
 faction, the stratagem of intrigue, or the servility 
 of adulation. 
 
 Nothing is more common than to find men 
 whose works are now totally neglected, men- 
 tioned with praises by their contemporaries, as 
 the oracles of their age, and the legislators of 
 science. Curiosity is naturally excited, their 
 volumes after long inquiry are found, but seldom 
 reward the labour of the search. Every period 
 of time has produced these bubbles of artificial 
 fame, which are kept up awhile by the breath of 
 fashion, and then break at once, and are annihi- 
 lated. The learned often bewail the loss of an- 
 cient writers whose characters have survived 
 their works ; but, perhaps, if we could now re- 
 trieve them, we should find them only the 
 Granvilles, Montagues, Stepneys, and Sheffields 
 of their time, and wonder by what infatuation 
 or caprice they could be raised to notice. 
 
 It cannot, however, be denied that many have 
 sunk into oblivion, whom it were unjust to num- 
 ber with this despicable class. Various kinds of 
 literary fame seem destined to various measures 
 of duration. Some spread into exuberance with 
 a very speedy growth, but soon wither and de- 
 cay; some rise more slowly, but last long. 
 Parnassus has its flowers of transient fragrance, 
 as well as its oaks of towering height, and its 
 laurels of eternal verdure. 
 
 Among those whose reputation is exhausted 
 in a short time by its own luxuriance, are the 
 writers who take advantage of present incidents 
 or characters which strongly interest the pas- 
 sions, and engage universal attention. It is not 
 difficult to obtain readers, when we discuss a 
 question which every one is desirous to under 
 stand, which is debated in every assembly, and 
 has divided the nation into parties ; or when we 
 display the faults or virtues of him whose public 
 conduct has made almost every man his enemy 
 or his friend. To the quick circulation of such 
 productions all the motives of interest and vanity 
 concur; the disputant enlarges his knowledge, 
 the zealot animates his passion, and every man 
 is desirous to inform himself concerning affairs 
 so vehemently agitated and variously repre- 
 sented. 
 
 It is scarcely to be imagined, through how 
 many subordinations of interest the ardour of 
 party is diffused ; and what multitudes fancy 
 themselves affected by every satire or panegyric 
 on a man of eminence. Whoever has, at any 
 time, taken occasion to mention him with praise 
 or blame, whoever happens to love or hate anv
 
 168 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 107 
 
 oi his adherents, as he wishes to confirm his 
 opinion, and to strengthen his party, will dili- 
 gently peruse every paper from which he can 
 hi.Mi-'for sentiments like his own. An object, 
 however small in itself, if placed near to the eye, 
 will engross all the rays of light; and a transac- 
 tion however trivial, swells into importance 
 when it presses immediately on our attention. 
 He that shall peruse the political pamphlets of 
 any past reign, will wonder why they were so 
 eagerly read, or so loudly praised. Many of 
 the performances which had power to inflame 
 factions, and fill a kingdom with confusion, have 
 now very little effect upon a frigid critic ; and 
 the time is coming, when the compositions of 
 later hirelings shall lie equally despised. In 
 proportion as those who write on temporary sub- 
 jects are exalted above their merit at first, they 
 are afterwards depressed below it ; rior can the 
 brightest elegance of diction,-or m'ost artful sub- 
 tility of reasoning, hope for much esteem from 
 those whose regard is no longer quickened by 
 curiosity or pride. 
 
 It is, indeed, the fate of controvertists, even 
 when they contend for philosophical or theologi- 
 cal truth, to be soon laid aside and slighted. 
 Either the question is decided, and there is no 
 more place for doubt and opposition : or man- 
 kind despair of understanding it, and grow weary 
 of disturbance, content themselves with quiet 
 ignorance, and refuse to be harassed with labours 
 which they have no hopes of recompensing with 
 knowledge. 
 
 The authors of new discoveries rriay surely 
 expect to be reckoned among those whose writ- 
 ings are secure of veneration: yet it often happens 
 that the general reception of a doctrine obscures 
 the books in which it was delivered. When any 
 tenet is generally received and adopted as an in- 
 controvertible principle, we seldom look back to 
 the arguments upon which it was first esta- 
 blished or can bear that tediousness of deduction, 
 and multiplicity of evidence, by which its author 
 was forced to reconcile it to prejudice, and fortify 
 it in the weakness of novelty against obstinacy 
 and envy. 
 
 It is well known how much of our philosophy 
 is derived from Boyle's discovery of the qualities 
 of the air ; yet of those who now adopt or en- 
 large his theory, very few have read the detail of 
 his experiments. His name is, indeed, reve- 
 renced ; but his works are neglected : we are 
 contented to know, that he conquered his oppo- 
 nents, without inquiring what cavils were pro- 
 duced against him, or by what proofs they were 
 confuted. 
 
 Some writers apply themselves to studies 
 boundless and inexhaustible, as experiments and 
 natural philosophy. These are always lost in 
 successive compilations, as new advances are 
 made, and former observations become more 
 familiar. Others spend their lives in remarks 
 on language, or explanations of antiquities, and 
 only afford materials for lexicographers and 
 commentators, who are themselves overwhelmed 
 by subsequent collectors, that equally destroy 
 the memory of their predecessors by amplifica- 
 tion, transposition, or contraction. Every new 
 system of nature gives birth to a swarm of expo- 
 sitors, whose business is to explain and illus- 
 trate it, and who can hope to exist no longer 
 
 than the founder of their aect preserves his repu- 
 tation. 
 
 There are, indeed, few kinds of composition 
 from which an author, however learned or in- 
 genious, can hope a long continuance of fame.' 
 He who has carefully studied human nature, 
 and can well describe it, may with most reason 
 flatter his arrfbition. Bacon, among all his pre- 
 tensions to the regard of posterity, seems to have 
 pleased himself chiefly with his Essays, which 
 come home to men's business and bosoms, and of 
 which, therefore, he declares his expectation, 
 that they will live as long as books last. It may, 
 however, satisfy an honest and benevolent mind 
 to have been useful, though less conspicuous ; 
 nor will he that extends his hope to higher 
 rewards be so much anxious to obtain praise, 
 as to discharge the duty which Providence as 
 signs him. 
 
 No. 107.] TUESDAY, MARCH 26, 1751. 
 
 Mternis igilur contfndere versibus ambo 
 Ctcpere : alttrnos Musa mcminisse vulebant. 
 
 VIRC 
 
 On themes alternate now the swains recite ; 
 The Muses in alternate themes delight. 
 
 ELPHINSTON 
 
 AMONG the various censures, which the una- 
 voidable comparison of my performances with 
 those of my predecessors has produced, there is 
 none more general than that of uniformity. 
 Many of my readers remark the want of those 
 changes of colours, which formerly fed the at 
 tention with unexhausted novelty,and of that in 
 termixture of subjects, or alternation of manner, 
 by which other writers relieved weariness, and 
 awakened expectation. 
 
 I have, indeed, hitherto avoided the practice 
 of uniting gay and solemn subjects in the same 
 paper, because it seems absurd, for an author to 
 counteract himself, to press at once with equa^ 
 force upon both parts of the intellectual balance, 
 or give medicines, which, like the double poison 
 of Dryderi, destroy the force of one another. I 
 have endeavoured sometimes to divert, and some- 
 times to elevate ; but have imagined it a useless 
 attempt to disturb merriment by solemnity, or 
 interrupt seriousness by drollery. Yet I shall 
 this day publish two letters of very different ten- 
 dency, which I hope, like tragi-comedy, may 
 chance to please even when they are not criu 
 cally approved. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 DEAR SIR, 
 
 THOUGH, as my mamma tells me, I am too 
 young to talk at the table, I have great pleasure 
 in listening to the conversation of learned men, 
 especially when they discourse of things which I 
 do not understand ; and have, therefore, been of 
 late particularly delighted with many disputes 
 about the alteration of the style, which, they say, is 
 to be made by act of parliament. 
 
 One day when my mamma was gone out of 
 the room, I asked a very great scholar what the 
 style was ? He told me, he was afraid I should 
 hardly understand him when he informed me, 
 that it was the stated and established method of
 
 No. 107.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 169 
 
 computing time. It was not, indeed, likely that 
 I should understand him ; for I never yet knew 
 time computed in my life, nor can imagine why 
 we should be at so much trouble to count what 
 we cannot keep. He did not tell me whether 
 we are to count the time past, or the time to 
 come ; but I have considered them both by my- 
 self, and think it as foolish to count time that is 
 gone, as money that is spent; and as for the 
 tiiiie which is to come, it only seems farther off 
 by counting ; and, therefore, when any pleasure 
 is promised me, I always think of the time as lit- 
 tle as I can. 
 
 I have since listened very attentively to every 
 one that talked upon this subject, of whom the 
 greater part seem not to understand it better 
 than myself; for though they often hint how 
 much the nation has been mistaken, and rejoice 
 that we are at last growing wiser than our an- 
 cestors, I have never been able to discover from 
 them, that any body has died sooner or been 
 married later for counting time wrong; and, 
 therefore, I began to fancy that there was a great 
 bustle with little consequence. 
 
 At last two friends of my papa, Mr. Cycle and 
 Mr. Starlight, being, it seems, both of high learn- 
 ing, and able to make an almanack, began to 
 talk about the new style. Sweet Mr. Starlight 
 I am sure I shall love his name as long as I live; 
 for he told Cycle roundly, with a fierce look, that 
 we should never be right without a year of confu- 
 sion. Dear Mr. Rambler, did you ever hear any 
 thing so charming? a whole year of confusion ! 
 When there has been a rout at mamma's, I have 
 thought one night of confusion worth a thousand 
 nights of rest ; and if I can but see a year of con- 
 fusion, a whole year, of cards in one room, and 
 dancings in another, here a feast, and there a 
 masquerade, and plays, and coaches, and hur- 
 ries, and messages, and milliners, and raps at 
 the door, and visits, and frolics, and new fashions, 
 I shall not care what they do with the rest of the 
 time, nor whether they count it by the old style 
 or the new ; for I am resolved to break loose 
 from the nursery in the tumult, and play my part 
 among the rest ; and it will be strange if I can- 
 not get a husband and a chariot in the year of 
 confusion. 
 
 Cycle, who is neither so young nor so hand- 
 some as Starlight, very gravely maintained, that 
 all the perplexity may be avoided by leaping 
 over eleven days in the reckoning : and, indeed, 
 if it should come only to this, I think the new 
 style is a delightful thing ; for my mamma says 
 I shall go to court when I am sixteen, and if they 
 can but contrive often to leap over eleven days 
 together, the months of restraint will soon be at 
 an end. It is strange, that with all the plots that 
 have been laid against time, they could never 
 kill it by act of parliament, before. Dear Sir, if 
 you have any vote or interest, get them but for 
 once to destroy eleven months, and then I shall 
 be as old as some married ladies. But this is 
 desired only if you think they wiil not comply 
 with Mr. Starlight's scheme ; for nothing surely 
 could please me like a year of confusion, when I 
 shall no longer be fixed this hour to my pen, and 
 the next to my needle, or wait at home for the 
 dancing-master one day, and the next for the 
 music-master, but run from ball to ball, and from 
 drum to drum ; and spend all my time without 
 W 
 
 tasks, and without account, and go out without 
 telling whither, and come home without regard 
 to prescribed hours, or family-rules. 
 I am, Sir, 
 
 Your humble Servant, 
 
 PROPERANTU. 
 
 MR. RAMBLER, 
 
 I WAS seized this morning with an unusual 
 pensiveness, and finding that books only served 
 to heighten it, took a ramble into the fields, in 
 hopes of relief and invigoration from the keen- 
 ness of the air and brightness of the sun. 
 
 As I wandered wrapt up in thought, my eyes 
 were struck with the hospital for the reception of 
 deserted infants, which I surveyed with pleasure, 
 till, by a natural train of sentiment, I began to 
 reflect on the fate of the mothers. For to what 
 shelter can they fly ? Only to the arms of their 
 betrayer, which perhaps are now no longer open 
 to receive them ; and then how quick must be 
 the transition from deluded virtue to shameless 
 guilt, and from shameless guilt to hopeless 
 wretchedness ! 
 
 The anguish that I felt left me no rest, till I 
 had, by your means, addressed myself to the 
 public on behalf of those forlorn creatures, the 
 women of the town, whose misery here might 
 satisfy the most rigorous censor; and whose 
 participation of our common nature might surely 
 induce us to endeavour, at least, their preserva 
 tion from eternal punishment. 
 
 These were all once, if not virtuous, at least 
 innocent ; and might still have continued blame- 
 less and easy ; but for the arts and insinuations 
 of those whose rank, fortune, or education, fur- 
 nished them with means to corrupt or to delude 
 them. Let the libertine reflect a moment on the 
 situation of that woman, who, being forsaken by 
 her betrayer, is reduced to the necessity of 
 turning prostitute for bread, and judge of the 
 enormity of his guilt by the evils which it pro- 
 duces. 
 
 It cannot be doubted but that numbers follow 
 this dreadful course of life, with shame, horror, 
 and regret ; but where can they hope for refuge ? 
 " The world is not their friend, nor the world's 
 law." Their sighs, and tears, and groans, are 
 criminal in the eye of their tyrants, the bully and 
 the bawd, who fatten on their misery, and threat- 
 en them with want or a gaol, if they show the 
 least design of escaping from their bondage. 
 
 " To wipe all tears from off all faces," is a 
 task too hard for mortals ; but to alleviate mis- 
 fortunes is often within the most limited power , 
 yet the opportunities which every day affords of 
 relieving the most wretched of human beings are 
 overlooked and neglected, with equal disregard 
 of policy and goodness. 
 
 There are places, indeed, set apart, to which 
 these unhappy creatures may resort, when the 
 diseases of incontinence seize upon them ; but if 
 they obtain a cure, to what are they reduced ? 
 Either to return with the small remains of beauty 
 to their former guilt, or perish in the streets with 
 nakedness and hunger. 
 
 How frequently have the gay and thoughtless, 
 in their evening frolics, seen a band of these 
 miserable females, covered with rags, shivering 
 with cold, and pining with hunger ; and without 
 either pitying their calamities, or reflecting upon
 
 170 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 108 
 
 the cruelty of those who perhaps first seduced 
 them by caresses of fondness, or magnificence 
 of promises, go on to reduce others to the same 
 wretchedness by the same means? 
 
 To stop the increase of this deplorable multi- 
 tude, is undoubtedly the first and most pressing 
 consideration. To prevent evil is the great end 
 of government, the end for which vigilance and 
 severity are properly employed. But surely 
 those whom passion or interest have already 
 depraved, have some claim to compassion, from 
 beings equally frail and fallible with themselves. 
 Nor will they long groan in their present afflic- 
 tions, if none were to refuse them relief, but those 
 that owe their exemption from the same distress 
 only to their wisdom and their virtue. 
 I am, &c. 
 
 AMICUS. 
 
 No. 108.] SATURDAY, MARCH 30, 1751. 
 
 Sapere aude, 
 
 Tncipe. Vivendi reete qvi prorogat horam, 
 Rvsticus ezpectat durn defluat nmnis : at ille 
 Labitur, et labetur in omne volubiha tsvum. 
 
 HOR. 
 
 Begin, be bold, and venture to be wise : 
 
 He who defers this work from day to day, 
 
 Does on a river's bank expecting stay, 
 
 Till the whole stream, which stopp'd him, should be 
 
 gone, 
 That runs, and as it runs, for ever will run on. 
 
 COWLEY. 
 
 AN ancient poet unreasonably discontented at 
 the present state of things, which the system of 
 opinions obliged him to represent in its worst 
 fonn, has observed of the earth, " that its greater 
 part is covered by the uninhabitable ocean ; that 
 of the rest some is encumbered with naked 
 mountains, and some lost under barren sands; 
 some scorched with unintermitted heat, and some 
 petrified with perpetual frost ; so that only a few 
 regions remain for the production of fruits, the 
 pasture of cattle, and the accommodation of 
 man." 
 
 The same observation may be transferred to 
 the time allotted us in our present state. When 
 we have deducted all that is absorbed in sleep, 
 all that is inevitably appropriated to the demands 
 of nature, or irresistibly engrossed by the tyranny 
 of custom ; all that passes in regulating the su- 
 perficial decorations of life, or is given up in the 
 reciprocations of civility to the disposal of others ; 
 all that is torn from us by the violence of disease, 
 or stolen imperceptibly away by lassitude and 
 languor ; we shall find that part of our duration 
 very small of which we can truly call ourselves 
 masters, or which we can spend wholly at our 
 own choice. Many of our hours are lost in a 
 rotation of petty cares, in a constant recurrence 
 of the same employments ; many of our provi- 
 sions for ease or happiness are always exhausted 
 by the present day ; and a great part of our ex- 
 istence serves no other purpose, than that of 
 enabling us to enjoy the rest. 
 
 Of the few moments which are left in our dis- 
 posal, it may reasonably be expected, that we 
 should be so frugal, as to let none of them slip 
 from us without some equivalent : and perhaps 
 it might be found, that as the earth, however 
 
 straitened by rocks and waters, is capable of pro- 
 ducing more than all its inhabitants are able to 
 consume, our lives, though much contracted by 
 ncidental distraction, would yet afford us a large 
 space vacant to the exercise of reason and vir 
 tue ; that we want not time, but diligence, for 
 great performances; and that we squander much 
 of our allowance, even while we think it sparing 
 and insufficient. 
 
 This natural and necessary comminution of 
 our lives, perhaps, often makes us insensible oi 
 the negligence with which we suffer them to slide 
 away. We never consider ourselves as pos- 
 sessed at once of time sufficient for any great 
 design, and therefore indulge ourselves in for- 
 tuitous amusements. We think it unnecessary 
 to take an account of a few supernumerary mo- 
 ments, which, however employed, could have 
 produced little advantage, and which were ex- 
 posed to a thousand chances of disturbance and 
 interruption. 
 
 It is observable that, either by nature, or by 
 habit, our faculties are fitted to images of a cer- 
 tain extent, to which we adjust great things by 
 division, and little things by accumulation. Of 
 extensive surfaces we can only take a survey, as 
 the parts succeed one another ; and atoms we 
 cannot perceive till they are united into masses. 
 Thus we break the vast periods of time into cen- 
 turies and years; and thus, if we would know 
 the amount of moments, we must agglomerate 
 them into days and weeks. 
 
 The proverbial oracles of our parsimonious 
 ancestors have informed us, that the fatal waste 
 of fortune is bysmall expenses, bythe profusions 
 of sums too little singly to alarm our caution, 
 and which we never suffer ourselves to consider 
 together. Of the same kind is the prodigality of 
 life ; he that hopes to look back hereafter with 
 satisfaction upon past years, must learn to know 
 the present value of single minutes, and endea- 
 vour to let no particle of time fall useless to th<> 
 ground. 
 
 It is usual for those who are advised to the 
 attainment of any new qualification, tolook upon 
 themselves as required to change the general 
 course of their conduct, to dismiss business, and 
 exclude pleasure, and to devote their days and 
 nights to a particular attention. But all com- 
 mon degrees of excellence are attainable at a 
 lower price; he that should steadily and reso- 
 lutely assign to any science or language chose 
 interstitial vacancies which intervene in the most 
 crowded variety of diversion or employment, 
 would find every day new irradiations of know- 
 ledge, and discover how much more, is to be 
 hoped from frequency and perseverance, than 
 from violent efforts and sudden desires ; efforts 
 which are soon remitted when they encounter 
 difficulty, and desires, which if they are indulged 
 too often, will shake off the authority of reason, 
 and range capriciously from one object to an- 
 other. 
 
 The disposition to defer every important de- 
 sign to a time of leisure, and a state of settled 
 uniformity, proceeds generally from a false esti- 
 mate of the human powers. If we except those 
 gigantic and stupendous intelligences who are 
 said to grasp a system by intuition, and bound 
 forward from one series of conclusions to an- 
 other, without regular steps through intermediate
 
 No. 109.] THE RAMBLER. 
 
 propositions, the most successful students make 
 their advances in knowledge by short flights, be- 
 tween each of which the mind may lie at rest. 
 For every single act of progression a short time 
 is sufficient; and it is only necessary, that 
 whenever that time is afforded, it be well em- 
 ployed. 
 
 Few minds will be long confined to severe 
 laborious meditation ; and when a successful at- 
 tack on knowledge has been made, the student 
 recreates himself with the contemplation of his 
 conquests, and forbears another incursion, till 
 the new-acquired truth has become familiar, and 
 his curiosity calls upon him for fresh gratifica- 
 tions. Whether the time of intermission is spent 
 in company, or in solitude, in necessary business, 
 or in voluntary levities, the understanding is 
 equally abstracted from the object of inquiry, 
 but perhaps if it be detained by occupations less 
 pleasing, it returns again to study with greater 
 alacrity, than when it is glutted with ideal plea- 
 sures, and surfeited with intemperance of appli- 
 cation. He that will not suffer himself to be 
 discouraged by fancied impossibilities, may 
 sometimes find his abilities invigorated by the 
 necessity of exerting them in short intervals, as 
 the force of a current is increased by the con- 
 traction of its channel. 
 
 From some cause like this it has probably 
 preceded, that among those who have contri- 
 buted to the advancementof learning,many have 
 risen to eminence in opposition to all the obsta- 
 cles which external circumstances could place in 
 their way, amidst the tumult of business, the 
 distresses of poverty, or the dissipations of a 
 wandering and unsettled state. A great part 
 of the life of Erasmus was one continual pere- 
 grination; ill supplied with the gifts of fortune, 
 and led from city to city, and from kingdom to 
 kingdom, by the hopes of patrons and prefer- 
 ment, hopes which always flattered and always 
 deceived him; he yet found means, by unshaken 
 constancy, and a vigilant improvement of those 
 hours, which, in the midst of the most restless 
 activity, will remain unengaged, to write more 
 than another in the same condition would have 
 hoped to read. Compelled by want to attend- 
 ance and solicitation, and so much versed in 
 common life, that he has transmitted to us the 
 most perfect delineation of the manners of his 
 age, he joined to his knowledge of the world, 
 such application to books, that he will stand for 
 ever in the first rank of literary heroes. How 
 this proficiency was obtained he sufficiently dis- 
 covers, by informing us, that the " Praise of Fol- 
 ly," one "of his most celebrated performances, 
 was composed by him on his road to Italy ; ne 
 Mum illud tempus quo equofuit insidendum, ittite- 
 ratis fabulis tereretur, lest the hours which he was 
 obliged to spend on horseback should be tattled 
 away without regard to literature. 
 
 An Italian philosopher expressed in his motto, 
 that time was his estate; an estate, indeed, which 
 will produce nothing without cultivation, but will 
 always abundantly repay the labours of indus- 
 try, and satisfy the most extensive desires, if no 
 part of it be suffered to lie waste by negligence, 
 to be overrun with lioxious plants, or laid out for 
 show rather than for use. 
 
 171 
 No. 109.] TUESDAY, APRIL 2, 1751. 
 
 Gratumest, quodpatriacivem populoque deditti 
 Si facia, ut pattite sit idoneus, utilis agris, 
 Utilis et bellorum, et pacis rebus agendis. 
 Plurimum enim intererit quibits artibut, et quibut 
 
 hunc tu 
 Moribus institnas. juv. 
 
 Grateful the gift ! a member to the state, 
 
 If you that member useful shall create ; 
 
 Train'd both to war, and, when the war shall cease, 
 
 As fond, as fit t' improve the arts of peace. 
 
 For much it boots which way you train your boy, 
 
 The hopeful object of your future joy. 
 
 ELPH1NSTOW. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 THOUGH you seem to have taken a view suffi- 
 ciently extensive of the miseries of life, and have 
 employed much of your speculation on mournful 
 subjects, you have not yet exhausted the whole 
 stock of human infelicity. There is still a spe- 
 cies of wretchedness which escapes your ob- 
 servation, though it might supply you with many 
 sage remarks, and salutary cautions. 
 
 I cannot but imagine the start of attention 
 awakened by this welcome hint ; and at this in- 
 stant see the Rambler snuffing his candle, rub- 
 bing his spectacles, stirring his fire, locking out 
 interruption, and settling himself in his easy 
 chair, that he may enjoy a new calamity without 
 disturbance. For, whether it be that continued 
 sickness or misfortune has acquainted you only 
 with the bitterness of being ; or that you imagine 
 none but yourself able to discover what I sup. 
 pose has been seen and felt by all the inhabitants 
 of the world ; whether you intend your writings 
 as antidotal to the levity and merriment with 
 which your rivals endeavour to attract the favour 
 of the public ; or fancy that you have some par- 
 ticular powers of dolorous declamation, and 
 warble out your groans with uncommon elegance 
 or energy ; it is certain that, whatever be your 
 subject, melancholy for the most part bursts in 
 upon your speculations, your gayety is quickly 
 overcast, and, though your readers may be flat- 
 tered with hopes of pleasantry, they arc seldom 
 dismissed but with heavy hearts. 
 
 That I may therefore gratify you with an imi- 
 tation of your own syllables of sadness, I will 
 inform you, that I was condemned by some dis- 
 astrous influence to be an only son, born to tne 
 apparent prospect of a large fortune, and allotted 
 to my parents at that time of life, when satiety 
 of common diversions allows the mind to indulge 
 parental affection with greater intenseness. My 
 birth was celebrated by the tenants with feasts, 
 and dances, and bagpipes: congratulations were 
 sent from every family within ten miles round ; 
 and my parents discovered in my first cries such 
 tokens of future virtue and understanding, that 
 they declared themselves determined to devote 
 the remaining part of life to my happiness and 
 the increase of their estate. 
 
 The abilities of my father and mother were not 
 perceptibly unequal, and education had given 
 neither much advantage over the other. They 
 had both kept good company, rattled in chariots, 
 glittered in playhouses, and danced at court, and 
 were both expert in the games that were in their 
 time called in as auxiliaries against the intrusion 
 of thought.
 
 172 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 109 
 
 When the: 
 
 between two per- 
 
 ? iu:il bucitp 10 %.. | j ^ . . * , 
 
 eons associated for life, the dejection which the 
 husband, if he be not completely stupid, must 
 always suffer for want of superiority, sinks him 
 to submissiveness. My mamma therefore go- 
 verned the family without control; and except 
 that my father still retained some authority in the 
 stables, and now and then, after a supernumerary 
 bottle, broke a looking-glass or China dish to 
 prove his sovereignty, the whole course of the 
 year was regulated by her direction, the servants 
 received from her all their orders, and the te- 
 nants were continued or dismissed at her dis- 
 cretion. 
 
 She therefore thought herself entitled to the 
 superintendence of her son's education ; and 
 when my father at the instigation of the parson, 
 faintly proposed that I should be sent to school, 
 very positively told him, that she should not suf- 
 fer so fine a child to be ruined ; that she never 
 knew any boys at a grammar-school that could 
 come into a room without blushing, or sit at the 
 table without some awkward uneasiness ; that 
 they were always putting themselves into dan- 
 ger by boisterous plays, or vitiating their be- 
 haviour with mean company; and that, for her 
 part, she would rather follow me to the grave, 
 than see me tear my clothes, and hang down 
 my head, and sneak about with dirty shoes and 
 blotted fingers, my hair unpovvdered, and my 
 hat uncocked. 
 
 My father, who had no other end in his pro- 
 posal than to appear wise and manly, soon ac- 
 quiesced, since I was not to live by my learn- 
 ing ; for indeed he had known very few students 
 that had not some stiffness in their manner. 
 They therefore agreed that a domestic tutor 
 should be procured, and hired an honest gentle- 
 man of mean conversation and narrow senti- 
 ments, but whom, having passed the common 
 forms of literary education, they implicitly con- 
 cluded qualified to teach all that was to be learn- 
 ed from a scholar. He thought himself suffi- 
 ciently exalted by being placed at the same table 
 with his pupil, and had no other view than to 
 perpetuate his felicity by the utmost flexibility 
 of submission, to all my mother's opinions and 
 caprices, He frequently took away my book, 
 lest I should mope with too much application, 
 charged me never to write without turning up 
 my rufHes, and generally brushed my coat be- 
 fore he dismissed me into the parlour. 
 
 He had no occasion to complain of too bur- 
 densome an employment ; for my mother very 
 judiciously considered, that I was not likely to 
 grow politer in his company, and suffered me 
 not to pass any more time in his apartment than 
 my lesson required. When I was summoned to 
 my task, she enjoined me not to get any of my 
 tutors ways, who was seldom mentioned before 
 me but for practices to be avoided. I was every 
 moment admonished not to lean on my chair, 
 cross my legs, or swing my hands like my tutor: 
 and once my mother very seriously deliberatec 
 upon his total dismission, because I began, she 
 said, to learn his manner of sticking on my hat, 
 and had his bend in my shoulders, and his totter 
 in my gait. 
 
 Such, however, was her care, that I escapee 
 all these depravities; and when I was only 
 twelve years old, had rid myself of every ap- 
 pearance of childish diffidence. I was celebratec 
 
 round the country for the petulance of my re- 
 marks, and the quickness of my replies ; and 
 many a scholar, five years older than myself, 
 lave I dashed into confusion by the steadiness 
 of my countenance, silenced by my readiness of 
 repartee, and tortured with envy by the address 
 with which I picked up a fan, presented a snuff 
 box, or received an empty tea cup. 
 
 At fourteen I was completely skilled in all the 
 niceties of dress, and I could not only enumerate 
 all the variety of silks, and distinguish the pro- 
 duct of a French loom, but dart my eye through 
 a numerous company, and observe every devia- 
 tion from the reigning mode. I was universally 
 skilful in all the changes of expensive finery ; 
 but as every one, they say, has something to 
 which he is particularly born, was eminently 
 knowing in Brussels lace. 
 
 The next year saw me advanced to the trust 
 and power of adjusting the ceremonial of an as- 
 sembly. All received their partners from my 
 hand ; , and to me every stranger applied for in- 
 troduction. My heart now disdained the in- 
 structions of a tutor, who was rewarded with a 
 small annuity for life, and left me qualified, in 
 my own opinion, to govern myself. 
 
 In a short time I came to London, and as my 
 father was well known among the higher classes 
 of life, soon obtained admission to the most 
 splendid assemblies and most crowded card-ta- 
 bles. Here I found myself universally caressed 
 and applauded : the ladies praised the fancy ol 
 my clothes, the beauty of my form, and the soft- 
 ness of my voice ; endeavoured in every place to 
 force themselves to my notice ; and invited by a 
 thousand oblique solicitations, my attendance to 
 the playhouse, and my salutations in the park. 
 I was now happy to the utmost extent of my 
 conception ; I passed every morning in dress, 
 every afternoon in visits, and every nightin some 
 select assemblies, where neither care nor know- 
 ledge were suffered to molest us. 
 
 After a few years, however, theee delights be- 
 came familiar, and I had leisure to look round 
 me with more attention. I then found that my 
 flatterers had very little power to relieve the 
 languor of satiety, or recreate weariness, by va- 
 ried amusement ; and therefore endeavoured to 
 enlarge the sphere of my pleasures, and to try 
 what satisfaction might be found in the society 
 of men. I will not deny the mortification with 
 which I perceived, that every man whose name I 
 had heard mentioned with respect, received me 
 with a kind of tenderness, nearly bordering on 
 compassion ; and that those whose reputation 
 was not well established, thought it necessary to 
 justify their understandings, by treating me with 
 contempt. One of these witlings elevated his 
 crest, by asking me in a full coffee-house the 
 price of patches ; and another whispered that he 
 wondered why Miss Frisk did not keep me that 
 afternoon to watch her squirrel. 
 
 When I found myself thus hunted from all 
 masculine conversation by those who were them- 
 selves barely admitted, I returned to the ladies, 
 and resolved to dedicate my life to their service 
 and their pleasure. But I find that I have now 
 lost my charms. Of those with whom I entered 
 the gay world, some are married, some have re- 
 tired, and some have so much changed their 
 opinion, that they scarcely pay any regard to my 
 civilities, if there is any other man in the place
 
 No. 11C.] THE RAMBLER. 
 
 The new flight of beauties to whom I have made 
 my addresses, suffer me to pay the treat, anc 
 then titter with boys. So that I now find mysell 
 welcome only to a few grave ladies, who unac- 
 quainted with all that gives either use or dignity 
 to life, are content to pass their hours between 
 their bed and their cards, without esteem from 
 the old, or reverence from the young. 
 
 I cannot but think, Mr. Rambler, that I have 
 reason to complain ; for surely the females ought 
 to pay some regard to the age of him whose 
 youth was passed in endeavours to please them. 
 They that encourage folly in the boy, have no 
 right to punish it in the man. Yet I find that, 
 though they lavish their first fondness upon pert- 
 ness and gayety, they soon transfer their regard 
 to other qualifies, and ungratefully abandon 
 their adorers to dream out their last years in 
 stupidity and contempt 
 
 I am, &c. 
 
 FLORENTULUS. 
 
 173 
 
 No. 110.] SATURDAY, APRIL 6, 1751. 
 
 4t nobis vitcc. dominion quarenlibus nnum 
 
 J.m Her est, et clara dies, et gratia simplex. 
 
 Spem scquimur, gradimurque fide, fruimurque futuris. 
 
 AA qvc non veniunt prasentis ga-ndia vita, 
 
 NIC cvrrunt pariter cnpta, et capienda loluptcs. 
 
 PRUDENT1US 
 
 We through this niazo of life one Lord obey ; 
 Whose light and grace unerring, lead the way. 
 By hope mi<l faith secure of future bliss, 
 Gladly the joys of present life we miss: 
 For baffled mortals still attempt in vain, 
 Present and future bliss at once to g.iiu. 
 
 F. LEWIS 
 
 THAT to please the Lord and Father of the uni- 
 verse, is the supreme interest of created and de- 
 pendent beings, as it is easily proved, has been 
 universally confessed ; and since all rational 
 agents are conscious of having neglected or vio- 
 lated the duties prescribed to them, the fear of 
 being rejected, or punished by God, has always 
 burdened the human mind. The expiation of 
 crimes, and renovation of the forfeited hopes of 
 Divine favour, therefore constitute a large part 
 of every religion. 
 
 The various methods of propitiation and atone- 
 ment which fear and folly have dictated, or arti- 
 fice and interest tolerated in the different parts 
 of the world, however they may sometimes re- 
 p:oach or degrade humanity, at least show the 
 general consent of all ages and nations in their 
 opinion of the placability of 'he Divine nature. 
 That God will forgive, may, indeed, be establish- 
 ed as the first and fundamental truth of religion ; 
 for, though the knowledge of his existence is the 
 origin of philosophy, yet, without the belief of 
 his mercy, it would have little influence upon 
 our moral conduct. There could be no prospect 
 of enjoying the protection, or regard of him, 
 whom the least deviation from rectitude made 
 inexorable for ever : and every man would na- 
 turally withdraw his thoughts from the contem- 
 plation of a Creator, whom he must consider as 
 a governor, too pure to be pleased, and too se- 
 vere to be pacified ; as an enemy infinitely wise, 
 and infinitely powerful, whom he could neither 
 deceive, escape, nor resist. 
 
 Where there is no hope, there can be no nn- 
 
 deavour. A constant and unfailing obedience 
 is above the reach of terrestrial diligence ; and 
 therefore the progress of life could only have 
 been the natural descent of negligent despair 
 from crime to crime, had not the universal per- 
 suasion of forgiveness, to be obtained by proper 
 means of reconciliation, recalled those to the 
 paths of virtue whom their passions had solicited 
 aside ; and animated to new attempts and firmer 
 perseverance, those whom difficulty had discou- 
 raged, or negligence surprised. 
 
 In times and regions so disjoined from each 
 other, that there can scarcely be imagined any 
 communication of sentiments either by com- 
 merce or tradition, has prevailed a general and 
 uniform expectation of propitiating God by cor- 
 poral austerities, of anticipating his vengeance 
 by voluntary inflictions, and appeasing his jus- 
 tice by a speedy and cheerful submission to a 
 less penalty, when a greater is incurred. 
 
 Incorporated minds will always feel some in- 
 clination towards exterior acts and ritual ob- 
 servances. Ideas not represented by sensible 
 objects are fleeting, variable, and evanescent. 
 We are not able to judge of the degree of con- 
 viction which operated at any particular time 
 upon our own thoughts, but as it is recorded by 
 some certain and definite effect. He that re- 
 views his life in order to determine the proba- 
 bility of his acceptance with God, if he could 
 once establish the necessary proportion between 
 crimes and sufferings, might securely rest upon 
 ois performance of the expiation ; but, while 
 safety remains the reward only of mental purity, 
 ic is always afraid lest he should decide too soon 
 n liis own favour, lest he should not have felt 
 the pangs of true contrition ; lest he should 
 mistake satiety for detestation, or imagine that 
 lis passions are subdued when they are only 
 sleeping. 
 
 From this natural and reasonable diffidence 
 arose, in humble and timorous piety, a disposi- 
 tion to confound penance with repentance, to 
 repose on human determinations, and to receive 
 rom some judicial sentence the stated and regu- 
 ar assignment of reconciliatory pain. We are 
 never willing to be without resource ; we seek 
 n the knowledge of others a succour for our 
 own ignorance, and are ready to trust any that 
 will undertake to direct us when we have no 
 confidence in ourselves. 
 
 This desire to ascertain by some outward 
 marks the state of the soul, and this willingness 
 o calm the conscience by some settled method, 
 lave produced, as they are diversified in their 
 Sects by various tempers and principles, most 
 of the disquisitions and rules, the doubts and 
 solutions, that have embarrassed the doctrine 
 f repentance, and perplexed tender and flexible 
 minds with innumerable scruples concerning 
 he necessary measures of sorrow, and adequate 
 degrees of self-abhorrence ; and these rules, 
 corrupted by fraud, or debased by credulity, 
 lave, by the common resiliency of the mind from 
 one extreme to another, incited others to an open 
 lontempt of all subsidiary ordinances, all pru- 
 dential caution, and the whole discipline ot itgu- 
 ated piety. 
 
 Repentance, however difficult to be practised, 
 
 if it be explained without superstition, easily 
 
 understood. Repentance is the relinquishment of 
 
 any practice, from the conviction that it has offended
 
 174 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 111. 
 
 God. Sorrow, and fear, and anxiety, are pro- 
 perly not parts, but adjuncts of repentance ; yet 
 they ara too closely connected with it to be easily 
 separated ; for they not only mark its sincerity, 
 but promote its efficacy. 
 
 No man commits any act of negligence or ob- 
 stinacy, by which his safety or happiness in this 
 world is endangered, without feeling the pun- 
 gency of remorse. He who is fully convinced 
 that he suffers by his own failure, can never for- 
 bear lo trace back his miscarriage to its first 
 cause, to image to himself a contrary behaviour, 
 and to form involuntary resolutions against the 
 like fault, even when he knows that he shall 
 never again have the power of committing it. 
 Danger, considered as imminent, naturally pro- 
 duces such trepidations of impatience as leave all 
 human means of safety behind them : he that 
 has once caught an alarm of terror, is every 
 moment seized with useless anxieties, adding 
 one security to another, trembling with sudden 
 doubts, and distracted by the perpetual occur- 
 rence of new expedients. If, therefore, he whose 
 crimes) have deprived him of the favour of God, 
 can reflect upon his conduct without disturbance, 
 or can at will banish the reflection ; if he who 
 considers himself as suspended over the abyss of 
 eternal perdition only by the thread of life, which 
 must soon part by its own weakness, and which 
 the wing of every minute may divide, can cast 
 his eyes round him without shuddering with hor- 
 ror, or panting with security ; what can he judge 
 of himself, but that he is not yet awakened to 
 sufficient conviction, since every loss is more 
 lamented than the loss of the Divine favour, and 
 every danger more dreaded than the danger of 
 final condemnation? 
 
 Retirement from the cares and pleasures of 
 the world has been often recommended as useful 
 to repentance. This at least is evidence, that 
 every one retires, whenever ratiocination and 
 recollection are required on other occasions; 
 and surely the retrospect of life, the disentangle- 
 ment of actions complicated with innumerable 
 circumstances, and diffused in various relations, 
 the discovery of the primary movements of the 
 heart, and the extirpation of lusts and appetites 
 deeply rooted and widely spread, may be allowed 
 to demand some secession from sport and noise, 
 and business and folly. Some suspension of 
 common affairs, some pause of temporal pain 
 and pleasure, is doubtless necessary to him that 
 deliberates for eternity, who is forming the only 
 plan in which miscarriage cannot be repaired, 
 and examining the only question in which mis- 
 take cannot be rectified. 
 
 Austerities and mortifications are means by 
 which the mind is invigorated and roused, by 
 which tha attractions of pleasure are interrupted 
 and the chains of sensuality are broken. It it 
 observed by one of the fathers, that he who re- 
 strains himself in the use of things lawful, will never 
 encroach upon things forbidden. Abstinence, i 
 nothing more, is, at least, a cautious retreat from 
 the utmost verge of permission, and confers tha 
 security which cannot be reasonably hoped bj 
 him that dares always to hover over the precipice 
 of destruction, or delights to approach the plea 
 eures which he knows it fatal to partake. Au 
 sterity is the proper antidote to indulgence ; th 
 diseases of mind as well as body are cured b} 
 contraries, and to contraries we should readil; 
 
 ave recourse, if we dreaded guilt as we dread 
 >ain. 
 
 The completion and sum of repentance is a 
 hange of life. That sorrow which dictates no 
 aution, that fear which does not quicken our 
 scape, that austerity which fails to rectify our 
 ffections, are vain and unavailing. But sorrow 
 .nd terror must naturally precede reformation ; 
 or what other cause can produce it ? He, there- 
 ore, that feels himself alarmed by his conscience, 
 nxious for the attainment of a better state, and 
 fflicted by the memory of his past faults, may 
 ustly conclude, that the great work of repentance 
 s begun, and hope by retirement and prayer, the 
 latural and religious means of strengthening his 
 onviction, to impress upon his mind such a 
 ense of the Divine presence, as may overpower 
 he blandishments of secular delights, and enable 
 iim to advance from one degree of holiness to 
 another, till death shall set him free from doubt 
 and contest, misery and temptation. 
 
 What better can we do, than prostrate fall 
 Before him reverent ; and there confess 
 Humbly our faults, and pardon beg, with tears 
 Watering the ground, and with our sighs the air 
 Frequenting, sent from hearts contrite, in sign 
 Of sorrow unfeign'd, and humiliation meek? 
 
 No. 111.] TUESDAY, APRILS, 1751. 
 
 Qpovtiv yap ol ra^us OVK aa<f>a.\ti? SOPHOC. 
 Disaster always waits on early wit. 
 
 T has been observed by long experience, that 
 ate springs produce the greatest plenty. The 
 delay of blooms and fragrance, of verdure and 
 )reezes, is for the most part liberally recom- 
 pensed by the exuberance and fecundity of the 
 ensuing seasons; the blossoms which lie con- 
 :ealed till the year is advanced, and the sun is 
 ligh, escape those chilling blasts, and nocturnal 
 'rosts, which are often fatal to early luxuriance, 
 prey upon the first smiles of vernal beauty, de- 
 stroy the feeble principles of vegetable life, in- 
 tercept the fruit in the germ, and beat down the 
 [lowers unopened to the ground. 
 
 I am afraid there is little hope of persuading 
 the young and sprightly part of my readers, upon 
 whom the spring naturally forces my attention, 
 to learn, from the great process of nature, the 
 difference between diligence and hurry, between 
 speed and precipitation ; to prosecute their de- 
 signs with calmness, to watch the concurrence 
 of opportunity, and endeavour to find the lucky 
 moment which they cannot make. Youth is the 
 time of enterprise and hope : having yet no oc- 
 casion of comparing our force with any opposing 
 power, we naturally form presumptions in our 
 own favour, and imagine that obstruction and 
 impediment will give way before us. The first 
 repulses rather inflame vehemence than teach 
 prudence ; a brave and generous mind is long 
 before it suspects its own weakness, or submits 
 to sap the difficulties which it expected to sub- 
 due by storm. Before disappointments have en- 
 forced the dictates of philosophy, we believe it 
 in our power to shorten the interval between the 
 first cause and the last effect ; we laugh at the 
 timorous delays of plodding industry, and fancy 
 that, by increasing the fire, we can at pleasure 
 accelerate the projection.
 
 No. 111.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 175 
 
 At our entrance into the world, when health 
 and vigour give us fair promises of time sufficient 
 for the regular maturation of our schemes, and 
 a long enjoyment of our acquisitions, we are 
 eager to seize the present moment; we pluck 
 every gratification within our reach, without suf- 
 fering it to ripen into perfection, and crowd all 
 the varieties of delight into a narrow compass ; 
 but age seldom fails to change our conduct ; we 
 grow negligent of time in proportion as we have 
 less remaining, and suffer the last part of life to 
 steal from us in languid preparations for future 
 undertakings, or slow approaches to remote ad- 
 vantages, in weak hopes of some fortuitous oc- 
 currence, or drowsy equilibrations of undeter- 
 mined counsel : whether it be that the aged, 
 having tasted the pleasures of man's condition 
 and found them delusive, become less anxious 
 for their attainment; or that frequent miscar- 
 riages have depressed them to despair, and frozen 
 them to inactivity; or that death shocks them 
 more as it advances upon them, and they are 
 afraid to remind themselves of their decay, or to 
 discover to their own hearts, that the time of 
 trifling is past. 
 
 A perpetual conflict with natural desires seems 
 to be the lot of our present state. In youth we 
 require something of the tardiness and frigidity 
 of age ; and in age we must labour to recall the 
 fire and impetuosity of youth ; in youth we must 
 learn to expect, and in age to enjoy. 
 
 The torment of expectation is, indeed, not 
 easily to be borne at a tima when every idea of 
 gratification fires the blood, and flashes on the 
 fancy ; when the heart is vacant to every fresh 
 form of delight, and has no rival engagements to 
 withdraw it from the importunities of a new de- 
 sire. Yet, since the fear of missing what we 
 seek, must always be proportionable to the hap- 
 piness expected from possessing it, the passions, 
 even in this tempestuous state, might be some- 
 what moderated by frequent inculcation of the 
 mischief of temerity, \nd the hazard of losing 
 that which we endeavour to seize before our 
 time. 
 
 He that too early aspires to honours, must re- 
 solve to encounter not only the opposition of inte- 
 rest, but the malignity of envy. He that is too 
 eager to be rich, generally endangers his fortune 
 in wild adventures and uncertain projects ; and 
 he that hastens too speedily to reputation, often 
 raises his character by artifices and fallacies, 
 decks himself in colours which quickly fade, or 
 in plumes which accident may shake off, or com- 
 petition pluck away. 
 
 The dangerof early eminence has been extend- 
 ed by some, even to the gifts of nature ; and an 
 opinion has been long conceived, that quickness 
 of invention, accuracy of judgment, or extent of 
 knowledge, appearing before the usual time, pre- 
 sage a short life. Even those who are less in- 
 clined to form general conclusions, from instan- 
 ces which by their own nature must be rare, 
 have yet been inclined to prognosticate no suita- 
 ble progress from the first sallies of rapid wits ; 
 but have observed, that after a short effort they 
 either loiter or faint, and suffer themselves to be 
 surpassed by the even and regular perseverance 
 of slower understandings. 
 
 It frequently happens that applause abates di- 
 ligence. Whoever finds himself to have per- 
 
 formed more than was demande4, will be con- 
 tented to spare the labour of unnecessary per- 
 formances, and sit down to enjoy at ease his 
 superfluities of honour. He whom success has 
 made confident of his abilities, quickly claims the 
 privilege of negligence, and looks contemptuous- 
 ly on the gradual advances of a rival, whom he 
 imagines himself able to leave behind whenever 
 he shall again summon his forces to the contest. 
 But long intervals of pleasure dissipate attention, 
 and weaken constancy ; nor is it easy for him 
 that has sunk from diligence into sloth, to rouse out 
 of his lethargy, to recollect his notions, rekindle 
 his curiosity, and engage with his former ardour 
 in the toils of study. 
 
 Even that friendship which intends the reward 
 of genius too often tends to obstruct it. Tho 
 pleasure of being caressed, distinguished, and 
 admired, easily seduces the student from literary 
 solitude. He is ready to follow the call which 
 summons him to hear his own praise, and which, 
 perhaps, at once flatters his appetite with cer- 
 tainty of pleasures, and his ambition with hopes 
 of patronage ; pleasures which he conceives in- 
 exhaustible, and hopes which he has not yet 
 learned to distrust. 
 
 These evils, indeed, are by no means to be im- 
 puted to nature, or considered as inseparable 
 from an early display of uncommon abilities. 
 They may be certainly escaped by prudence and 
 resolution, and must therefore be accounted ra- 
 ther as consolations to those who are less libe- 
 rally endowed, than as discouragements to such 
 as are born with uncommon qualities. Beauty 
 is well known to draw after it the persecutions 
 of impertinence, to incite the artifices of envy, 
 and to raise the flames of unlawful love ; yet 
 among the ladies whom prudence or modesty 
 have made most eminent, who has ever com- 
 plained of the inconveniences of an amiable 
 form? or would have purchased safety by the. 
 loss of charms? 
 
 Neither grace of person, nor vigour of under- 
 standing, are to be regarded otherwise than as 
 blessings, as means of happiness indulged by the 
 Supreme Benefactor ; but the advantages of 
 either may be lost by too much eagerness to ob- 
 tain them. A thousand beauties in their first 
 blossom, by an imprudent exposure to the open 
 world, have suddenly withered at the blast of in- 
 famy ; and men who might have subjected new 
 regions to the empire of learning, have been lured 
 by the praise of their first productions from aca- 
 demical retirement, and wasted their days in vice 
 and dependance. The virgin who too soon as- 
 pires to celebrity and conquest, perishes by child- 
 ish vanity, ignorant credulity, or guiltless indis- 
 cretion. The genius who catches at laurels and 
 preferment before his time, mocks the hopes that 
 he had excited, and loses those years which might 
 have been most usefully employed, the years of 
 youth, of spirit, and vivacity. 
 
 It is one of the innumerable absurdities of 
 pride, that we are never more impatient of direc- 
 tion, than in that part of life when we need it most ; 
 we are in haste to meet enemies whom we have 
 not strength to overcome, and to undertake tasks 
 which we cannot perform : and as he that once 
 miscarries does not easily persuade mankind to 
 favour another attempt, an ineffectual struggle 
 for fame is often followed by perpetual obscurity.
 
 176 
 
 No. 112.] SA*TRDAY, APRIL 13, 1751. 
 
 In mta vcsanat habui dispendia vires, 
 t calui panta fortis in ipse meas. OVID. 
 
 Of strength pernicious to myself I boast; 
 The powers I have were given me to my cost. 
 
 F. LEWIS. 
 
 WE are tauo-ht by Celsus, that health is best pre- 
 served by avoiding settled habits of life, and de- 
 viating sometimes into slight aberrations from the 
 laws of medicine; by varying the proportions of 
 food and exercise, interrupting the successions 
 of rest and labour, and mingling hardships with 
 indulgence. The body, long accustomed to stated 
 quantities and uniform periods, is disordered by 
 the smallest irregularity ; and since we cannot 
 adjust every day by the balance or barometer, it 
 is lit sometimes to depart from rigid accuracy, 
 that we may be able to comply with necessary af- 
 fairs, or strong inclinations. He that too long 
 observes nice punctualities, condemns himself to 
 voluntary imbecility, and will not long escape 
 the miseries of disease. 
 
 The same laxity of regimen is equally neces- 
 sary to intellectual health, and to a perpetual sus- 
 ceptibility of occasional pleasure. Long confine- 
 ment to the same company which perhaps simi- 
 litude of taste brought first together, quickly 
 contracts his faculties, and makes a thousand 
 things offensive that are in themselves indiffer- 
 ent ; a man accustomed to hear only the echo of 
 his own sentiments, soon bars all the common 
 avenues of delight, and has no part in the gene- 
 ral gratification of mankind. 
 
 In things which are not immediately subject to 
 religious or moral consideration, it is dangerous 
 to be too long or too rigidly in the right. Sensi- 
 bility may by an incessant attention to elegance 
 and propriety, be quickened to a tenderness in- 
 consistent with the condition of humanity, irrita- 
 ble by the smallest asperity, and vulnerable by 
 the gentlest touch. He that pleases himself too 
 much with minute exactness, and submits to en- 
 dure nothing in accommodations, attendance, or 
 add ress, below the point of perfection , will, when- 
 ever he enters the crowd of life, be harassed with 
 innumerable distresses, from which those who 
 have not in the same manner increased their 
 sensations find no disturbance. His exotic soft- 
 ness will shrink at the coarseness of vulgar feli- 
 city, like a plant transplanted to northern nurse- 
 ries, from the dews and sunshine of the tropical 
 regions. 
 
 There will always be a wide interval between 
 practical _and ideal excellence ; and therefore, if 
 we allow not ourselves to be satisfied while we 
 can perceive any error or defect, we must refer 
 our hopes of ease to some other period of exist- 
 ence. It is well known, that exposed to a mi- 
 croscope, the smoothest polish of the most solid 
 bodies discovers cavities and prominences ; and 
 that the softest bloom of roseate virginity repels 
 the eye with excresences and discolorations. 
 The perceptions as well as the senses may be im- 
 proved to our own disquiet, and we may, by diligent 
 cultivation of the powcrsof dislike, raise in time 
 an artificial fastidiousness, which shall fill the 
 imagination with phantoms of turpitude, show us 
 the naked skeleton of every delight, and present 
 us only with the pains of pleasure, and the de- 
 formities of beauty. 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 119. 
 
 Peevishness, indeed, would perhaps very little 
 disturb the peace of mankind, were it always the 
 consequence of superfluous delicacy : for it is the 
 privilege only of deep reflection or lively fancy, 
 to destroy happiness by art and refinement. But 
 by continual indulgence of a particular humour, 
 or by long enjoyment of undisputed superiority, 
 the dull and thoughtless may likewise acquire 
 the power of tormenting themselves and others, 
 and become sufficiently ridiculous or hateful to 
 those who are within sight of their conduct, or 
 reach of their influence. 
 
 They that have grown old in a single state are 
 
 tious ; tenacious of their own practices and max- 
 soon offended by contradiction or negli- 
 gence ; and impatient of any association, but 
 with those that will watch their nod, and submit 
 themselves to unlimited authority. Such is the 
 effect of having lived without the necessity of 
 consulting any inclination but their own. 
 
 The irascibility of this class of tyrants is ge- 
 nerally exerted upon petty provocations, such as 
 are incident to understandings not far extended 
 beyond the instincts of animal life ; but, unhap- 
 pily, he that fixes his attention on things always 
 before him, will never havelongcessation of anger. 
 There are many veterans of luxury upon whom 
 every noon brings a paroxysm of violence, fury, 
 and execration ; they never sit down to their din- 
 ner without finding the meat so injudiciously 
 bought, or so unskilfully dressed, such blunders 
 in the seasoning, or such improprieties in the 
 sauce, as can scarcely be expiated without blood ; 
 and in the transports of resentment, make very 
 little distinction between guilt and innocence, 
 but let fly their menaces, or growl out their dis- 
 content, upon all whom fortune exposes to the 
 storm. 
 
 It is not easy to imagine a more unhappy con- 
 dition than that of dependance on a peevish man. 
 In every other state of inferiority the certainty of 
 pleasing is perpetually increased by a fuller 
 knowledge of our duty ; and kindness and con- 
 fidence are strengthened by every new act of 
 trust, and proof of fidelity. But peevishness sa- 
 crifices to a momentary offence the obsequious- 
 ness or usefulness of half a life, and, as more is 
 performed, increases her exactions. 
 
 Chrysalus gained a fortune by trade, and re- 
 tired into the country ; and, having a brother 
 burdened by the number of his children, adopted 
 one of his sons. The boy was dismissed with 
 many prudent admonitions ; informed of his fa- 
 ther's inability to maintain him in his native 
 rank ; cautioned against all opposition to the 
 opinions or precepts of his uncle ; and animated 
 to perseverance by the hopes of supporting the 
 honour of the family, and overtopping his elder 
 brother. He had a natural ductility of mind, 
 without much warmth of affection, or elevation 
 of sentiment: and therefore readily complied 
 with every variety of caprice ; patiently endured 
 contradictory reproofs ; heard false accusations 
 without pain, and opprobrious reproaches with- 
 out reply ; laughed obstreperously at the nine- 
 tieth repetition of a joke; asked questions about 
 the universal decay of trade ; admired the strength 
 of those heads by which the price of stocks is 
 changed and adjusted ; and behaved with such 
 prudence and circumspection, that after six years
 
 No. 113.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 177 
 
 the will was made, and Juvenculus was declared 
 heir. But unhappily, a month afterwards, re- 
 tiring at night from his uncle's chamber, he left 
 the door open behind him ; the old man tore 
 his will, and being then perceptibly declining, for 
 want of time to deliberate, left his money to a 
 trading company. 
 
 When female minds are embittered by age or 
 solitude, their malignity is generally exerted in a 
 rigorous and spiteful superintendence of domes- 
 tic trifles. Eriphile has employed her eloquence 
 for twenty years upon the degeneracy of ser- 
 vants, the nastiness of her house, the ruin of her 
 furniture, the difficulty of preserving tapestry 
 from the moths and the carelessness of the sluts 
 whom she employs in brushing it. It is her 
 business every morning to visit all the rooms, in 
 hopes of finding a chair without its cover, a win- 
 dow shut or open contrary to her orders, a spot 
 on the hearth, or a feather on the floor, that the 
 rest of the day may be justifiably spent in taunts 
 of contempt and vociferations of anger. She 
 lives for no other purpose but to preserve the 
 neatness of a house and gardens, and feels nei- 
 ther inclination to pleasure, nor aspiration after 
 virtue, while she is engrossed by the great em- 
 ployment of keeping gravel from grass and 
 wainscoat from dust. Of three amiable nieces 
 ehe has declared herself an irreconcilable enemy 
 to one, because she broke off a tulip with her 
 hoop; to another, because she spilt hercofFeeon 
 a Turkey carpet ; and to the third, because she 
 let a wet dog run into the parlour. She has 
 broken off her intercourse of visits, because com- 
 pany makes a house dirty ; and resolves to con- 
 fine herself more to her own affairs, and to live 
 no longer in mire by foolish lenity. 
 
 Peevishnees is generally the vice of narrow 
 minds, and except when it is the effect of anguish 
 and disease, by which the resolution is broken, 
 and the mind made too feeble to bear the lightest 
 addition to its miseries, proceeds from an unrea- 
 sonable persuasion of the importance of trifles. 
 The proper remedy against it is, to consider the 
 dignity of human nature, and the folly of suffer- 
 ing perturbation and uneasiness from causes un- 
 worthy of our notice. 
 
 He that resigns his peace to little casualties, 
 and suffers the course of his life to be interrupted 
 by fortuitous inadvertencies, or offences, delivers 
 up himself to the direction of the wind, and loses 
 all that constancy and equanimity which consti- 
 tute the chief praise of a wise man. 
 
 The province of prudence lies between the 
 greatest things and the least: some surpass our 
 power by their magnitude, and some escape our 
 notice by their number and their frequency. But 
 the indispensable business of life will afford suf- 
 ficient exercise to every understanding; and 
 such is the limitation of the human powers, that 
 by attention to trifles, we must let things of im- 
 portance pass unobserved ; when we examine a 
 mite with a glass, we see nothing but a mite. 
 
 That it is every man's interest to be pleased, 
 will need little proof: that it is his interest to 
 please others, experience will inform him. It is 
 therefore not less necessary to happiness than to 
 virtue, that he rid his mind of passions which 
 make him uneasy to himself, and hateful to the 
 world, which enchain his intellects, and obstruct 
 bis improvement. 
 
 No. 113.] TUESDAY, APRIL 16, 1751. 
 
 Uxorem, Posthume, ducia} 
 
 Die qua Tisiphone, quil/us cxagitare colubrit? 
 
 A sober man like thee to change his life ! 
 What fury would possess thee with a wife ! 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I KNOW not whether it is always a proof of inno- 
 cence to treat censure with contempt. We owe 
 so much reverence to the wisdom of mankind, 
 as justly to wish, that our own opinion of our 
 merit may be ratified by the concurrence of 
 others' suffrages ; and since guilt and infamy 
 must have the same effect upon intelligences 
 unable to pierce beyond external appearance 
 and influenced often rather by example than 
 precept, we are obliged to refute a false charge, 
 lest we should countenance the crime which we 
 have never committed. To turn away from an 
 accusation with supercilious silence, is equally 
 in the power of him that is hardened by villany, 
 and inspirited by innocence. The wall of brass 
 which Horace erects upon a clear conscience, 
 may be sometimes raised by impudence or pow- 
 er ; and we should always wish to preserve the 
 dignity of virtue by adorning her with graces 
 which wickedness cannot assume. 
 
 For this reason 1 have determined no longer 
 to endure, with either patient or sullen resigna- 
 tion, a reproach, which is, at least in my opinion, 
 unjust; but will lay my case honestly before 
 you, that you or your readers may at length de- 
 cide it. 
 
 Whether you will be able to preserve your 
 boasted impartiality, when you hear that I am 
 considered as an adversary by hdf the female 
 world, you may surely pardon me for doubting, 
 notwithstanding the veneration to which you 
 may imagine yourself entitled by j r our age, 
 your learning, your abstraction, or your virtue. 
 Beauty, Mr. Rambler, has often overpowered 
 the resolutions of the firm, and the reasonings 
 of the wise, roused the old to sensibility, and 
 subdued the rigorous to softness. 
 
 I am one of those unhappy beings, who have 
 been marked out as husbands for many different 
 women, and deliberated a hundred times on the 
 brink of matrimony. I have discussed all the 
 nuptial preliminaries so often, that I can repeat 
 the forms in which jointures are settled, pin- 
 money secured, and provisions for younger chil- 
 dren ascertained ; but am at last doomed by 
 general consent to everlasting solitude, and ex- 
 cluded by an irreversible decree from all hopes 
 of connubial felicity. I am pointed out by every 
 mother as a man whose visits cannot be admit- 
 ted without reproach ; who raises hopes only to 
 embitter disappointment, and makes offers only 
 to seduce girls into a waste of that part of life in 
 which they might gain advantageous matches, 
 and become mistresses and mothers. 
 
 I hope you will think, that some part of this 
 penal severity may justly be remitted, when 1 
 inform you, that I never yet professed love to a 
 woman without sincere intentions of marriage ; 
 that I have never continued an appearance of 
 intimacy from the hour that my inclination
 
 178 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 113. 
 
 changed, but to preserve her whom I was leaving 
 from the shock of abruptness, or the ignominy 
 of contempt; that I always endeavoured to give 
 the ladies an opportunity of seeming to discard 
 me and that I never forsook a mistress for a 
 larger fortune, or brighter beauty, but because I 
 discovered some irregularity in her conduct, or 
 some depravity in her mind; not because I was 
 charmed by another, but because I was offended 
 by herself. 
 
 I was very early tired of that succession of 
 amusements by which the thoughts of most 
 young men are dissipated, and had not long glit- 
 tered in the splendour of an ample patrimony 
 before I wished for the calm of domestic happi- 
 ness. Youth is naturallydehghted with sprighl- 
 liness and ardour, and therefore I breathed out 
 the sighs of my first affection at the feet of the 
 gay, the sparkling, the vivacious Ferocula. I fan- 
 cied to myself a perpetual source of happiness in 
 wit never exhausted, and spirit never depressed ; 
 looked with veneration on her readiness of ex- 
 pedients, contempt of difficulty, assurance of 
 address, and promptitude of reply ; considered 
 her as exempt by some prerogative of nature 
 from the weakness and timidity of female minds; 
 and congratulated myself upon a companion 
 superior to all common troubles and embarrass- 
 ments. I was, indeed, somewhat disturbed by 
 the unshaken perseverance with which she en- 
 forced her demands of an unreasonable settle- 
 ment ; yet I should have consented to pass my 
 life in union with her, had not my curiosity led 
 me to a crowd gathered in the street, where I 
 found Ferocula, in the presence of hundreds, 
 disputing for sixpence with a chairman. I saw 
 her in so little need of assistance, that it was no 
 breach of the laws of chivalry to forbear interpo- 
 sition, and I spared myself the shame of owning 
 her acquaintance. I forgot some point of cere- 
 mony at our next interview, and soon provoked 
 her to forbid me her presence. 
 
 My next attempt was upon a lady of great 
 eminence for learning and philosophy. I had 
 frequently observed the barrenness and uniform- 
 ity of connubial conversation, and therefore 
 thoujht highly of my own prudence and discern- 
 ment, when I selected from a multitude of 
 wealthy beauties, the deep-read Misothea, who 
 declared herself the inexorable enemy of ignorant 
 pertness and puerile levity; and scarcely con- 
 descended to make tea, but for the linguist, the 
 geometrician, the astronomer, or the poet. The 
 queen of the Amazons was onlyto be gained by 
 the hero who could conquer her in single com- 
 bat ; and Misothea's heart was only to bless the 
 scholar who could overpower her by disputation. 
 Amidst the fondest transports of courtship she 
 could call for a definition of terms, and treated 
 every argument with contempt that could not be 
 reduced to regular syllogism. You may easily 
 imagine, that I wished this courtship at an end; 
 but when I desired her to shorten my torments, 
 and fix the day of my felicity, we were led into a 
 long conversation, in which Misothea endea- 
 voured to demonstrate the folly of attributing 
 choice and self-direction to any human being. 
 It was not difficult to discover the danger of 
 committing myself for ever to the arms of one 
 who might at any time mistake the dictates of 
 passion, or the calls of appetite, for the decree 
 
 of fate ; or consider cuckoldom as necessary to 
 the general system, as a link to the everlasting 
 chain of successive causes. I therefore told her, 
 that destiny had ordained us to part, and that 
 nothing should have torn me from her but the 
 talons of necessity. 
 
 I then solicited the regard of the calm, the 
 prudent, the economical Sophronia, a lady who 
 considered wit as dangerous, and learning as 
 superfluous, and thought that the woman who 
 kept her house clean, and her accounts exact, 
 took receipts for every payment, and could find 
 them at a sudden call, inquired nicely after the 
 condition of the tenants, read the price of stocks 
 once a-week, and purchased every thing at the 
 best market, could want no accomplishments 
 necessary to the happiness of a wise man. She 
 discoursed with great solemnity on the care and 
 vigilance which the superintendence of a family 
 demands, observed how many were ruined by 
 confidence in servants, and told me that she 
 never expected honesty but from a strong chest, 
 and that the best storekeeper was the mistress's 
 eye. Many such oracles of generosity she ut- 
 tered, and made every day new improvements 
 in her schemes for the regulation of her servants, 
 and the distribution of her time. I was con- 
 vinced, that, whatever I might suffer from So- 
 phronia, I should escape poverty ; and we there- 
 fore proceeded to adjust the settlements accord- 
 ing to her own rule, fair and softly. But one 
 morning her maid came to me in tears to entreat 
 my interest for a reconciliation to her mistress, 
 who had turned her out at night for breaking six 
 teeth in a tortoise-shell comb ; she had attended 
 her lady from a distant province, and having not 
 lived long enough to save much money, was des- 
 titute among strangers, and though of a good 
 family, in danger of perishing in the streets, or 
 of being compelled by hunger to prostitution. 1 
 made no scruple of promising to restore her ; but 
 upon my first application to .Sophronia, was an- 
 swered with an air which called for approbation, 
 thatif she neglected herown affairs, Imight suspect 
 her of neglecting mine ; that the comb stood her in 
 three half crowns ; that, no servant should wrong 
 her twice ; and that indeed she took the first op- 
 portunity of parting with Phillida, because, though 
 she was honest, her constitution was bad, and 
 she thought her very likely to fall sick. Of our 
 conference I need not tell you the effect ; it sure- 
 ly may be forgiven me, if on this occasion, I for- 
 got the decency of common forms. 
 
 From two more ladies I was disengaged by 
 finding that they entertained my rivals at the 
 same time, and determined their choice by the 
 liberality of our sentiments. Another I thought 
 myself justified in forsaking, because she gave 
 my attorney a bribe to favour her in the bargain ; 
 another because I could never soften her to ten- 
 derness, till she heard that most of my family had 
 died young ; and another, because, to increase 
 her fortune by expectations, she represented her 
 sister as languishing and consumptive. 
 
 I shall in another letter give the remaining 
 part of my history of courtship. I presume that 
 1 should hitherto have injured the majesty of fe- 
 male virtue, had I not hoped to transfer my at 
 fection to higher merit. 
 
 I am, &c. 
 
 HTMBKJBW.
 
 No. 114.] THE RAMBLER. 
 
 No. 114.] SATURDAY, APRIL 20, 175L 
 
 Audi, 
 
 Nulla unqaam de morte hominis cunctatio longa est. 
 
 JUV. 
 
 When man's life is in debate, 
 
 The judge can ne'er too long deliberate. DRYDEN , 
 
 POWER and superiority are so flattering and de- 
 lightful, that, fraught with temptation and expos- 
 ed to danger as they are, scarcely any virtue is 
 so cautious, or any prudence so timorous, as to 
 decline them. Even those that have most rever- 
 ence for the laws of right, are pleased with show- 
 ing that not fear, but choice, regulates their be- 
 haviour ; and would be thought to comply, 
 rather than obey. We love to overlook the 
 boundaries which we do not wish to pass ; and, 
 as the Roman satirist remarks, he that has no 
 design to take the life of another, is yet glad to 
 have it in his hands. 
 
 From the same principle, tending yet more to 
 degeneracy and corruption, proceeds the desire 
 of investing lawful authority with terror, and 
 governing by force rather than persuasion. Pride 
 is unwilling to believe the necessity of assigning 
 any other reason than her own will ; and would 
 rather maintain the most equitable claims by vio- 
 lence and penalties, than descend from the dig- 
 nity of command to dispute and expostulation. 
 
 It may, I think, be suspected, that this politi- 
 cal arrogance has sometimes found its way into 
 legislative assemblies, and mingled with delibe- 
 rations upon property and life. A slight perusal 
 of the laws by which the measures of vindictive 
 and coercive justice are established, will discover 
 so many disproportions between crimes and pu- 
 nishments, such capricious distinctions of guilt, 
 and such confusion of remissness and severity, as 
 can scarcely be believed to have been produced 
 by public wisdom, sincerely and calmly studious 
 of public happiness. , 
 
 The learned, the judicious, the pious Boerhaave 
 relates, that he never saw a criminal dragged to 
 execution without asking himself, "Who knows 
 whether this man is not less culpable than me?" 
 On the days when the prisons of this city are 
 emptied into the grave, let every spectator of the 
 dreadful procession put the same question to his 
 own heart. Few among those who crowd in 
 thousands to the legal massacre, and look with 
 carelessness, perhaps with triumph, on the ut- 
 most exacerbations of human misery, would 
 then bo able to return without horror and dejec- 
 tion. For, who can congratulate himself upon a 
 life passed without some act more mischievous 
 to the peace or prosperity of others, than the theft 
 of a piece of money ? 
 
 It has been always the practice when any par- 
 ticular species of robbery becomes prevalent and 
 common, to endeavour its suppression by capital 
 denunciations. Thus, one generation of male- 
 factors is commonly cut off, and their successors 
 are frightened into new expedients ; the art of 
 thievery is augmented with greater variety of 
 fraud, and subtilized to higher degrees of dexte- 
 rity, and more occult methods of conveyance. 
 The law then renews the pursuit in the heat of 
 anger, and overtakes the offender again with 
 death. By this practice capital inflictions are 
 multiplied, and crimes, very different in their de- 
 grees of enormity, are equally subjected to the 
 
 179 
 
 severest punishment that man has the power of 
 exercising upon man. 
 
 The lawgiver is undoubtedly allowed to esti- 
 mate the malignity of an offence, not merely by 
 the loss or pain which single acts may produce, 
 but by the general alarm and anxiety arising from 
 the fear of mischief, and insecurity of possession 
 he therefore exercises the right which societies 
 are supposed to have over the lives of those that 
 compose them, not simply to punish a transgres- 
 sion, but to maintain order, and preserve quiet ; 
 he enforces those laws with severity that are most 
 in danger of violation, as the commander of a 
 garrison doubles the guard on that side which ia 
 threatened by the enemy. 
 
 This method has been long tried, but tried with 
 so little success, that rapine and violence are 
 hourly increasing, yet few seem willing to de- 
 spair of its efficacy, and of those who employ 
 their speculations upon the present corruption of 
 the people, some propose the introduction of more 
 horrid, lingering, and terrific punishments ; some 
 are inclined to accelerate the executions ; some to 
 discourage pardon ; and all seem to think that 
 lenity has given confidence to wickedness, and 
 that we can only be rescued from the talons of rob- 
 bery by inflexible rigour, and sanguinary justice. 
 
 Yet since the right of setting an uncertain and 
 arbitrary value upon life has been disputed, and 
 since experience of past times gives us little rea- 
 son to hope that any reformation will be effected 
 by a periodical havoc of our fellow-beings, per 
 haps it will not be useless to consider what con 
 sequences might arise from relaxations of the 
 law, and a more rational and equitable adapta- 
 tion of penalties to offences. 
 
 Death is, as one of the ancients observes, T<> run 
 <j>o8ep&v (j>o6ef><i>TaTov, of dreadful things the most 
 dreadful ; an evil beyond which nothing can be 
 threatened by sublunary power, or feared from 
 human enmity or vengeance. This terror should, 
 therefore, be reserved as the last resort of autho- 
 rity, as the strongest and most operative of pro- 
 hibitory sanctions, and placed before the treasure 
 of life, to guard from invasion what cannot bo 
 restored. To equal robbery with murder is to 
 reduce murder to robbery, to confound in com- 
 mon minds the gradations of iniquity, and incite 
 the commission of a greater crime to prevent the 
 detection of a less. If only murder were punished 
 with death, very few robbers would stain their 
 hands with blood ; but when by the last act of 
 cruelty, no new danger is incurred, and greater 
 security may be obtained, upon what principle 
 shall we bid them forbear ? 
 
 It may be urged, that the sentence is often mi- 
 tigated to simple robbery ; but surely this is to 
 confess that our laws are unreasonable in our 
 own opinion ; and, indeed, it may be observed, 
 that all but murderers have, at their last hour, 
 the common sensations of mankind pleading in 
 their favour. From this conviction of the ine- 
 quality of the punishment to the offence, pro- 
 ceeds the frequent solicitation of pardons. They 
 who would rejoice at the correction of a thief, 
 are yet shocked at the thought of destroying 
 him. His crime shrinks to nothing, compared 
 with his misery ; and severity defeats itself by 
 exciting pity. 
 
 The gibbet, indeed, certainly, disables those 
 who die upon it from infesting the community ; 
 but their death seems not to contribute more to
 
 180 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 115. 
 
 the reformation of their associates, than any other 
 method of separation. A thief seldom passes 
 much of his time in recollection or anticipation, 
 but from robbery hastens to riot, and from riot 
 to robbery ; nor, when the grave closes upon 
 his companion, has any other care than to find 
 another. 
 
 The frequency of capital punishments, there- 
 fore, rarely hinders the commission of a crime, 
 but naturally and commonly prevents its detec- 
 tion, and is, if we proceed only upon prudential 
 principles, chiefly for that reason to be avoided. 
 Whatever maybe urged by casuists or politicians, 
 the greater part of mankind, as they can never 
 think that to pick the pocket and to pierce the 
 heart is equally criminal, will scarcely believe 
 that two malefactors so different in guilt can be 
 justly doomed to the same punishment ; nor is 
 the necessity of submitting the conscience to hu- 
 man laws so plainly evinced, so clearly stated, or 
 so generally allowed, but that the pious, the ten- 
 der, and the just, will always scruple to concur 
 with the community in an act which their private 
 judgment cannot approve. 
 
 He who knows not how often rigorous laws 
 produce total impunity, and how many crimes 
 are concealed and forgotten for fear of hurrying 
 the offender to that state in which there is no re- 
 pentance, has conversed very little with mankind. 
 And whatever epithets of reproach or contempt 
 this compassion may incur from those who con- 
 found cruelty with firmness, I know not whether 
 any wise man would wish it less powerful, or 
 less extensive. 
 
 If those whom the wisdom of our laws has 
 condemned to die, had been detected in their ru- 
 diments of robbery, they might, by proper disci- 
 pline and useful labour, have been disentangled 
 from their habits, they might have escaped all 
 the temptations to subsequent crimes, and pass- 
 ed their days in reparation and penitence, and 
 detected they might all have been, had the pro- 
 secutors been certain that their lives would have 
 been spared. I believe, every thief will confess, 
 lhat he has been more than once seized and dis- 
 missed ; and that he has sometimes ventured 
 upon capital crimes, because he knew, that those 
 whom he injured would rather connive at his 
 escape, than cloud their minds with the horrors 
 of his death. 
 
 All laws against wickedness are ineffectual, 
 unless some will inform, and some will prose- 
 cute ; but till we mitigate the penalties for mere 
 violations of property, information will always be 
 hated, and prosecution dreaded. The heart of a 
 good man cannot but recoil at the thought of pu- 
 nishing a slight injury with death ; especially 
 when he remembers that the thief might have 
 procured safety by another crime, from which he 
 was restrained only by his remaining virtue. 
 
 The obligations to assist the exercise of public 
 justice are indeed strong; but they will certainly 
 be overpowered by tenderness for life. What is 
 punished with severity contrary to ou>- : deas of 
 adequate retribution, will be seldom discovered ; 
 and multitudes will be suffered to advance from 
 crime to crime, till they deserve death, because, 
 if they had been sooner prosecuted, they would 
 have suffered death before they deserved it. 
 
 This scheme of invigorating the laws by relax- 
 ation, and extirpating wickedness by lenity, is so 
 remote from common practice, that I might rea- 
 
 sonably fear to expose it to the public, could it be 
 supported only by my own observations. I shall, 
 therefore, by ascribing it to its author, Sir Tho 
 mas More, endeavour to procure it that atten- 
 tion, which I wish always paid to prudence, to 
 justice, and to mercy. 
 
 No. 1-15.] TUESDAY, APRIL 23, 1751. 
 
 Quadam parva quidem, ted non toleranda maritis. 
 
 JUV 
 
 Some faults, though small, intolerable grow. 
 
 DRYDEN 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I SIT down, in pursuance of my late engagement, 
 to recount the remaining part of the adventures 
 that befell me in my long quest of conjugal felici- 
 ty, which, though I have not yet been so happy 
 as to obtain it, I have at least endeavoured to 
 deserve by unwearied diligence, without suffering 
 from repeated disappointments any abatement of 
 my hope, or repression of my activity. 
 
 You must have observed in the world a spe- 
 cies of mortals who employ themselves in pro- 
 moting matrimony, and without any visible mo- 
 tive of interest or vanity, without any disco- 
 verable impulse of malice or benevolence, with- 
 out any reason but that they want objects of at- 
 tention and topics of conversation, are inces- 
 santly busy in procuring wives and husbands. 
 They fill the ears of every single man and woman 
 with some convenient match; and when they 
 are informed of your age and fortune, offer a 
 partner for life, with the same readiness, and the 
 same indifference, as a salesman, when he has 
 taken measure by his eye, fits his customer with 
 a coat. 
 
 It might be expected that they should soon be 
 discouraged from this officious interposition by 
 resentment or contempt ; and that every man 
 should determine the choice on which so much 
 of his happiness must depend, by his own judg- 
 ment and observation ; yet it happens, that as 
 these proposals are generally made with a show 
 of kindness, they seldom provoke anger, but are 
 at worst heard with patience, and forgotten. 
 They influence weak minds to approbation ; for 
 many are sure to find in a new acquaintance, 
 whatever qualities report has taught them to ex- 
 pect ; and in more powerful and active under- 
 standings they excite curiosity, and sometimes 
 by a lucky chance, bring persons of similar tem- 
 pers within the attraction of each other. 
 
 I was known to possess a fortune, and to want 
 a wife ; and therefore was frequently attended 
 by these Hymeneal solicitors, with whose im- 
 portunity I was sometimes diverted, and some- 
 times perplexed ; for they contended for me as 
 vultures for a carcass ; each employing all his 
 eloquence, and all his artifices, to enforce and 
 promote his own scheme, from the success of 
 which he was to receive no other advantage than 
 the pleasure of defeating others equally eagei 
 and equally industrious. 
 
 An invitation to sup with one of those busy 
 friends, made me, by a concerted chance, ac- 
 quainted with Camilla, by whom it was expected 
 that I should be suddenly and irresistibly en
 
 No. 115.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 181 
 
 slaved. The lady whom the same kindness had 
 brought without her own concurrence into the 
 lists of love, seemed to*think me at least worthy 
 of the honour of captivity ; and exerted the 
 power, both of her eyes and wit, with so much 
 art and spirit, that though I had been too often 
 deceived by appearances to devote myself irre- 
 vocably at the first interview, yet I could not 
 suppress some raptures of admiration, and flut- 
 ters of desire. I was easily persuaded to make 
 nearer approaches ; but soon discovered that a 
 union with Camilla was not much to be wished. 
 Camilla professed a boundless contempt for the 
 folly, Levity, ignorance, and impertinence of her 
 own sex ; and very frequently expressed her 
 wonder that men of learning or experience could 
 submit to trifle away life with beings incapable 
 of solid thought. In mixed companies she always 
 associated with the men, and declared her satis- 
 faction when the ladies retired. If any short ex- 
 cursion into the country was proposed, she com- 
 monly insisted upon the exclusion of women 
 from the party ; because, where they were ad- 
 mitted, the timo was wasted in frothy compli- 
 ments, weak indulgences, and idle ceremonies. 
 To show the greatness of her rnind, she avoided 
 all compliance with the fashion ; and to boast 
 the profundity of her kno'wledge, mistook the 
 various textures of silk, confounded tabbies with 
 damasks, and sent for ribands by wrong names. 
 She despised the commerce of stated visits, a 
 farce of empty form without instruction ; and 
 congratulated herself, that she never learned to 
 write message cards. She often applauded the 
 noble sentiment of Plato, who rejoiced that he 
 was born a man rather than a woman ; pro- 
 claimed her approbation of Swift's-opinion, that 
 women are only a higher species of monkeys ; 
 and confessed, that when she considered the be- 
 haviour, or heard the conversation of her sex, 
 she could not but forgive the Turks for suspect- 
 ing them to want souls. 
 
 It was the joy and pride of Camilla to have 
 provoked, by this insolence, all the rage of ha- 
 tred, and all the persecutions of calumny ; nor 
 was she ever more elevated with her own supe- 
 riority, than when she talked of female anger and 
 female cunning. Well, said she, has nature 
 provided that such virulence should be disabled 
 by folly, and such cruelty be restrained by im- 
 potence. 
 
 Camilla doubtless expected, that what she lost 
 on one side, she should gain on the other; and 
 imagined that every male heart would be open to 
 a lady, who made such generous advances to the 
 borders of virility. But man, ungrateful man, 
 instead of springing forward to meet her, shrunk 
 back at her approach. She was persecuted by 
 the ladies as a deserter, and at best received by 
 the men only as a fugitive. I, for my part, 
 amused myself a while with her fopperies, but 
 novelty soon gave way to detestation, for no- 
 thing out of the common order of nature can be 
 long borne. I had no inclination to a wife who 
 had the ruggedness of a man without his force, 
 and the ignorance of a woman without her soft- 
 ness ; nor could I think my quiet and honour to 
 be intrusted to such audacious virtue as was 
 hourly courting danger, and soliciting assault. 
 
 My next mistress was Nitella, a lady of gentle 
 mien, and soft voice, always speaking to approve, 
 and readv to receive direction from those with 
 
 whom chance had brought her into company. 
 In Nitella I promised myself an easy friend, with 
 whom I might loiter away the day without dis- 
 turbance or altercation. I therefore soon re- 
 solved to address her, but was discouraged from 
 prosecuting my courtship, by observing that her 
 apartments were superstitiously regular; and 
 that, unless she had notice of my visit, she was 
 never to be seen. There is a kind of anxious 
 cleanliness which I have always noted as the 
 characteristic of a slattern ; it is the superfluous 
 scrupulosity of guilt, dreading discovery, and 
 shunning suspicion ; it is the violence o f an ef- 
 fort against habit, which being impelled by exter- 
 nal motives, cannot stop at the middle point. 
 
 Nitella was always tricked out rather with 
 nicety than elegance ; and seldom could forbear 
 to discover by her uneasiness and constraint, 
 that her attention was burdened, and her ima- 
 gination engrossed : I therefore concluded, that 
 being only occasionally and ambitiously dressed, 
 she was not familiarized to her own ornaments. 
 There are so many competitors for the fame of 
 cleanliness, that it is not hard to gain informa 
 tion of those that fail, from those that desire to 
 excel ; I quickly found, that Nilella passed her 
 time between finery and dirt ; and was always 
 in a wrapper, nightcap, and slippers, when she 
 was not decorated for immediate show. 
 
 I was then led by my evil destiny to Charyb- 
 dis, who never neglected an opportunity of seizing 
 a new prey when it came within her reach. I 
 thought myself quickly made happy by permis- 
 sion to attend her to public places, and pleased 
 my own vanity with imagining the envy which I 
 should raise in a thousand hearts, by appearing 
 as the acknowledged favourite of Charybdis. 
 She soon after hinted her intention to take a 
 ramble for a fortnight, into a part of the kingdom 
 which she had never seen. I solicited the hap 
 piness of accompanying her, which, after a short 
 reluctance, was indulged me. She had no other 
 curiosity on her journey, than after all possible 
 means of expense ; and was every moment taking 
 occasion to mention some delicacy, which I 
 knew it my duty upon such notices to procure. 
 
 After our return, being now more familiar, she 
 told me, whenever we met, of some new diver 
 sion; at night she had notice of a charming 
 company that would breakfast in the gardens ; 
 and in the morning had been informed of some 
 new song in the opera, some new dress at the 
 playhouse, or some performer at a concert whom 
 she longed to hear. Her intelligence was such, 
 that there never was a show, to which she did 
 not summon me on the second day ; and as she 
 hated a crowd, and could not go alone, I was 
 obliged to attend at some intermediate hour, and 
 pay the price of a whole company. When we 
 passed the streets, she was often charmed with 
 some trinket in the toyshops ; and, from mode- 
 rate desires of seals and snufF-boxes, rose, by de- 
 grees, to gold and diamonds. I now began to 
 find the smile of Charybdis too costly for a pri- 
 vate purse, and added one more to six-and,forty 
 lovers, whose fortune and patience her rapacity 
 had exhausted. 
 
 Imperia then took possession of my affections, 
 but kept them only for a short time. She had 
 newly inherited a large fortune, and having spent 
 the earlier part of her life in the perusal of ro- 
 mances, brought with her into the gay world all
 
 182 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 116. 
 
 the pride of Cleopatra; expected nothing less 
 than vows, altars, and sacrifices; and thought 
 her charms dishonoured, and her power in- 
 fringed, by the softest opposition to her senti- 
 ments, or the smallest transgression of her com- 
 mands. Time might indeed cure this species of 
 pride in a mind not naturally undiscerning, and 
 vitiated only by false representations ; but the 
 operations of time are slow ; and I therefore left 
 her to grow wise at leisure, or to continue in er- 
 ror at her own expense. 
 
 Thus I have hitherto, in spite of myself, passed 
 my life in frozen celibacy. My friends, indeed, 
 often tell me, that I flatter my imagination with 
 higher hopes than human nature can gratify; 
 that I dress up an ideal charmer in all the ra- 
 diance of perfection, and then enter the world to 
 look for the same excellence in corporeal beauty. 
 But surely, Mr. RAMBLER, it is not madness to 
 hope for some terrestrial lady unstained with the 
 spots which I have been describing ; at least, I 
 am resolved to pursue my search ; for I am so 
 far from thinking meanly of marriage, that I be- 
 lieve it able to afford the highest happiness de- 
 creed to our present state ; and if, after all these 
 miscarriages, I find a woman that fills up my 
 expectation, you shall hear once more from 
 Yours, &c. 
 
 HYMEN^EUS. 
 
 No. 116.] SATURDAY, APRIL 27, 1751. 
 
 Of tat ephippia bos pig er; optat arare caballus. 
 
 HOR. 
 
 Thus the slow ox would gaudy trappings claim ; 
 The sprightly horse would plough. FRANCIS. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I WAS the second son of a country gentleman by 
 the daughter of a wealthy citizen of London. 
 My father having by his marriage freed the estate 
 from a heavy mortgage, and paid his sisters their 
 portions, thought himself discharged from all 
 obligation to further thought, and entitled to 
 spend the rest of his life in rural pleasures. He 1 
 therefore spared nothing that might contribute to 
 the completion of his felicity ; he procured the 
 best guns and horses that the kingdom could 
 supply, paid large salaries to his groom and 
 huntsman, and became the envy of the country 
 for the discipline of his hounds. But, above all 
 his other attainments, he was eminent for a 
 breed of pointers and setting-dogs, which by long 
 and vigilant cultivation he had so much im- 
 proved, that not a partridge or heathcock could 
 rest in security ; and game of whatever species, 
 that dared to light upon his manor, was beaten 
 down by his shot, or covered with his nets. 
 
 My elder brother was very early initiated in 
 the chace, and, at an age when other boys are 
 creeping like snails unwillingly to school, he could 
 wind the horn, beat the bushes, bound over 
 hedges, and swim rivers. When the huntsman 
 one day broke his leg, he supplied his place with 
 equal abilities, and came home with the scut in 
 his hat, amidst the acclamations of the whole 
 village. I beine either delicate or timorous, less 
 desirous of honour, or less capable of sylvan he- 
 roism, wad always the favourite of my mother ; 
 
 because I kept my coat clean, and my com- 
 plexion free from freckles ; and did not come 
 home, like my brother, mired and tanned, nor 
 carry corn in my hat to the horse, nor biing dirty 
 curs into the parlour. 
 
 My mother had not been taught to amuse her 
 self with books, and being much inclined to 
 despise the ignorance and barbarity of the coun- 
 try ladies, disdained to learn their sentiments or 
 conversation, and had made no addition to the 
 notions which she had brought from the precincts 
 of Cornhill. She was, therefore, always recount- 
 ing the glories of the city; enumerating the suc- 
 cession of mayors ; celebrating the magnificence 
 of the banquets at Guildhall ; and relating the 
 civilities paid her at the companies' feasts by 
 men, of whom some are now made aldermen, 
 some have fined for sheriffs, and none are worth 
 less than forty thousand pounds. She frequently 
 displayed her father's greatness ; told of the 
 large bills which he had paid at sight ; of the 
 sums for which his vt r ord would pass upon the 
 Exchange ; the heaps of gold which he used on 
 Saturday night to toss about with a shovel ; the 
 extent of his warehouse, and the strength of his 
 doors ; and when she relaxed her imagination 
 with lower subjects, described the furniture of 
 their country-house, or repeated the wit of the 
 clerks and porters. 
 
 By these narratives I was fired with the splen- 
 dour and dignity of London, and of trade. I 
 therefore devoted myself to a shop, and warmed 
 my imagination from year to year with inquiries 
 about the privileges of a freeman, the power of 
 the common council, the dignity of a wholesale 
 dealer, and the grandeur of mayoralty, to which 
 my mother assured me that many had arrived 
 who began the world with less than myself. 
 
 I was very impatient to enter into a path, 
 which led to such honour and felicity; but was 
 forced for a time to endure some repression of 
 my eagerness, for it was my grandfather's max- 
 im, that a young man seldom makes much money, 
 who is out of his time before two-and-hvenly. They 
 thought it necessary, therefore, to keep me at 
 home till the proper age, without any other em- 
 ployment than that of learning merchants' ac- 
 counts, and the art of regulating books ; but at 
 length the tedious days elapsed, I was trans- 
 planted to town, and, with great satisfaction to 
 myself, bound to a haberdasher. 
 
 My master, who had no conception of any 
 virtue, merit, or dignity, but that of being rich, 
 had all the good qualities which naturally arise 
 from a close and unwearied attention to the 
 main chance; his desire to gain wealth was so 
 well tempered by the vanity of showing it, that, 
 without any other principle of action, he lived in 
 the esteem of the whole commercial world ; and 
 was always treated with respect by the only men, 
 whose good opinion he valued or solicited, those 
 who were universally allowed to be richer than 
 himself. 
 
 By his instructions I learned in a few weeks to 
 handle a yard with great dexterity, to wind tape 
 neatly upon the ends of my fingers, and to make 
 up parcels with exact frugality of paper and 
 packthread ; and soon caught from my fellow- 
 apprentices the true grace of a counter-bow, the 
 careless air with which a small pair of scales is 
 to be held between the fingers, and the vigour 
 and sprightliness with which the box, after the
 
 No. 117.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 183 
 
 riband has been cut, is returned into its place. 
 Having no desireofany higher employment, and 
 therefore applying all my powers to the know- 
 ledge of my trade, I was quickly master of all 
 that could be known, became a critic in small 
 wares, contrived new variations of figures, and 
 new mixtures of colours, and was sometimes 
 consulted by the weavers, when they projected 
 fashions for the ensuing spring. 
 
 With all these accomplishments, in the fourth 
 year of my apprenticeship I paid a visit to my 
 friends in the country, where I expected to be 
 received as a new ornament of the family, and 
 consulted by the neighbouring gentlemen as a 
 master of pecuniary knowledge, and by the ladies 
 as an oracle of the mode. But unhappily, at the 
 first public table, to which I was invited, ap- 
 pealed a student of the Temple, and an officer 
 of the guards, who looked upon me with a smile 
 of contempt, which destroyed at once all my 
 hopes of distinction, so that I durst hardly raise 
 my eyes for fear of encountering their superiority 
 of mien. Nor was my courage revived by any 
 opportunities of displaying my knowledge ; for 
 tbs templar entertained the company for part of 
 the day with historical narratives and political 
 observations ; and the colonel afterwards de- 
 tailed the adventures of a birth-night, told the 
 claims and expectations of the courtiers, and gave 
 an account of assemblies, gardens, and diver- 
 sions. I, indeed, essayed to fill up a pause in a 
 parliamentary debate with a faint mention of 
 trade and Spaniards ; and once attempted, with 
 some warmth, to correct a gross mistake about 
 a silver breast-knot ; but neither of my antago- 
 nists seemed to think a reply necessary ; they 
 resumed their discourse without emotion, and 
 again engrossed the attention of the company ; 
 nor did one of the ladies appear desirous to know 
 my opinion of her dress, or to hear how long the 
 carnation shot with white, that was then new 
 amongst them, had been antiquated in to'wn. 
 
 As 1 knew that neither of these gentlemen had 
 more money than myself, I could not discover 
 what had depressed me in their presence ; nor 
 why they were considered by others as more 
 worthy of attention and respect ; and therefore 
 resolved, when we met again, to rouse my spirit, 
 and force myself into notice. I went very early 
 to the next weekly meeting, and was entertain- 
 ing a small circle very successfully with a minute 
 representation of my lord mayor's show, when 
 the colonel entered careless and gay, sat down 
 with a kind of unceremonious civility, and with- 
 out appearing to intend any interruption, drew 
 my audience away to the other part of the room, 
 to which I had not the courage to follow them. 
 Soon after came in the lawyer, not indeed with 
 ths same attraction of mien, but with greater 
 powers of language : and by one or other the 
 company was so happily amused, that I was 
 neither heard nor seen, nor was able to give any 
 other proof of my existence than that 1 put round 
 the glass, and was in my turn permitted to name 
 the toast. 
 
 My mother indeed endeavoured to comfort me 
 in my vexation, by telling me, that perhaps these 
 showy talkers were hardly able to pay everyone 
 his own ; that he who has money in his pocket 
 needs not care what any man says of him ; that 
 if I minded my trade, the time will come when 
 lawyers and soldiers would be glad to borrow out 
 
 of my purse ; and that it is fine, when a man can 
 set his hands to his sides, and say he is worth 
 forty thousand pounds every day of the year 
 These and many more such consolations and 
 encouragements I received from my good mo- 
 ther, which, however, did not much allay my un- 
 easiness ; for having by some accident heard, 
 that the country ladies despised her as a cit, 1 
 had therefore no longer much reverence for her 
 opinions, but considered her as one whose igno- 
 rance and prejudice had hurried me, though with- 
 out ill intentions, into a state of meanness and 
 ignominy, from which I could not find any pos- 
 sibility of rising to the rank which my ancestors 
 had always held. 
 
 I returned, however, to my master, and busied 
 myself among thread, and silks, and laces, but 
 without my former cheerfulness and alacrity. I 
 had now no longer any felicity in contemplating 
 the exact disposition of my powdered curls, the 
 equal plaits of my luffles, or the glossy blackness 
 of my shoes ; nor heard with my former eleva- 
 tion those compliments which ladies sometimes 
 condescended to pay me upon my readiness in 
 twisting a paper, or counting out. the change. 
 The term of Young Man, with which I was some- 
 times honoured, as I carried a parcel to the door 
 of a coach, tortured my imagination ; I grew 
 negligent of my person, and sullen in my tem- 
 per ; often mistook the demands of the custom- 
 ers, treated their caprices and objections with 
 contempt, and received and dismissed them with 
 surly silence. 
 
 My master was afraid lest the shop should 
 suffer by this change of my behaviour; and, 
 therefore, after some expostulation, posted me in 
 the warehouse, and preserved me from the dan- 
 ger and reproach of desertion, to which my dis- 
 content would certainly have urged me, had 1 
 continued any longer behind the counter. 
 
 In the sixth year of my servitude my brother 
 died of drunken joy, for having run down a fox 
 that had baffled all the packs in the province. I 
 was now heir, and with the hearty consent of my 
 master commenced gentleman. The adventures 
 in which my new character engaged me shall be 
 communicated in another letter, by Sir, 
 Yours, &c. 
 
 MISOCAPEI.US. 
 
 No. 117.] TUESDAY, APRIL 30, 1751. 
 
 'Qvcrav err' O6Xi)//7ra> \iiu.aaav OijicV airap ^ir' "Oeraji 
 IIijXiov Avoai<pv\\ov, tv ovpavds <fy//?ardj ttrj. HOM. 
 
 The gods they challenge, and affect the skies: 
 
 Heaveil on Olympus, tottering Ossa stood ; 
 
 On Ossa, Pelion nods with all his wood. POPE 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 NOTHING has more retarded the advancement ol 
 learning than the disposition of vulgar minds to 
 ridicule and vilify what they cannot comprehend. 
 All industry must be excited by hope ; and as the 
 student often proposes no other reward to him- 
 self than praise, he is easily discouraged by con- 
 tempt and insult. He who brings with him into 
 a clamorous multitude the timidity of recluse spe- 
 culation, and has never hardened his front in pub- 
 lic life, or accustomed his passions to the vicissi- 
 tudes and accidents, the triumphs and defeats ot 
 mixed conversation, will blush at the stare of pe-
 
 184 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 117. 
 
 tulant incredulity, and suffer himself to be driven 
 by a burst of laughter, from the fortresses of de- 
 monstration. The mechanist will be afraid to as- 
 sert before hardy contradiction, the possibility of 
 tearing down bulwarks with a silkworm's thread ; 
 and tuc astronomer of relating the rapidity of 
 light, the distance of the fixed stars, and the height 
 of the lunar mountains. 
 
 If I could by any efforts have shaken off this 
 cowardice, I had not sheltered myself under a 
 borrowed name, nor applied to you for the 
 means of communicating to the public the theory 
 of a garret ; a subject which, except some slight 
 and transient strictures, has been hitherto ne- 
 glected by those who were best qualified to adorn 
 it, either for want of leisure to prosecute the vari- 
 ous researches in which a nice discussion must 
 engage them, or because it requires such diversi- 
 ty of knowledge, and such extent of curiosity, as 
 is scarcely to be found in any single intellect; or 
 perhaps others foresaw the tumult which would 
 be raised against them, and confined their know- 
 ledge to their own breasts, and abandoned preju- 
 dice and folly to the direction of chance. 
 
 That the professors of literature generally re- 
 side in the highest stories, has been immemorially 
 observed. The wisdom of the ancients was well 
 acquainted with the intellectual advantages of 
 an elevated situation : why else were the Muses 
 stationed on Olympus, or Parnassus, by those 
 who could with equal right have raised them 
 bowers in the vale of Tempe, or erected their al- 
 tars among the flexures of Meander ? Why was 
 Jove himself nursed upon a mountain ? or why 
 did the goddesses, when the prize of beauty was 
 contested, try the cause upon the top of Ida? 
 Such were the fictions by which the great mas- 
 ters of the earlier ages endeavoured to inculcate 
 to posterity the importance of a garret, which, 
 though they had been long obscured by the negli- 
 gence and ignorance of succeeding times, were 
 well enforced by the celebrated symbol of Pytha- 
 goras, avtpiav ttvt6vTij>v rrjv ij^ii irpociciivti ; " when 
 the wind blows, worship its echo." This could 
 not but be understood by his disciples as an invio- 
 lable injunction to live in a garret, which I have 
 found frequently visited by the echo and the 
 wind. Nor was the tradition wholly obliterated 
 in the age of Augustus, for Tibullus evidently 
 congratulates himself upon hif: garret, not without 
 some allusion to the Pythagorean precept : 
 
 Quamjuvitt immitcs ventos audire cubantem 
 Aut, gelidas hyb trims aquas cumfuderit duster, 
 Secunim somnos, imbrejuvante, sequi ! 
 
 How sweet in sleep to pass the careless hours, 
 Lull'd by the beating winds and dashing showers! 
 
 And it is impossible not to discover the fond- 
 ness of Lucretius, as an early writer, for a garret, 
 in his description of the lofty towers of serene 
 learning, and of the pleasure with which a wise 
 man looks down upon the confused and erratic 
 state of the world moving below him. 
 
 Srd nil dulciut ttt, bent quam munita tenere 
 Edila doctnna sapientum templa serena; 
 Detpicere unde queas alias, passimque videre 
 jL.rra.re, atque viam palanteis quarere vita. 
 
 'Tis sweet thy labouring steps to guide 
 
 To virtue'* heights, with wisdom well supplied, 
 And all the magazines of learning fortified ; 
 From thence to look below on human kind, 
 Bewilder'd in the maze of life, and blind. 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 The institution has, indeed, continued to our 
 own time ; the garret is still the usual receptacle 
 of the philosopher and poet ; but this, like many 
 ancient customs, is perpetuated only by an acci- 
 dental imitation, without knowledge of the ori- 
 ginal reason for which it was established ; 
 
 Causa latet : res est notissima. 
 
 The cause is secret, but th' effect is known 
 
 ADD1SON. 
 
 Conjectures have, indeed, been advanced con- 
 cerning these habitations of literature, but with- 
 out much satisfaction to the judicious inquirer. 
 Some have imagined that the garret is generally 
 chosen by the wits as most easily rented ; and 
 concluded that no man rejoices in his aerial abode, 
 but on the days of payment. Others suspect thai 
 a garret is chiefly convenient, as it is remoter than 
 any other part of the house from the outer door, 
 which is often observed to be infested by visit- 
 ants, who talk incessantly of beer, or linen, or a 
 coat, and repeat the same sounds every morning, 
 and sometimes again in the afternoon, without 
 any variation, except that they grow daily more 
 importunate and clamorous, and raise then 
 voices in time from mournful murmurs to raging 
 vociferations. This eternal monotony is always 
 detestable to a man whose chief pleasure is to 
 enlarge his knowledge and vary his ideas. Others 
 talk of freedom from noise, and abstraction from 
 common business or amusements; and some, 
 yet more visionary, tell us, that the faculties are 
 enlarged by open prospects, and that the fancy 
 is more at liberty, when the eye ranges without 
 confinement 
 
 These conveniences may perhaps all be found 
 in a well-chosen garret; but surely they cannot 
 be supposed sufficiently important to have ope- 
 rated invariably upon different climates, distant 
 ages, and separate nations. Of a universal prac- 
 tice, there must still be presumed a universal 
 cause, which, however recondite and abstruse, 
 may be perhaps reserved to make me illustrious 
 by its discovery, and you by its promulgation. 
 
 It is universally known that the faculties of the 
 mind are invigorated or weakened by the state 
 of the body, and that the body is in a great mea- 
 sure regulated by the various compressions of the 
 ambient element. The effects of the air in the 
 production or cure of corporal maladies have been 
 acknowledged from the time of Hippocrates ; but 
 no man has yet sufficiently considered how far it 
 may influence the operations of the genius, 
 though every day affords instances of local un- 
 derstanding, of wits and reasoners, whose facul- 
 ties are adapted to some single spot, and who, 
 when they are removed to any other place, sink 
 at once into silence and stupidity. I have disco- 
 vered, by a long series of observations, that in- 
 vention and elocution suffer great impediments 
 from dense and impure vapours, and that the te- 
 nuity of a defecated air at a proper distance from 
 the surface of the earth, accelerates the fancy, 
 and sets at liberty those intellectual powers whicl 
 were before shackled by too strong attraction 
 and unable to expand themselves under the prea 
 sure of a gross atmosphere. I have found dul 
 ness to quicken into sentiment in a thin ether, at 
 water, though not very hot, boils in a receive! 
 partly exhausted ; and heads, in appearanc* 
 empty, have teemed with notions upon rising
 
 No. 118.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 185 
 
 ground, as the flaccid sides of a football would I ground stagnates in silence, or creeps in narra- 
 have swelled out into stiffness and extension. tive, might at the height of half a mile, ferment 
 For this reason I never think myself qualified I into merriment, sparkle with repartee, and froth 
 
 to judge decisively of any man's faculties, whom 
 I have only known in one degree of elevation ; 
 but take some opportunity of attending him from 
 the cellar to the garret, and try upon him all the 
 various degrees of rarefaction and condensation, 
 tension and laxity. If he is neither vivacious, 
 aloft, nor serious below, I then consider him as 
 hopeless ; but as it seldom happens, that I do 
 not find the temper to which the texture of his 
 brain is fitted, I accommodate him in time with a 
 tube of mercury, first marking the point most fa- 
 vourable to his intellects, according to rules 
 which I have long studied, and which I may, per- 
 haps, reveal to mankind in a complete treatise 
 of barometrical pneumatology. 
 
 Another cause of the gayety and sprightliness 
 of the dwellers in garrets is probably the increase 
 of that vertiginous motion, with which we are 
 carried round by the diurnal revolution of the 
 earth. The power of agitation upon the spirits 
 is well known ; every man has felt his heart 
 lightened in a rapid vehicle, or on a galloping 
 horse ; and nothing is plainer than that he who 
 towers to the fifth story is whirled through 
 more space by every circumrotation, than ano- 
 ther that grovels upon the ground-floor. The 
 nations between the tropics are known to be fiery, 
 inconstant, inventive, and fanciful ; because, liv- 
 ing at the utmost length of the earth's diameter, 
 they are carried about with more swiftness than 
 those whom nature has placed nearer to the 
 poles ; and, therefore, as it becomes a wise 
 man to struggle with the inconveniences of his 
 country, whenever celerity and acuteness are re- 
 
 guisite, we must actuate our languor by taking a 
 2W turns round the centre in a garret. 
 
 If you imagine that I ascribe to air and motion 
 effects which they cannot produce, I desire you 
 to consult your own memory, and consider whe- 
 ther you have never known a man acquire repu- 
 tation in his garret, which, when fortune or a pa- 
 tron had placed him upon the first floor, he was 
 unable to maintain ; and who never recovered his 
 former vigour of understanding, till he was re- 
 stored to his original situation. That a garret will 
 make every man a wit, I am very far from suppos- 
 ing ; I know there are some who would continue 
 blockheads even on the summit of the Andes, or 
 on the peak of Teneriffe. But let not any man 
 be considered as unimprovable till this potent re- 
 medy has been tried ; for perhaps he was formed 
 to be great only in a garret, as the joiner of Are- 
 taeus was rational in no other place but in his 
 own shop. 
 
 I think a frequent removal to various distances 
 from the centre, so necessary to a just estimate 
 of intellectual abilities, and consequently of so 
 great use in education, that if I hoped that the 
 public could be persuaded to so expensive an 
 experiment, I would propose, that there should 
 be a cavern dug, and a tower erected, like those 
 which Bacon describes in Solomon's house, for 
 the expansion and concentration of understand- 
 in IT, according to the exigence of different em- 
 ployment?, or constitutions. Perhaps some that 
 fume away in meditations upon time and space 
 in the tower, might compose tables of interest 
 
 with declamation. 
 
 Addison observe^ that we may find the heat 
 of Virgil's climate in some lines of his Georgic : 
 so when I read a composition, I immediately de- 
 termine the height of the author's habitation. As 
 an elaborate performance is commonly said to 
 smell of the lamp, my commendation of a noble 
 thought, a sprightly sally, or a bold figure, is to 
 pronounce it fresh from the garret ; an expres 
 sion which would break from me upon the pe 
 rusal of most of your papers, did I not believe 
 that you sometimes quit the garret, and ascend 
 
 into the cock-loft. 
 
 HYPERTATUS. 
 
 No. 118.J SATURDAY, MAT 4, 1751. 
 
 Omnes ittacrymabilet 
 
 Urgentur, ignotique longa 
 Nocte. HOB. 
 
 In endless night they sleep, unwept, unknown. 
 
 FRANCIS. 
 
 CICERO has, with his usual elegance and magni- 
 ficence of language, attempted, in his relation of 
 the dream of Scipio, to depreciate those honours 
 for which he himself appears to have panted with 
 restless solicitude, by snowing within what narrow 
 limits all that fame and celebrity which man can 
 hope for from men is circumscribed. 
 
 "You see," says Africanus, pointing at the 
 earth, from the celestial regions, " that the globe 
 assigned to the residence and habitation of hu- 
 man beings, is of small dimensions : how then 
 can you obtain from the praise of men, any glory 
 worthy of a wish? Of this little world the inha 
 bited parts are neither numerous nor wide ; even 
 the spots where men are to be found are broken 
 by intervening deserts, and the nations are so se- 
 parated as that nothing can be transmitted from 
 one to another. With the people of the south, 
 by whom the opposite part of the earth is pos- 
 sessed, you have no intercourse ; and by how 
 small a tract do you communicate with the coun- 
 tries of the north 1 The territory which you in- 
 habit is no more than a scanty Island, inclosed 
 by a small body of water, to which you give the 
 name of the great sea and the Atlantic ocean. 
 And even in this known and frequented conti- 
 nent, what hope can you entertain, that your re- 
 nown will pass the stream of Ganges, or the cliffs 
 of Caucasus 1 or by whom will your name be 
 uttered in the extremities of the north or south, 
 towards the rising or the setting sun 1 So narrow 
 is the space to w hich your fame can be propagat- 
 ed, and even there how long will it remain 1" 
 
 He then proceeds to assign natural causes, 
 why fame is not only narrow in its extent, but 
 short in its duration ; he observes the difference 
 between the computation of time in earth and 
 heaven, and declares that, according to the ce- 
 lestial chronology, no human honours can last a 
 single year. 
 
 Such are the objections by which Tully has 
 made a show of discouraging the pursuit of fame ; 
 objections which sufficiently discover his tender- 
 ness and regard for his darling phantom. Ho- 
 mer, when the plan of his poem made the death of 
 
 at a certain depth : and he that upon level I Patroclus necessary resolved, at least, that he 
 Y
 
 186 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. I1& 
 
 should die with honour ; and therefore brought 
 down against him the patron god of Troy, and 
 left to Hector only the mean task of giving the 
 last blow to an enemy whom a Divine hand had 
 disabled from resistance. Thus Tully ennobles 
 fame, which he professes to degrade, by opposing 
 it to celestial happiness ; he confines not its ex- 
 tent but by the boundaries of nature, nor con- 
 tracts its duration but by representing it small in 
 the estimation of superior beings. He still ad- 
 mits it the highest and noblest of terrestrial ob- 
 jects, and alleges little more against it, than that 
 it is neither without end, nor without limits. 
 
 What might be the effect of these observations 
 conveyed in Ciceronian eloquence to Roman un- 
 derstandings, cannot be determined ; but few of 
 those who shall in the present age read my hum- 
 ble version, will find themselves much depressed 
 in their hopes, or retarded in their designs ; for I 
 am not inclined to believe, that they who among 
 us pass their lives in the cultivation of knowledge, 
 or acquisition of power, have very anxiously in- 
 quired what opinions prevail on the further banks 
 of the Ganges, or invigorated any effort by the de- 
 sire of spreading their renown among the clans 
 of Caucasus. The hopes and fears of modern 
 minds are content to range in a narrower com- 
 pass ; a single nation, and a few years, have ge- 
 nerally sufficient amplitude to fill our imagina- 
 tions. 
 
 A little consideration will indeed teach us, that 
 fame has other limits than mountains and oceans ; 
 and that he who places happiness in the frequent 
 repetition of his name, may spend his life in pro- 
 pagating it, without any danger of weeping for 
 new worlds, or necessity of passing the Atlantic 
 sea. 
 
 The numbers to whom any real and perceptible 
 good or evil can be derived by the greatest power, 
 or most active diligence, are inconsiderable ; and 
 where neither benefit nor mischief operate, the 
 only motive to the mention or remembrance of 
 others is curiosity ; a passion, which, though in 
 some degree universally associated to reason, is 
 easily confined, overborne, or diverted from any 
 particular object. 
 
 Among the lower classes of mankind, there 
 will be found very little desire of any other know- 
 ledge, than what may contribute immediately to 
 the relief of some pressing uneasiness, or the at- 
 tainment of some near advantage. The Turks 
 are said to hear with wonder a proposal to walk 
 out, only that they may walk back ; and inquire 
 why any man should labour for nothing? So 
 those whose condition has always restrained them 
 to the contemplation of their own necessities, and 
 who have been accustomed to look forward only 
 to a small distance, will scarcely understand, why 
 nights and days should be spent in studies, which 
 end in new studies, and which, according to Mal- 
 herbe's observation, do not tend to lessen the 
 price of bread ; nor will the trader or manufac- 
 turer easily be persuaded, that much pleasure 
 can arise from the mere knowledge of actions, 
 performed in remote regions, or in distant times ; 
 or that any thing can deserve their inquiry, of 
 which *>iof oov aKovoji.iv, oiill rt K/jttv, we can only 
 hear the report, but which cannot influence our 
 hves by any consequences. 
 
 The truth is, that very few have leisure from 
 indispensable business, to employ their thoughts 
 
 upon narrative or characters ; and among those 
 to whom fortune has given the liberty of living 
 more by their own choice, many create to them- 
 selves engagements, by the indulgence of some 
 petty ambition, the admission of some insatiable 
 desire, or the toleration of some predominant 
 passion. The man whose whole wish is to ac- 
 cumulate money, has no other care than to col- 
 lect interest, to estimate securities, and to engage 
 for mortgages : the lover disdains to turn his ear 
 to any other name than that of Corinna ; and 
 the courtier thinks the hour lost, which is not 
 spent in promoting his interest, and facilitating 
 his advancement. The adventurers of valour, 
 and the discoveries of science, will find a cold 
 reception, when they are obtruded upon an at- 
 tention thus busy with its favourite amusement, 
 and impatient of interruption or disturbance. 
 
 But not only such employments as seduce at- 
 tention by appearances of dignity, or promises of 
 happiness, may restrain the mind from excur- 
 sion and inquiry : curiosity may be equally de- 
 stroyed by less formidable enemies ; it may be 
 dissipated in trifles, or congealed by indolence. 
 The sportsmen and the men of dress have their 
 heads filled with a fox or a horse-race, a feather 
 or a ball ; and live in ignorance of every thing 
 beside, with as much content as he that heaps up 
 gold, or solicits preferment, digs the field, or 
 beats the anvil ; and some yet lower in the ranks 
 of intellect, dream out their days without plea- 
 sure or business, without joy or sorrow, nor ever 
 rouse from their lethargy to hear or think. 
 
 Even of those who have dedicated themselves 
 to knowledge, the far greater part have confined 
 their curiosity to a few objects, and have very lit- 
 tle inclination to promote any fame, but that 
 which their own studies entitle them to partake. 
 The naturalist has no desire to know the opinion 3 
 or conjectures of the philologer: the botanist 
 looks upon the astronomer as a being unworthy 
 of his regard ; the lawyer scarcely hears the name 
 of a physician without contempt ; and he that is 
 growing great and happy by electrifying a bottle, 
 wonders how the world can be engaged by tri- 
 fling prattle about war or peace. 
 
 If, therefore, he that imagines the world filled 
 with his actions and praises, shall subduct from 
 the number of his encomiast, all those who are 
 placed below the flight of fame, and who hear in 
 the valleys of life no voice but that of necessi- 
 ty ; all those who imagine themselves too import- 
 ant to regard him, and consider the mention oS 
 his name as a usurpation of their time ; all who 
 are too much or too little pleased with them- 
 selves, to attend to any thing external ; all who are 
 attracted by pleasure, or chained down by pain, 
 to unvaried ideas ; all who are withheld from at- 
 tending his triumph by different pursuits ; and 
 all who slumber in universal negligence ; he will 
 find his renown straitened by nearer bounds than 
 the rocks of Caucasus, and perceive that no man 
 can be venerable or formidable, but to a small 
 part of his fellow-creatures. 
 
 That we may not languish in our endeavours 
 after excellence, it is necessary that, as Afiicanus 
 counsels his descendant, " we raise our eyes to 
 higher prospects, and contemplate our future and 
 eternal state, without giving up our hearts to the 
 praise of crowds, or fixing our hopes on such re- 
 wards as human power can bestow."
 
 No. 119.] THE RAMBLER. 
 
 No. 1J9.] TUESDAT, MAY 7, 1751. 
 
 lliacos intra muros peccatur, et extra. HOR. 
 
 Faults lay on either side the Trojan towers. 
 
 EL.PHINSTON. 
 
 187 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 As, notwithstanding all that wit, or malice, or 
 pride, or prudence, will be able to suggest, men 
 and women must at last pass their lives together, 
 I have never therefore thought those writers 
 friends to human happiness, who endeavour to 
 excite in either sex a general contempt or sus- 
 picion of the other. To persuade them who arc 
 entering the world, and looking abroad for a 
 suitable associate, that all are equally vicious, or 
 equally ridiculous ; that they who trust are cer- 
 tainly betrayed, and they who esteem are always 
 disappointed ; is not to awaken judgment, but 
 to inflame temerity. Without hope there can 
 be no caution. Those who are convinced, that 
 no reason for preference can be found, will never 
 harass their thoughts with doubt and delibera- 
 tion ; they will resolve, since they are doomed 
 to misery, that no needless anxiety shall disturb 
 their quiet ; they will plunge at hazard into the 
 crowd, and snatch the first hand that shall be 
 held toward them. 
 
 That the world is over-run with vice cannot 
 be denied ; but vice, however predominant, has 
 not yet gained an unlimited dominion. Simple 
 and unmingled good is not in our power, but we 
 may generally escape a greater evil by suffering 
 a less ; and therefore, those who undertake to 
 initiate the young and ignorant in the knowledge 
 of life, should be careful to inculcate the possi- 
 bility of virtue and happiness, and to encourage 
 endeavours by prospects of success. 
 
 You, perhaps, do not suspect, that these are 
 the sentiments of one who has been subject for 
 many years to all the hardships of antiquated 
 virginity ; has been long accustomed to the cold- 
 ness of neglect, and the petulance of insult ; has 
 been mortified in full assemblies by inquiries 
 after forgotten fashions, games long disused, and 
 wits and beauties of ancient renown ; has been 
 invited, with malicious importunity, to the second 
 wedding of many acquaintances ; has been ridi- 
 culed by two generations of coquettes in whis- 
 pers intended to be heard : and been long con- 
 sidered by the airy and gay, as too venerable for 
 familiarity, and too wise for pleasure. It is in- 
 deed natural for injury to provoke anger, and by 
 continual repetition to produce an habitual as- 
 perity; yet I have hitherto struggled with so 
 much vigilance against my pride and my resent- 
 ment, that I have preserved my temper uncor- 
 rupted. I have not yet made it any part of my 
 employment to collect sentences against mar- 
 riage; nor am inclined to lessen the number of 
 the few friends whom time has left me, by ob- 
 structing that happiness which I cannot partake, 
 and venting my vexation in censures of the for- 
 wardness and indiscretion of girls, or the incon- 
 stancy, tastelessness, and perfidy of men. 
 
 It is, indeed, not very difficult to bear that con- 
 dition to which we are not condemned by neces- 
 sity, but induced by observation and choice; and 
 therefore I, perhaps, have never yet felt all the 
 malignity with which a reproach, edged with the 
 appellation of old maid, swells some of those 
 
 hearts in which it is infixed. I was not con- 
 demned in my youth to solitude, either by indi- 
 gence or deformity, nor passed the earlier part 
 of life without the flattery of courtship, and the 
 joys of triumph. I have danced the round ofgay- 
 ety amidst the murmurs of envy, andgratulations 
 of applause; been attended from pleasure to 
 pleasure by the great, the sprightly, and the vain ; 
 and seen my regard solicited by the obsequious- 
 ness of gallantry, the gayety of wit, and the timid- 
 ity of love. Ifj therefore, I am yet a stranger to 
 nuptial happiness, I suffer only the consequences 
 of my own resolves, and can look back upon the 
 succession of lovers, whoss addresses I have re- 
 jected, without grief, and without malice. 
 
 When my name first began to be inscribed 
 upon glasses, I wag honoured with the amorous 
 professions of the gay Venustulus, a gentleman, 
 who, being the only son of a wealthy family, had 
 been educated in all the wantonness of expense, 
 and softness of effeminacy. He was beautiful in 
 in his person, and easy in his address ; and, 
 therefore, soon gained upon my eye at an ag 
 when the sight is-very little over-ruled by the un- 
 derstanding. He had not any power in himself 
 of gladdening or amusing: but supplied his want 
 of conversation by treats and diversions : and his 
 chief art of courtship was to fill the mind of his 
 mistress with parties, rambles, music, and shows. 
 We were often engaged in short excursions 
 to gardens and seats, and I was for a while 
 pleased with the care which Venustulus discov 
 ered in securing me from any appearance of dan- 
 ger, or possibility of mischance. He never failed 
 to recommend caution to his coachman, or to 
 promise the waterman a reward if he landed us 
 safe ; and always contrived to return by day- 
 light for fear of robbers. This extraordinary so- 
 licitude was represented for a time as the effect 
 of his tenderness for me ; but fear is too strong 
 for continued hypocrisy. I soon discovered, that 
 Venustulus had the cowardice as well as ele- 
 gance of a female. His imagination was per- 
 petually clouded with terrors, and he could 
 scarcely refrain from screams and outcries at 
 any accidental surprise. He durst not enter a 
 room if a rat, was heard behind the wainscot, nor 
 cross a field where the cattle were frisking in the 
 sunshine ; the least breeze that waved upon the 
 river was a storm, and every clamour in the 
 street was a cry of fire. I have seen him lose 
 his colour when my squirrel had broke his chain ; 
 and was forced to throw water in his face on the 
 sudden entrance of a black cat Compassion 
 once obliged me to drive away with my fan a 
 beetle that kept him in distress, and chide off" a 
 dog that yelped at his heels, to which he would 
 gladly have given up me to facilitate his own 
 escape. W omen naturally expect defence and 
 protection from a lover or a husband, and there- 
 fore you will not think me culpable in refusing a 
 wretch, who would have burdened life with un- 
 necessary fears, and flown to me for that suc- 
 cour which it was his duty to have given. 
 
 My next lover was Fungosa, the son of a stock- 
 jobber, whose visits my friends, by the impor- 
 tunity of persuasion, prevailed upon me to allow. 
 Fungosa was no very suitable companion ; for 
 having been bred in a counting-house, he spoke 
 a language unintelligible in any other place. He 
 had no desire of any reputation but that of an 
 acute prognosticator of the changes in the funds;
 
 188 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 No. 120- 
 
 nor had any means of raising merriment, but by 
 telling how somebody was over-reached in a 
 bargain by his father. He was, however, a 
 youth of great sobriety and prudence, and fre- 
 quently informed us how carefully he would im- 
 prove my fortune. I was not in haste to conclude 
 the match, but was so much awed by rny pa- 
 rents, that I durst not dismiss him, and might 
 perhaps have been doomed for ever to the gross- 
 ness of pedlary, and the jargon of usury, had not 
 a fraud been discovered in the settlement, which 
 set me free from the persecution of grovelling 
 pride, and pecuniary impudence. 
 
 I was afterwards six months without any par- 
 ticular notice, but at last became the idol of the 
 glittering Flosculus, who prescribed the mode of 
 embroidery to all the fops of his time, and varied 
 at pleasure the cock of every hat, and the sleeve 
 of every coat that appeared in fashionable as- 
 semblies. Flosculus made some impression upon 
 my heart by a compliment which few ladies can 
 hear without emotion ; he commended my skill 
 in dress, my judgment in suiting colours, and my 
 art in disposing ornaments. But Flosculus was 
 too much engaged by his own elegance, to be 
 sufficiently attentive to the duties of a lover, or 
 to please with varied praise an ear made delicate 
 by riot of adulation. He expected to be repaid 
 part of his tribute, and stayed away three days, 
 because I neglected to take notice of a new coat. 
 I quickly found, that Flosculus was rather a 
 rival than an admirer ; and that we should pro- 
 bably live in a perpetual struggle of emulous 
 finery, and spend our lives in stratagems to be 
 first in the fashion. 
 
 I had soon after the honour at a feast of at- 
 tracting the eyes of Dcntatus, one of those human 
 beings whose only happiness is to dine. Denta- 
 tus regaled me with foreign varieties, told me of 
 measures that he had laid for procuring the best 
 cook in France, and entertained me with bills of 
 fare, prescribed the arrangement of dishes, and 
 taught me two sauces invented by himself. At 
 length, such is the uncertainty of human happi- 
 ness, I delared my opinion too hastily upon a pie 
 made under his own direction ; after which he 
 rew so cold and negligent, that he was easily 
 dismissed. 
 
 Many other lovers, or pretended lovers, I have 
 had the honour to lead a while in triumph. But 
 two of them I drove from me, by discovering that 
 they had no taste or knowledge in music ; three 
 I dismissed, because they were drunkards; two, 
 because they paid their addresses at the same 
 time to other ladies ; and six, because they at- 
 tempted to influence my choice by bribing my 
 maid. Two more I discarded at the second visit 
 for obscene allusions ; and five for drollery on 
 religion. In the latter part of my reign, I sen- 
 tenced two to perpetual exile, for offering me 
 settlements, by which the children of a former 
 marriage would have been injured ; four, for re- 
 presenting falsely the value of their estates ; three, 
 for concealing their debts ; and one, for raising 
 the rent of a decrepit tenant. 
 
 I have now sent you a narrative, which the 
 ladies may oppose to the tale of Hymenseus. J 
 mean not to depreciate the sex which has pro- 
 duced poets and philosophers, heroes and mar- 
 tyrs ; but will not suffer the rising generation of 
 beauties to be dejected by partial satire ; or to 
 imagine that those who censured them have not 
 
 likewise their follies and their vices. I do not 
 yet believe happiness unattainable in marriage, 
 though I have never yet been able to find a man,, 
 with whom 1 could prudently venture an insepa- 
 rable union. It is necessary to expose faults, 
 that their deformity may be seen ; but the re- 
 proach ought not to be extended beyond the 
 crime, nor either sex to be condemned because 
 some women, or men, are indelicate or dishonest. 
 I am, &c. 
 
 TRANQUILLA. 
 
 No. 120.] SATURDAY, MAT 11, 1751. 
 
 Reddiltum Cyri solio Phraaten, 
 
 JDissidens plcbi, numero beutorum 
 
 Ezimit virtus, popiilumqite Jaisis 
 
 Dedocet vti 
 
 True virtue can the crowd unteach 
 Their false mistaken forms of speech ; 
 Virtue, to crowds a foe profess'd, 
 Disdains to number with the bless'd 
 Phraates, by liis slaves adored, 
 And to the Parthian crown restored. 
 
 IN the reign of Jenghiz Can, conqueror of the 
 east, in the city of Samarcand, lived Nouradin 
 the merchant, renowned throughout all the re- 
 gions of India for the extent of his commerce, and 
 the integrity of his dealings. His warehouses 
 were filled with all the commodities of the re- 
 motest nations ; every rarity of nature, every cu- 
 riosity of art, whatever was valuable, whatever 
 was useful, hasted to his hand. The streets 
 were crowded with his carriages ; the sea was 
 covered with his ships ; the streams of Oxua 
 were wearied with conveyance, and every breeze 
 of the sky wafted wealth to Nouradin. 
 
 At length Nouradin felt himself seized with a 
 slow malady, which he first endeavoured to di- 
 vert by application, and afterwards to relieve by 
 luxury and indulgence; but finding his strength 
 every day less, he was at last terrified, and called 
 for help upon the sages of physic : they filled 
 his apartments with alexipharmics, restoratives, 
 and essential virtues ; the pearls of the ocean 
 were dissolved, the spices of Arabia were dis- 
 tilled, and all the powers of nature were em- 
 ployed to give new spirits to his nerves, and new 
 balsam to his blood. Nouradin was for some 
 time amused with promises, invigorated with 
 cordials, or soothed with anodynes ; but the dis- 
 ease preyed upon his vitals, and he soon disco- 
 vered with indignation, that health was not to be 
 bought. He was confined to his chamber, de- 
 serted by his physicians, and rarely visited by 
 his friends ; but his unwillingness to die flattered 
 him long with hopes of life. 
 
 At length, having passed the night in tedious 
 languor, he called to him Almamoulin, his only 
 son, and, dismissing his attendants, "My son," 
 says he, " behold here the weakness and fragility 
 of man; look backward a few days, thy father 
 was great and happy, fresh as the vernal rose, 
 and strong as the cedar of the mountain ; the 
 nations of Asia drank his dews, and art and com- 
 merce delighted in his shade. Malevolence be- 
 held me, and sighed : His root, she cried, is fixed 
 in the depths ; it is watered by the fountains o{ 
 Oxus ; it sends out branches afar, and bids defi 
 ance to the blast ; prudence reclines against his
 
 No. 120.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 189 
 
 trunk, and prosperity dances on his top. Now, 
 Almamoulin, look upon me withering and pros- 
 trate; look upon me, and attend. 1 have traf- 
 ficked, I have prospered, I have rioted in gain ; 
 rny house is splendid, my servants are numerous; 
 yet 1 displayed only a small part of my riches ; 
 the rest, which I was hindered from enjoying by 
 the fear of raising envy, or tempting rapacity, 1 
 have piled in towers, I have buried in caverns, I 
 have hidden in secret repositories, which this 
 scroll will discover. My purpose was, after ten 
 months more spent in commerce, to have with- 
 drawn my wealth to a safer country ; to have 
 given seven years to delight and festivity, and 
 the remaining part of my days to solitude and 
 repentance; but the hand of death is upon me; 
 a frigoritic torpor encroaches upon my veins ; I 
 am now leaving the produce of my toil, which it 
 must be thy business to enjoy with wisdom." 
 The thought of leaving his wealth filled Noura- 
 din with such grief, that he fell into convulsions, 
 became delirious, and expired. 
 
 Almamoulin, who loved his father, was touch- 
 ed awhile with honest sorrow, and sat two hours 
 in profound meditation, without perusing the 
 paper which he held in his hand. He then re- 
 tired to his own chamber, as overborne with af- 
 fliction, and there read the inventory of his new 
 possessions, which swelled his heart with such 
 transports, that he no longer lamented his father's 
 death. Us was now sufficiently composed to 
 order a funeral of modest magnificence, suitable 
 at once to the rank of Nouradin's profession, and 
 the reputation of his wealth. The two next 
 nights he spent in visiting the tower and the ca- 
 verns, and found the treasures greater to his eye 
 than to his imagination. 
 
 Almamoulin had been bred to the practice of 
 exact frugality, and had often looked with envy 
 on the finery and expenses of other young men : 
 he therefore believed that happiness was now in 
 his power, since he could obtain all of which he 
 had hitherto been accustomed to regret the want 
 He resolved to give a loose to his desires, to re- 
 vel in enjoyment, and feel pain or uneasiness no 
 more. 
 
 He immediately procured a splendid equipage, 
 dressed his servants in rich embroidery, and 
 covered his horses with golden caparisons. He 
 showered down silver on the populace, and suf- 
 fered their acclamations to swell him with inso- 
 lence. The nobles saw him with anger, the 
 wise men of the state combined against him, the 
 leaders of armies threatened his destruction. Al- 
 mamoulin was informed of his danger: he put 
 on the robe of mourning in the presence of his 
 enemies, and appeased them with gold, and 
 gems, and supplication. 
 
 He then sought to strengthen himself, by an 
 alliance with the princes of Tartary, and offered 
 the price of kingdoms for a wife of noble birth. 
 His suit was generally rejected, and his presents 
 refused ; but a princess of Astracan once conde- 
 scended to admit him to her presence. She re- 
 ceived him sitting on a throne, attired in the robe 
 of royalty, and shining with the jewels of Gol- 
 conda; command sparkled in her eyes, and dig- 
 nity towered on her forehead. Almamoulin ap- 
 proached and trembled. She saw his confusion 
 and disdained him : How, says she, dares the 
 wretch hope my obedience, who thus shrinks at 
 my glance ? Retire, and enjoy thy riches in sor- 
 
 did ostentation; thou wast bom to be wealthy, 
 but never canst be great. 
 
 He then contracted his desires to more private 
 and domestic pleasures. He built palaces, he 
 laid out gardens, he changed the face of the land, 
 he transplanted forests, he levelled mountains, 
 opened prospects into distant regions, poured 
 fountains from the tops of turrets, and rolled 
 rivers through new channels. 
 
 These amusements pleased him for a time ; 
 but languor and weariness soon invaded him. 
 His bowers lost their fragrance, and the waters 
 murmured without notice. He purchased large 
 tracts of land in distant provinces, adorned them 
 with houses of pleasure, and diversified them with 
 accommodations for different seasons. Change 
 of place at first relieved his satiety, but aii the 
 novelties of situation were soon exhausted ; he 
 found his heart vacant, and his desires, for want 
 of external objects, ravaging himself. 
 
 He therefore returned to Samarcand, and set 
 open his doors to those whom idleness sends out 
 in search of pleasure. His tables were always 
 covered with delicacies ; wines of every vintage 
 sparkled in his bowls, and his lamps scattered 
 perfumes. The sound of the lute, and the voice 
 of the singer, chased away sadness; every hour 
 was crowded with pleasure ; and the day ended 
 and began with feasts and dances, and revelry 
 and merriment. Almamoulin cried out, " I have 
 at last found the use of riches ; 1 am surrounded 
 by companions, who view my greatness without 
 envy ; and I enjoy at once the raptures of popu- 
 larity, and the safety of an obscure station. What 
 trouble can he feel, whom all are studious to 
 please, that they may be repaid with pleasure ? 
 What danger can he dread, to whom every man 
 is a friend ? 
 
 Such were the thoughts of Almamoulin, as he 
 looked down from a gallery upon the gay assem- 
 bly, regaling at his expense ; but in the midst of 
 this soliloquy, an officer of justice entered the 
 house, and in the form of legal citation, sum- 
 moned Almamoulin to appear before the em 
 peror. The guests stood awhile aghast, then 
 stole imperceptibly away, and he was led off 
 without a single voice to witness his integrity. 
 He now found one of his most frequent visitants 
 accusing him of treason, in hopes of sharing his 
 confiscation; yet, unpatronized and unsupported, 
 he cleared himself by the openness of innocence, 
 and the consistence of truth ; he was dismissed 
 with honour, and his accuser perished in prison. 
 
 Almamoulin now perceived with how little 
 reason he had hoped for jutisce or fidelity from 
 those who live only to gratify their senses : and, 
 being now weary with vain experiments upon 
 life and fruitless researches after felicity, he had 
 recourse to a sage, who after spending his youth 
 in travel and observation, had reiired from all 
 human cares, to a small habitation on the banks 
 of Oxus, where he conversed only with such as 
 solicited his counsel. " Brother," said the phi- 
 losopher, " thou hast suffered thy reason to be 
 deluded by idle hopes and fallacious appearances. 
 Having long looked with desire upon riches, 
 thou hadst taught thyself to think them more 
 valuable than nature designed them? and to ex- 
 pect from them, what experience has now taught 
 thee, that they cannot give. That they do not 
 confer wisdom, thou mayest be convinced, by 
 considering at how dear a price they tempted
 
 190 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 121. 
 
 thee, upon thy first entrance into the world, to 
 purchase the 'empty sound of vulgar acclama- 
 tion. That they cannot bestow fortitude or mag- 
 nanimitv, lliat man may be certain, who stood 
 trembling at Astracan, before a being not natu- 
 rally superior to himself. That they will not 
 supply unexhausted pleasure, the recollection of 
 forsaken palaces, and neglected gardens ;> will 
 easily inform thee. That they rarely purchase 
 ' friends, thou didst soon discover, when thou wert 
 left to stand thy trial uncountenanced and alone. 
 Yet think not riches useless ; there are purposes 
 to which a wise man may be delighted to apply 
 them ; they may, by a rational distribution to 
 those who want them, ease the pains of helpless 
 disease, still the throbs of restless anxiety, re- 
 lieve innocence from oppression, and raise imbe- 
 cility to cheerfulness and vigour. This they will 
 enable thee to perform, and this will afford the 
 only happiness ordained for our presen'. state, 
 the confidence of Divine favour, and the hope of 
 future rewards." 
 
 No. 121.] TUESDAY, MAY 14, 1751. 
 
 O imitatores, servum pecus ! HOH. 
 
 Away, ye imitators, servile herd 1 
 
 ELPHIXSTON. 
 
 I HAVE been informed by a letter from one of the 
 universities, that among the youth from whom 
 the next swarm of reasoners is to learn philoso- 
 phy, and the next flight of beauties to hear elegies 
 and sonnets, there are many, who, instead of en- 
 deavouring by books and meditation to form 
 their own opinions, content themselves with the 
 secondary knowledge, which a convenient bench 
 in a cofFae-house can supply : and, without any 
 examination or distinction, adopt the criticisms 
 and remarks which happen to drop from those 
 who have risen, by merit or fortune, to reputa^ 
 tion and authority. 
 
 These humble retailers of knowledge my cor- 
 respondent stigmatizes with the name of Echoes ; 
 and seems desirous that they should be made 
 ashamed of lazy submission, and animated to 
 attempts after new discoveries, and original sen- 
 timents. 
 
 It is very natural for young men to be vehe- 
 ment, acrimonious and severe. For as they sel- 
 dom comprehend at once all the consequences 
 of a position, or perceive the difficulties by which 
 cooler and more experienced reasoners are re- 
 strained from confidence, they form their conclu- 
 sions with great precipitance. Seeing nothing 
 that can darken or embarrass the question, they 
 expect to find their own opinion universally pre- 
 valent, and are inclined to impute uncertainty 
 and hesitation to want of honesty, rather than of 
 knowledge. I may perhaps, therefore, be re- 
 proached by my lively correspondent, when it 
 shall be found, that I have no inclination to per- 
 secute these collectors of fortuitous knowledge 
 with Ihe severity required ; yet, as I am now 
 too old to be much pained by hasty censure, I 
 shall not be afraid of taking into protection those 
 whom I think condemned without a sufficient 
 knowledge of their cause. 
 
 He that adopts the sentiments of another, 
 whom he has reason to bslieve wiser than him- 
 telf, is only to be blamed when he claims the 
 
 honours which are not due but to the author, and 
 endeavours to deceive the world into praise and 
 veneration ; for to learn is the proper business 
 of youth ; and whether we increase our know- 
 ledse by books or by conversation, we are equally 
 ndebted to foreign assistance. 
 
 The greater part of students are not born with 
 abilities to construct systems, or advance know- 
 ledge ; nor can have any hope beyond that of 
 becoming intelligent hearers in the schools of 
 art, of being able to comprehend what others 
 discover, and to remember what others teach. 
 Even those to whom Providence hath allotted 
 greater strength of understanding, can expect 
 only to improve a single science. In every other 
 part of learning, they must be content to follow 
 opinions, which they are not able to examine : 
 and, even in that which they claim as peculiarly 
 their own, can seldom add more than some small 
 particle of knowledge to the hereditary stock de- 
 volved to them from ancient times, the collective 
 labour of a thousand intellects. 
 
 In science, which, being fixed and limited, ad- 
 mits of no other variety than such as arises from 
 new methods of distribution, or new arts of il- 
 lustration, the necessity of following the traces 
 of our predecessors is indisputably evident; bu* 
 there appears no reason why imagination should 
 be subject to the same restraint. It might be 
 conceived, that of those who profess to forsake 
 the narrow paths of truth, every one may devi- 
 ate towards a different point, since, though rec- 
 titude is uniform and fixed, obliquity, may be in- 
 finitely diversified. The roads of science are 
 narrow, so that they who travel them, must 
 either follow or meet one another; but in the 
 boundless regions of possibility, which fiction 
 claims for her dominion, there are surely a thou- 
 and recesses unexplored, a thousand flowers un- 
 plucked, a thousand fountains unexhausted, com- 
 binations of imagery yet unobserved, und races 
 of ideal inhabitants not hitherto described. 
 
 Yet, whatever hope may persuade, or reason 
 evince, experience can boast of very few addi- 
 tions to ancient fable. The wars of Troy, and 
 the travels of Ulysses, have furnished almost all 
 succeeding poets with incidents, characters, and 
 sentiments. The Romans are confessed to have 
 attempted little more than to display in their 
 own tongue the inventions of the Greeks. There 
 is, in all their writings, such a perpetual recur- 
 rence of allusions to the tales of the fabulous 
 age, that they must be confessed often to want 
 that power of giving pleasure which novelty sup- 
 plies; nor can we wonder that they excelled so 
 much in the graces of diction, when we consider 
 how rarely they were employed in search of new 
 thoughts. 
 
 The warmest admirers of the great Mantuan 
 poet can extol him for little more than the skill 
 with which he has, by making his hero both a 
 traveller and a warrior, united the beauties of 
 the Iliad and the Odyssey in one composition ; 
 yet his judgment was perhaps sometimes over- 
 borne by his avarice of the Homeric treasures; 
 and, for fear of suffering a sparkling ornament 
 to be lost, he has inserted it where it cannot 
 shine with its original splendour. 
 
 When Ulysses visited the infernal regions, he 
 found among the heroes that perished at Troy, 
 his competitor Ajax, who, when the arms of 
 Achilles were adjudged to Ulysses, died by hi*
 
 No. 122.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 191 
 
 own hand in the madness of disappointment. 
 He still appeared to resent, as on earth, his loss 
 and disgrace. Ulysses endeavoured to pacify 
 him with praises and submission; but Ajax 
 walked away without reply. This passage has 
 always been considered as eminently beautiful ; 
 because Ajax, the haughty chief, the unlettered 
 soldier, of unshaken courage, of imrno veable con- 
 stancy, but without the power of recommending 
 his own virtues by eloquence, or enforcing his 
 assertions by any other argument than the sword, 
 had no way of making his anger known but by 
 gloomy sullenness, and dumb ferocity. His ha- 
 tred of a man whom he conceived to have de- 
 feated him only by volubility of tongue, was 
 therefore naturally shown by silence, more con- 
 temptuous and piercing than any words that so 
 rude an orator could have found, and by which 
 he gave his enemy no opportunity of exerting 
 the only power in which he was superior. 
 
 When ,<Eneas is sent by Virgil to the shades, 
 he meets Dido the queen of Carthage, whom 
 his perfidy has hurried to the grave ; he accosts 
 her with tenderness and excuses ; but the lady 
 turns away like Ajax in mute disdain. She 
 turns away like Ajax; but she resembles him in 
 none of those qualities which give either dignity 
 or propriety to silence. She might, without any 
 departure from the tenor of her conduct, have 
 burst out, like other injured women, into cla- 
 mour, reproach, and denunciation ; but Virgil 
 had his imagination full of Ajax, and therefore 
 could not prevail on himself to teach Dido any 
 other mode of resentment. 
 
 If Virgil could be thus seduced by imitation, 
 there will be little hope that common wits should 
 escape ; and accordingly we find that, besides 
 the universal and acknowledged practice of co- 
 pying the ancients, there has prevailed in every 
 age a particular species of fiction. At one time, 
 all truth was conveyed in allegory ; at another, 
 nothing was seen but in a vision; at one period 
 all the poets followed sheep, and every event pro- 
 duced a pastoral ; at another, they busied them- 
 selves wholly in giving directions to a painter. 
 
 It is indeed easy to conceive why any fashion 
 should become popular, by which idleness is fa- 
 voured, and imbecility assisted ; but surely no 
 man of genius can much applaud himself for 
 repeating a tale with which the audience is al- 
 ready tired, and which could bring no honour 
 to any but its inventor. 
 
 There are, I think, two schemes of writing, on 
 which the laborious wits of the present time em- 
 ploy their faculties. One is the adaptation of 
 sense to all the rhymes which our language can 
 supply to some word that makes the burden of 
 the stanza; but this, as it has been only used in 
 a kind of amorous burlesque, can scarcely be 
 censured with much acrimony. The other is 
 the imitation of Spenser, which, by the influ- 
 ence of some men of learning and genius, seems 
 likely to gain upon the age, and therefore de- 
 serves to be more attentively considered. 
 
 To imitate the fictions and sentiments of 
 Spenser can incur no reproach, for allegory is 
 perhaps one of the most pleasing vehicles of in- 
 struction. But I am very far from extending 
 the same respect to his diction as his stanza. 
 His style was in his own time allowed to be vi- 
 cious, so darkened with old words and peculiari- 
 ties of phrase, and so remote from common use, 
 
 that Jonson boldly pronounces him to have writ- 
 ten no language. His stanza is at once difficult 
 and unpleasing; tiresome to the ear by its uni- 
 formity, and to the attention by its length. It 
 was at first formed in imitation of the Italian 
 poets, without due regard to the genius of our 
 language. The Italians have little variety of 
 termination, and were forced to contrive such a 
 stanza as might admit the greatest number of 
 similar rhymes; but our words end with so 
 much diversity, that it is seldom convenient for 
 us to bring more than two of the same sound to- 
 gether. If it be justly observed by Milton, that 
 rhyme obliges poets to express their thoughts in 
 improper terms, these improprieties must always 
 be multiplied, as the difficulty of rhyme is in- 
 creased by long concatenations. 
 
 The imitators of Spenser are indeed not very 
 rigid censors of themselves, for they seem to con- 
 clude that, when they have disfigured their lines 
 with a few obsolete syllables, they have accom- 
 plished their design, without considering that 
 they ought not only to admit old words, but to 
 avoid new. The laws of imitation are broken 
 by every word introduced since the time of 
 Spenser, as the character of Hector is violated 
 by quoting Aristotle in the play. It would in- 
 deed be difficult to exclude from a long poem all 
 modern phrase, though it is easy to sprinkle it 
 with gleamings of antiquity. Perhaps, however, 
 the style of Spenser might by long labour be 
 justly copied; but life is surely given us for 
 higher purposes than to gather what our ances- 
 tors have wisely thrown away, and to learn whal 
 is of no value, but because it has been forgotten. 
 
 No. 122.] SATURDAY, MAT 18, 1751. 
 
 Iftscio qua Hatale solum dulcedine cunctos Ducit. 
 
 OVID. 
 
 By secret charms our native land attracts. 
 
 NOTHING is more subject to mistake and disap 
 pointment than anticipated judgment concerning 
 the easiness or difficulty of any undertaking, 
 whether we form our opinion from the perform- 
 ances of others, or from abstracted contemplation 
 of the thing to be attempted. 
 
 Whatever is done skilfully appears to be done 
 with ease; and art, when it is once matured to 
 habit, vanishes from observation. We are there- 
 fore more powerfully excited to emulation, by 
 those who have attained the highest degree of ex- 
 cellence, and whom we can therefore with least 
 reason hope to equal. 
 
 In adjusting the probability of success by a 
 previous consideration of the undertaking, we are 
 equally in danger of deceiving ourselves. It ia 
 never easy, nor often possible, to comprise the se- 
 ries of any process with all its circumstances, in- 
 cidents and variations, in a speculative scheme. 
 Experience soon shows us the tortuosities of ima- 
 ginary rectitude, the complications of simplicity, 
 and the asperities of smoothness. Sudden diffi- 
 culties often start up from the ambushes of art, 
 stop the career of activity, repress the gayety of 
 confidence, and, when w'e imagine ourselves al- 
 most at the end of our labours, drive us back to 
 new plans and different measures. 
 
 There are many things which we every day sea 
 others unable to perform, and perhaps have even
 
 192 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 129. 
 
 ourselves miscarried in attempting ; and yet can 
 hardly allow to be difficult ; nor can we forbear 
 to wonder afresh at every new failure, or to pro- 
 mise certainty of success to our next essay ; but 
 when we trv, the same hindrances recur, the same 
 inability is perceived, and the vexation of disap- 
 pointment must again be suffered. 
 
 Of the various kinds of speaking or writing, 
 which serve necessity, or promote pleasure, none 
 appear so artless or easy as simple narration ; 
 I'or what should make him that knows the whole 
 order and progress of an affair unable to relate 
 it ? Yet we houily find such an endeavour to en- 
 tertain or instruct us by recitals, clouding the 
 facts which they intend to illustrate, and losing 
 themselves and their auditors in wilds and maze*; 
 in digression and confusion. When we have 
 congratulated ourselves upon a new opportunity 
 of inquiry, and new means of information, it often 
 happens that without designing either deceit or 
 concealment, without ignorance of the fact, or 
 unwillingness to disclose it, the rclator fills the 
 ear with empty sounds, harasses the attention 
 with fruitless impatience and disturbs the imagin- 
 ation by a tumult of events, without order of time, 
 or train of consequence. 
 
 It is natural to believe, upon the same princi- 
 ple, that no writer has a more easy task than the 
 historian. The philosopher has the works of 
 omniscience to examine ; and is therefore en- 
 gaged in disquisitions, to which finite intellects 
 are utterly unequal. The poet trusts to his in- 
 ventions, and is not only in danger of those in- 
 consistencies to which every one is exposed by 
 departure from truth ; but may be censured as 
 well for deficiencies of matter, as for irregularity 
 of disposition, or impropriety of ornament. But 
 the happy historian has no other labour than of 
 gathering what tradition pours down before him, 
 or records treasure for his use. He has cnly the 
 actions and designs of men like himself to con- 
 ceive and to relate ; he is not to form, but copy 
 characters, and therefore is not blamed for the 
 inconsistency of statesmen, the injustice of ty- 
 rants, or the cowardice of commanders. The 
 difficulty of making variety inconsistent, or unit- 
 ing probability with surprise, needs not to dis- 
 turb him ; the manners and actions of his per- 
 tpnages are already fixed ; his materials are pro- 
 dded and put into his hands, and he is at leisure 
 to employ all his powers in arranging and dis- 
 playing them. 
 
 Yet, even with these advantages, very few 
 in any age have been able to raise themselves to 
 reputation by writing histories ; and among the 
 innumerable authors, who fill every nation with 
 accounts of their ancestors, or undertake to 
 transmit to futurity the events of their own time, 
 the greater part, when fashion and novelty have 
 ceased to recommend them, are of no other use 
 than chronological memorials, which necessity 
 may sometimes require to be consulted, but which 
 r nght away curiosity and disgust delicacy. 
 
 It is observed, that our~nation, which has 
 produced so many authors eminent for almost 
 every other species of literary excellence, has 
 been hitherto remarkably barren of historical 
 census ; and, so far has this defect raised preju- 
 dices against us> that some have doubted whe- 
 ther an Englishman can stop at that mediocrity 
 of style, or confine his mind to that even tenor of 
 nnagiration which narrative requires. 
 
 They who can believe that nature has so ca- 
 priciously distributed understanding have surely 
 no claim to the honour of serious confutation. 
 The inhabitants of the same country have oppo- 
 site characters in different ages ; the prevalence 
 or neglect of any particular study can proceed 
 only from the accidental influence of some tem- 
 porary cause ; and if we have failed in history, 
 we can have failed only because history has not 
 hitherto been diligently cultivated. 
 
 But how is it evident, that we have not histori- 
 ans among us, whom we may venture to place in 
 comparison with any that the neighbouring na- 
 tions can produce ? The attempt of Raleigh is de- 
 servedly celebrated for the labour of his research- 
 es, and the elegance of his style ; but he has en- 
 deavoured to exert his judgment more than his 
 genius, to select facts rather than adorn them; 
 and has produced a historical dissertation, but 
 seldom risen to the majesty of history. 
 
 The works of Clarendon deserve more regard. 
 His diction is indeed neither exact in itself, nor 
 suited to the purpose of history. It is the effu- 
 sion of a mind crowded with ideas, and desirous 
 of imparting them; and therefore always accu- 
 mulating words and involving one clause and sen- 
 tence in another. But there, is in his negligence 
 a rude, inartificial majesty, which, without the 
 nicety of laboured elegance swells the mind by its 
 plenitude and diffusion. His narration is not 
 perhaps sufficiently rapid, being stopped too fre- 
 quently by particularities, which, though they 
 might strike the author who was present at the 
 transactions, will not equally detain the attention 
 of posterity. But his ignorance or carelessness 
 of the art of writing is amply compensated by his 
 knowledge of nature and of policy ; the wisdom 
 of his maxims, the justness of his reasonings, and 
 the variety, distinctness, and strength of his cha- 
 racters. 
 
 But none of our writers can, in my opinion, 
 justly contest the superiority of Knolles, who, in 
 his history of the Turks, has displayed all the 
 excellences that narration can admit. His style, 
 though somewhat obscured by time, and some- 
 times vitiated by false wit, is pure, nervous, ele- 
 vated, and clear. A wonderful multiplicity of 
 events is so artfully arranged, and so distinctly 
 explained, that each facilitates the knowledge ot 
 the next. Whenever a new personage is intro- 
 duced, the reader is prepared by his character for 
 his actions ; when a nation is first attacked, or 
 city besieged, he is made acquainted with its his 
 tory, or situation ; so that a great part of tho 
 world is brought into view. The descriptions of 
 this author are without minuteness, and the di- 
 gressions without ostentation. Collateral events 
 are so artfully woven into the contexture of h'i3 
 principal story, that they cannot be disjoined with- 
 out leaving it lacerated and broken. There is 
 nothing turgid in his dignity, nor superfluous in 
 his copiousness. His orations only, which he 
 feigns, like the ancient historians, to have been 
 pronounced on remarkable occasions, are tedious 
 and languid ; and since they are merely the vo- 
 luntary sports of imagination, prove how much 
 the most judicious and skilful may be mistaken, 
 in the estimate of their own powers. 
 
 Nothing could have sunk this author in obscu- 
 rity but the remoteness and barbarity of the peo- 
 ple whose stcry he relates. It seldom happens, 
 that all circumstances concur to happiness or
 
 No. 123.1 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 193 
 
 fame. The nation which produced this great 
 historian, has the grief of seeing his genius em- 
 ployed upon a foreign and uninteresting subject ; 
 and that writer, who might have secured perpe- 
 tuity to his name, by a history of his own coun- 
 try, has exposed himself to the danger of oblivion, 
 by recounting enterprises and revolutions, of 
 which none desire to be informed. 
 
 No. 123.] TUESDAY, MAY 21, 1751. 
 
 Quo semel estimbutarecens, aervabitodorem 
 Testa diu. HOR. 
 
 What seascm'd first the vessel, keeps the taste. 
 
 CREECH. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 THOUGH I have so long found myself deluded by 
 projects of honour and distinction, that I often re- 
 solve to admit them no more into my heart ; yet, 
 how determinately soever excluded, they always 
 recover their dominion by force or stratagem ; 
 and whenever, after the shortest relaxation of vi- 
 gilance, reason and caution return to their charge, 
 they find hope again in possession, with all her 
 train of pleasures dancing about her. 
 
 Even while I am preparing to write a history 
 of disappointed expectations, I cannot forbear to 
 flatter myself, that you and your readers are im- 
 patient for my performance ; and that the sons of 
 learning have laid down several of your late pa- 
 pers with discontent, when they found that Miso- 
 capelus had delayed to continue his narrative. 
 
 But the desire of gratifying the expectations 
 that [ have raised, is not the only motive of this 
 relation, which, having once promised it, I think 
 myself no longer at liberty to forbear. For, how- 
 ever I may have wished to clear myself from every 
 other adhesion of trade, I hope I shall be always 
 wise enough to retain my punctuality, and amidst 
 all my new arts of politeness, continue to despise 
 negligence, and detest falsehood. 
 
 When the death of my brother had dismissed 
 me from the duties of a shop, I considered my- 
 self as restored to the rights of my birth, and en- 
 titled to the rank and reception which my ances- 
 tors obtained. I was, however, embarrassed with 
 many difficulties at my first re-entrance into the 
 world ; for my haste to be a gentleman inclined 
 me to precipitate measures ; and every accident 
 that forced me back towards my old station, was 
 considered by me as an obstruction of my hap- 
 piness. 
 
 It was with no common grief and indignation, 
 that I found my former companions still daring 
 to claim my notice, and the journeymen and ap- 
 prentices sometimes pulling me by the sleeve as I 
 \vas walking in the street, and, without any ter- 
 ;or of my new sword, which was, notwithstand- 
 ing, of an uncommon size, inviting me to partake 
 of a bottle at the old house, and entertaining me 
 with histories of the girls in the neighbourhood. 
 I had always, in my officinal state, been kept in 
 awe by lace and embroidery ; and imagined that, 
 to fright away these unwelcome familiarities, no- 
 thing was necessary, but that I should, by splen- 
 dour of dress, proclaim my re-union with a higher 
 rank. I therefore sent for my tailor ; ordered a 
 suit with twice the usual quantity of lace ; and, 
 that I might not let my persecutors increase their 
 
 confidence, by the habit of accosting me, staid at 
 home till it was made. 
 
 This week of confinement I passed in practis- 
 ing a forbidding frown, a smile of condescension, 
 a slight salutation, and an abrupt departure ; and 
 in four mornings was able to turn upon my heel, 
 with so much levity and sprightliness, that I made 
 no doubt of discouraging all public attempts upon 
 my dignity. I therefore issued forth in my new 
 coat, with a resolution of dazzling intimacy to a 
 fitter distance ; and pleased myself with the ti- 
 midity and reverence, which I should impress 
 upon all who had hitherto presumed to harass me 
 with their freedoms. But, whatever was the 
 cause, 1 did not find myself received with any 
 new degree of respect: those whom I intended 
 to drive from me, ventured to advance with their 
 usual phrases of benevolence ; and those, whose 
 acquaintance I solicited, grew more supercilious 
 and reserved. I began soon to repent the ex- 
 pense, by which I had procured no advantage, 
 and to suspect that a shining dress, like a weighty 
 weapon, has no force in itself, but owes all its ef- 
 ficacy to him that wears it 
 
 Many were the mortifications and calamities 
 which I was condemned to suffer in my initiation 
 to politeness. I was so much tortured by the in- 
 cessant civilities of my companions, that I never 
 passed through that region of the city but in a 
 chair with the curtains drawn ; and at last left 
 my lodgings, and fixed myself in the verge of the 
 court. Here I endeavoured to be thought a gen- 
 tleman just returned from his travels, and was 
 pleased to have my landlord believe that I was 
 in some danger from importunate creditors ; but 
 this scheme was quickly defeated by a formal de- 
 putation sent to offer me, though I had now re- 
 tired from business, the freedom of my company. 
 
 I was now detected in trade, and therefore re- 
 solved to stay no longer. I hired another apart- 
 ment, and changed my servants. Here I lived 
 very happily for three months, and, with secrel 
 satisfaction, often overheard the family cele- 
 brating the greatness and felicity of the esquire ; 
 though the conversation seldom ended without 
 some complaint of my covetousness, or some re- 
 mark upon my language, or my gait. I now be- 
 gan to venture into the public walks, and to know 
 the faces of nobles and beauties ; but could not 
 observe, without wonder, as I passed by them, 
 how frequently they were talking of a tailor. I 
 longed, however, to be admitted to conversation, 
 and Was somewhat weary of walking in crowds 
 without a companion, yet continued to come and 
 go with the rest, till a lady, whom I endeavoured 
 to protect in a crowded passage, as she was 
 about to step into her chariot, thanked me for my 
 civility, and told me, that as she had often distin- 
 tinguished me for my modest and respectful be- 
 haviour, whenever I set up for myself, I might 
 expect to see her among my first customers. 
 
 Here was an end of all my ambulatory pro 
 jects. I indeed sometimes entered the walks 
 again, but was always blasted by this destructive 
 lady, whoee mischievous generosity recommend- 
 ed me to her acquaintance. Being therefore 
 forced to practice my adscititious character upon 
 another stage, I betook myself to a coffee-house 
 frequented by wits, among whom I learned in a 
 short time the cant of criticism, and talked so 
 loudly and volubly of nature, and manners, and 
 sentiment, and diction, and similes, and con-
 
 194 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 124. 
 
 trasts. and action, and pronunciation, that 1 was 
 often desired to lead the hiss and clap, and was 
 feared and hated by the players and the poets. 
 Many a sentence have I hissed, which I did not 
 understand, and many a groan have I uttered, 
 when the ladies were weeping in the boxes. At 
 last a malignant author, whose performance I 
 had persecuted through the nine nights, wrote an 
 epigram upon Tape the critic, which drove me 
 from the pit for ever. 
 
 My desire to be a fine gentleman still con- 
 tinued : I therefore, after a short suspense, chose 
 a new set of friends at the gaming-table, and was 
 for some time pleased with the civility and open- 
 ness with which I found myself treated. I was 
 indeed obliged to play ; but being naturally timo- 
 rous and vigilant, was never surprised into large 
 sums. What might have been the consequence 
 of long familiarity with these plunderers I had 
 not an opportunity of knowing ; for one night 
 the constables entered and seized us, and I was 
 once more compelled to sink into my former con- 
 dition, by sending for my old master to attest my 
 character. 
 
 When I was deliberating to what new qualifi- 
 cations I should aspire, I was summoned into the 
 country, by an account of my father's death. 
 Here I had hopes of being able to distinguish 
 myself, and to support the honour of my family. 
 I therefore bought guns and horses, and, con- 
 trary to the expectation of the tenants, increased 
 the salary of the huntsman. But when I en- 
 tered the field, it was soon discovered that I was 
 not destined to the glories of the chase. I was 
 afraid of thorns in the thicket, and of dirt in the 
 marsh ; I shivered on the brink of a river while 
 the sportsmen crossed it, and trembled at the 
 sight of a five-bar gate. When the sport and 
 danger were over, I was still equally disconcert- 
 ed ; for I was effeminate, though not delicate, and 
 could only join a feebly-whispering voice in the 
 clamours of their triumph. 
 
 A fall, by which my ribs were broken, soon 
 recalled me to domestic pleasures, and I exerted 
 all my art to obtain the favour of the neighbour- 
 ing ladies ; but, wherever I came, there was al- 
 ways some unlucky conversation upon ribands, 
 fillets, pins, or thread, which drove all my stock 
 of compliments out of my memory, and over- 
 whelmed me with shame and dejection. 
 
 Thus I passed the ten first years after the 
 death of my brother, in which I have learned at 
 last to repress that ambition, which I could never 
 gratify ; and, instead of wasting more of my life 
 in vain endeavours after accomplishments, which 
 if not early acquired, no endeavours can obtain, 
 I shall confine my care to those higher excel- 
 lences which are in every man's power, and 
 though I cannot enchant affection by elegance 
 and eaae, hope to secure esteem by honesty and 
 truth. I am, &c. MISOCAPELUS. 
 
 No. 124.] SATURDAY, MAT 25, 1751. 
 
 Taciturn sijhas inter reptare talubres, 
 
 Curantem quicquid dignum sapicntc bonoque est. 
 
 HOE. 
 
 To range in silence through each healthful wood, 
 And muse what's worthy of the wise and good. 
 
 ELPHINSTON. 
 
 THE season of the year is now come, in which 
 the theatres are shut, and the card-tables for- 
 
 saken ; the regions of luxury are for awhile un- 
 peopled, and pleasure leads out her votaries to 
 groves and gardens, to still scenes and erratic 
 gratifications. Those who have passed many 
 months in a continual tumult of diversion ; who 
 have never opened their eyes in the morning, 
 but upon some new appointment ; nor slept at 
 night without a dream of dances, music, and good 
 hands, or of soft sighs and humble supplications ; 
 must now retire to distant provinces, where tho 
 syrens of flattery are scarcely to be heard, where 
 beauty sparkles without praise or envy, and wit 
 is repeated only by the echo. 
 
 As I think it one of the most important duties 
 of social benevolence to give warning of the ap^ 
 proach of calamity, when by timely prevention it 
 may be turned aside, or by preparatory measures 
 be more easily endured, I cannot feel the in- 
 creasing warmth, or observe the lengthening 
 days, without considering the condition of my 
 fair readers, who are now preparing to leave all 
 that has so long filled up their hours, all from 
 which they have been accustomed to hope for 
 delight ; and who, till fashion proclaims the 
 liberty of returning to the seats of mirth and ele- 
 gance, must endure the rugged 'squire, the sober 
 housewife, the loud huntsman, or the formal par- 
 son, the roar of obstreperous jollity, or the dul- 
 ness of prudential instruction ; without any re- 
 treat but to the gloom of solitude, where they 
 will yet find greater inconveniences, and must 
 learn, however unwillingly, to endure themselves. 
 
 In winter the life of the polite and gay may be 
 said to roll on with a strong and rapid current ; 
 they float along from pleasure to pleasure, with- 
 out the trouble of regulating their own motions, 
 and pursue the course of the stream in all tho 
 felicity of inattention ; content that they find 
 themselves in progression, and careless whither 
 they are going. But the months of summer are 
 a kind of sleeping stagnation without wind or 
 tide, where they are left to force themselves for- 
 ward by their own labour, and to direct their 
 passage by their own skill ; and where, if they 
 have not some internal principle of activity, they 
 must be stranded upon shallows, or lie torpid in 
 a perpetual calm. 
 
 There are, indeed, some to whom this univer- 
 sal dissolution of gay societies affords a welcome 
 opportunity of quitting, without disgrace, the 
 post which they have found themselves unable 
 to maintain ; and of seeming to retreat only at 
 the call of nature, from assemblies where, after 
 a short triumph of uncontested superiority, they 
 are overpowered by some new intruder of softer 
 elegance or sprightlier vivacity. By these, hope- 
 less of victory, and yet ashamed to confess a con- 
 quest, the summer is regarded as a release from 
 the fatiguing service of celebrity, a dismission to 
 more certain joys and a safer empire. They 
 now solace themselves with the influence which 
 they shall obtain, where they have no rival to 
 fear ; and with the lustre which they shall effuse, 
 when nothing can be seen of brighter splendour. 
 They imagine, while they are preparing for their 
 journey, the admiration with which the rustics 
 will crowd about them ; plan the laws of a new 
 assembly or contrive to delude provincial igno- 
 rance with a fictitious mode. A thousand pleas- 
 ing expectations swarm in the fancy; and all 
 the approaching weeks are filled with distinc- 
 tions, honours, and authority.
 
 No. 125.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 195 
 
 But others, who have lately entered the world, 
 or have yet had no proofs of its inconstancy and 
 desertion, are cut off, by this cruel interruption, 
 from the enjoyment 01 their prerogatives, and 
 doomed to lose four months in unactive obscurity. 
 Many complaints do vexation and desire extort 
 from those exiled tyrants of the town, against 
 the inexorable sun, who pursues his course with- 
 out any regard to love or beauty; and visits 
 either tropic at the stated time, whether shunned 
 or courted, deprecated or implored. 
 
 To them who leave the places of public resort 
 m the full bloom of reputation, and withdraw 
 from admiration, courtship, submission, and ap- 
 plause, a rural triumph can give nothing equiva- 
 lent. The praise of ignorance, and the subjec- 
 tion of weakness, are little regarded by beauties 
 who have been accustomed to more important 
 conquests, and more valuable panegyrics. Nor 
 indeed should the powers which have made 
 havoc in the theatres, or borne down rivalry in 
 courts, be degraded to a mean attack upon the 
 untravelled heir, or ignoble contest with the rud- 
 dy milkmaid. 
 
 How then must four long months be worn 
 away ? Four months, in which there will be no 
 routs, no shows, no ridottos ; in which visits 
 must be regulated by the weather, and assem- 
 blies will depend upon the moon ? The Platon- 
 ists imagine, that the future punishment of tliose 
 who have in this life debased their reason by 
 subjection to their senses, and have preferred the 
 gross gratifications of lewdness and luxury, to 
 the pure and sublime felicity of virtue and con- 
 templation, will arise from the predominance and 
 solicitations of the same appetites, in a state 
 which can furnish no means of appeasing them. 
 I cannot but suspect that this month, bright 
 with sunshine, and fragrant with perfumes ; this 
 month, which covers the meadow with verdure, 
 and decks the gardens with all the mixtures of 
 colorific radiance ; this month, from which the 
 man of fancy expects new infusions of imagery, 
 and the naturalist new scenes of observation ; 
 this month will chain down multitudes to the 
 Platonic penance of desire without enjoyment, 
 and hurry them from the highest satisfactions, 
 which they have yet learned to conceive, into a 
 state of hopeless wishes and pining recollec- 
 tion, where the eye of vanity will look round for 
 admiration to no purpose, and the hand of ava- 
 rice shuffle cards in a bower with ineffectual dex- 
 terity. 
 
 From the tediousness of this melancholy sus- 
 pension of life, I would willingly preserve those 
 who are exposed to it only by inexperience ; who 
 want not inclination to wisdom or virtue, though 
 they have been dissipated by negligence, or mis- 
 led by example ; and who would gladly find the 
 way to rational happiness, though it should be 
 necessary to struggle with habit, and abandon 
 fashion. To these many arts of spending time 
 might be recommended, which would neither 
 sadden the present hour with weariness, nor the 
 future with repentance. 
 
 It would seem impossible to a solitary specu- 
 latist, that a human being can want employ- 
 ment. To be born in ignorance with a capacity 
 of knowledge, and to be placed in the midst of a 
 world filled with variety, perpetually pressing 
 upon the senses and irritating curiosity, is surely 
 a sufficient security against the languishment of 
 
 inattention. Novelty is indeed necessary to pre- 
 serve eagerness and alacrity ; but art and nature 
 have stores inexhaustible by human intellects ; 
 and every moment produces something new to 
 him, who has quickened his faculties by diligent 
 observation. 
 
 Some studies, for which the country and the 
 summer afford peculiar opportunities, I shall 
 perhaps endeavour to recommend in a future es- 
 say ; but if there be any apprehension not apt to 
 admit unaccustomed ideas, or any attention so 
 stubborn and inflexible, as not easily to comply 
 with new directions, even these obstructions 
 cannot exclude the pleasure of application ; for 
 there is a higher and nobler employment, to 
 which all faculties are adapted by him who gave 
 them. The duties of religion, sincerely and re- 
 gularly performed, will always be sufficient to 
 exalt the meanest, and to exercise the highest 
 understanding. That mind will never be va- 
 cant, which is frequently recalled by stated du 
 ties to meditations on eternal interests ; nor can 
 any hour be long, which is spent in obtaining 
 some new qualification for celestial happiness. 
 
 No. 125.] TUESDAY, MAT 28, 1751. 
 
 Descriptor tervare vices, operumque colorei, 
 Cur ego, si nequeo ignoroque poeta salutor. ROB. 
 
 But if, through weakness, or my want of art, 
 
 I can't to every different style impart 
 
 The proper strokes and colours it may claim, 
 
 Why am 1 honour'd with a poet's name ? FRANCIS. 
 
 IT is one of the maxims of the civil law, that de- 
 finitions are hazardous. Tilings modified by hu- 
 man understandings, subject to varieties of com- 
 plication, and changeable as experience advances 
 knowledge, or accident influences caprice, are 
 scarcely to be included in any standing form of 
 expression, because they are always suffering 
 some alteration of their state. Definition is, in- 
 deed, not the province of man ; every thing is set 
 above or below our faculties. The works and 
 operations of nature are too great in their extent, 
 or too much diffused in their relations, and the 
 performances of art are too inconsistent and un- 
 certain, to be reduced to any determinate idea. 
 It is impossible to impress upon our minds an ade- 
 quate and just representation of an object so 
 great, that we can never take it into our view, or 
 so mutable, that it is always changing under our 
 eye, and has already lost its form while we are la- 
 bouring to conceive it. 
 
 Definitions have been no less difficult or uncer- 
 tain in criticisms than in law. Imagination, a li- 
 centious and vagrant faculty, unsusceptible of 
 limitations, and impatient of restraint, has always 
 endeavoured to baffle the logician, to perplex the 
 confines of distinction, and burst the enclosures 
 of regularity. There is, therefore, scarcely any 
 species of writing, of which we can tell what is 
 its essence, and what are its constituents ; every 
 new genius produces some innovation, which, 
 when invented and improved, subverts the rules 
 which the practice of foregoing authors had esta- 
 blished. 
 
 Comedy has been particularly unpropitious to 
 definers ; though perhaps they might properly 
 have contented themselves with declaring it to 
 be such a dramatic representation of human life, at
 
 196 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 125. 
 
 inayexcile mirth, they have embarrassed their de- 
 finition with the means by which the comic writ- 
 ers attain their end, without considering that the 
 various methods of exhilarating their audience, 
 not bein" limited by nature, cannot be comprised 
 in precept. Thus, some make comedy a repre- 
 sentation of mean, and others of bad men ; some 
 think that its essence consists in the unimport- 
 ance, others in the fictitiousness of the transac- 
 tion. But any man's reflections will inform him, 
 that every dramatic composition which raises 
 mirth is comic : and that, to raise mirth, it is by 
 no means universally necessary, that the person- 
 ages should be cither mean or corrupt, nor al- 
 ways requisite that the action should be trivial, 
 nor ever, that it should be fictitious. 
 
 If the two kinds of dramatic poetry had been 
 defined only by their effects upon the mind, some 
 absurdities might have been prevented, with 
 which the compositions of our greatest poets are 
 disgraced, who, for want of some settled ideas 
 and accurate distinctions, have unhappily con- 
 founded tragic with comic sentiments. They 
 seem to have thought, that as the meanness of 
 personages constituted comedy, their greatness 
 was sufficient to form a tragedy ; and that no- 
 thing was necessary but that they should crowd 
 the scene with monarchs, and generals, and 
 guards ; and make them talk, at certain intervals, 
 of the downfall of kingdoms, and the route of ar- 
 mies. They have not considered, that thoughts 
 or incidents, in themselves ridiculous, grow still 
 more grotesque by the solemnity of such charac- 
 ters ; that reason and nature are uniform and in- 
 flexible ; and that what is despicable and absurd, 
 will not, by any association with splendid titles, 
 become rational or great ; that the most import- 
 ant affairs, by an intermixture of an unseasona- 
 ble levity, may be made contemptible ; and that 
 the robes of royalty can give no dignity to non- 
 sense or to folly. 
 
 " Comedy," says Horace, " sometimes raises 
 her voice ; and Tragedy may likewise on proper 
 occasions abate her dignity ;" but as the comic 
 personages can only depart from her familiarity 
 of style, when the more violent passions are put 
 in motion, the heroes and queens of tragedy 
 should never descend to trifle, but in the hours 
 of ease, and intermissions of danger. Yet in the 
 tragedy of Don Sebastian, when the King of 
 Portugal is in the hands of his enemy, and hav- 
 ing just drawn the lot,*by which he is condemned 
 to die, breaks out into a wild boast that his dust 
 shall take possession of Afric, the dialogue pro- 
 ceeds thus between the captive and his con- 
 queror : 
 
 Muley Moloch. What shall I do to conquer thce J 
 
 Seb. Impossible ! 
 Souls know no conquerors. 
 
 M. Mol. I'll show thce for a monster through my Afric. 
 
 Seb. No, thou canst only show me for a man : 
 Afric is stor'd with monsters; man's a prodigy 
 Thy subjects have not seen. 
 
 M. Mol. Thou talk'st as if 
 Still at the head of battle. 
 
 Seb. Thou mistak'st, 
 For there 1 would not talk. 
 
 Senducar, the Minister. Sure, he would sleep. 
 
 This conversation, with the sly remark of the 
 minister, can only be found not to be comic, be- 
 cause it wants the probability necessary to re- 
 presentations of common life, and degenerates 
 too much towards buffoonery and farce. 
 
 The same jAay affords a smart return of the 
 
 general to the emperor, who, enforcing his orders 
 for the death of Sebastian, vents his impatience 
 in this abrupt threat. 
 
 -No more replies, 
 
 But see thou dost it ; Or 
 To which Dorax answers, 
 
 Choke in that throat : I can say Or as loud. 
 
 A thousand instances of such impropriety 
 might be produced, were not one scene in Au- 
 reng-Zebe sufficient to exemplify it. Indamora, 
 a captive queen, having Aurcng-Zebe for her 
 lover, employs Arimant, to whose charge she 
 had been entrusted, and whom she had made 
 sensible of her charms, to carry her message to 
 his rival. 
 
 ARIMANT, with a letter in his hand; INDAMORA 
 
 Arim. And I the messenger to him from you ? 
 Your empire you to t^mny pursue : 
 You lay commands both cruel and unjust, 
 To serve my rival, and betray niy trust. 
 
 Ind. You first betray'd your trust in loving me : 
 And should not t my own advantage see J 
 Serving my love, you may my friendship gain 
 You know the rest of your pretences vain. 
 You must, my Arimant, you must be kind : 
 'Tis in your nature, and your noble mind. 
 
 Arim. I'll to the king, and straight my trust resign. 
 
 Ind. His trust you may, but you sh;ill never minn 
 Heaven made you love me for no other end, 
 But to become my confidant and friend : 
 As such, I keep no secret from your sight, 
 And therefore make you judge how ili I write' 
 Read it, and tell me freely then your mind, 
 If 'tis indited, as I meant it, kind. 
 
 Arim. J ask not Heaven my freedom to restore. 
 
 [Reading 
 
 But only for your sake I'll read no more. 
 
 And yet 1 must 
 
 Less for my oicn, than for your sorrow sad 
 
 [Reading 
 
 Another line like this, would make me mad 
 
 Heaven! she goes on yet more and yet more kind ! 
 
 [As reading 
 Each sentence is a dagger to my mind. 
 
 See me thisnight [Reading 
 
 Thank fortune, who did such a friend provide; 
 For faithful Arimant shall be your guide. 
 Not only to be made an instrument, 
 But pre-engaged without my own consent ! 
 
 Ind. Unknown t' engage 3-011 still augments my score 
 And gives you scope of meriting the more. 
 
 Arim. The best of men 
 Some interest in their actions must confess ; 
 None merit, but in hope they may possess : 
 The fatal paper rather let me tear, 
 Than, like Bellerophon, my own sentence bear. 
 
 Ind. You may; but 'twill not be your best advice 
 'Twill only give me pains of writing twice. 
 You know you must obey me, soon or late : 
 Why should you vainly struggle with your fate ? 
 
 Arim. I thank thee, Heaven ! thou hast been wondrou 
 
 kind ! 
 
 Why am I thus to slavery design'd, 
 And yet am cheated with a free born mind, 
 Or make thy orders with my reason suit, 
 Or let me live by sense, a glorious brute. [ She frown*. 
 You frown, and I obey with speed, before 
 That dreadful sentence comes, Sec me no more. 
 
 In this scene, every circumstance concurs to 
 turn tragedy to farce. The wild absurdity of the 
 expedient ; the contemptible subjection of the 
 lover ; the folly of obliging him to read the letter 
 only because it ought to have been concealed 
 from him ; the frequent interruptions of amorous 
 impatience ; the faint expostulations of a volun 
 tary slave ; the imperious haughtiness of a tyrant 
 without power ; the deep reflection of the yield- 
 ing rebel upon fate and free-will ; and his wise 
 wish to lose his reason as soon as he finds him- 
 self about to do what he cannot persuade his rea
 
 No. 126.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 197 
 
 son to approve, are surely sufficient to awaken 
 the most torpid risibility. 
 
 There is scarce a tragedy of the last century 
 which has not debased its most important inci- 
 dents and polluted its most serious interlocutions, 
 with buffoonery and meanness : but though per- 
 haps it cannot be pretended that the present age 
 has added much to the force and efficacy of the 
 drama, it has at least been able to escape many 
 faults, which either ignorance had overlooked, or 
 indulgence had licensed. The latter tragedies 
 indeed have faults of another kind, perhaps more 
 destructive to delight, though less open to censure. 
 The perpetual tumour of phrase with which eve- 
 ry thought is now expressed by every personage, 
 the paucity of adventures, which regularity ad- 
 mits, and the unvaried equality of flowing dia- 
 logue, has taken away from our present writers 
 almost all that dominion over the passions which 
 was the boast of their predecessors. Yet they 
 may at least claim this commendation, that they 
 avoid gross faults, and that if they cannot often 
 move terror or pity, they are always careful not to 
 provoke laughter. 
 
 No. 126.] SATURDAY, JUNE 1, 1751. 
 
 JVihil eat oliud magnum quam multa minuta. 
 
 VET. AUCT. 
 
 Sands form the mountain, moments make the year. 
 
 YOUNG. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 AMONG other topics of conversation which your 
 papers supply, I was lately engaged in a discus- 
 sion of the character given by Tranquilla of her 
 lover Venustnlus, whom, notwithstanding the se- 
 verity of his mistress, the greater number seemed 
 inclined to acquit of unmanly or culpable ti- 
 midity. 
 
 One of the company remarked, that prudence 
 ought to be distinguished from fear ; and that if 
 Venustulus was afraid of nocturnal adventures, 
 no man who considered how much every avenue 
 of the town was infested with robbers could think 
 him blameable ; for why should life be hazarded 
 without prospect of honour or advantage ? Ano- 
 ther was of opinion, that a brave man might be 
 afraid of crossing the river in the calmest wea- 
 ther, and declared that, for his part, while there 
 were coaches and a bridge, he would never be 
 seen tottering in a wooden case, out of which he 
 might be thrown by any irregular agitation, or 
 which might be overset by accident or negligence, 
 or by the force of a sudden gust, or the rush of 
 a larger vessel. It was his custom, he said, to 
 keep the security of day-light, and dry ground ; 
 for it was a maxim with him, that no wise man 
 ever perished by water, or was lost in the dark. 
 
 The next was humbly of opinion, that if Tran- 
 quilla had seen, like him, the cattle run roaring 
 about the meadows in the hot months, she would 
 not have thought meanly of her lover for not 
 venturing his safety among them. His neigh- 
 bour then told us, that for his part he was not 
 ashamed to confess, that ho could not see a rat, 
 though it was dead, without palpitation ; that he 
 had been driven six times out of his lodgings 
 either by rats or mice ; and that he always had 
 a bed in the closet for his servant, whom he call- 
 
 ed up whenever the enemy was in motion. An- 
 other wondered that any man should think 
 himself disgraced by a precipitate retreat from a 
 dog; for there was always a possibility that a 
 dog might be mad ; and that surely, though there 
 was no danger but of being bit by a fierce animal, 
 there was more wisdom in flight than contest. 
 By all these declarations another was encourag- 
 ed to confess, that if he had been admitted to the 
 honour of paying his addresses to Tranquilla, 
 he should have been likely to incur the same cen- 
 sure ; for, among all the animals upon which na- 
 ture has impressed deformity and horror, there 
 is none whom he durst not encounter rather than 
 a beetle. 
 
 Thus, Sir, though cowardice is universally de- 
 fined too close and anxious an attention to per- 
 sonal safety, there will be found scarcely any 
 fear, however excessive in its degree, or unreason- 
 able in its object, which will be allowed to cha- 
 racterise a coward. Fear is a passion which 
 every man feels so frequently predominant in his 
 own breast, that he is unwilling to hear it cen- 
 sured with great asperity ; and, perhaps, if we 
 confess the truth, the same restraint which would 
 hinder a man from declaiming against the frauds 
 of any employment among those who profess it, 
 should withhold him from treating fear with con 
 tempt among human beings. 
 
 Yet since fortitude is one of those virtues 
 which the condition of our nature makes hourly 
 necessary, I think you cannot better direct your 
 admonitions than against superfluous and panic 
 terrors. Fear is implanted in us as a preservative 
 from evil ; but its duty, like thatof other passions is 
 not to overbear reason, but to assist it ; nor should 
 it be suffered to tyrannize in the imagination, to 
 raise phantoms of horror, or beset life with super 
 numerary distresses. 
 
 To be always afraid of losing life is, indeed, 
 scarely to enjoy a life that can deserve the care 
 of preservation. He that once indulges idle fears 
 will never be at rest. Our present state admits 
 only of a kind of negative security ; we must 
 conclude ourselves safe when we see no danger, 
 or none inadequate to our powers of opposition. 
 Death indeed continually hovers about us, bul 
 hovers commonly unseen, unless we sharpen our 
 sight by useless curiosity. 
 
 There is always a point at which caution, how- 
 ever solicitous, must limit its preservatives, be- 
 cause one terror often counteracts another. I 
 once knew one of the speculatists of cowardice, 
 whose reigning disturbance was the dread of 
 house-breakers. His inquiries were for nine 
 years employed upon the best method of barring 
 a window, or a door ; and many an hour has he 
 spent in establishing the preference of a bolt to a 
 lock. He had at last, by the daily superaddition 
 of new expedients, contrived a door which could 
 never be forced ; for one bar was secured by an- 
 other with such intricacy of subordination that he 
 was himself not always able to disengage them 
 in the proper method. He was happy in this for- 
 tification, till being asked how he would escape 
 if he was threatened by fire, he discovered, that, 
 with all his care and expense, he had only been 
 assisting his own destruction. He then imme- 
 diately tore off his bolts, and now leaves at night 
 his outer door half-locked, that he may not by 
 his own folly perish in the flames. 
 
 There is one species of terrorwhich those who
 
 108 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 127. 
 
 are unwilling to suffer the reproach of cowardice 
 have wisely dignified with the name of antipathy. 
 A man who talks with intrepidity of the monsters 
 of the wilderness while they are out of sight, will 
 readily confess his antipathy to a mole, a weazel, 
 or a frog. He has indeed no dread of harm from 
 an insect or a worm, but his antipathy turns him 
 pale whenever they approach him. He believes 
 that a boat will transport him with as much safety 
 as his neighbours, but he cannot conquer his an- 
 tipathy to the water. Thus he goes on without 
 any reproach from his own reflections, and every 
 day multiplies antipathies, till he becomes con- 
 temptible to others, and burdensome to himself. 
 
 It is indeed certain, that impressions of dread 
 may sometimes be unluckily made by objects not 
 in themselves justly formidable ; but when fear is 
 discovered to be groundless, it is to be eradicated 
 like other false opinions, and antipathies are ge- 
 nerally superable by a single effort. He that has 
 been taught to shudder at a mouse, if he can per- 
 suade himself to risk one encounter, will find his 
 own superiority, and exchange his terrors for the 
 pride of conquest. 
 
 I am, Sir, &c. 
 
 THRASO. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 As you profess to extend your regard to the mi- 
 nuteness of decency, as well as to the dignity of 
 science, I cannot forbear to lay before you a mode 
 of persecution by which I have been exiled to ta- 
 verns and coffee-houses, and deterred from enter- 
 ing the doors of my friends. 
 
 Among the ladies who please themselves with 
 splendid furniture, or elegant entertainment, it is 
 a practice very common to ask every guest how 
 he likes the carved work of the cornice, or the 
 figures of the tapestry ; the china at the table, or 
 the plate on the side-board ; and on all occasions 
 to inquire his opinion of their judgment and their 
 choice. Melania has laid her new watch in the 
 window nineteen times, that she may desire me 
 V) look upon it. Calistahas an art of dropping 
 her snuff-box by drawing out her handkerchief, 
 that when I pick it up I may admire it; and Ful- 
 gentia has conducted me by mistake into the 
 wrong room, at every visit I have paid since her 
 picture was put into a new frame. 
 
 I hope, Mr. Rambler, you will inform them, 
 that no man should be denied the privilege of si- 
 lence, or tortured to false declarations ; and that 
 though ladies may justly claim to be exempt from 
 rudeness, they have m right to force unwilling 
 civilities. To please is a laudable and elegant 
 ambition, and is properly rewarded with honest 
 praise ; but to seize applause by violence, and 
 call out for commendation without knowing, or 
 caring to know, whether it be given from convic- 
 tion, is a species of tyranny by which modesty is 
 oppressed, and sincerity corrupted. The tribute 
 of admiration thus exacted by impudence and 
 importunity, differs from the respect paid to silent 
 merit, as the plunder of a pirate from the mer- 
 chant's profit. 
 
 I am, &c. 
 
 MISOCOLAX. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 YOUR great predecessor, the Spectator, endea- 
 voured to diffuse among his female readers a de- 
 nre of knowledge ; nor can I charge you, though 
 
 you do not seem equally attentive to the ladies, 
 with endeavouring to discourage them from any 
 laudable pursuit. But however either he or you 
 may excite our curiosity, you have not yet in- 
 formed us how it may be gratified. The world 
 seems to have formed a universal conspiracy 
 against our understandings; our questions are 
 supposed not to expect answers, our arguments 
 are confuted with a jest, and we are treated like 
 beings who transgress the limits of our nature 
 whenever we aspire to seriousness or improve- 
 ment. 
 
 I inquired yesterday of a gentleman eminent 
 for astronomical skill, what made the day long 
 in summer, and short in winter ; and was told 
 that nature protracted the days in summer, lest 
 ladies should want time to walk in the park ; and 
 the nights in winter, lest they should not have 
 hours sufficient to spend at the card-table. 
 
 J hope you do not doubt but I heard such in- 
 formation with just contempt, and I desire you 
 to discover to this great master of ridicule, that 
 I was far from wanting any intelligence which he 
 could have given me. I asked the question with 
 no other intention than to set him free from the 
 necessity of silence, and gave him an opportunity 
 of mingling on equal terms with a polite assem- 
 bly, from which however uneasy, he could not 
 then escape, by a kind introduction of the only 
 subject on which I believed him able to speak 
 with propriety. I am, &c. 
 
 GENEROSA. 
 
 No. 127.] TUESDAY, JUNE 4, 1751. 
 
 Ocpitli melius quam desinis: ultima primit 
 Cedunt : dissimiles, hie vir, et illepuer. 
 
 OVID 
 
 Succeeding years thy early fame destroy ; 
 Thou, who began'st a man, wilt end a boy. 
 
 POLITIAN, a name eminent among the restorers 
 of polite literature, when he published a collec- 
 tion of epigrams, prefixed to many of them the 
 year of his age at which they were composed. 
 He might design by this information, either to 
 boast the early maturity of his genius, or to con- 
 ciliate indulgence to the puerility of his perform- 
 ances. But, whatever was his intent, it is re- 
 marked by Scaliger, he very little promoted his 
 own reputation, because he fell below the pro- 
 mise which his first productions had given, and 
 in the latter part of his life seldom equalled the 
 sallies of his youth. 
 
 It is not uncommon for those who, at their 
 first entrance into the world, were distinguished 
 for attainments or abilities, to disappoint the 
 hopes which they had raised, and to end in ne- 
 glect and obscurity that life which they began 
 in celebrity and honour. To the long catalogue 
 of the inconveniences of old age, which moral 
 and satirical writers have so copiously displayed, 
 may be often added the loss of fame. 
 
 The advance of the human mind towards any 
 object of laudable pursuit, may be compared to 
 the progress of a body driven by a blow. It 
 moves for a time with great velocity and vigour, 
 but the force of the first impulse is perpetually 
 decreasing, and, though it should encounter no 
 obstacle capable of quelling it by a sudden stop, 
 the resistance of the medium through which it
 
 No. 127.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 199 
 
 passes, and the latent inequalities of the smooth- 
 est surface, will, in a short time, by continued 
 retardation, wholly overpower it. Some hin- 
 drances will be found in every road of life, but he 
 that fixes his eyes upon any thing at a distance, 
 necessarily loses sight of all that fills up the in- 
 termediate space, and therefore sets forward with 
 alacrity and confidence, nor suspects a thousand 
 obstacles by which he afterwards finds liis pas- 
 sage embarrassed and obstructed. Some are 
 indeed stopped at once in their career by a sud- 
 den shock of calamity, or diverted to a different 
 direction by the cross impulse of some violent 
 passion ; but far the greater part languish by 
 slow degrees, deviate at first into slight obliqui- 
 ties, and themselves scarcely perceive at what 
 time their ardour forsook them, or when they 
 lost sight of their original design. 
 
 Weariness and negligence are perpetually pre- 
 vailing by silent encroachments, assisted by dif- 
 ferent causes, and not observed till they cannot, 
 without great difficulty, be opposed. Labour 
 necessarily requires pauses of ease and relaxa- 
 tion, and the deliciousness of ease commonly 
 makes us unwilling to return to labour. We, 
 perhaps, prevail upon ourselves to renew our 
 attempts, but eagerly listen to every argument 
 for frequent interpositions of amusement ; for, 
 when indolence has once entered upon the mind, 
 it can scarcely be dispossessed but by such ef- 
 forts as very few are willing to exert. 
 
 It is the fate of industry to be equally endan- 
 gered by miscarriage and success, by confidence 
 and despondency. He that engages in a great 
 undertaking, with a false opinion of its facility, 
 or too high conceptions of his own strength, is 
 easily discouraged by the first hindrance of his 
 advances, because he had promised himself an 
 equal and perpetual progression, without impedi- 
 ment or disturbance ; when unexpected inter- 
 ruptions break in upon him, he is in the state of 
 a man surprised by a tempest, where he pur- 
 posed only to bask in the calm, or sport in the 
 shallows. 
 
 It is not only common to find the difficulty of 
 an enterprise greater, but the profit less, than 
 hope had pictured it. Youth enters the world 
 with very happy prejudices in her own favour. 
 She imagines herself not only certain of accom- 
 plishing every adventure, but of obtaining those 
 rewards which the accomplishment may deserve. 
 She is not easily persuaded to believe that the 
 force of merit can be resisted by obstinacy and 
 avarice, or its lustre darkened by envy and ma- 
 lignity. She has not yet learned that the most 
 evident claims to praise or preferment may be 
 rejected by malice against conviction, or by indo- 
 lence without examination ; that they may be 
 sometimes defeated by artifices, and sometimes 
 overborne by clamour ; that, in the mingled num- 
 bers of mankind, many need no other provoca- 
 tion to enmity than that they find themselves 
 excelled ; that others have ceased their curiosity, 
 and considered every man who fills the mouth 
 of report with a new name, as an intruder upon 
 their retreat, and disturber of their repose ; that 
 some are engaged in complications of interest 
 which they imagine endangered by every inno- 
 vation ; that many yield themselves up implicitly 
 to every report which hatred disseminates or 
 folly scatters ; and that whoever aspires to the 
 notice of the public, has in almost every man an 
 
 enemy and a rival ; and must struggle with the 
 opposition of the daring, and elude the strata- 
 gems of the timorous, must quicken the frigid, 
 and soften the obdurate, must reclaim perverse- 
 ness and inform stupidity. 
 
 It is no wonder that when the prospect of re- 
 ward has vanished, the zeal of enterprise should 
 cease; for who would persevere to cultivate the 
 soil which he has, after long labour, discovered 
 to be barren ? He who hath pleased himself 
 with anticipated praises, and expected that he 
 should meet in every place with patronage or 
 friendship, will soon remit his vigour, when he 
 finds that, from those who desire to be considered 
 as his admirers, nothing can be hoped but cold 
 civility, and that many refuse to own his excel- 
 lence, lest they should be too justly expected to 
 reward it. 
 
 A man thus cut off from the prospect of that 
 port to which his address and fortitude had been 
 employed to steer him, often abandons himself 
 to chance and to the wind, and glides carelessly 
 and idle down the current of life, without resolu- 
 tion to make another effort, till he is swallowed 
 up by the gulf of mortality. 
 
 Others am betrayed to the same desertion of 
 themselves by a contrary fallacy. It was said 
 of Hannibal, that he wanted nothing to the com- 
 pletion of his martial virtues, but that when he 
 had gained a victory he should know how to use 
 it. The folly of desisting too soon from success- 
 ful labours, and the haste of enjoying advantages 
 before they are secured, are often fatal to men of 
 impetuous desire, to men whose consciousness 
 of uncommon powers fills them with presump- 
 tion, and who, havingbcrne opposition down be- 
 fore them, and left emulation panting behind, are 
 early persuaded to imagine that they have reached 
 the heights of perfection, and that now, being 
 no longer in danger from competitors, they 
 may pass the rest of their days in the enjoyment 
 of their acquisitions, in contemplation of their 
 own superiority, and in attention to their own 
 praises, and look unconcerned from their emi- 
 nence upon the toils and contentions of meaner 
 beings. 
 
 It is not sufficiently considered in the hour ol 
 exultation, that all human excellence is compara- 
 tive ; that no man performs much but in pro- 
 portion to what others accomplish, or to the time 
 and opportunities which have been allowed him ; 
 and that he who stops at any point of excellence 
 is every day sinking in estimation, because his 
 improvement grows continually more incommen- 
 surate to his life. Yet, as no man willingly quits 
 opinions favourable to himself, they who have 
 once been justly celebrated, imagine that they 
 still have the same pretensions to regard, and 
 seldom perceive the diminution of their character 
 while there is time to recover it. Nothing then 
 remains but murmurs and remorse ; for if the 
 spendthrift's poverty be embittered by the reflec- 
 tion that he once was rich, how must the idler's 
 obscurity be clouded by remembering that he 
 once had lustre ! 
 
 These errors all arise from an original mistake 
 of the true motives of action. He that never 
 extends his view beyond the praises or rewards 
 of men, will be dejected by neglect and envy, or 
 infatuated by honours and applause. But the 
 consideration that life is only deposited in his 
 hands to be employed in obedience to a Master
 
 200 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 128. 
 
 who will regard his endeavours, not his success, 
 would have preserved him from trivial elation? 
 ami discouragements, and enabled him to pro 
 ceed with constancy and cheerfulness, ncithe. 
 enervated by commendation, nor intimidated by 
 censure. 
 
 No. 123.] SATURDAY, JUNE 8, 1751. 
 
 O{IK lyevtr 1 , o'ur' \laKiba irapd 
 Ourt rap' dvriS/u) 
 KiiSfiai' kiyovrai yt /iav jSpdru 
 "OA/3ov v-ipraTov ot 
 
 For not the brave, or wise, or great, 
 E'er yet had happiness complete ; 
 Nor Peleus, grandson of the sky, 
 
 \or Cadmus scaped the shafts of pain, 
 Though favour'd by the Powers on high, 
 
 With every bliss that man can gaiu. 
 
 THE writers who have undertaken the task of 
 reconciling mankind to their present state, and 
 relieving the discontent produced by the various 
 distribution of terrestrial advantages, frequently 
 remind us that we judge too hastily of good and 
 evil ; that we view only the superficies of life, 
 and determine of the whole by a very small part ; 
 and that in the condition of men it frequently 
 happens, that grief and anxiety lie hid under the 
 golden robes of prosperity, and the gloom of 
 calamity is cheered by secret radiations of hope 
 and comfort ; as in the works of nature the bog 
 is sometimes covered with flowers, and the mine 
 concealed in the barren crags. 
 
 None but those who have learned the art of 
 subjecting their senses as well as reason to hy- 
 pothetical systems, can be persuaded by the most 
 specious rhetorician that the lots of life are 
 equal ; yet it cannot be denied that every one 
 has his peculiar pleasures and vexations, and ex- 
 ternal accidents operate variously upon different 
 minds, and that no man can exactly judge from 
 his own sensations, what another would feel in 
 the same circumstances. 
 
 If the general disposition of things be esti- 
 mated by the representation which every one 
 makes of his own estate, the world must be con- 
 sidered as the abode of sorrow and misery ; for 
 how few can forbear to relate their troubles and 
 distresses? If we judge by the account which 
 may be obtained of every man's fortune from 
 others, it may be concluded, that we all are 
 placed in an elysian region, overspread with the 
 luxuriance of plenty, and fanned by the breezes 
 of felicity ; since scarcely any complaint is ut- 
 tered without censure from those that hear it, 
 and almost all are allowed to have obtained a 
 provision at least adequate to their virtue or their 
 understanding, to possess either more than they 
 deserve, or more than they enjoy. 
 
 We are either born with such dissimilitude 
 of tempsr and inclination, or receive so many of 
 our ideas and opinions from the state of life in 
 which we are engaged, that the griefs and cares 
 of one part of mankind seem to the other hypo- 
 crisy, folly, and affectation. Every class of so- 
 ciety has its cant of lamentation, which is un- 
 derstood or regarded by none but themselves ; 
 and every part of life has its uneasiness, which 
 those who do not feel them will not commise- 
 
 rate. An event which spreads distraction over 
 half the commercial world, assembles the trading 
 companies in councils and committees, and 
 shakes the nerves of a thousand stockjobbers, is 
 read by the landlord and the farmer with frigid 
 indifference. An affair of love, which fills the 
 young breast with incessant alternations of hope 
 and fear, and steals away the night and day from 
 every other pleasure or employment, is regarded 
 by them whose passions time has extinguished, 
 as an amusement, which can properly raise 
 neither joy nor sorrow, and, though it may be 
 suffered to fill the vacuity of an idle moment, 
 should always give way to prudence or interest. 
 He that never had any other desire than to fill 
 a chest with money, or to add another manor to 
 his estate, who never grieved but at a bad mort- 
 gage, or entered a company but to make a bar- 
 gain, would be astonished to hear of beings 
 known among the polite and gay by the denomi- 
 nation of wits. How would he gape with curi- 
 osity, or grin with contempt, at the mention of 
 beings who have no wish but to speak what was 
 never spoken before ; who, if they happen to in- 
 herit wealth, often exhaust their patrimonies in 
 treating those who will hear them talk ; and, if 
 they are poor, neglect opportunities of improving 
 their fortunes, for the pleasure of making others 
 laugh ! How slowly would he believe that there 
 are men who would rather lose a legacy than the 
 reputation of a distich ; who think it less disgrace 
 to want money than repartee ; whom the vexa- 
 tion of having been foiled in a contest of raillery 
 is sometimes sufficient to deprive of sleep ; and 
 who would esteem it a lighter evil to miss a pro- 
 fitable bargain by some accidental delay, than not 
 to have thought of a smart reply till the time of 
 producing it was past! How little would he sus- 
 pect that this child of idleness and frolic enters 
 every assembly with a beating bosom, like a liti- 
 gant on the day of decision, and revolves the pro- 
 bability of applause with the anxiety of a conspi- 
 rator, whose fate depends upon the next night ; 
 that at the hour of retirement he carries home, 
 undera show of airy negligence, a heart lacerated 
 with envy, or depressed with disappointment; 
 and immures himself in his closet, that he may dis- 
 encumber his memory at leisure, review the pro- 
 gress of the day, state with accuracy his loss or 
 jain of reputation, and examine the causes of his 
 "ailure or success? 
 
 Yet more remote from common conceptions 
 are the numerous and restless anxieties, by which 
 emale happiness is particularly disturbed. A 
 solitary philosopher would imagine ladies born 
 with an exemption from care and sorrow lulled 
 n perpetual quiet, and feasted with unmingled 
 pleasure ; for, what can interrupt the content of 
 hose, upon whom one age has laboured after 
 another to confer honours, and accumulate im- 
 munities ; those to whom rudeness is infamy, 
 and insult is cowardice ; whose eye commands 
 the brave, and whose smile softens the severe ; 
 whom the sailor travels to adorn, the soldier 
 bleeds to defend, and the poet wears out life to 
 celebrate ; who claim tribute from every art and 
 science, and for whom all who approach them en- 
 deavour to multiply delights, without requiring 
 rom them any return but willingness to bo 
 )leased ? 
 
 Surely among these favourites of nature, thus 
 macquainted with toil and danger, felicity must
 
 No. 129.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 201 
 
 have fixed her residence ; they must know only 
 the changes of more vivid or more gentle joys ; 
 their life must always move either to the slow or 
 sprightly melody of the lyre of gladness; they can 
 never assemble but to pleasure, or retire but to 
 peace. 
 
 Such would be the thoughts of every man who 
 should hover at a distance round the world, and 
 know it only by conjecture and speculation. But 
 experience will soon discover how easily those 
 are disgusted who have been made nice by plenty 
 and tender by indulgence. He will soon see to 
 how many dangers power is exposed which has 
 no other guard than youth and beauty, and how 
 easily that tranquillity is molested which can only 
 be soothed with the songs of flattery. It is im- 
 possible to supply wants as fast as an idle imagi- 
 nation may be able to form them, or to remove 
 all inconveniences by which elegance refined into 
 impatience may be offended. None are so hard 
 to please, as those whom satiety of pleasure 
 makes weary of themselves; nor any so readily 
 provoked as those who have been always courted 
 with an emulation of civility. 
 
 There are indeed some strokes which the envy 
 of fate aims immediately at the fair. The mis- 
 tress of Catullus wept for her sparrow many cen- 
 turies ago, and lapdogs will be sometimes sick 
 in the present age. The most fashionable bro- 
 cade is subject to stains ; a pinner, the pride of 
 Brussels, may be torn by a careless washer ; a 
 picture may drop from a watch ; or the triumph 
 of a new suit may be interrupted on the first day 
 of its enjoyment, and all distinctions of dress un- 
 expectedly obliterated by a general mourning. 
 
 Such is the state of every age, every sex, and 
 every condition : all have their cares, either from 
 nature or from folly : and whoever therefore finds 
 himself inclined to envy another, should remem- 
 ber that he knows not the real condition which 
 he desires to obtain, but is certain that, by in- 
 dulging a vicious passion, he must lessen that 
 happiness which he thinks already too sparingly 
 bestowed. 
 
 No. 129.] TUESDAY, JUNE 11, 1751. 
 
 Nunc, o nunc, Dadale, dixit, 
 Mater iam, qua sis ingcniosus, habes : 
 
 Possidet en terras, et possidet aqvora, Minos. 
 Nee, tellus nostra, nee patet undafvga. 
 
 Reslat Her ccclo : ccclo tcntabimue ire 
 Da centum ccrpto, Jupiter alte, meo. onD. 
 
 Now Docdalus, behold, by fate assign VI, 
 A task proportion'd to thy mighty mind ! 
 Unconqner'd bars on earth and sea withstand ; 
 Thine, Minos, is the main, and thine the land 
 The skies are open let us try the skies ; 
 Forgive great Jove, the daring enterprise. 
 
 MORALISTS, like other writers, instead of casting 
 their eyes abroad in the living world, and endea- 
 vouring to form maxims ofjjractice and new hints 
 of theory, content their curiosity with that se- 
 condary knowledge which books afford, and 
 think themselves entitled to reverence by a new 
 arrangement of an ancient system, or new illus- 
 tration of established principles. The sage pre- 
 cepts of the first instructors of the world are 
 transmitted from age to age with little variation, 
 and echoed from one author to another, not per- 
 haps without some loss of their original force at 
 everv repercussion. 
 
 2 A 
 
 I know not whether any other reason than 
 this idlenesss of imitation can be assign-ed for 
 that uniform and constant partiality, by which 
 some vices have hitherto escaped censure, and 
 some virtues wanted recommendation ; nor can 
 I discover why else we have been warned only 
 against part of our enemies, wliile the rest have 
 been suffered to steal upon us without notice ; 
 .why the heart has on one side been doubly for- 
 tified, and laid open on the other to the incur- 
 sions of error, and the ravages of vice. 
 
 Among the favourite topics of moral declama- 
 tion may be numbered the miscarriages of im- 
 prudent boldness, and the folly of attempts be- 
 yond our power. Every page of every philoso- 
 pher is crowded with examples of temerity that 
 sunk under burdens which she laid upon herself, 
 and called out enemies to battle by whom she 
 was destroyed. 
 
 Their remarks are too just to be disputed, and* 
 too salutary to be rejected ; but there is likewise 
 some danger lest timorous prudence should be 
 inculcated, till courage and enterprise are wholly 
 repressed, and the mind congealed in perpetual 
 inactivity by the fatal influence of frigorific wis- 
 dom. 
 
 fivery man should, indeed, carefully compare 
 his force with his undertaking ; for though we 
 ought not to live only for our own sakes, and 
 though therefore danger or difficulty should not 
 be avoided merely because we may expose our- 
 selves to misery or disgrace ; yet it may be justly 
 required of us, not to throw away pur lives upon 
 inadequate and hopeless designs, since we might, 
 by a just estimate of our abilities, become more 
 useful to mankind. 
 
 There is an irrational contempt of danger, 
 which approaches nearly to the folly, if not the 
 guilt, of suicide ; there is a ridiculous persever- 
 ance in impracticable schemes, which is justly 
 punished with ignominy and reproach. But in 
 the wide regions of probability, which are the 
 proper province of prudence and election, there 
 is always room to deviate on either side of recti- 
 tude without rushing against apparent absurdi- 
 ty ; and, according to the inclinations of nature, 
 or the impressions of precept, the daring and the 
 cautious may move in different directions without 
 touching upon rashness or cowardice. 
 
 That there is a middle path which it is every 
 man's duty to find, and to keep, is unanimously 
 confessed ; but it is likewise acknowledged that 
 this middle path is so narrow, that it cannot 
 easily be discovered, and so little beaten, that 
 there are no certain marks by which it can be 
 followed : the care therefore of all those who 
 conduct others has been, that whenever they 
 decline into obliquities, they should tend towarda 
 the side of safety. 
 
 It can, indeed, raise no wonder that temerity 
 has been generally censured ; for it is one of the 
 vices with which few can be charged, and which 
 therefore great numbers are ready to condemn 
 It is the vice of noble and generous minds, th 
 exuberance of magnanimity, and the ebullition 
 of genius ; and is therefore not regarded with 
 much tenderness, because it never flatters us by 
 that appearance of softness and imbecility which 
 is commonly necessary to conciliate compassion. 
 But if the same attention had been applied to tha 
 search of arguments against the folly of presup- 
 posing impossibilities and anticipating frustra-
 
 202 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 tion, I know not whether many would not have 
 been roused to usefulness, who having been 
 taught to confound prudence with timidity, never 
 ventured to excel, lest they should unfortunately 
 
 fail. 
 
 It is necessary to distinguish our own interests 
 from that of others, and that distinction will per- 
 haps assist us in fixing the just limits of caution 
 and adventurousness. In an undertaking that 
 involves the happiness or the safety of many, we 
 have certainly no right to hazard more than is 
 allowed by those who partake the danger: but 
 where only ourselves can suffer by misctirriage, 
 we are not confined within such narrow limits ; 
 and still less is the reproach of temerity, when 
 numbers will receive advantage by success, and 
 only one be incommoded by failure. 
 
 Men are generally willing to hear precepts by 
 which ease is favoured ; and as no resentment is 
 raised by general representations of human folly, 
 even in those who are most eminently jealous of 
 comparative reputation, we confess, without re- 
 luclance, that vain man is ignorant of his own 
 weakness, and therefore frequently presumes to 
 attempt what he can never accomplish : but it 
 ought likewise to be remembered, that man is 
 no less ignorant of his own powers, and might 
 perhaps have accomplished a thousand designs, 
 which the prejudice of cowardice restrained him 
 from attempting. 
 
 It is observed in the golden verses of Pythago- 
 ras, that Power is never far from necessity. The 
 vigour of the human mind quickly appears, when 
 there is no longer any place for doubt and hesi- 
 tation, when diffidence is absorbed in the sense 
 of danger, or overwhelmed by some resistless 
 passion. We then soon discover, that difficulty 
 is, for the most part, the daughter of idleness, 
 that the obstacles with which our way seemed to 
 be obstructed were only phantoms, which we be- 
 lieved real, because we durst not advance to a 
 close examination ; and we learn that it is im- 
 possible to determine without experience how 
 much constancy may endure, or perseverance 
 perform. 
 
 But whatever pleasure may be found in the 
 review of distresses when art or courage has 
 surmounted them, few will be persuaded to wish 
 that they may be awakened by want or terror to 
 the conviction of their own abilities. Every one 
 should therefore endeavour to invigorate himself 
 by reason and reflection, and determine to exert 
 the latent force that nature may have rep.osited 
 in him, before the hour of exigence comes upon 
 him, and compulsion shall torture him to dili- 
 gence. It is below the dignity of a reasonable 
 being to owe that strength to necessity which 
 onght always to act at the call of choice, or to 
 need any other motive to industry than the de- 
 sire of performing his duty. 
 
 Reflections that may drive away despair, can- 
 not be wanting to him who considers how much 
 life is now advanced beyond the state of naked 
 undisciplined, uninstructed nature. Whatever 
 has been effected for convenience or elegance, 
 while it was yet unknown, was believed im- 
 possible ; and therefore would never have been 
 attempted, had not some, more daring than the 
 rest, adventured to bid defiance to prejudice and 
 censure. Nor is there yet any reason to doubt 
 that the same labour would be rewarded with 
 ttie same success. There are qualities in the 
 
 products of nature yet undiscovered, and com- 
 binations in the powers of art yet untried. It is 
 the duty of every man to endeavour that some- 
 tiling may be added by his industry to the here- 
 ditary aggregate of knowledge and happiness. 
 To add much can indeed be the lot of few, but 
 to add something, however little, every one may 
 hope ; and of every honest endeavour, it is cer- 
 tain, that, however unsuccessful, it will be at 
 last rewarded. 
 
 No. 130.] SATURDAY, JUNE 15, 1751. 
 
 Jfon sic prata novo vere decentia 
 &statis calidtz dispoliat vapor, 
 
 S&vit solstitio cum medias dies ; 
 
 Vtfulgor teneris qui radial genis 
 Momtnlo rapitur, nullur/itc nun did 
 Formosi spolium corporis alstulit. 
 Res est forma fugax. Qis sapiens bono 
 Confidat fragili 1 SENECA. 
 
 Not faster in the summer's ray 
 
 The spring's frail beauty fades away, 
 
 Than anguish and decay consume 
 
 The smiling virgin's rov bloom, 
 
 Some beauty's suatch'd each day, each hour, 
 
 For beauty is a fleeting flower: 
 
 Then how can wisdom e'er coufide 
 
 In beauty's momentary pride 1 ELPHINSTON. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 You have very lately observed, that in the nu- 
 merous subdivisions of the world, every class 
 and order of mankind have joys and sorrows of 
 their own ; we all feel hourly pain and pleasure 
 from events which pass unheeded before our 
 eyes, but can scarcely communicate our percep- 
 tions to minds preoccupied by different objects, 
 any more than the delight of well-disposed co- 
 lours or harmonious sounds can be imparted to 
 such as want the senses of hearing or of sight. 
 
 I am so strongly convinced of the justness of 
 this remark, and have on so many occasions dis- 
 covered with how little attention pride looks up- 
 on calamity of which she thinks herself not in 
 danger, and indolence listens to complaint when 
 it is not echoed by her own remembrance, that 
 though I am about to lay the occurrences of my 
 life before you, I question whether you will con- 
 descend to peruse my narrative, or, without the 
 help of some female speculatist, be able to un 
 derstand it. 
 
 I was born a beauty. From the dawn of rea- 
 son I had my regard turned wholly upon myself, 
 nor can recollect any thing earlier than praise 
 and admiration. My mother, whose face had 
 uckily advanced her to a condition above her 
 jirth, thought no evil so great as deformity. She 
 lad not the power of imagining any other de- 
 ect than a cloudy complexion, or disproportion- 
 ate features ; and therefore contemplated me as 
 m assemblage of all that could raise envy or de- 
 sire, and predicted withtrinmphant fondness the 
 extent of my conquests, and the number of my 
 slaves. 
 
 She never mentioned any of my young ac- 
 quaintance before me, but to remark how much 
 ;hey fell below my perfection ; how one would 
 lave had a fine face, but that her eyes were with- 
 out lustre ; how another struck the sight at a dis- 
 tance, but wanted my hair and teeth at a nearer 
 view; another disgraced an elegant shape with
 
 No. 130.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 203 
 
 a brown skin; some had short fingers, and 
 others dimples in a wrong place. 
 
 As she expected no happiness nor advantage 
 but from beauty, she thought nothing but beauty 
 worthy of her care ; and her maternal kindness 
 was chiefly exercised in contrivances to protect 
 me from any accident that might deface me with 
 a scar, or stain me with a freckle ; she never 
 thought me sufficiently shaded from the sun, or 
 screened from the fire. She was severe or in- 
 dulgent with no other intention than the preser- 
 vation of my form ; she excused me from work, 
 lest I should learn to hang down my head, or 
 harden my finger with a needle ; she snatched 
 away my book, because a young lady in the 
 neighbourhood had made her eyes red with read- 
 ing by a candle ; but she would scarcely suffer 
 me to eat, lust I should spoil my shape, nor to 
 walk, lest I should swell my ankle with a sprain. 
 At night I was accurately surveyed from head to 
 foot, lest I should have suffered! any diminution 
 of my charms in the adventures of the day ; and 
 was never permitted to sleep till I had passed 
 through the cosmetic discipline, part of which 
 was a regular lustration performed with bean- 
 flower water and May dews ; my hair was per- 
 fumed with variety of unguents, by some of 
 which it was to be thickened, and by others to 
 be curled. The softness of my hands was se- 
 cured by medicated gloves, and my bosom rub- 
 bed with a pomade prepared by my mother, of 
 virtue to discuss pimples, and clear discoloura- 
 tions. 
 
 I was always called up early, because the 
 morning air gives a freshness to the cheeks : but 
 I was placed behind a curtain in my mother's 
 chamber, because the neck is easily tanned by 
 the rising sun. I was then dressed with a thou- 
 sand precautions, and again heard my own 
 praises, and triumphed in the compliments and 
 prognostications of all that approached me. 
 
 My mother was not so much prepossessed 
 with an opinion of my natural excellences as 
 not to think some cultivation necessary to their 
 completion. She took care that I should want 
 none of the accomplishments included in female 
 education, or considered as necessary in fa- 
 shionable life. I was looked upon in my ninth 
 year as the chief ornament of the dancing-mas- 
 ter's ball, and Mr. Ariet used to reproach his 
 other scholars with my performances on the 
 harpsichord. At twelve I was remarkable for 
 playing my cards with great elegance of man- 
 ner, and accuracy of judgment. 
 
 At last the time came when my mother 
 thought me perfect in my exercises, and qualified 
 to display in the open world those accomplish- 
 ments which had yet only been discovered in 
 select parties, or domestic assemblies. Prepar- 
 ations were therefore made for my appearance 
 on a public night, which she considered as the 
 most important and critical moment of my life. 
 She cannot be charged with neglecting any 
 means of recommendation, or leaving any thing 
 to chance which prudence could ascertain. Every 
 ornament was tried in every position, every friend 
 was consulted about the colour of my dress, and 
 the mantua-makers were harassed with direc- 
 tions and alterations. 
 
 At last the night arrived from which my fu- 
 ture life was to be reckoned. I was dressed and 
 sent out to conquer, with a heart beating like that 
 
 of an old knight-errant at his first sally. Scho- 
 lars have told me of a Spartan matron, who, 
 when she armed her son for battle, bade him 
 bring back his shield, or be brought upon it. 
 My venerable parent dismissed me to a field, in 
 her opinion, of equal glory, with a command to 
 show that I was her daughter, and not to return 
 without a lover. 
 
 I went, and was received, like other pleasing 
 novelties, with a tumult of applause. Every 
 man who valued himself upon the graces of his 
 person, or the elegance of his addtess, crowded 
 about me, and wit and splendour contended for 
 my notice. I was delightfully fatigued with in- 
 cessant civilizes, which were made more pleas- 
 ing by the apparent envy of those whom my 
 presence exposed to neglect, and returned with 
 an attendant equal in rank and wealth to my 
 utmost wishes, and from this time stood in the 
 first rank of beauty, was followed by gazers in 
 the Mall, celebrated in the papers of the day, 
 imitated by all who endeavoured to rise into 
 fashion, and censured by those whom age or 
 disappointment forced to retire. 
 
 My mother, who pleased herself with the 
 hopes of seeing my exaltation, dressed me with 
 all the exuberance of finery ; and when I re- 
 presented to her that a fortune might be ex- 
 pected proportionate to my appearance, told me 
 that she should scorn the reptile who could in- 
 quire after the fortune of a girl like me. She 
 advised me to prosecute my victories, and time 
 would certainly bring me a captive who might 
 deserve the honour of being enchained for ever. 
 
 My lovers were indeed so numerous, that I 
 had no other care than that of determining to 
 whom I should seem to give the preference. 
 But having been steadily and industriously in- 
 structed to preserve my heart from any impres- 
 sions which might hinder me from consulting 
 my interest, I acted with less embarrassment, 
 because my choice was regulated by principles 
 more clear and certain than the caprice of ap- 
 probation. When I had singled out one from 
 the rest as more worthy of encouragement, I 
 proceeded in my measures by the rules of art ; 
 and yet, when the ardour of the first visits was 
 spent, generally found a sudden declension of 
 my influence ; I felt in myself the want of some 
 power to diversify amusement, and enliven con- 
 versation, and could not but suspect that my 
 mind failed in performing the promises of my 
 face. This opinion was soon confirmed by one 
 of my lovers, who married Lavinia with less 
 beauty and fortune than mine, because he 
 thought a wife ought to have qualities which 
 might make her amiable when her bloom was 
 past. 
 
 The vanity of my mother would not suffer her 
 to discover any defect in one that had been form- 
 ed by her instructions, and had all the excellence 
 which she herself could boast. She told me that 
 nothing so much hindered the advancement of 
 women as literature and wit, which generally 
 frightened away those that could make the best 
 settlements, and drew about them a needy tribe 
 of poets and philosophers, that filled their heads 
 with wild notions of content, and^ontemplation, 
 and virtuous obscurity. She therefore enjoined 
 me to improve my minuet-step with a new French 
 dancing-master and wait the event of the next 
 birth-night.
 
 204 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 131. 
 
 I had now almost completed my nineteentl 
 year if my charms had lost any of their softness, 
 it was more than compensated, 'by additional dig- 
 nitv ; and if the attractions of innocence were 
 impaired, their place was supplied by the arts of 
 allurement. I was therefore preparing for a new 
 attack, without any abatement of my confidence, 
 when, in the midst of my hopes and schemes, I 
 was seized by that dreadful malady which has 
 so often put a sudden end to the tyranny of beau- 
 ty. I recovered my health after a long confine- 
 ment; but when I looked again on that face 
 which had been often flushed with transport at its 
 own reflection, and saw all that I had learned to 
 value, all that I had endeavoured tb improve, all 
 that had procured me honours or praises, irreco- 
 verably destroyed, 1 sunk at once into melancholy 
 and despondence. My pain was not much con- 
 eoled or alleviated by my mother, who grieved 
 that I had not lost my life together with my beau- 
 ty ; and declared, that she thought a young wo- 
 man divested of her charms had nothing for which 
 those who loved her could desire to save her from 
 the grave. 
 
 Having thus continued my relation to the pe- 
 riod from which my life took a new course, I 
 shall conclude it in another letter, if by publish- 
 ing this you show any regard for the correspond- 
 ence of, 
 
 Sir, &c. VICTORIA. 
 
 No. 131.] TUESDAY, JUNE 18, 1751. 
 
 -Fatia accede deisgue, 
 
 Et coleftlices ; miserosfuge. Sidera ceelo 
 
 Ut distant, flamma mari, sic utile recto. LUCAN. 
 
 Still follow where auspicious fates invite ; 
 Caress the happy, and the wretched slight. 
 Sooner shall jarring elements unite, 
 Than truth with gain, thai, interest with right. 
 
 LEWIS. 
 
 THERE is scarcely any sentiment in which, 
 amidst the innumerable varieties of inclination, 
 that nature or accident have scattered in the 
 world, we find greater numbers concurring, than 
 in the wish for riches ; a wish indeed so preva- 
 lent, that it may be considered as universal and 
 transcendental, as the desire in which all other 
 desires are included, and of which the various 
 purposes which actuate mankind are only subor- 
 dinate species and different modifications. 
 
 Wealth is the general centre of inclination, the 
 point to which all minds preserve an invariable 
 tendency, and from which they afterwards di- 
 verge in numberless directions. Whatever is the 
 remote or ultimate design, the immediate care is 
 to be rich ; and in whatever enjoyment we in- 
 tend finally to acquiesce, we seldom consider it 
 as attainable but by the means of money. Of 
 wealth therefore all unanimously confess the 
 value, nor is there any disagreement but about 
 the use. 
 
 No desire can be formed which riches do not 
 assist to gratify. He that places his happiness 
 jn splendid equipage or numerous dependents, 
 in refined praise or popular acclamations, in the 
 accumulation of curiosities or the revels of lux- 
 ury, in splci^rid edifices or wide plantations, 
 must still, either by birth or acquisition, possess 
 riches. They may be considered as the elemental 
 principles of pleasure, which may be combined 
 with endless diversity ; as the essential and ne- 
 
 cessary substance of which only the form is left 
 to be adjusted by choice. 
 
 The necessity of riches being thus apparent, it 
 is not wonderful that almost every mind has been 
 employed in endeavours to acquire them ; that 
 multitudes have vied in arts by which life is fur- 
 nished with accommodations, and which there- 
 fore mankind may reasonably be expected to 
 reward. 
 
 It had indeed been happy, if this predominant 
 appetite had operated only in concurrence with 
 virtue, by influencing none but those who were 
 zealous to deserve what they were eager to pos- 
 sess, and had abilities to improve their own for- 
 tunes by contributing to the ease or happiness of 
 others. To have riches and to have merit would 
 then have been the same, and success might rea- 
 sonably have been considered as a proof of excel- 
 lence. 
 
 But we do not find that any of the wishes of men 
 keep a stated proportion to their powers of attain- 
 ment. Many envy and desire wealth, who can 
 never procure it by honest industry or useful 
 knowledge. They therefore turn their eyes 
 about to examine what other methods can be 
 found of gaining that which none, however im- 
 potent or worthless, will be content to want. 
 
 A little inquiry will discover that there are 
 nearer ways to profit than through the intricacies 
 of art, or up the steeps of labour ; what wisdom 
 and virtue scarcely receive at the close of life, as 
 the recompense of long toil, and repeated efforts, 
 is brought within the reach of subtilty and dis- 
 honesty by more expeditious and compendious 
 measures : the wealth of credulity is an open 
 prey to falsehood; and the possessions of igno- 
 rance and imbecility are easily stolen away by 
 the conveyances of secret artifice, or seized by 
 the gripe of unresisted violence. 
 
 It is likewise not hard to discover that riches 
 always procure protection for themselves, that 
 they dazzle the eyes of inquiry, divert the cele- 
 irity of pursuit, or appease the ferocity of ven- 
 jeance. When any man is incontestably known 
 x have large possessions, very few think it re- 
 quisite to inquire by what practices they were 
 obtained ; the resentment of mankind rages only 
 against the struggles of feeble and timorous cor- 
 ruption, but when it has surmounted the first op- 
 position, it is afterwards supported by favour, and 
 animated by applause. 
 
 The prospect of gaining speedily what is ar- 
 dently desired, and the certainty of obtaining by 
 very accession of advantage an addition of se- 
 curity, have so far prevailed upon the passions 
 of mankind, that the peace of life is destroyed 
 )y a general and incessant struggle for riches, 
 't is observed of gold, by an old epigrammatist, 
 that to have it is to be in fear, and to want it is to be 
 >i sorrow. There is no condition which is not dis- 
 quieted either with the care of gaining or of keep- 
 ng money ; and the race of man may be divided 
 n a political estimate between those who are 
 practising fraud, and those who are repelling it. 
 
 If we consider the present state of the world, 
 t will be found, that all confidence is lost among 
 mankind, that no man ventures to act where 
 money can be endangered upon the faith of 
 another. It is impossible to see the long scrolls 
 n which every contract is concluded, with all 
 their appendages of seals and attestation, without 
 wondering at the depravity of those beings, who
 
 No. 132.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 205 
 
 must be restrained from violation of promise by 
 such formal and public evidences, and precluded 
 from equivocation and subterfuge by such punc- 
 tilious minuteness. Among all the satires lo 
 which foliy and wickedness have given occasion, 
 none is equally severe with a bond or a settlement. 
 
 Of the various arts by which riches may be ob- 
 tained, the greater part are at the first view irre- 
 concileable with the laws of virtue ; some are 
 openly flagitious, and practised not only in ne- 
 glect, but in defiance of faith and justice; and the 
 rest are on every side so entangled with dubious 
 tendencies, and so beset with perpetual tempta- 
 tions, that very few, even of those who are not 
 yet abandoned, are able to preserve their inno- 
 cence, or can produce any other claim to pardon, 
 than that they have deviated from the right less 
 than others, and have sooner and more diligently 
 endeavoured to return. 
 
 One of the chief characteristics of the golden 
 age, of the age in which neither care nor danger 
 had intruded on mankind, is the community of 
 possessions : strife and fraud were totally ex- 
 cluded, and every turbulent passion was stilled 
 by plenty and equality. Such were indeed happy 
 times, but such times can return no more. Com- 
 munity of possession must include spontaneity 
 of production ; for what is obtained by labour 
 will be of right the property of him by whose la- 
 bour it is gained. And while a rightful claim to 
 pleasure or to affluence must be procured either 
 by slow industry or uncertain hazard, there will 
 always be multitudes whom cowardice or impa- 
 tience incites to more safe and more speedy me- 
 thodf, who strive to pluck the fruit without cul- 
 tivating the tree, and to share the advantages of 
 victory without partaking the danger of the battle. 
 
 In latter ages, the conviction of the danger to 
 which virtue is exposed while the mind continues 
 open to the influence of riches, has determined 
 many to vows of perpetual poverty; they have 
 suppressed desire by cutting off" the possibility of 
 gratification, and secured their peace by destroy- 
 ing the enemy whom they had no hope of re- 
 ducing to quiet subjection. But, by debarring 
 themselves from evil, they have rescinded many 
 opportunities of good : they have too often sunk 
 into inactivity and uselessriess ; and, though they 
 have forborne to injure society, have not fully 
 paid their contributions to its happiness. 
 
 While riches are so necessary to present con- 
 venience, and so much more easily obtained by 
 crimes than virtues, the mind can only be se- 
 cured from yielding to the continual impulse of 
 covetousness by the preponcleration of unchange- 
 able and eternal motives. Gold will turn the in- 
 tellectual balance, when weighed only against 
 reputation; but will be light and ineffectual when 
 the opposite scale is charged with justice, vera- 
 city, and piety. 
 
 No. 132.] SATURDAY, JUNE 22, 1751. 
 
 Docilcs imitandis 
 
 Turpibus uc pruvis omnes sumus. juv. 
 
 The mind of mortals, in perversencss strong 
 Imbibes with dire docility the wrong. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 MR. RAMBLER, 
 
 I WAS bred a scholar, and after the usual course 
 of education, found it necessary to employ for 
 
 the support of life that learning which I had al- 
 most exhausted my little fortune in acquiring. 
 The lucrative professions drew my regard with 
 equal attraction ; each presented ideas which 
 excited my curiosity, and each imposed duties 
 which terrified my apprehension. 
 
 There is no temper more unpropitious to in- 
 terest than desultory application and unlimited 
 inquiry, by which the desires are held in a per- 
 petual equipoise and the mind fluctuates between 
 different purposes without determination. I had 
 books of every kind round me, among which I 
 divided my time as caprice or accident directed. 
 I often spent the first hours of the day in consi- 
 dering to what study I should devote the rest ; 
 and at last snatched up any author that lay upon 
 the table, or perhaps fled to a coffee-house for 
 deliverance from the anxiety of irresolution, and 
 the gloominess of solitude. 
 
 Thus my little patrimony grew imperceptibly 
 less, till I was roused from my literary slumber 
 by a creditor, whose importunity obliged me to 
 pacify him with so large a sum, that what re- 
 mained was not sufficient to support me more 
 than eight months. I hope you will not reproach 
 me with avarice or cowardice, if I acknowledge 
 that I now thought myself in danger of distress, 
 and obliged to endeavour after some certain 
 competence. 
 
 There have been heroes of negligence, who 
 have laid the price of their last acre in a drawer, 
 and, without the least interruption of their tran- 
 quillity, or abatement of their expenses, taken 
 out one piece after another, till there was no 
 more remaining. But I was not born to such 
 dignity of imprudence, or such exaltation above 
 the cares and necessities of life : I therefore im- 
 mediately engaged my friends to procure me a 
 little employment, which might set me free from 
 the dread of poverty, and afford me time to plan 
 out some final scheme of lasting advantage. 
 
 My friends were struck with honest solicitude, 
 and immediately promised their endeavours for 
 my extrication. They did not suffer their kind- 
 ness to languish by delay, but prosecuted their 
 inquiries with such success, that in less than a 
 month I was perplexed with variety of offers and 
 contrariety of prospects, 
 
 I had however no time for long pauses of con- 
 sideration; and therefore soon resolved to ac- 
 cept the office of instructing a young nobleman 
 in the house of his father: I went to the seat at 
 which the family then happened to reside, was 
 received with great politeness, and invited lo en- 
 ter immediately on my charge. The terms of- 
 fered were such as I should willingly have ac- 
 cepted, though my fortune had allowed me great- 
 er liberty of choice: the respect with which I was 
 treated flattered my vanity; and perhaps the 
 splendour of the apartments, and the luxury of 
 the table, were not wholly without their influ- 
 ence. I immediately complied with the propo- 
 sals, and received the young lord into my care. 
 
 Having no desire to gain more than I should 
 truly deserve, I very diligently prosecuted my 
 undertaking, and had the satisfaction of disco- 
 vering in my pupil a flexible temper, a quick ap- 
 prehension, and a retentive memory. I did not 
 much doubt that my care would, in time, pro- 
 duce a wise and useful counsellor to the state, 
 though my labours were somewhat obstructed 
 by want of authority, and the necessity of corn
 
 206 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 133. 
 
 plvin<r with the freaks of negligence, and of 
 wailing patiently for the lucky moment of vo- 
 luntary attention. To a man whose imagina- 
 tion was filled with the dignity of knowledge, 
 and to whom a studious life had made all the 
 common amusements insipid and contemptible, 
 it was not very easy to suppress his indignation, 
 when he saw himself forsaken in the midst of 
 his lecture, for an opportunity to catch an in- 
 sect, and found his instructions debarred from 
 access to the intellectual faculties, by the me- 
 mory of a childish frolic, or the desire of a new 
 plaything. 
 
 Those vexations would have recurred less fre- 
 quently, had not his mamma, by entreating at 
 one time that he should be excused from his 
 task as a reward for some petty compliance, 
 and withholding him from his book at another, 
 to gratify herself or her visitants with his viva- 
 city, shown him that every thing was more 
 phasing and more important than knowledge, 
 and that study was to be endured rather than 
 chosen, and was only the business of those 
 hours which pleasure left vacant, or discipline 
 usurped. 
 
 I thought it my duty to complain, in tender 
 terms, of these frequent avocations ; but was an- 
 swered, that rank and fortune might reasonably 
 hope for some indulgence ; that the retardation 
 of my pupil's progress would not be imputed to 
 any negligence or inability of mine; that with 
 the success which satisfied every body else, I 
 might surely satisfy myself. I had now done 
 my duty, and without more remonstrances con- 
 tinued to inculcate my precepts whenever they 
 would be heard, gained every day new influence, 
 and found that by degrees my scholar began to 
 feel the quick impulses of curiosity, and the ho- 
 nest ardour of studious ambition. 
 
 At length it was resolved to pass a winter in 
 London. The lady had too muchfondness for 
 her son to live five months without him, and too 
 high an opinion of his wit and learning to refuse 
 her vanity the gratification of exhibiting him to 
 the public. I remonstrated against too eaily an 
 acquaintance with cards and company ; but with 
 a soft contempt of my ignorance and pedantry, 
 she said that he had been already confined too 
 long to solitary study, and it was now time to 
 show him the world ; nothing was more a brand 
 of meanness than bashful timidity ; gay freedom 
 and elegant assurance were only to be gained by 
 mixed conversation, a frequent intercourse with 
 strangers, and a timely introduction to splendid 
 assemblies; and she had more than once ob- 
 served, that his forwardness and complaisance 
 began to desert him, that he was silent when he 
 had not something of consequence to say, blush- 
 ed whenever he happened to find himself mis- 
 taken, and hung down his head in the presence 
 of the ladies, without the readiness of reply, and 
 activity of officiousness, remarkable in young 
 gentlemen that are bred in London. 
 
 Again I found resistance hopeless, and again 
 thought it proper to comply. We entered the 
 coach, and in (our days were placed in the gayest 
 and most magnificent region of the town. My 
 \: | il, who had for several yrars lived at a remote 
 scat, was immediately dazzled with a thousand 
 beams of novelty and show. His imagination 
 was filled with the perpetual tumult of pleasure 
 that passed before him, and it was impossible to 
 
 allure him from the window, or to overpower by 
 any charm of eloquence the rattle of coaches, and 
 the sounds which echoed from the doors in the 
 neighbourhood. In three days his attention, 
 which he began to regain, was disturbed by a 
 rich suit, in which he was equipped for the re- 
 ception of company, and which, having been 
 long accustomed to a plain dress, he could not 
 at first survey without ecstacy. 
 
 The arrival of the family was now formally 
 notified ; every hour of every day brought more 
 intimate or more distant acquaintances to the 
 door; and my pupil was indiscriminately intro- 
 duced to all, that he might accustom himself to 
 change effaces, and be rid with speed of his rus- 
 tic diffidence. He soon endeared himself to his 
 mother by the speedy acquisition or recovery of 
 her darling qualities ; his eyes sparkle at a nu 
 merous assembly, and his heart dances at the 
 mention of a ball. He has at once caught the 
 infection of high life, and has no other test of 
 principles or actions than the quality of ihose 
 to whom they are ascribed. He begins already 
 to look down on me with superiority, and sub- 
 mits to one short lesson in a week, as an act of 
 condescension rather than obedience ; for he is 
 of opinion, that no tutor is properly qualified 
 who cannot speak French ; and having formerly 
 learned a few familiar phrases from his sister's 
 governess, he is every day soliciting his mamma 
 to procure him a foreign footman, that he may 
 grow polite by his conversation. I am not yet 
 insulted, but find myself likely to become soon 
 a superfluous iricumbrance, for my scholar has 
 now no time for science or for virtue ; and the 
 lady yesterday declared him so much the fa- 
 vourite of every company, that she was afraid 
 he would not have an hour in the day to dance 
 
 and fence. 
 
 I am, &c. 
 
 EUMATHES. 
 
 No. 133.] TUESDAY, JUNE 25, 1751. 
 
 Magna guidcm sacris qua datpracepta libcllia 
 Victrix jbrtv.no: sapientia. Dicimus autem 
 Has quoqve frlicce, quiferre incommoda vital, 
 ffecjactarejuffumvitadidicere magistra. JUV. 
 
 Let Stoics ethics' haughty rules advance 
 
 To combat fortune, and to conquer chance : 
 
 Yet happy those, though not so learn'd are thought, 
 
 Whom life instructs, whoby experience taught 
 
 For new to come from past misfortunes look, 
 
 Nor shake the joke, which galls the more 'tis shook. 
 
 CREECH. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 You have shown, by the publication of my let- 
 ter, that you think the life of Victoria not wholly 
 unworthy of the notice of a philosopher: I shall 
 therefore continue my narrative, without any 
 apology for unimportance which you have dig- 
 nified, or for inaccuracies which you are to cor- 
 rect. 
 
 When my life appeared to be no longer in 
 danger, and as much of my strength was reco- 
 vered as enabled me to bear the agitation of a 
 coach, I was placed at a lodging in a neighbour- 
 ing village, to which my mother dismissed me 
 with a faint embrace, having repeated her com- 
 mand net to expose my face too soon to the sun
 
 No. 133.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 207 
 
 or wind, and told me, that with care I might per- 
 haps become tolerable again. The prospect of 
 being tolerable had very little power to elevate 
 the imagination of one who had so long been ac- 
 customed to praise and ecstacy ; but it was some 
 satisfaction to bo separated from my mother, who 
 was incessantly ringing the knell of departed 
 beauty, and never entered my room without the 
 whine of condolence, or the growl of anger. She 
 often wandered over my face, as travellers over 
 the ruins of a celebrated city to note every place 
 which had once been remarkable for a happy 
 feature. She condescended to visit my retire- 
 ment, but always left me more melancholy ; for 
 after a thousand trifling inquiries about my diet, 
 and a minute examination of my looks, she ge- 
 nerally concluded with a sigh, that I should ne- 
 ver more be fit to be seen. 
 
 At last I was permitted to return home, but 
 found no great improvement of my condition ; 
 for I was imprisoned in my chamber as a crimi- 
 nal, whose appearance would disgrace my friends, 
 and condemn me to be tortured into new beauty. 
 Ever, experiment which the officiousness of 
 folly could communicate, or the credulity of ig- 
 norance admit, was tried upon me. Sometimes 
 I was covered with emollients, by which it was 
 expected that all the scars would be filled, and my 
 cheeks plumped up to their former smoothness; 
 and sometimes I was punished with artificial 
 excoriations, in hopes of gaining new graces with 
 a new skin. The cosmetic science was ex- 
 hausted upon me ; but who can repair the ruins 
 of nature ? My mother was forced to give me 
 rest at last, and abandon me to the fate of a fallen 
 toast, whose fortune she considered as a hopeless 
 game, no longer worthy of solicitude or atten- 
 tion. 
 
 The condition of a young woman who has 
 never thought or heard of any other excellence 
 than beauty, and whom the .sudden blast of dis- 
 ease wrinkles in her bloom, is indeed sufficiently 
 calamitous. She is at once deprived of all that 
 gave her eminence or power; of all that elated 
 her pride, or animated her activity; all that filled 
 her clays with pleasure, and her nights with 
 hope ; all that gave gladness to the present hour, 
 or brightened her prospects of futurity. It is 
 perhaps not in the power of a man whose atten- 
 tion has been divided by diversity of pursuits, and 
 who has not been accustomed to derive from 
 others much of his happiness, to image to him- 
 self such helpless destitution, such dismal ina- 
 nity. Every object of pleasing contemplation 
 is at once snatched away, and the soul finds 
 every receptacle of ideas empty, or filled only 
 with the memory of joys that can return no more. 
 All is gloomy privation, or impotent desire; the 
 faculties of anticipation slumber in despondency, 
 or the powers of pleasure mutiny for employ- 
 ment. 
 
 I was so little able to find entertainment for 
 myself, that I was forced in a short time to ven- 
 ture abroad, as the solitary savage is driven by 
 hunger from his cavern. I entered with all the 
 humility of disgrace into assemblies, where I had 
 lately sparkled with gayety, and towered with 
 triumph. I was not wholly without hope, that 
 dejection had misrepresented me to myself, and 
 that the remains of my former face might yet 
 have some attraction and influence ; but the first , 
 
 circle of visits convinced me, that my reign was 
 at an end; that life and death were no longer in 
 my hands ; that I was no more to practise the 
 glance of command, or the frown of prohibition ; 
 to receive the tribute of sighs and praises, or be 
 soothed with the gentle murmurs of amorous 
 timidity. My opinion was now unheard, and my 
 proposals were unregarded ; the narrowness of 
 my knowledge, and the meanness of my senti- 
 ments, were easily discovered, when the eyes 
 were no longer engaged against the judgment ; 
 and it was observed, by those who had formerly 
 been charmed with my vivacious loquacity, that 
 my understanding was impaired as well as my 
 face, and that I was no longer qualified to fill a 
 place in any company but a party at cards. 
 
 It is scarcely to be imagined how soon the 
 mind sinks to a level with the condition. I, who 
 had long considered all who approached me as 
 vassals condemned to regulate their pleasures by 
 my eyes, and harass their inventions for my 
 entertainment, was in less than three weeks 
 reduced to receive a ticket with professions of 
 obligation ; to catch with eagerness at a compli- 
 ment; and to watch with all the anxiousness of 
 dependence, lest any little civility that was paid 
 me should pass unacknowledged. 
 
 Though the negligence of the men was not 
 very pleasing when compared with vows and 
 adoration, yet it was far more supportable than 
 the insolence of my own sex. For the first ten 
 months after my return into the world, I never 
 entered a single house in which the memory of 
 my downfal was not revived. At one place I 
 was congratulated on my escape with life ; at 
 another I heard of the benefits of early inocula- 
 tion ; by some I have been told in express terms, 
 that I am not yet without my charms ; others 
 have whispered at my entrance, This is the cele- 
 brated beauty. One told me of a wash that 
 would smooth the skin ; and another offered me 
 her chair that I might not front the light Some 
 soothed me with the observation that none can 
 tell how soon my case may be her own ; and 
 some thought it proper to receive me with 
 mournful tenderness, formal condolence, and 
 consolatory blandishments. 
 
 Thus was I every day harassed with all the 
 stratagems of well-bred malignity; yet insolence 
 was more tolerable than solitude, and I therefore 
 persisted to keep my time at tfie doors of my 
 acquaintance, without gratifying them with any 
 appearance of resentment or depression. I ex- 
 pected that their exultation would in time vapour 
 away ; that the joy of their superiority would 
 end with its novelty ; and that I should be suf- 
 fered to glide along in my present form among 
 the nameless multitude, whom nature never in- 
 tended to excite envy or admiration, nor enabled 
 to delight the eye or inflame the heart. 
 
 This was naturally to be expected, and this I 
 began to experience. But when I was no longei 
 agitated by the perpetual ardour of resistance, 
 and effortof perseverance, I found more sensibly 
 the want of those entertainments which had for- 
 merly delighted me ; the day rose upon me 
 without an engagement; and the evening closed 
 in its natural gloom, without summoning me to 
 a concert or a ball. None had any care to find 
 amusements for me, and I had no power of 
 amusing myself. Idleness exposed me to me-
 
 208 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 134. 
 
 lancholy, and life began to languish in motion- 
 less indifference. 
 
 Misery and shame are nearly allied. It was 
 nut w.:noMt many struggles that I prevailed on 
 mvsi'lf to confess my uneasiness to Euphemia, 
 the only friend who had never pained me with 
 comfort or with pity. I at last laid my calami- 
 ties before her, rather to ease my heart than re- 
 ceive assistance. " We must distinguish," said 
 she, "my Victoria, those evils which are imposed 
 by Providence, from those to which we ourselves 
 give the power of hurting us. Of your calamity 
 a small part is the infliction of Heaven, the rest 
 is little more than the corrosion of idle discon- 
 tent. You have lost that which may indeed 
 sometimes contribute to happiness, but to which 
 happiness is by no means inseparably annexed. 
 You have lost what the greater number of the 
 human race never have possessed ; what those 
 on whom it is bestowed for the most part possess 
 in vain ; and what you, while it was yours, knew 
 not how to use ; you have only lost early what 
 the laws of nature forbid you to keep long, and 
 have lost it while your mind is yet flexible, and 
 while you have time to substantiate more valu- 
 able and more durable excellences. Consider 
 yourself, my Victoria, as a being born to know, 
 to reason, and to act. ; rise at once from your 
 dream of melancholy to wisdom and to piety ; 
 you will find that there are other charms than 
 those of beauty, and other joys than the praise 
 of fools." I am, Sir, &c. 
 
 VICTORIA. 
 
 No. 134,] SATURDAY, JUNE 29, 1751. 
 
 Quia scit, an adjiciant hodicrna crastina summa 
 Tempora Dii tuperi ? HOR. 
 
 Who knows if Heaven, with ever-bounteous power, 
 Shall add to-morrow to the present hour ? 
 
 FRANCIS. 
 
 I PAT yesterday morning employed in deliberat- 
 ing on which, among the various subjects that 
 occurred to my imagination, I should bestow the 
 paper of to-day. After a short effort of medita- 
 tion, by which nothing was determined, I grew 
 every moment, more irresolute, my ideas wan- 
 dered from the first intention, and I rather wished 
 to think, than thought, upon any settled subject ; 
 till at last I was awakened from this dream of 
 study by a summons from the press ; the time 
 was come for which I had been thus negligently 
 purposing to provide, and, however dubious or 
 elusrgish, I was now necessitated to write. 
 
 Though to a writer whoso design is so com- 
 prehensive and miscellaneous, that he may ac- 
 commodate himself with a topic from every scene 
 oflifi', or view of nature, it is no great aggrava- 
 tion of his task to be obliged to a sudden compo- 
 sition ; yet I could not forbear to reproach my- 
 delf for having so long neglected what was un- 
 avoidably to be done, and of which every mo- 
 ment's idleness increased the difficulty. There 
 was however some pleasure in reflecting that I, 
 who had only trifled till diligence was necessary, 
 might still congratulate myself upon my superi- 
 ority to multitudes, who have trifled till diligence 
 is vain ; who can by no degree of activity or re- 
 wolution recover the opportunities which have 
 slipped away ; and who are condemned by their 
 
 own carelessness to hopeless calamity and barren 
 sorrow. 
 
 The folly of allowing ourselves to delay what 
 we know cannot be finally escaped, is one of the 
 general weaknesses, which, in spite of the in- 
 struction of moralists, and the remonstrances of 
 reason, prevail to a greater or less degree in 
 every mind ; even they, who most steadily with- 
 stand it, find it, if not the most violent, the most 
 pertinacious of the passions, always renewing its 
 attacks, and, though often vanquished, never de- 
 stroyed. 
 
 It is indeed natural to have particular regard 
 to the time present, and to be most solicitous for 
 that which is by its nearness enabled to make 
 the strongest impressions. When therefore any 
 sharp pain is to be suffered, or any formidable 
 danger to be incurred, we can scarcely exempt 
 ourselves wholly from the seducements of imagi- 
 nation ; we readily believe that another day will 
 bring some support or advantage which we now 
 want; and are easily persuaded, that the mo- 
 ment of necessity which we desire never to ar- 
 rive, is at a great distance from us. 
 
 Thus life is languished away in the gloom of 
 anxiety, and consumed in collecting resolution 
 which the next morning dissipates ; in forming 
 purposes which we scarcely hope to keep, and 
 reconciling ourselves to our own cowardice by 
 excuses, which, while we admit them, we know 
 to be absurd. Our firmness is, by the continual 
 contemplation of misery, hourly impaired ; every 
 submission to our fear enlarges its dominion : 
 we not only waste that time in which the evil we 
 dread might have been suffered and surmounted, 
 but even where procrastination produces no ab- 
 solute increase of our difficulties, make them less 
 superable to ourselves by habitual terrors. When 
 evils cannot be avoided, it is wise to contract the 
 interval of expectation ; to meet the mischiefs 
 which will overtake us if we fly ; and suffer only 
 their real malignity, without the conflicts of 
 doubt, and anguish of anticipation. 
 
 To act is far easier than to suffer; yet we 
 every day see the progress of life retarded by the 
 vis inertict, the mere repugnance to motion, and 
 find multitudes repining at the want of that 
 which nothing but idleness hinders them from 
 enjoying. The case of Tantalus, in the region 
 of poetic punishment, was somewhat to be pitied 
 because the fruits that hung about him retired 
 from his hand ; but what tenderness can be 
 claimed by those who, though perhaps they suf- 
 fer the pains of Tantalus, will never lift their 
 hands for their own relief? 
 
 There is nothing more common among this 
 torpid generation than murmurs and complaints ; 
 murmurs at uneasiness which only vacancy and 
 suspicion expose them to feel, and complaints of 
 distresses which it is in their power to remo'\ e. 
 Laziness is commonly associated with timidity. 
 Either fear originally prohibits endeavours by 
 infusing despair of success ; or the frequent fail- 
 ure of irresolute struggles, and the constant de- 
 sire of avoiding labour, impress by degrees false 
 terrors on the mind. But fear, whether natural 
 or acquired, when once it has full possession of 
 the fancy, never fails to employ it upon visions 
 of calamity, such as, if they are not dissipated 
 by useful employment, will soon overcast it with 
 horrors, and embitter life not only with those
 
 No. 135.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 209 
 
 miseries by which all earthly beings are really 
 more or less tormented, but with those which 
 do not yet exist, and which can only be discerned 
 by the perspicacity of cowardice. 
 
 Among all who sacrifice future advantage to 
 present inclination, scarcely any gain so little as 
 those that suffer themselves to freeze in idleness. 
 Others are corrupted by some enjoyment of more 
 or less power to gratify the passions ; but to ne- 
 glect our duties, merely to avoid the labour of 
 performing them, a labour which is always punc- 
 tually rewarded, is surely to sink under weak 
 tem-ptations. Idleness never can secure tran- 
 quillity; the call of reason and of conscience 
 will pierce the closest pavilion of the sluggard; 
 and though it may not have force to drive him 
 from his down, will be loud enough to hinder 
 him from sleep. Those moments which he can- 
 not resolve to make useful by devoting them 
 to the great business of his being, will still be 
 usurped by powers that will not leave them to 
 his disposal ; remorse and vexation will seize 
 upon them, and forbid him to enjoy what he is 
 so desirous to appropriate. 
 
 There are other causes of inactivity incident 
 to more active faculties and more acute discern- 
 ment. He to whom many objects of pursuit 
 arise at the same time, will frequently hesitate 
 between different desires till a rival has pre- 
 cluded him, or change his course as new attrac- 
 tions prevail, and harass himself without advanc- 
 ing. He who sees different ways to the same 
 end, will, unless he watches carefully over his 
 own conduct, lay out too much of his attention 
 upon the comparison of probabilities, and the 
 adjustment of expedients, and pause in the choice 
 of his road till some accident intercepts his jour- 
 ney. He whose penetration extends to remote 
 consequences, and who, whenever he applies his 
 attention to any design, discovers new prospects 
 of advantage, and possibilities of improvements, 
 will not easily be persuaded that his project is 
 ripe for execution ; but will superadd one con- 
 trivance to another, endeavour to unite various 
 purposes in one operation, multiply complica- 
 tions, and refine niceties, till he is entangled in 
 his own scheme, and bewildered in the perplexity 
 of various intentions. He that resolves to unite 
 all the beauties of situation in a new purchase, 
 must waste his life in roving to no purpose from 
 province to province. He that hopes in the same 
 house to obtain every convenience, may draw 
 plans and study Palladio, but will never lay a 
 stone. He will attempt a treatise on some im- 
 ptfrtant subject, and amass materials, consult 
 authors, and study all the dependant and colla- 
 teral parts of learning, but never conclude him- 
 self qualified to write. He that has abilities to 
 conceive perfection, will not easily be content 
 without it ; and, since perfection cannot be 
 reached, will lose the opportunity of doing well 
 in the vain hope of unattainable excellence. 
 
 The certainty that life cannot be long, and the 
 probability that it will be much shorter than na- 
 ture allows, ought to awaken every man to the 
 active prosecution of whatever he is desirous to 
 perform. It is true that no diligence can ascer- 
 tain success , death may intercept the swiftest 
 career; but he who is cut off in the execution of 
 an honest undertaking, has at least the honour 
 of falling in his rank, and has fought the battle, 
 though he missed the victory. 
 2B 
 
 No. 135.] TUESDAY, JULY 2, 1751. 
 
 Ctdum, non animum mutant. nun, 
 
 Place may be changed j but who can change his mind 1 
 
 IT is impossible to take a view on any side, or 
 observe any of the various classes that form the 
 great community of the world, without discover- 
 ing the influence of example, and admitting with 
 new conviction the observation of Aristotle, that 
 man is an imitative being. The greater, far the 
 greater number follow the track which others 
 have beaten, without any curiosity after new dis- 
 coveries, or ambition of trusting themselves to 
 their own conduct. And of those who break the 
 ranks and disorder the uniformity of the march, 
 most return in a short time from their deviation, 
 and prefer the equal and steady satisfaction of 
 security before the frolics of caprice and the 
 honours of adventure. 
 
 In questions difficult or dangerous it is indeed 
 natural to repose upon authority, and, when fear 
 happens to predominate, upon the authority of 
 those whom we do not in general think wiser 
 than ourselves. Very few have abilities requisite 
 for the discovery of abstruse truth ; and of those 
 few some want leisure, and some resolution. 
 But it is not so easy to find the reason of the uni- 
 versal submission to precedent where every mas 
 might safely judge for himself; where no irre~ 
 parable loss can be hazarded, nor any mischief 
 of long continuance incurred. Vanity might be 
 expected to operate where the more powerful 
 passions are not awakened ; the mere pleasure 
 of acknowledging no superior might produce 
 slight singularities, or the hope of gaining some 
 new degree of happiness awaken the mind to 
 invention or experience. 
 
 If in any case the shackles of prescription 
 could be wholly shaken off, and the imagination 
 left to act without control, on what occasion 
 should it be expected, but in the selection of 
 lawful pleasure ? Pleasure, of which the es- 
 sence is choice ; which compulsion dissociates 
 from every thing to which nature has united it ; 
 and which owes not only its vigour but its being 
 to the smiles of liberty. Yet we see that the 
 senses, as well as the reason, are regulated by 
 credulity ; and that most will feel, or say that 
 they feel, the gratifications which others have 
 taught them to expect. 
 
 At this time of universal migration, when 
 almost every one, considerable enough to attract 
 regard, has retired, or is preparing with all the 
 earnestness of distress to retire, into the country ; 
 when nothing is to be heard but the hopes of 
 speedy departure or the complaints of involun- 
 tary delay ; I have often been tempted to inquire 
 what happiness is to be gained, or what incon- 
 venience to be avoided, by this stated recession ? 
 Of the birds of passage, some follow the sum- 
 mer, and some the winter,because they live upon 
 sustenance which only summer or winter can 
 supply ; but of the annual flight of human rovers 
 it is much harder to assign the reason, because 
 they do not appear either to find or seek any 
 thing which is not equally afforded by the town 
 and country. 
 
 I believe that many of these fugitives may 
 have heard ef men whose continual wish was for 
 the quiet of retirement, who watched every op- 
 portunity tu steal away from observation, to for
 
 210 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 136 
 
 TO ke the crowd and delight themselves with the 
 society of solitude. There is indeed scarcely any 
 write? who has not celebrated the happiness ot 
 rural privacy, and delighted himself and his 
 reader with the melody of birds, the whisper of 
 erovcs and the murmur of rivulets : nor any 
 man, eminent for extent of capacity, or greatness 
 of exploits, that has not left behind him some 
 memorials of lonely wisdom and silent dignity. 
 
 But almost all absurdity of conduct arises from 
 the imitation of those whom we cannot resemble. 
 Those who thus testified their weariness of tu- 
 mult and hurry, and hasted with so much eager- 
 ness to the leisure of retreat, were either men 
 overwhelmed with the pressure of difficult em- 
 ployment, harassed with importunities, and dis- 
 tracted with multiplicity; or men wholly en- 
 grossed by speculative sciences, who having no 
 other end of life but to learn and teach, found 
 their searches interrupted by the common com- 
 merce of civility, and their reasonings disjointed 
 by frequent interruptions. Such men might rea- 
 sonably fly to that ease and convenience which 
 thsir condition allowed them to find only in the 
 country. The statesman who devoted the greater 
 part of his time to the public, was desirous of 
 Keeping the remainder in his own power. The 
 general ruffled with dangers, wearied with la- 
 bours, and stunned with acclamations, gladly 
 enatched an interval of silence and relaxation. 
 The naturalist was unhappy where the works of 
 Providence were not always before him. The 
 reasoner could adjust his systems only where his 
 mind was free from the intrusion of outward ob- 
 jects. 
 
 Such examples of solitude very few of those 
 who are now hastening from the town, have any 
 pretensions to plead in their own justification, 
 since they cannot pretend either weariness of 
 labour, or desire of knowledge. They purpose 
 nothing more than to quit one scene of idleness 
 for another, and, after having trifled in public, to 
 sleep in secrecy. The utmost that they can 
 hope to gain is the change of ridiculousness to 
 obscurity, and the privilege of having fewer wit- 
 nesses to a life of folly. He who is not suffi- 
 ciently important to be disturbed in his pursuits, 
 but spends all his hours according to his own 
 inclination, and has more hours than his mental 
 faculties enable him to fill either with enjoyment 
 or desires, can have nothing to demand of shades 
 and valleys. As bravery is said to be a panoply, 
 insignificancy is always a shelter. 
 
 There are, however, pleasures and advantages 
 in a rural situation, which are not confined to 
 philosophers and heroes. The freshness of the 
 air, the verdure of the woods, the paint of the 
 meadows, and the unexhausted variety which 
 summer scatters upon the earth, may easily give 
 delight to an unlearned spectator. It is not 
 necessary that he who looks with pleasure on 
 the colours of a flower should study the princi- 
 ples of vegetation, or that the Ptolemaic and 
 Copernican systems should be compared before 
 the light of the sun can gladden, or its warmth 
 invigorate. Novelty is itself a source of gratifi- 
 cation ; and Milton justly observes, that to him 
 who has been long pent up in cities, no rural ob- 
 j"ct can be presented which will not delight or 
 refresh some of his senses. 
 
 Yet even these easy pleasures are missed by 
 we greater part of those who waste their sum- 
 
 mer in the country. Should any man pursue 
 his acquaintances to their retreats, he would find 
 few of them listening to Philomel, loitering in 
 the woods, or plucking daisies, catching the 
 healthy gale of the morning, or watching the 
 gentle coruscations of declining dav. Some wil/ 
 be discovered at a window by the road side, re 
 joicing when a new cloud of dust gathers to 
 wards them, as at the approach of a momentarj 
 supply of conversation, and a short relief from 
 the tediousness of unideal vacancy. Others are 
 placed in the adjacent villages, where they look 
 only upon houses as in the rest of the year, with 
 no change of objects but what a remove to any 
 new street in London might have given them. 
 The same set of acquaintances still settle to- 
 gether, and the form of life is not otherwise diver- 
 sified than by doing the same things in a different 
 place. They pay and receive visits in the usual 
 form, they frequent the walks in the morning, 
 they deal cards at night, they attend to the same 
 tattle, and dance with the same partners ; nor 
 can they, at their return to their former habita- 
 tion, congratulate themselves on any other ad- 
 vantage, than that they have passed their time 
 like others of the same rank ; and have the same 
 right to talk of the happiness and beauty of the 
 country, of happiness which they never felt, and 
 beauty which they never regarded. 
 
 To be able to procure its own entertainments, 
 and to subsist upon its own stock, is not the 
 prerogative of every mind. There are indeed 
 understandings so fertile and comprehensive, 
 that they can always feed reflection with new 
 supplies, and suffer nothing from the preclusion 
 of adventitious amusements ; as some cities 
 have within their own walls enclosed ground 
 enough to feed their inhabitants in a siege. 
 But others live only from day to day, and must 
 be constantly enabled, b}' foreign supplies, to 
 keep out the encroachments of languor and stu- 
 pidity. Such could not indeed be blamed for ho- 
 vering within reach of their usual pleasure, more 
 than any other animal for not quitting its native 
 element, were not their faculties contracted by 
 their own fault. But let not those who go into 
 the country, merely because they dare not be left 
 alone at home, boast their love of nature, or their 
 qualifications for solitude ; nor pretend that they 
 receive instantaneous infusions of wisdom from 
 the Dryads, and are able, when they leave smoke 
 and noise behind, to act, or think, or reason for 
 themselves. 
 
 No. 136.] SATURDAY, JULY 6, 1751. 
 
 ailao 
 
 Who dares think one thinjr, and another tell, 
 My heart detests him as the gates of hell. 
 
 THE regard which they whose abilities are em- 
 ployed in the works of imagination claim from 
 the rest of mankind, arises in a great measure 
 from their influence on futurity. Rank may be 
 conferred by princes, and wealth bequeathed by 
 misers or by robbers ; but the honours of a lasting 
 name, and the veneration of distant ages, only
 
 No. 136.] THE RAMBLER. 
 
 the sor>3 of learning have the power of bestow- 
 ing. While, therefore, it continues one of the 
 characteristics of rational nature to decline obli- 
 vion, authors never can be wholly overlooked in 
 the search after happiness, nor become con- 
 temptible but by their own fault. 
 
 The man who considers himself as constitut- 
 ed the ultimate judge of disputable characters, 
 and entrusted with the distribution of the last 
 terrestrial rewards of merit, ought to summon all 
 his fortitude to the support of his dignity with the 
 most vigilant caution and scrupulous justice. 
 To deliver examples to posterity, and to regulate 
 the opinion of future times, is no slight or trivial 
 undertaking ; nor is it easy to commit more atro- 
 cious treason against the great republic of huma- 
 nity, than by falsifying its records and misguiding 
 its decrees. 
 
 To scatter praise or blame without regard to 
 justice, is to destroy the distinction of good and 
 evil. Many have no other test of actions than 
 general opinion ; and all are so far influenced by 
 a sense of reputation, that they are often re- 
 strained by fear of reproach, and excited by hope 
 of honour, when other principles have lost their 
 power ; nor can any species of prostitution pro- 
 mote general depravity more than that which de- 
 stroys the force of praise, by showing that it may 
 be acquired without deserving it, and which by 
 setting free the active and ambitious from the 
 dread of infamy, lets loose the rapacity of power, 
 and weakens the only authority by which great- 
 ness is controlled. 
 
 Praise, like gold and diamonds, owes its value 
 only to its scarcity. It becomes cheap as it be- 
 comes vulgar, and will no longer raise expecta- 
 tion, or animate enterprise. It is therefore not 
 only necessary, that wickedness, even when it 
 is not safe to censure it, be denied applause, but 
 that goodness be commended only in proportion 
 to its degree ; and that the garlands due to the 
 great benefactors of mankind, be not suffered to 
 fade upon the brow of him who can boast only 
 petty services and easy virtues. 
 
 Had these maxims been universally received, 
 how much would have been added to the task of 
 dedication, the work on which all the power of 
 modern wit has been exhausted. How few of 
 these initial panegyrics had appeared, if the au- 
 thor had been obliged first to find a man of virtue, 
 then to distinguish the distinct species and degree 
 of his desert, and at last to pay him only the ho- 
 nours which he might justly claim. It is much 
 easier to learn the name of the last man whom 
 chance has exalted to wealth and power, to ob- 
 tain by the intervention of some of his domestics 
 the privilege of addressing him, or in confidence 
 of the general acceptance of flattery, to venture 
 on an address without any previous solicitation ; 
 and, after having heaped upon him all the virtues 
 to which philosophy has assigned a name, inform 
 him how much more might be truly said, did not 
 the fear of giving pain to his modesty repress the 
 raptures of wonder and the zeal of veneration. 
 
 Nothing has so much degraded literature from 
 Us natural rank, as the practice of indecent and 
 promiscuous dedication : for what credit can he 
 expect who professes himself the hireling of va- 
 nity, however profligate, and, without shame or 
 scruple, celebrates the worthless, dignifies the 
 mean, and gives to the corrupt, licentious, and 
 oppressive, the ornaments which ought only to 
 add grace to truth, and loveliness to innocence ? 
 
 211 
 
 Every other kind of adulteration, however shame- 
 ful, however mischievous, is less detestable than 
 the crime of counterfeiting characters, and fixing 
 the stamp of literary sanction upon the dross and 
 refuse of the world. 
 
 Yet I would not overwhelm the authors with 
 the whole load of infamy, of which part, perhaps 
 the greater part, ought to fall upon their patrons. 
 If he that hires a bravo, partakes the guilt of mur- 
 der, why should he who bribes a flatterer, hope 
 to be exempted from the shame of falsehood? 
 The unhappy dedicator is seldom without some 
 motives which obstruct, though not destroy, the 
 liberty of choice ; he is oppressed by miseries 
 which he hopes to relieve, or inflamed by ambi- 
 tion which he expects to gratify. But the patron 
 has no incitements equally violent ; he can re- 
 ceive only a short gratification, with which no- 
 thing but stupidity could dispose him to be 
 pleased. The real satisfaction which praise can 
 afford is by repeating aloud the whispers of con- 
 science, and by showing us that we have not 
 endeavoured to deserve well in vain. Every 
 other encomium is, to an intelligent mind, satire 
 and reproach ; the celebration of those virtues 
 which we feel ourselves to want, can only impress 
 a quicker sense of our own defects, and show 
 that we have not yet satisfied the expectations of 
 the world, by forcing us to observe how much 
 fiction must contribute to the completion of our 
 character. 
 
 Yet sometimes the patron may claim indul- 
 gence ; for it does not always happen, that the 
 encomiast has been much encouraged to his at- 
 tempt. Many a hapless author, when his book, 
 and perhaps his dedication, was ready for the 
 press, has waited long before any one would pay 
 the price of prostitution, or consent to hear the 
 praises destined to insure his name against the 
 casualties of time ; and many a complaint has 
 been vented against the decline of learning, and 
 neglect of genius, when either parsimonious pru- 
 dence has declined expense, or honest indigna- 
 tion rejected falsehood. But if at last, after long 
 inquiry and innumerable disappointments, he 
 find a lord willing to hear of his own eloquence 
 and taste, a statesman desirous of knowing how 
 a friendly historian will represent his conduct, or 
 a lady delighted to leave to the world some me- 
 morial of her wit and beauty, such weakness 
 cannot be censured as an instance of enormous 
 depravity. The wisest man may, by a diligent 
 solicitor, be surprised in the hour of weakness, 
 and persuaded to solace vexation, or invigorate 
 hope, with the music of flattery. 
 
 To censure all dedications as adulatory and 
 servile would discover rather envy than justice. 
 Praise is the tribute of merit, and he that has in- 
 contestably distinguished himself by any public 
 performance has a right to all the honours which 
 the public can bestow. To men thus raised 
 above the rest of the community, there is no need 
 that the book or its author should have any par- 
 ticular relation : that the patron is known to de- 
 serve respect, is sufficient to vindicate him that 
 pays it. To the same regard from particular 
 persons, private virtue and less conspicuous excel- 
 lence may be sometimes entitled. An author may 
 with great propriety inscribe his work to him by 
 whose encouragement it was undertaken, or by 
 whose liberality he has been enabled to prose- 
 cute it, and he may justly rejoice in his own for- 
 titude that dares to rescue merit from obscurity.
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 137. 
 
 Acribtu exemplit videor te cludere : misce 
 
 Ergo aliquid nostris de moribiu. MART. 
 
 Thus much I will indulge theo for tliy ease, 
 And miuglo something of our times to please. 
 
 DRYDEN,jun. 
 
 I know not whether greater relaxation may 
 not be indulged, and whether hope as well as 
 gratitude may not unblamcably produce a dedi- 
 cation ; but let the writer who pours out his 
 praises only to propitiate power, or attract the 
 attention of greatness, be cautious lest his desire 
 betray him to exuberant eulogies. We are na- 
 turally more apt to please ourselves with the fu- 
 ture than the past, and, while we luxuriate in 
 expectation, may be easily persuaded to purchase 
 what we yet rate, only by imagination, at a high- 
 er price than experience will warrant. 
 
 But no private views of personal regard can 
 discharge any man from his general obligations 
 to virtue and to truth. It may happen in the va- 
 rious combinations of life, that a good man may 
 receive favours from one, who, notwithstanding 
 his accidental beneficence, cannot be justly pro- 
 posed to the imitation of others, and whom there- 
 fore he must find some other way of rewarding 
 than by public celebrations. Self-love has indeed 
 many powers of seducement, but it surely ought 
 not to exalt any individual to equality with the 
 collective body of mankind, or persuade him that 
 a benefit conferred on him is equivalent to every 
 other virtue. Yet many, upon false principles 
 of gratitude, have ventured to extol wretches, 
 whom all but their dependents numbered among 
 the reproaches of the species, and whom they 
 would likewise have beheld with the same scorn, 
 had they not been hired to dishonest appro- 
 bation. 
 
 To encourage merit with praise, is the great 
 business of literature ; but praise must lose its 
 influence, by unjust or negligent distribution ; 
 and he that impairs its value may be charged 
 with misapplication of the power that genius puts 
 into his hands, and with squandering on guilt the 
 recompense of virtue* 
 
 No. 137.] TUESDAY, JULY 9, 1751. 
 
 Dum vitant stulti vitia, in contraria cnrrunt. 
 
 HOR. 
 
 Whilst fools one vice condemn, 
 
 They run into the opposite extreme. CREECH. 
 
 THAT wonder is the effect of ignorance, has been 
 often observed. The awful stillness of attention, 
 with which the mind is overspread at the first 
 view of an unexpected effect, ceases when we 
 Lave leisure to disentangle complications and 
 investigate causes. Wonder is a pause of rea- 
 son, a sudden cessation of the mental progress, 
 which lasts only while the understanding is fixed 
 upon some single idea, and is at an end when it 
 recovers force enough to divide the object into its 
 parts, or mark the intermediate gradations from 
 the first agent to the last consequence. 
 
 It may be remarked with equal truth, that ig- 
 norance is often the effect of wonder. It is com- 
 mon for those who have never accustomed 
 themselves to the labour of inquiry, nor invig- 
 orated their confidence by conquests over diffi- 
 culty, to sleep in the gloomy quiescence of as- 
 
 tonishment, without any effort to animate inqui- 
 ry, or dispel obscurity. What they cannot 
 immediately conceive, they consider as too high 
 to be reached, or too extensive to be comprehend- 
 ed ; they therefore content themselves with the 
 gaze of folly, forbear to attempt what they have 
 no hopes of performing, and resign the pleasure 
 of rational contemplation to more pertinacious 
 study or more active faculties. 
 
 Among the productions of mechanic art, man} 
 are of a form so different from that of their first 
 materials, and many consist of parts so numerous 
 and so nicely adapted to each other, that it is not 
 possible to view them without amazement. But 
 when we enter the shops of artificers, observe the 
 various tools by which every operation is facili- 
 tated, and trace the progress of a manufacture 
 through the different hands, that, in succession to 
 each other, contribute to its perfection, we soon 
 discover that every single man has an easy task, 
 and that the extremes, however remote, of na- 
 tural rudeness and artificial elegance, are joined 
 by a regular concatenation of effects, of which 
 every one is introduced by that which precedes it, 
 and equally introduces that which is to follow. 
 
 The same is the state of intellectual and manu- 
 al performances. Long calculations or complex 
 diagrams affright the timorous and unexperienc- 
 ed from a second view ; but if we have skill 
 sufficient to analyze them into simple principles, 
 it will be discovered that our fear was ground- 
 less. Divide and conquer, is a principle equally 
 just in science as in policy. Complication is a 
 species of confederacy which, while it continues 
 united, bids defiance to the most active and vigo- 
 rous intellect ; but of which every member is 
 separately weak, and which may therefore be 
 quickly subdued, if it can once be broken. 
 
 The chief art of learning, as Locke has ob- 
 served, is to attempt but little at a time. The 
 widest excursions of the mind are made by short, 
 flights frequently repeated : the most lofty fabrics 
 of science are formed by the continued accumu- 
 lation of single propositions. 
 
 It often happens, whatever be the cause, that 
 impatience of labour, or dread of miscarriage, 
 seizes those who are most distinguished for 
 quickness of apprehension; and that they who 
 might with greatest reason promise themselves 
 victory are least willing to hazard the encounter. 
 This diffidence, where the attention is not laid 
 asleep by laziness, or dissipated by pleasures, can 
 arise only from confused and general views, such 
 as negligence snatches in haste, or from the dis- 
 appointment of the first hopes formed by arro- 
 gance without reflection. To expect that the 
 intricacies of science will be pierced by a careless 
 glance, or the eminences of fame ascended with- 
 out labour, is to expect a peculiar privilege, a 
 power denied to the rest of mankind ; but to 
 suppose that the maze is inscrutable to diligence 
 or the heights inaccessible to perseverance, is to 
 submit tamely to the tyranny of fancy, and en- 
 chain the mind in voluntary shackles. 
 
 It is the proper ambition of the heroes of liter- 
 ature to enlarge the boundaries of knowledge by 
 discovering and conquering new regions of the 
 intellectual world. To the success of such un- 
 dertakings, perhaps, some degree of fortuitous 
 happiness is necessary, which no man can pro- 
 mise or procure to himself; and therefore doubt 
 and irresolution may be forgiven in him that ven- 
 tures into the unexplored abysses of truth, ana
 
 No. 138.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 213 
 
 attempts to find his way through the fluctuations 
 of uncertainty, and the conflicts of contradiction. 
 But when nothing more is required, than to pur- 
 sue a path already beaten, and to trample obsta- 
 cles which others have demolished, why should 
 any man so much distrust his own intellect as to 
 imagine himself unequal to the attempt? 
 
 It were to be wished that they who devote 
 their lives to study would at once believe nothing 
 too great for their attainment, and consider no- 
 thing as too little for their regard; that they 
 would extend their notice alike to science and to 
 life, and unite some knowledge of the present 
 world to their acquaintance with past ages and 
 remote events. 
 
 Nothing has so much exposed men of learning 
 to contempt and ridicule, as their ignorance of 
 things which are known to all but themselves. 
 Those who have been taught to consider the in- 
 stitutions of the schools, as giving the last per- 
 fection to human abilities, are surprised to see 
 men wrinkled with study, yet wanting to be in- 
 structed in the minute circumstances of propriety, 
 or the necessary forms of daily transaction; and 
 quickly shake off their reverence for modes of 
 education, which they find to produce no ability 
 above the rest of mankind. 
 
 Books, says Bacon, can never teach the use of 
 books. The student must learn by commerce 
 with mankind to reduce his speculations to prac- 
 tice, and accommodate his knowledge to the pur- 
 poses of life. 
 
 It is too common for those who have been bred 
 to scholastic professions, and passed much of 
 their time in academies where nothing but learn- 
 ing confers honours, to disregard every other 
 qualification, and to imagine that they shall find 
 mankind ready to pay homage to their know- 
 ledge, and to crowd about them for instruction. 
 They therefore step out from their cells into the 
 open world with all the confidence of authority 
 and dignity of importance ; they look round 
 about them at once with ignorance and scorn on 
 a race of beings to whom they are equally un- 
 known and equally contemptible, but whose 
 manners they must imitate, and with whose 
 opinions they must comply, if they desire to pass 
 their time happily among them. 
 
 To lessen that disdain with which scholars are 
 inclined to look on the common business of the 
 world, and the unwillingness with which they 
 condescend to learn what is not to be found in 
 any system of philosophy, it may be necessary to 
 consider that, though admiration is excited by 
 abstruse researches and remote discoveries, yet 
 pleasure is not given, nor affection conciliated, 
 but by softer accomplishments, and qualities more 
 easily communicable to those about us. He that 
 can only converse upon questions, about which 
 only a small part of mankind has knowledge suf- 
 ficient to make them curious, must lose his days 
 in unsocial silence, and live in the crowd of life 
 without a companion. He that can only be use- 
 ful on great occasions, may die without exerting 
 his abilities, and stand a helpless spectator of a 
 thousand vexations which fret away happiness, 
 and which nothing is required to remove but a 
 little dexterity of conduct and readiness of expe- 
 dients. 
 
 No degree of knowledge attainable by man is 
 able to set him above the want of hourly assist- 
 ance, or to extinguish the desire of fond endear- 
 
 ments and tender officiousness ; and therefore 
 no one should think it unnecessary to learn those 
 arts by which friendship may be gained. Kind- 
 ness is preserved by a constant reciprocation of 
 benefits or interchange of pleasures; but such 
 benefits only can be bestowed, as others are ca- 
 pable to receive, and such pleasures only im- 
 parted, as others are qualified to enjoy. 
 
 By this descent from the pinnacles of art no 
 honour will be lost ; for the condescensions of 
 learning are always overpaid by gratitude. An 
 elevated genius employed in little things, ap- 
 pears, to use the simile of Longinus, like the sun 
 in his evening declination; he remits his splen- 
 dour but retains his magnitude, and pleases more 
 though he dazzles less. 
 
 No. 138.] SATURDAY, JCLT 13, 1751. 
 
 O tantum libeat mccum tibi sordida rum 
 Aigue humiles habitare casas, etjigere eervoi. 
 
 VIRO. 
 
 With me retire, and leave the pomp of courts 
 
 For bumble cottages and rural sports. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 Sm, 
 
 THOUGH the contempt with which you have 
 treated the annual migrations of the gay and 
 busy part of mankind, is justified by daily obser- 
 vation, since most of those who leave the town, 
 neither vary their entertainments nor enlarge 
 their notions ; yet I suppose you do not intend 
 to represent the practice itself as ridiculous, or to 
 declare that he whose condition puts the distri- 
 bution of his time into his own power, may not 
 properly divide it between the town and country. 
 
 That the country, and only the country, dis- 
 plays the inexhaustible varieties of nature, and 
 supplies the philosophical mind with matter for 
 admiration and inquiry, never was denied ; but 
 my curiosity is very little attracted by the colour 
 of a flower, the anatomy of an insect, or the 
 structure of a nest ; I am generally employed 
 upon human manners, and therefore fill up the 
 months of rural leisure with remarks on those 
 who live within the circle of my notice. If wri- 
 ters would more frequently visit those regions of 
 negligence and liberty, they might diversify their 
 representations, and multiply their images, for in 
 the country are original characters chiefly to be 
 found. In cities, and yet more in courts, the mi- 
 nute discriminations which distinguish one from 
 another are for the most part effaced, the pecu 
 liarities of temper and opinion are gradually worn 
 away by promiscuous converse, as angular bo- 
 dies, and uneven surfaces, lose their points and 
 asperities by frequent attrition against one an 
 other, and approach by degrees to uniform roturi- 
 ditv. The prevalence of fashion, the influence 
 of example, the desire of applause, and the dread 
 of censure, obstruct the natural tendencies of the 
 mind, and check the fancy in its first efforts to 
 break forth into experiments of caprice. 
 
 Few inclinations are so strong as to grow np 
 nto habits, when they must struggle with the con- 
 stant opposition of settled forms and established 
 customs. But in the country every man is a se- 
 Darate and independent being: solitude flatters 
 rregularity with hopes of secrecy, and wealth, 
 removed from the mortification of comparison,
 
 214 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 133. 
 
 and the awe of equality, swells into contemptu- 
 ous confidence, and sets blame and laughter at 
 defiance; the impulses of nature act unrestrain- 
 ed and tiic disposition dares to show itself in its 
 true form, without any disguise of hypocrisy, or 
 decorations of elegance. Every one indulges the 
 full enjoyment of his own choice, and talks and 
 lives with no other view than to please himself, 
 without inquiring how far he deviates from the 
 general practice, or considering others as entitled 
 to any account of his sentiments or actions. If 
 he builds or demolishes, opens or encloses, de- 
 luges or drains, it is not his care what may be the 
 opinion of those who are skilled in perspective 
 or architecture, it is sufficient that he has no 
 landlord to control him, and that none has any 
 right to examine in what projects the lord of 
 the manor spends his own money on his own 
 grounds. 
 
 For this reason it is not very common to want 
 subjects for rural conversation. Almost every 
 man is daily doing something which produces 
 merriment wonder or resentment, among his 
 neighbours. This utter exemption from restraint 
 leaves every anomalous quality to operate in its 
 full extent, and suffers the natural character to 
 diffuse itself to every part of life. The pride 
 which, under the check of public observation, 
 would have been only vented among servants 
 and domestics, becomes in a country baronet the 
 torment of a province, and, instead of terminating 
 in the destruction of China ware and glasses, 
 ruins tenants, dispossesses cottagejs, and ha- 
 rasses villagers with actions of trespass and bills 
 of indictment. 
 
 It frequently happens that, even without v,io- 
 lent passions, or enormous corruption, the free- 
 dom and laxity of a rustic life produce remarkable 
 particularities of conduct or manner. In the 
 province where I now reside, we have one lady 
 eminent for wearing a gown always of the same 
 cut and colour ; another for shaking hands with 
 those that visit her ; and a third for her unshaken 
 resolution never to let tea or coffee enter her 
 house. 
 
 But of all the female characters which this 
 place affords, I have found none so worthy of 
 attention as that of Mrs. Busy, a widow, who 
 lost her husband in her thirtieth year, and has 
 since passed her time at the manor-house in the 
 government of her children, and the manage- 
 ment of the estate. 
 
 Mrs. Busy was married at eighteen from a 
 hoarding-school, where she had passed her time, 
 like other young ladies, in needle work, with a 
 few intervals of dancing and reading. When 
 she became a bride she spent one winter with 
 her husband in town, where having no idea of 
 any conversation beyond the formalities of a 
 visit, she found nothing to engage her passions; 
 and when she had been one night at court, and 
 two at an opera, and seen the Monument, the 
 Tombs and the Tower, she concluded that Lon- 
 ion had nothing more to show, and wondered 
 that when women had once seen the world they 
 could not be content to stay at home. She 
 therefore went willingly to the ancient seat, and 
 foi- some years studied housewifery under Mr. 
 Busy's mother, with so much assiduity, that the 
 old lady, when she died, bequeathed her a cau r 
 die-cup, a soup-dish, two beakers, and a chest 
 of table linen spun by herself. 
 
 Mr. Busy, finding the economical qualities of 
 his lady, resigned his affairs wholly into her 
 hands, and devoted his life to his pointers and 
 his hounds. He never visited his estates, but to 
 destroy the partridges or foxes ; and often com- 
 mitted such devastations in the range of pleasure, 
 that some of his tenants refused to hold their 
 lands at the usual rent. Their landlady per- 
 suaded them to be satisfied, and entreate'd her 
 husband to dismiss his dogs, with many exact 
 calculations of the ale drank by his companions, 
 and corn consumed by his horses, and remon- 
 strances against the insolence of the huntsman, 
 and the frauds of the groom. The huntsman 
 was too necessary to his happiness to be discard- 
 ed; and he had still continued to ravage his 
 own estate, had he not caught a cold and a fever 
 by shooting mallards in the fens. His fever was 
 followed by a consumption, which in a few 
 months brought him to the grave. 
 
 Mrs. Busy was too much an economist to feel 
 either joy or sorrow at his death. She received 
 the compliments and consolations of her neigh- 
 bours in a dark room, out of which she stole pri- 
 vately every night and morning to see the cows 
 milked ; and, after a few days, declared that she 
 thought a widow might employ herself better 
 than in nursing grief: and that, for her part, she 
 was resolved that the fortunes of her children 
 should not be impaired by her neglect. 
 
 She therefore immediately applied herself to 
 the reformation of abuses. She gave away the 
 dogs, discharged the servants of the kennel and 
 stable, and sent the horses to the next fair, but 
 rated at so high a price that they returned un- 
 sold. She was resolved to have nothing idle 
 about her, and ordered them to be employed in 
 common drudgery. They lost their sleekness 
 and grace, and were soon purchased at half the 
 value. 
 
 She soon disencumbered herself from her 
 weeds, and put on a riding-hood, a coarse apron, 
 and short petticoats, and has turned a large 
 manor into a farm, of which she takes the ma- 
 nagement wholly upon herself. She rises before 
 the sun to order the horses to their goers, and 
 sees them well rubbed down at their return from 
 work ; she attends the dairy morning and even- 
 ing, and watches when a calf falls that it maybe 
 carefully nursed ; she walks out among the 
 sheep at noon, counts the Iambs, and observes 
 the fences, and where she finds a gap, stops it 
 with a bush till it can be better mended. In har- 
 vest she rides a-field in the wagon, and is very 
 liberal of her ale from a wooden bottle. At her 
 leisure hours she looks goose eggs, airs the wool 
 room, and turns the cheese. 
 
 When respect or curiosity brings visitants to 
 her house, she entertains them with prognostics 
 of a scarcity of wheat, or a rot among the sheep, 
 and always thinks herself privileged to dismiss 
 them when she is to see the hogs fed, or to count 
 her poultry on the roost. 
 
 The only things neglected about her are her 
 children, whom she has taught nothing hut the 
 lowest household duties. In my last visit I met 
 \! iss Busy carrying grains to a sick cow, and 
 was entertained with the accomplishments of 
 her eldest son, a youth of such early maturity, 
 that, though he is only sixteen, she can trust him 
 to sell corn in the market. Her younger daugh- 
 ter, who is eminent for her beauty, though some-
 
 No. 139.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 215 
 
 what tanned in making hay, was busy in pouring 
 out ale to the ploughmen, that every one might 
 have an equal share. 
 
 I could not but look with pity on this young 
 family, doomed, by the absurd prudence ot' their 
 mother, to ignorance and meanness ; but, when 
 I recommended a more elegant education, was 
 answered, that she never saw bookish or finical 
 people grow rich, and that she was good for no- 
 thing herself till she had forgotten the nicety of 
 the boarding-school. 
 
 I am yours, &c. 
 
 BUCOLUS. 
 
 No. 139.] TUESDAY, JULT 16, 1751. 
 
 Sit quod vis simplex duntaxat et unum. 
 
 HOI 
 
 Let every piece be simple and be one. 
 
 IT is required by Aristotle to the perfection of a 
 tragedy, and is equally necessary to every other 
 species of regular composition, that it should 
 have a beginning, a middle, and an end. " The 
 beginning," says he, " is that which has nothin. 
 necessarily previous, but to which that whicl 
 follows is naturally consequent ; the end, on the 
 contrary, is that which by necessity, or at least 
 according to the common course of things, suc- 
 ceeds something else, but which implies nothing 
 consequent to itself; the middle is connected on 
 one side to something that naturally goes before, 
 and on the other to something that naturally fol- 
 lows it." 
 
 Such is the rule laid down by this great critic, 
 for the disposition of the different parts of a well- 
 constituted fable. It must begin, where it may 
 be made intelligible without introduction; and 
 end, where the mind is left in repose, without 
 expectation of any farther event. The interme- 
 diate passages must join the last effect to the 
 first cause, by a regular and unbroken concate- 
 nation ; nothing must be therefore inserted 
 which does not apparently arise from something 
 foregoing, and properly make way for something 
 that succeeds it. 
 
 This precept is to be understood in its rigour 
 only with respect to great and essential events, 
 and cannot be extended in the same force to mi- 
 nuter circumstances and arbitrary decorations, 
 which yet are more happy, as they contribute 
 more to the main design ; for it is always a proof 
 of extensive thought and accurate circumspec- 
 tion, to promote various purposes by the same 
 act ; and the idea of an ornament admits use, 
 though it seems to exclude necessity. 
 
 Whoever purposes, as it is expressed by Mil- 
 ton, to build the lofty rhyme, must acquaint him- 
 self with this law of poetical architecture, and 
 take care that his edifice be solid as well as beau- 
 tiful ; that nothing stand single or independent, 
 so as that it may be taken away without injuring 
 the rest ; but that, from the foundation to the 
 pinnacles, one part rest firm upon another. 
 
 This regular and consequential distribution is, 
 among common authors, frequently neglected ; 
 but the failures of those, whose example can have 
 no influence, may be safely overlooked, nor is it 
 of much use to recall obscure and unregarded 
 names to memory for the sake of sporting with 
 tiieir infamy. But if there is any writer whose 
 genius can embellish impropriety, and whose 
 
 authority can make error venerable, his works 
 are the proper objects of critical inquisition. To 
 expunge faults where there are no excellences, is 
 a task equally useless with that of the chemist, 
 who employs the arts of separation and refine- 
 ment upon ore in which no precious metal is 
 contained to reward his preparations. 
 
 The tragedy of Samson Agonistes has been 
 celebrated as the second work of the great author 
 of " Paradise Lost," and opposed, with all the 
 confidence of triumph, to the dramatic perform- 
 ances of other nations. It contains indeed just 
 sentiments, maxims of wisdom, and oracles of 
 piety, and many passages written with the an- 
 cient spirit of choral poetry, in which there is a 
 just and pleasing mixture of Seneca's moral de- 
 clamation, with the wild enthusiasm of the 
 Greek writers. It is therefore worthy of exam- 
 ination, whether a performance thus illuminated 
 with genius, and enriched with learning, is com- 
 posed according to the indispensable laws of 
 Aristotelian criticism : and, omitting at present 
 all other considerations, whether it exhibits a 
 beginning, a middle, and an end. 
 
 The beginning is undoubtedly beautiful and 
 proper, opening with a graceful abruptness, and 
 proceeding naturally to a mournful recital of 
 facts necessary to be known. 
 
 Samson. A little onward lend thy guiding hand 
 To these dark steps, a little farther on ; 
 For yonder bank hath choice of sun and shade ; 
 There I am wont to sit when any chance 
 Relieves me from my task of servile toil, 
 Daily in the common prison else enjoin'd me. 
 O wherefore was my birth from heaven foretold 
 Twice by an angel ; 
 
 Why was my breeding order'd and prescribed, 
 As of a person separate to God, 
 Design' d for great exploits ; if I must die 
 B^tray'd, captived, and both my eyes put out 
 Whom have I to complain of but myself? 
 Who this high gift of strength, committed to me, 
 In what part lodg'd, how easily bereft me 
 Under the seat of silence could not keep, 
 But weakly to a woman must reveal it. 
 
 His soliloquy is interrupted by a chorus or com- 
 pany of men of his own tribe, who condole his 
 miseries, extenuate his fault, and conclude with 
 a solemn vindication of Divine justice. So that 
 .1 the conclusion of the first act there is no de- 
 sign laid, no discovery made, nor any disposition 
 formed towards the subsequent event. 
 
 In the second act, Manoah, the father of Sam- 
 son, conies to seek his son, and, being shown 
 him by the chorus, breaks out into lamentations 
 of his misery, and comparisons of his present 
 with his former state, representing to him tho 
 ignominy which his religion suffers, by the festi- 
 val this day celebrated in honour of Dagon, to 
 whom the idolaters ascribed his overthrow. 
 
 Thou bear'st 
 
 Enough, and more, the burden of that fault; 
 Bitterly hast thou paid and stijl art paying 
 That rigid score. A worse thing yet remains : 
 This day the Philistines a popular feast 
 Here celebrate in Gaza; and proclaim 
 Great pomp aud sacrifice, and praises louA 
 To Dagon, as their god, who hath deliver'd 
 Thee, Samson, bound and blind, into their hands, 
 Them out of thine, who slew'st them many a slain. 
 
 Samson, touched with this reproach, makes a 
 reply equally penitential and pious, which hm 
 father considers as the effusion of prophetic con- 
 fidence.
 
 216 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 140. 
 
 Sa:mon. God, be sure, 
 
 Will -ol connive or linger tlms provoked, 
 But .ill arise and his great name assert: 
 D.igou must Moup, and shall ere long receive 
 Such u discomfit. u. slrill quite despoil him 
 Ol' all these buasted trophies won on me. 
 
 JlanoaA. With cause this hope relieves thee, and these 
 
 words 
 
 I as a prophecy receive ; for God, 
 Nothiug more certain, will not long defer, 
 To vindicate the glory of his name. 
 
 This part of the dialogue, as it might tend to 
 animate or exasperate Samson, cannot, I think, 
 be censured as wholly superfluous ; but the suc- 
 ceeding dispute, in which Samson contends to 
 die, and which his father breaks off, that he may 
 go to solicit his release, is only valuable for its 
 own beauties, and has no tendency to introduce 
 any thing that follows it. 
 
 The next event of the drama is the arrival of 
 Delilah, with all her graces, artifices, and allure- 
 ments. This produces a dialogue, in a very high 
 degree elegant and instructive, from which she 
 retires, after she has exhausted her persuasions, 
 and is no more seen nor heard of; nor has her 
 visit any effect but that of raising the character 
 of Samson. 
 
 In the fourth act enters Harapha, the giant of 
 Gath, whose name had never been mentioned 
 before, and who has now no other motive of com- 
 ing than to see the man whose strength and ac- 
 tions are so loudly celebrated : 
 
 Haraph.- 
 
 -Much I have heard 
 
 Of thy prodigious might, ai)d fcuts perform'd 
 Incredible to me ; in this displeased 
 That I was never present in the place 
 Of those encounters, where we might have tried 
 Eacii other's force in camp or listed fields : 
 And now am come to .see of whom such noise 
 Hath walked about, and each limb to survey, 
 If thy appearance answer loud report. 
 
 Samson challenges him to the combat ; and, af- 
 ter an interchange of reproaches, elevated by re- 
 peated defiance on one side, and embittered by 
 contemptuous insults on the other, Harapha re- 
 tires ; we then hear it determined, by Samson 
 and the chorus, that no consequence good or bad 
 will proceed from their interview : 
 
 Chanu. He will directly to tho lords, I fear, 
 And with malicious counsel stir them up 
 Some way or other farther to afflict thee. 
 
 Sams. He must allege some cause, and offered fight 
 Will not dare mention, lest a question rise, 
 Whether he durst accept the offer or not ; 
 And that he durst not, plain enough appear'd. 
 
 At last, in the fifth act, appears a messenger 
 from the lords, assembled at the festival of Da- 
 gon, with a summons by which Samson is re- 
 quired to come and entertain them with some 
 proof of his strength. Samson, after a short 
 expostulation, dismisses him with a firm and 
 resolute refusal ; but, during the absence of the 
 messenger, having awhile defended the propriety 
 of his conduct, he at last declares himself moved 
 by a secret impulse to comply, and utters some 
 dark presages of a great event to be brought to 
 pass by his agency, under the direction of Pro- 
 vidence. 
 
 Sams. Be of good courage; I begin to feel 
 Some rousing motions in me, which dispose 
 lo something extraordinary my thoughts. 
 I with this messenger will go along, 
 Nothing to do, be sure, that m:iy dishonour 
 
 Our law, or stain my vow of Nazarite. 
 If there be ought of presage in the mind, 
 This day will be remarkable in my life, 
 By some great act, or of my days the last; 
 
 While Samson is conducted off by the messen- 
 ger, his father returns with hopes of success in 
 his solicitation, upon which he confers with the 
 chorus till their dialogue is interrupted, first by a 
 shoutt)f triumph, and afterwards by screams of 
 horror and agony. As they stand deliberating 
 where they shall be secure, a man who had 
 been present at the show enters, and relates how 
 Samson, having prevailed on his guide to suffer 
 him to lean against the main pillars of the thea 
 trical edifice, tore down the roof upon the spec 
 tators and himself. 
 
 Those two massy pillars, 
 
 With horrible confusion, to and fro 
 He tugg'd, he shook, till down they came, and drew 
 The whole roof after them, with burst of thunder, 
 Upon the heads of all who sat beneath. 
 
 Samson, with these immixt, inevitably 
 
 Pull'd down the same destruction on himself. 
 
 This is undoubtedly a just and regular catas- 
 trophe, and the poem, therefore, has a beginning 
 and an end which Aristotle himself could not 
 have disapproved ; but it must be allowed to 
 want a middle, since nothing passes between the 
 first act and the last, that either hastens or delays 
 the death of Samson. The whole drama, if its 
 superfluities were cut of, would scarcely fill a 
 single act ; yet this is the tragedy which igno 
 ranee has admired, and bigotry applauded. 
 
 No. 140.] SATURDAY, JOLT 20, 1751. 
 
 Quis tarn Lucill fautor inepte est, 
 
 Vt nan hoc fatcatur 2 HOR. 
 
 What doting bigot, to his faults so blind, 
 As not to grant me this, can Milton find? 
 
 IT is common, says Bacon, to desire the end 
 without enduring the means. Every member of 
 society feels and acknowledges the necessity of 
 detecting crimes ; yet scarce any degree of virtue 
 or reputation is able to secure an informer from 
 public hatred. The learned world has always 
 admitted the usefulness of critical disquisitions, 
 yet he that attempts to show, however modestly, 
 the failures of a celebrated writer, shall surely 
 irritate his admirers, and incur the imputation of 
 envy, captiousness and malignity. 
 
 "With this danger full in my view, I shall pro- 
 ceed to examine the sentiments of Milton's tra- 
 gedy, which, though much less liable to censure 
 than the disposition of his plan, are, like those of 
 other writers, sometimes exposed to just excep- 
 tions for want of care, or want of discernment. 
 
 Sentiments are proper and improper as they 
 consist more or less with the character and cir- 
 cumstances of the person to whom they are at- 
 tributed, with the rules of the composition in 
 which they are found, or with the settled and un- 
 alterable nature of things. 
 
 It is common among the tragic poets to intro- 
 duce their persons alluding to events or opinions, 
 of which they could not possibly have any know- 
 ledge. The barbarians of remote or newly-dis- 
 covered regions often display their skill in Euro- 
 pean learning. The god of love is mentioned in
 
 No. 140.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 217 
 
 Tamerlane with all the familiarity of a Roman 
 epigrammatist ; and a late writer has put Har- 
 vey's doctrine of the circulation of the blood 'ml 
 the mouth of a Turkish statesman, who livet 
 near two centuries before it was known even to 
 philosophers or anatomists. 
 
 Milton's learning, which acquainted him with 
 the manners of the ancient eastern nations, and 
 his invention, which required no assistance from 
 the common cant of poetry, have preserved him 
 from frequent outrages of local or chronological 
 propriety. Yet he has mentioned Chalybean 
 steel, of which it is not very likely that his chorus 
 should have heard, and has made Alp the gene- 
 ral name of a mountain, in a region where the 
 Alps could scarcely be known: 
 
 No medicinal liquor can assuage, 
 
 Nor breath of cooling air from snowy Alp. 
 
 He has taught Samson the tales of Circe, and 
 the Syrenes, at which he apparently hints in his 
 colloquy with Delilah: 
 
 1 know thy trains, 
 
 Tho' dearly to my cost, thy gins and toils ; 
 Thy fair enchanted cup and warbling charms, 
 No more on me have power. 
 
 But the grossest error of this kind is the so- 
 lemn introduction of the phoanix in the last 
 scene ; which is faulty, not only as it is incon- 
 gruous to the personage to whom it is ascribed, 
 but as it is so evidently contrary to reason and 
 nature, that it ought never to be mentioned but 
 as a fable in any serious poem : 
 
 Virtue giv'n for lost, 
 
 Deprest, and overthrown, as seem'd 
 
 Like that self-bfgotten bird 
 
 In the Arabian woods embost 
 
 That no second knows, nor third, 
 
 And lay ere while a holocaust ; 
 
 From out our ashy womb now teem'd 
 
 Revives, reflourishes, then vigorous most 
 
 AVhen most inactive deem'd. 
 
 And tho' her body die, her fame survives, 
 
 A secular bird ages of lives. 
 
 Another species of impropriety is the unsuita- 
 bleness of thoughts to the general character of 
 the poem. The seriousness and solemnity of 
 tragedy necessarily reject all pointed orepigram- 
 matical expressions, all remote conceits and op- 
 position of ideas. Samson's complaint is there- 
 fore too elaborate to be natural : 
 
 As in the land of darkness, yet in light, 
 
 To live a life half dead, a living death, 
 
 And bury'd ; but, O yet more miserable! 
 
 Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave ! 
 
 Bury'd, yet not exempt, 
 
 By privilege of death and burial, 
 
 From worst of other evils, pains and wrongs. 
 
 All allusions to low and trivial objects, with 
 which contempt is usually associated, are doubt- 
 less unsuitable to a species of composition which 
 ought to be always awful though not always 
 magnificent. The remark therefore of the cho- 
 rus on good and bad news seems to want ele- 
 vation : 
 
 Manoah. A little stay will bring some notice hither, 
 Chor. Of good or bad so great, of bad the sooner ; 
 For evil news rides post, while good news baits. 
 
 But of all meanness, that has least to plead 
 which is produced by mere verbal conceits. 
 2C 
 
 which, depending only upon sounds, lose their 
 existence by the change of a syllable. Of this 
 kind, is the following dialogue : 
 
 Chor But had we best retire? I see a storm. 
 
 Sams Fair days have oft contracted wind and rain 
 
 Chor But this another kind of tempest brings. 
 
 Sams Be less abstruse, my riddling days are past. 
 
 Chor Look uow for no enchanting voice, nor fear 
 The bait of honied words ; a rougher tongue 
 Draws hitherward, I know him by his stride, 
 The giant Harapha. 
 
 And yet more despicable are the lines in which 
 Manoah's paternal kindness is commended by 
 the chorus: 
 
 Fathers are wont to Jay up for their sons. 
 Thou for thy son are bent to lay out all ; 
 
 Samson's complaint of the inconveniences of 
 imprisonment is not wholly without verbal 
 quaintness : 
 
 1, a prisoner chain'd, scarce freely draw 
 
 The air, imprison'd also, close and damp. 
 
 From the sentiments we may properly descend 
 to the consideration of the language, which, in 
 imitation of the ancients, is through the whole 
 dialogue remarkably simple and unadorned, sel- 
 dom heightened by epithets, or varied by figures ; 
 yet sometimes metaphors find admission, even 
 where their consistency is not accurately pre- 
 served. Thus Samson confounds loquacity with 
 a shipwreck : 
 
 How could I once look up, or heave the head, 
 Who, like a foolish pilot, ha.veshipu>reck'd 
 My vessel trusted to me from above, 
 Gloriously rigg'd ; and for a word, a tear, 
 Fool, have divulg'd the secret gift of God 
 To a deceitful woman ! 
 
 And the chorus talks of adding fuel to flame in a 
 report : 
 
 He's gone, and who knows bow he may report 
 Thy words, by adding fuel to thcflamt ? 
 
 The versification is in the dialogue much more 
 smooth and harmonious than in the parts allotted 
 to the chorus, which are often so harsh and dis- 
 sonant, as scarce to preserve, whether the lines 
 end with or without rhymes, any appearance of 
 metrical regularity : 
 
 Or do my eyes misrepresent ? Can this be he, 
 
 That heroic, that renown'd, 
 
 Irresistible Samson ; whom unarmed 
 
 No strength of man, or fiercest wild beast, could 
 
 withstand ; 
 Who tore the lion, as the lion tears the kid 7 - 
 
 Since I have thus pointed out the faults of 
 
 Milton, critical integrity requires that I should 
 
 ndeavour to display his excellences, though 
 
 hey will not easily be discovered in short quo- 
 
 ations, because they consist in the justness of 
 
 diffuse reasonings, or in the contexture and me- 
 
 hod of continued dialogues; this play having 
 
 none of those descriptions, similes, or splendid 
 
 sentences, with which other tragedies are so la. 
 
 ishly adorned. 
 
 Yet some passages may be selected which 
 seem to deserve particular notice, either as con. 
 :aining sentiments of passion, representations of 
 ife, precepts of conduct, or sallies of imagina- 
 tion. It is not easy to give a stronger represen-
 
 218 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 141. 
 
 tation of the weariness of despondency, than in 
 the worJs of Samson to his father : 
 
 _I feel my genial spirits droop, 
 
 My hopes all flat; nature witliin me seems 
 In all her functions weary of herself; 
 My race of glory run, and race of shame ; 
 And I shall shortly be with them that rest. 
 
 The reply of Samson to the flattering Delilah 
 affords a just and striking description of the 
 stratagems and allurements of feminine hypo- 
 crisy: 
 
 Thee? are thy wonted arts, 
 And arts of every woman false like thee, 
 To break all faith, all vows, deceive, betray, 
 Then as repentant to submit, beseech, 
 And reconcilement move with feign'd remorse, 
 Confess and promise wonders in her change ; 
 Not truly penitent, but chief to try 
 Her husband, how far urg'd his patience bears, 
 His virtue or weakness which way to assail ; 
 Then with more cautious and instructed skill 
 Again transgresses and again submits. 
 
 When Samson has refused to make himself a 
 spectacle at the feast of Dagon, he first justifies 
 his behaviour to the chorus, who charge him with 
 having served the Philistines, by a very just dis- 
 tinction ; and then destroys the common excuse 
 of cowardice and servility, which always con- 
 found temptation with compulsion : 
 
 Chor. Yet with thy strength thou servest the Philistines. 
 
 Sams. Not in their idol worship, but by labour 
 Honest and lawful, to deserve my food 
 Of those who have me in their civil power. 
 
 Chor. Where the heart joins not, outward acts defile 
 not. 
 
 Sams. Where outward force constrains, the sentence 
 
 holds, 
 
 But who constrains me to the temple of Dagon, 
 Not dragging? the Philistine lords command. 
 Commands are no restraints. Tf 1 obey them, 
 I do it freely, vent'ring to displease 
 God for the fear of man, and man prefer, 
 Set God behind. 
 
 The complaint of blindness which Samson 
 pours out at the beginning of the tragedy is 
 equally addressed to the passions and the fancy. 
 The enumeration of his miseries is succeeded by 
 a very pleasing train of poetical images, and con- 
 cluded by such expostulations and wishes, as 
 teason too often submits to learn from despair : 
 
 O first created beam, and thou great word 
 
 Let there be light, and light was over all ; 
 
 Why am I thus bereaved thy prime decree J 
 
 The sun tome is dark, 
 
 And silent as the moon, 
 
 When she deserts the night, 
 
 Hid in her vacant interlunar cave, 
 
 Since light so necessary is to life, 
 
 And almost life itself; if it be true, 
 
 That light is in the soul, 
 
 She all in every part ; why was the sight 
 
 To such a tender ball as the eye confined, 
 
 Bo obvious and so easy to be quench'd, 
 
 And not, as feeling, through all parts diffused 
 
 That she may look at will through every pore? 
 
 Such are the faults and such the beauties of 
 
 Samson Agonistes, which I have shown with no 
 
 other purpose than to promote the knowledge of 
 
 true criticism. The everlasting verdure of "Mil- 
 
 s laurels has nothing to fear from the blasts of 
 
 tUgmtjr ; nor can my attempt produce any 
 
 effect, than to strengthen their shoots by 
 
 topping their luxuriance. 
 
 No. 141.] TUESDAY, JULY 23, 1751. 
 
 Hilarisque, tamen cum pondere, virtus. STAT. 
 Greatness with ease, and gay severity. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 POLITICIANS have long observed that the greatest 
 events may be often traced back to slender caus- 
 es. Petty competition or casual friendship, th*. 
 prudence of a slave, or the garrulity of a woman, 
 have hindered or promoted the most important 
 schemes, and hastened or retarded the revolu- 
 tions of empires. 
 
 Whoever shall review his life will generally 
 find that the whole tenor of his conduct has been 
 determined by some accident of no apparent mo- 
 ment, or by a combination of inconsiderable cir- 
 cumstances, acting when his imagination was 
 unoccupied, and his judgment unsettled ; and 
 that his principles and actions have taken their 
 colour from some secret infusion, mingled with- 
 out design in the current of his ideas. The de- 
 sires that predominate in our hearts are instilled 
 by imperceptible communications at the time 
 when we look upon the various scenes of the 
 world, and the different employments of men, 
 with the neutrality of inexperience ; and we 
 come forth from the nursery or the school, inva- 
 riably destined to the pursuit of great acquisi- 
 tions, or petty accomplishments. 
 
 Such was the impulse by which I have been 
 kept in motion from my earliest years. I was 
 born to an inheritance which gave my childhood 
 a claim to distinction and caresses, and was ac- 
 customed to hear applauses before they had 
 much influence on my thoughts. The first praise 
 of which I remember myself sensible was that of 
 good-humour, which, whether I deserved it or not 
 when it was bestowed, I have since made it my 
 whole business to propagate and maintain. 
 
 When I was sent to school, the gayety of my 
 look, and the liveliness of my loquacity, soon 
 gained me admission to hearts not yet fortified 
 against affection by artifice or interest. I wag 
 entrusted with every stratagem, and associated 
 in every sport. ; my company gave alacrity to a 
 frolic and gladness to a holiday. I was indeed 
 so much employed in adjusting or executing 
 schemes of diversion, that I had no leisure for my 
 tasks, but was furnished with exercises, and in- 
 structed in my lessons by some kind patron of 
 the higher classes. My master not suspecting 
 my deficiency, or unwilling to detect what his 
 kindness would not punish nor his impartiality 
 excuse, allowed me to escape with a slight ex- 
 amination, laughed at the pertness of my igno- 
 rance and the sprightliness of my absurdities, and 
 could not forbear to show that he regarded me 
 with such tenderness as genius and learning can 
 seldom excite. 
 
 From school I was dismissed to the university, 
 where I soon drew upon me the notice of the 
 younger students, and was the constant partner 
 of their morning walks and evening compota- 
 tions. I was not indeed much celebrated for lite- 
 rature, but was looked on with indulgence as a 
 man of parts, who wanted nothing hut the dul- 
 ness of a scholar, and might become eminent 
 whenever he should condescend to labour and 
 attention. My tutor a while reproached me with
 
 No. 142.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 negligence, and repressed my sallies with super- 
 cilious gravity ; yet having natural good-humour 
 ^lurking in his heart, he could not long hold out 
 against the power of hilarity, but after a few 
 months began to relax the muscles of disciplina- 
 rian moroseness, received me with smiles after 
 an elopement, and that he might not betray his 
 trust to his fondness, was content to spare my 
 dMijrence by increasing his own. 
 
 Thus I continued to dissipate the gloom of col- 
 legiate austerity, to waste my own life in idle- 
 ness, and lure others from their studies, till the 
 happy hour arrived when I was sent to London. 
 I soon discovered the town to be the proper ele- 
 ment of youth and gayety, and was quickly dis- 
 tinguished as a wit by the ladies, a species of 
 beings only heard of at the university, whom I 
 had no sooner the happiness of approaching than 
 I devoted all my faculties to the ambition of 
 pleasing them. 
 
 A wit, Mr. Rambler, in the dialect of ladies, is 
 not always a man who by the action of a vigor- 
 ous fancy upon comprehensive knowledge brings 
 distant ideas unexpectedly together, who by some 
 peculiar acuteness discovers resemblances in 
 objects dissimilar to common eyes, or, by mixing 
 heterogeneous notions, dazzles the attention with 
 sudden scintillations of conceit, A lady's wit is 
 a man who can make ladies laugh, to which, 
 however easy it may seem, many gifts of nature 
 and attainments of art must commonly concur. 
 He that hopes to be received as a wit in female 
 assemblies should have a form neither so amiable 
 as to strike with admiration, nor so coarse as to 
 raise disgust, with an understanding too feeble 
 to be dreaded, and too forcible to be despised. 
 The other parts of the character are more sub- 
 ject to variation : it was formerly essential to a 
 wit, that half his back should be covered with a 
 snowy fleece ; and at a time yet more remote, 
 no man was a wit without his boots. - In the 
 davs of the " Spectator" a snuffbox seems to be 
 indispensable ; but in my time an embroidered 
 coat was sufficient, without any precise regula- 
 tion of the rest of his dress. 
 
 But wigs and boots and snuffboxes are vain, 
 without a perpetual resolution to be merry, and 
 who can always find supplies of mirth ? Juve- 
 nal, indeed, in his comparison of the two oppo- 
 site philosophers, wonders only whence an un- 
 exhausted fountain of tears could be discharged ; 
 but had Juvenal, with all his spirit, undertaken 
 my province, he would have found constant 
 gayety equally difficult to be supported. Con- 
 sider, Mr. Rambler, and compassionate the con- 
 dition of a man who has taught every company 
 to expect from him a continual feast of laughter, 
 an unintennitted stream of jocularity. The task 
 of every other slave has an end. The rower in 
 tim'3 reaches the port ; the lexicographer at last 
 finds the conclusion of his alphabet ; only the 
 hanlcss wit has his labour always to begin ; the 
 call for novelty is never satisfied, and one jest 
 only raises expectation of another. 
 
 I know that among men of learning and as- 
 perity the retainers to the female world are not 
 much regarded : yet I cannot but hope that, if 
 you knew at how dear a rate our honours are 
 purchased, you would look w ith some gratula- 
 tion on our success, and with some pity on our 
 miscarriages. Think on the misery of him who 
 is condemned to cultivate barrenness and ran- 
 
 sack vacuity ; who is obliged to continue his talk 
 when his meaning is spent, to raise merriment 
 without images, to harass his imagination in 
 quest of thoughts which he cannot start, and 
 his memory in pursuit of narratives which he 
 cannot overtake ; observe the effort with which 
 he strains to conceal despondency by a smile, 
 and the distress in which he sits while the eyes 
 of the company are fixed upon him as their last 
 refuge from silence and dejection. 
 
 It were endless to recount the shifts to which 
 I have been reduced, or to enumerate the differ- 
 ent species of artificial wit. I regularly fre- 
 quented coffee-houses, and have often lived a 
 week upon an expression, of which he who drop- 
 ped it did not know the value. When fortune 
 did not favour my erratic industry, I gleaned jests 
 at home from obsolete farces. To collect wit 
 was indeed safe, for I consorted with none that 
 looked much into books, but to disperse it was 
 the difficulty. A seeming negligence was often 
 useful, and I have very successfully made a 
 reply not to what the lady had said, but to what 
 it was convenient for me to hear ; for very few 
 were so perverse as to rectify a mistake which 
 had given occasion to a burst of merriment. 
 Sometimes I drew the conversation up by de- 
 grees to a proper point, and produced a conceit 
 which I had treasured up, like sportsmen who 
 boast of killing the foxes which they lodge in the 
 covert. Eminence is however, in some happy 
 moments, gained at less expense ; I have de- 
 lighted a whole circle at one time with a series 
 of quibbles, and made myself good company at 
 another by scalding my fingers, or mistaking a 
 lady's lap for my own chair. 
 
 These are artful deceits and useful expedients ; 
 but expedients are at length exhausted, and de- 
 ceits detected. Time itself, among other inju- 
 ries, diminishes the power of pleasing, and I now 
 find, in my forty-fifth year, many pranks and 
 pleasantries very coldly received, which had for- 
 merly filled a whole room with jollity and accla- 
 mation. I am under the melancholy necessity 
 of supporting that character by study, which I 
 gained by levity, having learned too late that 
 gayety must be recommended by higher quali- 
 ties, and that mirth can never please long but as 
 the efflorescence of a mind loved for its luxu- 
 riance, but esteemed for its usefulness. 
 I am, &c. 
 
 PAPILIUS. 
 
 No. 142.] SATURDAY, JULY 27, 1751. 
 
 Ei0a ' i.vhp tvlave irsXtS 
 
 Ka? yap Bavji^ IrfroKTO irtXcSptov, oiSe liixet 
 Avept atToQayui. HO 
 
 A giant shepherd here his flock maintain^ 
 Far from the rest, and solitary reigrns, 
 In shelter thick of horrid shade reclined: 
 And gloomy mischiefs labour in his mind. 
 A form enormous ! far unlike the race 
 Of human birth, in stature or in face. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 HAVING been accustomed to retire annually 
 from the town, I lately accepted the invitation 
 of Eugenio, who has an estate and seat in a dis- 
 tant county. As we ^ere unwilling to travel
 
 220 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 142. 
 
 vithout improvement, we turned often from the 
 direct road to please ourselves with the view ot 
 nature or of art; we examined every wild moun- 
 tain and medicinal spring, criticised every edifice, 
 contemplated every ruin, and compared every 
 scene of action with the narratives of historians. 
 By this succession of amusements we enjoyed 
 the exercise of a journey without suffering the 
 fatigue, and had nothing to regret but that by a 
 progress so leisurely and gentle we missed the 
 adventures of a post-chaise, and the pleasure of 
 alarming villages with the tumult of our passage, 
 and of disguising our insignificancy by the dig- 
 nity of hurry. 
 
 The first week after our arrival at Eugenie's 
 house, was passed in receiving visits from his 
 neighbours, who crowded about him with all the 
 eagerness of benevolence ; some impatient to 
 learn the news of the court in town, that they 
 might be qualified by authentic information to 
 dictate to the rural politicians on the next bowl- 
 ing day ; others desirous of his interest to accom- 
 modate disputes, or of his advice in the settle- 
 ment of their fortunes and the marriage of their 
 children. 
 
 The civilities which he had received were soon 
 to be returned ; and I passed some time with 
 great satisfaction in roving through the country, 
 and viewing the seats, gardens, and plantations 
 which are scattered over iL My pleasure would 
 indeed have been greater had I been sometimes 
 allowed to wander in a park or wilderness alone ; 
 but to appear as the friend of Eugenio was an 
 honour not to be enjoyed without some inconve- 
 niences ; so much was every one solicitous for 
 my regard, that I could seldom escape to soli- 
 tude, or steal a moment from the emulation of 
 complaisance, and the vigilance of officiousness. 
 
 In these rambles of good neighbourhood, we 
 frequently passed by a house of unusual magni- 
 ficence. When I had my curiosity yet distracted 
 among many novelties, it did not much attract 
 my observation ; but in a short time I could not 
 forbear surveying it with particular notice ; for 
 the length of the wall which inclosed the gar- 
 dens, the disposition of the shades that waved 
 over it, and the canals of which I could obtain 
 some glimpses through the trees from our own 
 windows, gave me reason to expect more gran- 
 deur and beauty than I had yet seen in that 
 province. I therefore inquired as we rode by it, 
 why we never, amongst our excursions, spent an 
 hour where there was such an appearance of 
 splendour and affluence ? Eugenio told me that 
 the seat which I so much admired was com- 
 monly called in the country the haunted house, 
 and that no visits were paid there by any of the 
 gentlemen whom I had yet seen. As the haunts 
 of incorporeal beings are generally ruinous, ne- 
 glected and desolate,! easily conceived that there 
 was something to be explained, and told him 
 that I supposed it only fairy ground, on which 
 we might venture by daylight without danger. 
 The danger, says he, is indeed only that of ap- 
 pearing to solicit the acquaintance of a man, 
 with whom it is not possible to converse without 
 infamy, and who has driven from him, by his 
 insolence or malignity, every human being who 
 can live without him. 
 
 Our conversation was then accidentally inter- 
 rupted, but my inquisitive humour being now in 
 motion, could not rest without a full account of 
 
 this newly-discovered prodigy. I was soon in- 
 formed that the fine house and spacious gardens 
 were haunted by squire Bluster, of whom it was 
 very easy to learn the character, since nobody 
 had regard for him sufficient to hinder them from 
 telling whatever they could discover. 
 
 Squire Bluster is descended of an ancient fa- 
 mily. The estate which, his ancestors had im- 
 memorially possessed was much augmented by 
 Captain Bluster, who served under Drake in the 
 reign of Elizabeth ; and the Blusters, who were 
 before only petty gentlemen, have from that 
 time frequently represented the shire in parlia- 
 ment, been chosen to present addresses, and 
 given laws at hunting-matches and races. They 
 were eminently hospitable and popular, till the 
 father of this gentleman died of an election. 
 His lady went to the grave soon after him, and 
 left the heir, then only ten years old, to the care 
 of his grandmother, who would not suffer him to 
 be controlled, because she could not bear to hear 
 him cry; and never sent him to school, because 
 she was not able to live without his company. 
 She taught him however very early to inspect 
 the steward's accounts, to dog the butler from 
 the cellar, and to catch the servantsat a junket; 
 so that he was at the age of eighteen a complete 
 master of all the lower arts of domestic policy, 
 had often on the road detected combinations be- 
 tween the coachman and the ostler, and pro- 
 cured the discharge of nineteen maids for illicit 
 correspondence with cottagers and char-women. 
 
 By the opportunities of parsimony which mi- 
 nority affords, and which the probity of his guar- 
 dians had diligently improved, a very large sum 
 of money was accumulated, and he found him- 
 self when he took his affairs into his own hands 
 the richest man in the county. It has been long 
 the custom of this family to celebrate the heir's 
 completion of his twenty-first year by an enter- 
 tainment, at which the house is thrown opr:n to 
 all that are inclined to enter it, and the whole 
 province flocks together as to a general festivity. 
 On this occasion young Bluster exhibited the 
 first tokens of his future eminence, by shaking 
 his purse at an oM gentleman who had been the 
 intimate friend of his father, and offering to 
 wager a greater sum than he could afford to 
 venture ; a practice with which he has at one 
 time or other insulted every freeholder within ten 
 miles round him. 
 
 His next acts of offence were committed in a 
 contentious and spiteful vindication of the privi- 
 leges of his manors, and a rigorous and relentless 
 prosecution of every man that presumed to vio- 
 late his game. As he happens to have no estate 
 adjoining equal to his own, his oppressions are 
 often borne without resistance for fear of a long 
 suit, of which he delights to count the expenses 
 without the least solicitude about the event ; for 
 he knows that where nothing but an honorary 
 right is contested, the poorer antagonist must al- 
 ways suffer, whatever shall be the last decision of 
 the law. 
 
 By the success of some of these disputes he has 
 so elated his insolence, and by reflection upon the 
 general hatred which they have brought upon 
 him so irritated his virulence, that his whole life 
 is spent in meditating or executing mischief. It 
 is his common practice to procure his hedges to 
 be broken in the night, and then to demand satis- 
 faction for damages which his grounds have suf-
 
 No. 143.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 221 
 
 fered from his neighbour's cattle. An old widow 
 was yesterday soliciting Eugenio to enable her to 
 replevin her only cow, then in the pound by 
 squire Bluster's order, who had sent one of his 
 agents to take advantage of her calamity, and 
 
 Eersuade her to stll the cow at an under-rate. He 
 as driven a day-labourer from his cottage for 
 gathering blackberries in a hedge for his children, 
 and has now an old woman in the county-jail for 
 a trespass which she committed, by coming into 
 his ground to pick up acorns for her hog. 
 
 Money, in whatever hands, will confer power. 
 Distress will fly to immediate refuge without 
 much consideration of remote consequences. 
 Bluster has therefore a despotic authority in 
 many families, whom he has assisted, on press- 
 ing occasions, with larger sums than they can 
 easily repay. The only visits that he makes are 
 to these houses of misfortune, where he enters 
 with the insolence of absolute command, enjoys 
 the terrors of the family, exacts their obedience, 
 riots at their charge, and in the height of his joy 
 insults the father with menaces, and the daugh- 
 ters with obscenity. 
 
 He is of late somewhat less offensive ; for one 
 of his debtors, after gentle expostulations, by 
 which he was only irritated to grosser outrage, 
 seized him by the sleeve, led him trembling into 
 the court-yard, and closed the door upon him in 
 a stormy night. He took his usual revenge next 
 morning by a writ ; but the debt was discharged 
 by the assistance of Eugenio. 
 
 It is his rule to suffer his tenants to owe him 
 rent, because by this indulgence he secures to 
 himself the power of seizure whenever he has 
 an inclination to amuse himself with calamity, 
 and feast his ears with entreaties and lamenta- 
 tions. Yet as he is sometimes capriciously libe- 
 ral to those whom he happens to adopt as fa- 
 vourites, and lets his lands at a cheap rate, his 
 farms are never long unoccupied ; and when 
 one is ruined by oppression, the possibility of 
 better fortune quickly lures another to supply his 
 place. 
 
 Such is the life of Squire Bluster ; a man in 
 whose power fortune has liberally placed the 
 means of happiness, but who has defeated all her 
 gifts of their end by the depravity of his mind. 
 He is wealthy without followers ; he is magnifi- 
 cent, without witnesses ; he has birth without al- 
 liance, and influence without dignity. His neigh- 
 bours scorn him as a brute; his dependants dread 
 him as an oppressor; and he has only the gloomy 
 comfort of reflecting, that if he is hated he is like- 
 wise feared. 
 
 I am, Sir, &c. 
 
 VAGULUS. 
 
 No. 143.] TUESDAY, JULY 30, 1751. 
 
 Movcat eornicula risum 
 Furticisnudata caloribus. HOR. 
 
 Lest v/hon the birds their various colours claim 
 Stripp'd of his stolen pride, the crow forlorn 
 Should stand the laughter of the public scorn. 
 
 FRANCIS. 
 
 AMONG the innumerable practices by which in- 
 terest or envy has taught those who live upon 
 literary fame to disturb each other at their airy 
 banquets, one of the most common is the charge 
 
 of plagiarism. When the excellence of a new 
 composition can no longer be contested, and 
 malice is compelled to give way to the unani- 
 mity of applause, there is yet this one expedient 
 to be tried, by which the author may be do 
 graded, though his work be reverenced ; and the 
 excellence which we cannot obscure, may be set 
 at such a distance as not to overpower our faint- 
 er lustre. 
 
 This accusation is dangerous, because, even 
 when it is false, it may be sometimes urged with 
 probability. Bruyere declares that we are come 
 into the world too late to produce any thing new, 
 that nature and life are preoccupied, and that 
 description and sentiment have been long fx 
 hausted. It is indeed certain, that whoever at- 
 tempts any common topic, will find unexpected 
 coincidences of his thoughts with those of other 
 writers ; nor can the nicest judgment always dis- 
 tinguish accidental similitude from artful imita- 
 tion. There is likewise a common stock of ima- 
 ges, a settled mode of arrangement, and a beaten 
 track of transition, which all authors suppose 
 themselves at liberty to use, and which produce 
 the resemblance generally observable among 
 contemporaries. So that in books which best 
 deserve the name of originals, there is little new 
 beyond the disposition of materials already pro- 
 vided ; the same ideas and combinations of ideas 
 have been long in the possession of other hands ; 
 and, by restoring to every man his own, as the 
 Romans must have returned to their cots from 
 the possession of the world, so the most inventive 
 and fertile genius would reduce his folios to a few 
 pages. Yet the author who imitates his prede- 
 cessors only by furnishing himself with thoughts 
 and elegances out of the same general magazine 
 of literature, can with little more propriety be re- 
 proached as a plagiary, than the architect can be 
 censured as a mean copier of Angelo or Wren, 
 because he digs. his marble from the same quarry, 
 squares his stones by the same art, and unites 
 them in columns of the same orders. 
 
 Many subjects fall under the consideration of 
 an author, which being limited by nature, can 
 admit only of slight and accidental diversities. 
 All definitions of the same thing must be nearly 
 the same ; and descriptions, which are defini 
 tions of a more lax and fanciful kind, must al 
 ways have in some degree that resemblance to 
 each other which they all have to their object. 
 Different poets describing the spring or the sea 
 would mention the zephyrs and the flowers, the 
 billows and the rocks ; reflecting on human life, 
 they would, without anv communication of opi- 
 nions, lament the deceitfulness of hope, the fu- 
 gacity of pleasure, the fragility of beauty, and 
 the frequency of calamity : and for palliatives of 
 these incurable miseries, they would concur in 
 recommending kindness, temperance, caution, 
 and fortitude. 
 
 When therefore there are found in Virgil and 
 Horace two similar passages : 
 
 JJa. tibi ervnt aries 
 
 Parcere subjectis, et debellarc ruperbot. 
 
 TIM. 
 
 To tame the proud, the fetter'd slave to freet 
 These are imperial arts, and worthy tliee. 
 
 DRTDBW. 
 
 Imperil bettante prior, jacentem 
 
 Lenis in hottem. HORC
 
 222 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 LNo. 143. 
 
 Let Ctesar spread bis conquests far. 
 Less pleased to triumph than to spare. 
 
 it is surely not necessary to suppose with a late 
 critic, that one is copied from the other, since 
 neither Virgil nor Horace can be supposed ig- 
 norant of the common duties of humanity, and 
 the virtue of moderation in success. 
 
 Cicero and Ovid have on very different occa- 
 sions remarked how little of the honour of a vic- 
 tory belongs to the general, when his soldiers 
 and his fortune have made their deductions; yet 
 why should Ovid be suspected to have owed to 
 Tully an observation which perhaps occurs to 
 every man that sees or hears of military glories ? 
 
 Tully observes of Achilles, that had not 
 Homer written, his valour had been without 
 praise. 
 
 [fisi Tlia ilia eztitisset, idem tumulus qui corpus ejua 
 contezerct, nomen ejus obruisset. 
 
 Unless the Iliad had been published, his name had been 
 lost in the tomb that covered his body. 
 
 Horace tells us with more energy that there 
 were brave men before the wars of Troy, but 
 they were lost in oblivion for want of a poet: 
 
 yixere fortes ante Agamemnona 
 
 Multi ; ted omnr.s illachrymabilet 
 
 Urgenttir, ignotique longa 
 
 AocJe, carent quid vote sacra. 
 
 Before great Agamemnon reign'd, 
 Reigu'd kings us great as he, and brave, 
 
 Whose huge ambition's now coutain'd 
 In the small compass of a grave ; 
 
 In endless night they sleep, unwept, unknown, 
 
 No bard had they to make all time their own. 
 
 FRANCIS. 
 
 Tully inquires, in the same oration, why, but 
 for fame, we disturb a short life with so many 
 fatigues ? 
 
 Quid at quod in hoc tarn exipuo rittt curricula et tarn 
 brevi, tantit noiinlaboribus ezerceamus? 
 
 Why in so small a circuit of life should we employ our- 
 selves in so many fatigues 3 
 
 Horace inquires in the same manner, 
 
 Qmrf breti fortes jaculamur sea 
 Multa? 
 
 Why do we aim, with eager strife, 
 
 At things beyoud the mark of life 3 FRANCIS. 
 
 when our life is of so short duration, why we form 
 such numerous designs? Rut Horace, as well as 
 Tully, might discover that records are needful to 
 {freserve the memory of actions, and that no re- 
 cords were so durable as poems ; either of them 
 might find out that life is short, and that we con- 
 sume it in unnecessary labour. 
 
 There are other flowers of fiction so widely 
 scattered and so easily cropped, that it is scarcely 
 just to tax the use of them as an act by which any 
 particular writer is despoiled of his garland ; for 
 they may be said to have been planted by the an- 
 cierts in the open road of poetry for the accom- 
 modation of their successors, and to be the right 
 of every one that has art to pluck them without 
 injuring their colours or their fragrance. The 
 passage of Orpheus to hell, with the recovery and 
 second loss of Eurydice, have been described af- 
 
 ter Boethius by Pope, in such a manner as might 
 justly leave him suspected of imitation, were not 
 the images such as they might both have derived 
 from more ancient writers. 
 
 Qua sonte.s agitant metu 
 Uitrices scelerum detr. 
 Jam mttstai lacrymis madent, 
 Non IxioHium caput 
 Velox prtccipitat rota, 
 
 The powers of vengeance, while they her, 
 
 Touch'd with compassion, drop a tear ; 
 
 Ixion's rapid wheel is bound, 
 
 Fiz'd in attention to the sound. F. LEWI* 
 
 Thy stone, O Sysiphus, stands still, 
 Ixion rests upon his wheel, 
 
 And the pale spectres dance! 
 The furies sink upon their iron beds. 
 
 Tandem, vincimur, arbiter 
 Umbrarum, miicrans, ait 
 Donemus, comitem viro, 
 Emtam carmine, conjugem. 
 
 Subdued at length, Hell's pitying monarch cried. 
 The song rewarding, let us yield the bride. 
 
 F. LEWIS. 
 
 He sung, and Hell consented 
 
 To hear the poet's prayer j 
 Stern Proserpine relented, 
 
 And gave him back the fair 
 
 Heti,noctisprope terminot 
 Orpheus Eurydicen suam 
 Vidii, perdidit, occidit. 
 
 Nor yet the golden verge of day begun, 
 
 When Orpheus, her unhappy lord, 
 
 Eurydice to life restor'd, 
 At once beheld, and lost, and was undone. 
 
 F. LEWIS. 
 
 But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes j 
 Again she falls, again she dies, she dies ! 
 
 No writer can be fully convicted of imitation, 
 except there is a concurrence of more resem- 
 blance than can be imagined to have happened 
 by chance ; as where the same ideas are conjoin- 
 ed without any natural series or necessary cohe- 
 rence, or where not only the thought but the 
 words are copied. Thus it can scarcely be 
 doubted, that in the first of the following pas- 
 sages Pope remembered Ovid, and that in the 
 second he copied Crashaw : 
 
 Sape pater dixit, stadium quid inutile tentas? 
 
 Maonides nullas ipse reliquit opes 
 
 Sponte sua carmen numeros venicbat ad aptot. 
 
 Et quod conabar scribere, versus erat. OVID 
 
 Quit, quit this barren trade, my father cried j 
 
 Even Homer left no riches when he died 
 
 In verse spontaneous flowed my native strain, 
 Forced by no sweat or labour of the brain. 
 
 F. LEWIS 
 
 I left no calling for this idle trade ; 
 
 No duty broke, no father disobey'd ; 
 
 While yet a child, ere yet a fool to fame, 
 
 I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came. POPE. 
 
 -This plain floor, 
 
 Believe me, reader, can say more 
 Than many a braver marble can, 
 Here lies a truly honest man. CRASHAW 
 
 This modest stone, what few vain marbles can, 
 
 May truly gay, Here lies an honest man. POPE. 
 
 Conceits, or thoughts not immediately im- 
 pressed by sensible objects, or necessarily arising
 
 No. 144.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 223 
 
 from the coalition or comparison of common 
 sentiments, may be with great justice suspected 
 whenever they are found a second time. Thus 
 Waller probably owed to Grotius an elegant 
 compliment: 
 
 Here lies the learned Savil's heir, 
 
 So early wise, and lasting fair, 
 
 That nuiie, except her years they told, 
 
 Thought her a child, or thought her old. 
 
 WALLER. 
 
 Unica lux sacli, genitoris gloria, nemo 
 QUCIH pucrum, nemo credidit esse senem. 
 
 GROTIUS. 
 
 The nge's miracle, his father's joy ! 
 
 Nor old you would prouounce him, nor a boy. 
 
 F. LEWIS. 
 
 And Prior was indebted for a pretty illustra- 
 (v?n to Allejwe's poetical history of Henry the 
 Seventh. 
 
 For nought but light itself, itself can show, 
 And only kings can write, what kings can do. 
 
 ^LLEYNE. 
 
 Your music's power, your music must disclose, 
 For what light is, 'tis only light that shows. 
 
 PRIOR. 
 
 And with yet more certainty may the same 
 rt-riter be censured for endeavouring the clan- 
 destine appropriation of a thought which he bor- 
 rowed, surely without thinking himself disgraced, 
 from an epigram of Plato : 
 
 Ti; flatplrj rb Kdroitrpov' IKU Toirj fjiev boacQat 
 QiiK iOlXia, oirj &' ijv irdoos, oil ivvanai. 
 
 Venus take my votive glass, 
 Since I am not what 1 was ; 
 What from this day I shall be, 
 Venus, let me never see. 
 
 As not every instance of similitude can be con- 
 sidered as a proof of imitation, so not every imi- 
 tation ought to be stigmatized as plagiarism. 
 The adoption of a noble sentiment, or the in- 
 sertion of a borrowed ornament, may sometimes 
 display so much judgment as will almost com- 
 pensate for invention : and an inferior genius 
 may, without any imputation of servility, pursue 
 the path of the ancients, provided he declines to 
 tread in their footsteps. 
 
 No. 144.] SATURDAY, AUG. 3, 1751. 
 
 Dapfmidis arcum 
 
 Frgisti et calamos : gu<z tu, perverse Menalca, 
 Et cum rAdistipuero donata, dolcbas ; 
 Et si non aliqua nocuisses, mortuus esses. VIRG. 
 
 The bow of Daphnis and the shafts you broke ; 
 When the fair boy receiv'd the gift of right ; 
 find but for mischief, you had died for spite. 
 
 DRTDEN. 
 
 IT is impossible to mingle in conversation with- 
 out observing the difficulty with which a new 
 name makes its way into the world. The first 
 appearance of excellence unites multitudes 
 against it ; unexpected opposition rises upon 
 every side ; the celebrated and the obscure join 
 in the confederacy ; subtilty furnishes arms to 
 impudence, and invention leads on credulity. 
 
 The strength and unanimity of this alliance is 
 not easily conceived. It might be expected that 
 no man should suffer his heart to be inflamed 
 with malice, but by injuries ; that none should 
 busy himself in contesting the pretensions of an- 
 other, but whan some right of his own was involv- 
 ed in the question ; that at least hostilities com- 
 menced without cause, should quickly cease ; 
 that the armies of malignity should soon dis 
 perse, when no common interest could be found 
 to hold them together ; and that the attack upon 
 a rising character should be left to those who had 
 something to hope or fear from the event. 
 
 The hazards of those that aspire to eminence, 
 would be much diminished if they had none 
 but acknowledged rivals to encounter. Their 
 enemies would then be few, and what is of yet 
 greater importance, would be known. But what 
 caution is sufficient to ward off the blows of invi- 
 sible assailants, or what force can stand against 
 unremitted attacks, and a continual succession 
 of enemies ? Yet such is the state of the woild, 
 that no sooner can any man emerge from the 
 crowd, and fix the eyes of the public upon him, 
 than he^ands as a mark to the arrows of lurking 
 calumny, and receives in the tumult of hostility, 
 from distant and from nameless hands, wounds 
 not always easy to be cured. 
 
 It is probable that the onset against the candi- 
 dates for- renown is originally incited by those 
 who imagine themselves in danger of suffering 
 by their success ; but, when war is once declar- 
 ed, volunteers flock to the standard, multitudes 
 follow the camp only (or want of employment, 
 and"*rlying squadrons are dispersed to every part, 
 so pleased with an opportunity of mischief, that 
 they toil without prospect of praise, and pillage 
 without hope of profit. 
 
 When any man has endeavoured to deserve 
 distinction, he will be surprised to hear himself 
 censured where he could not expect to have been 
 named ; he will find the utmost acrimony of ma- 
 lice among those whom he never could have of- 
 fended. 
 
 As there are to be found in the service of envy 
 men of every diversity of temper and degree of 
 understanding, calumny is diffused by all arts 
 and methods of propagation. Nothing is too 
 gross or too refined, too cruel or too trifling to be 
 practised ; <very little regard is had to the rules of 
 honourable hostility, but every weapon is ac- 
 counted lawful, and those that cannot make a 
 thrust at life are content to keep themselves in 
 play with petty malevolence, to teaze with fee- 
 ble blows and impotent disturbance. 
 
 But as the industry of observation has divided 
 the most miscellaneous and confused assemblages 
 into proper classes, and ranged the insects of the 
 summer, that torment us with their drones or 
 stings, by their several tribes ; the persecutors ot 
 merit, notwithstanding their numbers may be 
 likewise commodiously distinguished into Roar- 
 ers, Whisperers, and Moderators. 
 
 The Roarer is an enemy rather terrible than 
 dangerous. He has no other qualification for a 
 champion of controversy than a hardened front 
 and strong voice. Having seldom so much de- 
 sire to confute as to silence, he depends rather 
 upon vociferation than argument, and has very 
 little care to adjust one part of his accusation to 
 another, to preserve decency in his language, or 
 probability in his narratives. He has always a
 
 224 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 145. 
 
 store of reproachful epithets and contemptuous 
 appellations, ready to be produced as occasion 
 may require, which by constant use he pours out 
 with resistless volubility. If the wealth of a trader 
 is mentioned, he without hesitation devotes him 
 to bankruptcy ; if the beauty and elegance of a 
 lady be commended, he wonders how the town 
 can full in love with rustic deformity ; if a new 
 performance of genius happens to be celebrated, 
 he pronounces the writer a hopeless idiot, without 
 knowledge of books or life, and without the un- 
 derstanding by which it must be acquired. His 
 exaggerations are generally without effect upon 
 those whom he compels to hear them ; and 
 though it will sometimes happen that the timc- 
 rous are awed by his violence, and the credulous 
 mistake his confidence for knowledge, yet the 
 opinions which he endeavours to suppress soon 
 recover their former strength, as the trees that 
 bend to the tempest erect themselves again when 
 its force is past. 
 
 The Whisperer is more dangerous. He easily 
 gains attention by a soft address, and excites cu- 
 riosity by an air of importance. As secrets are 
 not to be made cheap by promiscuouubhca- 
 tion, he calls a select audience about mm, and 
 gratifies their vanity with an appearance of trust 
 by communicating his intelligence in a low voice. 
 Of the trader he can tell that, though he seems 
 to manage an extensive commerce, and talks in 
 high terms of the funds, yet his wealth is not 
 equal to his reputation -, he has lately suffer- 
 ed much by an expensi 'e project, and had a 
 greater share than is acknowledged in the rich 
 ship that perished by the storm. Of the beauty 
 he has little to say, but that they who see her in a 
 morning do not discover all those graces which 
 are admired in the park. Of the writer he affirms 
 v/ith great certainty, that though the excellence 
 of the work be incontestable, he can claim but a 
 small part of the reputation ; that he owed most 
 of the images and sentiments to a secret friend ; 
 and that the accuracy and equality of the style 
 was produced by the successive correction of the 
 chief critics of the age. 
 
 As every one is pleased with imagining that he 
 knows something not yet commonly divulged, 
 secret history easily gains credit ; but it is for the 
 most part believed only while it circulates in 
 whispers ; and when once it is openly told, is 
 openly confuted. 
 
 The most pernicious enemy is the man of Mo- 
 deration. Without interest in the question, or 
 any motive but honest curiosity, this impartial 
 and zealous inquirer after truth is ready to hear 
 either side, and always disposed to kind interpre- 
 tations and favourable opinions. He has heard 
 the trader's affairs reported with great variation, 
 and, after a diligent comparison of the evidence, 
 concludes it probable that the splendid super- 
 structure of business, being originally built upon 
 a narrow basis, has lately been found to totter; 
 but between dilatory payment and bankruptcy 
 there is a great distance ; many merchants have 
 supported themselves by expedients for a time, 
 without any final injury to their creditors ; and 
 what is lost by one adventure may be recovered 
 by another. He believes that a young lady 
 pleased with admiration, and desirous to make 
 perfect what is already excellent, may heighten 
 her charms by artificial improvements, but surely 
 most of her beauties must be genuine, and who 
 
 can say that he is wholly what he endeavours to 
 appear? The author he knows to be a man of 
 diligence, who perhaps does not sparkle with the 
 fire of Homer, but who has the judgment to dis- 
 cover his own deficiencies, and to supply them by 
 the help of others ; and, in his opinion, modesty 
 is a quality so amiable and rare, that it ought to 
 find a patron wherever it appears, and may justly 
 be preferred by the public suffrage to petulant 
 wit and ostentatious literature. 
 
 He who thus discovers failings with unwilling- 
 ness, and extenuates the faults which cannot be 
 denied, puts an end at once to doubt or vindica- 
 tion ; his hearers repose upon his candour and 
 veracity, and admit the charge without allowing 
 the excuse. 
 
 Such are the arts by which the envious, the 
 idle, the peevish, and the thoughtless, obstruct that 
 worth which they cannot equal, and by artifices 
 thus easy, sordid, and detestable, is industry de- 
 feated, beauty blasted, and genius depressed. 
 
 No. 145.] TUESDAY, AUG. 6, 1751. 
 
 Jfon, ti priores Maonius tenet 
 Sedea Homerus, Pindaricce latent, 
 
 Ccaqiif et Alctci minuets, 
 
 Sttsichorique graves Canucna. HOR. 
 
 What though the muse her Homer thrones 
 
 High above all th' immortal quire; 
 Nor Pindar's rapture she disowns, 
 
 Nor hides the plaiutive Csean lyre : 
 Alcueus strikes the tyrant soul with dread, 
 Nor yet is grave Stesichorus unread. FRANCIS 
 
 IT is allowed that vocations and employments of 
 least dignity are of the most apparent use ; that 
 the meanest artisan or manufacturer contributes 
 more to the accommodation of life than the pro- 
 found scholar and argumentative theorist ; and 
 that the public would suffer less present incon- 
 venience from the banishment of philosophers 
 than from the extinction of any common trade. 
 
 Some have been so forcibly struck with this ob- 
 servation, that they have, in the first warmth of 
 their discovery, thought it reasonable to alter the 
 common distribution of dignity, and ventured to 
 condemn mankind of universal ingratitude. For 
 justice exacts, that those by whom we are most 
 benefited should be most honoured. And what 
 labour can be more useful than that which pro- 
 cures to families and communities those necessa- 
 ries which supply the wants of nature, or those 
 conveniences by which ease, security, and ele- 
 gance, are conferred ? 
 
 This is one of the innumerable theories which 
 the first attempt to reduce them into practice cer- 
 tainly destroys. If we estimate dignity by imme- 
 diate usefulness, agriculture is undoubtedly the 
 first and noblest science ; yet we see the plough 
 driven, the clod broken, the manure spread, the 
 seeds scattered, and the harvest reaped, by men 
 whom those that feed upon their industry will ne- 
 ver be persuaded to admit into the same rank 
 with heroes or with sages ; and who, after all the 
 confessions which truth may extort in favour of 
 their occupation, must be content to fill up the 
 lowest class of the commonwealth, to form the 
 base of the pyramid of subordination, and lie bu- 
 ried in obscurity themselves, while they support 
 all that is splendid, conspicuous, or exalted. 
 
 It will be found, upon a closer inspection, that
 
 No. 146.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 225 
 
 this part of the conduct of mankind is by no means 
 contrary to reason or equity. Remuneratory ho- 
 nours are proportioned at once to the usefulness 
 and difficulty of performances, and are properly 
 adjusted by comparison of the mental and corpo- 
 real abilities, which they appear to employ. That 
 work, however necessary, which is carried on 
 only by muscular strength and manual dexterity, 
 is not of equal esteem, in the consideration of ra- 
 tional beings, with the tasks that exercise the in- 
 tellectual powers, and require the active vigour ol 
 imagination, or the gradual and laborious investi- 
 gations of reason. 
 
 The merit of all manual occupations seems to 
 terminate in the inventor ; and surely the first 
 ages cannot be charged with ingratitude ; since 
 those who civilized barbarians, and taught them 
 how to secure themselves from cold and hunger, 
 were numbered amongst their deities. But these 
 arts once discovered by philosophy, and facilitated 
 by experience, are afterwards practised with very 
 little assislance from the faculties of the soul; 
 nor is any thing necessary to the regular discharge 
 of these inferior duties, beyond that rude observ- 
 ation which the most sluggish intellect may prac- 
 tise, and that industry which the stimulations of 
 necessity naturally enforce. 
 
 Yet though the refusal of statues and pane- 
 gyric to those who employ only their hands and 
 feet in the service of mankind may be easily justi- 
 fied, I am far from intending to incite the petu- 
 lance of pride, to justify the superciliousness of 
 grandeur, or to intercept any part of that tender- 
 ness and benevolence, which by the privilege of 
 their common nature, one may claim from ano- 
 ther. 
 
 That it would be neither wise nor equitable to 
 discourage the husbandman, the labourer, the mi- 
 ner, or the smith, is generally granted ; but there is 
 another race of beings equally obscure and equally 
 indigent, who, because their usefulness is less ob- 
 vious to vulgar apprehensions, live unrewarded 
 and die unpitied, and who have been long expos- 
 ed to insult without a defender, and to censure 
 without an apologist. 
 
 The authors of London were formerly com- 
 puted by Swift at several thousands, and there is 
 not any reason for suspecting that their number 
 has decreased. Oftheseonlyaveryfewcanbesaid 
 to produce, or endeavour to produce, new ideas, 
 to extend any principle of science, or gratify the 
 imagination with any uncommon train of images 
 or contexture of events ; the rest, however labo- 
 rious, however arrogant, can only be consi- 
 dered as the drudges of the pen, the manufac- 
 turers of literature, who have set up for authors, 
 either with or without a regular initiation, and, 
 like other artificers, have no other care than to 
 deliver their tale of wares at the stated time. 
 
 It has been formerly imagined, that he who in- 
 tends the entertainment or instruction of others, 
 must feel in himself some peculiar impulse of 
 genius ; that he must watch the happy minute in 
 which his natural fire is excited, in whichhis mind 
 is elevated with nobler sentiments, enlightened 
 with clearer views, and invigorated with stronger 
 comprehension ; that he must carefully select his 
 thoughts and polish his expressions ; and ani- 
 mate his efforts with the hope of raising a monu- 
 ment of learning, which neither time nor envy 
 ohall be able to destroy. 
 
 But the authors whom I am now endeavouring 
 2D 
 
 to recommend, have been too long hacknied in the 
 ways of men to indulge the chimerical ambition 
 of immortality; they have seldom any claim to 
 the trade of willing, but that they have tried some 
 other without success ; they perceive no particu- 
 lar summons to composition, except the sound of 
 the clock ; they have no other rule than the la\v 
 or the fashion for admitting their thoughts or re- 
 jecting them ; and about the opinion of posteri- 
 ty they have little solicitude, for their productions 
 are seldom intended to remain in the world lon- 
 ger than a week. 
 
 That such authors are not to be rewarded with 
 praise is evident, since nothing can be admired 
 when it ceases to exist ; but surely, though they 
 cannot aspire to honour, they may be exempted 
 from ignominy, and adopted in that order of men 
 which deserves our kindness, though not our re- 
 verence. These papers of the day, the Ephemerae 
 of learning, have uses more adequate to the pur- 
 poses of common life than more pompous and du- 
 rable volumes. If it is necessary for every man 
 to be more acquainted with his contemporaries 
 than with past generations, and to rather know 
 the events which may immediately affect his for- 
 tune or quiet, than the revolutions of ancient 
 kingdoms, in which he has neither possessions 
 nor expectations ; if it be pleasing to hear of the 
 preferment and dismission of statesmen, the birth 
 of heirs, and the marriage of beauties, the hum- 
 ble author of journals and gazettes must be con 
 sidered as a liberal dispenser of beneficial know 
 ledge. 
 
 Even the abridger, compiler, and translator, 
 though their labours cannot be ranked with those 
 of the diurnal historiographer, yet must not be 
 rashly doomed to annihilation. Every size of 
 readers requires a genius of correspondent capa- 
 city ; some delight in abstracts and epitomes, be- 
 cause they want room in their memory for long 
 details, and content themselves with effects, with- 
 out inquiry after causes ; some minds are over- 
 powered by splendour of sentiment, as some eyes 
 are offended by a glaring light ; such will gladly 
 contemplate an author in an humble imitation, 
 as we look without pain upon the sun in the 
 water. 
 
 As every writer has his use, every writer ought 
 to have his patrons ; and since no man, however 
 high he may now stand, can be certain that he 
 shall not be soon thrown down from his eleva- 
 tion by criticism or caprice, the common interest 
 of learning requires that her sons should cease 
 from intestine hostilities, and, instead of sacri- 
 ficing each other to malice and contempt, endea- 
 vour to avert persecution from the meanest of 
 their fraternity. 
 
 No. 146.] SATURDAY, AUG. 10, 1751. 
 
 Sun* ittie duo, trene, qui revolvanl 
 Nostrarum tineas ineptiarum ; 
 Sed cum sponsio, fabul&que alasitf 
 De Scorpo fuerint, et Incitato. 
 
 'Tis possible that one or two 
 These fooleries of mine may view; 
 But then the bettings must be o'er, 
 Nor Crab or Guilders talk'd of more. P 
 
 NONE of the projects or designs which exercise 
 the mind of man are equally subject to obstruc- 
 tions and disappointments with the pursuit of fame.
 
 226 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 {No. 146. 
 
 Riches cannot easily be denied to them who have 
 something of greater value to offer in exchange ; 
 he whoseTortune is endangered by litigation, will 
 not refuse to augment the wealth of the lawyer; 
 he whose days are darkened by languor, or whose 
 nerves are excruciated by pain, is compelled to 
 pay tribute to the science of healing. But praise 
 may be always omitted without inconvenience. 
 When once a man has made celebrity necessary 
 to his happiness, he has put it in the power of the 
 weakest and most timorous malignity, if not to 
 take away his satisfaction, at least to withhold it. 
 His enemies may indulge their pride by airy ne- 
 gligence, and gratify their malice by quiet neu 
 trality. They that could never have injured a cha- 
 racter by invectives, may combine to annihilate it 
 by silence ; as the women of Rome threatened 
 to put an end to conquest and dominion, by sup- 
 plying no children to the commonwealth. 
 
 When a writer has with long toil produced a 
 work intended to burst upon mankind with un- 
 expected lustre, and withdraw the attention of 
 the learned world from every other controversy 
 or inquiry, he is seldom contented to wait long 
 without the enjoyment of his new praises. With 
 an imagination full of his own importance, he 
 walks out like a monarch in disguise to learn the 
 various opinions of his readers. Prepared to feast 
 upon admiration ; composed to encounter cen- 
 sures without emotion ; and determined not to 
 suffer his quiet to be injured by a sensibility too 
 exquisite of praise or blame, but to laugh with 
 equal contempt at vain objections and injudicious 
 commendations, he enters the places of mingled 
 conversation, sits down to his tea in an obscure 
 corner, and while he appears to examine a file 
 of antiquated journals, catches the conversation 
 of the whole room. He listens, but hears no 
 mention of his book, and therefore supposes that 
 he has disappointed his curiosity by delay ; and 
 that as men of learning would naturally begin 
 their conversation with such a wonderful novelty, 
 they had digressed to other subjects before his ar- 
 rival. The company disperses, and their places 
 are supplied by others equally ignorant, or equal- 
 ly careless. The same expectation hurries him 
 to another place, from which the same disap- 
 pointment drives him soon away. His impatience 
 then grows violent and tumultuous ; he ranges 
 over the town with restless curiosity, and hears 
 in one quarter of a cricket-match, in another of a 
 pickpocket; is told by some of an unexpected 
 bankruptcy ; by others of a turtle-feast ; is some- 
 times provoked by importunate inquiries after 
 the white bear, and sometimes with praises of the 
 daneing-dog ; he is afterward entreated to give 
 his judgment upon a wager about the height of 
 the Monument ; invited to see a foot-race in the 
 adjacent villages ; desired to read a ludicrous ad- 
 vertisement ; or consulted about the most effect- 
 ual method of making inquiry after a favourite 
 cat The whole world is busied in affairs, which 
 he thinks below the notice of reasonable crea- 
 tures, and which are nevertheless sufficient to 
 withdraw all regard from his labours and his 
 merits. 
 
 He resolves at last to violate his own modesty, 
 and 10 recall the talkers from their folly by an in- 
 ; uiry after himself. He finds every one provided 
 with an answer ; one has seen the work adver- 
 .ised but never met with any that had read it ; 
 another has been so often imposed upon by spe- 
 
 cious titles", that he never buys a book till its cha- 
 racter is established ; a third wonders what any 
 man can hope to produce after so many writers 
 of greater eminence ; the next has inquired after 
 the author, but can hear no account of him, and 
 therefore suspects the name to be fictitious ; and 
 another knows him to be a man condemned by 
 indigence to write too frequently what he docs 
 not understand. 
 
 Many are the consolations with which the 
 unhappy author endeavours to allay his vexation, 
 and fortify his patience. He has written with 
 too little indulgence to the understanding of com- 
 mon readers ; he has fallen upon an age in which 
 solid knowledge, and delicate refinement, have 
 given way to a low merriment, and idle buffoone- 
 ry, and therefore no writer can hope for distinc- 
 tion, who has any higher purpose than to raise 
 laughter. He finds that his enemies, such as su- 
 periority will always raise, have been industrious, 
 while his performance was in the press, to vilify 
 and blast it ; and that the bookseller, whom he 
 had resolved to enrich, has rivals that obstruct 
 the circulation of his copies. He at last reposes 
 upon the consideration, that ^he noblest works 
 of learning and genius have always made their 
 way slowly against ignorance and prejudice; 
 and that reputation, which is never to be lost, 
 must be gradually obtained, as animals of longest 
 life are observed not soon to attain their full sta 
 turc and strength. 
 
 By such arts of voluntary delusion does every 
 man endeavour to conceal his own unimportance 
 from himself. It is long before we are convinced 
 of the small proportion which every individual 
 bears to the collective body of mankind ; or learn 
 how few can' be interested in the fortune of any 
 single man ; how little vacancy is left in the world 
 for any new object of attention ; to how small ex- 
 tent the brightest blaze of merit can be spread 
 amidst the mists of business and of folly ; and 
 how soon it is clouded by the intervention of 
 other novelties. Not only the writer of books, 
 but the commander of armies, and the deliverer 
 of nations, will easily outlive all noisy and popu- 
 lar reputation ; he may be celebrated for a time 
 by the public voice ; but his actions and his name 
 will soon be considered as remote and unaffect- 
 ing, and be rarely mentioned but by those whose 
 alliance gives them some vanity to gratify by fre- 
 quent commemoration. 
 
 It seems not to be sufficiently considered how 
 little renown can be admitted in the world. Man- 
 kind are kept perpetually busy by their fears or 
 desires, and have not more leisure from their own 
 affairs, than to acquaint themselves with the ac- 
 cidents of the current day. Engaged in contriv- 
 ing some refuge from calamity, or in shortening 
 the way to some new possession, they seldom 
 suffer their thoughts to wander to the past or fu- 
 ture ; none but a few solitary students have leisure 
 to inquire into the claims of ancient heroes or 
 sages ; and names which hoped to range ovei 
 kingdoms and continents, shrink at last into clois 
 ters or colleges. 
 
 Nor is it certain, that even of these dark and 
 narrow habitations, these last retreats of fame, 
 the possession will be long kept. Of men de- 
 voted to literature, very few extend their views 
 beyond some particular science, and the greatei 
 part seldom inquire, even in their own profes- 
 sion, for any authors but those whom the present
 
 No. 147.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 227 
 
 mode of study happens to force upon their notice ; 
 they desire not to till their minds with unfashion- 
 able knowledge, but contentedly resign to obli- 
 vion those books which they now find censured 
 or neglected. 
 
 The hope of fame is necessarily connected with 
 such considerations as must abate the ardour of 
 confidence, and repress the vigour of pursuit. 
 Whoever claims renown from any kind of ex- 
 cellence, expects to fill the place which is now 
 possessed by another; for there are already 
 names of every class sufficient to employ all that 
 will desire to remember them ; and surely he 
 that is pushing his predecessors into the gulf of 
 obscurity, cannot but sometimes suspect, that he 
 must himself sink in like manner, and, as he 
 stands upon the same precipice, be swept away 
 with the same violence. 
 
 It sometimes happens that fame begins when 
 life is at an end : but far the greater number of 
 candidates for applause have owed their recep- 
 tion in the world to some favourable casualties, 
 and have therefore immediately sunk into ne- 
 glect, when death stripped them of their casual 
 influence, and neither fortune nor patronage ope- 
 rated in their favour. Among those who have 
 better claims to regard, the honour paid to their 
 memory is commonly proportionate to the repu- 
 tation which they enjoyed in their lives, though 
 still growing fainter, as it is at a greater distance 
 from the first emission ; and since it is so diffi- 
 cult to obtain the notice of contemporaries, how 
 little is it to be hoped from future times ? What 
 can merit effect by its own force, when the help 
 of art or of friendship can scarcely support it? 
 
 No. 147.] TUESDAY, AUG. 13, 1751. 
 
 Tu nihil invita dices faciesve Minerva. 
 
 HOR. 
 
 You are of too quick a sight, 
 
 Not to discern which way your talent lies. 
 
 KOSCOMMON. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 As little things grow great by continual accu- 
 mulation, I hope you will not think the dignity of 
 your character impaired by an account of a ludi- 
 crous persecution, which, though it produces no 
 scenes of horror or of ruin, yet, by incessant im- 
 portunity of vexation, wears away my happiness, 
 and consumes those years which nature seems 
 particularly to have assigned to cheerfulness, in 
 silent anxiety and helpless resentment 
 
 I am the eldest son of a gentleman, who hav- 
 ing inherited a large estate from his ancestors, 
 and feeling no desire either to increase or lessen 
 it, has from the time of his marriage generally re- 
 sided at his own seat ; where, by dividing his 
 time among the duties of^a father, a master, and a 
 magistrate, the study of literature, and the offices 
 of civility, he finds means to rid himself of the 
 day, without any of those amusements, which all 
 those with whom my residence in this place has 
 made me acquainted, think necessary to lighten 
 the burden of existence. 
 
 When my age made me capable of instruction, 
 my father prevailed upon a gentleman, long 
 known at Oxford for the extent of his learning 
 and purity of his manners, to undertake my edu- 
 cation. The regard with which I saw him treat- 
 
 ed, disposed me to consider his instructions as 
 important, and 1 therefore soon formed a habit 
 of attention, by which I made very quick advances 
 in different kinds of learning, and heard, perhaps 
 too often, very flattering comparisons of my own 
 proficiency with that of others, either less docile 
 by nature, or less happily forwarded by instruc- 
 tion. 1 was caressed by all that exchanged vi- 
 sits with my father ; and as young men are with 
 little difficulty taught to judge favourably of them- 
 selves, began to think that close application was 
 no longer necessary, and that the time was now 
 come when I was at liberty to read onlv for 
 amusement, and was to receive the reward of my 
 fatigues in praise and admiration. 
 
 While I was thus banqueting upon my own 
 perfections, and longing in secret to escape from 
 tutorage, my father's brother came from London 
 to pass a summer at his native place. A lucra- 
 tive employment which he possessed, and a fond- 
 ness for the conversation and diversions of the 
 gay part of mankind, had so long kept him from 
 rural excursions, that I had never seen him since 
 my infancy. My curiosity was therefore strong- 
 ly excited by the hope of observing a character 
 more nearly, which I had hitherto reverenced only 
 at a distance. 
 
 From all private and intimate conversation, I 
 was long withheld by the perpetual confluence 
 of visitants with whom the first news of my un- 
 cle's arrival crowded the house ; but was amply 
 recompensed by seeing an exact and punctilious 
 practice of the arts of a courtier, in all the strata- 
 gems of endearment, the gradations of respect, 
 and variations of courtesy. I remarked with 
 what justice of distribution he divided his talk to 
 a wide circle ; with what address he offered to 
 every man an occasion of indulging some favour- 
 ite topic, or displaying some particular attain- 
 ment ; the judgment with which he regulated his 
 inquiries after the absent ; and the care with 
 which he showed all the companions of his early 
 years how strongly they were infixed in his me- 
 mory, by the mention of past incidents, and the 
 recital of puerile kindnesses, dangers and frolics. 
 I soon discovered that he possessed some sci- 
 ence of graciousness and attraction which books 
 had not taught, and of which neither I nor my 
 father had any knowledge; that he had the 
 power of obliging those whom he did not benefit : 
 that he diffused, upon his cursory behaviour and 
 most trifling actions, a gloss of softness and deli- 
 cacy by which every one was dazzled ; and that, 
 by some occult method of captivation, he ani- 
 mated the timorous, softened the supercilious, 
 and opened the reserved. I could not but repine 
 at the inelegance of my own manners, which left 
 me no hopes but not to offend, and at theineffica- 
 cy of rustic benevolence, which gained no friends 
 but by real service. 
 
 My uncle saw the veneration with which I 
 caught every accent of his voice, and watched 
 every motion of his hand ; and the awkward dili- 
 gence with which I endeavoured to imitate his 
 embrace of fondness, and his bow of respect. Ho 
 was like others, easily flattered by an imitator by 
 whom he could not fear ever to be rivalled, and 
 repaid my assiduities with compliments and pro- 
 fessions. Our fondness was so increased by a 
 mutual endeavour to please each other, that 
 when we returned to London he declared himself 
 unable to leave a nephew so amiable and so
 
 228 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 14b. 
 
 accomplished behind him; and obtained my fa- 
 ther's permission to enjoy my company lor u tew 
 months, In a promise to initiate me in the arts ol 
 politeness; and introduce me into public life. 
 
 The courtier had little inclination to fatigue, 
 and therefore, by travelling very slowly, afforded 
 me time for more loose and familiar conversa- 
 tion ; but I soon found, that by a few inquiries 
 which he was not well prepared to satisfy, I had 
 made him weary of his young companion. His 
 element was a mixed assembly, where ceremony 
 and healths, compliments and common topics 
 kept the tongue employed with very little assist- 
 ance from memory or reflection ; but in the cha- 
 riot where he was necessitated to support a regu- 
 lar tenor of conversation, without any relief from 
 a new comer, or any power of starting into gay 
 digressions, or destroying argument by a jest, he 
 soon discovered that poverty of ideas which had 
 been hitherto concealed under the tinsel of polite- 
 ness. The first day he entertained me with the 
 novelties and wonders with which I should be as- 
 tonished at my entrance into London, and cau- 
 tioned me with apparent admiration of his own 
 wisdom, against the arts by which rusticity is fre- 
 quently deluded. The same detail and the same 
 advice he would have repeated on the second day ; 
 but as I every moment diverted the discourse 
 to the history of the towns by which we passed, 
 or some other subject of learning or of reason, he 
 soon lost his vivacity, grew peevish and silent, 
 wrapped his cloak about him, composed himself 
 to slumber, and reserved his gayety for fitter 
 auditors. 
 
 At length I entered London, and my uncle was 
 reinstated in his superiority. He waked at once 
 to loquacity as soon as our wheels rattled on the 
 pavement, and told me the name of every street 
 as we crossed it, and owner of every house as we 
 passed by. He presented me to my aunt, a lady 
 of great eminence for the number of her acquaint- 
 ances, and splendour of her assemblies ; and 
 either in kindness or revenge consulted with her 
 in my presence, how I might be most advantage- 
 ously dressed for my first appearance, and most 
 expeditiously disencumbered from villatick bash- 
 fulness. My indignation at familiarity thus con- 
 temptuous flushed in my face ; they mistook an- 
 ger for shame, and alternately exerted their elo- 
 quence upon the benefits of public education, and 
 the happiness of an assurance early acquired. 
 
 Assurance is indeed the only qualification to 
 which they seem to have annexed merit, and as- 
 surance therefore is perpetually recommended to 
 me, as the supply of every defect, and the orna- 
 ment of every excellence. I never sit silent in 
 company when secret history is circulating, but I 
 am reproached for want of assurance. If I fail 
 to return the stated answer to a compliment ; if 
 I am disconcerted by unexpected raillery ; if I 
 blush when I am discovered gazing on a beauty, 
 or hesitate when I find myself embarrassed in an 
 argument; if I am unwilling to talk of what I do 
 not understand, or timorous in undertaking of- 
 fices which I cannot gracefully perform ; if I suf- 
 fer a more lively tattler to recount the casualties 
 of a game, or a nimbler fop to pick up a fan, I 
 am censured between pity and contempt as a 
 wretch doomed to grovel in obscurity for want of 
 assurance. 
 
 I have found many young persons harassed in 
 
 the same manner, by those to whom age has 
 given nothing but the assurance which they re- 
 commend ; and therefore cannot but think it use- 
 ful to inform them, that cowardice and delicacy 
 are not to be confounded ; and that he whose 
 stupidity has armed him against the shafts of ri- 
 dicule, will always act and speak with greater 
 audacity than they whose sensibility represses 
 their ardour, and who dare never let. their confi 
 dence outgrow their abilities. 
 
 No. 143.] SATURDAY, AUG. 17, 1751. 
 
 Me pater sacis oneretcatenis, 
 Quod tiro clemens miseropcperci: 
 Me vel extremes Numidarum in agrot 
 
 Classc releget. HOE. 
 
 Me let my father load with chains, 
 
 Or banish to Numidiu's furthest plains; 
 
 My crime, that J, a loyal wife, 
 
 In kind compassion spared my husband's life. 
 
 FRANCIS. 
 
 POLITICIANS remark, that no oppression is so 
 heavy or lasting as that which is inflicted by the 
 perversion and exorbitance of legal authority. 
 The robber may be seized, and the invader re- 
 pelled, whenever they are found ; they who pre- 
 tend no right but that of force, may by force be 
 punished or suppressed. But when plunder 
 bears the name of impost, and murder is perpe- 
 trated by a judicial sentence, fortitude is inti- 
 midated, and wisdom confounded ; resistance 
 shrinks from an alliance with rebellion, and the 
 villain remains secure in the robes of the ma- 
 gistrate. 
 
 Equally dangerous and equally detestable are 
 the cruelties often exercised in private families, 
 under the venerable sanction of parental autho- 
 rity ; the power which we are taught to honour 
 from the first moments of reason ; which is guard- 
 ed from insult and violation by all that can im- 
 press awe upon the mind of man ; and which 
 therefore may wanton in cruelty without control, 
 and trample the bounds of right with innumera- 
 ble transgressions, before duty and piety will 
 dare to seek redress, or think themselves at 
 liberty to recur to any other means of deliverance 
 than supplications by which insolence is elated, 
 and tears by which cruelty i< gratified. 
 
 It was fora long time imagined by the Romans, 
 that no son could be the murderer of his father ; 
 and they had therefore no punishment appropri- 
 ated to parricide. They seem likewise to have 
 believed with equal confidence, that no father 
 could be cruel to his child ; and therefore they 
 allowed every man the supreme judicature in his 
 own house, and put the lives of his offspring into 
 his hands. But experience informed them by 
 degrees, that they had determined too hastily in 
 favour of human nature ;. they found that instinct 
 and habit were not able to contend with avarice 
 or malice ; that the nearest relation might be vio- 
 lated ; and that power, to whomsoever intrusted, 
 might be ill employed. They were therefore 
 obliged to supply and to change their institutions ; 
 to deter the parricide by a new law, and to trans- 
 fer capital punishments from the parent to the 
 magistrate. 
 
 There are indeed many houses which it is im- 
 possible to enter familiarly, without discovering
 
 No. 148.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 229 
 
 that parents are by no means exempt from the 
 intoxications of dominion ; and that he who is in 
 no danger of hearing remonstrances but from 
 his own conscience, will seldom be long without 
 the art of controlling his convictions, and modify- 
 ing justice by his own will. 
 
 If in any situation the heart were inaccessible 
 to malignity, it might be supposed to be suffi- 
 ciently secured by parental relation. To have 
 voluntarily become to any being the occasion of 
 its existence, produces an obligation to make 
 that existence happy. To see helpless infancy 
 stretching out her hands and pouring out her 
 cries in testimony of dependence, without any 
 powers to alarm jealousy, or any guilt to alien- 
 ate affection, must surely awaken tenderness in 
 every human mind ; and tenderness once excited 
 will be hourly increased by the natural contagion 
 of felicity, by the repercussion of communicated 
 pleasure, by the consciousness of the dignity of 
 benefaction. I believe no generous or benevo- 
 lent man can see the vilest animal courting his 
 regard, and shrinking at his anger, playing his 
 gambols of delight before him, calling on him in 
 distress, and flying to him in danger, without 
 more kindness than he can persuade himself to 
 feel for the wild and unsocial inhabitants of the 
 air and water. We naturally endear to ourselves 
 those to whom we impart any kind of pleasure, 
 because we imagine their affection and esteem 
 secured to us by the benefits which they receive. 
 
 There is indeed another method by which the 
 pride of superiority may be likewise gratified. 
 He that has extinguished all the sensations of hu- 
 manity, and has no longer any satisfaction in the 
 reflection that he is loved as the distributor of 
 happiness, may please himself with exciting ter- 
 ror as the inflicter of pain : he may delight his eo- 
 litude with contemplating the extent of his power 
 and the force of his commands ; in imagining the 
 desires that flutter on the tongue which is forbid- 
 den to utter them, or the discontent which preys 
 on the heart in which fear confines it ; he may 
 amuse himself with new contrivances of detec- 
 tion, multiplications of prohibition, and varieties 
 of punishment ; and swell with exultation when 
 he considers how little of the homage that he re- 
 ceives he owes to choice. 
 
 That princes of this character have been 
 known, the history of all absolute kingdoms 
 will inform us ; and since as Aristotle observes, 
 j} olxovoptKii povapxta, the government of a family is 
 naturally monarchical, it is, like other monarchies, 
 too often arbitrarily administrated. The regal 
 and parental tyrants differ only in the extent of 
 their dominions, and the number of their slaves. 
 The same passions cause the same miseries; 
 except that seldom any prince, however despotic, 
 has so far shaken ofT all awe of the public eye, 
 as to venture upon those freaks of injustice 
 which are sometimes indulged under the secrecy 
 of a private dwelling. Capricious injunctions, 
 partial decisions, unequal allotments, distribu- 
 tions of reward not by merit but by fancy, and 
 punishments regulated not by the degree of the 
 offence but by the humour of the judge, are too 
 frequent where no power is known but that of a 
 father. 
 
 That he delights in the misery of others, no 
 man will confess, and yet what other motive can 
 make a father cruel ? The king may be insti- 
 
 gated by one man to the destruction of another, 
 he may sometimes think himself endangered by 
 the virtues of a subject ; he may dread the suc- 
 cessful general or the popular orator ; his avarice 
 may point out golden confiscations ; and his 
 guilt may whisper that he can only be secure by 
 cutting off* all power of revenge. 
 
 But what can a parent hope from the oppres- 
 sion of those who were born to his protection, of 
 those who can disturb him with no competition, 
 who can enrich him with no spoils? Why cow- 
 ards are cruel may be easily discovered ; but for 
 what reason, not more infamous than cowardice, 
 can that man delight in oppression who has 
 nothing to fear? 
 
 The unjustifiable severity of a parent is loaded 
 with this aggravation, that those whom he in- 
 jures are always in his sight. The injustice of a 
 prince is often exercised upon those of whom he 
 never had any personal or particular knowledge ; 
 and the sentence which he pronounces, whether 
 of banishment, imprisonment, or death, removes 
 from his view the man whom he condemns. But 
 the domestic oppressor dooms himself to gaze 
 upon those faces which he clouds with terror 
 and with sorrow ; and beholds every moment 
 the effects of his own barbarities. He that can 
 bear to give continual pain to those who sur- 
 round him, and can walk with satisfaction in the 
 gloom of his own presence ; he that can see 
 submissive misery without relenting, and meet 
 without emotion the eye that implores mercy or 
 demands justice, will scarcely be amended by 
 remonstrance or admonition ; he has found 
 means of stopping the avenues of tenderness, and 
 arming his heart against the force of reason. 
 
 Even though no consideration should be paid 
 to the great law of social beings, by which every 
 individual is commanded to consult the happi- 
 piuess of others, yet the harsh parent is less to 
 be vindicated than any other criminal, because 
 he less provides for the happiness of himself. 
 Every man, however little he loves others, would 
 willingly be loved ; every man hopes to live 
 long, and therefore hopes for that time at which 
 he shall sink back to imbecility, and must de- 
 pend for ease and cheerfulness upon the offi- 
 ciousness of others. But how has he obviated 
 the inconveniences of old age, who alienates from 
 him the assistance of his children, and whose 
 bed must be surrounded in his last hours, in the 
 hours of languor and dejection, of impatience 
 and of pain, by strangers to whom his life is in- 
 different, or by enemies to whom his death is 
 desirable ? 
 
 Piety will indeed in good minds overcome 
 provocation, and those who have been harassed 
 by brutality will forget the injuries which they 
 have suffered, so far as to perform the last duties 
 with alacrity and zeal. But surely no resent- 
 ment can he equally painful with kindness thus 
 undeserved, nor can severer punishment be im- 
 precated upon a man not wholly lost in mean- 
 ness and stupidity, than through the tediousness 
 of decrepitude, to be reproached by the kindness 
 of his own children, to receive not the tribute 
 but the alms of attendance, and to owe every 
 relief of his miseries, not to gratitude but to 
 mercy.
 
 230 
 No. 149.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 149. 
 
 TUESDAY, AUG. 20, 1751. 
 
 , non sit Oreatet 
 
 Quod non sit Pyltides hoc tempore, non sit C 
 
 tttruritt Pylades, Marce, bibcbat idem. 
 Kec me. liar pants, lurdusve dabalur Oresti: 
 
 Sed par, eti/ue eadem Cfe.ua dtiobvs erat. 
 Te Cadmtta Tyros, me piiignis Gallia vestit : 
 
 Vis tepurpureum, Marce, satratus amem ? 
 Ut prasleml'yladen, alir/uis mihipraitet Orestem, 
 
 Hoc non Jit verbis; Marce, ut ameris, ama. 
 
 MART. VI. 11. 
 
 You wonder now that no man sees 
 
 Such frieuds as those of ancient Greece. 
 
 Here lay the poiut: Orestes' meat 
 
 Was just the same his friend did eat 
 
 Nor can it yet be found, his wine 
 
 Was better, Pylades, than thine. 
 
 In home-spun russet I am dress'd ; 
 
 Your cloth is always of the best ; 
 
 But, honest Marcus, if you please 
 
 To choose me for your Pylutles, 
 
 Remember, words alone are vain ; 
 
 Love if you would beloved again. r. LEWIS. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SI'R, 
 
 No depravity of the mind has been more fre- 
 quently or justly censured than ingratitude. 
 There is indeed sufficient reason for looking on 
 those that can return evil for good, and repay 
 kindness and assistance with hatred or neglect, 
 as corrupted beyond the common degrees of 
 wickedness ; nor will he, who has once been 
 clearly detected in acts of injury to his benefac- 
 tor, deserve to be numbered among social beings; 
 he has endeavoured to destroy confidence, to in- 
 tercept sympathy, and to turn every man's at- 
 tention wholly on himself. 
 
 There is always danger lest the honest abhor- 
 rence of a crime should raise the passions with 
 too much violence against the man to whom it is 
 imputed. In proportion as guilt is more enor- 
 mous it ought to be ascertained by stronger evi- 
 dence. The charge against ingratitude is very 
 genaral ; almost every man can tell what favours 
 he has conferred upon insensibility, and how 
 much happiness he has bestowed without re- 
 turn ; but perhaps if these patrons and protec- 
 tors were confronted with any whom they boast 
 of having bsfriended, it would often appear that 
 they consulted only their pleasure or vanity, and 
 repaid themselves their petty donatives by grati- 
 fications of insolence and indulgence of con- 
 tempt. 
 
 It has happened that much of my time has 
 been passed in a dependent state, and conse- 
 quently I have received many favours in the 
 opinion of those at whose expense I have been 
 maintained ; yet I do not feel in rny heart any 
 burning gratitude or tumultuous affection ; and 
 as I would not willingly suppose myself less 
 susceptible of virtuous passions than the rest of 
 mankind, I shall lay the history of my life before 
 you, that you may by your judgment of my 
 conduct, either reform, or confirm, iny present 
 sentiments. 
 
 My father was the second son of a very ancient 
 and wealthy family. He married a lady of equal 
 birth, whose fortune joined to his own might 
 have supported his posterity in honour ; but 
 being gay and ambitious, he prevailed on his 
 friends to procure him a post, which gave him 
 an opportunity of displaying his elegance and 
 politeness. My mother was equally pleased with 
 
 splendour and equally careless of expense ; they 
 both justified their profusion to themselves by 
 endeavouring to believe it necessary to the ex- 
 tension of their acquaintance, and improvement 
 of their interest ; and whenever any place be- 
 came vacant, they expected to be repaid. In the 
 midst of these hopes my father was snatched 
 away by an apoplexy ; and my mother who had 
 no pleasure but in dress, equipage, assemblies, 
 and compliments, finding that she could live no 
 longer in her accustomed rank, sunk into dejec- 
 tion, and in two years wore out her life with 
 envy and discontent. 
 
 I was sent with a sister one year younger than 
 myself to the elder brother of my father. Wo 
 were not yet capable of observing how much 
 fortune influences affection, but flattered our 
 selves on the road with the tenderness and re- 
 gard with which we should be treated by our 
 uncle. Our reception was rather frigid than 
 malignant; we were introduced to our young 
 cousins, and for the first month more frequently 
 consoled than upbraided ; but in a short time 
 we found our prattle repressed, our dress ne- 
 glected, our endearments unregarded, and our 
 requests referred to the housekeeper. 
 
 The forms of decency were now violated, and 
 everyday produced new insults. We were soon 
 brought to the necessity of receding from our 
 imagined equality with our cousins, to whom we 
 sunk into humble companions without choice or 
 influence, expected only to echo their opinions, 
 facilitate their desires, and accompany their ram- 
 bles. It was unfortunate that our early intro- 
 duction into polite company, and habitual know- 
 ledge of the arts of civility, had given us such an 
 appearance of superiority to the awkward bash- 
 fulness of our relations, as naturally drew respect 
 and preference from every stranger; and my 
 aunt was forced to assert the dignity of her own 
 children while they were sculking in corners for 
 fear of notice, and hanging down their heads 
 in silent confusion, by relating the indiscretion 
 of our father, displaying her own kindness, la- 
 menting the misery of birth without estate, and 
 declaring her anxiety for our future provision, 
 and the expedients which she had formed to se- 
 cure us from those follies, or crimes, to which 
 the conjunction of pride and want often gives 
 occasion. In a short time care was taken to 
 prevent such vexatious mistakes ; we were told 
 that fine clothes would only fill our heads with 
 false expectations, and our dress was therefore 
 accommodated to our fortune. 
 
 Childhood is not easily dejected or mortified. 
 We felt no lasting pain from insolence or ne- 
 glect; but, finding that we were favoured and 
 commended by all whose interest did not prompt 
 them to discountenance us, preserved our viva- 
 city and spirit to years of greater sensibility. It 
 then became irksome and disgusting to live 
 without any principle of action but the will of 
 another ; and we often met privately in the gai- 
 den to lament our condition, and to ease our 
 hearts with mutual narratives dl' caprice, pee- 
 vishness, and affront. 
 
 There are innumerable modes of insult and 
 tokens of contempt, for which it is not easy to 
 find a name, which vanish to nothing in an at- 
 tempt to describe them, and yet may by continual 
 repetition make day pass after day in sorrow 
 and in terror. Phrases of cursory compliment
 
 JN'o. 150.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 231 
 
 and established salutation may, by a different 
 modulation of the voice, or cast of the coun- 
 tenance, convey contrary meanings, and be 
 changed from indications of respect to expres- 
 sions of scorn. The dependant who cultivates 
 delicacy in himself, very little consults his own 
 tranquillity. My unhappy vigilance is every mo- 
 ment discovering some petulance of accent, or 
 arrogance of mien, some vehemence of interroga- 
 tion, or quickness of reply, that recalls my poverty 
 to my mind, and which I feel more acutely as I 
 know not how to resent it. 
 
 You are not however to imagine that I think 
 myself discharged from the duties of gratitude, 
 only because my relations do not adjust their 
 looks, or tune their voices, to my expectation. 
 The insolence of benefaction terminates not in 
 negative rudeness or obliquities of insult. I am 
 often told in express terms of the miseries from 
 which charity has snatched me, while multitudes 
 are suffered by relations equally near to devolve 
 upon the parish : and have more than once heard 
 it numbered among other favours, that I am ad- 
 mitted to the same table with my cousins. 
 
 That. I sit at the first table I must acknowledge, 
 but I sit there only that I may feel the stings of 
 inferiority. My inquiries are neglected, my 
 opinion is overborne, my assertions are contro- 
 verted, and, as insolence always propagates it- 
 self, the servants overlook me, in imitation of their 
 master : if I call modestly I am not heard ; 
 if loudly, my usurpation of authority is checked 
 by a general frown. I am often obliged to look 
 uninvited upon delicacies, and sometimes desired 
 to rise upon very slight pretences. 
 
 The incivilities to which I am exposed would 
 give me less pain, were they not aggravated by 
 the tears of my sister, whom the young ladies are 
 hourly tormenting with every art of feminine per- 
 secution . As it is said of the supreme magistrate 
 of Venice, that he is a prince in one place and a 
 slave in another, my sister is a servant to her cou- 
 sin in their apartments, and a companion only at 
 the table. Her wit and beauty draw so much re- 
 gard away from them, that they never suffer her 
 to appear with them in any place where they so- 
 licit notice or expect admiration : and when they 
 are visited by neighbouring ladies, and pass their 
 hours in domestic amusements, she is sometimes 
 called to fill a vacancy, insulted with contemptu- 
 ous freedoms, and dismissed to her needle when 
 her place is supplied. The heir has of late, by 
 the instigation of his sisters, begun to harass with 
 clownish jocularity ; he seems inclined to make 
 his first rude essays of his waggery upon her ; 
 and by the connivance, if not encouragement, 
 of his father, treats her with such licentious 
 brutality as I cannot bear, though I cannot pu- 
 nish it. 
 
 I beg to be informed, Mr. Rambler, how much 
 \ve can be supposed to owe to beneficence exert- 
 ed on terms like these? to beneficence which 
 pollutes its gifts with contumely, and may be truly 
 said to pander to pride? I would wiHinglybetold 
 whether insolence does not reward its own libe- 
 ralities, and whether he that exacts servility can, 
 with justice, at the same time expect affection? 
 I am, Sir, &c. 
 
 HTPERDULUS. . 
 
 No. 150.] SATURDAY, AUG. 24, 1751. 
 
 -O munera nondum 
 
 Intellf.cta Dcum ! 
 
 Thou chiefest good ! 
 
 Bestowed by Heaveu, but seldom understood. 
 
 As daily experience makes it evident that misfor- 
 tunes are unavoidably incident to human life, that 
 calamity will neither be repelled by fortitude, nor 
 escaped by flight ; neither awed by greatness, nor 
 eluded by obscurity ; philosophers have endea- 
 voured to reconcile us to that condition which they 
 cannot teach us to mend, by persuading us that 
 most of our evils are made afflictive only by igno- 
 rance or perverseness, and that nature has an- 
 nexed to every vicissitude of external circum- 
 stances some advantage sufficient to overba- 
 lance all its inconveniences. 
 
 This attempt may, perhaps, be justly suspected 
 of resemblance to the practice of physicians, who 
 when they cannot mitigate pain, destroy sensi- 
 bility, and endeavour to conceal by opiates the 
 inefficacy of their other medicines. The pane- 
 gyrists of calamity have more frequently gained 
 applause to their wit than acquiescence to their 
 arguments; nor has it appeared that the most 
 musical oratory or subtle ratiocination has been 
 able long to overpower the anguish of oppression, 
 the tediousness of languor, or the longings of 
 want. 
 
 Yet it may be generally remarked, that, where 
 much has been attempted, something has been 
 performed ; though the discoveries or acquisi- 
 tions of man arc not always adequate to the ex 
 pectations of his pride, they are at least sufficient 
 to animate his industry. The antidotes with 
 which philosophy has medicated the cup of life, 
 though they cannot give it salubrity and sweet- 
 ness, have at least allayed its bitterness and con- 
 tempered its malignity ; the balm which she 
 drops upon the wounds of the mind, abates their 
 pain, though it cannot heal them. 
 
 By suffering willingly what we cannot avoid, 
 we secure ourselves from vain and immoderate 
 disquiet ; we preserve for better purposes that 
 strength which would be unprofitably wasted in 
 wild efforts of desperation, and maintain that cir- 
 cumspection which may enable us to seize every 
 support, and improve every alleviation. This 
 calmness will be more easily obtained, as the at- 
 tention is more powerfully withdrawn from the 
 contemplation of unmingled unabated evil, and 
 diverted to those accidental benefits which pru 
 dence may confer on every state. 
 
 Seneca has attempted, not only to pacify us In 
 misfortune, but almost to allure us to it, by re- 
 presenting it as necessary to the pleasures of the 
 mind. " He that never was acquainted with ad- 
 versity," says he, " has seen the world but on 
 one side, and is ignorant of half the scenes of na- 
 ture." He invites his pupil to calamity, as the 
 Syrens allured the passenger to their coasts by 
 promising that he shall return -nXdova eltus with 
 increase of knowledge, with enlarged views and 
 multiplied ideas. 
 
 Curiosity is, in great and generous minds, the 
 first passion and the last; and perhaps always 
 predominates in proportion to the strength of 
 the contemplative faculties. He who easily com- 
 prehends all that is before him, and soon exhausts 
 any single subject, is always eager for new in-
 
 232 
 
 quiries ; 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. lol 
 
 I1CO , and, in proportion as the intellectual 
 eye takes i.i a wider prospect, it must be gratified 
 with variety by more rapid flights and bolder 
 excursions : nor perhaps can there be proposed 
 to those who have been accustomed to the plea- 
 sures of thought, a more powerful incitement to 
 anv undertaking, than the hope of falling their 
 fancy with new images, of clearing their doubts, 
 and enlightening their reason. 
 
 When Jason, in Valerius Flaccus, would in- 
 cline the young prince Acastusto accompany him 
 in the first essay of navigation, he disperses his 
 apprehensions of danger by representations of 
 the new tracts of earth and heaven, which the 
 expedition would spread before their eyes ; and 
 tells him with what grief he will hear, at their re- 
 turn of the countries which they shall have seen, 
 and the toils which they have surmounted. 
 
 O quantum terra, quantum cognoscere c<eli, 
 Permission est ! pelagus ijuanws aperimus in urus ! 
 Nunc forsan grave reris opus : sed luta recurret 
 Cum ratis, et caram cum jam milii reddet lolcon; 
 Qiiis pudor lieu nostros tibi tune audire labores ; 
 Quant referam visas tua per suspiring entes ! 
 
 L"d by our stars, what tracks immense we trace ! 
 From seas remote, what funds of science raise! 
 A pain to thought: But when th' heroic band 
 ' Ketums applauded to their native land, 
 A life domestic you will then deplore, 
 And sigh, while I describe the various shore. 
 
 EDW. CAVE. 
 
 Acastus was soon prevailed upon by his curi- 
 osity to set rocks and hardships at defiance, and 
 commit his life to the winds ; and the same mo- 
 tives have in all ages had the same effect upon 
 those whom the desire of fame or wisdom has 
 distinguished from the lower orders of mankind. 
 
 If, therefore, it can be proved that distress is 
 necessary to the attainment of knowledge, and 
 that a happy situation hides from us so large a 
 part of the field of meditation, the envy of many 
 who repine at the sight of affluence and splen- 
 dour will be much diminished ; for, such is the 
 delight of mental superiority, that none on whom 
 nature or study have conferred it, would pur- 
 chase the gifts of fortune by its loss. 
 
 It is certain, that however the rhetoric of Se- 
 neca may have dressed adversity with extrinsic 
 ornaments, he has justly represented it as afford- 
 ing some opportunities of observation, which can- 
 not be found in continual success ; he has truly 
 asserted, that to escape misfortune is to want in- 
 struction, and that to live at ease is to live in ig- 
 norance. 
 
 As no man can enjoy happiness without think- 
 ing that he enjoys it, the experience of calamity 
 is necessary to a just sense of better fortune ; for 
 the good of our present state is merely compara- 
 tive, and the evil which every man feels will be 
 sufficient to disturb and harass him, if he does 
 not know how much he escapes. The lustre of 
 diamonds is invigorated by the interposition of 
 darker bodies ; the lights of a picture are created 
 by the shades. The highest pleasure which na- 
 ture has indulged to sensitive perception is that 
 of rest after fatigue ; yet, that state which labour 
 heightens into delight, is of itself only ease, and 
 is incapable of satisfying the mind without the 
 superaddition of diversified amusements. 
 
 Prosperity, as is truly asserted by Seneca, very 
 much obstructs the knowledge of ourselves. No 
 man can form a just estimate of his own powers 
 
 by unactive speculation. That fortitude which 
 has encountered no dangers, that prudence which 
 has surmounted no difficulties, that integrity 
 wliich has been attacked by no temptations, can 
 at best be considered but as gold not yet brought 
 to the test, of wliich therefore the true value can- 
 not be assigned. 
 
 " He that traverses the lists without an adver- 
 sary, may receive," says the philosopher, " the 
 reward of victory, but he has no pretensions to 
 the honour." If it be the highest happiness of 
 man to contemplate himself with satisfaction, and 
 to receive the gratulations of his own conscience ; 
 he whose courage has made way amidst the tur- 
 bulence of opposition, and whose vigour has 
 broken through the snares of distress, has many 
 advantages over those that have slept in the 
 shades of indolence, and whose retrospect of time 
 can entertain them with nothing but day rising 
 upon day, and year gliding after year. 
 
 Equally necessary is some variety of fortune to 
 a nearer inspection of the manners, principles, 
 and affections of mankind. Princes, when they 
 would know the opinions or grievances of their 
 subjects, find it necessary to steal away from 
 guards and attendants, and mingle on equal terms 
 among the people. To him who is known to 
 have the power of doing good or harm, nothing is 
 shown in its natural form. The behaviour of all 
 that approach him is regulated by his humour, 
 their narratives are adapted to his inclination, and 
 their reasonings determined hy his opinions; 
 whatever can alarm suspicion or excite resent- 
 ment is carefully suppressed, and nothing appears 
 but uniformity of sentiments and ardour of affec- 
 tion. It may be observed, that the unvaried com- 
 plaisance which ladies have the right of exacting, 
 keeps them generally unskilled in human nature ; 
 prosperity will always enjoy the female preroga- 
 tives, and therefore must be always in danger of 
 female ignorance. Truth is scarcely to be heard, 
 but by those from whom it can serve no interest 
 to conceal it. 
 
 No. 151.] TUESDAY, AUG. 27, 1751. 
 
 TOVTO 6 &nrj%avov tvoeiv, 
 
 ''O,Ti vvv, Kat tv TeXtu- 
 
 Ta iptprarov avSfl Tv%t!v. PlNDAtt: 
 
 But wrapt in error is the human mind, 
 
 And human bliss is ever insecure : 
 Know we what fortune yet remains behind ? 
 
 Know we how long the present shall endure? 
 
 WES i 
 
 THE writers of medicine and physiology have 
 traced, with great appearance of accuracy, the 
 effects of time upon the human body, by marking 
 the various periods of the constitution, and the 
 several stages by which animal life makes its pro- 
 gress from infancy to decrepitude. Though their 
 observations have not enabled them to discover 
 how manhood may be accelerated, or old age re- 
 tarded, yet surely if they be considered only as 
 the amusements of curiosity, they are of equal im- 
 portance with conjectures on things more remote, 
 with catalogues of the fixed stars, and calculations 
 of the bulk of planets. 
 
 It had been a task worthy of the moral philoso-
 
 No. 151.] THE RAMBLER. 
 
 pliers to have considered with equal care the cli- 
 macterics of the mind ; to have pointed out the 
 time at which every passion begins and ceases 
 to predominate, and noted the regular variations 
 of desire, and the succession of one appetite to 
 another. 
 
 The periods of mental change are not to be 
 stated with equal certainty ; our bodies grow up 
 under the care of nature, and depend so little 
 on our own management, that something more 
 than negligence is necessary to discompose their 
 structure, or impede their vigour. But our minds 
 are committed in a great measure first to the direc- 
 tion of others, and afterwards of ourselves. It 
 would be difficult to protract the weakness of in- 
 fancy beyond the usual time; but the mind may 
 be very easily hindered from its share of improve- 
 ment; and the bulk and strength of manhood 
 must, without the assistance of education and in- 
 struction, be informed only with the understand- 
 ing of a child. 
 
 Yet, amidst all the disorder and inequality 
 which variety of discipline, example, conversa- 
 tion, and employment, produce in the intellectual 
 advances of different men, there is still discover- 
 ed, by a vigilant spectator, such a general and 
 remote similitude, as may be expected in the 
 same common nature affected by external cir- 
 cumstances indefinitely varied. We all enter 
 the world in equal ignorance, gaze round about 
 us on the same objects, and have our first pains 
 and pleasures, our first hopes and fears, our first 
 aversions and desires, from the same causes : 
 and though, as we proceed farther, life opens 
 wider prospects to our view, and accidental im- 
 pulses determine us to different paths ; yet as 
 every mind, however vigorous or abstracted, is 
 necessitated, in its. present state of union, to re- 
 ceive its informations, and execute its purposes by 
 the intervention of the body, the uniformity of 
 our corporeal nature communicates itself to- our 
 intellectual operations ; and those whose abili- 
 ties or knowledge incline them most to deviate 
 from the general round of life, are recalled from 
 eccentricity by the laws of their existence. 
 
 If we consider the exercise of the mind, it will be 
 found that in each part of life some particular 
 faculty is more eminently employed. When the 
 treasures of knowledge are first opened before 
 us, while novelty blooms alike on either hand, 
 and every thing equally unknown and uhexa- 
 mined seems of equal value, the power of the 
 soul is principally exerted in a vivacious and de- 
 sultory curiosity. She applies by turns to every 
 object, enjoys it for a short time, and flies with 
 equal ardour to another. She delights to catch up 
 loose and unconnected ideas, but starts away 
 from systems and complications, which would 
 obstruct the rapidity of her transitions, and detain 
 her long in the same pursuit. 
 
 When a number of distinct images are collect- 
 ed by these erratic and hasty surveys, the fancy 
 is busied in arranging them ; and combines them 
 into pleasing pictures with more resemblance to 
 the realities of life, as experience advances, and 
 new observations rectify the former. While the 
 judgment is yet uninformed, and unable to com- 
 pare the draughts of fiction with their originals, 
 we are delighted with improbable adventures, im- 
 practicable virtues, and inimitable characters ; 
 but, in proportion as we have more opportunities 
 of acquainting ourselves with living nature, we 
 2E 
 
 233 
 
 are sooner disgusted with copies in which there 
 appears no resemblance. We first discard ab- 
 surdity and impossibility, then exact greater and 
 greater degrees of probability, but at last become 
 cold and insensible to the charms of falsehood, 
 however specious, and, from the imitations of 
 truth, which are never perfect, transfer our affec- 
 tions to truth itself. 
 
 Now commences the reign of judgment or rea- 
 son ; we begin to find little pleasure but in com- 
 paring arguments, stating propositions, disen- 
 tangling perplexities, clearing ambiguities, and 
 deducing consequences. The painted vales of 
 imagination are deserted, and our intellectual ac- 
 tivity is exercised in winding through the laby- 
 rinths of fallacy, and toiling with firm and cau- 
 tious steps up the narrow tracts of demonstration. 
 Whatever may lull vigilance, or mislead atten- 
 tion, is contemptuously rejected, and every dis- 
 guise in which error may be concealed, is carefully 
 observed, till, by degrees, a certain r umber of in- 
 contestable or unsuspected propositions are esta- 
 blished, and at last concatenated into arguments, 
 or compacted into systems. 
 
 At length weariness succeeds to labour, and 
 the mind lies at ease in the contemplation of her 
 own attainments, without any desire of new con- 
 quests or excursions. This is the age of recol- 
 lection and narrative; the opinions are settled," 
 and 'the avenues of apprehension shut against 
 any new intelligence ; the days that are to fol- 
 low must pass in the inculcation of precepts al- 
 ready collected, and assertion of tenets already 
 received ; nothing is henceforward so odious as 
 opposition, so insolent as doubt, or so dangerous 
 as novelty. 
 
 In like manner the passions usurp the separate 
 command of the successive periods of life. To 
 the happiness of our first years nothing more 
 seems necessary than freedom from restraint; 
 every man may remember that if he was left to 
 himself, and indulged in the disposal of his own 
 time, he was once content without the superad- 
 dition of any actual pleasure. The new world is 
 itself a banquet: and, till we have exhausted the 
 freshness of life, we have always about us suffi- 
 cient gratifications : the sunshine quickens us to 
 play, and the shade invites us to sleep. 
 
 But we soon become unsatisfied with negative 
 felicity, and are solicited by our senses and appe- 
 tites to more powerful delights, as the taste of 
 him who has satisfied his hunger must be excited 
 by artificial stimulations. The simplicity of na- 
 tural amusement is now past, and art and con- 
 trivance must improve our pleasures ; but in time, 
 art like nature is exhausted, and the senses can 
 no longer supply the cravings of the intellect. 
 
 The attention is then transferred from pleasure 
 to interest, in which pleasure is perhaps included, 
 though diffused to a wider extent, and protracted 
 through new gradations. Nothing now dances 
 before the eyes but wealth and power, nor rings 
 in the ear, but the voice of fame; wealth, to 
 which, however variously denominated, every 
 man at some time or other aspires ; power, which 
 all wish to obtain within their circle of action ; 
 and fame which no man, however high or mean, 
 however wise or ignorant, was yet able to despise. 
 Now prudence and foresight exert their influence ; 
 no hour is devoted wholly to any present enjoy- 
 men , no act or purpose terminates in itself, but 
 every motion is referred to some distant end ; the
 
 234 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 152. 
 
 accomplishment of one design begins another, 
 and the ultimate wish is always pushed off to its 
 former distance. 
 
 At length fame is observed to be uncertain, 
 and power to be dangerous ; the man whose vi- 
 gour and alacrity begin to forsake him, by de- 
 grees contracts his designs, remits his former 
 multiplicity of pursuits, and extends no longer his 
 regard to any other honour than the reputation 
 of wealth, or any other influence than his power. 
 Avarice is generally the last passion of those 
 lives of which the first part has been squandered 
 in pleasure, and the second devoted to ambition. 
 He that sinks under the fatigue of getting wealth, 
 lulls his age with the milder business of saving it. 
 
 I have In this view of life considered men as 
 actuated only by natural desires, and yielding to 
 their own inclinations, without regard to superior 
 principles, by which the force of external agents 
 may be counteracted, and the temporary preva- 
 lence of passions restrained. Nature will indeed 
 always operate, human desires will be always 
 ranging ; but these motions, though very power- 
 ful, are not resistless ; nature may be regulated, 
 and desires governed ; and, to contend with the 
 predominance of successive passions, to be en- 
 dangered first by one affection, and then by ano- 
 ther, is the condition upon which we are to pass 
 our time, the time of our preparation for that ptate 
 which shall put an end to experiment, to disap- 
 pointment, and to change. 
 
 No. 152.] SATURDAY, AUG. 31, 1751. 
 
 Tristia mceitum 
 Vultum verba accent, iratum plena minarum. 
 
 HOR. 
 
 Disastrous words can best disasters show 
 In angry phrase the angry passions glow. 
 
 ELPHINSTON. 
 
 " IT was the wisdom," says Seneca, " of ancient 
 times to consider what is most useful as most 
 illustrious." If this rule be applied to works of 
 genius, scarcely any species of composition de- 
 serves more to be cultivated than the epistolary 
 style, since none is of more various or frequent 
 use, through the whole subordination of human 
 life. 
 
 It has yet happened, that among the numerous 
 writers which onr nation has produced, equal per- 
 haps always in force and genius, and of late in 
 elegance and accuracy, to those of any other 
 Country, very few have endeavoured to distinguish 
 themselves by the publication of letters, except 
 such as were written in the discharge of public 
 trusts, and during the transaction of great affairs ; 
 which, though they afford precedents to the mi- 
 nister, and memorials to the historian, are of no 
 use as examples to the familiar style, or models 
 of private correspondence. 
 
 If it be inquired by foreigners, how this de- 
 ficiency has happened in the literature of a 
 country, where all indulge themselves with so 
 little danger in speaking and writing, may we 
 not without either bigotry or arrogance inform 
 them, that it must be imputed to our contempt 
 of trifles, and our due sense of the dignity of the 
 public? We do not think it reasonable to fill 
 ie world with volumes from which nothing can 
 be learned, nor expect that the employments of 
 
 the busy, or the amusements of the gay, should 
 give way to narratives of our private affairs, 
 complaints of absence, expressions of fondness, 
 or declarations of fidelity. 
 
 A slight perusal of the innumerable letters by 
 which the wits of France have signalized their 
 names, will prove that other nations need not be 
 discouraged from the like attempts by the con- 
 sciousness of inability ; for surely it is not very 
 difficult to aggravate trifling misfortunes, to 
 magnify familiar incidents, repeat adulatory pro- 
 fessions, accumulate servile hyperboles, and 
 produce all that can be found in the despicable 
 remains of Voiture and Scarron. 
 
 Yet, as much of life must be passed in affairs 
 considerable only by their frequent occurrence, 
 and much of the pleasure which our condition 
 allows, must be produced by giving elegance to 
 trifles, it is necessary to learn how to become 
 little without becoming mean, to maintain the 
 necessary intercourse of civilitv, and fill up the 
 vacuities of actions by agreeable appearances. 
 It had therefore been of advantage, if such of 
 our writers as have excelled in the art of deco- 
 rating insignificance, had supplied us with a few 
 sallies of innocent gayety, effusions of honest ten- 
 derness, or exclamations of unimportant hurry. 
 
 Precept has generally been posterior to per- 
 formance. The art of composing works of ge- 
 nius has never been taught but by the example 
 of those who performed it by natural vigour of 
 imagination, and rectitude of judgment. As we 
 have few letters, we have likewise few criticisms 
 upon the epistolary style. The observations 
 with which Walsh has introduced his pages of 
 inanity, are such as give him little claim to tho 
 rank assigned him by Dryden among the critics. 
 " Letters," says he, " are intended as resem- 
 blances of conversation, and the chief excel- 
 lences of conversation, are good-humour and 
 good-breeding." This remark, equally valuable 
 for its novelty and propriety, he dilates and en- 
 forces with an appearance of complete acqui- 
 escence in his own discovery. 
 
 No man was ever in doubt about the moral 
 qualities of a letter. It has been always known 
 that he who endeavours to please must appear 
 pleased, and he who would not provoke rude- 
 ness must not practise it. But the question 
 among those wh'o establish rules for an episto- 
 lary performance is, how gayety or civility may 
 be properly expressed ; as among the critics in 
 history it is not contested whether truth ought to 
 be preserved, but by what mode of diction it is 
 best adorned. 
 
 As letters are written on all subjects, in all 
 states of mind, they cannot be properly reduced 
 to settled rules, or described by any single cha- 
 racteristic ; and we may safely disentangle our 
 minds from critical embarrassments by deter 
 mining that a letter has no peculiarity but its 
 form, and that nothing is to be refused admission, 
 which would be proper in any other method of 
 treating the same subject. The qualities of the 
 epistolary style most frequently required, are 
 ease and simplicity, an even flow of unlaboured 
 diction, and an artless arrangement of obvious 
 sentiments. But these directions are no sooner 
 applied to use, than their scantiness and imper- 
 fection become evident. Letters are written to 
 the great and to the mean, to the learned arid the 
 ignorant, at rest and in distress, in sport and in
 
 No. 153.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 235 
 
 passion. Nothing can be more improper than 
 ease and laxity of expression, when the import- 
 ance of the subject impresses solicitude, or the 
 dignity of the person exacts reverence. 
 
 That letters should be written with strict con- 
 formity to nature is true, because nothing but 
 conformity to nature can make any composition 
 beautiful or just. But it is natural to depart 
 from familiarity of language upon occasions not 
 familiar. Whatever elevates the sentiments will 
 consequently raise the expression ; whatever 
 fills us with hope or terror, will produce some 
 perturbation of images and some figurative dis- 
 tortions of phrase. Wherever we are studious 
 to please, we are afraid of trusting our first 
 thoughts, and endeavour to recommend our 
 opinion by studied ornaments, accuracy of me- 
 thod, and elegance of style. 
 
 If the personages of the comic scene be al- 
 lowed by Horace to raise their language in the 
 transports of anger to the turgid vehemence of 
 tragedy, the epistolary writer may likewise with- 
 out censure comply with the varieties of his mat- 
 ter. If great events are to be related, he may 
 with all the solemnity of an historian deduce 
 them from their causes, connect them with the 
 concomitants, and trace them to their conse- 
 quences. If a disputed position is to be esta- 
 blished, or a remote principle to be investigated, 
 he may detail his reasonings with all the nicety 
 of syllogistic method. If a menace is to be 
 averted, or a benefit implored, he may, without 
 any violation of the edicts of criticism, call every 
 power of rhetoric to his assistance, and try every 
 inlet at which love or pity enters the heart. 
 
 Letters that have no other end than the en- 
 tertainment of the correspondent are more pro- 
 perly regulated by critical precepts, because the 
 matter and style are equally arbitrary, and rules 
 are more necessary, as there is a larger power 
 of choice. In letters of this kind, some conceive 
 art graceful, and others think negligence amia- 
 ble ; some model them by the sonnet, and will 
 allow them no means of delighting but the soft 
 lapse of calm mellifluence ; others adjust them 
 by the epigram, and expect pointed sentences 
 and forcible periods. The one party considers 
 exemption from faults as the height of excel- 
 lence, the other looks upon neglect of excellence 
 as the most disgusting fault ; one avoids cen- 
 sure, the other aspires to praise; one is always 
 in danger of insipidity, the other continually on 
 the brink of affectation. 
 
 When the subject has no intrinsic dignity, it 
 must necessarily owe its attractions to artificial 
 embellishments, and may catch at all advantages 
 which the art of writing can supply. He that, 
 like Pliny, sends his friend a portion for his 
 daughter, will, without Pliny's eloquence or ad- 
 dress, find means of exciting gratitude, and se- 
 curing acceptance ; but he that has no present 
 to make but a garland, a ribbon, or some petty 
 curiosity, must endeavour to recommend it by 
 his manner of giving it. 
 
 The purpose for which letters are written 
 when no intelligence is communicated, or busi- 
 ness transacted, is to preserve in the minds of 
 the absent either love or esteem : to excite love 
 we must impart pleasure, and to raise esteem we 
 must discover abilities. Pleasure will generally 
 be given, as abilities are displayed by scenes of 
 imagery, points of conceit, unexpected sallies, 
 
 and artful compliments. Trifles always require 
 exuberance of ornament; the building which has 
 no strength can be valued only for the grace of 
 its decorations. The pebble must be polished 
 with care, which hopes to be valued as a dia- 
 mond ; and words ought surely to be laboured, 
 when they are intended to stand for things. 
 
 No. 153.] TUESDAY, SEPT. 3, 1751. 
 
 Turba Rtmi eeqttitur fortunam, ut semper, el odit 
 Damnalos. JUV. 
 
 The fickle crowd with fortune comes and goes ? 
 Wealth still finds followers, and misfortune foes. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 THERE are occasions on which all apology is 
 rudeness. He that has an unwelcome message 
 to deliver, may give some proof of tenderness 
 and delicacy, by a ceremonial introduction and 
 gradual discovery, because the mind, upon which 
 the weight of sorrow is to fall, gains time for the 
 collection of its powers ; but nothing is more 
 absurd than to delay the communication of 
 pleasure, to torment curiosity by impatience, and 
 to delude hope by anticipation. 
 
 I shall therefore forbear the arts by which cor- 
 respondents generally secure admission : for I 
 have too long remarked the power of vanity, to 
 doubt that I shall be read by you with a dispo- 
 sition to approve, when I declare that my narra- 
 tive has no other tendency than to illustrate and 
 corrobrate your own observations. 
 
 I was the second son of a gentleman, whose 
 patrimony had been wasted by a long succession 
 of squanderers, till he was unable to support any 
 of his children, except his heir, in the hereditary 
 dignity of idleness. Being therefore obliged to 
 employ that part of life in study which my pro 
 genitors had devoted to the hawk and hound, I 
 was in my eighteenth year despatched to the uni- 
 versity, without any rural honours. I had never 
 killed a single woodcock, nor partaken one 
 triumph over a conquered fox. 
 
 At the university 1 continued to enlarge my 
 acquisitions with little envy of the noisy happi- 
 ness which my elder brother had the fortune to 
 enjoy, and, having obtained my degree, retired 
 to consider at leisure to what profession I should 
 confine that application which had hitherto been 
 dissipated in general knowledge. To deliberate 
 upon a choice which custom and honour forbid 
 to be retracted, is certainly reasonable, yet, to lei 
 loose the attention equally to the advantages and 
 inconveniences of every employment is not with- 
 out danger; new motives are every moment 
 operating on every side ; and mechanics have 
 long ago discovered, that contrariety of equal at- 
 tractions is equivalent to rest. 
 
 While I was thus trifling in uncertainty, all 
 old adventurer, who had been once the intimate 
 friend of my father, arrived from the Indies with 
 a large fortune ; which he had so much harassed 
 himself in obtaining, that sickness and infirmity 
 left him no other desire than to die in his native 
 country. His wealth easily procured him an 
 invitation to pass his life with us ; and, being 
 incapable of any amusement but conversation, 
 he necessarily became familiarized to me, whom
 
 236 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 153. 
 
 he found studious and domestic. Pleased with 
 an opportunity of imparting my knowledge, and 
 eager of any intelligence that might increase it, I 
 deFightc-d his curiosity with historical narratives 
 and explications of nature, and gratified his va- 
 nity by inquiries after the products of distant 
 countries, and the customs of their inhabitants. 
 
 My brother saw how much I advanced in the 
 favour of our guest, who being without heirs was 
 naturally expected to enrich the family of his 
 friend, but neither attempted to alienate me, nor 
 to ingratiate himself. He was indeed little qua- 
 lified to solicit the affection of a traveller, for the 
 remissness of his education had left him without 
 any rule of action but his present humour. He 
 often forsook the old gentleman in the midst of 
 an adventure, because the horn sounded in the 
 court-yard, and would have lost an opportunity, 
 not only of knowing the history but sharing the 
 wealth of the Mogul, for the trial of a new point- 
 er, or the sight of a horse-race. 
 
 It was therefore not long before our new friend 
 declared his intention of bequeathing to me the 
 profits of his commerce, as the only man in the 
 i'amily by whom he could expect them to be ra- 
 tionally enjoyed. This distinction drew upon 
 me the envy not only of my brother but my 
 father. 
 
 As no man is willing to believe that he suffers 
 by his own fault, they imputed the preference 
 which I had obtained to adulatory compliances, 
 or malignant calumnies. To no purpose did I 
 call upon my patron to attest my innocence, for 
 who will believe what he wishes to be false ? In 
 the heat of disappointment they forced their in- 
 mate by repeated insults to depart from the house, 
 and I was soon, by the same treatment, obliged 
 to follow him. 
 
 He chose his residence in the confines of Lon- 
 don, where rest, tranquillity, and medicine, re- 
 stored him to part of the health which he had lost. 
 I pleased myself with perceiving that I was not 
 likely to obtain an immediate possession of wealth 
 which no labour of mine had contributed to ac- 
 quire ; and that he who had thus distinguished 
 me, might hope to end his life without a total 
 frustration of those blessings which whatever be 
 their real value, he had sought with so much dili- 
 gence, and purchased with so many vicissitudes 
 of danger and fatigue. 
 
 He, indeed, left ine no reason to repine at his 
 recovery , for he was willing to accustom me 
 early to the use of money ; and set apart for my 
 expenses such a revenue as I had scarcely dared 
 to image. I can yet congratulate myself that 
 fortune has seen her golden cup once tasted with- 
 out inebriation. Neither my modesty nor pru- 
 dence were overwhelmed by affluence ; my ele- 
 vation was without insolence, and my expense 
 without profusion. Employing the influence 
 which money always confers to the improvement 
 of my understanding,! mingled in parties of gay- 
 ety, and in conferences of learning, appeared in 
 every place where instruction was to be found, 
 and imagined that, ranging through all the diver- 
 sities of life, I had acquainted myself fully with 
 human nature, and learned all that was to be 
 known of the ways of men. 
 
 It happened, however, that I soon discovered 
 how much was wanting to the completion of my 
 knowledge, and found that, according to Sene- 
 ca s remark, I had hitherto seen the world but on 
 
 one side. My patron's confidence in his increase 
 of strength tempted him to carelessness and irre- 
 gularity ; he caught a fever by riding in the rain, 
 of which he died delirious on the third day. I 
 buried him, without any of the heir's affected 
 grief or secret exultation ; then preparing to take 
 a legal possession of his fortune, opened his clo- 
 set, where I found a will made at his first arrival, 
 by which my father was appointed the chief inhe- 
 ritor, and nothing was left me but a legacy sufficient 
 to support me in the prosecution of rny studies. 
 
 I had not yet found such charms in prosperity 
 as to continue it by any acts of forgery or injustice, 
 and made haste to inform my father of the riches 
 which had been given him, not by the preference 
 of kindness, but by the delays of indolence, and 
 cowardice of age. The hungry family flew like 
 vultures on their prey, and soon made my disap- 
 pointment public by the tumult of' their claims, 
 and the splendour of their sorrow. 
 
 It was now my part to consider how I should 
 repair the disappointment. I could not but tri- 
 umph in my long list of friends, which comprised 
 almost every name that power or knowledge en- 
 titled to eminence, and, in the prospect of the in- 
 numerable roads to honour and preferment, which 
 I had laid open to myself by the wise use of tem- 
 porary riches, I believed nothing necessary but 
 that I should continue that acquaintance to which 
 I had been so readily admitted, and which had 
 hitherto been cultivated on both sides with equal 
 ardour. 
 
 Full of these expectations, I one morning or- 
 dered a chair, with an intention to make my usual 
 circle of morning visits. Where I first stopped 1 
 saw two footmen lolling at the door, who told rne 
 without any change of posture, or collection of 
 countenance, that their master was at home, and 
 suffered me to open the inner door without assist 
 ance. I found my friend standing, and, as I was 
 tattling with my former freedom, was formally en- 
 treated to sit down ; but did not stay to be fa- 
 voured with any further condescension. 
 
 My next experiment was made at the levee of 
 a statesman, who received me with an embrace 
 of tenderness, that he might with more decency 
 publish my change of fortune to the sycophants 
 about him. After he had enjoyed the triumph of 
 condolence, he turned to a wealthy stock-jobber, 
 and left me exposed to the scorn of those who 
 had lately courted my notice, and solicited my in- 
 terest. 
 
 I was then set down at the door of another, 
 who, upon my entrance, advised me, with great 
 solemnity, to think of some settled provision for 
 life. I left him, and hurried away to an old 
 friend, who professed himself unsusceptible of 
 any impressions from prosperity or misfortune, 
 and begged that he might see me when he was 
 more at leisure. 
 
 Of sixty-seven doors, at which I knocked in 
 the first week after my appearance in a mourn- 
 ing dress, I was denied admission at forty-six ; 
 was suffered at fourteen to wait in the outer room 
 till business was despatched ; at four, was enter- 
 tained with a few questions about the weather ; 
 at one, heard the footman rated for bringing my 
 name ; and at two was informed, in the flow of 
 casual conversation, how much a man of rank 
 degrades himself by mean company. 
 
 My curiosity now led me to try what reception 
 I should find among the ladies ; but I found that
 
 No. 154.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 237 
 
 my patron had carried all my powers of pleasing 
 to the grave. 1 had formerly been celebrated as a 
 wit ; and not perceiving any languor in my ima- 
 gination, I essayed to revive that gayety which 
 had hitherto broken out involuntarily before my 
 sentences were finished. My remarks were now 
 heard with a steady countenance ; and if a girl 
 happened to give way to habitual merriment, her 
 forwardness was repressed with a frown by her 
 mother or her aunt. 
 
 Wherever I come I scatter infirmities and dis- 
 ease ; every lady whom 1 meet in the Mall is too 
 weary to walk ;" all whom I entreat to sing are 
 troubled with colds : if I propose cards, they are 
 afflicted with the headach ; if I invite them to the 
 gardens, they cannot bear a crowd. 
 
 All this might be endured ; but there is a class 
 of mortals who think my understanding impaired 
 with my fortune, exalt themselves to the dignity 
 of advice, and, whenever we happen to meet, 
 presume to prescribe my conduct, regulate my 
 economy, and direct my pursuits. Another race, 
 equally impertinent and equally despicable, are 
 every moment recommending to me an attention 
 to my interest, and think themselves entitled, by 
 their superior prudence, to reproach me if I speak 
 or move without regard to profit. 
 
 Such, Mr. Rambler, is the power of wealth, 
 that it commands the ear of greatness and the 
 eye of beauty, gives spirit to the dull, and autho- 
 rity to the timorous, and leaves him from whom 
 it departs, without virtue and without understand- 
 ing, the sport of caprice, the scofF of insolence, 
 the sla\ j of meanness, and the pupil of ignorance. 
 I am, &c. 
 
 No. 154 ] SATURDAY, SEPT. 7, 1751. 
 
 Tibi res antique laiidis et artis 
 
 lngrt:^ior, sanctos ausus recluderefontis. -VIRG. 
 
 For tlioe my tuneful accents will I raise, 
 And tioalof arts disclosed in ancient days; 
 Oucc n.ore unlock for thee the sacred spring. 
 
 DEIYDEN. 
 
 THE direction of Aristotle to those that study 
 politics, is, first to examine and understand what 
 has been written by the ancients upon govern- 
 ment ; then to cast their eyes round upon the 
 \vorid, and consider by what causes the prosperity 
 of communities is visibly influenced, and why some 
 are worse and others better administered. 
 
 The same method must be pursued by him 
 who hopes to become eminent in any other part of 
 knowledge. The first task is to search books, the 
 next to contemplate nature. He must first pos- 
 sess himself of the intellectual treasures which 
 the diligence of former ages has accumulated, 
 and then endeavour to increase them by his own 
 collections. 
 
 The mental disease of the present generation 
 is impatience of study, contempt of the great mas- 
 ters of ancient wisdom, and a disposition to rely 
 wholly upon unassisted genius and natural saga- 
 city. The wits of these happy days have disco- 
 vered a way to fame, which the dull caution of 
 our laborious ancestors durst never attempt ; they 
 cut the knots of sophistry which it was formerly 
 the business of years to untie, solve difficulties by 
 sudden irradiations of intelligence, and compre- 
 hend long processes of argument by immediate 
 intuition 
 
 Men who have flattered themselves into this 
 opinion of their own abilities, look down on all 
 who waste their lives over books as a race of in- 
 ferior beings, condemned by nature to perpetual 
 pupilage, and fruitlessly endeavouring to remedy 
 their barrenness by incessant cultivation, or suc- 
 cour their feebleness by subsidiary strength. 
 They presume that none would be more industri- 
 ous than they, if they were not more sensible of 
 deficiencies ; and readily conclude, that he who 
 places no confidence in his own powers, owes his 
 modesty only to his weakness. 
 
 It is however certain that no estimate is more 
 in danger of erroneous calculations than those by 
 which a man computes the force of his own genius. 
 It generally happens at our entrance into the 
 world, that by the natural attraction of similitude, 
 we associate with men like ourselves, young, 
 sprightly, and ignorant, and rate our accomplish- 
 ments by comparison with theirs : when we have 
 once obtained an acknowledged superiority over 
 our acquaintances, imagination and desires easily 
 extend it over the rest of mankind ; and if no ac- 
 cident forces us into new emulations, we grow 
 old, and die in admiration of ourselves. 
 
 Vanity, thus confirmed in her dominion, rea- 
 dily listens to the voice of idleness, and soothes 
 the slumber of life with continual dreams of ex- 
 cellence and greatness. A man, elated by confi- 
 dence in his natural vigour of fancy and sagacity 
 of conjecture, soon concludes that he already pos- 
 sessess whatever toil and inquiry can confer. He 
 then listens with eagerness to the wild objections 
 which folly has raised against the common means 
 of improvement; talks of the dark chaos of indi- 
 gested knowledge; describes the mischievous 
 effects of heterogeneous sciences fermenting in 
 the mind; relates the blunders of lettered igno- 
 rance ; expatiates on the heroic merit of those who 
 deviate from prescription, or shake off authority ; 
 and gives vent to the inflations of his heart by 
 declaring that he owes nothing to pedants and 
 universities. 
 
 All these pretensions, however confident, are 
 very often vain. The laurels which superficial 
 acuteness gains in triumphs over ignorance un- 
 supported by vivacity, are observed by Locke to 
 be lost, whenever real learning and rational dili- 
 gence appear against her ; the sallies of gayety 
 are soon repressed by calm confidence ; and the 
 artifices of subtilty are readily detected by those 
 who, having carefully studied the question, are 
 not easily confounded or surprised. 
 
 But, though the contemner of books had nci 
 ther been deceived by- others nor. himself, and 
 was really born with a genius surpassing the or- 
 dinary abilities of mankind ; yet surely such 
 gifts of Providence may be more properly urged 
 as incitements to labour, than encouragements 
 to negligence. He that neglects the culture of 
 ground naturally fertile, is more shamefully cul- 
 pable than he whose field would scarcely re- 
 compense his husbandry. 
 
 Cicero remarks, that not to know what has 
 been transacted in former times, is to continue 
 always a child. If no use is made of the labours 
 of past ages, the world must remain always in 
 the infancy of knowledge. The discoveries of 
 every man must terminate in his own advantage, 
 and the studies of every age be employed on 
 questions which the past generation had dis- 
 cussed and determined. We may with as little
 
 238 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 155. 
 
 reproach borrow science as manufactures from 
 our ancestors; and it is as rational to live in 
 c ivea lill our own hands have erected a palace, 
 as to i eject all knowledge of architecture which 
 our understandings will not supply. 
 
 To the strongest and quickest mind it is iar 
 easier to learn than to invent. The principles of 
 arithmetic and geometry may be comprehended 
 by a close attention in a few days ; yet who can 
 flatter himself that the study of a long life would 
 have enabled him to discover them, when he sees 
 them yet unknown to so many nations, whom 
 he cannot suppose less liberally endowed with 
 natural reason than the Grecians or Egyptians. 
 
 Every science was thus far advanced towards 
 perfection, by the emulous diligence of contem- 
 porary students, and the gradual discoveries of 
 one age improving on another. Sometimes un- 
 expected flashes of instruction were struck by 
 the fortuitous collision of happy incidents, or an 
 involuntary concurrence of ideas, in which the 
 philosopher to whom they happened had no other 
 merit than that of knowing their value, and 
 transmitting, unclouded, to posterity, that light 
 which had been kindled by causes out of his 
 power. The happiness of these casual illumina- 
 tions no man can promise to himself, because no 
 endearments can procure them : and, therefore, 
 whatever be our abilities or application, we must 
 submit to learn from others what perhaps would 
 have lain hid for ever from human penetration, 
 had not some remote inquiry brought it to view ; 
 as treasures are thrown up by the ploughman 
 and the digger in the rude exercise of their com- 
 mon occupations. 
 
 The man whose genius qualifies him for great 
 undertakings, must at least be content to learn 
 from books the present state of human know- 
 ledge ; that he may not ascribe to himself the 
 invention of arts generally known ; weary his 
 attention with experiments of which the event 
 has baen long registered ; and waste, in attempts 
 which have already succeeded or miscarried, 
 that tims which might have been spent with use- 
 fulness and honour upon new undertakings. 
 
 But, though the study of books is necessary, 
 it is not sufficient to constitute literary eminence. 
 He that wishes to be counted among the bene- 
 factors of posterity, must add by his own toil to 
 the acquisitions of his ancestors, and secure his 
 memory from neglect by some valuable im- 
 provement. This can only be effected by looking 
 outupon the wastes of the intellectual world, and 
 extending the power of learning over regions yet 
 undisciplined and barbarous : or by surveying 
 more exactly our ancient dominions, and driving 
 ignorance from the fortresses and retreats where 
 she sculks undetected and undisturbed. Every 
 scisncft has its difficulties, wh ch yet call for so- 
 lution before we attempt new systems of know- 
 ledge ; as every country has its forests and 
 marshes, which it would be wise to cultivate and 
 drain, before distant colonies are projected as a 
 necessary discharge of the exuberance of the 
 inhabitants. 
 
 No man ever yet became great by imitation. 
 Whoever hopes for the veneration of mankind 
 must have invention in the design or the execu- 
 tion ; either the effect must itself be new, or the 
 means by which it is produced. Either truths 
 hitherto unknown must be discovered, or those 
 which are already known enforced by stronger 
 
 evidence, facilitated by clearer method, or eluci- 
 dated by brighter illustrations. 
 
 Fame cannot spread wide or endure long that 
 is not rooted in nature, and manured by ait. 
 That which hopes to resist the blast of malignity, 
 and stand firm against the attacks of time, must 
 contain in itself some original principle of 
 growth. The reputation which arises from the 
 detail of transposition of borrowed sentiments 
 may spread for a while like ivy on the rind of 
 antiquity, but will be torn away by accident or 
 contempt, and suffered to rot unheeded on the 
 ground. 
 
 No. 155.] TUESDAY, SEPT. 10, 1751. 
 
 Steriles transmisim.ua annos 
 
 Hcec tevi mihiprima dies, hxc limina vita. 
 
 STAT 
 
 Our barren years are past ; 
 
 Be this of life the first, of sloth the last. 
 
 ELPHINSTON 
 
 No weakness of the human mind has more fre- 
 quently incurred animadversion, than the negli- 
 gence with which men overlook their own faults, 
 however flagrant, and the easiness with which 
 they pardon them, however frequently repeated. 
 
 It seems generally believed, that, as the eye 
 cannot see itself, the mind has no faculties by 
 which it can contemplate its own slate, and that 
 therefore we have not means of becoming ac- 
 quainted with our real characters ; an opinion 
 which, like innumerable other postulates, an 
 inquirer finds himself inclined to admit upon 
 very little evidence, because it affords a ready 
 solution of many difficulties. It will explain 
 why the greatest abilities frequently fail to pro- 
 mote the happiness of those who possess them ; 
 why those who can distinguish with the utmost 
 nicety the boundaries of vice and virtue, suffer 
 them to be confounded in their own conduct ; 
 why the active and vigilant resign their affairs 
 implicitly to the management of others ; and 
 why the cautious and fearful make hourly ap 
 proaches towards ruin, without one sigh of soli- 
 citude or struggle for escape. 
 
 When a position teems thus with commodious 
 consequences, who can without regret confess it 
 to be false? Yet it is certain that declaim^rs 
 have indulged a disposition to describe the 
 dominion of the passions as extended beyond 
 the limits that nature assigned. Self-love is 
 often rather arrogant than blind : it docs not 
 hide our faults from ourselves, but persuades us 
 that they escape the notice of others, and dis- 
 poses us to resent censures lest we should con- 
 fess them to be just. We are secretly conscious 
 t>f defects and vices which we hope to conceal 
 from the public eye, and please ourselves with 
 innumerable impostures, by which, in reality, 
 nobody is deceived. 
 
 In proof of the dimness of our internal sight, 
 or the general inability of man to determine 
 rightly concerning his own character, it is com- 
 mon to urge the success of the most absurd and 
 incredible flattery, and the resentment always 
 raised by advice, however soft, benevolent, and 
 reasonable. But flattery, if its operation be 
 nearly examined, will be found to owe its ac- 
 ceptance, not to our ignorance but knowledge of
 
 No. 155.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 '239 
 
 our failures, and to delight us rather as it con- 
 soles our wants than displays our possessions. 
 He that shall solicit the favour of his patron by 
 _ praising him for qualities which he can find in 
 himself, will be defeated hy the more daring 
 panegyrist who enriches him with adscititious 
 excellence. Just praise is only a debt, but flattery 
 is a present. The acknowledgment of those 
 virtues on which conscience congratulates us, is 
 a tribute that we can at any time exact with 
 confidence ; but the celebration of those which 
 we only feign, or desire without any vigorous 
 endeavours to attain them, is received as a con- 
 fession of sovereignty over regions never con- 
 quered, as a favourable decision of disputable 
 claims, and is more welcome as it is more gra- 
 tuitous. 
 
 Advice is offensive, not because it lays us open 
 to unexpected regret, or convicts us of any fault 
 which has escaped our notice, but because it 
 shows us that we are known to others as well as 
 to ourselves ; and the officious monitor is per- 
 secuted with hatred, not because his accusation 
 is false, but because he assumes that superiority 
 which we are not willing to grant him, and has 
 dared to detect what we desired to conceal. 
 
 For this reason advice is commonly ineffec- 
 tual. If those who follow the call of their de- 
 sires, without inquiry whither they are going, 
 had deviated ignorantly from the paths of wis- 
 dom, and were rushing upon dangers unforeseen, 
 they would readily listen to information that re- 
 calls them from their errors, and catch the first 
 alarm by which destruction or infamy is de- 
 nounced. Few that wander in the wrong way 
 mistake it for the right; they only find it more 
 smooth and flowery, and indulge their own 
 choice rather than approve it : therefore few are 
 persuaded to quit it by admonition or reproof, 
 since it impresses no new conviction, nor con- 
 fers any powers of action or resistance. He that 
 is gravely informed how soon profusion will an- 
 nihilate his fortune, hears with little advantage 
 what he knew before, and catches at the next 
 occasion of expense, because advice has no force 
 to suppress his vanity. He that is told how 
 certainly intemperance will hurry him to the 
 grave, runs with his usual speed to a new course 
 of luxury, because his reason is not invigorated, 
 nor his appetite weakened. 
 
 The mischief of flattery is, not that it per- 
 suades any man that he is what he is not, but 
 that it suppresses the influence of honest am- 
 bition, by raising an opinion that honour may be 
 gained without the toil of merit ; and the benefit 
 of advice arises commonly, not from any new 
 Jight imparted to the mind, but from the disco- 
 very which it affords of the public suffrages. He 
 that could withstand conscience is frighted at 
 infamy, and shame prevails when reason was 
 defeated. 
 
 As we all know our own faults, and know 
 them commonly with many aggravations which 
 human perspicacity cannot discover, there is, 
 perhaps, no man, however hardened by impu- 
 dence or dissipated by levity, sheltered by hypo- 
 crisy or blasted by disgrace,' who does not intend 
 some time to review his conduct, and to regulate 
 the remainder of his life by the laws of virtue. 
 New temptations indeed attack him, new invita- 
 tions are offered by pleasure and interest, and 
 the hour of reformation is always delayed ; every 
 
 delay gives vice another opportunity of fortifying 
 itself by habit ; and the change of manners, 
 though sincerely intended and rationally planned, 
 is referred to the time when some craving pas- 
 sion shall be fully gratified, or some powerful al 
 lurement cease its importunity. 
 
 Thus procrastination is accumulated on pro 
 crastination, and one impediment succeeds ano 
 ther, till age shatters our resolution, or death in- 
 tercepts the project of amendment. Such is 
 often the end of salutary purposes, after they 
 have long delighted the imagination, and appeas- 
 ed that disquiet which every mind feels from 
 known misconduct, when the attention is not di- 
 verted by business or by pleasure. 
 
 Nothing surely can be more unworthy of a 
 reasonable nature, than to continue in a state so 
 opposite to real happiness, as that all the peace 
 of solitude, and felicity of meditation, must arise 
 from resolutions of forsaking it. Yet the woild 
 will often afford examples of men, who pass 
 months and years in a continual war with their 
 own convictions, and are daily dragged by habit, 
 or betrayed by passion, into practices which they 
 closed and opened their eyes with purposes to 
 avoid ; purposes which though settled on convic- 
 tion, the first impulse of momentary desire to- 
 tally overthrows. 
 
 The influence of custom is indeed such, that 
 to conquer it will require the utmost efforts of for 
 titude and virtue ; nor can I think any men more 
 worthy of veneration and renown than those who 
 have burst the shackles of habitual vice. This 
 victory, however, has different degrees of glory 
 as of difficulty ; it is more heroic as the objects 
 of guilty gratification are more familiar, and the 
 recurrence of solicitation more frequent. He 
 that, from experience of the folly of ambition, re- 
 signs his offices, may set himself free at once from 
 temptation to squander his life in courts, because 
 he cannot regain his former station. He who is 
 enslaved by an amorous passion, may quit his 
 tyrant in disgust, and absence will, without the 
 help of reason, overcome by degrees the desire 
 of returning. But those appetites to which every 
 place affords their proper object, and which re- 
 quire no preparatory measures or gradual ad- 
 vances, are more tenaciously adhesive ; the wish 
 is so near the enjoyment, that compliance often 
 precedes consideration ; and, before the powers 
 of reason can be summoned, the time for employ- 
 ing them is past. 
 
 Indolence is, therefore, one of the vices from 
 which those whom it once infects are seldom re- 
 formed. Every other species of luxury operates 
 upon some appetite that is quickly satiated, and 
 requires some concurrence of art or accident 
 which every place will not supply ; but the de- 
 sire of ease acts equally at all hours, and the 
 longer it is indulged is the more increased. To 
 do nothing is in every man's power ; we cai? 
 never want an opportunity of omitting duties. 
 The lapse to indolence is soft and imperceptible, 
 because it is only a mere cessation of activity ; 
 but the return to diligence is difficult, because 
 it implies a change from rest to motion, from pri- 
 vation to reality. 
 
 Facilis drsrensns Acrrni : 
 Jfnr.tes atque dies patet atrijonua Ditis ; 
 Srd revocareffradum,supcrtuqueevadere ad auras 
 Hoc opus, hie luroc eit. VIRO
 
 240 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. I5f 
 
 l7th," the : Wk, and mighty labour lies 
 
 Of this vice, as of all others, every man who 
 indulges it is conscious: we all know our own 
 state % we could be induced to consider it; and 
 it might perhaps be useful to the conquest of all 
 these ensnarers of the mind, if, at certain stated 
 days, life was reviewed. Many things necessary 
 are omitted, because we vainly imagine that they 
 may be always performed ; and what cannot be 
 done without pain will for ever be delayed, if the 
 time of doing it be left unsettled. No corruption 
 is great but by long negligence, which can 
 scarcely prevail in a mind regularly and frequent- 
 ly awakened by periodical remorse. He that 
 thus breaks his life into parts, will find in himself 
 a desire to distinguish every stage of his exist- 
 ence by some improvement, and delight himself 
 with the approach of the day of recollection, as 
 of the time which is to begin a new series of vir- 
 tue and felicity. 
 
 No. 156.] SATURDAY, SEPT. 14, 1751. 
 ynnquam dliud natura, aliud sapicntia dicit. Juv. 
 For wisdom ever echoes nature's voice. 
 
 EVERT government, say the politicians, is per- 
 petually degenerating towards corruption, from 
 which it must be rescued at certain periods by 
 the resuscitation of its first principles, and the re- 
 establishment of its original constitution. Every 
 animal body, according to the methodic physi- 
 cians, is, by the predominance of some exuberant 
 3uality, continually declining towards disease and 
 eath, which must be obviated by a seasonable 
 reduction of the peccant humour to the just equi- 
 poise which health requires. 
 
 In the same manner the studies of mankind, 
 all at least which, not being subject to rigorous 
 demonstration, admit the influence of fancy and 
 caprice, are perpetually tending to error and con- 
 fusion. Of the great principles of truth which 
 the first speculatists discovered, the simplicity is 
 embarrassed by ambitious additions, or the evi- 
 dence obscured by inaccurate argumentation ; 
 and as they descend from one succession of writers 
 to another, like light transmitted from room to 
 room, they lose their strength and splendour, 
 and fade at last in total evanescence. 
 
 The systems of learning therefore must be 
 sometimes reviewed, complications analysed into 
 principles, and knowledge disentangled from 
 opinion. It is not always possible, without a 
 close inspection, to separate the genuine shoots 
 of consequential reasoning, which grow out of 
 some radical postulate, from the branches which 
 art has engrafted on it. The accidental prescrip- 
 tions of authority, when time has procured them 
 veneration, are often confounded with the laws 
 of nature, and those rules are supposed coeval 
 with reason, of which the first rise cannot be dis- 
 covered. 
 
 Criticism has sometimes permitted fancy to 
 dictate the laws by which fancy ought to be re- 
 strained, and fallacy to perplex the principles by 
 which fallacy is to be detected ; her superintend- 
 ence of others has betrayed her to negligence of 
 
 herself; and, like the ancient Scythians, by ex- 
 tending her conquests over distant regions, she 
 has left her throne vacant to her slaves. 
 
 Among the laws of which the desire of extend- 
 ing authority, or ardour of promoting knowledge, 
 has prompted the prescription, all which writers 
 have received, had not the same original right to 
 our regard. Some are to be considered as fun- 
 damental and indispensable, others only as use- 
 ful and convenient ; some as dictated by reason 
 and necessity, others as enacted by despotic an- 
 tiquity ; some as invincibly supported by their 
 conformity to the order of nature and operations 
 ot the intellect ; others as formed by accident, or 
 instituted by example, and therefore always liable 
 to dispute and alteration. 
 
 That many rules have been advanced without 
 consulting nature or reason, we cannot but sus- 
 pect, when we find it peremptorily decreed by the 
 ancient masters, that only three speaking person- 
 ages should appear at once upon the stage ; a law 
 which, as the variety and intricacy of modern 
 plays has made it impossible to be observed, we 
 now violate without scruple, and, as experience 
 proves, without inconvenience. 
 
 The original of this precept was merely acci- 
 dental. Tragedy was a monody, or solitary song 
 in honour of Bacchus, improved afterwards into 
 a dialogue by the addition of another speaker : 
 but the ancients remembering that the tragedy 
 was at first pronounced only by one, durst not 
 for some time venture beyond two ; at last, when 
 custom and impunity had made them daring, they 
 extended their liberty to the admission of three, 
 but restrained themselves by a critical edict from 
 further exorbitance. 
 
 By what accident the number of acts was li 
 mited to five, I know not that any author has in 
 formed us; but certainly it is not determined by 
 any necessity arising either from the nature of 
 action or propriety of exhibition. An act is only 
 the representation of such a part of the business of 
 the play as proceeds in an unbroken tenor, or 
 without anyintermediate pause. Nothing is more 
 evident than that of every real, and by conse- 
 quence of every dramatic action, the intervals 
 may be more or fewer than five ; and indeed the 
 rule is upon the English stage every day broken in 
 effect, without any other mischief than that which 
 arises from an absurd endeavour to observe it in 
 appearance. Whenever the scene is shifted the 
 act ceases, since some time is necessarily suppos- 
 ed to elapse while the personages of the drama 
 change their place. 
 
 With no greater right to our obedience have 
 the critics confined the dramatic action to a cer 
 tain number of hours. Probability requires that 
 the time of action should approach somewhat 
 nearly to that of exhibition, and those plays will 
 always be thought most happily conducted which 
 crowd the greatest variety into the least space. 
 But since it will frequently happen that some de- 
 lusion must be admitted, I know not where the 
 limits of imagination can be fixed. It is rarely 
 observed that minds, not prepossessed by me- 
 chanical criticism, feel any ofi'ence from the exten- 
 sion of the intervals between the acts ; nor can I 
 conceive it absurd or impossible, that he who can 
 multiply three hours into twelve or twenty-four, 
 might image with equal ease a greater numb'cr. 
 
 I know not whether he that professes to regard 
 no other laws than those of nature, will not b
 
 No. 157.] THE RAMBLER. 
 
 inclined to receive tragi-comedy to his protec- 
 tion, whom, however generally condemned, her 
 own laurels have hitherto shaded from the fuhni- 
 nations of criticism. For what is there in the 
 mingled drama which impartial reason can con- 
 demn ? The connexion of important with trivial 
 incidents, since it is not only common but per- 
 petual in the world, may surely be allowed upon 
 the stage, which pretends only to be the mirror 
 of life. The impropriety of suppressing passions 
 before we have raised them to the intended agi- 
 tation, and of diverting the expection from an 
 event which we keep suspended only to raise it, 
 may be speciously urged. But will not expe- 
 rience show this objection to be rather subtile 
 than just ? Is it not certain that the tragic and 
 comic affections have been moved alternately 
 with equal force ; and that no plays have oftener 
 filled the eye with tears, and the breast with 
 palpitation, than those which are variegated with 
 interludes of mirth? 
 
 I do not however think it safe to judge of works 
 of genius merely by the event. The resistless 
 vicissitudes of the heart, this alternate preva- 
 lence of merriment and solemnity, may some- 
 times be more properly ascribed to the vigour of 
 the writer than the justness of the design : and, 
 instead of vindicating tragi-comedy by the suc- 
 cess of Shakspeare, we ought, perhaps, to pay 
 new honours to that transcendent and unbound- 
 ed genius that could preside over the passions in 
 sport ; who, to actuate the affections, needed not 
 the slow gradation of common means, but could 
 fill the heart with instantaneous iollity to sorrow, 
 and vary our disposition ashechanged his scenes. 
 Perhaps the effects even of Shakspeare's poet- 
 ry might have been yet greater had he not coun- 
 teracted himself; and we might have been more 
 interested in the distresses of his heroes, had we 
 not been so frequently diverted by the jokes of 
 his buffoons. 
 
 There are other rules more fixed and obliga- 
 tory. It is necessary that of every play the chief 
 action should be single; for, since a play repre- 
 sents some transaction through its regular ma- 
 turation to its final event, two actions equally 
 important must evidently constitute two plays. 
 
 As the design of tragedy is to instruct by mov- 
 ing the passions, it must always have a hero, a 
 personage, apparently and incontestably superior 
 to the rest, upon whom the attention may be fix- 
 ed, and the anxiety suspended. For though, of 
 two persons opposing each other with equal abi- 
 lities and equal virtue, the auditor will inevitably, 
 in time, choose his favourite ; yet, as that choice 
 must be without any cogency of conviction, the 
 hopes or fears which it raises will be faint and 
 languid. Of two heroes acting in confederacy 
 against a common enemy, the virtues or dangers 
 will give little emotion, because each claims our 
 concern with the same right, and the heart lies 
 at rest between equal motives. 
 
 It ought to be the first endeavour of a writer to 
 distinguish nature from custom ; or that which 
 is established because it is right, from that which 
 is right only because it is established; that he 
 may neither violate essential principles by a de- 
 sire of novelty, nor debar himself from life attain- 
 ment of beauties within his view, by a needless 
 fear of breaking rules which no literary dictator 
 had authority to enact. 
 
 2F 
 
 241 
 
 No. 157.] TUESDAY, SEPT. 17, 1751. 
 
 Oj atc^i; 
 
 Tiyt'trai fi ai'Spas fiiya aivtrat rjS 1 Avlvriai. 
 
 Shame greatly hurts or greatly helps mankind. 
 
 ELPHINSTON 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 THOUGH one of your correspondents has pre 
 sumed to mention with some contempt that pre- 
 sence of attention, and easiness of address, which 
 the polite have long agreed to celebrate and es- 
 teem, yet I cannot be persuaded to think them 
 unworthy of regard or cultivation; but am in 
 clined to believe that, as we seldom value rightly 
 what we h?.ve never known the misery of want- 
 ing, his judgment has been vitiated by his happi- 
 ness ; and that a natural exuberance of assurance 
 has hindered him from discovering its excellence 
 and use. 
 
 This felicity, whether bestowed by constitu- 
 tion, or obtained by early habitudes, I can 
 scarcely contemplate without envy. I was bred 
 under a man of learning in the country, who in- 
 culcated nothing but the dignity of knowledge, 
 and the happiness of virtue. By frequency of 
 admonition, and confidence of assertion, he pre- 
 vailed upon me to believe, that the splendour of 
 literature would always attract reverence, if not 
 darkened by corruption. I therefore pursued 
 my studies with incessant industry, and avoided 
 every thing which I had been taught to consider 
 either as vicious or tending to vice, because I 
 regarded guilt and reproach as inseparably 
 united, and thought a tainted reputation the 
 greatest calamity. 
 
 At the university, I found no reason for 
 changing my opinion : for though many among 
 my fellow-students took the opportunity of a 
 more remiss discipline to gratify their passions ; 
 yet virtue preserved her natural superiority, and 
 those who ventured to neglect were not suffered 
 to insult her. The ambition of petty accom- 
 plishments found its way into the receptacles 
 of learning, but was observed to seize commonly 
 on those who either neglected the sciences or 
 could not attain them ; and I was therefore con- 
 firmed in the doctrines of my old master, and 
 thought nothing worthy of my care but the 
 means of gaining or imparting knowledge. 
 
 This purity of manners, and intenseness of ap- 
 plication, soon extended my renown, and I was 
 applauded, by those whose opinion I then 
 thought unlikely to deceive me, as a young man 
 that gave uncommon hopes of future eminence. 
 My performances in time reached my native 
 province, and my relations congratulated them 
 selves upon the new honours that were added to 
 their family. 
 
 I returned home covered with academical lau- 
 rels, and fraught with 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 con- 
 stant aim of ambition ; and I therefore consi- 
 dered 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 mul
 
 242 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. J58. 
 
 titade of his friends to the annual celebration of 
 his wedding-day. I set forward with grcnt ex- 
 uiiation, and thought myself happy that I had 
 an opportunity of displaying my knowledge Uj 
 so numerous an assembly. I felt no sense oT 
 my own insufficiency, till, going up stairs to the 
 dining-room, I heard the mingled roar of obstre- 
 perous merriment I was, however, disgusted 
 rather than terrified, and went forward without 
 dejection. The whole company rose at my en- 
 trance ; but when I saw so many eyes fixed at 
 once upon me, I was blasted with a sudden im- 
 becility, I was quelled by some nameless power 
 which I found impossible to be resisted. My 
 sight was dazzled, my cheeks glowed, my per- 
 ceptions were confounded ; I was harassed by 
 the multitude of eager salutations, and returned 
 the common civilities with hesitation and impro- 
 priety ; the sense of my own blunders increased 
 my confusion, and before the exchange of cere- 
 monies allowed me to sit down, I was ready to 
 sink under the impression 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 com- 
 plaisance, 1 could seldom answer but with nega- 
 tive 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 conjec- 
 tured the reason of my conciseness, relieved me 
 by some questions about the present state of na- 
 tural knowledge, and engaged me, by an appear- 
 ance 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 1 might please my- 
 self, I found very little added by my demonstra- 
 tions to the satisfaction of the company ; and 
 my antagonist, who knew the laws of conversa- 
 tion too well to detain their attention long upon 
 an unpleasing topic, after he had commended 
 my acutencss and comprehension, dismissed the 
 tontroversy, and resigned me to my former in- 
 significance 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 op- 
 portunity to escape from the company, whose 
 gayety 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 accommo- 
 date some classical compliment to the present 
 occasion I sunk into profound meditation, re- 
 volved the characters of the heroines of old, con- 
 
 sidered 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 inces- 
 santly 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 them- 
 selves 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- assem- 
 bling 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 suf- 
 fered the saucer to drop from my hand. The 
 cup was broken, the lap-dog was scalded, a bro- 
 caded petticoat was stained, and the whole as- 
 sembly was thrown into disorder. I now con- 
 sidered all hopes of reputation as 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 terrors encroaching upon my heart at the 
 sight of those who have once impressed them. 
 Shame, above any other passion, propagates it- 
 self. Before those who have seen me confused, 
 I 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 si- 
 lence, and form opinions which I must not di- 
 vulge ? 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 languor 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 
 
 VEUECUNDULUS. 
 
 No. 158.] SATURDAY, SEPT. 21, 1751. 
 
 Grammatici certant, et adhuc zulijudictlis eft. 
 
 HOR. 
 
 Critics yet contend, 
 
 And of their vain disputmgs find no end. FRANCIS 
 
 CRITICISM, though dignified from the earliest 
 ages by the labours of men eminent for know- 
 ledge and sagacity, and, since the revival of polite 
 literature, the favourite study of European scho-
 
 No. 158.] THE RAMBLER. 
 
 lars, has not yet attained the certainty and sta- 
 bility 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 inclina- 
 tion 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 critics, who 
 have generally no other merit than that, having 
 read the works of great authors with attention, 
 they have observed the arrangement of their mat- 
 ter, 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 suscepti- 
 ble of improvement. The excellences and faults 
 of celebrated writers have been equally recom- 
 mended to posterity ; and, so far has blind reve- 
 rence prevailed, that even the number of their 
 books has been thcught worthy of imitation. 
 
 The imagination of the first authors of lyric 
 poetry was vehement and rapid, and their know- 
 ledge 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 glar- 
 ing ideas, they applied themselves to instruct, 
 rather by short sentences and striking thoughts, 
 than by regular argumentation ; and, rinding at- 
 tention more successfully excited by sudden sal- 
 lies and unexpected exclamations, than by the 
 more artful and placid beauties of methodical de- 
 duction, 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 critics deduce the rules of lyric po- 
 etry, 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 licen- 
 tiousness 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 ha'f his life, \vithout order, co- 
 herence, or propriety. 
 
 In writing, as in life, faults are endured with- 
 out disgust when they are associated with tran- 
 
 243 
 
 scendent merit, and may be sometimes recom- 
 mended to weak judgments by the lustre which 
 hey obtained 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 happi- 
 ness, 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 pro- 
 ceed from one truth to another, and connect dis- 
 tant propositions by regular consequences, is the 
 great prerogative of man. Independent and un- 
 connected sentiments flashing upon the mind in 
 quick succession, may, for a time, delight by their 
 novelty ; but they differ from systematical rea- 
 soning, as single notes from harmony, as glances 
 of lightning from the radiance of the sun. 
 
 When rules are thus drawn, rather from pre- 
 cedents than reason, there is danger not only from 
 the faults of an author, but from the errors of 
 :hose who criticise his works ; since they may 
 often mislead their pupils by false representa- 
 tions, 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 embellish- 
 ment. " The first lines of Paradise Lost," says 
 Addison, " are perhaps as plain, simple, and un- 
 adorned, 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 ex- 
 ample. 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 expan- 
 sion of his plan ; for displaying unpromised 
 events, not for producing unexpected elegances : 
 
 - Speciota dehinc miracula promit, 
 
 Antiphatcn, Scyllamgue et cum Cyclope Charybdim 
 
 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 : 
 
 ^AvSpd pot evvtire Moucra TroXtfrpoirov, 8{ pa\a iroXXi 
 IlXay;0i7, iirti Tpoiij? hpov irro\u6pov cxcpaf 
 IIoXX<3i> &' avdpunruiv "Stv dcrca, Kat v6ov tyvia' 
 HoAXd S 1 oy' Iv irdvTio irdBtv a\yca ov Kara Bvptv, 
 'Apvtitevos r>v re ^/v^fiv Kal vdarov iralpuv 
 'AXX' ot><5' S>s crdpovs cppvtraro lificrds ttcp' 
 Aurwv yrcf> fftytTtoijGiv aTaffda\irjfftv O\OVTO' 
 NI/TIOI, 01 Kara ftovs tmcpiovog 'HtXi'oio 
 *RaOiov' avrap b rotatv ri0<XtTO vdarijtov rjftap' 
 Tuv apiOcv ye, $ca, Sty Aid iTf Kal ftv 
 
 The man for wisdom's various arts renown'd, 
 Long exercised in woes, O Muse ! resound ; 
 Who when his arms had wrought the destined fall 
 Of sacred Troy, and razed her heaven-built wall,
 
 244 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 159- 
 
 Safe witii'liis friends to gain his uatal shore. 
 
 Vain toils! their impious folly dared to prey 
 
 On herds devoted to the god of day : 
 
 The god vindictive doomed them never more 
 
 (Ah ! men unblcss'd) to touch that natal shore. 
 
 O snatch some portion of these acts from fate 
 
 Celestial Muse ! aud to our world relate. POPE. 
 
 The first verses of the Iliad are in like manner 
 particularly splendid, and the proposition of the 
 Eneid closes with dignity and magnificence not 
 often to be found even in the poetry of Virgil. 
 
 The intent of the introduction is to raise ex- 
 pectation 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 him- 
 self by the grace of his language. 
 
 He that reveals too much, or promises too lit- 
 tle ; he that never irritates the intellectual appe- 
 tite, or that immediately satiates it, equally de- 
 feats 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, SEPT. 24, 1751. 
 
 Svnt verba et voces, guibus hunc lenire dolortm 
 Possis et magnam mnrbi deponerepartem. HOR. 
 
 The power of words, and soothing sounds, appease 
 The raging pain, and lessen the disease. FRANCIS. 
 
 THE imbecility with which Verecundulus com- 
 plains 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 public life. 
 
 It is perhaps kindly provided by nature, that, 
 as the feathers and strength of a bird grow toge- 
 ther, and her wings are not completed till she 
 is abb to fly, so some proportion should be pre- 
 served 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 con- 
 tempt 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 re- 
 sist it. 
 
 It generally happens that assurance keeps an 
 even pace with ability ; and the fear of miscar- 
 riage, which hinders our first attempts, is gradu- 
 ally dissipated as our skill advances towards cer- 
 tainty of success. That bashfulness, therefore, 
 which prevents disgrace, that short and tempo- 
 rary shame which secures us from the danger of 
 lasting reproach, cannot be properly counted 
 among our misfortunes. 
 
 Bashfulness, however 4t 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 remem- 
 brance. It may sometimes exclude pleasure, but 
 seldom opens any avenue to sorrow or remorse. 
 It is observed somewhere, that few have repented 
 of having foreborne to speak. 
 
 To excite opposition, and inflame malevolence, 
 is the unhappy privilege of courage made arro- 
 gant by consciousness of strength. No man 
 finds in himself any inclination to attack or op- 
 pose him who confesses his superiority by blush- 
 ing in his presence, dualities exerted with ap- 
 parent fearfulness receive applause from every 
 voice, and support from every hand. Diffidence 
 may check resolution and obstruct performance, 
 but compensates embarrassments by more im- 
 portant advantages : it conciliates the proud, and 
 softens the severe, averts envy from excellence, 
 and censure from miscarriage. 
 
 It may indeed happen that knowledge and vir- 
 tue remain too long congealed by this frigorific 
 power, as the principles of vegetation are some- 
 times obstructed by lingering frosts. He that en- 
 ters 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 whe- 
 ther any remedies of much efficacy can be found. 
 To advise a man unaccustomed to the eyes of 
 multitudes to mount a tribunal without perturba- 
 tion, to tell him whose life was passed in the 
 shades of contemplation, that he must not be dis- 
 concerted or perplexed in receiving and returning 
 the compliments of a splendid assembly, is to ad- 
 vise an inhabitant of Brazil or Sumatra not to 
 shiver at an English winter, or him who has al- 
 ways lived upon a plain to look upon a precipice 
 without emotion. It is to suppose custom in 
 stantaneously controllable by reason, and to en- 
 deavour to communicate, by precept, that which 
 only time and habit can bestow. 
 
 He that hopes by philosophy and contcmpla 
 tion 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 Socra- 
 tes, when he was about to speak in public, proved 
 sufficient to secure him from the powerful fas- 
 cination. 
 
 Yet, as the effects of time may by art and in- 
 dustry be accelerated or retarded, it cannot be 
 improper to consider how this troublesome in- 
 stinct 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 160.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 245 
 
 No cause more frequently produces bashful- 
 ness than too high an opinion of our own import- 
 ance. He that imagines an assembly rilled with 
 his merit, panting with expectation, and hushed 
 with attention, easily terrifies himself with the 
 dread of disappointing them, and strains his ima- 
 gination in pursuit of something that may vindi- 
 cate the veracity of fame, and show that his repu- 
 tation was not gained by chance. He considers, 
 that what he shall say or do will never be forgot- 
 'en ; 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 languish- 
 ment and despondency ! 
 
 The most useful medicines are often unpleas- 
 ing to the taste. Those who are oppressed by 
 their own reputation, will, perhaps, not be com- 
 forted by hearing that their cares are unneces- 
 sary. But the truth is, that no man is much re- 
 garded by the rest of the world. He that consi-' 
 ders how little he dwells upon the condition of 
 others, will learn how little the attention of others 
 s attracted by himself. While we see multi- 
 tudes 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. 1GO.] SATURDAY, SEPT. 2S, 1751. 
 
 Inter se convcnit vrsit. JUV. 
 
 Beasts of each kind their fellows spare ; 
 Bear lives iu 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 rnan needs to stand still for want of employ- 
 ment, 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 uni- 
 verse ; but it is so much deformed by interest and 
 passion, that the benefit of his 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 nomina- 
 tions. Patrons are corrupted by avarice, cheated 
 by credulity, or overpowered by resistless soli- 
 citation. They are sometimes too strongly influ- 
 enced by honest prejudices of friendship, or the 
 prevalence of virtuous compassion. For, what- 
 ever cool reason may direct, it is not easy for a 
 man of tender and scrupulous goodness to over- 
 look 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 ad- 
 vantage 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 kin- 
 dred mind with which he could unite in confi- 
 dence and friendship ; yet we see many strag- 
 gling 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 undei standing. 
 It is not often difficult to find asuitablecompamon, 
 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 plea- 
 sure can ever unite him, he must always live in a 
 state of unsocial separation, without tenderness 
 and without trust. 
 
 There are many natures which can never ap- 
 proach within a certain distance, and which, when 
 any irregular motive impels them towards con- 
 tact, seem to start back from each other by some 
 invincible repulsion. There are others which 
 immediately cohere whenever they come into the 
 reach of mutual attraction, and with very little 
 formality of preparation mingle intimately as 
 soon as they meet Every man, whom either bu- 
 siness or curiosity has thrown at large into the 
 world, will recollect many instances of fondness 
 and dislike, which have forced themselves upon 
 him without the intervention of his judgment ; 
 of dispositions to court some and avoid others, 
 when he could assign no reason for the prefer- 
 ence, or none adequate to the violence of his pas- 
 sions ; of influence that acted instantaneously 
 upon his mind, and which no arguments or per- 
 suasions could ever overcome. 
 
 Among those with whom time and intercourse 
 have made us familiar, we feel our affections di- 
 vided in different proportions without much re- 
 fard to moral or intellectual merit. Every man 
 nows some whom he cannot induce himself to 
 trust, though he has no reason to suspect that 
 they would betray him ; those to whom he cannu*. 
 complain, though he never observed them to wan.t 
 compassion ; those in whose presence he never 
 can be gay, though excited by invitations to 
 mirth and freedom ; and those from whom he 
 cannot be content to receive instruction, though 
 they never insulted his ignorance by contempt or 
 ostentation. 
 
 That much regard is to be had to those in- 
 stincts of kindness and dislike, or that reason 
 should blindly follow them, 1 am far from intend- 
 ing to inculcate : it is very certain, that by indul- 
 gence we may give them strength which they 
 have not by nature ; and almost every example 
 of ingratitude and treachery proves, that by obey- 
 ing them we may commit our happiness to those 
 who are very unworthy of so great a trust. But it 
 may deserve to be remarked, that since few con- 
 tend much with their inclinations, it is generally 
 vain to solicit the good-will of those whom we per- 
 ceive thus involuntarily alienated from us ; nei- 
 ther knowledge nor virtue will reconcile antipa- 
 thy ; and though officiousness may for a time be 
 admitted, and diligence applauded, they will at 
 last be dismissed with coldness, or discouraged 
 by neglect. 
 
 Sorne have indeed an occult power of stealing
 
 24<5 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 161 
 
 upon the affections, of exciting universal benevo- 
 lence, and disposing every heart to fondness and 
 friendship. But this is a felicity granted only to 
 the favourite of nature. The greater part of man- 
 kind find a different reception from different dis- 
 positions ; they sometimes obtain unexpected ca- 
 ressas from those whom they never Haltered with 
 uncommon regard, and sometimes exhaust all 
 their arts of pleasing without effect. To these 
 it is necessary to look round, and attempt every 
 breast in which they find virtue sufficient for the 
 foundation of friendship ; to enter into the crowd, 
 and try whom chance will offer to their notice, 
 till they fix on some temper congenial to their 
 own, as the magnet rolled in the dust collects the 
 fragments of its kindred metal from a thousand 
 particles of other substances. 
 
 Every man must have remarked the facility 
 with which the kindness of others is sometimes 
 gained by thoss to whom he never could have 
 imparted his own. We are, by our occupations, 
 education, and habits of life, divided almost into 
 different species, which regard one another, for 
 the most part with scorn and malignity. Each 
 of these classes of the human race has desires, 
 fears, and conversation, vexations and merriment, 
 peculiar to itself; cares which another cannot 
 feel ; pleasures which he cannot partake ; and 
 modes of expressing every sensation which he 
 cannot understand. That frolic which shakes 
 one man with laughter, will convulse another 
 with indignation ; the strain of jocularity which 
 in one place obtains treats and patronage, would 
 in another be heard with indifference, and in a 
 third with abhorrence. 
 
 To raise esteem we must benefit others, to 
 procure love we must please them. Aristotle 
 observes, that old men do not readily form 
 friendships, because they are not easily suscepti- 
 ble of pleasure. He that can contribute to the 
 hilarity of the vacant hour, or partake with equal 
 gust the favourite amusement ; he whose mind 
 is employed on the same objects, and who there- 
 fore never harassss the understanding with un- 
 accustomed ideas, will bo welcomed with ardour, 
 and left with regret, unless he destroys those re- 
 commendations by faults with which peace and 
 security cannot consist. 
 
 It were happy, if in forming friendships, virtue 
 could concur with pleasure ; but the greatest 
 part of human gratifications approach so nearly 
 to vice, that few who make the delight of others 
 their rule of conduct, can avoid disingenuous 
 compliances ; yet certainly he that suffers him- 
 self to be driven or allured from virtue, mistakes 
 his own interest, since he gains succour by 
 means for which his friend, if ever he becomes 
 wise, must scorn him, and for which at last he 
 must scorn himself. 
 
 No. 161.] TUESDAY, OCT. 1, 1751. 
 
 O<^ yap 0$AAo>), ytvlr], rolijtie Kal avSpuV HOM. 
 
 Frail as the Isaves that quiver on the spray*, 
 Like them man flourishes, like them decays. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 MR. RAMBLER. 
 
 -- 
 
 You have formerly observed that curiosity often 
 terminates in barren knowledge, and that the 
 mind is prompted to study and inquiry rather 
 
 by the uneasiness of ignorance than the hope of 
 profit. Nothing can be of less importance to 
 | any present interest, than the fortune of those 
 ! who have been long lost in the grave, and from 
 whom nothing now can ho hoped or feared. 
 Yet, to rouse the zeal of a true antiquary, little 
 more is necessary than to mention a name 
 which mankind have conspired to forget; he 
 will make his way to remote scenes of action 
 through obscurity and contradiction, as Tully 
 sought amidst bushes and brambles the tomb of 
 Archimedes. 
 
 It is not easy to discover how it concerns him 
 that gathers the produce, or receives the rent of 
 an estate, to know through what families the 
 land has passed, who is registered in the Con- 
 queror's survey as its possessor, how often it has 
 been forfeited by treason, or how often sold by 
 prodigality. The power or wealth of the present 
 inhabitants of a country cannot be much in- 
 creased by an inquiry after the names of those 
 barbarians, who destroyed one another twenty 
 centuries ago, in contests forthe shelter of woods, 
 or convenience of pasturage. Yet we see that 
 no man can be at rest in the enjoyment of a 
 new purchase, till he has learned the history of his 
 grounds from the ancient inhabitants of the pa- 
 rish, and that no nation omits to record the ac- 
 tions of their ancestors, however bloody, savage, 
 and rapacious. 
 
 The same disposition, as different opportuni- 
 ties call it forth, discovers itself in great or little 
 things. 1 have always thought it unworthy of 
 a wise man to slumber in total inactivity, only 
 because he happens to have no employment 
 equal to his ambition or genius ; it is therefore 
 my custom to apply my attention to the objects 
 before me ; and as I cannot think any place 
 wholly unworthy of notice that affords a habita- 
 tion to a man of letters, I have collected the his- 
 tory and antiquities of the several garrets in 
 which 1 have resided. 
 
 Qnantulacunque estis, vos ego magna voeo 
 How small to others, but how great to inc. 
 
 Many of these narratives my industry has 
 been able to extend to a considerable length ; but 
 the woman with whom I now lodge has lived 
 only eighteen months in the house, and can give 
 no account of its ancient revolutions ; the plas- 
 terer having, at her entrance, obliterated, by his 
 white-wash, all the smoky memorials which 
 former tenants had left upon the ceiling, and 
 perhaps drawn the veil of oblivion over politicians, 
 philosophers, and poets. 
 
 When I first cheapened my lodgings, the land- 
 lady told me, that she hoped t was not an author, 
 forthe lodgers on the first floor had stipulatrd 
 that the upper rooms should not be occupied by 
 a noisy trade. I very readily promised to give 
 no disturbance to her family, and soon d espatchcd 
 a bargain on the usual terms. 
 
 I had not slept many nighls in my new apart 
 ment, before I began to inquire after my prede 
 cessors, and found my landlady, whose imagina 
 tion is filled chiefly with her own affairs, ver> 
 ready to give me information. 
 
 Curiosity, like all other desires, produces pain 
 as well as pleasure. Before she began her nar- 
 rative, I had heated my head with expectations 
 of adventures and discoveries, of elegance in
 
 No. 162.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 247 
 
 disguise, and learning in distress; and was some- 
 what mortified when I heard that the first tenant 
 was a tailor, of whom nothing was remembered 
 but that he complained of his room for want of 
 light ; and, after having lodged in it a month, 
 and paid only a week's rent, pawned a piece of 
 cloth which he was trusted to cut out, and was 
 forced to make a precipitate retreat from this 
 quarter of the town. 
 
 The next was a young woman newly arrived 
 from the country, who lived for five weeks with 
 great regularity, and became by frequent treats 
 very much the favourite of the family, but at last 
 received visits so frequently from a cousin in 
 Cheapside, that she brought the reputation of 
 the house into danger, and was therefore dis- 
 missed with good advice. 
 
 The room then stood empty for a fortnight ; 
 my landlady began to think that she had judged 
 hardly, and often wished for such another lodger. 
 At last, an elderly man of a grave aspect read 
 the bill, and bargained for the room at the very 
 first price that was asked. He lived in close 
 retirement, seldom went out till evening, and 
 then returned early, sometimes cheerful, and at 
 other times dejected. It was remarkable, that 
 whatever he purchased, he never had small 
 money in his pocket ; and, though cool and tem- 
 perate on other occasions, was always vehement 
 and stormy till he received his change. He paid 
 his rent with great exactness, and seldom failed 
 once a week to requite my landlady's civility 
 with a supper. At last, such is the fate of hu- 
 man felicity, the house was alarmed at midnight 
 by the constable, who demanded to search the 
 garrets. My landlady assuring him that he had 
 mistaken the door, conducted him up stairs, 
 where he found the tools of a coiner; but the 
 tenant had crawled along the roof to an empty 
 house, and escaped ; much to the joy of my 
 landlady, who declares him a very honest man, 
 and wonders why any body should be hanged 
 for making money when such numbers are in 
 want of it. She however confesses that she 
 shall, for the future, always question the charac- 
 ter of those who take her garret without beating 
 down the price. 
 
 The bill was then placed again in the window, 
 and the poor woman was teased for seven weeks 
 by innumerable passengers, who obliged her to 
 climb with them every hour up five stories, and 
 then disliked the prospect, hated the noise of a 
 public street, thought the stairs narrow, ob- 
 
 ' ;cted to a low ceiling, required the walls to be 
 ung with fresher paper, asked questions about 
 the neighbourhood, could not think of living so 
 far from their acquaintance, wished the windows 
 had looked to the south rather than the west, 
 told how the door and chimney might have been 
 better dispoeed, bid her half the price that she 
 asked, or promised to give her earnest the next 
 day, and came no more. 
 
 At last, a short meagre man, in a tarnished 
 waistcoat, desired to see the garret, and, when 
 he had stipulated for two long shelves, and a 
 larger table, hired it at a low rate. When the 
 afiair was completed, he looked round him with 
 great satisfaction, and repeated some words 
 which the woman did not understand. In two 
 days he brought a great box of books, took pos- 
 session of his room and lived very inoffensively, 
 except that ha frequently disturbed the inhabit- 
 
 ants of the next floor by unseasonable noises. 
 He was generally in bed at noon ; but from 
 ey&ning to midnight he sometimes talked aloud 
 with great vehemence, sometimes stamped as in 
 rage, sometimes threw down his poker, then 
 clattered his chairs, then sat down in deep 
 thought, and again burst out into loud vocifera- 
 tions; sometimes he would sigh as oppressed 
 with misery, and sometimes shake with convul- 
 sive laughter. When he encountered any of 
 the family, he gave way or bowed, but rarelj 
 spoke, except that as he went up stairs he often 
 repeated, 
 
 -'Of tir/prara i^^ara vatci. 
 
 This habitant lh' aerial regions boast : 
 
 hard words, to which his neighbours listened so 
 often that they learned them without understand- 
 ing them. What was his employment she did 
 not venture to ask him, but at last heard a print- 
 er's boy inquire for the author. 
 
 My landlady was very often advised to beware 
 of this strange man, who, though he was quiet 
 for the present, might perhaps become outrage 
 ous in the hot months ; but as she was punc- 
 tually paid, she could not find any sufficient rea- 
 son for dismissing him, till one night he con 
 vinced her, by setting fire to his curtains, lhat it 
 was not safe to have an author for her inmate. 
 
 She had then for six weeks a succession of 
 tenants who left the house on Saturday, and, in- 
 stead of paying their rent, stormed at their land- 
 lady. At last she took in two sisters, one of 
 whom had spent her little fortune in procuring 
 remedies for a lingering disease, and was now 
 supported and attended by the other: she climbed 
 with difficulty to the apartment, where she lan- 
 guished eight weeks without impatience, or la- 
 mentation, except for the expense and fatigue 
 which her sister suffered, and then calmly and 
 contentedly expired. The sister followed her to 
 the grave, paid the few debts which they had 
 contracted, wiped away the tears of useless sor 
 row, and returning to the business of common 
 life, resigned to me the vacant habitation. 
 
 Such, Mr. Rambler, are the changes which 
 have happened in the narrow space where my 
 present fortune has fixed my residence. So true 
 it is, that amusement and instruction are alwavs 
 at hand for those who have skill and willingness 
 to find them ; and so just is the observation of 
 Juvenal, that a single house will show whatever 
 is done or suffered in the world. 
 
 I am, Sir, &c. 
 
 No. 162.] TUESDAY, OCT. 5, 1751. 
 
 Orbvs es, et lociiples, et Bruto consult natus: 
 
 Esse tibi veras credis amicitias ? 
 Sunt rerte ; scd quas jueenis, qvas pauper habebit. 
 
 Qut notus est, mortem diligit ille tuam. MART. 
 
 What ! old, and rich, and childless too, 
 And yet believe your friends are true? 
 Truth might perhaps to those belong:, 
 To those who loved you poor and j r oung : 
 But, trust me, for the m-wyou hnvc 
 They'll love you dearly in your grave. 
 
 F. LEWIS 
 
 ONE of the complaints uttered by Milton's Sam- 
 son, in the anguish of blindness, is, that he shall
 
 248 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 162. 
 
 pass his life under the direction of others ; that 
 be cannot regulate his conduct by his own know- 
 ledge, but must lie at the mercy of those who 
 undertake to guide him. 
 
 There is no state more contrary to the dignity 
 of wisdom than perpetual and unlimited depend- 
 ance in which the understanding lies useless, 
 and every motion is received from external im- 
 pulse. Reason is the great distinction of human 
 nature, the faculty by which we approach to 
 some degree of association with celestial intelli- 
 gences ; but as the excellence of every power ap- 
 pears only i:i its operations, not to have reason, 
 and to have it useless and unemployed, is nearly 
 the same. 
 
 Such is the weakness of man, that the essence 
 of things is seldom so much regarded as external 
 and accidental appendages. A small variation 
 of trifling circumstances, a slight change of form 
 Dy an artificial dress, or a casual difference of 
 appearance by a new light and situation, will con- 
 ciliate affection or excite abhorrence, and deter- 
 mine us to pursue or to avoid. Every man con- 
 siders a necessity of compliance with any will 
 but his own as the lowest state of ignominy arid 
 meanness; few are so far lost in cowardice or 
 negligence as not to rouse at the first insult of 
 tyranny, and exert all their force against him 
 who usurps their property, or invadas any pri- 
 vilege of speech or action. Yet we see often 
 thosswho never wanted spirit to repel encroach- 
 ment or oppose violence, at last by a gradual 
 relaxation of vigilance, delivering up, without 
 capitulation, the fortress which they defended 
 against assault, and laying down unbidden the 
 weapons which they grasped the harder for 
 every attempt to wrest them from their hands. 
 Men eminent for spirit and wisdom often resign 
 themsslves to voluntary pupilage, and suffer their 
 lives to be modelled by officious ignorance, and 
 their choice to be regulated by presumptuous 
 stupidity. 
 
 This unresisting acquiescence in the determi- 
 nation of others, may be the consequence of ap- 
 plication to some study remote from the beaten 
 track of life, some employnmnt which does not 
 allow leisure for sufficient inspection of those 
 petty affairs by which nature has decreed a great 
 part of our duration to be filled. To a mind thus 
 withdrawn from common objects, it is more eli- 
 gible to repose on the prudence of another, than 
 to be exposed every moment to slight interrup- 
 tions. The submission which such confidence 
 requires is paid without pain, because it implies 
 no confession of inferiority. The business from 
 which we withdraw our cognizance is not above 
 our abilities, but below our notice. We please 
 our prido with the effects of our influence thus 
 weakly exerted, and fancy ourselves placed in a 
 higher orb, from which we regulate subordinate 
 agents by a slight and distant superintendence. 
 But whatever vanity or abstraction may suggest, 
 no man can safely do that by others which might 
 be done by himself: he that indulges negli- 
 gence will quickly become ignorant of his own 
 affairs; and he that trusts without reserve will at 
 last be deceived. 
 
 It is, however, impossible but that, as the at- 
 tention tends strongly towards one thing, it must 
 retire from another: and he that omits the care 
 of domestic business, because he is engrossed by 
 nqu'uries of more importance to mankind, has, at 
 
 least, the merit of suffering in a good cause. But 
 there are many who can plead no such extenu- 
 ation of their folly ; who shake off" the burden of 
 their station, not that they may soar with less in- 
 ctimbrance to the heights of knowledge or virtue, 
 but that they may loiter at ease and sleep in 
 quiet; and who select for friendship and confi- 
 dence not the faithful and the virtuous, but the 
 soft, the civil, and compliant. 
 
 This openness to flattery is the common dis- 
 grace of declining life. When men feel weak- 
 ness increasing on them, they naturally desire 
 to rest from the struggles of contradiction, the 
 fatigue of reasoning, the anxiety of circumspec- 
 tion ; when they are hourly tormented with pains 
 and diseases, they are unable to bear any new 
 disturbance, and consider all opposition as an 
 addition to misery, of which they feel already 
 more than they can patiently endure. Thus 
 desirous of peace, and thus fearful of pain, the 
 old man seldom inquires after any other quali- 
 ties in those whom he caresses, than quickness 
 in conjecturing his desires, activity in supplying 
 his wants, dexterity in intercepting complaints 
 before they approach near enough to disturb him, 
 flexibility to his present humour, submission to 
 hasty petulance, and attention to wearisome nar- 
 rations. By these arts alone many have been 
 able to defeat the claims of kindred and of me- 
 rit, and to enrich themselves with presents and 
 legacies. 
 
 Thrasybulus inherited a large fortune, and 
 augmented it by the revenues of several lucra- 
 tive employments, which he discharged with 
 honour and dexterity. He was at last wise 
 enough to consider that life should not be de 
 voted wholly to accumulation ; and, therefore, 
 retiring to his estate, applied himself to the edu- 
 cation of his children, and the cultivation of do- 
 mestic happiness. 
 
 He passed several years in this pleasing 
 amusement, and saw his care amply recom- 
 pensed ; his daughters were celebrated for mo- 
 desty and elegance, and his sons for learning, 
 prudence, and spirit. In time, the eagerness 
 with which the neighbouring gentlemen courted 
 his alliance obliged him to resign his daughters 
 toother families; the vivacity and curiosity of 
 his sons hurried them out of rural privacy into 
 the open world, from whence they had not soon 
 an inclination to return. This, however, he had 
 always hoped ; he pleased himself with the suc- 
 cess of his schemes, and felt no inconvenience 
 from solitude till an apoplexy deprived him of 
 his wife. 
 
 Thrasybulus had now no companion ; and the 
 maladies of increasing years having taken from 
 him much of the power of procuring amusement 
 for himself, he thought it necessary to procure 
 some inferior friend who might ease him of his 
 economical solicitudes, and divert him by cheer- 
 ful conversation. All these qualities he soon 
 recollected in Vafer, a clerk in one of the offices 
 over which he had formerly presided. V;ifer 
 was invited to visit his old patron, and being by 
 his station acquainted with the present modes of 
 life, and by constant practice dexterous in busi- 
 ness, entertained him with so many novehies, 
 and so readily disentangled his affairs, that he 
 was desired to resign his clerkship, and accept a 
 liberal salary in the house of Thrasybulus. 
 
 Vafer, having always lived in a state of de
 
 IS*o. 163.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 249 
 
 peadence, was well versed in the arts by which 
 favour is obtained, and could, without repug- 
 nancy, or hesitation, accommodate himself' to 
 every caprice, and echo every opinion. He ne- 
 ver doubted but to be convinced, nor attempted 
 opposition but to flatter Thrasybulus with the 
 pleasure of a victory. By this practice he found 
 Vis way into his patron's heart ; and, having first 
 nade himself agreeable, soon became important. 
 His insidious diligence, by which the laziness of 
 3<ie was gratified, engrossed the management of 
 affairs ; and his petty offices of civility, and occa- 
 sional intercessions, persuaded the tenants to 
 consider him as their friend and benefactor, and 
 to entreat his enforcement of their representa- 
 tions of hard years, and his countenance, to peti- 
 tions for abatement of rent. 
 
 Thrasybulus had now banqueted on flattery, 
 till he could no longer bear the harshness of 
 remonstrance or the insipidity of truth. All con- 
 trariety to his own opinion shocked him like a 
 violation of some natural right, and all recom- 
 mendation of his affairs to his own inspection was 
 dreaded by him as a summons to torture. His 
 children were alarmed by the sudden riches of 
 Vafer, but their complaints were heard by their 
 father with impatience, as the result of a conspi- 
 racy against his quiet, and a design to condemn 
 him, for their own advantage, to groan out his 
 last hours in perplexity and drudgery. The 
 daughters retired with tears in their eyes, but the 
 son continued his importunities till he found his 
 inheritance hazarded by his obstinacy. Vafer 
 triumphed over all their efforts, and continuing 
 to confirm himself in authority, at the death of 
 his master purchased an estate, and bade defi- 
 ance to inquiry and justice. 
 
 No. 163.] TUESDAY, OCT. 8, 1751. 
 
 Mitte superbapati fastidia, spemque caducam 
 Dcspice ; vice tibi, nam moriere tibi SENECA. 
 
 Bow to no patron's insolence ; rely 
 
 On no frail hopes, in freedom live and die. 
 
 F. LEWIS. 
 
 XOXE of the cruelties exercised by wealth jand 
 power upon indigence and dependance is more 
 mischievous in its consequences, or more fre- 
 quently practised with wanton negligence, than 
 the encouragement of expectations which are ne- 
 ver to he gratified, and the elation and depression 
 of the heart by needless vicissitudes of hopes and 
 disappointment. 
 
 Every man is rich or poor, according to the 
 proportion between his desires and enjoyments ; 
 any enlargement of wishes is therefore equally 
 destructive to happiness with the diminution of 
 possessions ; and he that teaches another to long 
 for what he never shall obtain, is no less an ene- 
 my to his quiet, than if he had robbed him of part 
 of his patrimony. 
 
 But representations thus refined exhibit no ade- 
 quate idea of the guilt 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 
 
 2G 
 
 and days in attendance and solicitation, the ho- 
 nest opportunities of improving his condition 
 pass by without his notice ; he neglects to culti- 
 vate his own barren soil, because he expects 
 every moment to be placed in regions of sponta- 
 neous fertility, and is seldom roused from his de- 
 lusion, but by the gripe of distress which he can- 
 not resist, and the sense of evils which cannot bo 
 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 ; 
 
 Kai fiijv Trti/raXov cJ<r<ov, vaX/T 1 a'Xyc' txpvra, 
 'E<rra<!r' iv \ipvir f/ Sf rrpo<rf;rAa& yevci'p' 
 'S.TtvTo Se ii^.-d(jiv, Tfihiv 6' OVK u%cv AfoOar 
 'Qccdici yap Keifti' & yfytav, iriiciv ptvcalvtav, 
 Toaedx' viiap dvoXlcKir' ava^po^lv aptyl Sf iro<rt 
 Faia ni\<tlva QdvtaKe, Kara^ijvaaKc lie iai/itav 
 Aevcota &' ti/'tirfri/Aa KaraKpijOtv vet Kapxdv, 
 "Oy%vai, xal poiai, Kai ur;\lai ayAaoKapiroi, 
 Euicaf re y\VKcpat, /cat eXatat Trj\c.06ti)<raC 
 Tiav birdr' Wvatt' t> yepdiv cm %epal nd<ra<?9at, 
 TdffS' avcftos aiKTaaKt -sarii veipea axtSevra. 
 
 " I saw," says Homer's Ulysses, " the severe pu- 
 nishment of Tantalus. In a lake, whose water 
 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 ap- 
 peared 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 ex- 
 tended 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 pa- 
 tron, by the daily contemplation of splendour 
 which he never must partake, by fruitless at- 
 tempts 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 wa- 
 ter 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 favourite of the great. Having 
 often gained the prize of composition at the uni- 
 versity, I began to hope that I should obtain the 
 same distinction in every other place, and deter- 
 mined 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 ad- 
 vantageous settlement. The pride of wit fluttered 
 in my heart ; and when I prepared to leave the 
 college, nothing entered my imagination but ho- 
 nours, caresses, and rewards; riches without 
 labour, and luxury without expense.
 
 250 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 164. 
 
 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 consi- 
 dered every moment that passed before its pub- 
 lication, as lost in a kind of neutral existence, and 
 cut oft' from the golden hours of happiness and 
 fame. The piece was at last printed and dis- 
 seminated by a rapid sale ; I wandered from one 
 place of concourse to another, feasted from morn- 
 ing to night on the repetition of my own praises, 
 and enjoyed the various conjectures of critics, the 
 mistaken candour of my friends, and the impo- 
 tent 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 excel- 
 lence ; some had conversed with the author at 
 the coffee-house ; and others gave hints that they 
 had lent him money. 
 
 I knew that no performance is solavourably 
 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 publicly 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 cri- 
 tical moment of my destiny. I was received with 
 civilities, which my academic 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 profes- 
 sion, 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 expres- 
 sion, and again found every eye sparkling with 
 delight, and every tongue silent with attention. 
 I now become familiar at the table of Aurantius, 
 but could never, in his most private or jocund 
 hours, obtain more from him than general declara- 
 tions of esteem, or endearments of tenderness, 
 which included no particular promise, and there- 
 fore conferred no claim. This frigid reserve 
 somewhat disgusted me, and when he complain- 
 ed of three day's absence, 1 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 endan- 
 gered 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 zeal- 
 ous 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 de- 
 sired. 
 
 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 impress- 
 ed at the conclusion with an air of solemn sin- 
 
 ; cerity. From that instant I gave myself up 
 j wholly to Aurantius ; and as he immediately 
 resumed his former gayety, expected every morn- 
 ing 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 neces- 
 sary to the company with whom I associated, 
 and the rank to which I should be raised. Au- 
 rantius, from the moment in which he discovered 
 my poverty, considered rne as fully in his power, 
 and afterwards rather permitted my attendance 
 than invited it ; thought himself at liberty to re- 
 fuse my visits, whenever he had other amuse- 
 ments within reach, and often suffered me to 
 wait, without pretending any necessary busi- 
 ness. 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 rhe 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 prao.- 
 tice to impose tasks upon me, by requiring mo 
 to write upon such subjects as he thought sus- 
 ceptible of ornament and illustration. With 
 these extorted performances he was little satis 
 fied, 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, rude- 
 ness and insult soon enter the breach. He now 
 found that he might safely harass me with vexa- 
 tion, 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 servi- 
 tude, when the clamour of creditors was vehe- 
 ment, and my necessity known to be extreme, he 
 offered me a small office, but hinted his expecta- 
 tion that I should marry a young woman with 
 whom he had been acquainted. 
 
 I was not so far depressed by my calamities as 
 o 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, OCT. 12, 1751. 
 
 yitium, Goitre, Catonia kabcs. MART. 
 
 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
 
 No. 164.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER, 
 
 251 
 
 arises from the gratification of disappointment ol 
 an incessant wish for superiority, from the sue 
 cess or miscarriage of secret competitions, from 
 victories and defeats, of which, though they ap 
 pear to us of great importance, in reality non< 
 are conscious except ourselves. 
 
 Proportionate to the prevalence of this love ol 
 praise is the variety of means by which its attain- 
 ment is attempted. Every man, however hope- 
 less his pretensions may appear, to all but him- 
 self, 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 may be persuaded to love, or com- 
 pelled to fear him. The ascents of honour, how- 
 ever steep, never appear inaccessible ; he thai 
 despairs to scale the precipices by which learning 
 and valour have conducted their favourites, dis- 
 covers some by-path, 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 sel- 
 dom require more to the happiness of the present 
 hour, than to surpass him that stands next be- 
 fore 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 judici- 
 ously copied, the imitator often arrives at excel- 
 lence, which he could never have attained with- 
 but direction ; for few are born with abilities to 
 discover new possibilities of excellence, and to 
 distinguish themselves by means never tried be- 
 fore. 
 
 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 easi- 
 est attainment, are selected for imitation ; and 
 the honours and rewards which public gratitude 
 has paid to the benefactors of mankind, are ex- 
 pected 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 excellences ; and idolized on the 
 other by ignorant admiration, which exalts his 
 faults and follies into virtues. It may be ob- 
 served, that he by whose intimacy his acquaint- 
 ances imagine themselves dignified, generally 
 diffuses among them his mien and his habits ; 
 and, indeed, without more vigilance than is ge- 
 nerally applied to the regulation of the minuter 
 parts of behaviour, it is not easy, when we con- 
 verse much with one whose general character 
 excites our veneration, to escape all contagion 
 of his peculiarities, even when we do not de- 
 
 liberately 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 some- 
 times 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 
 error 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. 
 
 iy 
 
 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 en- 
 deavours 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 con- 
 tempt, 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 hur 
 ried by his passions, can, while he preserves his 
 intellects unimpaired, please himself with pro- 
 moting 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 excel- 
 lence 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 con- 
 sign illustrious names to posterity, to take care 
 lest their readers be misled by ambiguous exam- 
 ples. That writer may be justly condemned as 
 in 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 digni 
 ied by its neighbourhood to uncommon worth, 
 since we shall be in danger of beholding it with- 
 out abhorrence, unless its turpitude be laid open, 
 and the eye secured from the deception of sur 
 rounding splendour.
 
 252 
 No. 165.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [JN'o. 165. 
 
 TUESDAY, OCT. 15, 1751. 
 
 Hv fias, M<J '"*> v Y" 
 ~O, uAvos IK rrdi'Tiav oi/crpSf tv 
 Of r&rt. uiv xpii" '" 
 
 Voung was I once and poor, now riclfcand old ; 
 A harder case than mine was never told ; 
 Bless'd 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 unpro- 
 mising task of moderating desire, exert all the 
 power of their eloquence to show that happiness 
 is not the lot of man, and have, by many argu- 
 ments 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 great- 
 ness 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 posi- 
 tions which every man hears with a wish to con- 
 fute 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 embit- 
 tered, as our duration may be more or less con- 
 tracted ; 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 
 show, that to destroy the effect of all our suc- 
 cess, 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 pros- 
 perity have their clouds, and the stream of life, 
 if it is not ruffled by obstructions, will grow pu- 
 trid 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 public, 
 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 con- 
 finement, with a resolution to return no more, 
 till 1 should be able to dazzle with my splendour 
 those who now looked upon me wilh contempt, 
 to reward those who had paid honours to my 
 dawning merit, and to show 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 ce- 
 lebrity. 
 
 I had, however, in time, surmounted the ob- 
 stacles 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 pre- 
 sumptuous 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. 1 re- 
 solved 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 stu- 
 dies or entertainments. 
 
 I now quitted my profession, and, to set my- 
 self at once free from all importunities to resume 
 it, changed my residence, and devoted the re- 
 maining 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 execu- 
 tion, were rejected for others of no longer con- 
 tinuance, some accident revived in my imagina 
 ticn 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 1 
 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, pur- 
 chased 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 work- 
 men will not easily be hurried beyond their or- 
 dinary 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 
 terror which my power would strike on others ; 
 the awkward respect with which I should be ac- 
 costed by timorous officiousness ; and I he dia-
 
 No. 166.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 253 
 
 tant reverence with which others, less familiar to 
 splendour and dignity, would be contented to 
 gaze upon me. I deliberated a lo-g time, whe- 
 ther 1 should immediately descend to a level with 
 my former acquaintances, or make my condescen- 
 sion more grateful by a gentle transition from 
 haughtiness and reserve. At length I determin- 
 ed 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 show that 
 I always expected whatl had now obtained. The 
 acclamations of the populace I purposed to re- 
 ward with six hogsheads of ale, and a roasted 
 ox, and then recommend 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 mas- 
 ter's ardour, and 1 was shaken four days upon 
 rugged roads. I then entered the town ; and 
 having graciously let fall the glasses that my per- 
 son might be seen, passed slowly through the 
 streets. The noise of the wheels brought the inha- 
 bitants to their doors, but 1 could not perceive 
 that I was known by them. At last I alighted, 
 and my name, I suppose, was told by my serv- 
 ants, 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 con- 
 tempt, and left me to consider hew the second 
 salutation should be received. The next friend 
 was better treated, for I soon found that I must 
 purchase by civility that regard which I had ex- 
 pected to enforce by insolence. 
 
 There was yet no smoke of bonfires, no har- 
 mony 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 overpow- 
 ered the fatigue of my journey and kept me from 
 sleep. 
 
 I rose so much humbled by these mortifica- 
 tions, as to inquire after the present state of the 
 town, and found that I had been absent too long 
 to obtain the triumph which had flattered my ex- 
 pectation. Of the friends whose compliments I 
 expected, some had long ago moved to distant 
 provinces, some had lost in the maladies of age 
 all sense of another's prosperity, arid some had 
 forgotten our former intimacy amidst care and 
 distress'-s. Of three whom I had resolved to 
 punish r or their former offences by a longer con- 
 tinuance of neglect, one was, by his own industry, 
 raised above my scorn, and two were sheltered 
 from it in the grave. All those whom T loved, 
 feared or hated, all whose envy or whose kind- 
 ness I had hopes of contemplating with pleasure, 
 were swept away, and their place was filled by a 
 new generation with other views and other com- 
 petitions ; and among many proofs of the impo- 
 tence of wealth, 1 found that itconferred upon me 
 very few distinctions in my native place. 
 I am, Sir, &c. 
 
 SEROTINUS. 
 
 No. 166.] SATURDAY, OCT. 19, 1751. 
 
 Pauper cris temper, si pauper es, JEmiliane : 
 
 Duntur opes n,,,.inunc nisi didtibus. MA:.T. 
 
 Once poor, my friend, <till poor you mu.-t remain ; 
 The rich aloue have all the means oi' gain. ED w. CAVE 
 
 No complaint has been more frequently repeated 
 in all ages than that of the neglect of merit asso- 
 ciated with poverty, and the difficulty with which 
 valuable or pleasing qualities force themselves 
 into view, when they are obscured by indigence. 
 It has been long observed that native beauty has 
 little power to charm without the ornaments 
 which fortune bestows, and that to want the fa- 
 vour of others is often sufficient to hinder ua 
 from obtaining it. 
 
 Every day discovers that mankind are not yet 
 convinced of their error, or that their conviction 
 is without power to influence their conduct; for 
 poverty still continues to produce contempt, and 
 still obstructs the claims of kindred and of virtue. 
 The eye of wealth is elevated towards higher 
 stations, and seldom descends to examine the 
 actions of those who are placed below the level 
 of its notice, and who in distant regions and 
 lower situations are struggling with distress, or 
 toiling for bread. Among the multitudes over- 
 whelmed with insuperable calamity, it is com 
 mon to find those whom a very little assistance 
 would enable to support themselves with decen 
 cy, and who yet cannot obtain from near rela 
 tions, what they see hourly lavished in ostenta 
 tion, luxury, or frolic. 
 
 There are natural reasons why poverty does 
 not easily conciliate affection. He that has been 
 confined from his infancy to the conversation ol 
 the lowest classes of mankind, must necessarily 
 want those accomplishments which are the usual 
 means of attracting favour ; and though truth, 
 fortitude, and probity, give an indisputable right 
 to reverence and kindness, they will not be 
 distinguished by common eyes, unless they are 
 brightened by elegance of manners, but are cast 
 aside like unpolished gems, of which none but 
 the artist knows the intrinsic value, till their as- 
 perities are smoothed, and their incrustations 
 rubbed away. 
 
 The grossness of vulgar h,abits obstructs the 
 efficacy of virtue, as impurity and harshness of 
 style impair the force of reason, and rugged num 
 bers turn off" the mind from artifice of disposition, 
 and fertility of invention. Few have strength 
 of reason to overrule the perceptions of sense : 
 and yet fewer have, curiosity or benevolence to 
 struggle long against the first impression ; he 
 therefore who fails to please in his salutation and 
 address, is at once rejected, and never obtains 
 an opportunity of showing his latent excellences, 
 or essential qualities, 
 
 It is, indeed, not easy to prescribe a successful 
 manner of approach to the distressed or necessi- 
 tous, whose condition subjects every kind of be- 
 haviour equally to miscarriage. He whose con 
 fidence of merit incites him to meet, without any 
 apparent sense of inferiority, the eyes of those 
 who flattered themselves with their own dignity, 
 is considered as an insolent leveller, impatient 
 of the just prerogatives of rank and wealth, eager 
 to usurp the station to which he has no right, and 
 to confound the subordinations of society ; and 
 who would contribute to the exaltation of thai
 
 254 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. IS7. 
 
 spirit which even want and calamity are not able 
 to restrain from rudeness and rebellion. 
 
 But no better success will commonly be found 
 to attend servility and direction, which often give 
 pride the confidence to treat them with contempt. 
 A request made with diffidence and timidity is 
 easily denied, because the petitioner himself 
 seems to doubt its fitness. 
 
 Kindness is generally reciprocal ; we are de- 
 sirous of pleasing others, because we receive plea- 
 sure from them ; but by what means can the man 
 please, whose attention is engrossed by his dis- 
 tresses, and who has no leisure to be officious ; 
 whose will is restrained by his necessities, and 
 who has no power to confer benefits ; whose 
 temper is perhaps vitiated by misery, and whose 
 understanding is impeded by ignorance ? 
 
 It is yet a more offensive discouragement, that 
 the same actions performed by different hands 
 produce different effects, and, instead of rating 
 the man by his performances, we rate too fre- 
 quently the performance by the man. It some- 
 times happens in the combinations of life, that 
 important services are performed by inferiors ; 
 but though their zeal and activity may be paid 
 by pecuniary rewards, they seldom excite that 
 flow of gratitude, or obtain that accumulation of 
 recompense with which all think it their duty to 
 acknowledge the favour of those who descend to 
 their assistance from a higher elevation. To be 
 obliged, is to be in some respect inferior to ano- 
 ther ; and few willingly indulge the memory of 
 an action which raises one whom they have al- 
 ways been accustomed to think below them, but 
 satisfy themselves with faint praise and penuri- 
 ous payment, and then drive it from their own 
 minds, and endeavour to conceal it from the 
 knowledge of others. 
 
 It may be always objected to the services of 
 those who can be supposed to want a reward, 
 tlidt they were produced not by kindness, but in- 
 terest ; they are therefore, when they are no 
 longer wanted, easily disregarded as arts of in- 
 sinuation, or stratagems of selfishness. Benefits 
 which are received as gifts from wealth, are ex- 
 acted as debts from indigence ; and he that in a 
 high station is celebrated for superfluous good- 
 ness, would in a meaner condition have barely 
 been confessed to bmve done his duty. 
 
 It is scarcely possible for the utmost benevo- 
 lence to oblige, when exerted under the disadvan- 
 tages of groat, inferiority : for, by the habitual 
 arrogance of wealth, such expectations are com- 
 monly formed as no zeal or industry can satisfy ; 
 and what regard can he hope, who has done less 
 than was demanded from him ? 
 
 There are indeed kindnesses conferred which 
 were never purchased by precedent favours, and 
 there is an aff'ction not arising from gratitude or 
 gross interest, by which similar natures are at- 
 tracted to each other, without prospect of any 
 other advantage than the pleasure of exchanging 
 r.entirnents, and the hope of confirming their 
 osteem of themselves by the approbation of each 
 other. But this spontaneous fondness seldom 
 risns at the sight of poverty, which every one re- 
 gards with habitual contempt, and of which the 
 applause is no more courted by vanity, than the 
 countenance is solicited by ambition. The most 
 generous and disinterested friendship must be 
 resolved at last into the love of ourselves ; he 
 therefore whose reputation or dignity inclines us 
 
 to consider his esteem as a testimonial of desert, 
 will always find our hearts open to his endear- 
 ments. We every day see men of eminence fol- 
 lowed with all the obsequiousness of dcpcndance, 
 and courted with all the blandishments of flat- 
 tery, by those who want nothing from them but 
 professions of regard, and who think themselves 
 liberally rewarded by a bow, a smiie, or an em- 
 brace. 
 
 But those prejudices which every mind feels 
 more or less in favour of riches, ought, like oth-^r 
 opinions, which only custom and example havt 
 impressed upon us, to be in time subjected to 
 reason. We must learn how to separate the rea: 
 character from extraneous adhesion and casual 
 circumstances, to consider closely him whom we 
 are about to adopt or to reject; to regaid his 
 inclinations as well as his actions ; to trace out 
 those virtues which lie torpid in the heart for 
 want of opportunity, and those vices that lurk 
 unseen by the absence of temptation: that when 
 we find worth faintly shooting in the shades of 
 obscurity, we may let in light and sunshine upon 
 it, and ripen barren volition into efficacy and 
 power. 
 
 No. 167.] TUESDAY, OCT. 22, 1751. 
 
 Candida perpetuo reside, Concordia, lecto, 
 Tamqne pari semper sit Vtnus tcqnajvgo. 
 
 Diligat ipsa SKnem quondam : sed ct ilia marito, 
 Tune quoque cumfuerit, non vidcaiur anus. 
 
 MART. 
 
 Their nuptial lied may smiling- Concord dress, 
 And Venus still the happy union bless ! 
 Wrinkled with age, may mutual love and truth 
 To their dim eyes recall the bloom of youth. 
 
 F. LEWIS 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 IT is not common to envy those with whom we 
 cannot easily be placed in comparison, Every 
 man sees without malevolence the progress of 
 another in the tracts of life, which he has himself 
 no desire to tread, and hears, without inclination 
 to cavils or contradiction, the renown of those 
 whose distance will not suffer them to draw the 
 attention of mankind from his own merit. The 
 sailor never thinks it necessary to contest the 
 lawyer's abilities ; nor would the Rambler, how- 
 ever jealous of his reputation, be much disturb- 
 ed by the success of rival wits at Agra or Is- 
 pahan. 
 
 We do not therefore ascribe to you any super- 
 lative degree of virtue, when we believe that we 
 may inform you of our change of condition with- 
 out danger of malignant fascination ; and that 
 when you read of the marriage of your corres- 
 pondents Hymenaeus and Tranquilla, you will 
 join your wishes to those of their other fiiends 
 for the happy event of a union in which caprice 
 and selfishness had so little part. 
 
 There is at least this reason why we should be 
 less deceived in our connubial hopes than many 
 who enter into the same state, that we have al- 
 lowed our minds to form no unreasonable expect- 
 ations, nor vitiated our fancies, in the soft hours 
 of courtship, with visions of felicity which human 
 power cannot bestow, or of perfection which 
 human virtue cannot attain. That impartiality
 
 No. 167.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 255 
 
 with which we endeavour to inspect the manners 
 of all whom we have known was never so much 
 overpowered by our passion, but that we dis- 
 covered some faults and weaknesses in each 
 other; and joined our hands in conviction, that 
 as there are advantages to be enjoyed in mar- 
 riage, there are inconveniences likewise to be 
 endured ; and that, together with confederate 
 intellects and auxiliar virtues, we must find dif- 
 ferent opinions and opposite inclinations. 
 
 We however flatter ourselves, for who is not 
 flattered by himself as well as by others on the 
 day ci marriage ? that we are eminently qualified 
 to give mutual pleasure. Our birth is without 
 any such remarkable disparity as can give either 
 an opportunity of insulting the other with pom- 
 pous names and splendid alliances, or of calling 
 in, upon any domestic controversy, the over- 
 bearing assistance of powerful relations. Our 
 fortune was equally suitable, so that we meet 
 without any of those obligations which always 
 produce reproach or suspicion of reproach, which, 
 though they may be forgotten in the gayeties of 
 the first month, no delicacy will always suppress, 
 or of which the suppression must be considered 
 is a new favour, to be repaid by tameness and 
 submission, till gratitude takes the place of .ove, 
 and the desire of pleasing degenerates by degrees 
 into the fear of offending. 
 
 The settlements caused no delay : for we did 
 not trust our affairs to the negotiation of wretches 
 who would have paid their court by multiplying 
 stipulations. Tranquilla scorned to detain any 
 part of her fortune from him into whose hands 
 she delivered up her person ; and Hymenaeus 
 thought no act of baseness more criminal than 
 his who enslaves his wife by her own generosity, 
 who, by marrying without a jointure, condemns 
 her to all the dangers of accident and caprice, 
 and at last boasts his liberality, by granting what 
 only the indiscretion of her kindness enabled 
 him to withhold. He therefore received on the 
 common terms, the portion which any other wo- 
 man might have brought him, and reserved all 
 the exuberance of acknowledgment for those 
 excellences which he has yet been able to dis- 
 cover only in Tranquilla. 
 
 We did not pass the weeks of courtship like 
 those who consider themselves as taking the last 
 draught of pleasure, and resolve not to quit the 
 bowl without a surfeit, or who know themselves 
 about lo sst happiness to hazard, and endeavour 
 to lose their sense of danger in the ebriety of 
 perpetual amusement, and whirl round the gulf 
 before they sink. Hymenaeus often repeated a 
 medical axiom, that the succours of sickness ought 
 not to be wasted in health. We know that how- 
 s' n our eyes may yet sparkle, and our hearts 
 bound at the ,ir<sence of each other, the time of 
 listlessness and satiety, of peevishness and discon- 
 tent, must come at last, in >vhich we shall be 
 driven for relief to shows and recreations ; that 
 the uniformity of life must be sometimes diver- 
 sified, and the vacuities of conversation some- 
 times supplied. We rejoice in the reflection that 
 we have stores of novelty yet unexhausted, which 
 may be opened when repletion shall call for 
 change, and gratifications yet untasted, by which 
 life, when it shall become vapid or bitter, may 
 DC restored to its former sweetness and spright- 
 liness, and again irritate the appetite, and again 
 sparkle in the cup. 
 
 Our time will probably be less tasteless than 
 that of those whom the authority and avarice ot 
 parents unite almost without their consent in. 
 their early years, before they have accumulated 
 any fund of reflection, or collected materials for 
 mutual entertainment. Such we have often seen 
 rising in the morning to cards, and retiring in the 
 afternoon to doze, whose happiness was cele- 
 brated by their neighbours, because they hap- 
 pened to grow rich by parsimony, and to be kept 
 quiet by insensibility, and agreed to eat and to 
 sleep together. 
 
 We have both mingled with the world, and are 
 therefore no strangers to the faults and virtues, 
 the designs and competitions, the hopes and 
 fears of our contemporaries. We have both 
 amused our leisure with books, and can there- 
 fore recount the events of former times, or cite 
 the dictates of ancient wisdom. Every occur- 
 rence furnishes us with some hint which one or 
 the other can improve, and if it should happen 
 that memory or imagination fail us, we can retiro 
 to no idle or unimproving solitude. 
 
 Though our characters, beneld at a distance, 
 exhibit this general resemblance, yet a nearer 
 inspection discovers such a dissimilitude of our 
 habitudes and sentiments, as leaves each son;o 
 peculiar advantages and affords that concordix. 
 discors, that suitable disagreement which is al- 
 ways necessary to intellectual harmony. There 
 may be a total diversity of ideas which admits 
 no participation of the same delight, and there 
 may likewise be such a conformity of notions as 
 leaves neither any thing to add to the decisions 
 of the other. With such contrariety there can 
 be no peace, with such similarity there can be no 
 pleasure. Our reasonings, though often formed 
 upon different views, terminate generally in the 
 same conclusion. Our thoughts, like rivulets 
 issuing from distant springs, are each impreg- 
 nated in its course with various mixtures, and 
 tinged by infusions unknown to the other, yet, 
 at last, easily unite into one stream, and pur.fy 
 themselves by the gentle effervescence of con- 
 trary qualities. 
 
 These benefits we receive in a greater degree 
 as we converse without reserve, because we have 
 nothing to conceal. We have no debts to be 
 paid by imperceptible deductions from avowed 
 expenses, no habits to be indulged by the private 
 subserviency of a favoured servant, no private 
 interviews with needy relations, no intelligence 
 with spies placed upon each other. We consi- 
 dered marriage as the most solemn league of 
 perpetual friendship, a state from which artifice 
 and concealment are to be banished forever, and 
 in which every act of dissimulation is a breach 
 of faith. 
 
 The impetuous vivacity, of youth, and that ar- 
 dour of desire, which the first sight of pleasure 
 naturally produces, have long ceased to hurry us 
 into irregularity and vehemence; and experience 
 has shown us that few gratifications are too 
 valuable to be sacrificed to complaisance. We 
 have thought it convenient to rest from the fatigue 
 of pleasure, and now only continue that course 
 of life into which we haa before entered, con- 
 firmed in our choice by mutual approbation, 
 supported in our resolution by mutual encou- 
 ragement, and assisted in our efforts by mutual 
 exhortation. Such, Mr. Rambler, is our pros- 
 pect of life, a prospect which, as it is behel-1
 
 256 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 168. 
 
 with more attention, ser.ms to open more exten- 
 sive happiness, and spr ;ads, by degrees, into the 
 boundless region* of .termty. But if all our 
 ' 
 
 uounmess n.pj --V- - . 4 i ru- . 1*7 j i- i 
 
 'prudence has been vain, and we are doomed to the reason of his merriment. Words which c 
 give one instance more of the uncertainty of vey ideas of dignity in one age, are banished fr 
 
 human discernment, we shall comfort ourselves 
 amidst our disappointments, that we were not 
 betrayed by such delusions as caution could not 
 escap'e, since we sought happiness only in the 
 
 arms of virtue. 
 
 We are, Sir, 
 
 Your humble servants, 
 HYMENJECS, 
 TRANQUILLA. 
 
 No. 168.] SATURDAY, 6cj. 26, 1751. 
 
 Decipit 
 
 Front prima multos, rara mens inlelligit 
 
 Quod interiure condidit euro, angulo. PHJEDRUS. 
 
 The tinsel glitter, and the specious mien, 
 Delude the most; few pry behind the scene. 
 
 IT has been observed by Boileau, that " a mean 
 or common thought, expressed in pompous dic- 
 tion, generally pleases more than a new or noble 
 sentiment delivered in low and vulgar language ; 
 because the number is greater of those whom 
 custom has enabled to judge of words, than 
 whom study has qualified to examine things." 
 
 This solution might satisfy, if such only were 
 offended with meanness of expression as are un- 
 able to distinguish propriety of thought, and to 
 separate propositions or images from the vehicles 
 by which they are conveyed to the understand- 
 ing. But this kind of disgust is by no means 
 confined to the ignorant or superficial ; it ope- 
 rates uniformly and universally upon readers of 
 all classes ; every man, however profound or 
 abstracted, perceives himself irresistibly alien- 
 ated by low terms ; they who profess the most 
 zealous adherence to truth are forced to admit 
 that she owes part of her charms to her orna- 
 ments ; s\nd loses much of her power over the 
 soul when ^e appears disgraced by a dress un- 
 couth or ill-adjusted. 
 
 We are all offended by low terms, but are not 
 disgusted alike by the same compositions, be- 
 cause we do not all agree to censure the same 
 terms as low. No word is naturally or intrinsi- 
 cally meaner than another; our opinion there- 
 fore of words, as of other things arbitrarily and 
 capriciously established, depends wholly upon 
 accident and custom. The cottager thinks those 
 apartments splendid and spacious, which an in- 
 habitant of palaces will despise for their inele- 
 gance ; and to him who has passed most of his 
 hours with the delicate and polite, many expres- 
 sions will seem sordid, which another, equally 
 acute, may hear without offence ; but a mean 
 term never fails to displease him to whom it ap- 
 pears mean, as poverty is certainly and invaria- 
 bly despised, though he who is poor in the eyes 
 of some, may, by others, be envied for his wealth. 
 
 Words become low by the occasions to which 
 they are applied, or the general character of them 
 who use them ; and the disgust which they pro- 
 duce arises from the revival of those images with 
 which they are commonly united. Thus, if, in 
 the most solemn discourse, a phrase happens to 
 occur which has been successfully employed in 
 ome ludicrous narrative, the gravest auditor 
 
 finds it difficult to refrain from laughter, when 
 they who are not prepossessed by the same acci- 
 dental association, are utterly unable to guess 
 the reason of his merriment. Words which con- 
 
 elegant writing or conversation in another, be- 
 cause they are in time debased by vulgar mouths, 
 and can be no longer heard without the involun- 
 tary recollection of unpleasing images. 
 
 When Macbeth is confirming himself in the 
 horrid purpose of stabbing his king, he breaks 
 out amidst his emotions into a wish natural for 
 a murderer : 
 
 - Come, thick night! 
 And pall thee in the dumiest smoke of hell, 
 That my keen knife see not the wound it makes; 
 Nor Heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, 
 To cry, Hold, hold! 
 
 In this passage is exerted all the force of poetry . 
 that force which calls new powers into being, 
 which embodies sentiment, and animates mat- 
 ter ; yet, perhaps, scarce any man now peruses 
 it without some disturbance of his attention from 
 the counteraction of the words to the ideas. 
 What can be more dreadful than to implore the 
 presence of night, invested, not in common ob- 
 scurity, but in the smoke of hell ? Yet the effi- 
 cacy of this invocation is destroyed by the inser- 
 tion of an epithet now seldom heard but in the 
 stable, and dun night may come or go without 
 any other notice than contempt. 
 
 If we start into raptures when some hero of 
 the Iliad tells us that &6pv nalvtrai, his lance rages 
 with eagerness to destroy ; if we are alarmed at 
 the terror of the soldiers commanded by Ciesar 
 to hew down the sacred grove, who dreaded, 
 says Lucan, lest the axe aimed at the oak should 
 fly hack upon the striker : 
 
 Si robora sacra ferirent, 
 
 In tua credebant rcdituras mcmlra secures, 
 
 None dares with impious steel the grove to rend 
 Lest on himself the destined stroke descend ; 
 
 we cannot surely but sympathise with the hoi 
 rors of a wretch about to murder his master, his 
 friend, his benefactor, who suspects that the 
 weapon will refuse its office, and start back from 
 the breast which he is preparing to violate. Yet 
 this sentiment is weakened by the name of an 
 instrument used by butchers and cooks in the 
 meanest employments; we do not immediately 
 conceive that any crime of importance is to be 
 committed with a knife ; or who does not, at last, 
 from the long habit of connecting a knife with 
 sordid offices, feel aversion rather than terror ? 
 
 Macbeth proceeds to wish, in the madness of 
 guilt, that the inspection of Heaven may be in- 
 tercepted, and that he may in the involutions of 
 infernal darkness, escape the eye of Providence. 
 This is the utmost extravagance of determined 
 wickedness : yet this is so debased by two unfor- 
 tunate words, that while I endeavour to impress 
 on my reader the energy of the sentiment, 1 can 
 scarcely check my risibility, when the expression 
 forces itself upon my mind ; for who, without 
 some relaxation of his gravity, can hear of the 
 avengers of guilt peeping through a blanket ? 
 
 These imperfectionsofdictionareless obvious to 
 the reader, as he is less acquainted with common 
 usages ; they are therefore wholly imperceptible
 
 No. 169.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 to a foreigner, who learns our language from 
 books, and will strike a solitary academic less 
 forcibly than a modish lady. 
 
 Among the numerous requisites that most con- 
 cur to complete an author, few are of more im- 
 oortance than an early entrance into the living 
 world. The seeds of knowledge maybe planted 
 in solitude, but must be cultivated in public. Ar- 
 gumentation maybe taught in colleges, and theo- 
 ries formed in retirement ; but the artifice of em- 
 bellishment, and the powers of attraction, can be 
 gained only by general converse. 
 
 An acquaintance with prevailing customs and 
 fashionable elegance is 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 JEueas 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 preter- 
 natural beauty. Whoever desires, for his writ- 
 ings or himself, what none can reasonably con- 
 temn, 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 ex- 
 pected that the patrons of science or virtue should 
 be solicitous to discover excellences, 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 sentiments meanly expressed, and be 
 ridiculed and forgotten before he is understood. 
 
 No 169.] TUESDAY, OCT. 29, 1751. 
 
 ffecpluteum cttdit, nee demorsos sapit ungves. 
 
 PERSIUS. 
 
 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 form- 
 ed for long duration arrives slowly to its maturity. 
 Thus the firmest timber is of tardy growth, and 
 animals generally exceed each other in longevi- 
 ty, in proportion to the time between their con- 
 ception and their birth. 
 
 The same observation maybe extended to the 
 offspring of the mind. Hasty compositions, how- 
 ever 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 at- 
 tention 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 that mankind are at 
 leisure for attention to his extemporary sallies, 
 and that posterity will reposit his casual effusions 
 among the treasures of ancient wisdom? 
 2H 
 
 Men have sometimes appeared of such tran- 
 scendant 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 understand- 
 ing, and fancy that he is born to be illustrious 
 without labour, than to omit the cares of hus 
 bandry, and expect from his ground the bios 
 soms 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 no 
 tions by books or conversation, are persuaded by 
 the partiality which we all feel in our own fa- 
 vour, that they have reached the summit of ex- 
 cellence, 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 surround- 
 ing 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 anxi- 
 ety and terror the determination of the public. 
 " I please every one else," says Tully, " but ne- 
 ver satisfy myself." 
 
 It has often been inquired, why, notwithstand- 
 ing the advances of latter ages in science, and 
 the assistance which the infusion of so many new 
 ideas has given us, we still 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 ad- 
 vantage they might gain merely by priority, 
 which put them in possession of the most natural 
 sentiments, and left us nothing but servile repe- 
 tition 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 indefati- 
 gable diligence. 
 
 Among the writers of antiquity I remember 
 none except Statius who ventures to mention the 
 speedy production of his writings either as an ex- 
 tenuation 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 modem
 
 258 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 170. 
 
 -)oems, employed twelve years upon the The- 
 Laid, and thinks his claim to renown proportion- 
 ate to his labour. 
 
 Thebais, mv.Ua cruciata lima, 
 Tcntat, audacijidc, Mantuana 
 Gaudia famtc. 
 
 Polished with endless toil, my lays 
 At length aspire to Mautuan 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 Metamor- 
 phoses 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 di- 
 versity 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 dramatic 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, ac- 
 cording 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 diur- 
 nal writers ; multa dies, et multa litura, much 
 time, and many rasures, were considered as in- 
 dispensable requisites ; and that no other method 
 of attaining lasting praise has been yet discover- 
 ed, may be conjectured from the blotted manu- 
 scripts 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 se- 
 cure 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 imperfec- 
 tions are Unavoidable, even where the mind fur- 
 nishes 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 recom- 
 pense, and gave his work to his friends and his 
 enemies as soon as impatience and pride per- 
 suaded him to conclude it. 
 
 One of the most pernicious effects of haste is 
 obscurity. He that teems with a quick succes- 
 sion of ideas, and perceives how one sentiment 
 produces another, easily believes that he can 
 clearly express what he so strongly compre- 
 hends ; he seldom suspects his thoughts of em- 
 barrassment, while he preserves in his own me- 
 mory the series of connexion, or his diction of 
 
 ambiguity, while only one sense is present to hia 
 mind. Yet if he has been employed on an ab- 
 struse or complicated argument, he will find, 
 when he has a while 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, disen 
 tangle his method, and alter his arrangement. 
 
 Authors and lovers always suffer some infatu- 
 ation, 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 in 
 juring his honour and his quiet. 
 
 No. 170.] SATURDAY, Nov. 2, 1751. 
 
 Confiteor: si quidprodest delicta fateri. oviu 
 I grant the charge : forgive the fault confess'd. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 S 1R , 
 
 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 bur- 
 dened 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 compas- 
 sion 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 pa- 
 rental fondness, and the little family passed in 
 review before him, that lie 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 de- 
 clared 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 
 dropped, but wiped 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 ut- 
 tered 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
 
 Ko. 171.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 259 
 
 luxurious table, and grew familiar to show, noise, 
 and gayety. 
 
 In three years my mother died, having im- 
 plored 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 for- 
 tune, and had once a fortune 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 
 Ji\ ide 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 considerable expense ; so that partly lest 
 1 should waste money, and partly lest my ap- 
 pearance 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 resent- 
 ment would precipitate my fall. I therefore en- 
 deavoured 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 ex- 
 change repartees with me, and consult me about 
 alterations of a cast gown. 
 
 I was now completely depressed ; and though 
 I had seen mankind enough to know the neces- 
 sity of outward cheerfulness, 1 often withdrew 
 to my chamber to vent my grief, or turn my con- 
 dition 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 un- 
 derstand, he filled me with tenderness and grati- 
 tude, compelled me to repose on him as my only 
 support, and produced a necessity of private con- 
 versation. 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 retain- 
 ing 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 advan- 
 tage of the familiarity which he enjoyed as my 
 
 relation, and the submission which he exacted 
 as my benefactor, to complete the ruin of an or- 
 phan, whom his own promises had made indi- 
 gent, whom his indulgence had melted, and hia 
 authority subdued. 
 
 I know not why it should afford subject of 
 exultation, to overpower on any terms the reso- 
 lution, 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 ap- 
 proaches, 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 ri- 
 vals, but attack only those who cannot resist, 
 and are often content to possess the body, with- 
 out any solicitude to gain the heart. 
 
 Many of these despicable wretches does my 
 present acquaintance with infamy and wicked 
 ness 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 gal- 
 lantry which stole gradually upon the affections 
 and laid prudence asleep, but by the fear of losing 
 benefits which were never intended, or of incur- 
 ring 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 dis- 
 covery, and often upbraided me with the anxiety 
 which perhaps none but himself saw in my coun- 
 tenance ; but at last mingled his assurances of 
 protection and maint.encnce with menaces of 
 total desertion, if, in the moments of perturba- 
 tion, I should suffer his secret to escape, or en- 
 deavour 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 
 country, and I entered upon a state which shall 
 be described in my next letter. 
 
 I am, Sir, &c. 
 
 MISELLA. 
 
 No. 171.] TUESDAY, Nov. 5, 1751. 
 
 Tadet cadi convexa tueri. VIRC. 
 
 Dark is the sun, and loathsome is the day 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 MISELLA now sits down to continue her narra- 
 tive. I am convinced that nothing would more 
 powerfully preserve youth from irregularity, or 
 cruard inexperience from seduction, than a just 
 description of the condition into which the wan
 
 260 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 171. 
 
 ton plunges herself, and therefore hope that my 
 letter may be a sufficient antidote to my ex- 
 ample. 
 
 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 as- 
 sumed 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 at- 
 tention, 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 endeavourto 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 innume- 
 rable 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 falla- 
 cious ; 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 substi- 
 tuting any other support I listened awhile to 
 his impious gabble ; but its influence was soon 
 overpowered by natural reason and early educa- 
 tion, and the convictions which this new attempt 
 gave me of his baseness completed my abhor- 
 rence. 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 de- 
 stroyed by a general insurrection of all social be- 
 ings ; 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 re- 
 turn ! I had hitherto considered him as a man 
 equally betrayed with myself by the concurrence 
 of appetite and opportunity ; but I now saw with 
 horror 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, 
 > n |y by the continuance of his favour. He pro- 
 vided all that was necessary, and in a few weeks 
 congratulated me upon my escape from the dan- 
 ger which we had both expected with so much 
 nxiety. I then began to remind him of his pro- 
 nise to restore me with my fame uninjured to 
 ie world. He promised me in general terms, 
 1 ? jJ ng should be wanting which his power 
 ild add to my happiness, but forehore to re- 
 e me from my confinement. I knew how 
 uch my reception in the world depended upon 
 
 my speedy return, and was therefore outrage- 
 ously impatient of his delays, which I now per- 
 ceived to be only artifices of Icwdness. He told 
 me at last, with an appearance of sorrow, that 
 all hopes of restoration to rny 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 1 yielded myself implicitly to his dis- 
 posal, 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 obscu- 
 rity 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 en- 
 deavoured to soothe me with uncommon expres- 
 sions of tenderness, when he found my discontent 
 immoveable, left me with some inarticulate mur- 
 murs 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 inter- 
 vals, till I was alarmed with the danger of want- 
 ing subsistence. I then suddenly contracted my 
 expenses, but was unwilling to supplicate for as- 
 sistance. Necessity, however, soon overcame 
 my modesty or my pride, and I applied to him 
 by 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 upon 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 1 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 neces- 
 sity 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. 
 
 To remonstrate against legal cruelty was vain: 
 to supplicate obdurate brutality was hopeless. I 
 went away I knew not whither, and wandered 
 about without any settled purpose, unacquainted 
 with the usual expedients of misery, unqualified 
 for laborious offices, afraid to meet an eye that 
 had seen me before, and hopeless of relief from 
 those who were strangers to my former condi- 
 tiont Night came on in the midst of my distrac- 
 tion, and I still continued to wander till the me- 
 naces of the watch obliged me to shelter myself 
 in a covered passage. 
 
 Next day, I procured a lodging in the back- 
 ward garret of a mean house, and employed my 
 landlady to inquire for a service. My applica
 
 No. 172.} THE RAMBLER. 
 
 tions were generally rejected for want of a charac- 
 ter. At length I was received.at a draper's ; hut 
 when it was known to my mistress that I had 
 only one gown, and that of silk, she was of 
 opinio that I looked like a thief, and without 
 warning hurried me away. I then tried to sup- 
 port myself by my needle ; and, by my landlady's 
 recommendation, obtained a little work from a 
 shop, and for three weeks lived without repining; 
 but when my punctuality had gained me so much 
 reputation that I was trusted to make up a head 
 of some value, one of my fellow lodgers stole the 
 lace, and I was obliged to fly from a prosecution. 
 
 Thus driven again into the streets, I lived upon 
 the least that could support me, and at night ac- 
 commodated myself under pent-houses as well as 
 I could. At length I became absolutely penni- 
 less, and, having strolled all day without suste- 
 nance, was, at the close of evening, accosted 
 by an elderly man, with an invitation to a tavern. 
 I. refused him with hesitation ; he seized me by 
 the hand, and drew me into a neighbouringhouse, 
 where when he saw my face pale with hunger, 
 and my eyes swelling with tears, he spurned me 
 from him, and bade me cant and whine in some 
 other place ; he for his part would take care of 
 his pockets. 
 
 I still continued to stand in the way, having 
 scarcely strength to walk further, when another 
 soon addressed me in the same manner. When 
 he saw the same tokens of calamity, he consi- 
 dered that I might be obtained at a cheap rate, 
 and therefore quickly made overtures, which I 
 had no longer firmness to reject. By this man I 
 was maintained four months in penurious wick- 
 edness, and then abandoned to my former con- 
 dition, from which I was delivered by another 
 keeper. 
 
 la this abject state, I have now passed four 
 years, the drudge of extortion and the sport of 
 drunkenness; sometimes the property of one 
 man, and sometimes the common prey of acci- 
 dental lewdness ; at one time tricked up for sale 
 by the mistress of a brothel ; at another begging 
 in ths streets to be relieved from hunger by 
 wickedness ; without any hope in the day but of 
 finding some whom folly or excess may expose 
 to my allurements, and without any reflections 
 at night, but such as guilt and terror impress 
 upon me. 
 
 If those who pass theirdays in plenty and se- 
 curity, could visit for an hour the dismal recep- 
 tacles to which the prostitute retires from her 
 nocturnal excursions, and see the wretches that 
 lie crowded together, mad with intemperance, 
 ghastly with famine, nauseous with filth, and 
 noisome with disease : it would not be very easy 
 for any degree of abhorrence to harden them 
 against compassion, or to repress the desire 
 which they must immediately feel to rescue such 
 numbers of human beings from a state so 
 dreadful. 
 
 It is said that in France they annually evacu- 
 ate their streets, and ship their prostitutes and 
 vagabonds to their colonies. If the women that 
 infest this city had the same opportunityof escap- 
 ing from their miseries, I believe very little force 
 would be necessary ; for who among them can 
 dread any change ? Many of us indeed are 
 wholly unqualified for any but most servile em- 
 ployments, and those perhaps would require the 
 care of a magistrate to hinder them from follow- 
 
 201 
 
 ing the same practices in another country ; but 
 others are only precluded by infamy from reform- 
 ation, and would gladly be delivered on any 
 terms from the necessity of guilt, and the tyranny 
 of chance. No place but a populous city can 
 afford opportunities for open prostitution, and 
 where the eye of justice can attend to indivi 
 duals, those who cannot be made good may be 
 restrained from mischief. For my part, I should 
 exult at the privilege of banishment, and think 
 myself happy in any region that should restore 
 me once again to honesty and peace. 
 I am, Sir, &c. 
 
 MISELLA. 
 
 No. 172.] SATURDAY, Nov, 9, 1751, 
 
 Sape-t ogare soles qualis sun, Pritce, futurta 
 Si jiam locuples ; simque repeats patens. 
 
 Quemqu'im posse putas mores nar rare futures? 
 Hc miki, sijias ta leo, qualis eris. MART 
 
 Priscus, you've often asked me how I'd live, 
 Should fate at once both wealth and honour give, 
 What soul his future conduct can foresee? 
 Tell me what sort of liou you would be. 
 
 F. LEV/IS 
 
 NOTHING has been longer observed, than that a 
 change of fortune causes a change of manners ; 
 and that it is difficult to conjecture from the con- 
 duct of him whom we see in a low condition, 
 how he would act, if wealth and power were put 
 into his hands. But it is generally agreed, that 
 few men are made better by affluence or exalta- 
 tion ; and that the powers of the mind, when 
 they are unbound and expanded by the sunshine 
 of felicity, more frequently luxuriate into follies 
 than blossom into goodness. 
 
 Many observations have concurred to establish 
 this opinion, and it is not likely soon to become 
 obsolete, for want of new occasions to revive it. 
 The greater part of mankind are corrupt in every 
 condition, and differ in high and low stations, 
 only as they have more or fewer opportunities 
 of gratifying their desires, or as they are more or 
 less restrained by human censures. Many vitiate 
 their principles in the acquisition of riches ; and 
 who can wonder that what is gained by fraud and 
 extortion is enjoyed with tyranny and excess ? 
 
 Yet I am willing to believe that the deprava- 
 tion of the mind by external advantages, though 
 certainly not uncommon, yet approaches not so 
 nearly to universality, as some have asserted in 
 the bitterness of resentment, or heat of declama- 
 tion? 
 
 Whoever rises above those who once pleased 
 themselves with equality, will have many male- 
 volent gazers at his eminence. To gain sooner 
 than others that which all pursue with the same 
 ardour, and to which all imagine themselves en- 
 titled, will for ever be a crime. When those 
 who started with us in the race of life, leave us 
 so far behind that we have little hope to overtake 
 them,we revenge our disappointment by remarks 
 on the arts of supplantation by which they gained 
 the advantage, or on the folly and arrogance 
 with which they possess it Of them whose rise 
 we could not hinder, we solace ourselves by 
 prognosticating the fall. 
 
 It is impossible for human purity not to betray 
 to an eye, thus sharpened by malignity, some 
 stains which lay concealed and unregarded, 
 while none thought it their interest to discover
 
 262 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 173. 
 
 them ; nor can the most circumspect attention, 
 or steady rectitude, escape blame from censors 
 who have no inclination to approve. Riches 
 therefore, perhaps, do not so often produce 
 crimes as incite accusers. 
 
 The common charge against those who rise 
 above their original condition, is that of pride. It 
 is certain that success naturally confirms us in a 
 favourable opinion of our own abilities. Scarce 
 any man is willing to allot to accident, friend- 
 ship, and a thousand causes, which concur in 
 every event without human contrivance or inter- 
 position, the part which they may justly claim in 
 his advancement. We rate ourselves by our 
 fortune rather than our virtues, and exorbitant 
 claims are quickly produced by imaginary merit. 
 But captiousness and jealousy are likewise easily 
 offended, and to him who studiously looks, for an 
 affront, every mode of behaviour will supply it ; 
 freedom will be rudeness, and reserve sullen- 
 ness; mirth" will be negligence, and seriousness 
 formality ; when he is received with ceremony, 
 distance and respect are inculcated; if he is 
 treated with familiarity, he concludes himself 
 insulted by condescensions. 
 
 It must however be confessed, that as all sud- 
 den changes are dangerous, a quick transition 
 from poverty to abundance can seldom be made 
 with safety. He that has long lived within sight 
 of pleasures which he could not reach, will need 
 more than common moderation, not to lose his 
 reason in unbounded riot, when they are first put 
 into his power. 
 
 Every possession is endeared by novelty; 
 every gratification is exaggerated by desire. It 
 is difficult not to estimate what is lately gained 
 above its real value; it is impossible not to annex 
 greater happiness to that condition from which 
 we are unwillingly excluded, than nature has 
 qualified us to obtain. For this reason, the re- 
 mote inheritor of an unexpected fortune may be 
 generally distinguished from those who are en- 
 riched in the common course of lineal descent, 
 by his greater haste to enjoy his wealth, by the 
 finery of his dress, the pomp of his equipage, the 
 splendour of his furniture, and the luxury of his 
 table. 
 
 A thousand things which familiarity discovers 
 to be of little value, have power for a time to 
 seize the imagination. A Virginian king, when 
 the Europeans had fixed a lock on his door, was 
 so delighted to find his subjects admitted or ex- 
 cluded with such facility, that it was from morn- 
 ing to evening his whole employment to turn the 
 key. We, among whom locks and keys have 
 been longer in use, are inclined to laugh at this 
 American amusement ; yet I doubt whether this 
 paper will have a single reader that may not 
 apply the story to himself, and recollect some 
 hours of his life in which he has been equally 
 overpowered by the transitory charms of trifling 
 novelty. 
 
 Some indulgence is due to him whom a happy 
 gale of fortune has suddenly transported into 
 new regions, where unaccustomed lustre dazzles 
 liis eyes, and untasted delicacies solicit his appe- 
 tite. Let him not be considered as lost in hope- 
 less degeneracy, though he for a while forgets 
 the regard due to others, to indulge the contem- 
 plation of himself, and in the extravagance of his 
 first raptures expects that his eye should regu- 
 late the motions of all that approach him, and 
 
 ills opinion be received as decisive and oraculous. 
 His intoxication will give way to time ; the mad- 
 ness of joy will fume imperceptibly away ; the 
 sense of his insufficiency will soon return ; he 
 will remember that the co-operation of others is 
 necessary to his happiness, and learn to con- 
 ciliate their regard by reciprocal beneficence. 
 
 There is, at least, one consideration which 
 ought to alleviate our censures of the powerful 
 and rich. To imagine them chargeable with all 
 the guilt and folly of their own actions, is to be 
 very little acquainted with the world. 
 
 De I'absolu pouvoir vous ignorcz I'yvresse, 
 Et du lache flatcur la voix enchanteresse. 
 
 Thou hast not known the giddy whirls of fate, 
 Nor servile flatteries which enchant the great. 
 
 MISS A. w. 
 
 He that can do much good or harm will not 
 find many whom ambition or cowardice will 
 suffer to be sincere. While we live upon the 
 level with the rest of mankind, we are reminded 
 of our duty by the admonitions of friends and re- 
 proaches of enemies ; but men who stand in the 
 highest ranks of society, seldom hear of their 
 faults ; if by any accident an opprobrious clamour 
 reaches their ears, flattery is always at hand to 
 pour in her opiates, to quiet conviction, and ob- 
 tund remorse. 
 
 Favour is seldom gained but by conformity in 
 vice. Virtue can stand without assistance, and 
 considers herself as very little obliged by coun- 
 tenance and approbation ; but vice, spiritless 
 and timorous, seeks the shelter of crowds, and 
 support of confederacy. The sycophant, there- 
 fore, neglects the good qualities of his patron, 
 and employs all his art on his weakness and fol- 
 lies, regales his reigning vanity, or stimulates his 
 prevalent desires. 
 
 Virtue is sufficiently difficult with any circum- 
 stances, but the difficulty is increased when re- 
 proof and advice are frighted away. In common 
 life, reason and conscience have only the appe- 
 tites and passions to encounter ; but in higher 
 stations they must oppose artifice and adulation. 
 He, therefore, that yields to such temptations, 
 cannot give those who look upon his miscarriage 
 much reason for exultation, since few can justly 
 presume that from the same snare they should 
 have been able to escape. 
 
 No. 173.] TUESDAY, Nov. 12, 1751. 
 
 -Quo virtus, quoferat error. 
 
 Now say, where virtue stops, and vice begins ? 
 
 As any action or posture, long continued, will 
 distort and disfigure the limbs; so the mind 
 likewise is crippled and contracted by perpetual 
 application to the same set of ideas. It is easy 
 to guess the trade of an artisan by his knees, his 
 fingers, or his shoulders : and there are few 
 among menofthe moreliberal professions, whose 
 minds do not carry the brand of their calling, or 
 whose conversation does not quickly discover to 
 what class of the community they belong. 
 
 These peculiarities have been of great use, in 
 the general hostility which every part of mankind 
 exercises against the rest, to furnish insults and 
 sarcasms. Every art has its dialect, uncouth 
 and ungrateful to all whom custom has not re- 
 conciled to its sound, and which therefore be
 
 No. 173.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 2G; 
 
 comes ridiculous by a slight misapplication, or 
 unnecessary repetition. 
 
 The general reproach with which ignorance 
 revenges the superciliousness of learning, is that 
 of pedantry; a censure which every man incurs, 
 who has at any time the misfortune to talk to 
 those who cannot understand him, and by which 
 the modest and timorous are sometimes frighted 
 from the display of their acquisitions, and the ex- 
 ertion of their powers. 
 
 The name of a pedant is so formidable to young 
 men when they first sally from their colleges, 
 and is so liberally scattered by those who mean 
 to boast their elegance of education, easiness of 
 manners, and knowledge of the world, that it 
 seems to require particular consideration ; since, 
 perhaps, if it were once understood, many a heart 
 might be freed from painful apprehensions, and 
 many a tongue delivered from restraint. 
 
 Pedantry is the unseasonable ostentation of 
 learning. It may be discovered either in the 
 choice of a subject, or in the manner of treating 
 it He is undoubtedly guilty of pedantry, who, 
 when he has made himself master of some ab- 
 struse and uncultivated part of knowledge, ob- 
 trudes his remarks and discoveries upon those 
 whom he believes unable to judge of his profi- 
 ciency, and from whom, as he cannot fear con- 
 tradiction, he cannot properly expect applause. 
 
 To this error the student is sometimes betrayed 
 by the natural recurrence of the mind to its com- 
 mon employment, by the pleasure which every 
 man receives from the recollection of pleasing 
 imases, and the desire of dwelling upon topics 
 on which he knows himself able to speak with 
 justness. But because we are seldom so far pre- 
 judiced in favour of each other, as to search out 
 for palliations, this failure of politeness is imputed 
 always to vanity; and the harmless collegiate, 
 who, perhaps, intended entertainment and in- 
 struction, or at worst only spoke without suffi- 
 cient reflection upon the character of his hear- 
 ers, is censured as arrogant or overbearing, and 
 eager to extend his renown, in contempt of the 
 convenience of society, and the laws of conver- 
 sation. 
 
 All discourse of which others cannot partake, 
 is not only an irksome usurpation of the time de- 
 voted to pleasure and entertainment, but, what 
 never fails to excite very keen resentment, an in- 
 solent assertion of superiority, and a triumph 
 over less enlightened understandings. The pe- 
 dant is, therefore, not only heard with weariness, 
 but malignity ; and thosa who conceive them- 
 selves insulted by his knowledge, never fail to 
 tell with acrimony how injudiciously it was ex- 
 erted. 
 
 To avoid this dangerous imputation, scholars 
 sometimes divest themselves with too much haste 
 of their academical formality, and, in their endea- 
 vours to accommodate their notions and their 
 style to common conceptions, talk rather of any 
 thing than of that which they understand, and 
 sink into insipidity of sentiment and meanness 
 sider argument or criticism as perpetually inter- 
 of expression. 
 
 There prevails among men of letters an opinion, 
 that all appearance of science is particularly hate- 
 ful to women ; and that therefore, whoever de- 
 sires to be well received in female assemblies, 
 must qualify himself by a total rejection of all 
 that is serious, rational or important ; must con- 
 
 dieted ; and devote all his attention to trifles, and 
 all his eloquence to compliment. 
 
 Students often form their notions of the present 
 generation from the writings of the past, and are 
 very early informed of those changes which the 
 gradual difi'usion of knowledge, or the sudden 
 caprice of fashion, produces in the world. What- 
 ever might be the state of female literature in the 
 last century, there is now no longer any danger 
 lest the scholar should want an adequate audience 
 at the tea-table ; and whoever thinks it necessary 
 to regulate his conversation by antiquated rules, 
 will be rather despised for his futility than ca- 
 ressed for his politeness. 
 
 To talk intentionally in a manner above the 
 comprehension of those whom we address, is un- 
 questionable pedantry ; but surely complaisance, 
 requires, that no man should, without proof, con 
 elude his company incapable of following him to 
 the highest elevation of his fancy, or the utmost 
 extent of his knowledge. It is always safer to 
 err in favour of others than of ourselves, and 
 therefore we seldom hazard much by endeavour- 
 ing to excel. 
 
 It ought at least to be the care of learning, 
 when she quits her exaltation, to descend with 
 dignity. Nothing is more despicable than the 
 airiness and jocularity of a man bred to severe sci- 
 ence, and solitary meditation. To trifle agreea- 
 bly is a secret which schools cannot impart ; that 
 gay negligence and vivacious levity, which charm 
 down resistance wherever they appear, are never 
 attainable by him who, having spent his first 
 years among the dust of libraries, enters late into 
 the gay world with an unpliant attention and 
 established habits. 
 
 It is observed in the panegyric on Fabricius 
 the mechanist, that, though forced by public em- 
 ployments into mingled conversation, he never 
 lost the modesty and seriousness of the convent, 
 nor drew ridicule upon himself by affected imita- 
 tion of fashionable life. To the same praise 
 every man devoted to learning ought to aspire. 
 If he attempts the softer arts of pleasing, and en- 
 deavours to learn the grateful bow and the fa- 
 miliar embrace, the insinuating accent and the 
 general smile, he will lose the respect due to the 
 character of learning, without arriving at the en- 
 vied honour of doing nothing with elegance and 
 facility. 
 
 Theophrastus was discovered not to be a na- 
 tive of Athens, by so strict an adherence to the 
 Attic dialect, as showed that he had learned it 
 not by custom, but by rule. A man not early 
 formed to habitual elegance, betrays in like man- 
 ner the effects of his education, by an unneces* 
 sary anxiety of behaviour. It is as possible to 
 become pedantic by fear of pedantry, as to be 
 troublesome by ill-timed civility. There is no 
 kind of impertinence more justly censurable, 
 than his who is always labouring to level thoughts 
 to intellects higher than his own ; who apolo- 
 gizes for every word which his own narrowness 
 of converse inclines him to think unusual ; keeps 
 the exuberance of his faculties under visible re- 
 straint; is solicitous to anticipate inquiries by 
 needless explanations ; and endeavours to shade 
 his own abilities, lest weak eyes should be das 
 zled with their lustre.
 
 204 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 174. 
 
 No. 174.] SATURDAY, NOT. 15, 1751. 
 
 Fanum hdbet in cornu ; longefvge ; dummodo risum 
 Excutiat sibi, non hie cuiquam parcel amico. HOR 
 
 Yonder he drives avoid that furious beast : 
 
 If he may have his jest, he never cares 
 
 At whose expense ; nor friend nor patron spares. 
 
 FRANCIS. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 MR. RAMBLER, 
 
 THE laws of social benevolence require, that 
 every man should endeavour to assist others by 
 his experience. He that has at last escaped into 
 port from the fluctuations of chance, and the 
 gusts of opposition, ought to make some im- 
 provements in the chart of life, by marking the 
 rocks on which he has been dashed, and the 
 shallows where he has been stranded. 
 
 The error into which I was betrayed, when 
 custom first gave me up to my own direction, 
 is very frequently incident to the quick, the 
 sprightly, the fearless, and the gay ; to all whose 
 ardour hurries them into precipitate execution of 
 their designs, and imprudent declaration of their 
 opinions ; who seldom count the cost of plea- 
 sure, or examine the distant consequences of 
 any practice that flatters them with immediate 
 gratification. 
 
 I came forth into the crowded world with the 
 usual juvenile ambition, and desired nothing be- 
 yond the title of a wit. Money I considered as 
 below my care ; for I saw such multitudes grow 
 rich without understanding, that I could not for- 
 bear to look on wealth as an acquisition easy to 
 industry directed by genius, and therefore threw it 
 aside as a secondary convenience, to be procured 
 when my principal wish should be satisfied, and 
 my claim to intellectual excellence universally 
 acknowledged. 
 
 With this view I regulated my behaviour in 
 public, and exercised my meditations in solitude. 
 My life was divided between the care of provid- 
 ing topics for the entertainment of my company, 
 and that of collecting company worthy to be en- 
 tertained ; for I soon found, that wit, like every 
 other power, has its boundaries ; that its success 
 depends upon the aptitude of others to receive 
 impressions ; and that as some bodies, indisso- 
 luble by heat, can set the furnace and crucible at 
 defiance, there are minds upon which the rays of 
 fancy may be pointed without effect, and which 
 no fire of sentiment can agitate or exalt. 
 
 It was, however, not long, before I fitted my- 
 self with a set of companions who knew how to 
 laugh, and to whom no other recommendation 
 was necessary than the power of striking out a 
 jest. Among those I fixed my residence, and 
 for a time enjoyed the felicity of disturbing the 
 neighbours every night with the obstreperous ap- 
 plause which my sallies forced from the audience. 
 The reputation of our club every day increased, 
 and as my flights and remarks were circulated 
 by my admirers, every day brought new solicita- 
 tions for admission into our society. 
 
 To support this perpetual fund of merriment, 
 I frequented every place of concourse, cultivated 
 the acquaintance of all the fashionable race, and 
 passed the day in a continual succession of visits, 
 in which I collected a treasure of pleasantry for 
 the expenses of the evening. Whatever error of 
 conduct I could discover, whatever peculiarity of 
 manner I could observe, whatever weakness was 
 
 betrayed by confidence, whatever lapse was suf- 
 fered by neglect, all was drawn together for the 
 diversion of my wild companions, who when they 
 had been taught the art of ridicule, never failed 
 to signalize themselves by a zealous imitation, 
 and filled the town on the ensuing day with scan- 
 dal and vexation, with merriment and shame. 
 
 I can scarcely believe, when I recollect my 
 own practice, that I could have been so far de- 
 luded with petty praise, as to divulge the secrets 
 of trust, and to expose the levities of frankness ; 
 to waylay the walks of the cautious, and surprise 
 the security of the thoughtless. Yet it is certain, 
 that for many years I heard nothing but with de- 
 sign to tell it, and saw nothing with any other 
 curiosity than after some failure that might fur- 
 nish out a jest. 
 
 My heart, indeed, acquits me of deliberate ma- 
 lignity, or interested insidiousness. I had no 
 other purpose than to heighten the pleasure of 
 laughter by communication, nor ever raised any 
 pecuniary advantage from the calamities of 
 others. I led weakness and negligence into dif 
 ficulties, only that I might divert myself with 
 their perplexities and distresses; and violated 
 every law of friendship, with no other hope than 
 that of gaining the reputation of smartness and 
 waggery. 
 
 I would not be understood to charge myself 
 with any crimes of the atrocious or destructive 
 kind. I never betrayed an heir to gamesters, or 
 a girl to debauchees; never intercepted the kind- 
 ness of a patron, or sported away the reputation 
 of innocence. My delight was only in petty mis- 
 chief and momentary vexations, and my acute- 
 ness was employed not upon fraud and oppres- 
 sion, which it had been meritorious to detect, 
 but upon harmless ignorance or absurdity, pre- 
 judice or mistake. 
 
 This inquiry I pursued with so much diligence 
 and sagacity, that I was able to relate, of every 
 man whom I knew, some blunder or miscar- 
 riage ; to betray the most circumspect of my 
 friends into follies, by a judicious flattery of his 
 predominant passion ; or expose him to con- 
 tempt, by placing him in circumstances which 
 ut his prejudices into action, brought to view 
 is natural defects, or drew the attention of the 
 company on his airs of affectation. 
 
 The power had been possessed in vain if it 
 had never been exerted ; and it was not my cus- 
 tom to let any arts of jocularity remain unem- 
 ployed. My impatienceofapplau.se brought me 
 always early to the place of entertainment; and 
 I seldom failed to lay a scheme with the small 
 knot that first gathered round me, by which 
 some of those whom we expected might be made 
 subservient to our sport. Every man has some 
 favourite topic of conversation, on which, by a 
 feigned seriousness of attention, he may be drawn 
 to expatiate without end. Every man has some 
 habitual contortion of body, or established mode 
 of expression, which never fails to raise mirth if 
 it be pointed out to notice. By premonitions of 
 these particularities I secured our pleasantry. 
 Our companion entered with his usual gayety, 
 and began to partake of our noisy cheerfulness, 
 when the conversation was imperceptibly di- 
 verted to a subject which pressed upon his tender 
 part, and extorted the expected shrug, the cus- 
 tomary exclamation, or the predicted remark. 
 A general clamour of joy then burst from afl
 
 No. 175.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 265 
 
 that were admitted to the stratagem. Our mirth 
 was often increased by the triumph of him that 
 occasioned it ; for, as we do not hastily form 
 conclusions against ourselves, seldom any one 
 suspected that he had exhilarated us otherwise 
 than by his wit 
 
 You will hear, I believe, with very little sur- 
 prise that by this conduct I had in a short time 
 united mankind against me, and that every 
 tongue was diligent in prevention or revenge. I 
 soon perceived myself regarded with malevo- 
 lence or distrust, but wondered what had been 
 discovered in me either terrible or hateful. I 
 had invaded no man's property ; I had rivalled 
 no man's claims ; nor had ever engaged in any 
 of those attempts which provoke the jealousy of 
 ambition, or the rage of faction. I had lived but 
 to laugh, and make others laugh ; and believed 
 that I was loved by all who caressed, and fa- 
 voured by all who applauded me. I never 
 imagined that he who, in the mirth of a nocturnal 
 revel, concurred in ridiculing his friend, would 
 consider in a cooler hour, that the same trick 
 might be played against himself; or that, even 
 where there is no sense of danger, the natural 
 pride of human nature rises against him, who, 
 by general censures, lays claim to general supe- 
 riority. 
 
 I was convinced, by a total desertion, of the 
 impropriety of my conduct ; every man avoided, 
 and cautioned others to avoid me. Wherever I 
 came, I found silence and dejection, coldness 
 and terror. No one would venture to speak, lest 
 lie should lay himself open to unfavourable re- 
 presentations ; the company, however numerous 
 dropped off at my entrance, upon various pre- 
 tences ; and, if I retired to avoid the shame of 
 being left, I heard confidence and mirth revive 
 at my departure. 
 
 If those whom I had thus offended could have 
 contented themselves with repaying one insult 
 for another, and kept up the war only by a reci- 
 procation of sarcasms, they might have perhaps 
 vexed, but would never much have hurt me ; for 
 no man heartily hates him at whom he can 
 laugh. But these wounds which they give me 
 as they fly, are without cure ; this alarm which 
 they spread by their solicitude to escape me, ex- 
 cludes me from all friendship and from all plea- 
 sure. I am condemned to pass a long interval 
 of my life in solitude, as a man suspected of in- 
 fection is refused admission into cities ; and must 
 linger in obscurity, till my conduct shall con- 
 vince the world, that I may be approached with- 
 out hazard. I am, &c. 
 
 DICACULUS. 
 
 No. 175.] TUESDAY, Nov. 19, 1751. 
 
 Rari quippe boni, numero tixsunt totidem quot 
 Thebarum porta, vel divitis ostia Ifili. JUV. 
 
 Good men are scarce, the just are thinly sown ; 
 
 They thrive but ill, nor can they last when grown, 
 
 And should we count them, and our store compile, 
 
 Yet Thebes more gates could show, more mouths the Nile. 
 
 CREECH. 
 
 NONE of the axioms of wisdom which recom- 
 mend the ancient sages to veneration, seems to 
 have required less extent of knowledge or per- 
 spicacity of penetration, than the remark of Bias, 
 that oi Moves KOKOI, the majority are wicked. 
 21 
 
 The depravity of mankind is so easily dis- 
 coverable that nothing but the desert or the cell 
 can exclude it from notice. The knowledge ol 
 crimes intrudes uncalled and undesired. They 
 whom their abstraction from common occur- 
 rences hinders from seeing iniquity, will quickly 
 have their attention awakened by feeling it. 
 Even he who ventures not into the world, may 
 learn its corruption in his closet. For what are 
 treatises of morality, but persuasives to the prac- 
 tice of duties, for which no arguments would be 
 necessary, but that we are continually tempted 
 to violate or neglect them? What are all the 
 records of history, but narratives of successive 
 villanies, of treasons and usurpations, massacres, 
 and wars ? 
 
 But, perhaps, the excellence of aphorisms con- 
 sists not so much in the expression of some rare 
 or abstruse sentiment, as in the comprehension 
 of some obvious and useful truth in a few words. 
 We frequently fall into error and folly, not be- 
 cause the true principles of action are not known, 
 but because for a time they are not remembered ; 
 and he may therefore be justly numbered among 
 the benefactors of mankind, who contracts the 
 great rules of life into short sentences, that may 
 be easily impressed on the memory, and taught 
 by frequent recollection to recur habitually to the 
 mind. 
 
 However those who have passed through half 
 the life of man, may now wonder that any should 
 require to be cautioned against corruption, they 
 will find, that they have themselves purchased 
 their conviction by many disappointments and 
 vexations which an earlier knowledge would 
 have spared them ; and may see on every side 
 some entangling themselves in perplexities, and 
 some sinking into ruin, by ignorance or neglect 
 of the maxim of Bias. 
 
 Every day sends out, in quest of pleasure and 
 distinction, some heir fondled in ignorance, and 
 flattered into pride. He comes forth with all the 
 confidence of a spirit unacquainted with supe- 
 riors, and all the benevolence of a mind not yei 
 irritated by opposition, alarmed by fraud, or em- 
 bittered by cruelty. He loves all, because he 
 imagines himself the universal favourite. Every 
 exchange of salutation produces new acquaint- 
 ance, and every acquaintance kindles into 
 friendship. 
 
 Every season brings a new flight of beauties 
 into the world, who have hitherto heard only of 
 their own charms, and imagine that the heait 
 feels no passion but that of love. They are seen 
 surrounded by admirers whom they credit, be- 
 cause they tell them only what is heard with de- 
 light. Whoever gazes upon them is a lover; 
 and whoever forces a sigh, is pining in despair. 
 
 He surely is a useful monitor, who inculcates 
 to these thoughtless strangers, that the majority 
 are wicked; who informs them, that the train 
 which wealth and beauty draw after them is 
 lured only by the scent of prey ; and that, per- 
 haps, among all those who crowd about them 
 with professions and flatteries, there is not one 
 who does not hope for some opportunity to de- 
 vour or betray them, to glut himself by their 
 destruction, or to share their spoils with a 
 stronger savage. 
 
 Virtue, presented singly to the imagination oi 
 the reason, is so well recommended by its own 
 graces, and so strongly supported by argument*,
 
 266 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 176. 
 
 that a food man wonders how any can be bad ; 
 and they who are ignorant of the force of passion 
 and interest, who never observed the arts of 
 seduction, the contagion of example, the gradual 
 descent from one crime to another, or the insen- 
 sible depravation of the principles by loose con- 
 versation, naturally expect to find integrity in 
 every bosom, and veracity on every tongue. 
 
 It is, indeed, impossible not to hear from those 
 who have lived longer, of wrongs and falsehoods, 
 of violence and circumvention ; but such narra- 
 tives are commonly regarded by the young, the 
 heady, and the confident, as nothing more than 
 the murmurs of peevishness, or the dreams of 
 dotage ; and, notwithstanding all the documents 
 of hoary wisdom, we commonly plunge into the 
 world fearless and credulous without any fore- 
 sight of danger, or apprehension of deceit. 
 
 I have remarked, in a former paper, that cre- 
 dulity is the common failing of unexperienced 
 virtue ; and that he who is spontaneously sus- 
 picious, may be justly charged with radical cor- 
 ruption ; for, if he has not known the prevalence 
 of dishonesty by information, nor had time to 
 observe it with his own eyes, whence can he take 
 his measures of judgment but from himself? 
 
 They who best deserve to escape the snares of 
 artifice, are most likely to be entangled. He that 
 endeavours to live for the good of others, must 
 always be exposed to the arts of them who live 
 only for themselves, unless he is taught by timely 
 precepts the caution required in common trans- 
 actions, and shown at a distance the pitfalls of 
 treachery. 
 
 To youth, therefore, it should be carefully in- 
 culcated, that, to enter the road of life without 
 caution or reserve, in expectation of general 
 fidelity and justice, is to launch on the wide 
 ocean without the instruments of steerage, and 
 to hope that every wind will be prosperous, and 
 that every coast will afford a harbour. 
 
 To enumerate the various motives to deceit 
 and injury, would be to count all the desires that 
 prevail among the sons of men ; since there is 
 no ambition however petty, no wish however 
 absurd, that by indulgence will not be enabled to 
 overpower the influence of virtue. Many there 
 are, who openly and almost professedly regulate 
 all their conduct by their love of money ; who 
 have no other reason for action or forbearance, 
 for compliance or refusal, than that they hope to 
 gain more by one than by the other. These 
 are indeed the meanest and cruellest of human 
 beings, a race with whom, as with some pesti- 
 ferous animals, the whole creation seems to be 
 at war ; but who, however detested or scorned, 
 long continue to add heap to heap, and, when 
 they have reduced one to beggary, are still per- 
 mitted to fasten on another. 
 
 Others, yet less rationally wicked, pass their 
 lives in mischief, because they cannot bear the 
 sight of success, and mark out every man for 
 hatred, whose fame or fortune they believe in- 
 creasing. 
 
 Many, who have not advanced to these de- 
 grees of guilt, are yet wholly unqualified for 
 friendship, and unable to maintain any constant 
 or regular course of kindness. Happiness may 
 he destroyed not only by union with the man 
 who is apparently the slave of interest, but with 
 him whom a wild opinion of the dignity of per- 
 "everanre, in whatever cause, disposes to pursue 
 
 every injury with unwearied and perpetual re- 
 sentment ; with him whose vanity inclines him 
 to consider every man as a rival in every preten- 
 sion ; with him whose airy negligence puts his 
 friend's affairs or secrets in continual hazard, and 
 who thinks his forgetfulness of others excused 
 by his inattention to himself; and with him 
 whose inconstancy ranges without any settled 
 rule of choice through varieties of friendship, and 
 who adopts and dismisses favourites by the sud- 
 den impulse of caprice. 
 
 Thus numerous are the dangers to which the 
 converse of mankind exposes us, and which can 
 be avoided only by prudent distrust. He there- 
 fore that, rememberingthis salutarymaxim learns 
 early to withhold his fondness from fair appear- 
 ances, will have reason to pay some honours to 
 Bias of Priene, who enabled him to become wise 
 without the cost of experience. 
 
 No. 176.] SATURDAY, Nov. 23, 1751 
 
 Ifaso suspendere ad-unco. HUH 
 
 On me you turn the nose. 
 
 THERE are many vexatious accidents and un- 
 easy situations which raise little compassion for 
 the sufferer, and which no man but those whom 
 they immediately distress can regard with seri- 
 ousness. Petty mischiefs, that have no influence 
 on futurity, nor extend their effects to the rest of 
 life, are always seen with a kind of malicious 
 pleasure. A mistake or embarrassment, which 
 for the present moment fills the face with blushes, 
 and the mind with confusion, will have no other 
 effect upon those who observe it, than that of 
 convulsing them with irresistible laughter. Some 
 circumstances of misery are so powerfully ridicu- 
 lous, that neither kindness nor duty can with- 
 stand them ; they bear down love, interest, and 
 reverence, and force the friend, the dependent, 
 or the child, to give way to instantaneous mo- 
 tions of merriment. 
 
 Among the principal of comic calamities may 
 be reckoned trie pain which an author, not yet 
 hardened into insensibility, feels at the onset of a 
 furious critic, whose age, rank, or fortune, gives 
 him confidence to speak without reserve ; who 
 heaps one objection upon another, and obtrudes 
 his remarks, and enforces his corrections, without 
 tenderness or awe. 
 
 The author, full of the importance of his work, 
 and anxious for the justification of every sylla- 
 ble, starts and kindles at the slightest attack > 
 the critic, eager to establish his superiority, tri- 
 umphing in every discovery of failure, and zeal 
 ous to impress the cogency of his arguments 
 pursues him from line to line without cessation 
 or remorse. The critic, who hazards little, pro- 
 ceeds with vehemence, impetuosity, and fearless- 
 ness; the author, whose quiet and fame, and 
 life and immortality, are involved in the contro- 
 versy, tries every art of subterfuge and defence ; 
 maintains modestly what he resolves never to 
 yield, and yields unwillingly what cannot be 
 maintained. The critic's purpose is to conquer, 
 the author only hopes to escape ; the critic there- 
 fore knits his brow, and raises his voice, and re- 
 joices whenever he perceives any tokens of pain 
 excited by the pressure of his assertions, or the
 
 JSo. 177.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 26? 
 
 point of his sarcasms. The author, whose en 
 dcavour is at once to mollify and elude his perse 
 cutor, composes his features and softens his ac 
 cent, breaks the force of assault by retreat, an> 
 rather steps aside than flies or advances. 
 
 As it very seldom happens that the rage of ex 
 temporary criticisminflicts fatal or lasting wounds 
 I know not that the laws of benevolence entitL 
 this distress to much sympathy. The diversion 
 of baiting an author has the sanction of all ages 
 and nations, and it is more lawful than the spor 
 of teasing other animals, because, for the mos 
 part, he comes voluntarily to the stake, furnish- 
 ed, as he imagines, by the patron powers of lite- 
 rature, with resistless weapons and impenetra- 
 ble armour, with the mail of the boar of Eyr- 
 manth, and the paws of the lion of Nemea. 
 
 But the works of genius are sometimes pro- 
 duced by other motives than vanity ; ' and he 
 whom necessity or duty enforces to write, is no 
 always so well satisfied with himself, as not to be 
 discouraged by censorious impudence. It may 
 therefore be necessary to consider how they 
 whom publication lays open to the insults ol 
 such as their obscurity secures against reprisals, 
 may extricate themselves from unexpected en- 
 counters. 
 
 Vida, a man of considerable skill in the poli- 
 tics of literature, directs his pupil wholly to aban- 
 don his defence, and, even when he can irrefra- 
 gably refute all objections, to suffer tamely the 
 exultations of his antagonist. 
 
 This rule may perhaps be just, when advice is 
 asked, and severity solicited, because no man 
 tells his opinion so freely as when he imagines 
 it received with implicit veneration ; and critics 
 ought never to be consulted, but while errors 
 may yet be rectified or insipidity suppressed. 
 But when the book has once been dismissed into 
 the world, and can be no more retouched, I know 
 not whether a very different conduct should not 
 be prescribed, and whether firmness and spirit 
 may not sometimes be of use to overpower arro- 
 gance and repel brutality. Softness, diffidence, 
 and moderation will often be mistaken for imbeci- 
 lity and dejection ; they lure cowardice to the 
 attack by the hopes of easy victory, and it will 
 soon be found that he whom every man thinks 
 he can conquer, shall never be at peace. 
 
 The animadversions of critics are commonly 
 such as may easily provoke the sedatest writer 
 to some quickness of resentment and asperity of 
 reply. A man who by long consideration has 
 familiarized a subject to his own mind, carefully 
 surveyed the series of his thoughts, and planned 
 all the parts of his composition into a regular 
 dependance on each other, will often start at the 
 sinistrous interpretations or absurd remarks of 
 haste and ignorance, and wonder by what infa- 
 tuation they have been led away from the obvi- 
 ous sense, and upon what peculiar principles of 
 judgment they decide against him. 
 
 The eye of the intellect, like that of the body, 
 is not equally perfect in all, nor equally adapted 
 in any to all objects ; the end of criticism is to 
 supply its defects ; rules are the instruments of 
 mental vision, which may indeed assist our facul- 
 ties when properly used, but produce confusion 
 and obscurity by unskilful application. 
 
 Some seem always to read with the microscope 
 of criticism, and employ their whole attention 
 upon minute elegance, or faults scarcely visible 
 
 to common observation. The dissonance of a 
 syllable, the recurrence of the same sound, the 
 repetition of a particle, the smallest deviation 
 from propriety, the slightest defect in construction 
 or arrangement, swell before their eyes into enor- 
 mities. As they discern with great exactness, 
 they comprehend but a narrow compass, and 
 know nothing of the justness of the design, the 
 general spirit of the performance, the artifice of 
 connexion, or the harmony of the parts ; they 
 never conceive how small a proportion that which 
 they are busy in contemplating bears to the 
 whole, or how the petty inaccuracies with which 
 they are offended, are absorbed and lost in ge- 
 neral excellence. 
 
 Others are furnished by criticism with a tele- 
 scope. They see with great clearness whatever 
 is too remote to be discovered by the rest of man- 
 kind, but are totally blind to all that lies immedi- 
 ately before them. They discover in every pas- 
 sage some secret meaning, some remote allusion, 
 some artful allegory, or some occult imitation, 
 which no other reader ever suspected ; but they 
 have no perception of the cogency of arguments, 
 the force of pathetic sentiments, the various co- 
 lours of diction, or the flowery embellishments 
 of fancy ; of all that engages the attention of 
 others they are totally insensible, while they pry 
 into worlds of conjecture, and amuse themselves 
 with phantoms in the clouds. 
 
 In criticism, as in every other art, we fail some- 
 times by our weakness, but more frequently by 
 our fault. We are sometimes bewildered by ig- 
 norance, and sometimes by prejudice ; but we 
 seldom deviate far from the right, but when we 
 deliver ourselves up to the direction of vanity. 
 
 No. 177.] TUESDAY, Nov. 26, 1751. 
 
 Turpe ctt dijficiles hdbere migas. MART. 
 
 Those things which now seem frivolous and slight, 
 Wiii be of serious consequence to you, 
 When they have made you once ridiculous. 
 
 ROSCOMMON. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 WHEN I was, at the usual time, about to enter 
 upon the profession to which my friends had des- 
 tined me, being summoned, by the death of my 
 father, into the country, I found myself master 
 of an unexpected sum of money, and of an estate, 
 which, though not large, was, in my opinion, suf- 
 icient to support me in a condition far preferable 
 to the fatigue, dependance, and uncertainty of 
 any gainful occupation. I therefore resolved to 
 devote the rest of my life wholly to curiosity, and 
 without any confinement of my excursions, or 
 :ermination of my views, to wander over the 
 >oundless regions of general knowledge. 
 
 This scheme of life seemed pregnant with in- 
 exhaustible variety, and therefore I could not for- 
 >ear to congratulate myself upon the wisdom of 
 my choice. I furnished a large room with all 
 conveniences for study ; collected books of every 
 dnd; quitted every science at the first perception 
 of disgust ; returned to it again as soon as my 
 brmer ardour happened to revive ; and having 
 no rival to depress me by comparison, nor any 
 critic to alarm me with objections, I spent day 
 after day in profound tranquillity, with only so .
 
 203 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 177. 
 
 much complaisance in my own improvements, as 
 served to excite and animate my application. 
 
 Thus I lived for some years with complete ac- 
 quiescence in my own plan of conduct, rising 
 early to read, and dividing the latter part of the 
 day between economy, exercise, and reflection, 
 But in time I began to find my mind contracted 
 and stiffened by solitude. My ease and elegance 
 were sensibly impaired ; I was no longer able to 
 accommodate myself with readiness to the acci- 
 dental current of conversation ; my notions grew 
 particular and paradoxical, and my phraseology 
 formal and unfashionable ; I spoke, on common 
 occasions, the language of books. My quick- 
 ness of apprehension, and celerity of reply, had 
 entirely deserted me ; when I delivered my opinion, 
 or detailed my knowledge, I was bewildered by 
 an unseasonable interrogatory, disconcerted by 
 any slight opposition, and overwhelmed and 
 lost in dejection, when the smallest advantage 
 was gained against me in dispute. I became de- 
 cisive and dogmatical, impatient of contradic- 
 tion, perpetually jealous of my character, inso- 
 lent to such as acknowledged my superiority, and 
 sullen and malignant to all who refused to re- 
 ceive my dictates. 
 
 This I soon discovered to be one of those in- 
 tellectual diseases which a wise man should 
 make haste to cure. I therefore resolved for a 
 time to shut my books, and learn again the art 
 of conversation ; to defecate and clear my mind 
 by brisker motions and stronger impulses ; and to 
 unite myself once more to the living generation. 
 For this purpose I hasted to London, and 
 entreated one of my academical acquaintances 
 to introduce me into some of the little societies 
 of literature which are formed in taverns and cof- 
 fee-houses. He was pleased with an opportunity 
 of showing me to his friends, and soon obtained 
 me admission among a select company of curi- 
 ous men, who met once a week to exhilarate 
 their studies and compare their acquisitions. 
 
 The eldest and most venerable of this society 
 was Hirsutus, who, after the first civilities of 
 my reception, found means to introduce the men- 
 tion of his favourite studies, by a severe censure 
 of those who want the due regard for their native 
 country. He informed me that he had early 
 withdrawn his attention from foreign trifles, and 
 that, since he began to addict his mind to serious 
 and manly studies, he had very carefully amass- 
 ed all the English books that were printed in the 
 black character. This search he had pursued so 
 diligently, that he was able to show the deficien- 
 cies of the best catalogues. He had long since 
 completed his Caxton, had three sheets of Tre- 
 veris unknown to the antiquaries, and wanted to 
 a perfect Pynson but two volumes, of which one 
 was promised him as a legacy by its present pos- 
 sessor, and the other he was resolved to buy at 
 whatever price, when duisquilius's library should 
 be sold. Hirsutus had no other reason for the 
 valuing or slighting a book, than that it was 
 printed in the Roman or the Gothic letter, nor 
 any ideas but such as his favourite volumes had 
 supplied ; when he was serious,, he expatiated 
 on the narratives of Johan de Trevisa, and, 
 when he was merry, regaled us with a quotation 
 from the Shippe of Poles. 
 
 While I was listening to this hoary student, 
 
 erratus entered in a hurry, and informed us 
 
 .with the abruptness of ecstacv, that his set of 
 
 lialfpence was now complete ; he had just re- 
 ceived in a handful of change the piece that he 
 had so long been seeking, and could now defy 
 mankind to outgo his collection of English co\t- 
 per. 
 
 Chartophylax then observed how fatally hu- 
 man sagacity was sometimes baffled, and how 
 often the most valuable discoveries are made by 
 chance. He had employed himself and his 
 emissaries seven years at great expense to per- 
 fect his series of Gazettes, but had long wanted 
 a single paper, which, when he despaired of ob- 
 taining it, was sent him wrapped round a parcel 
 of tobacco. 
 
 Cantilenus turned all his thoughts upon old 
 ballads, for he considered them as the genuine 
 records of the national taste. He offered to show 
 me a copy of The Children in the Wood, which 
 lie firmly believed to be of the first edition, and 
 by the help of which the text might be freed from 
 several corruptions, if this age of barbarity had 
 any claim to such favours from him. 
 
 Many were admitted into this society as infe- 
 rior members, because they had collected old 
 prints and neglected pamphlets, or possessed some 
 fragment of antiquity, as the seal of an ancient 
 corporation, the charter of a religious house, 
 the genealogy of a family extinct, or a letter 
 written in the reign of Elizabeth. 
 
 Every one of these virtuosos looked on all his 
 associates as wretches of depraved taste and nar- 
 row notions. Their conversation was, there- 
 fore, fretful and waspish, their behaviour brutal, 
 their merriment bluntly sarcastic, and their seri- 
 ousness gloomy and suspicious. They were 
 totally ignorant of all that passes, or has lately 
 passed, in the world ; unable to discuss any 
 question of religious, political, or military know 
 ledge ; equally strangers to science and politer 
 learning ; and without any wish to improve their 
 minds, or any other pleasure than that of display- 
 ing rarities of which they would not suffer others 
 to make the proper use. 
 
 Hirsutus graciously informed me, that the 
 number of their society was limited, but that I 
 might sometimes attend as an auditor. I was 
 pleased to find myself in no danger of an honour 
 which I could not have willingly accepted, nor 
 gracefully refused, and left them without any in- 
 tention of returning ; for I soon found that the 
 suppression of those habits with which I was vi- 
 tiated, required association with men very differ- 
 ent from this solemn race. 
 
 I am, Sir, &c. VIVACULUS. 
 
 It is natural to feel grief or indignation, when 
 any thing necessary or useful is wantonly wast- 
 ed, or negligently destroyed ; and therefore my 
 correspondent cannot be blamed for looking with 
 uneasiness on the waste of life. Leisure and cu- 
 riosity might soon make great advances in useful 
 knowledge, were they not diverted by minute 
 emulation and laborious trifles. It may, how- 
 ever, somewhat mollify his anger to reflect, that 
 perhaps none of the assembly which he describes 
 was capable of any nobler employment, and that 
 he who does his best, however little, is always 
 to be distinguished from him who does nothing. 
 Whatever busies the mind without corrupting it, 
 has at least this use, that it rescues the day from 
 idleness, and he that is never idle will not often 
 be vicious.
 
 No. 178.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 269 
 
 No. 178.] SATURDAY, Nov. 30, 1751. 
 
 Pars sanitatis ve.tte sanarifuit. SENECA. 
 
 To yield to remedies is half the cure. 
 
 PYTHAGORAS is reported to have required from 
 those whom he instructed in philosophy a pro- 
 bationary silence of five years. Whether this 
 prohibition of speech extended to all the parts of 
 his time, as seems generally to be supposed, or 
 was to be observed only in the school or in the 
 presence of their master, as is more probable, it 
 was sufficient to discover the pupil's disposition ; 
 to try whether he was willing to pay the price of 
 learning ; or whether he was one of those whose 
 ardour was rather violent than lasting, and who 
 expected to grow wise on other terms than those 
 of patience and obedience. 
 
 Many of the blessings universally desired, are 
 very frequently wanted, because most men, when 
 they should labour, content themselves to com- 
 plain, and rather linger in a state in which they 
 cannot be at rest, than improve their condition 
 by vigour and resolution. 
 
 Providence has fixed the limits of human en- 
 joyment by immoveable boundaries, and has set 
 different gratifications at such a distance from 
 each other, that no art or power can bring them 
 together. This great law it is the business of 
 every rational being to understand, that life may 
 not pass away in an attempt to make contradic- 
 tions consistent, to combine opposite qualities, 
 and to unite things which the nature of their be- 
 ing must always keep asunder. 
 
 Of two objects tempting at a distance on con- 
 trary sides, it is impossible to approach one but 
 by receding from he other ; by long deliberation 
 and dilatory projects, they may be both lost, but 
 can never be both gained. It is, therefore, neces- 
 sary to compare them, and, when we have deter- 
 mined the preference, to withdraw our eyes and 
 our thoughts at once from that which reason di- 
 rects us to reject. This is more necessary, if 
 that which we are forsaking has the power of 
 delighting the senses, or firing the fancy. He 
 that once turns aside to the allurements of un- 
 lawful pleasure can have no security that he shall 
 ever regain the paths of virtue. 
 
 The philosophic goddess of Boethius, having 
 related the story of Orpheus, who, when he had 
 recovered his wife from the dominions of death, 
 lost her again by looking back upon her in the 
 confines of light, concludes with a very elegant 
 and forcible application. Whoever you are that 
 endeavour to elevate your minds to the illuminations 
 of Heaven, consider yourselves as represented in this 
 fable : for he that is once so far overcome as to turn 
 back his eyes totoards the infernal caverns, loses at 
 the first sight all that influence which attracted him 
 on high. 
 
 Vos htec fabula rcspicit. 
 Quicunque in superum diem 
 Mentem ducere quieritis. 
 Nam qui Tartareum in specus 
 Victus lutnina flexerit, 
 Quidquid prsecipuum tniliit. 
 Perdit, dinn vidct inferos. 
 
 It may be observed, in general, that the future 
 is purchased by the present. It is not possible 
 to secure distant or permanent happiness but by 
 the forbearance of some immediate gratification. 
 This is so evidently true with regard to the whole 
 
 of our existence, that all the precepts of theology 
 have no other tendency than to enforce a life of 
 faith ; a life not regulated by our senses but our 
 belief; a life in which pleasures are to be refused 
 for fear of invisible punishments, and calamities 
 sometimes to be sought, and always endured, in 
 hope of rewards that shall be obtained in another 
 state. 
 
 Even if we take into our view only that parti- 
 cle of pur duration which is terminated by the 
 grave, it will be found that we cannot enjoy one 
 part of life beyond the common limitations of 
 pleasure, but by anticipating some of the satis- 
 faction which should exhilarate the following 
 years. The heat of youth may spread happiness 
 into wild luxuriance ; but the radical vigour re- 
 quisite to make it perennial is exhausted, and 
 all that can be hoped afterwards is languor and 
 sterility. 
 
 The reigning error of mankind is, that we are 
 not content with the conditions on which .the 
 goods of life are granted. No man is insensible 
 of the value of knowledge, the advantages of 
 health, or the convenience of plenty, but every 
 day shows us those on whom the conviction is 
 without effect. 
 
 Knowledge is praised and desired by multi- 
 tudes whom her charms could never rouse from 
 the couch of sloth ; whom the faintest invitation 
 of pleasure draws away from their studies ; to 
 whom any other method of wearing out the day 
 is more eligible than the use of books, and who 
 are more easily engaged by any conversation, 
 than such as may rectify their notions or enlarge 
 their comprehension. 
 
 Every man that has felt pain, knows how lit- 
 tle all other comforts can gladden him to whom 
 health is denied. Yet who isthere does not some- 
 times hazard it for the enjoyment of an hour ? 
 All assemblies of jollity, all places of public en- 
 tertainment, exhibit examples of strength wast- 
 ing in riot, and beauty withering in irregularity ; 
 nor is it easy to enter a house in which part of the 
 family is not groaning in repentance of past in- 
 temperance, and part admitting disease by neg- 
 ligence, or soliciting it by luxury. 
 
 There is no pleasure which men of every age 
 and sect have more generally agreed to mention 
 with contempt than the gratifications of the pa- 
 late ; an entertainment so far removed from intel- 
 lectual happiness, that scarcely the most shame- 
 less of the sensual herd have dared to defend it ; 
 yet even to this, the lowest of our delights, to 
 this, though neither quick nor lasting, is health 
 with all its activity and sprightliness daily sacri- 
 ficed ; and for this are half the miseries endured 
 which urge impatience to call on death. 
 
 The whole world is put in motion by the wish 
 for riches and the dread of poverty. Who then 
 would not imagine that such conduct as will 
 inevitably destroy what all are thus labouring 
 to acquire, must generally be avoided? That 
 he who spends more than he receives, must in 
 time become indigent, cannot be doubted ; but 
 how evident soever this consequence may ap- 
 pear, the spendthrift moves in the whirl of 
 pleasure with too much rapidity to keep it be- 
 fore his eyes, and, in the intoxication of gayety, 
 grows every dav poorer without any such sense 
 of approaching ruin as is sufficient to awake him 
 into caution. 
 
 Many complaints are made of the misery of
 
 270 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 
 
 life and indeed it must be confessed that we 
 are subject to calamities by which the good and 
 bad, the diligent and slothful, the vigilant and 
 heedless are equally afflicted. But surely, though 
 some indulgence may be allowed to groans ex- 
 torted by inevitable misery, no man has a right 
 to repine at evils which, against warning, against 
 experience, he deliberately and leisurely brings 
 upon his own head ; or to consider himself as 
 debarred from happiness by such obstacles as 
 resolution may break or dexterity may put aside. 
 Great numbers who quarrel with their con- 
 dition, have wanted not the power but the will 
 to obtain a better state. They have never con- 
 templated the difference between good and evil 
 sufficiently to quicken aversion, or invigorate 
 desire ; they have indulged a. drowsy thought- 
 lessness, or giddy levity ; have committed the 
 balance of choice to the management of caprice ; 
 and w hen they have long accustomed themselves 
 to receive all that chance offered them, without 
 examination, lament at last that they find them- 
 selves deceived. 
 
 No. 179.] TUESDAT, DEC. 3, 1751. 
 
 Perpetuo risupulmonem ogitare solebat. Juv. 
 
 Democritus would feed his spleen, and shake 
 His sides and shoulders till he felt them ache. 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 " EVERY man," says Tully, " has two charac- 
 ters ; one which he partakes with all mankind, 
 and by which he is distinguished from brute 
 animals ; another which discriminates him from 
 the rest of his own species, and impresses on him 
 a manner and temper peculiar to himself: this 
 particular character, if it be not repugnant to 
 the laws of general humanity, it is always his 
 business to cultivate and preserve." 
 
 Every hour furnishes some confirmation of 
 Tully's precept. It seldom happens, that an 
 assembly of pleasure is so happily selected, but 
 that some one finds admission with whom the 
 rest are deservedly offended ; and it will appear, 
 on a close inspection, that scarce any man be- 
 comes eminently disagreeable, but by a depart- 
 ure from his real character, and an attempt at 
 something for which nature or education have 
 left him unqualified. 
 
 Ignorance or dulness have indeed no power of 
 affording delight, but they never give disgust ex- 
 cept when they assume the dignity of knowledge, 
 or ape the sprightliness of wit Awkwardness 
 and inelegance have none of those attractions 
 by which ease and politeness take possession of 
 the heart ; but ridicule and censure seldom rise 
 against them, unless they appear associated with 
 that confidence which belongs only to long ac- 
 quaintance with the modes of life, and to con- 
 sciousness of unfailing propriety of behaviour. 
 Deformity itself is regarded with tenderness 
 rather than aversion, when it does not attempt 
 to deceive the sight by dress and decoration, and 
 to seize upon fictitious claims the prerogatives 
 of beauty. 
 
 He that stands to contemplate the crowds that 
 fill the streets of a populous city, will see many 
 passengers whose air and motion it will be diffi- 
 cult to behold without contempt and laughter ; 
 but if he examines what are the appearances 
 that thus powerfully excite his risibility, he will 
 
 find among them neither poverty nor disease, 
 nor any involuntary or painful defect. The dis- 
 position to derision and insult is awakened by 
 the softness of foppery, the swell of insolence, 
 the liveliness of levity, or the solemnity of gran- 
 deur ; by the sprightly trip, the stately stalk, the 
 formal strut, and the lofty mien ; by gestures in- 
 tended to catch the eye, and by looks elaborately 
 formed as evidences of importance. 
 
 It has, I think, been sometimes urged in fa- 
 vour of affectation, that it is only a mistake of 
 the means to a good end, and that the intention 
 with which it is practised is always to please. 
 If all attempts to innovate the constitutional or 
 habitual character have really proceeded from 
 public spirit and love of others, the world has 
 hitherto been sufficiently ungrateful, since no 
 return but scorn has yet been made to the most 
 difficult of all enterprises, a contest with nature ; 
 nor has any pity been shown to the fatigues of 
 labour which never succeeded, and the uneasi- 
 ness of disguise by which nothing was concealed. 
 
 It seems therefore to be determined by the 
 general suffrage of mankind, that he who decks 
 himself in adscititious qualities rather purposes 
 to command applause than impart pleasure; and 
 he is therefore treated as a man, who, by an un- 
 reasonable ambition, usurps the place in society 
 to which he has no right. Praise is seldom paid 
 with willingness even to inco ntestablemerit, and 
 it can be no wonder that he who calls for it 
 without desert is repulsed with universal indig- 
 nation. 
 
 Affectation naturally counterfeits those excel- 
 lences which are placed at the greatest distance 
 from possibility of attainment. We are con- 
 scious of our own defects, and^agerly endeavour 
 to supply them by artificial excellence; nor 
 would such efforts be wholly without excuse, 
 were they not often excited by ornamental trifles, 
 which he, that thus anxiously struggles for the 
 reputation of possessing them, would not have 
 been known to want, had not his industry 
 quickened observation. 
 
 Gelasimus passed the first part of his life in 
 academical privacy and rural retirement, without 
 any other conversation than that of scholars, 
 grave, studious, and abstracted as himself. He 
 cultivated the mathematical sciences with inde- 
 fatigable diligence, discovered many useful theo- 
 rems, discussed with great accuracy the resist- 
 ance of fluids, and, though his priority was not 
 generally acknowledged, was the first who fully 
 explained all the properties of the catenarian 
 curve. 
 
 Learning, when it rises to eminence, will be 
 observed in time, whatever mists may happen to 
 surround it. Gelasimus, in his forty-ninth year, 
 was distinguished by those who have the re- 
 wards of knowledge in their hands, and called 
 out to display his acquisitions for the honour of 
 his country, and add dignity by his presence to 
 philosophical assemblies. As he did not suspect 
 his unfitness for common affairs, he felt no re- 
 luctance to obey the invitation, and what he did 
 not feel he had yet too much honesty to feign. 
 He entered into the world at a larger and more 
 populous college, where his performance would 
 be more public, and his renown further extend- 
 ed ; and imagined that he should find his repu- 
 tation universally prevalent, and the influence at 
 learning every where the same.
 
 No. 180.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 271 
 
 His merit introduced him to splendid tables 
 and elegant acquaintance ; but he did not find 
 himself always qualified to join in the conversa- 
 tion. He was distressed by civilities which he 
 knew not how to repay, and entangled in many 
 ceremonial perplexities from which his books 
 and diagrams could not extricate him. He was 
 sometimes unluckily engaged in disputes with 
 ladies with whom algebraic axioms had no great 
 weight ; and saw many whose favour and esteem 
 he could not but desire, to whom he was very 
 little recommended by his theories of the tides, 
 or his approximations to the quadrature of the 
 circle. Gelasimus did not want penetration to 
 discover, that no charm was more generally ir- 
 resistible than that of easy facetiousness and 
 flowing hilarity. He saw that diversion was 
 more frequently welcome than improvement ; 
 that authority and seriousness were rather feared 
 than loved ; and that the grave scholar was a 
 kind of imperious ally, hastily dismissed when 
 his assistance was no longer necessary. He 
 came to a sudden resolution of throwing ofT 
 those cumbrous ornaments of learning which 
 hindered his reception, and commenced a man 
 of wit and jocularity. Utterly unacquainted 
 with every topic of merriment, ignorant of the 
 modes and follies, the vices and virtues of man- 
 kind, and unfurnished with any ideas but such 
 as Pappus and Archimedes had given him, he 
 began to silence all inquiries with a jest instead 
 of a solution ; extended his face with a grin, 
 which he mistook for a smile ; and, in the place 
 of a scientific discourse, retailed in a new lan- 
 guage, formed between the college and the 
 tavern, the intelligence of the newspaper. 
 
 Laughter he knew, was a token of alacrity ; 
 and therefore, whatever he said or heard, .he was 
 careful not to fail in that great duty of a wit 
 If he asked or told the hour of the day, if he 
 complained of heat or cold, stirred the fire, or 
 filled a glass, removed his chair, or snuffed a 
 candle, he always found some occasion to laugh. 
 The jest was indeed a secret to all but himself; 
 but habitual confidence in his own discernment 
 hindered him from suspecting any weakness or 
 mistake. He wondered that his wit was so 
 little understood, but expected that his audience 
 would comprehend it by degrees, and persisted 
 all his life to show by gross buffoonery, how 
 little the strongest faculties can perform beyond 
 the limits of their own province. 
 
 No. JSO.j SATURDAY, DEC. 7, 1751. 
 
 TaEr' <<?<ij tro^of laOt pdrqv $' 'Eirfjeovpov eatrov 
 Hov TO Kft&v fyjTtiv, Kal rives al /jiovdScs- 
 
 AVTCMEDON. 
 
 On life, on morals, be thy thoughts employ'd ; 
 Leave to the schools their atoms and their void. 
 
 IT is somewhere related by Le Clerc, that a 
 wealthy trader of good understanding, having 
 the common ambition to breed his son a scholar, 
 carried him to a university, resolving to use his 
 own judgment in the choice of a tutor. He had 
 been taught, by whatever intelligence, the near- 
 est way to the heart of an academic, and at his 
 arrival entertained all who came about him with 
 such profusion, that the professors were lured by 
 the smell of his table from their books, and 
 flocked round him with all the cringes of awk 
 
 ward complaisance. This eagerness answered 
 the merchant's purpose ; he glutted them with 
 delicacies, and softened them with caresses, till 
 he prevailed upon one after another to open 
 his bosom, and make a discovery of his com- 
 petitions, jealousies, and resentments. Having 
 thus learned each man's character, partly from 
 himself, and partly from his acquaintances, he 
 resolved to find some other education for his 
 son, and went away convinced that a scholastic 
 life has no other tendency than to vitiate the 
 morals and contract the understanding, nor 
 would he afterwards hear with patience the 
 praises of the ancient authors, being persuaded 
 that scholars of all ages must have been the 
 same, and that Xenophon and Cicero were pro- 
 fessors of some former university, and therefore 
 mean and selfish, ignorant and servile, like those 
 whom he had lately visited and forsaken. 
 
 Envy, curiosity, and a sense of the imperfec- 
 tion of our present state, incline us to estimate 
 the advantages which are in the possession of 
 others above their real value. Every one must 
 have remarked, what powers and prerogatives 
 the vulgar imagine to be conferred by learning. 
 A man of science is expected to excel the un- 
 lettered and unenlightened even on occasions 
 where literature is of no use, and, among weak 
 minds, loses part of his reverence, by discovering 
 no superiority in those parts of life in which all 
 are unavoidably equal; as, when a monarch 
 makes a progress to the remoter provinces, the 
 rustics are said sometimes to wonder that the} 
 find him of the same size with themselves. 
 
 These demands of prejudice and folly can ne- 
 ver be satisfied ; and therefore many of the im- 
 putations which learning suffers from disap- 
 pointed ignorance are without reproach. But 
 there are some failures to which men of study 
 are peculiarly exposed. Every condition has its 
 disadvantages. The circle of knowledge is too 
 wide for the most active and diligent intellect, and 
 while science is pursued, other accomplishments 
 are neglected ; as a small garrison must leave 
 one part of an extensive fortress naked when an 
 alarm calls them to another. 
 
 The learned, however, might generally sup- 
 port their dignity with more success, if they suf- 
 fered not themselves to be misled by the desire 
 of superfluous attainments. Raphael, in return 
 to Adam's inquiries into the courses of the stars 
 and the revolutions of heaven, counsels him to 
 withdraw his mind from idle speculations, and 
 employ his faculties upon nearer and more in- 
 teresting objects, the survey of his own life, the 
 subjection of his passions, the knowledge of du- 
 ties which must daily be performed, and the de- 
 tection of dangers which must daily be incurred. 
 
 This angelic counsel every man of letters 
 should always have before him. He that de- 
 votes himself to retired study naturally sinks 
 from omission to forgetfulness of social duties ; 
 he must be therefore sometimes awakened and 
 recalled to the general condition of mankind. 
 
 I am far from any intention to limit curiosity, 
 or confine the labours of learning to arts of im- 
 mediate and necessary use. It is only from the 
 various essays of experimental industry, and the 
 vague excursions of minds sent out upon disco, 
 very, that any advancement of knowledge can 
 be expected ; and though many must be disap- 
 pointed in their labours, yet they are not to be
 
 '272 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 181. 
 
 charged with having spent their time in vain ; 
 their example contributed to inspire emulation, 
 and their miscarriages taught others the way to 
 success. , 
 
 But the distant hope of being one day uselul 
 or eminent, ought not to mislead us too far from 
 that study which is equally requisite to the great 
 and mean, to the celebrated and obscure ; the 
 art of moderating the desires, of repressing the 
 appetites, and of conciliating or retaining the fa- 
 vour of mankind. 
 
 No man can imagine the course of his own 
 life, or the conduct of the world around him, un- 
 worthy his attention ; yet, among the sons of 
 learning, many seem to have thought of every 
 thing rather than of themselves, and to have ob- 
 served every thing but what passes before their 
 eyes : many who toil through the intricacy of 
 complicated systems are insuperably embarrass- 
 ed with the least perplexity in common affairs ; 
 many who compare the actions and ascertain the 
 characters of ancient heroes, let their own days 
 glide away without examination, and suffer vi- 
 cious habits to encroach upon their minds with- 
 out resistance or detection. 
 
 The most frequent reproach of the scholastic 
 race is the want of fortitude, i^>t martial but phi- 
 losophic. Men bred in shades and silence, 
 taught to immure themselves at sunset, and ac- 
 customed to no other weapon than syllogism, 
 may be allowed to feel terror at personal dan- 
 ger, and to be disconcerted by tumult and alarm. 
 But why should he whose life is spent in con- 
 templation, and whose business is only to dis- 
 cover truth, be unable to rectify the fallacies of 
 imagination, or contend successfully against 
 prejudice and passion ? To what end has he 
 read and meditated, if he gives up his under- 
 standing to false appearances, and suffers him- 
 self to be enslaved by fear of evils to which only 
 folly or vanity can expose him, or elated by ad- 
 vantages to which, as they are equally conferred 
 upon the good and bad, no real dignity is an- 
 nexed ? 
 
 Such, however, is the state of the world, that 
 the most obsequious of the slaves of pride, the 
 most rapturous of the gazers upon wealth, the 
 most officious of the whisperers of greatness, are 
 collected from seminaries appropriated to the 
 study of wisdom and of virtue, where it was in- 
 tended that appetite should learn to be content 
 with little, and that hope should aspire only to 
 honours which no human power can give or 
 take away. 
 
 The student, when he comes forth into the 
 world, instead of congratulating himself upon 
 his exemption from the errors of those whose 
 opinions have been formed by accident or cus- 
 tom, and who live without any certain princi- 
 ples of conduct, is commonly in haste to mingle 
 with the multitude, and show his sprightliness 
 and ductility, by an expeditious compliance with 
 fashions or vices. The first smile of a man, 
 whose fortune gives him power to reward his 
 dependents, commonly enchants him beyond 
 resistance; the glare of equipage, the sweets of 
 luxury, the liberality of general promises, the 
 softness of habitual affability, fill his imagina- 
 tion ; and he soon ceases to have any other wish 
 than to be well received, or any measure of right 
 nn'l wrong but the opinion of his patron. 
 
 A man flattered and obeyed learns to exact 
 
 grosser adulation and enjoin lower submission. 
 Neither our virtues nor vices are all our own. 
 If there were no cowardice, there would be little 
 insolence; pride cannot rise to any great degree, 
 but by the concurrence of blandishment or the 
 sufferance of lameness. The wretch who would 
 shrink and crouch before one that should dart his 
 eyes upon him with the spirit of natural equality, 
 becomes capricious and tyrannical when he ^ces 
 himself approached with a downcast look, and 
 hears the soft address of awe and servility. To 
 those who are willing to purchase favour by 
 cringes and compliance, is to be imputed the 
 haughtiness that leaves nothing to be hoped by 
 firmness and integrity. 
 
 If, instead of wandering after the meteors of 
 philosophy, which fill the world with splendour 
 for a while, and then sink and are forgotten, the 
 candidates of learning fixed their eyes upon the 
 permanent lustre of moral and religious truth, 
 they would find a more certain direction to hap- 
 piness. A little plausibility of discourse, and 
 acquaintance with unnecessary speculations, is 
 dearly purchased when it excludes those instruc- 
 tions which fortify the heart with resolution, and 
 exalt the spirit to independence. 
 
 No. 181.] TUESDAY, DEC. 10, 1751. 
 
 Neu fiuitem ditbiiE spe pendulus hora. HOR < 
 
 Nor let me float in fortune's power, 
 
 Dependant on the future hour. FRANCIS. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 As I have passed much of my life in disquiet and 
 suspense, and lost many opportunities of advan- 
 tage by a passion which I have reason to believe 
 prevalent in different degrees over a great part 
 of mankind, I cannot but think myself well qua- 
 lified to warn those who are yet uncaptivated, 
 of the danger which they incur by placing them- 
 selves within its influence. 
 
 I served an apprenticeship to a linen-drapei, 
 with uncommon reputation for diligence and 
 fidelity ; and at the age of three-and- twenty 
 opened a shop for myself with a large stock, and 
 such credit among all the merchants who were 
 acquainted with my master, that I could com- 
 mand whatever was imported curious and va- 
 luable. For five years I proceeded with success 
 proportioned to close application and untainted 
 integrity; was a daring bidder at every sale; al- 
 ways paid ray notes before they were due; and 
 advanced so fast in commercial reputation, that 
 I was proverbially marked out as the model of 
 young traders, and every one expected that a 
 few years would make me an alderman. 
 
 In this course of even prosperity, I was one 
 day persuaded to buy a ticket in the lottery. 
 The sum was inconsiderable, part was to be re- 
 paid though fortune might fail to favour me, and 
 therefore my established maxims of frugality did 
 not restrain me from so trifling an experiment. 
 The ticket lay almost forgotten till tVie time at 
 which every man's fate was to be determined ; 
 nor did the affair even then seem of any import- 
 ance, till I discovered by the public papers that 
 the number next to mine had conferred the great 
 prize.
 
 .No. 181.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 273 
 
 My heart leaped at the thought of such an 
 approach to sudden riches, which I considered 
 myself, however contrarily to the laws of com- 
 putation, as having missed by a single chance ; 
 and I could not forbear to revolve the conse- 
 quences which such a bounteous allotment would 
 have produced, if it had happened to me. This 
 dream of felicity, by degrees, took possession of 
 my imagination. The great delight of my soli- 
 tary hours was to purchase an estate, and form 
 plantations with money which once might have 
 been mine, and I never met my friends but I 
 spoiled all their merriment by perpetual com- 
 plaints of my ill luck. 
 
 At length another lottery was opened, and I 
 had now so heated my imagination with the 
 prospect of a prize, that I should have pressed 
 among the first purchasers, had not my ardour 
 been withheld by deliberation upon the proba- 
 bility of success from one ticket rather than an- 
 other. I hesitated long between even and odd ; 
 considered the square and cubic numbers through 
 the lottery ; examined all those to which good 
 luck had been hitherto annexed; and at last 
 fixed upon one, which, by some secret relation 
 to the events of my life, I thought predestined to 
 make me happy. Delay in great affairs is often 
 mischievous ; the ticket was sold, and its pos- 
 sessor could not be found. 
 
 I returned to my conjectures, and, after many 
 arts of prognostication, fixed upon another 
 chance, but with less confidence. Never did 
 captive, heir, or lover, feel so much vexation 
 from the slow pace of time, as I suffered be- 
 tween the purchase of my ticket and the distri- 
 bution of the prizes. I solaced my uneasiness as 
 well as I could, by frequent contemplations of ap- 
 proaching happiness ; when the sun rose I knew 
 it would set, and congratulated myself at night 
 that I was so much nearer to my wishes. At 
 last the day came, my ticket appeared, and re- 
 warded all my care and sagacity with a despica- 
 ble prize of fifty pounds. 
 
 My frienda, who honestly rejoiced upon my 
 success, were very coldly received ; I hid myself 
 a fortnight in the country, that my chagrin might 
 fume away without observation, and then re- 
 turning to my shop began to listen after another 
 lottery. 
 
 With the news of a lottery I was soon grati- 
 fied ; and having now found the vanity of conjec- 
 ture and inefficacy of computation, I resolved to 
 take the prize by violence, and therefore bought 
 forty tickets not omitting, however, to divide 
 them between the even and odd numbers, that I 
 might not miss the lucky class. Many conclu- 
 sions did I form, and many experiments did I 
 try, to determine from which of those tickets I 
 might most reasonably expect riches. At last, be- 
 ing unable to satisfy myself by any modes of rea- 
 soning, I wrote the numbers upon dice, and allot- 
 ted five hours every day to the amusement of 
 throwing them in a garret ; and, examining the 
 event by an exact register, found, on the even- 
 ing before the lottery was drawn, that one of my 
 numbers had been turned up five times more than 
 any of the rest in three hundred and thirty thou- 
 sand throws. 
 
 This experiment was fallacious ; the first day 
 presented the hopeful ticket, a detestable blank. 
 The rest came out with different fortune, and in 
 2K 
 
 conclusion I lost thirty pounds by this great ad 
 venture. 
 
 J had now wholly changed the cast of my be 
 haviour and the conduct of my life. The shop 
 was for the most part abandoned to my servants : 
 and if I entered it, my thoughts were so engrossed 
 by my tickets that I scarcely heard or answered 
 a question, but considered every customer as an 
 intruder upon my meditations, whom I was in 
 haste to despatch. I mistook the price of my 
 goods, committed blunders in my bills, forgot to 
 file my receipts, and neglected to regulate my 
 books. My acquaintances by degrees began to 
 fall away ; but I perceived the decline of my bu- 
 siness with little emotion, because whatever de- 
 ficiency there might be in my gains I expected 
 the next lottery to supply. 
 
 Miscarriage naturally produces diffidence ; I 
 began now to seek assistance against ill luck, by 
 an alliance with those that had been more suc- 
 cessful. I inquired diligently at what office any 
 prize had been sold, that I might purchase of a 
 more propitious vender ; solicited those who had 
 been fortunate in former lotteries, to partake with 
 me in my new tickets ; and whenever I met with 
 one that had in any event of his life been emi- 
 nently prosperous, I invited him to take a larger 
 share. I had, by this rule of conduct, so diffused 
 my interest, that I had a fourth of fifteen tickets, 
 an eighth of forty, and a sixteenth of ninety. 
 
 I waited for the decision of my fate with my 
 former palpitations, and looked upon the busi- 
 ness of my trade with the usual neglect. The 
 wheel at last was turned, and its revolutions 
 brought me a long succession of sorrows and dis 
 appointments. I indeed often partook of a small 
 prize, and the loss of one day was generally ba- 
 lanced by the gain of the next ; but my desires 
 yet remained unsatisfied, and when one of my 
 chances had failed, all my expectation was sus- 
 pended on those which remained yet undeter- 
 mined. At last a prize of five thousand pounda 
 was proclaimed ; I caught fire at the cry, and, 
 inquiring the number, found it to be one of my 
 own tickets, which I had divided among those on 
 whose luck I depended, and of which I had re- 
 tained only a sixteenth part. 
 
 You will easily judge with what detestation 
 of himself, a man thus intent upon gain reflected 
 that he had sold a prize which was once in his 
 possession. It was to no purpose that I repre- 
 sented to my mind the impossibility of recalling 
 the past, or the folly of condemning an act, which 
 only its event, an event which no human intelli- 
 gence could foresee, proved to be wrong. The 
 prize which, though put in my hands had been 
 suffered to slip from me, filled me with anguish ; 
 and, knowing that complaint would only expose 
 me to ridicule, I gave myself up silently to grief, 
 and lost by degrees my appetite and my rest 
 
 My indisposition soon became visible ; I was 
 visited by my friends, and among them by 
 Eumathes, a clergyman, whose piety and learn- 
 ing gave him such an ascendant over me, that I 
 could not refuse to open my heart. " There are," 
 said he, " few minds sufficiently firm to be trusted 
 in the hands of chance. Whoever finds himself 
 inclined to anticipate futurity, and exalt possibi- 
 lity to certainty , should avoid every kind of casual 
 adventure, since his grief must be always pro- 
 portionate to his hope. You have long wasted
 
 274 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [i\o. Is2. 
 
 that time, which, by a proper application, would 
 have certainly, though moderately, increased your 
 fortune, in a laborious and anxious pursuit of a 
 species of gain, which no labour or anxiety, no 
 art or expedient, can secure or promote. You 
 are now fretting away your life in repentance of 
 an act, against which repentance can give no 
 caution, but to avoid the occasion of committing 
 it. Rouse from this lazy dream of fortuitous 
 riches, which, if obtained, you could scarcely have 
 enjoyed, because they could confer no conscious- 
 ness of desert ; return to rational and manly in- 
 dustry, and consider the mere gift of luck as be- 
 low the care of a wise man." 
 
 JSo. 182.] SATURDAY, DEC. 14, 1751. 
 
 Dives qui fieri vult 
 
 Et cito vult fieri. JUVENAL. 
 
 The lust of wealth can never bear delay. 
 
 IT has been observed in a late paper, that we are 
 unreasonably desirous to separate the goods of 
 life from those evils which Providence has con- 
 nected with them, and to catch advantages with- 
 out paying the price at which they are offered us. 
 Every man wishes to be rich, but very few have 
 the powers necessary to raise a sudden fortune, 
 either by new discoveries, or by superiority of 
 skill, in any necessary employment ; and, among 
 lower understandings, many want the firmness 
 and industry requisite to regular gain and gra- 
 dual acquisitions. 
 
 From the hope of enjoying affluence by me- 
 thods more compendious than those of labour, 
 and more generally practicable than those of 
 genius, proceeds the common inclination to ex- 
 periment and hazard, and that willingness to 
 snatch all opportunities of growing rich by 
 chance, which, when it has once taken posses- 
 sion of the mind, is seldom driven out either by 
 time or argument, but continues to waste life in 
 perpetual delusion, and generally ends in wretch- 
 edness and want. 
 
 The folly of untimely exultation and visionary 
 prosperity is by no means peculiar to the pur- 
 chasers of tickets ; there are multitudes whose 
 life is nothing but a continual lottery ; who are 
 always within a few months of plenty and hap- 
 piness, and, how often soever they are mocked 
 with blanks, expect a prize from the next ad- 
 venture. 
 
 Among the most resolute and ardent of the 
 votaries of chance, may be numbered the mor- 
 tals whose hope is to raise themselves by a 
 wealthy match ; who lay out all their industry 
 on the assiduities of courtship, and sleep and 
 wake with no other ideas than of treats, compli- 
 ments, guardians and rivals. 
 
 One of the most indefatigable of this class is 
 my old friend Leviculus, whom I have never 
 known for thirty years without some matrimo- 
 nial project of advantage. Leviculus was bred 
 under a merchant, and by the graces of his per- 
 son, the sprightliness of his prattle, and the neat- 
 ness of his dress, so much enamoured his mas- 
 ter's second daughter, a girl of sixteen, that she 
 declared her resolution to have no other husband. 
 Her father, after having chidden her for unduti- 
 
 fulness, consented to the match, not much to the 
 satisfaction of Leviculus, who was sufficiently 
 elated with his conquest to think himself entitled 
 to a larger fortune. He was, however, soon rid 
 of his perplexity, for his mistress died before 
 their marriage. 
 
 He was now so well satisfied with his own ac- 
 complishments, that he determined to commence 
 fortune-hunter ; and when his apprenticeship 
 expired, instead of beginning, as was expected, 
 to walk the exchange with a face of importance, 
 or associating himself with those who were most 
 eminent for their knowledge of the stocks, he 
 at once threw off the solemnity of the count- 
 ing-house, equipped himself with a modish wig, 
 listened to wits in coffee-houses, passed his 
 evenings behind the scenes in the theatres, 
 learned the names of the beauties of quality, 
 hummed the last stanzas of fashionable songs, 
 talked with familiarity of high play, boasted of 
 his achievements upon drawers and coachmen, 
 was often brought to his lodgings at midnight in 
 a chair, told with negligence and jocularity of 
 bilking a tailor, and now and then let fly a shrewd 
 jest at a sober citizen. 
 
 Thus furnished with irresistible artillery, he 
 turned his batteries upon the female world, and 
 in the first warmth of self-approbation, proposed 
 no less than the possession of riches and beauty 
 united. He therefore paid his civilities to Fla- 
 villa, the only daughter of a wealthy shopkeeper, 
 who not being accustomed to amorous blandish- 
 ments, or respectful addresses, was delighted 
 with the novelty of love, and easily suffered him 
 to conduct her to the play, and to meet her where 
 she visited. Leviculus did not doubt but her 
 father, however offended by a clandestine mar- 
 riage, would soon be reconciled by the tears of 
 his daughter, and the merit of his son-in-law, and 
 was in haste to conclude the affair. But the lady 
 liked better to be courted than married, and kept 
 him three years in uncertainty and attendance. 
 At last she fell in love with a young ensign at a 
 ball, and, having danced with him all night, mar- 
 ried him in the morning. 
 
 Leviculus, to avoid the ridicule of his com 
 panions, took a journey to a small estate in the 
 country, where, after his usual inquiries concern- 
 ing the nymphs in the neighbourhood, he found 
 it proper to fall in love with Altilla, a maiden lady, 
 twenty years older than himself, for whose fa- 
 vour fifteen nephews and nieces were in perpetual 
 contention. They hovered round her with such 
 jealous officiousness, as scarcely left a moment 
 vacant for a lover. Leviculus, nevertheless, dis- 
 covered his passion in a letter, and Altilla could 
 not withstand the pleasure of hearing vows and 
 sighs, and flatteries and protestations. She ad- 
 mitted his visits, enjoyed, for five years, the hap- 
 piness of keeping all her expectants in perpetual 
 alarms, and amused herself with the various stra- 
 tagems which were practised to disengage bjer 
 affections. Sometimes she was advised with 
 great earnestness to travel for her health, and 
 sometimes entreated to keep her brother's house. 
 Many stories were spread to the disadvantage of 
 Leviculus, by which she commonly seemed af- 
 fected for a time, but took care soon afterwards 
 to express her conviction of their falsehood. But 
 being at last satiated with this ludicrous tyranny, 
 she told her lover, when he pressed for the re-
 
 No. 183. j 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 275 
 
 \vard of his services, that she was very sensible 
 of his merit, but was resolved not to impoverish 
 an ancient family. 
 
 He then returned to the town, and soon after 
 his arrival became acquainted with Latronia, a 
 lady distinguished by the elegance of her equip- 
 age and the regularity of her conduct. Her 
 wealth was evident in her magnificence, and her 
 prudence in her economy ; and therefore Levi- 
 culus, who had scarcely confidence to solicit her 
 favour, readily acquitted fortune of her former 
 debts, when he found himself distinguished by 
 her with such marks of preference as a woman 
 of modesty is allowed to give. He now grew 
 bolder, and ventured to breathe out his impatience 
 before her. She heard him without resentment, 
 in time permitted him to hope for happiness, and 
 at last fixed the nuptial day, without any distrust- 
 ful reserve of pin-money, or sordid stipulations 
 for jointure and settlements. 
 
 Leviculus was triumphing on the eve of mar- 
 riage, when he heard on the stairs the voice of 
 Latronia's maid, whom frequent bribes had se- 
 cured in his service. She soon burst into his 
 room, and told him that she could not suffer him 
 to be longer deceived ; that her mistress was now 
 spending the last payment of her fortune, and 
 was only supported in her expense by the credit 
 of his estate. Leviculus shuddered to see him- 
 self so near a precipice, and found that he was 
 indebted for his escape to the resentment of the 
 maid, who, having assisted Latronia to gain the 
 conquest, quarrelled with her at last about the 
 plunder. 
 
 Leviculus was now hopeless and disconsolate, 
 till one Sunday he saw a lady in the Mall, whom 
 her dress declared a widow, and whom, by the 
 jolting prance of her gait, and the broad resplen- 
 dance of her countenance, he guessed to have 
 lately buried some prosperous citizen. He fol- 
 lowed her home, and found her to be no less 
 than the relic of Prune the grocer, who, having 
 no children, had bequeathed to her all his debts 
 and dues, and his estates real and personal. No 
 formality was necessary in addressing madame 
 Prune, and therefore Leviculus went next morn- 
 ing without an introductor. His declaration 
 was received with a loud laugh ; she then col- 
 lected her countenance, wondered at his impu- 
 dence, asked him if he knew to whom he was 
 talking, then showed him the door, and again 
 laughed to find him confused. Leviculus disco- 
 vered that this coarseness was nothing more than 
 the coquetry of Cornhill, and next day returned 
 to the attack. He soon grew familiar to her dia- 
 lect, and in a few weeks heard, without any 
 emotion, hints of gay clothes with empty pockets ; 
 concurred in many sage remarks on the regard 
 due to people of property; and agreed with her 
 in detestation of the ladies at the other end of 
 the town, who pinched their bellies to buy fine 
 laces, and then pretended to laugh at the city. 
 
 He sometimes presumed to mention marriage ; 
 but was always answered with a slap, a hoot, 
 and a flounce. At last he began to press her 
 closer, and thought himself more favourably re- 
 ceived ; but going one morning, with a resolu- 
 tion to trifle no longer, he found her gone to 
 church with a young journeyman from the neigh- 
 bouring shop, of whom she had become ena- 
 moured at her window. 
 
 In these, and a thousand intermediate adven- 
 
 tures, has Leviculus spent his time, till he is now 
 grown gray with age, fatigue, and disappoint- 
 ment. He begins at last to find that success is 
 not to be expected ; and being unfit for any em- 
 ployment that might improve his fortune, and 
 unfurnished with any arts that might amuse his 
 leisure, is condemned to wear out a tasteless life 
 in narratives which few will hear, and complaints 
 which none will pity. 
 
 No. 183.] TUESDAY, DEC. 17, 1751. 
 
 Ifullo fides regni tociii, omnitque potettat 
 Impatiens consortit erat. LCCAN 
 
 No faith of partnership dominion owns ; 
 Still discord hovers o'er divided thrones. 
 
 THE hostility perpetually exercised between one 
 man and another, is caused by the desire of many 
 for that which only few can possess. Every 
 man would be rich, powerful, and famous : yet 
 fame, power, and riches, are only the names of 
 relative conditions, which imply the obscurity of 
 dependance, and poverty of greater numbers. 
 
 This universal and incessant competition pro- 
 duces injury and malice by two motives, interest 
 and envy ; the prospect of adding to our posses- 
 sions what we can take from others, and the 
 hope of alleviating the sense of our disparity by 
 lessening others, though we gain nothing to 
 ourselves. 
 
 Of these two malignant and destructive pow- 
 ers, it seems probable, at the first view, that inte- 
 rest has the strongest and most extensive influ- 
 ence. It is easy to conceive that opportunities 
 to seize what has been long wanted, may excite 
 desires almost irresistible ; but surely the same 
 eagerness cannot be kindled by an accidental 
 power of destroying that which gives happiness 
 to another. It must be more natural to rob for 
 gain, than to ravage only for mischief. 
 
 Yet I am inclined to believe, that the great law 
 of mutual benevolence is oftener violated by envy 
 than by interest ; and that most of the misery 
 which the defamation of blameless actions, or 
 the obstruction of honest endeavours, brings 
 upon the world, is inflicted by men that propose 
 no advantage to themselves but the satisfaction 
 of poisoning the banquet which they cannot 
 taste, and blasting the harvest which they have 
 no right to reap. 
 
 Interest can diffuse itself but to a narrow com- 
 pass. The number is never large of those who 
 can hope to fill the posts of degraded power, catch 
 the fragments of shattered fortune, or succeed to 
 the honours of depreciated beauty. But the em 
 pire of envy has no limits, as it requires to its 
 influence very little help from external circum- 
 stances. Envy may always be produced by 
 idleness and pride, and in what place will they 
 not be found. 
 
 Interest requires some qualities not universally 
 bestowed. The ruin of another will produce no 
 profit to him who has not discernment to mark 
 his advantage, courage to seize, and activity to 
 pursue it; but the cold malignity of envy may 
 be exerted in a torpid and quiescent state, amidst 
 the gloom of stupidity, in the coverts of coward- 
 ice. He that falls by the attacks of interest, is 
 torn by hungry tigers ; he may discover and re- 
 sist his enemfes. He that perishes in the am-
 
 276 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [JNo. 184. 
 
 bushes of envy, is destroyed by unknown and 
 invisible assailants, and dies like a man suffocated 
 by a poisonous vapour, without knowledge of his 
 danger, or possibility of contest. 
 
 Interest is seldom pursued but at some hazard. 
 He that hopes to gain much, has commonly 
 something to lose, and, when he ventures to at- 
 tack superiority, if he fails to conquer, is irrevoc- 
 ably crushed. But envy may act without ex- 
 pense or danger. To spread suspicion, to invent 
 calumnies, to propagate scandal, requires neither 
 labour nor courage. It is easy for the author of 
 a lie, however malignant, to escape detection, 
 and infamy needs very little industry to assist its 
 circulation. 
 
 Envy is almost the only vice which is practica- 
 ble at all times and in every place : the only pas- 
 sion which can never lie quiet for want of irrita- 
 tion ; its effects therefore are every where disco- 
 verable, and its attempts always to be dreaded. 
 
 It is impossible to mention a name which any 
 advantageous distinction has made eminent, but 
 some latent animosity will burst out, The 
 wealthy trader, however he may abstract him- 
 self from public affairs, will never want those 
 who hint, with Shylock, that ships are but boards. 
 The beauty adorned only with the unambitious 
 graces of innocence and modesty, provokes, 
 whenever she appears, a thousand murmurs of 
 detraction. The genius, even when he endea- 
 vours only to entertain or instruct, yet suffers 
 persecution from innumerable critics, whose acri- 
 mony is excited merely by the pain of seeing 
 others pleased, and of hearing applauses which 
 another enjoys. 
 
 The frequency of envy makes it so familiar, 
 that it escapes our notice ; nor dp we often re- 
 flect upon its turpitude or malignity till we hap- 
 pen to feel its influence. When he that has given 
 no provocation to malice but by attempting to 
 excel, finds himself pursued by multitudes whom 
 he never saw, with all the implacability of per- 
 sonal resentment ; when he perceives clamour 
 and malice let loose upon him as a public enemy, 
 and incited by every stratagem of defamation ; 
 when he hears the misfortunes of his family, or 
 the follies of his youth, exposed to the world ; and 
 every failure of conduct, or defect of nature, ag- 
 gravated and ridiculed ; he then learns to abhor 
 those artifices at which he only laughed before, 
 and discovers how much the happiness of life 
 would be advanced by the eradication of envy 
 from the human heart. 
 
 Envy is, indeed, a stubborn weed of the mind, 
 and seldom yields to the culture of philosophy. 
 There are, however, considerations, which, if 
 carefully implanted, and diligently propagated, 
 might in time overpower and repress it, since no 
 one can nurse it for the sake of pleasure, as its 
 effects are only shame, anguish, and pertur 
 bation. 
 
 It is above all other vices inconsistent with the 
 character of a social being, because it sacrifices 
 truth and kindness to very weak temptations. 
 He that plunders a wealthy neighbour gains as 
 much as he takes away, and may improve his 
 own condition in the same proportion as he im- 
 pairs another's ; but he that blasts a flourishing 
 reputation must be content with a small dividend 
 of additional fame, so small as can afford very 
 little consolation to balance the guilt by which it 
 is obtained. 
 
 I have hitherto avoided that dangerous and 
 empirical morality, which cures one vice by 
 means of another. But envy is so base and de- 
 testable, so vile in its original, and so pernicious 
 in its effects, that the predominance of almost 
 any other quality is to be preferred. It is one of 
 those lawless enemies of society, against whicn 
 poisoned arrows may honestly be used. Let it 
 therefore be constantly remembered, that who- 
 ever envies another confesses his superiority, anu 
 let those be reformed by their pride who have 
 lost their virtue. 
 
 It is no slight aggravation of the injuries which 
 envy incites, that they are committed against 
 those who have given no intentional provoca 
 tion ; and that the sufferer is often marked out 
 for ruin, not because he has failed in any duty, 
 but because he has dared to do more than was 
 required. 
 
 Almost every other crime is practised by the 
 help of some quality which might have produced 
 esteem or love, if it had been well employed ; but 
 envy is mere unmixed and genuine evil ; it pur- 
 sues a hateful end by despicable means, and de- 
 sires not so much its own happiness as another's 
 misery. To avoid depravity like this, it is not 
 necessary that any one should aspire to heroism 
 or sanctity, but only that he should resolve not 
 to quit the rank which nature assigns him, and 
 wish to maintain the dignity of a human being. 
 
 No. 184.] SATURDAY, DEC. 21, 1751. 
 
 Permittes ipsil txpendcre numinibus, quid 
 Conveniat nobis, rebusgue sit utile nostris 
 
 Intrust thy fortune to the powers above ; 
 Leave them to manage for thec, and to grant 
 What their. unerring wisdom sees thee want. 
 
 DRYDEft 
 
 As every scheme of life, so every form of writing, 
 has its advantages and inconveniences, though 
 not mingled in the same proportions. The 
 writer of essays escapes many embarrassments 
 to which a large work would have exposed him ; 
 he seldom harasses his reason with long trains 
 of consequences, dims his eyes with the perusal 
 of antiquated volumes, or burdens his memory 
 with great accumulations of preparatory know 
 ledge. A careless glance upon a favourite au- 
 thor, or transient survey of the varieties of life, 
 is sufficient to supply the first hint or seminal 
 idea, which, enlarged by the gradual accretion 
 of matter stored in the mind, is, by the warmth 
 of fancy, easily expanded into flowers, and some 
 times ripened into fruit. 
 
 The most frequent difficulty by which the au 
 thors of these petty compositions are distressed, 
 arises from the perpetual demand of novelty and 
 change. The compiler of a system of science 
 lays his invention at rest, and employs only his 
 judgment, the faculty exerted with less fatigue. 
 Even the reJater of feigned adventures, when 
 once the principal characters are established, 
 and the great events regularly connected, finds 
 incidents and episodes crowding upon his mind ; 
 every change opens new views, and the latter 
 part of the story grows without labour out of the 
 former. But he that attempts to entertain his 
 reader with unconnected pieces, finds the irk- 
 someness of his task rather increased than less- 
 ened by every production. The day calls afresh
 
 No. ISi] THE RAMBLER. 
 
 upon him for a new topic, and he is again obliged 
 to choose, without any principle to regulate his 
 choice. 
 
 It is indeed true, that there is seldom any ne- 
 cessity of looking far, or inquiring long, for a 
 proper subject. Every diversity of art or nature, 
 every public blessing or calamity, every domestic 
 pain or gratification, every sally of caprice, blun- 
 der of absurdity, or stratagem of affection, may 
 supply matter to him whose only rule is to avoid 
 uniformity. But it often happens, that the judg- 
 ment is distracted with boundless multiplicity, 
 the imagination ranges from one design to an- 
 other, and the hours pass imperceptibly away, 
 till the composition can be no longer delayed, 
 and necessity enforces the use of those thoughts 
 which then happen to be at hand. The mind, 
 rejoicing at deliverance on any terms from per- 
 plexity and suspense, applies herself vigorously 
 to the work before her, collects embellishments 
 and illustrations, and sometimes finishes, with 
 great elegance and happiness, what in a state 
 of ease and leisure she never had begun. 
 
 It is not commonly observed, how much, even 
 of actions considered as particularly subject to 
 choice, is to be attributed to accident, or some 
 cause out of our own power, by whatever name 
 it be distinguished. To close tedious delibera- 
 tions with hasty resolves, and after long consulta- 
 tions with reason to refer the question to caprice, 
 is by no means peculiar to the essayist. Let 
 him that peruses this paper review the series of 
 his life, and inquire how he was placed in his 
 present condition. He will find that, of the good 
 or ill which he has experienced, a great part 
 came unexpected, without any visible gradations 
 of approach; that every event has been in- 
 fluenced by causes acting without his interven- 
 tion ; and that, whenever he pretended to the 
 prerogative of foresight, he was mortified with 
 new conviction of the shortness of his views. 
 
 The busy, the ambitious, the inconstant, and the 
 adventurous, may be said to throw themselves 
 by design into the arms of fortune, and volunta- 
 rily to quit the power of governing themselves ; 
 they engage in a course of life in which little can 
 be ascertained by previous measures ; nor is it 
 any wonder that their time is passed between ela- 
 tion and despondency, hope and disappointment. 
 
 Some there are who appear to walk the road 
 of life with more circumspection, and make no 
 step till they think themselves secure from the 
 hazard of a precipice ; when, neither pleasure 
 nor profit can tempt them from the beaten path ; 
 who refuse to climb lest they should fall, or to 
 i un lest they should stumble ; and move slowly 
 forward, without any compliance with those 
 passions by which the heady and vehement are 
 seduced and betrayed. 
 
 Yet even the timorous prudence of this judi- 
 cious class is far from exempting them from the 
 dominion of chance, a subtle and insidious power, 
 who will intrude upon privacy and embarrass 
 caution. No course of life is so prescribed and 
 limited, but that many actions must result from 
 arbitrary election. Every one must form the 
 general plan of his conduct by his own reflec- 
 tions ; he must resolve whether he will endeavour 
 at riches or at content ; whether he will exercise 
 private or public virtues, whether he will labour 
 for the general benefit of mankind, or contract 
 hi? beneficence to his family and dependants. 
 
 277 
 
 This question has long exercised the schools of 
 philosophy, but remains yet undecided ; and what 
 hope is there that a young man, unacquainted 
 with the arguments on either side, should deter- 
 mine his own destiny otherwise than by chance 1 
 
 When chance has given him a partner of his 
 bed, whom he prefers to all other women, with- 
 out any proof of superior desert, chance must 
 again direct him in the education of his children ; 
 for, who was ever able to convince himself by 
 arguments, that he had chosen for his son that 
 mode of instruction to which his understanding 
 was best adapted, or by which he would most 
 easily be made wise or virtuous 1 
 
 Whoever shall inquire by what motives he 
 was determined on these important occasions, 
 will find them such as his pride will scarcely 
 suffer him to confess ; some sudden ardour of 
 desire, some uncertain glimpse of advantage, 
 some petty competition, some inaccurate con- 
 clusion, or some example implicitly reverenced. 
 Such are often the first causes of our resolves; 
 for it is necessary to act, but impossible to know 
 the consequences of action, or to discuss all the 
 reasons which offer themselves on every part to 
 inquisitiveness and solicitude. 
 
 Since life itself is uncertain, nothing which 
 has life for its basis can boast much stability. 
 Yet this is but a small part of our perplexity. 
 We set out on a tempestuous sea in quest of 
 some port, where we expect to find rest, but 
 where we are not sure of admission ; we are not 
 only in danger of sinking in the way, but of be- 
 ing misled by meteors mistaken for stars, of 
 being driven from our course by the changes of 
 the wind, and of losing it by unskilful steerage ; 
 yet it sometimes happens, that cross winds blow 
 us to a safer coast, that meteors draw us aside 
 from whirlpools, and that negligence or error 
 contributes to our escape from mischiefs to which 
 a direct course would have exposed us. Of those 
 that, by precipitate conclusions, involve them- 
 selves in calamities without guilt, very few, how- 
 ever they may reproach themselves, can be cer- 
 tain that other measures would have been more 
 successful. 
 
 In this state of universal uncertainty, where 
 a thousand dangers hover about us, and none 
 can tell whether the good that he pursues is not 
 evil in disguise, or whether the next step will 
 lead him to safety or destruction, nothing can 
 afford any rational tranquillity, but the conviction 
 that however we amuse ourselves with unideal 
 sounds, nothing in reality is governed by chance, 
 but that the universe is under the perpetual su- 
 perintendence of him who created it ; that oui 
 being is in the hands of omnipotent goodness, by 
 whom what appears casual to us, is directed for 
 ends ultimately kind and merciful ; and thai 
 nothing can finally hurt him who debars nol 
 himself from the Divine favour. 
 
 No. 185.] TUESDAY, DEC. 24, 1751. 
 
 Ai vindicta bonum vita jucundias ipsa, 
 
 Nempe hoc indocli. 
 
 Chrysippus non dicit idem, ne.c mite Thaletit 
 Ingenium, dulcique senex ticinvs Hymetto, 
 Qat partem accepta lecta inter mncla cicuta 
 
 Accusatori nollet dare. Quippe minuti 
 
 Semper el infirmi est animi, eiiguique volvptat 
 Vltio.
 
 278 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 jffo. IS5. 
 
 But O ! revenge i niecvt. 
 
 Thus think the crowd ; who, eager to engage, 
 
 Take quickly fire, and kindle into rage. 
 
 Not so mild Thales, nor Chrysippus thought, 
 
 Nor that good man, who drank the poisonous draught 
 
 \Vuli mind serene, and could not wish to see 
 
 His vile accuser drink as deep as he : 
 
 Exalted Socrates ' divinely brave! 
 
 Injured he fell, and dying he forgave ; 
 
 Too noble for revenge ; which still we find 
 
 The weakest frailty of a feeble mind. DRVDEN. 
 
 No vicious dispositions of the mind more obsti- 
 nately resist both the counsels of philosophy and 
 the injunctions of religion, than those which are 
 complicated with an opinion of dignity; and 
 which we cannot dismiss without leaving in the 
 hands of opposition some advantage iniquitously 
 obtained, or suffering from our own prejudices 
 some imputation of pusillanimity. 
 
 For this reason, scarcely any law of our Re- 
 deemer is more openly transgressed, or more 
 industriously evaded, than that by which he 
 commands his followers to forgive injuries, and 
 prohibits, under the sanction of eternal misery, 
 the gratification of the desire which every man 
 feels to return pain upon him that inflicts it. 
 Many who could have conquered their anger, 
 are unable to combat pride, and pursue offences 
 to extremity of vengeance, lest they should be 
 insulted by the triumph of an enemy. 
 
 But certainly no precept could better become 
 him, at whose birth peace was proclaimed to the 
 earth. For, what would so soon destroy all the 
 order of society, and deform life with violence 
 and ravage, as a permission to every one to judge 
 his own cause, and to apportion his own recom- 
 pense for imagined injuries. 
 
 It is difficult for a man of the strictest justice 
 not to favour himself too much, in the calmest 
 moments of solitary meditation. Every one 
 wishes for the distinctions for which thousands 
 are wishing at the same time, in their own 
 opinion, with better claims. He that, when 
 his reason operates in its full force, can thus, 
 by the mere prevalence of self-love, prefer him- 
 self to his fellow-beings, is very unlikely to 
 judge equitably when his passions are agitated 
 by a sense of wrong, and his attention wholly 
 engrossed by pain, interest, or danger. Whoever 
 arrogates to himself the right of vengeance, 
 shows how little he is qualified to decide his 
 own claims, since he certainly demands what he 
 would think unfit to be granted to another. 
 
 Nothing is more apparent, than that, however 
 injured or however provoked, some must at last 
 be contented to forgive. For, it can never be 
 hoped that he who first commits an injury will 
 contentedly acquiesce in the penalty required-; 
 the same haughtiness of contempt and vehe- 
 mence of desire, that prompt the act of injustice, 
 will more strongly incite its justification ; and 
 resentment can never so exactly balance the 
 punishment with the fault, but there will remain 
 an overplus of vengeance, which even he who 
 condemns his first action will think himself 
 entitled to retaliate. What then can ensue 
 but a continual exacerbation of hatred, an un- 
 extinguishable feud, an incessant reciprocation 
 of mischief, a mutual vigilance to entrap, and 
 eagerness to destroy ? 
 
 Since then the imaginary right of vengeance 
 must be at last remitted, because it is impossible 
 to live in perpetual hostility and equally im- 
 
 possible that of two enemies, either should first 
 think himself obliged by justice to submission, it 
 is surely eligible to forgive early. Every passion 
 is more easily subdued before it has been long 
 accustomed to possession of the heart ; every 
 idea is obliterated with less difficulty, as it has; 
 been more slightly impressed, and less frequent 
 ly renewed. He who has often brooded ovei 
 his wrongs, pleased himself with schemes of 
 malignity, and glutted his pride with the fancied 
 supplications of humbled enmity, will not easily 
 open his bosom to amity and reconciliation, or 
 indulge the gentle sentiments of benevolence 
 and peace. 
 
 It is easiest to forgive while there is yet little 
 to be forgiven. A single injury may be soon 
 dismissed from the memory ; but a long succes- 
 sion of ill offices by degrees associates itself 
 with every idea; a long contest involves so 
 many circumstances, that every place and action 
 will recall it to the mind ; and fresh remem- 
 brance of vexation must still enkindle rage, and 
 irritate revenge. 
 
 A wise man will make haste to forgive, be- 
 cause he knows the true value of time, and will 
 not suffer it to pass away in unnecessary pain. 
 He that willingly suffers the corrosions of in- 
 veterate hatred, and gives up his days and nights 
 to the gloom of malice and perturbations of stra- 
 tagem, cannot surely be said to consult his ease. 
 Resentment is a union of sorrow with malignity, 
 a combination of a passion which all endeavour 
 to avoid, with a passion which all concur to 
 detest. The man who retires to meditate mis- 
 chief, and to exasperate his own rage ; whose 
 thoughts are employed only on means of dis- 
 tress and contrivances of ruin ; whose mind 
 never pauses from the remembrance of his own 
 sufferings, but to indulge some hope of enjoying 
 the calamities of another, may justly be num- 
 bered among the most miserable of human 
 beings, among those who are guilty without 
 reward, who have neither the gladness of pros- 
 perity, nor the calm of innocence. 
 
 Whoever considers the weakness both of him- 
 self and others, will not long want persuasives 
 to forgiveness. We know not to what degree 
 of malignity any injury is to be imputed; or 
 how much its guilt, if we were to inspect the 
 mind of him that committed it, would be ex- 
 tenuated by mistake, precipitance, or negli- 
 gence : we cannot be certain how much more 
 we feel than was intended to be inflicted, or 
 how much we increase the mischief to ourselves 
 by voluntary aggravations. We may charge to 
 design the effects of accident; we may think 
 the blow violent, only because we have made 
 ourselves delicate and tender ; we are on every 
 side in danger of error and of guilt ; which we 
 are certain to avoid only by speedy forgiveness. 
 
 From this pacific and harmless temper, thus 
 propitious to others and ourselves, to domestic 
 tranquillity and to social happiness, no man is 
 withheld but by pride, by the fear of being insult- 
 ed by his adversary, or despised by the world. 
 
 It may be laid down as an unfailing and 
 universal axiom, that "all pride is abject and 
 mean." It is always an ignorant, lazy, or cow 
 ardly acquiescence in a false appearance of 
 excellence, and proceeds not from conscious 
 ness of our attainments, but insensibility of our 
 wants.
 
 No. 136.] THE RAMBLER. 
 
 Nothing can be great which is not right. 
 Nothing which reason condemns can be suitable 
 to the dignity of the human mind. To be 
 driven by external motives from the path which 
 our own heart approves ; to give way to any 
 thing but conviction ; to suffer the opinion of 
 others to rule our choice, or overpower our re- 
 solves ; is to submit tamely to the lowest and 
 most ignominious slavery, and to resign the right 
 of directing our own lives. 
 
 The utmost excellence at which humanity can 
 arrive, is a constant and determinate pursuit of 
 virtue, without regard to present dangers or ad- 
 vantage ; a continual reference of every action 
 to the Divine will ; an habitual appeal to ever- 
 lasting justice ; and an unvaried elevation of 
 the intellectual eye to the reward which perse- 
 verance only can obtain. But that pride which 
 many, who presume to boast of generous senti- 
 ments, allow to regulate their measures, has 
 nothing nobler in view than the approbation of 
 men ; of beings whose superiority we are under 
 no obligation to acknowledge, and who, when 
 we have courted them with the utmost assi- 
 duity, can confer no valuable or permanent re- 
 ward ; of beings who ignorantly judge of what 
 they do not understand, or partially determine 
 what they never have examined ; and whose 
 sentence is therefore of no weight till it has re- 
 ceived the ratification of our own conscience. 
 
 He that can descend to bribe suffrages like 
 these, at the price of his innocence ; he that can 
 suffer the delight of such acclamations to with- 
 hold his attention from the commands of the 
 universal Sovereign, has little reason to con- 
 gratulate himself upon the greatness of his 
 mind : whenever he awakes to seriousness and 
 reflection, he must become despicable in his own 
 eyes, and shrink with shame from the remem- 
 brance of his cowardice and folly. 
 
 Of him that hopes to be forgiven, it is indis- 
 pensably required that he forgive. It is there- 
 fore superfluous to urge any other motive. On 
 this great duty eternity is suspended: and to 
 him that refuses to practise it, the throne of 
 mercy is inaccessible, and the Saviour of the 
 world has been born in vain. 
 
 279 
 
 No. 186.] SATURDAY, DEC. 28, 1751. 
 
 Pone me, pigris ubi nulla campia 
 Arbor (estiva recreatur aura- 
 
 HOR. 
 
 JDulce ridcntem Lalagen amabo, 
 Dulce loquentem. 
 
 Place me where never summer breeze 
 
 Unbinds the glebe, or warms the trees ; 
 
 Where ever-lowering clouds appear, 
 
 And angry Jove deforms th' inclement year) 
 
 Love and the nymph shall charm my toils, 
 
 The nymph, who sweetly speaks and sweetly smiles. 
 
 FRANCIS. 
 
 OF % the happiness and misery of our present 
 state, part arises from our sensations, and part 
 from our opinions ; part is distributed by nature, 
 and. part is in a great measure apportioned by 
 ourselves. Positive pleasure we cannot always 
 obtain, and positive pain we often cannot re- 
 move. No man can give to his own plantations 
 the fragrance of the Indian groves ; nor will any 
 precepts of philosophy enable him to withdraw 
 his attention from wounds or diseases. But the 
 negative infelicity which proceeds, not from the 
 
 pressure of sufferings, but the absence of enjoy- 
 ments, will always yield to the remedies of 
 reason. 
 
 One of the great arts of escaping superfluous 
 uneasiness, is to free our minds from the habit 
 of comparing our condition with that of others 
 on who'm the blessings of life are more bounti- 
 fully bestowed, or with imaginary states of de- 
 light and security, perhaps unattainable by mor- 
 tals. Few are placed in a situation so gloomy 
 and distressful, as not to see every day beings 
 yet more forlorn and miserable, from whom they 
 may learn to rejoice in their own lot. 
 
 No inconvenience is less superable by art or 
 diligence than the inclemency of climates, and 
 therefore none affords more proper exercise for 
 this philosophical abstraction. A native of En- 
 gland, pinched with the frosts of December, may 
 lessen his affection for his own country by suf- 
 fering his imagination to wander in the vales of 
 Asia, and sport among woods that are always 
 green, and streams that always murmur; but 
 if he turns his thoughts towards the polar re- 
 gions, and considers the nations to whom a great 
 portion of the year is darkness, and who are 
 condemned to pass weeks and months amidst 
 mountains of snow, he will soon recover his 
 tranquillity, and, while he stirs his fire, or throws 
 his cloak about him, reflect how much he owes 
 to Providence, that he is not placed in Green- 
 land or Siberia. 
 
 The barrenness of the earth and the severity 
 of the skies, in these dreary countries, are such 
 as might be expected to confine the mind wholly 
 to the contemplation of necessity and distress, so 
 that the care of escaping death from cold and 
 hunger should leave no room for those passions 
 which, in lands of plenty, influence conduct or 
 diversify characters ; the summer should be 
 spent only in providing for the winter, and the 
 winter in longing for the summer. 
 
 Yet learned curiosity is known to have found 
 its way into these abodes of poverty and gloom : 
 Lapland and Iceland have their historians, their 
 critics, and their poets ; and love, that extends 
 his dominion wherever humanity can be found, 
 perhaps exerts the same power in the Green- 
 lander's hut as in the palaces of eastern mo- 
 narchs. 
 
 In one of the large caves to which the families 
 of Greenland retire together, to pass the cold 
 months, and which may be termed their villages 
 or cities, a youth and maid, who came from 
 different parts of the country, were so much 
 distinguished for their beauty, that they were 
 called by the rest of the inhabitants Anningait 
 and Ajut, from a supposed resemblance to their 
 ancestors of the same names, who had been 
 transformed of old into the sun ar.d moon. 
 
 Anningait for some time heard the praises of 
 Ajut with little emotion, but at last, by fre- 
 quent interviews, became sensible of her charms, 
 and first made a discovery of his affection, by 
 inviting her with her parents to a feast, where 
 he placed before Ajut the tail of a whale. Ajut 
 seemed not much delighted by this gallantry; 
 yet, however, from that time, was observed 
 rarely to appear but in a vest made of the skin 
 of a white deer ; she used frequently to renew 
 the black dye upon her hands and forehead, to 
 adorn her sleeves with coral and shells, and to 
 braid her hair with great exactness.
 
 280 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 1S7. 
 
 The elegance of her dress, and the judicious 
 disposition of her ornaments, had such an effect 
 upon Anningait, that he could no longer be re- 
 strained from a declaration of his love. He there- 
 fore composed a poem in her praise, in which, 
 among other heroic and tender sentiments, he 
 protested that " she was beautiful as the vernal 
 willow, and fragrant as thyme upon the moun- 
 tains ; that her fingers were white as the teeth of 
 the morse, and her smile grateful as the dissolu- 
 tion of the ice ; that he would pursue her, though 
 she should pass the snows of the midland cliffs, 
 or seek shelter in the caves of the eastern canni- 
 bals ; that he would tear her from the embraces 
 of the genius of the rocks, snatch her from the 
 paws of Amarock, and rescue her from the ravine 
 of Hafgufa." He concluded with a wish, that 
 " whoever shall attempt to hinder his union with 
 Ajut might be buried without his bow, and that, 
 in the land of souls, his skull might serve for no 
 other use than to catch the droppings of the starry 
 lamps." 
 
 This ode being universally applauded, it was 
 expected that Ajut would soon yield to such fer- 
 vour and accomplishments : but Ajut, with the 
 natural haughtiness of beauty, expected all the 
 forms of courtship : and before she would con- 
 fess herself conquered, the sun returned, the ice 
 broke, and the season of labour called all to their 
 employments. 
 
 Anningait and Ajut for a time always went 
 out in the same boat, and divided whatever was 
 caught Anningait, in the sight of his mistress, 
 lost no opportunity of signalizing his courage ; 
 he attacked the sea-horses on the ice, pursued 
 the seals into the water, and leaped upon the 
 back of the whale while he was yet struggling 
 with the remains of life. Nor was his diligence 
 less to accumulate all that could be necessary to 
 make winter comfortable ; he dried the roe of 
 fishes and the flesh of seals ; he entrapped deer 
 and foxes, and dressed their skins to adorn his 
 bride ; he feasted her with eggs from the rocks, 
 and strewed her tent with flowers. 
 
 It happened that a tempest drove the fish to a 
 distant part of the coast before Anningait had 
 completed his store ; he therefore entreated Ajut, 
 that she would at last grant him her hand, and 
 accompany him to that part of the country whi- 
 ther he was now summoned by necessity. Ajut 
 thought him not yet entitled to such condescen- 
 sion, but proposed, as a trial of his constancy, 
 that he should return at the end of summer to 
 the cavern where their acquaintance commenced, 
 and there expect the reward of his assiduities. 
 " O virgin, beautiful as the sun shining on the 
 water, consider," said Anningait. " what thou 
 hast required. How easily may my return be 
 precluded by a sudden frost or unexpected fogs ! 
 Then must the night be passed without my Ajut. 
 We live not, my fair, in those fabled countries 
 which lying strangers so wantonly describe ; 
 where the whole year is divided into short days 
 and nights ; where the same habitation serves 
 for summer and winter ; where they raise houses 
 in rows above the ground, dwell together from 
 year to year, with flocks of tame animals grazing 
 in the fields about them ; can travel at any time 
 from one place to another, through ways en- 
 closed with trees, or over walls raised upon the 
 inland waters ; and direct their course through 
 wide countries by the sight of green hills or scat- 
 
 ter?d buildings. Even in summer, we have no 
 means of crossing the mountains, whose snows 
 are never dissolved ; nor can remove to any dis- 
 tant residence, but in our boats coasting the 
 bays. Consider, Ajut, a few summer days, and 
 a few winter nights, and the life of man is at an 
 end. Night is the time of ease and festivity, of 
 revels and gayety ; but what will be the flaming 
 lamp, the delicious seal, or the soft oil, without 
 the smile of Ajut?" 
 
 The eloquence of Anningait was vain ; the 
 maid continued inexorable, and they parted with 
 ardent promises to meet again before the night 
 of winter. 
 
 No. 1S7.] TUESDAY, DEC. 31, 1751. 
 
 Ifon ilium nottri possunt mutare labores, 
 JViec sifrigoribusmediis Htbrumque bibamug, 
 
 Sithoniasque nires hiemis subeamus agitoste 
 
 Oinitia vincit amor. VIRGIL. 
 
 Love alters not for us his hard decrees, 
 
 Not though beiieath the Thracian clime we freeze, 
 
 Or the mild bliss of temperate skies forego, 
 
 And in mid winter tread Sithouian snow : 
 
 Love conquers all. DRYDEN. 
 
 ANNINGAIT, however discomposed by the dila- 
 tory coyness of Ajut, was yet resolved to omit no 
 tokens of amorous respect; and therefore pre- 
 sented her at his departure with the skins of 
 seven white fawns, of five swans, and eleven 
 seals, with three marble lamps, ten vessels of 
 seal oil, and a large kettle of brass, which he 
 had purchased from a ship, at the price of half a 
 whale and two horns of sea-unicorns. 
 
 Ajut was so much affected by the fondness of 
 her lover, or so much overpowered by his mag- 
 nificence, that she followed him to the sea-side ; 
 and, when she saw him enter the boat, wished 
 aloud that he might return with plenty of skins 
 and oil ; that neither the mermaids might snatch 
 him into the deeps, nor the spirits of the rocks 
 confine him in their caverns. 
 
 She stood awhile to gaze upon the departing 
 vessel, and then returning to her hut, silent and 
 dejected, laid aside, from that hour, her white 
 deer-skin, suffered her hair to spread unbraided 
 on her shoulders, and forebore to mix in the 
 dances of the maidens. She endeavoured to di 
 vert her thoughts by continual application to 
 feminine employments, gathered moss for the 
 winter lamps, and dried grass to line the boots ot 
 Anningait. Of the skins which he had bestowed 
 upon her, she made a fishing coat, a small boat, 
 and tent, all of exquisite manufacture : and, 
 while she was thus busied, solaced her labours 
 with a song, in which she prayed, " that her lover 
 might have hands stronger than the paws of the 
 bear, and feet swifter than the feet of the rein-deer; 
 that his dart might never err, and that his boat 
 might never leak ; that he might never stumble 
 on the ice, nor faint in the water ; that the seal 
 might rush on his harpoon, and the wounded 
 whale might dash the waves in vain." 
 
 The large boats in which the Greenlanders 
 transport their families, are always rowed by 
 women ; for a man will not debase himself by 
 work which requires neither skill nor courage. 
 Anningait was therefore exposed by idleness to 
 the ravages of passion. He went thrice to the 
 stern of the boat, with an intent to leap into the
 
 No. 183.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 281 
 
 water, and swim back to his mistress ; but recol- 
 lecting the misery which they must endure in 
 the winter, without oil for the lamp or skins for 
 the bed, he resolved to employ the weeks of ab- 
 sence in provision for a night of plenty and feli- 
 city. He then composed his emotions as he 
 could, and expressed in wild numbers and un- 
 couth images his hopes, his sorrows, and his 
 fears. " O life !" says he, " frail and uncertain ! 
 where shall wretched man find thy resemblance 
 but in ice floating on the ocean ? It towers on 
 high, it sparkles from afar, while the storms 
 drive and the waters beat it, the sun melts it 
 above, and the rocks shatter it below. What 
 art thou, deceitful pleasure, but a sudden blaze 
 streaming from the north, which plays a moment 
 on the eye, mocks the traveller with the hopes 
 of light, and then vanishes for ever! What, love, 
 art thou, but a whirlpool, which we approach 
 without knowledge of our danger, drawn on by 
 imperceptible degrees, till we have lost all power 
 of resistance and escape ? Till I fixed my eyes 
 on the graces of Ajut, while I had not yet called 
 her to the banquet, I was careless as the sleep- 
 ing morse, I was merry as the singers in the 
 stars. Why, Ajut, did 1 gaze upon thy graces? 
 Why, my fair, did I call thee to the banquet ? 
 Yet, be faithful, my love, remember Annin- 
 gait, and meet my return with the smile of vir- 
 ginity. I will chase the deer, I will subdue the 
 whale, resistless as the frost of darkness, and un- 
 wearied as the summer sun. In a few weeks I 
 shall return prosperous and wealthy ; then shall 
 the roefish and the porpoise feast thy kindred ; the 
 fox and the hare shall cover thy couch ; the tough 
 hide of the seal shall shelter thee from cold ; and 
 the fat of the whale illuminate thy dwelling." 
 
 Anningait having with these sentiments con- 
 soled his grief, and animated his industry, found 
 that they had now coasted the headland, and 
 saw the whales spouting at a distance. He there- 
 fore placed himself in his fishing-boat, called his 
 associates to their several employments, plied his 
 oar and harpoon with incredible courage and 
 dexterity ; and, by dividing his time between the 
 chase and fisher}', suspended the miseries of ab- 
 sence and suspicion. 
 
 Ajut, in the mean time, notwithstanding her ne- 
 glected dress, happened, as she was drying some 
 skins in the sun, to catch the eye of Norngsuk, 
 on his return from hunting. Norngsuk was of 
 birth truly illustrious. His mother had died in 
 childbirth* and his father, the most expert fisher 
 of Greenland, had perished by too close pursuit 
 of the whale. His dignity was equalled by his 
 riches ; he was master of four men's and two 
 women's boats, had ninety tubs of oil in his win- 
 ter habitation, and five-and-twenty seals buried 
 in the snow against the season of darkness. 
 When he saw the beauty of Ajut, he immediately 
 threw over her the skin of a deer that he had 
 taken, and soon after presented her with a branch 
 of coral. Ajut refused his gifts, and determined 
 to admit no lover in the place of Anningait 
 
 Norngsuk, thus rejected, had recourse to stra- 
 tagem. He knew that Ajut would consult an 
 angekkok, or diviner, concerning the fate of her 
 lover, and the felicity of her future life. He 
 therefore applied himself to the most celebrated 
 angekkok of that part of the country, and by a 
 present of two seals and a marble kettle, obtain- 
 ed a promise that, when Ajut should consult 
 2L 
 
 him, he would declare that her lover was in the 
 land of souls. Ajut, in a short time, brought 
 him a coat made by herself, and inquired what 
 events were to befall her ; with assurances of a 
 much larger reward at the return of Anningait, 
 if the prediction should flatter her desires. The 
 angekkok knew the way to riches, and foretold 
 that Anningait, having already caught two 
 whales, would soon return home with a large 
 boat laden with provisions. 
 
 This prognostication she was ordered to keep 
 secret ; and Norngsuk, depending upon his arti- 
 fice, renewed his addresses with greater confi- 
 dence ; but, finding his suit still unsuccessful, 
 applied himself to her parents with gifts and pro- 
 mises. The wealth of Greenland is too powerful 
 for the virtue of a Greenlander ; they forgot the 
 merit and the presents of Anningait, and decreed 
 Ajut to the embraces of Norngsuk. She en- 
 treated ; she remonstrated ; she wept, and raved ; 
 but, finding riches irresistible, fled away into the 
 uplands, and lived in a cave upon such berries as 
 she could gather, and the birds or hares which 
 she had the fortune to ensnare, taking care at 
 an hour when she was not likely to be found, to 
 view the sea every day, that her lover might not 
 miss her at his return. 
 
 At last she saw the great boat in which An 
 ningait had departed, stealing slow and heavy 
 laden along the coast. She ran with all the im- 
 patience of affection to catch her lover in her 
 arms, and relate her constancy and sufferings. 
 When the company reached the land, they in- 
 formed her, that Anningait, after the fishery was 
 ended, being unable to support the slow passage 
 of the vessel of carriage, had set out before them 
 in his fishing-boat, and they expected at their ar- 
 rival to have found him on shore. 
 
 Ajut distracted at this intelligence, was about 
 to fly into the hills without knowing why, though 
 she was now in the hands of her parents, who 
 forced her back to their own hut, and endea- 
 voured to comfort her : but when at last they 
 retired to rest, Ajut went down to the beach ; 
 where, finding a fishing-boat, she entered it 
 without hesitation, and telling those who won- 
 dered at her rashness, that she was going in 
 search of Anningait, rowed away with great 
 swiftness, and was seen no more. 
 
 The fate of these lovers gave occasion to va- 
 rious fictions and conjectures. Some are of opin- 
 ion that they were changed into stars ; others 
 imagine that Anningait was seized in his passage 
 by the genius of the rocks ; and that Ajut was 
 transformed into a mermaid, and still continues 
 to seek her lover in the deserts of the sea. But 
 the general persuasion is, that they are both in 
 that part of the land of souls where the sun never 
 sets, where oil is always freeh, and provisions 
 always warm. The virgins sometimes throw a 
 thimble and a needle into the bay from which the 
 hapless maid departed ; and when a Greenlander 
 would praise any couple for virtuous affection, he 
 declares that they love like Anningait and Ajut 
 
 No. 188.] SATURDAY, JAN. 4, 1752. 
 
 Si te colo, Sexte, nan amabo. MART. 
 
 The more I honour thee, the less I love. 
 
 NONE of the desires dictated by vanity is more 
 general, or less blameable, than that of being
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 188. 
 
 distinguished for the arts of conversation. Other 
 accomplishments may be possessed without op- 
 portunity of exerting them, or wanted without 
 danger that the defect can often be remarked ; 
 but as no man can live, otherwise than in a her- 
 mitage, without hourly pleasure or vexation, 
 from the fondness or neglect of those about him, 
 the faculty of giving pleasure is of continual use. 
 Few are more frequently envied than those who 
 have the power of forcing attention wherever 
 they come, whose entrance is considered as a 
 promise of felicity, and whose departure is la- 
 mented like the recess of the sun from northern 
 climates, as a privation of all that enlivens fancy, 
 or inspirits gayety. 
 
 It is apparent, that to excellence in this va- 
 luable art, some peculiar qualifications are neces- 
 sary ; for every one's experience will inform him, 
 that the pleasure which men are able to give in 
 conversation, holds no stated proportion to their 
 knowledge or their virtue. Many find their way 
 to the tables and the parties of those who never 
 consider them as of the least importance in any 
 other place ; we have all, at one time or other, 
 been content to love those whom we could not 
 esteem, and been persuaded to try the dangerous 
 experiment of admitting him for a companion, 
 whom we knew to be too ignorant for a counsel- 
 lor and too treacherous for a friend. 
 
 I question whether some abatement of charac- 
 ter is not necessary to general acceptance. Few 
 spend their time with much satisfaction under 
 the eye of incontestable superiority ; and, there- 
 fore, among those whose presence is courted at 
 assemblies of jollity, there are seldom found men 
 eminently distinguished for powers or acquisi- 
 tions. The wit, whose vivacity condemns slower 
 tongues to silence ; the scholar, whose know- 
 ledge allows no man to fancy that he instructs 
 him ; the critic, who suffers no fallacy to pass 
 undetected ; and the reasoner, who condemns 
 the idle to thought and the negligent to attention, 
 are generally praised and feared, reverenced and 
 avoided. 
 
 He that would please must rarely aim at such 
 excellence as depresses his hearers in their own 
 opinion, or debars them from the hope of contri- 
 buting reciprocally to the entertainment of the 
 company. Merriment, extorted by sallies of 
 imagination, sprightliness of remark, or quick- 
 ness of reply, is too often what the Latins call 
 the Sardinian laughter, a distortion of the face 
 without gladness of heart. 
 
 For this reason, no style of conversation is 
 more extensively acceptable than the narrative. 
 He who has stored his memory with slight anec- 
 dotes, private incidents, and personal peculiari- 
 ties, seldom fails to find his audience favourable. 
 Almost every man listens with eagerness to con- 
 temporary history ; for almost every man has 
 some real or imaginary connexion with a cele- 
 brated character ; some desire to advance or 
 oppose a rising name. Vanity often co-operates 
 with curiosity. He that is a hearer in one place, 
 qualifies himself to become a speaker in another ; 
 for though he cannot comprehend a series of ar- 
 gument, or transport the volatile spirit of wit 
 without evaporation, he yet thinks himself able 
 to treasure up the various incidents of a story, 
 and pleases his hopes with the information which 
 he shall give to some inferior society. 
 
 Narratives are for the most part heard without 
 
 envy, because they are not supposed to imply 
 any intellectual qualities above the common rate. 
 To be acquainted with facts not yet echoed by 
 plebeian mouths, may happen to one man as 
 well as to another ; and to relate them when 
 they are known, has in appearance so little diffi- 
 culty, that every one concludes himself equal to 
 the task. 
 
 But it is not easy, and in some situations of 
 life not possible, to accumulate such a stock of 
 materials as may support the expense of con- 
 tinual narration ; and it frequently happens, that 
 they who attempt this method of ingratiating 
 themselves, please only at the first interview; 
 and, for want of new supplies of intelligence, 
 wear out their stories by continual repetition. 
 
 There would be, therefore, little hope of ob- 
 taining the praise of a good companion, were it 
 not to be gained by more compendious methods ; 
 but such is the kindness of mankind to all, ex- 
 cept those who aspire to real merit and rational 
 dignity, that every understanding may find some 
 way to excite benevolence ; and whoever is not 
 envied may learn the art of procuring love. W^e 
 are willing to be pleased, but arc not willing to 
 admire : we favour the mirth or officiousness 
 that solicits oar regard, but oppose the worth or 
 spirit that enforces it. 
 
 The first place among those that please, be- 
 cause they desire only to please, is due to the 
 merry fellow, whose laugh is loud, and whose 
 voice is strong ; who is ready to echo every jest 
 with obstreperous approbation, and countenance 
 every frolic with vociferations of applause. It is 
 not necessary to a merry fellow to have in him- 
 self any fund of jocularity, or force of concep 
 tion : it is sufficient that he always appears in 
 the highest exaltation of gladness ; for the greater 
 part of mankind are gay or serious by infection, 
 and follow without resistance the attraction of 
 example. 
 
 Next to the merry fellow is the good-natured 
 man, a being generally without benevolence, or 
 any other virtue than such as indolence and in- 
 sensibility confer. The characteristic of a good- 
 natured man is to bear a joke ; to sit unmoved 
 and unaffected amidst noise and turbulence, 
 profaneness and obscenity ; to hear every tale 
 without contradiction ; to endure insult without 
 reply ; and to follow the s'ream of folly, what- 
 ever course it shall happen to take. The good- 
 natured man is commonly the darling of the 
 petty wits, with whom they exercise themselves 
 in the rudiments of raillery ; for he never takes 
 advantage of failings, nor disconcerts a puny 
 satirist with unexpected sarcasms ; but, while 
 the glass continues to circulate, contentedly bears 
 the expense of uninterrupted laughter, and re- 
 tires rejoicing at his own importance. 
 
 The modest man is a companion of a yet lower 
 rank, whose only power of giving pleasure is 
 not to interrupt it. The modest man satisfies 
 himself with peaceful silence, which all his com- 
 panions are candid enough to consider as pro 
 ceeding not from inability to speak, but willing- 
 ness to hear. 
 
 Many, without being able to attain any gene- 
 ral character of excellence, have some single art 
 of entertainment which serves them as a pass- 
 port through the world. One I have known for 
 fifteen years the darling of a weekly club, be- 
 cause every night, precisely at eleven, he begins
 
 No. 189.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 283 
 
 his favourite song, and during the vocal per- 
 formance, by corresponding motions of his hand, 
 chalks out a giant upon the wall. Another has 
 endeared himself to a long succession of ac- 
 quaintances by sitting among them with his wig 
 reversed; another, by contriving to smut the 
 nose of any stranger, who was to be initiated in 
 the club ; another, by purring like a cat, and 
 then pretending to be frighted ; and another, by 
 yelping like a hound, and calling to the drawers 
 to drive out the dog. 
 
 Such are the arts by which cheerfulness is 
 promoted, and sometimes friendship established ; 
 arts, which those who despise them should not 
 rigorously blame, except when they are practised 
 at the expense of innocence; for it is always ne- 
 cessary to be loved, but not always necessary to 
 be reverenced. 
 
 No. 189.] TUESDAY, JAN. 7, 1752. 
 
 Quod tarn grande tophos clamat tibi turbo, togata. 
 fton tu, Poatfoni, cocna diserta lua est. MART. 
 
 Resounding plaudits through the crowd have rung; 
 Thy treat is eloquent, and not thy tongue. 
 
 F.LEWIS. 
 
 THE world scarcely affords opportunities of 
 making any observation more frequently than 
 on false claims to commendation. Almost every 
 man wastes part of his life in attempts to display 
 qualities which he does not possess, and to gain 
 applause which he cannot keep ; so that scarcely 
 can two persons casually meet, but one is of- 
 fended or diverted by the ostentation of the other. 
 
 Of these pretenders it is fit to distinguish those 
 who endeavour to deceive from them who are 
 deceived ; those who by designed impostures 
 promote their interest, or gratify their pride, from 
 them who mean only to force into regard their 
 latent excellences and neglected virtues; who 
 believe themselves qualified to instruct or please, 
 and therefore invite the notice of mankind. 
 
 The artful and fraudulent usurpers of distinc- 
 tion deserve greater severities than ridicule and 
 contempt, since they are seldom content with 
 empty praise, but are instigated by passions more 
 pernicious than vanity. They consider the re- 
 putation which they endeavour to establish, as 
 necessary to the accomplishment of some subse- 
 quent design, and value praise only as it may 
 conduce to the success of avarice or ambition. 
 
 The commercial world is very frequently put 
 into confusion by the bankruptcy of merchants, 
 that assumed the splendour of wealth only to 
 obtain the privilege of trading with the stock of 
 other men, and of contracting debts which no- 
 thing but lucky casualties could enable them to 
 
 pay; till, after having supported their appearance 
 awhile by a tumultuary magnificence of bound- 
 less traffic, they sink at once, and drag down 
 into poverty those whom their equipages had 
 induced to trust them. 
 
 Among wretches that place their happiness in 
 the favour of the great, of beings whom only 
 high titles or large estates set above themselves, 
 nothing is more common than to boast of confi- 
 dence which they do not enjoy ; to sell promises 
 which they know their interest unable to per- 
 form ; and to reimburse the tribute which they 
 pay to an imperious master, from ihe contribu- 
 tions of meaner dependants, whom they can 
 
 amuse with tales of their influence, and hopea 
 of their solicitation. 
 
 Even among some, too thoughtless and vola- 
 tile for avarice or ambition, may be found a spe- 
 cies of falsehood more detestable than the levee 
 or exchange can show. There are men that boast 
 of debaucheries, of which they never had address 
 to be guilty : ruin, by lewd tales, the characters 
 of women to whom they are scarcely known, or 
 by whom they have been rejected ; destroy, in a 
 drunken frolic, the happiness of families, blast 
 the bloom of beauty, and intercept the reward 
 of virtue. 
 
 Other artifices of falsehood, though utterly un- 
 worthy of an ingenious mind, are not yet to be 
 ranked with flagitious enormities, nor is it neces- 
 sary to incite sanguinary justice against them, 
 since they may be adequately punished by de 
 tection and laughter. The traveller who de- 
 scribes cities which he has never seen ; the squire 
 who, at his return from London, tells of his inti 
 macy with nobles to whom he has only bowed 
 in the park or coffee-house ; the author who en 
 tertains his admirers with stories of the assistance 
 which he gives to wits of a higher rank ; the city 
 dame who talks of her visit at great houses, 
 where she happens to know the cook-maid, are 
 surely such harmless animals as truth herself 
 may be content to despise without desiring to 
 hurt them. 
 
 But of the multitudes who struggle in vain for 
 distinction, and display their own merits only to 
 feel more acutely the sting of neglect, a great 
 part are wholly innocent of deceit, and are be 
 trayed by infatuation and credulity, to that scorn 
 with which the universal love of praise incites us 
 all to drive feeble competitors out of our way. 
 
 Few men survey themselves with so much 
 severity as not to admit prejudices in their own 
 favour, which an artful flatterer may gradually 
 strengthen, till wishes for a particular qualifi- 
 cation are improved to hopes of attainment, and 
 hopes of attainment to belief of possession. Such 
 flatterers every one will find, who has power to 
 reward their assiduities. Wherever there is 
 wealth there will be dependance and expecta- 
 tion, and wherever there is dependance there 
 will be an emulation of servility. 
 
 Many of the follies which provoke general cen 
 sure, are the effects of such vanity as however it 
 might have wantoned in the imagination, would 
 scarcely have dared the public eye, had it not 
 been animated and emboldened by flattery. 
 Whatever difficulty there may be in the know- 
 ledge of ourselves, scarcely any one fails to sus- 
 pect his own imperfections, till he is elevated by 
 others to confidence. We are almost all na 
 turally modest and timorous ; but fear and 
 
 shame are uneasy sensations, and whosoever 
 helps to remove them is received with kindness. 
 Turpicula was the heiress of a large estate, 
 and, having lost her mother in her infancy, was 
 committed to her governess, whom misfortunes 
 had reduced to suppleness and humility. The 
 fondness of Turpicula's father would not suffer 
 him to trust her at a public school ; but he hired 
 domestic teachers, and bestowed on her all the 
 accomplishments that wealth could purchase. 
 But how many things are necessary to happi- 
 ness which money cannot obtain ! Thus secluded 
 from all with whom she might converse on terms 
 of equality, she heard none of those intimations
 
 284 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 190. 
 
 of her defects, which envy, petulance, or anger, 
 produce among children, where they are not 
 afraid of telling what they think. 
 
 Turpicula saw nothing but obsequiousness, 
 and heard nothing but commendations. None 
 are so little acquainted with the heart, as not to 
 know that woman's first wish is to be handsome, 
 and that consequently the readiest method of ob- 
 taining her kindness is to praise her beauty. 
 Turpicula had a distorted shape and a dark com- 
 plexion ; yet when the impudence of adulation 
 had ventured to tell her of the commanding dig- 
 nity of her motion, and the soft enchantment of 
 her smile, she was easily convinced that she was 
 the delight or torment of every eye, and that all 
 who gazed upon her felt the fire of envy or love. 
 She therefore neglected the culture of an under- 
 standing which might have supplied the defects 
 of her form, and applied all her care to the deco- 
 ration of her person; for she considered that 
 more could judge of beauty than of wit, and was, 
 like the rest of human beings, in haste to be ad- 
 mired. The desire of conquest naturally led her 
 to the lists in which beauty signalizes her power. 
 She glittered at court, fluttered in the park, and 
 talked loud in the front box ; but after a thou- 
 sand experiments of her charms, was at last con- 
 vinced that she had been flattered, and that her 
 glass was honester than her maid. 
 
 No. 190.] SATURDAY, JAN. 11, 1752. 
 
 Ploravere fuis, non respondere favor em 
 Quasitum meritis. 
 
 Henry and Alfred 
 
 Closed their long glories with a sigU, to find 
 
 Th' unwilling gratitude of base mankind. POPE. 
 
 AMONG the emirs and visiers, the sons of valour 
 and of wisdom, that stand at the corners of the 
 Indian throne to assist the counsels or conduct 
 the wars of the posterity of Timur, the first place 
 was long held by Morad the son of Hanuth. 
 Morad, having signalized himself in many battles 
 and sieges, was rewarded with the government 
 of a province, from which the fame of his wisdom 
 and moderation was wafted to the pinnacles of 
 Agra, by the prayers of those whom his adminis- 
 tration made happy. The emperor called him 
 into his presence, and gave into his hand the 
 keys of riches, and the sabre of command. The 
 voice of Morad was heard from the cliffs of Tau- 
 rus to the Indian ocean, every tongue faltered in 
 his presence, and every eye wa:s cast down before 
 him. 
 
 Morad lived many years in prosperity ; every 
 day increased his wealth, and extended his influ- 
 ence. The sages repeated his maxims, the cap- 
 tains of thousands waited his commands. Com- 
 petition withdrew into the cavern of envy, and 
 discontent trembled at her own murmurs. But 
 human greatness is short and transitory, as the 
 odour of incense in the fire. The sun grew weary 
 of gilding the palaces of Morad, the clouds of 
 sorrow gathered round his head, and the tempest 
 of hatred roared about his dwelling. 
 
 Morad saw ruin hastily approaching. The 
 first that forsook him were his poets ; their ex- 
 ample was followed by all those whom he had 
 rewarded for contributing to his pleasures and 
 only a few, whose virtue had entitled them to 
 
 favour, were now to be seen in his hall or cham- 
 bers. He felt his danger, and prostrated him- 
 self at the foot of the throne. His accusers were 
 confident and loud, his friends stood contented 
 with frigid neutrality, and the voice of truth was 
 overborne by clamour. He was divested of his 
 power, deprived of his acquisitions, and con- 
 demned to pass the rest of his life on his heredi- 
 tary estate. 
 
 Morad had been so long accustomed to crowds 
 and business, supplicants and flattery, that he 
 knew not how to fill up his hours in solitude ; he 
 saw with regret the sun rise to force on his eye 
 a new day for which he had no use ; and envied 
 the savage that wanders in the desert, because 
 he has no time vacant from the calls of nature, 
 but is always chasing his prey, or sleeping in his 
 den. 
 
 His discontent in time vitiated his constitution, 
 and a slow disease seized upon him. He refused 
 physic, neglected exercise, and lay down on his 
 couch peevish and restless, rather afraid to die 
 than desirous to live. His domestics, fora time, 
 redoubled their assiduities ; but finding that no 
 officiousness could sooth, nor exactness satisfy, 
 they soon gave way to negligence and sloth, and 
 he that once commanded nations often languish- 
 ed in his chamber without an attendant. 
 
 In this melancholy state, he commanded mes- 
 sengers to recall his eldest son Abouzaid from the 
 army. Abouzaid was alarmed at the account of 
 his father's sickness, and hasted by long jour- 
 neys to his place of residence. Morad was yet 
 living, and felt his strength return at the em- 
 braces of his son; then commanding him to sit 
 down at his bed side, " Abouzaid," says he, 
 " thy father has no more to hope or fear from the 
 inhabitants of the earth ; the cold hand of the 
 angel of death is now upon him, and the vora- 
 cious grave is howling for his prey. Hear, there- 
 fore, the precepts of ancient experience, let not 
 my last instructions issue forth in vain. Thou 
 hast seen me happy and calamitous, thou hast 
 beheld my exaltation and my fall. My power is 
 in the hands of my enemies, my treasures have 
 rewarded my accusers ; but my inheritance the 
 clemency of the emperor has spared, and my wis- 
 dom his anger could not take away. Cast thine 
 eyes round thee ; whatever thou beholdest will, 
 in a few hours, be thine ; apply thine ear to my 
 dictates, and these possessions will promote thy 
 happiness. Aspire not to public honours, enter 
 not the palaces of kings ; thy wealth will set thee 
 above insult, let thy moderation keep thee below 
 envy. Content thyself with private dignity, dif- 
 fuse thy riches among thy friends, let every day 
 extend thy beneficence, and suffer not thy heart 
 to be at rest till thou art loved by all to whom 
 thou art known. In the height of my power, I 
 said to Defamation, Who will hear thee ? and to 
 Artifice, What canst thou perform ? But, my 
 son, despise not thou the malice of the weakest; 
 remember that venom supplies the want of 
 strength, and that the lion may perish by the 
 puncture of an asp." 
 
 Morad expired in a few hours. Abouzaid, after 
 the months of mourning, determined to regulate 
 his conduct by his father's precepts, and cultivate 
 the love of mankind by every art of kindness 
 and endearment. He wisely considered, that 
 domestic happiness was first to be secured, and 
 that none have so much power of doing' good 01
 
 No. 191.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 hurt, as those who are present in the hour of 
 negligence, hear the bursts of thoughtless merri- 
 ment, and observe the starts of unguarded pas- 
 sion. He therefore augmented the pay of all his 
 attendants, and requited every exertion of un- 
 common diligence by supernumerary gratuities. 
 While he congratulated himself upon the fidelity 
 and affection of his family, he was in the night 
 alarmed with robbers, who, being pursued and 
 taken, declared that they had been admitted by 
 one of his servants; the servant immediately 
 confessed that he unbarred the door, because 
 another not more worthy of confidence was in- 
 trusted with the keys. 
 
 Abouzaid was thus convinced that a depend- 
 ent could not easily be made a friend ; and that, 
 while many were soliciting for the first rank of 
 favour, all those would be alienated whom he 
 disappointed. He therefore resolved to associate 
 with a few equal companions selected from 
 among the chief men of the province. With 
 these he lived happily for a time, till familiarity 
 set them free from restraint, and every man 
 thought himself at liberty to indulge his own 
 caprice, and advance his own opinions. They 
 then disturbed each other with contrariety of in- 
 clinations, and difference of sentiments, and 
 Abouzaid was necessitated to offend one party 
 by concurrence, or both by indifference. 
 
 He afterwards determined to avoid a close 
 union with beings so discordant in their nature, 
 and to diffuse himself in a larger circle. He 
 practised the smile of universal courtesy, and in- 
 vited all to his table, but admitted none to his 
 retirements. Many who had been rejected in 
 his choice of friendship now refused to accept 
 his acquaintance; and of those whom plenty and 
 magnificence drew to his table, every one pressed 
 forward toward intimacy, thought himself over- 
 looked in the crowd, and murmured because he 
 was not distinguished above the rest. By de- 
 grees all made advances, and all resented repulse. 
 The table was then covered with delicacies in 
 rain ; the music sounded in empty rooms ; and 
 Abouzaid was left to form in solitude some new 
 scheme of pleasure or security. 
 
 Resolving now to try the force of gratitude, 
 he inquired for men of science whose merit was 
 obscured by poverty. His house was soon 
 crowded with poets, sculptors, painters, and de- 
 signers, who wantoned in unexperienced plenty, 
 and employed their powers in celebration of 
 their patron. But in a short time they forgot 
 the distress from which they had been rescued, 
 and began to consider their deliverer as a wretch 
 of narrow capacity, who was growing great by 
 works which he could not perform, and whom 
 they overpaid by condescending to accept his 
 bounties. Abouzaid heard their murmurs and 
 dismissed them, and from that hour continued 
 blind to colours, and deaf to panegyric. 
 
 As the sons of art departed, muttering threats 
 of perpetual infamy, Abouzaid, who stood at the 
 gate, called to him Hamet the poet. " Hamet," 
 said he, " thy ingratitude has put an end to my 
 hopes and experiments : I have now learned the 
 vanity of those labours that wish to be rewarded 
 by human benevolence ; I shall henceforth do 
 good, and avoid evil, without respect to the 
 opinion of men ; and resolve to solicit only the 
 approbation of that Being, whom alone we are 
 sure to please by endeavouring to please him." 
 
 No. 191.] TUESDAY, JAN. 14, 1752. 
 
 Cereusin vitiumfiecti, monitoribus atper. HOR. 
 
 The youth 
 
 Yielding like wax, th' impressive folly bears ; 
 Rough to reproof, and slow to future cares. 
 
 FRANCIS. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 DEAR MR. RAMBLER, 
 
 I HAVE been four days confined to my chamber 
 by a cold, which has already kept me from three 
 plays, nine sales, five shows, and six card-tables, 
 and put me seventeen visits behindhand; and 
 the doctor tells my mamma, that if I fret and cry, 
 it will settle in my head, and I shall not be fit to 
 be seen these six weeks. But, dear Mr. Rambler, 
 how can I help it ? At this very time Melissa is 
 dancing- with the prettiest gentleman ; she will 
 breakfast with him to-morrow, and then run to 
 two auctions, and hear compliments, and have 
 presents ; then she will be drest, and visit, and 
 get a ticket to the play ; then go to cards, and 
 win, and come home with two flambeaux before 
 her chair. Dear Mr. Rambler, who can bear it? 
 
 My aunt has just brought me a bundle of your 
 papers for my amusement She says, you are a 
 philosopher, and will teach me to moderate my 
 desires, and look upon the world with indiffer- 
 ence. But, dear Sir, I do not wish nor intend to 
 moderate my desires, nor can I think it proper to 
 look upon the world with indifference, till the 
 world looks with indifference on me. I have 
 been forced, however, to sit this morning a whole 
 quarter of an hour with your paper before my 
 face ; but just as my aunt came in, Phyllida had 
 brought me a letter from Mr. Trip, which I put 
 within the leaves ; and read about absence and 
 inconsolableness, and ardour, and irresistible pas- 
 sion, and eternal constancy, while my aunt ima- 
 gined that I was puzzling myself with your phi- 
 losophy, and often cried out, when she saw me 
 look confused, " If there is any word which you 
 do not understand, child, I will explain." 
 
 Dear soul ! how old people that think them- 
 selves wise may be imposed upon ! But it is fit 
 that they should take their turn ; for I am sure, 
 while they can keep poor girls close in the nurse- 
 ry, they tyrannize over us in a very shameful 
 manner, and fill our imaginations with tales of 
 terror, only to make us live in quiet subjection, 
 and fancy that we can never be safe but by their 
 protection. 
 
 I have a mamma and two aunts, who have all 
 been formerly celebrated for wit and beauty, and 
 are still generally admired by those who value 
 themselves upon their understanding, and love 
 to talk of vice and virtue, nature and simplicity, 
 and beauty and propriety ; but if there was not 
 some hope of meeting me, scarcely a creature 
 would come near them that wears a fashionable 
 coat These ladies, Mr. Rambler, have had me 
 under their government fifteen years and a half, 
 and have all that time been endeavouring to de- 
 ceive me by such representations of life as I now 
 find not to be true ; but I know not whether I 
 ought to impute them to ignorance or malice, as 
 it is possible the world may be much changed 
 since they mingled in general conversation. 
 
 Being desirous that I should love books, they 
 told me, that nothing but knowledge, could make 
 me an agreeable companion to rnen of sense, or
 
 286 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 192. 
 
 qualify me to distinguish the superficial glitter 
 of vanity from the solid merit of understanding; 
 and that a habit of reading would enable me to 
 fill up the vacuities of life without the help of 
 silly or dangerous amusements, and preserve me 
 from the snares of idleness and the inroads of 
 temptation. 
 
 But their principal intention was to make me 
 afraid of men ; in which they succeeded so well 
 for a time, that I durst not look in their faces, or 
 be left alone with them in a parlour ; for they 
 made me fancy that no man ever spoke but to 
 deceive, or looked but to allure; that the girl 
 who suffered him that had once squeezed her 
 hand, to approach her a second time, was on the 
 brink of ruin ; and that she who answered a 
 billet, without consulting her relations, gave love 
 such power over her, that she would certainly 
 either become poor or infamous. 
 
 From the time that my leading-strings were 
 taken off", I scarce heard any mention of my 
 beauty but from the milliner, the mantuamaker, 
 and my own maid ; for mamma never said more, 
 when she heard me commended, but " The girl 
 is very well," and then endeavoured to divert 
 my attention by some inquiry after my needle or 
 my book. 
 
 It is now three months since I have been suf- 
 fered to pay and receive visits, to dance at public 
 assemblies, to have a place kept for me in the 
 boxes, and to play at Lady Racket's rout ; and 
 you may easily imagine what I think of those 
 who have so long cheated me with false expect- 
 ations, disturbed me with fictitious terrors and 
 concealed from me all that I have found to make 
 the happiness of woman. 
 
 I am so far from perceiving the usefulness or 
 necessity of books, that if I had not dropped all 
 pretensions to learning, I should have lost Mr. 
 Trip, whom I once frighted into another box 
 by retailing some of Dryden's remarks upon a 
 tragedy ; for Mr. Trip declares that he hates 
 nothing like hard words, and I am sure there is 
 not a better partner to be found ; his very walk 
 is a dance. I have talked once or twice among 
 ladies about principles and ideas : but they put 
 their fans before their faces, and told me 1 was 
 loo wise for them, who for their part never pre- 
 tended to read any thing but the play-bill ; and 
 then asked me the price of my best head. 
 
 Those vacancies of time which are to be filled 
 up with books, I have never yet obtained ; for 
 consider, Mr. Rambler, I go to bed late, and 
 therefore cannot rise early ; as soon as I am up, 
 I dress for the gardens ; then walk in the park ; 
 then always go to some sale or show, or enter- 
 tainment at the Little Theatre ; then must be 
 dressed for dinner ; then must pay my visits ; 
 then walk in the park ; then hurry to the play ; 
 and from thence to the card-table. This is the 
 general course of the day, when there happens 
 nothing extraordinary ; but sometimes I ramble 
 into the country, and come back again to a ball ; 
 sometimes I am engaged for a whole day and 
 part of the night. If, at any time, I can give an 
 hour by not being at home, I have so many 
 things to do, so many orders to give to the mil- 
 liner, so many alterations to make in my clothes, 
 so many visitants' names to read over, so many 
 invitations to accept or refuse, so many cards to 
 write, and so many fashions to consider, that I 
 am lost in confusion, forced at last to let in com- 
 
 pany, or step into my chair, and leave half my 
 affairs to the direction of my maid. 
 
 This is the round of my day ; and when shall 
 I either stop my course, or so change it as to 
 want a book ? I suppose it cannot be imagined 
 that any of these diversions will soon be at an 
 end. There will always be gardens, and a park, 
 and auctions, and shows, and playhouses, and 
 cards ; visits will always be paid, and clothes 
 always be worn; and how can I have time un- 
 employed upon my hands ? 
 
 But I am most at a loss to guess for what pur- 
 pose they related such tragic stories of the cruel- 
 ty, perfidy, and artifices of men, who, if they ever 
 were so malicious and destructive, have certainly 
 now reformed their manners. I have not, since 
 my entrance into the world, found one who does 
 not profess himself devoted to my service, and 
 ready to live or die as I shall command him. 
 They are so far from intending to hurt me, that 
 their only contention is who shall be allowed 
 most closely to attend, and most frequently to 
 treat me. When different places of entertain- 
 ment or schemes of pleasure are mentioned, I 
 can see the eye sparkle and the cheeks glow of 
 him whose proposals obtain my approbation ; 
 he then leads me offin triumph, adores my con- 
 descension, and congratulates himself that he 
 has lived to the hour of felicity. Are these, Mr. 
 Rambler, creatures to be feared? Is it likely 
 that any injury will be done me by those who 
 can enjoy life only while I favour them with my 
 presence ? 
 
 As little reason can I yet find to suspect them 
 of stratagems and fraud. When I play at cards, 
 they never take advantage of my mistakes, or 
 exact from me a rigorous observation of the game. 
 Even Mr. Shuffle, a grave gentleman, who has 
 daughters older than myself, plays with me so 
 negligently, that I am sometimes inclined to be- 
 lieve he loses his money by design ; and yet he 
 is so fond of play, that he says he will one day 
 take me to his house in the country, that we may 
 try by ourselves who can conquer. I have not 
 yet promised him ; but when the town grows a 
 little empty, I shall think upon it, for I want some 
 trinkets, like Letitia's, to my watch. I do not 
 doubt my luck, but must study some means of 
 amusing my relations. 
 
 For all these distinctions I find myself indebted 
 to that beauty which I was never suffered to hear 
 praised, and of which, therefore, I did not before 
 know the full value. This concealment was 
 certainly an intentional fraud ; for my aunts have 
 eyes like other people, and I am every day told, 
 that nothing but blindness can escape the influ- 
 ence of my charms. Their whole account of that 
 world which they pretend to know so well, has 
 been only one fiction entangled with another ; 
 and though the modes of life oblige me to con- 
 tinue some appearances of respect, I cannot 
 think that they, who have been so clearly de 
 tected in ignorance or imposture, have any 
 right to the esteem, veneration, or obedience of, 
 Sir, yours, BELLARIA. 
 
 No. 192.] SATURDAY, JAN. 18, 1752. 
 
 Tivos ov&cv els tptura, 
 ^oipltj, rpiiros xaTciTat' 
 M6vov a'pyupoy fi\iirovaiv- 
 'AmiXotro Troairo; airij 
 
 .
 
 No. 192.J 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 287 
 
 'O TOV dpyvpov <jn\fiaaf 
 A(a TOVTOV oi>K 
 
 Ata TOVTOV oil TOKTJIS. 
 OdAt^ot, (povoi ii' aT(5v. 
 To <5f ^tipov, oXMfieaOa 
 
 Aid TOVTOV 01 ^(AoDVTtJ. ANACREON. 
 
 In vain the noblest birth would prove, 
 
 Nor worth nor wit avail in love ; 
 
 Tis gold alone succeeds by gold 
 
 The venal sex is bought and sold. 
 
 Accursed be he who first of yore 
 
 Discovered the pernicious ore ! 
 
 This sets a brother's heart on fire, 
 
 And arms the son against the sire ; 
 
 And what, alas ! is worse than all, 
 
 To this the lover owes his fall. F. LEWIS. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I AM the son of a gentleman whose ancestors for 
 many ages held the first rank in the country ; 
 till at last one of them, too desirous of popularity, 
 set his house open, kept a table covered with 
 continual profusion, and distributed his beef and 
 ale to such as chose rather to live upon the folly 
 of others, than their own labour, with such 
 thoughtless liberality, that he left a third part of 
 his estate mortgaged. His successor a man of 
 spirit, scorned to impair his dignity by parsimo- 
 nious retrenchments, or to admit, by a sale of his 
 lands, any participation of the rights of his ma- 
 nor ; he therefore made another mortgage to pay 
 the interest of the former, and pleased himself 
 with the reflection, that his son would have the 
 hereditary estate without the diminution of an 
 acre. 
 
 Nearly resembling this was the practice of my 
 wise progenitors for many ages. Every man 
 boasted the antiquity of his family, resolved to 
 support the dignity of his birth, and lived in splen- 
 dour and plenty at the expense of his heir, who, 
 sometimes by a wealthy marriage, and some- 
 times by lucky legacies, discharged part of the 
 incumbrances, and thought himself entitled to 
 contract new debts, and to leave to his children 
 the same inheritance of embarrassment and dis- 
 tress. Thus the estate perpetually decayed ; the 
 woods were felled by one, the park ploughed by 
 another, the fishery let to farmers by a third ; at 
 last the old hall was pulled down to spare the 
 cost of reparation, and part of the materials sold 
 to build a small house with the rest. We were now 
 openly degraded from our original rank, and my 
 father's brother was allowed with less reluctance 
 to serve an apprenticeship, though we never re- 
 conciled ourselves heartily to the sound of haber- 
 dasher, but always talked of warehouses and a 
 merchant, and when the wind happened to blow 
 loud, affected to pity the hazards of commerce, 
 and to sympathize with the solicitude of my poor 
 uncle, who had the true retailer's terror of adven- 
 ture, and never exposed himself or his property 
 to any wider water than the Thames. 
 
 In time, however, by continual profit and small 
 expenses, he grew rich, and began to turn his 
 thoughts towards rank. He hung the arms of 
 the family over his parlour-chimney ; pointed at 
 a chariot decorated only with a cipher ; became 
 of opinion that money could not make a gentle- 
 man ; resented the petulance of upstarts ; told 
 stories of Alderman Puffs grandfather, the por- 
 ter ; wondered that there was no better method 
 for regulating precedence; wished for some 
 dress peculiar to men of fashion ; and when his 
 
 servant presented a letter, always inquired whe- 
 ther it came from his brother the esquire. 
 
 My father was careful to send him game by 
 every carrier, which, though the conveyance often 
 cost more than the value, was well received, be- 
 cause it gave an opportunity of calling his friends 
 together, describing the beauty of his brother's 
 seat, and lamenting his own folly, whom no re- 
 monstrances could withhold from polluting his 
 fingers with a shop-book. 
 
 The little presents which we sent were alway 
 returned with great munificence. He was de 
 sirous of being the second founder of his family 
 and could not bear that we should be any longer 
 outshone by those whom we considered as climb- 
 ers upon our ruins, and usurpers of our fortune. 
 He furnished our house with all the elegance of 
 fashionable expense, and was careful to conceal 
 his bounties, lest the poverty of his family should 
 be suspected. 
 
 At length it happened that, by misconduct like 
 our own, a large estate, which had been pur- 
 chased from us, was again exposed to the best 
 bidder. My uncle, delighted with an opportu- 
 nity of reinstating the family in their possessions, 
 came down with treasures scarcely to be ima- 
 gined in a place where commerce has not made 
 large sums familiar, and at once drove all the 
 competitors away, expedited the writings, and 
 took possession. He now considered himself as 
 superior to trade, disposed of his stock, and as 
 soon as he had settled his economy, began to 
 show his rural sovereignty, by breaking the 
 hedges of his tenants in hunting, and seizing the 
 guns or nets of those whose fortunes did not 
 qualify them for sportsmen. He soon afterwards 
 solicited the office of sheriff, from which all his 
 neighbours were glad to be reprieved, but which 
 he regarded as a resumption of ancestral claims, 
 and a kind of restoration to blood after the at- 
 tainder of a trade. 
 
 My uncle, whose mind was so filled with this 
 change of his condition, that he found no want of 
 domestic entertainment, declared himself too old 
 to marry, and resolved to let the newly r purchased 
 estate fall into the regular channel of inheritance, 
 I was therefore considered as heir-apparent and 
 courted with officiousness and caresses, by the 
 gentlemen who had hitherto coldly allowed me 
 that rank which they could not refuse, depressed 
 me with studied neglect, and irritated me with 
 ambiguous insults. 
 
 I felt not much pleasure from the civilities for 
 which T knew myself indebted to my uncle's in- 
 dustry, till, by one of the invitations which every 
 day now brought me, I was induced to spend a 
 week with Lucius, whose daughter Flavilla I had 
 often seen and admired like others, without any 
 thought of nearer approaches. The inequality 
 which had hitherto kept me at a distance being 
 now levelled,! was received with es-ery evidence 
 of respect ; Lucius told me the fortune which he 
 intended for his favourite daughter, many odd 
 accidents obliged us to be often together without 
 company, and I soon began to find that they were 
 spreading forme the nets of matrimony. 
 
 Flavilla was all softness and complaisance. T, 
 who have been excluded by a narrow fortune 
 from much acquaintance with the world, and 
 never been honoured before with the notice of so 
 fine a lady, was easily enamoured. Lucius either 
 perceived my passion, or Flavilla betrayed it;
 
 238 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 193. 
 
 care wis taken that our private meetings should 
 be less frequent, and my charmer confessed by 
 her eyes how much pain she suffered from our 
 restraint. J renewed my visit upon every pre- 
 tence, but was not allowed one interview without 
 witness : at last I declared my passion to Lucius, 
 who received me as a lover worthy of his daugh- 
 ter, and told me that nothing was wanting to his 
 consent, but that my uncle should settle his 
 estate upon me. I objected the indecency of en- 
 croaching on his life, and the danger of provoking 
 him by such an unseasonable demand. Lucius 
 seemed not to think decency of much importance, 
 but admitted the danger of displeasing, and con- 
 cluded that, as he was now old and sickly, we 
 might, without any inconvenience, wait for his 
 death. 
 
 With this resolution I was better contented, as 
 it procured me the company of Flavilla, in which 
 the days passed away amidst continual rapture ; 
 but in time I began to be ashamed of sitting idle, 
 in expectation of growing rich by the death of 
 my benefactor, and proposed to Lucius many 
 schemes of raising my own fortune by such as- 
 sistance as I knew my uncle willing to give 
 me. Lucius, afraid lest I should change my af- 
 fection in absence, diverted me from my design 
 by dissuasives to which my passion easily lis- 
 tened. At last my uncle died, and considering 
 himself as neglected by me, from the time that 
 Flavilla took possession of my heart, left his 
 estate to my younger brother, who was always 
 hovering about his bed, and relating stories of my 
 pranks and extravagance, my contempt of the 
 commercial dialect, and my impatience to be sell- 
 ing stock. 
 
 My condition was soon known, and I was no 
 longer admitted by the father of Flavilla. I re- 
 peated the protestations of regard, which had 
 been formerly returned with so much ardour, in a 
 letter which she received privately, but returned 
 by her father's footman. Contempt has driven 
 out my love, and I am content to have purchased, 
 by the loss of fortune, an escape from a harpy, who 
 has joined the artifices of age to the allurements 
 of youth. I am now going to pursue my former 
 projects w ith a legacy which my uncle bequeath- 
 ed me, and if I succeed, shall expect to hear of 
 the repentance of Flavilla. 
 
 I am, Sir, yours, &c. 
 
 CONSTANTIUS. 
 
 No. 193.] TUESDAY, JAN. 21, 1752. 
 
 I.andls amore tumes ? S-unt certa piacula qua te 
 Terpure lecto poterunt recreare libello. HOR. 
 
 Or art thou vain ? books yield a certain spell 
 To stop thy tumour ; you shall cease to swell 
 When you have read them thrice, and studied well. 
 
 CREECH. 
 
 WHATEVER is universally desired will be sought 
 by industry and artifice, by merit and crimes, by 
 means good and bad, rational and absurd, accord- 
 ing to the prevalence of virtue or vice, of wisdom 
 or folly. Some will always mistake the degree 
 of their own desert, and some will desire that 
 others may mistake it. The cunning will have 
 recourse to stratagem, and the powerful to vio- 
 lence, for the attainment of their wishes ; some 
 will stoop to theft, and others venture upon 
 plunder. 
 
 Praise is so pleasing to the mind of man, that 
 it is the original motive of almost all our actions. 
 The desire of commendation, as of every thing 
 else, is varied indeed by innumerable differences 
 of temper, capacity, and knowledge ; some have 
 no higher wish than for the applause of a club? 
 some expect the acclamations of a county ; and 
 some have hoped to fill the mouths of all ages 
 and nations with their names. Every man pants 
 for the highest eminence within his view ; none, 
 however mean, ever sinks below the hope of be- 
 ing distinguished by his fellow-beings, and very 
 few have by magnanimity or piety, been so raised 
 above it, as to act wholly without regard to cen- 
 sure or opinion. 
 
 To be praised, therefore, every man resolves ; 
 but resolutions will not execute themselves. 
 That which all think too parsimoniously distri 
 buted to their own claims, they will not gratui- 
 tously squander upon others, and some expedi 
 ent must be tried, by which praise may be gained 
 before it can be enjoyed. 
 
 Among the innumerable bidders for praise, 
 some are willing to purchase at the highest rate, 
 and offer ease and health, fortune and life. Yet 
 even of these only a small part have gained what 
 they so earnestly desired ; the student wastes 
 away in meditation, and the soldier perishes on 
 the ramparts, but unless some accidental advan- 
 tage co-operates with merit, neither persever- 
 ance nor advantage attract attention, and learn- 
 ing and bravery sink into the grave, without 
 honour or remembrance. 
 
 But ambition and vanity generally expect to 
 be gratified on easier terms. It has been long 
 observed, that what is procured by skill or labour 
 to the first possessor, may be afterwards trans- 
 ferred for money ; and that the man of wealth 
 may partake all the acquisitions of courage with- 
 out hazard, and all the products of industry with- 
 out fatigue, it was easily discovered that riches 
 would obtain praise among other conveniences, 
 and that he whose pride was unluckily associated 
 with laziness, ignorance, or cowardice, needed 
 only to pay the hire of a panegyrist, and he might 
 be regaled with periodical eulogies ; might de- 
 termine, at leisure, what virtue or science he 
 would be pleased to appropriate, and be lulled 
 in the evening with soothing serenades, or waked 
 in the morning by sprightly gratulations. 
 
 The happiness which mortals receive from the 
 celebration of beneficence which never relieved, 
 eloquence which never persuaded, or elegance 
 which never pleased, ought not to be envied or 
 disturbed, when they are known honestly to pay 
 for their entertainment. But there are unmerci- 
 ful exactors of adulation, who withhold the wages 
 of venality ; retain their encomiast from year to 
 year by general promises and ambiguous blan- 
 dishments ; and when he has run through the 
 whole compass of flattery, dismiss him with con- 
 tempt, because his vein of fiction is exhausted. 
 
 A continual feast of commendation is only to 
 be obtained by merit or by wealth ; many are 
 therefore obliged to content themselves witli sin- 
 gle morsels, and recompense the infrequency of 
 their enjoyment by excess and riot, whenever 
 fortune sets the banquet before them. Hunger 
 is never delicate ; they, who are seldom gorged 
 to the full with praise, may be safely fed with 
 gross compliments ; for the appetite must be sa- 
 tisfied before it is disgusted.
 
 No. 194.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 2S9 
 
 It is easy to find the moment at which vanit 
 is eager for sustenance, and all that impudeno 
 or servility can offer will be well received. Wher 
 any one complains of the want of what he is 
 known to possess in an uncommon degree, ht 
 certainly waits with impatience to be contradicted 
 When the trader pretends anxiety about the 
 payment of his bills, or the beauty remarks how 
 frightfully she looks, then is the lucky moment 
 to talk ol riches or of charms, of the death of lov- 
 ers, or the honour of a merchant. 
 
 Others there are yet more open and artless 
 who, instead of suborning a flatterer, are conteni 
 lo supply his place, and, as some animals im- 
 pregnate themselves, swell with the praises which 
 they hear from their own tongues. Recte is dici- 
 turlaudaresese, ciri nemo alias contigit laudator. "It 
 is right," says Erasmus, " that he, whom no one 
 else will commend, should bestow commenda- 
 tions on himself." Of all the sons of vanity, 
 these are surely the happiest and greatest ; for 
 what is greatness or happiness but independence 
 on external influences, exemption from hope, or 
 fear, and the power of supplying every want from 
 the common stores of nature, whjch can neither 
 be exhausted nor prohibited ? Such is the wise 
 man of the stoics ; such is the divinity of the Epi- 
 cureans; and euch is the flatterer of himself. 
 Every other enjoyment malice may destroy ; eve- 
 ry other panegyric envy may withhold ; but no 
 human power can deprive the boaster of his own 
 encomiums. Infamy may hiss, or contempt may 
 growl ; the hirelings of the great may follow for- 
 tune, and the votaries of truth may attend on vir- 
 tue ; but his pleasures still remain the same ; he 
 can always listen with rapture to himself, and 
 leave those who dare not repose upon their own 
 attestation, to be elated or depressed by chance, 
 and toil on in the hopeless task of fixing caprice, 
 and propitiating malice. 
 
 This art of happiness has been long practised 
 by periodical writers, with little apparent vio- 
 lation of dec ncy. When we think our excel- 
 lences overlooked by the world, or desire to recall 
 the attention of the public to some particular per- 
 formance, we sit down with great composure, 
 and write a letter to ourselves. The correspond- 
 ent, whose character we assume, always ad- 
 dresses us with the deference due to a superior 
 intelligence ; proposes his doubts with a proper 
 eenseof his own inability; offers an objection with 
 trembling diffidence ; and at last has no other 
 pretensions to our notice than his profundity of 
 respect, and sincerity of admiration, his submis- 
 sion to our dictates, and zeal for our success. To 
 such a reader, it is impossible to refuse regard, 
 nor can it easily be imagined with how much 
 alacrity we snatch up the pen which indignation 
 or despair had condemned to inactivity, when we 
 find such candour and judgment yet remaining 
 in the world. 
 
 A letter of this kind I had lately the honour of 
 perusing, in which, though some of the periods 
 were negligently closed, and some expressions 
 of familiarity were used, which I thought might 
 teach others to address me with too little rever- 
 ence, I was so much delighted with the passages 
 in which mention was made of universal learning 
 unbounded genius soul of Homer, Pythago 
 ras, and Plato solidity of thought accuracy of 
 distinction elegance of combination vigour of 
 fancy strength of reason and regularity of 
 2M 
 
 composition that I had once determined to lay 
 it before the public. Three times I sent it to the 
 printer, and three times I fetched it back. My 
 modesty was on the point of yielding, when re 
 fleeting that I was about to waste panegyrics on 
 myself, which might be more profitably reserved 
 for my patron ? i locked it up for a better hour, in 
 compliance with the farmer's principle, who ne- 
 ver eats at home what he can carry to the market. 
 
 No. 194.] SATURDAY, JAW. 25, 1752. 
 
 Si damnota senemjuvat aha, ludit et hares 
 BuUatus,parvoque eadem movet armajritillo, jov 
 
 If gaming does an aged sire entice, 
 
 Then my young master swiftly learns the vice, 
 
 And shakes in hanging sleeves the little box and dice. 
 
 J-DRYDEN, Juil 
 
 SIR, 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 THAT vanity which keeps every man important 
 in his own eyes, inclines me So believe that nei- 
 ther you nor your readers hsve yet forgotten the 
 name of EuTiathcs, who sent you a few months 
 ago an ac jnt of his arrival at London, with a 
 young nobleman his pupil. I shall therefore 
 continue my narrative without preface or recapi- 
 tulation. 
 
 My pupil, in a very short time, by his mother's 
 countenance and direction, accomplished him- 
 self with all those qualifications which constitute 
 puerile politeness. He became in a few days a 
 perfect master of his hat, which with a careless 
 nicety he could put off or on, without any need 
 to adjust it by a second motion. This was not 
 attained but by frequent consultations with his 
 dancing master, and constant practice before the 
 olass, for he had some rustic habits to overcome ; 
 but what will not time and industry perform ? A 
 fortnight more furnished him with all the airs and 
 forms of familiar and respectful salutation, from 
 the clap on the shoulder to the humble bow ; he 
 practises the stare of strangeness, and the smile 
 of condescension, the solemnity of promise, and 
 :he graciousness of encouragement, as if he had 
 3een nursed at a levee ; and pronounces, with 
 no less propriety than his father, the monosylla- 
 bles of coldness, and sonorous periods of respect- 
 "ul profession. 
 
 He immediately lost the reserve and timidity 
 which solitude and study are apt to impress upon 
 the most courtly genius ; was able to enter a 
 crowded room with airy civility ; to meet the 
 glances of a hundred eyes without perturbation ; 
 and address those whom he never saw before 
 with ease and confidence. In less than a month 
 lis mother declared -her satisfaction at his profi- 
 ciency by a triumphant observation that she be- 
 ieved nothing would make him blush. 
 
 The silence with which I was contented to 
 lear my pupil's praises, gave the lady reason to 
 suspect me not much delighted with his acquisi- 
 ions; but she attributed my discontent to the 
 liminution of my influence, and my fears of los- 
 ng the patronage of the family , and though she 
 hinks favourably of my learning and morals, 
 .he considers me as wholly unacquainted with 
 he customs of the polite part of mankind j and 
 herefore not qualified to form the manners of a 
 foung nobleman, or communicate the know- 
 edge of the world. This knowledge she com-
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 ["No. 195. 
 
 prises in the rules of visiting, the history of the 
 present hour, an early intelligence of the change 
 of fashions, an extensive acquaintance with the 
 names and faces of persons of rank, and a fre- 
 quent appearance in places of resort. 
 
 All this my pupil pursues with great applica- 
 tion. He is twice a day in thflrtMall, where he 
 studies the dress of every man splendid enough 
 to attract his notice, and never comes home with- 
 out some observation upon sleeves, button-holes, 
 and embroidery. At his return from the thea- 
 tre, he can give an account of the gallantries, 
 glances, whispers, smiles, sighs, flirts, and blushes 
 of every box, so much to his mother's satisfac- 
 tion, that when I attempted to resume my cha- 
 racter, by inquiring his opinion of the sentiments 
 and diction of the tragedy, she at once repressed 
 my criticism, by telling me, that she hoped he did 
 not go to lose his time in attending to the creatures 
 on the stage. 
 
 But his acuteness was most eminently signal- 
 ized at the masquerade, where he discovered his 
 acquaintance through their disguises, with such 
 wonderful facility, as has afforded the family an 
 inexhaustible topic of conversation. Every new 
 visiter is informed how one was detected by his 
 gait, and another by the swing of his arms, a 
 third by the toss of his head, and another by his 
 favourite phrase ; nor can you doubt but these 
 performances receive their just applause, and a 
 genius thus hastening to maturity is promoted by 
 every art of cultivation. 
 
 Such have been his endeavours, and such his 
 assistances, that every trace of literature was 
 soon obliterated. He has changed his language 
 with his dress, and, instead of endeavouring at 
 purity or propriety, has no other care than to 
 catch the reigning phrase and current exclama- 
 tion, till, by copying whatever is peculiar in the 
 talk of all those whose birth or fortune entitles 
 them to imitation, he has collected every fashion- 
 able barbarism of the present winter, and speaks 
 a dialect not to be understood among those who 
 form their style by poring upon authors. 
 
 To this copiousness of ideas, and felicity of 
 language, he has joined such eagerness to lead 
 the conversation, that he is celebrated among the 
 ladies as the prettiest gentleman that the age can 
 boast of, except that some who love to talk them- 
 selves think him too forward, and others lament 
 that, with so much wit and knowledge, he is not 
 taller. 
 
 His mother listens to his observations with 
 her eyes sparkling, and her heart beating, and 
 can scarcely contain, in the most numerous as- 
 semblies, the expectations which she has formed 
 for his future eminence. Women, by whatever 
 fate, always judge absurdly of the intellects of 
 boys. The vivacity and confidence which at- 
 tract female admiration, are seldom produced in 
 the early part of life, but by ignorance at least, 
 if not by stupidity ; for they proceed not from 
 confidence of right, but fearlessness of wrong. 
 Whoever has a clear apprehension, must have 
 quick sensibility, and where he has no sufficient 
 reason to trust his own judgment, will proceed 
 with doubt and caution, because he perpetually 
 dreads the disgrace of error. The pain of mis- 
 carriage is naturally proportionate to the desire 
 of excellence; and, therefore, till men are hard- 
 ened by long familiarity with reproach, or have 
 attained, by frequent struggles, the art of sup- 
 
 pressing their emotions, diffidence is found the 
 inseparable associate of understanding. 
 
 But so little distrust has my pupil of his own 
 abilities, that he has for some time professed 
 himself a wit, and tortures his imagination on 
 all occasions for burlesque and jocularity. How 
 he supports a character which, perhaps, no man 
 ever assumed without repentance, may be easily 
 conjectured. Wit, you know, is the unexpected 
 copulation of ideas, the discovery of some occult 
 relation between images in appearance remote 
 from each other ; an effusion of wit, therefore, 
 presupposes an accumulation of knowledge ; a 
 memory stored with notions, which the imagina- 
 tion may cull out to compose new assemblages. 
 Whatever may be the native vigour of the mind, 
 she can never form many combinations from few 
 ideas, as many changes can never be rung upon 
 a few bells. Accident may indeed sometimes 
 produce a lucky parallel or a striking contrast: 
 but these gifts of chance are not frequent, and 
 he that has nothing of his own, and yet con- 
 demns himself to needless expenses, must live 
 upon loans or theft. 
 
 The indulgence which his youth has hitherto 
 obtained, and the respect which his rank secures, 
 have hitherto supplied the want of intellectual 
 qualifications ; and he imagines that all admire 
 who applaud, and that all who laugh are pleased. 
 He therefore returns every day to the charge 
 with increase of courage, though not of strength, 
 and practises all the tricks by which wit is coun- 
 terfeited. He lays trains for a quibble ; he con- 
 trives blunders for his footman ; he adapts old 
 stories to present characters ; he mistakes the 
 question, that he may return a smart answer; he 
 anticipates the argument, that he may plausibly 
 object; when he has nothing to reply, he repeats 
 the last words of his antagonist, then says, 
 " your humble servant," and concludes with a 
 laugh of triumph. 
 
 These mistakes I have honestly attempted to 
 correct ; but what can be expected from reason 
 unsupported by fashion, splendour, or authority ? 
 He hears me, indeed, or appears to hear me, but 
 is soon rescued from the lecture by more pleasing 
 avocations ; and shows, diversions and caresses, 
 drive my precepts from his remembrance. 
 
 He at last imagines himself qualified to enter 
 the world, and has met with adventures in his 
 first sally, which I shall, by your paper, commu- 
 nicate to the public. I am, &c. 
 
 EUMATHES. 
 
 No. 195.] TUESDAY, JAN. 28, 1752 
 
 Nesc.it eguo rudis 
 
 Htcrere ingcnviis puer 
 Vcnarique timet ; ludere doctior 
 
 Sen Grttc'o jubeas trocho, 
 Seu malis velita legibus alea. HOR. 
 
 Nor knows our youth, of noblest race, 
 To mount the managed steed or urge the chase; 
 
 More skill'd in the mean arts of vice, 
 The whirling troque, or law-forbidden dice. 
 
 FRANCIS. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 SIR, 
 
 FAVOURS of every kind are doubled when they 
 are speedily conferred. This is particularly true 
 of the gratification of curiosity : he that long de- 
 lays a story, and suffers his auditor to tormeni
 
 No. 195.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 291 
 
 himself with expectation, will seldom be able to 
 recompense the uneasiness, or equal the hope 
 which he suffers to be raised. 
 
 For this reason, I have already sent you the 
 continuation of my pupil's history, which, though 
 it contains no events very uncommon, may be 
 of use to young men who are in too much haste, 
 to trust their own prudence, and quit the wing of 
 protection before they are able to shift for them- 
 selves. 
 
 When he first settled in London, he was so 
 much bewildered in the enormous extent of the 
 town, so confounded by incessant noise, and 
 crowds, and hurry, and so terrified by rural nar- 
 ratives of the arts of sharpers, the rudeness of 
 the populace, malignity of porters, and treachery 
 of coachmen, that he was afraid to go beyond 
 the door without an attendant, and imagined his 
 life in danger if he was obliged to pass the streets 
 at night in any vehicle but his mother's chair. 
 
 He was therefore contented, for a time, that I 
 should accompany him in all his excursions. 
 But his fear abated as he grew more familiar 
 with its objects ; and the contempt to which his 
 rusticity exposed him from such of his com- 
 panions as had accidentally known the town 
 longer, obliged him to dissemble his remaining 
 terrors. 
 
 His desire of liberty made him now willing to 
 spare me the trouble of observing his motions ; 
 but knowing how much liis ignorance exposed 
 him to mischief, I thought it cruel to abandon him 
 to the fortune of the town. We went together 
 every day to a coffee-house, where he met wits, 
 heirs, and fops, airy, ignorant, and thoughtless as 
 himself, with whom he had become acquainted 
 at card-tables, and whom he considered as the 
 only beings to be envied or admired. What 
 were their topics of conversation, I could never 
 discover; for so much was their vivacity de- 
 pressed by my intrusive seriousness, that they 
 seldom proceeded beyond the exchange of nods 
 and shrugs, an arch grin, or a broken hint, ex- 
 cept when they could retire, while I was looking 
 on the papers, to a corner of the room, where 
 they seemed to disburthen their imaginations, 
 and commonly vented the superfluity of their 
 sprightliness in a peal of laughter. When they 
 had tittered themselves into negligence, I could 
 sometimes overhear a few syllables, such as 
 solemn rascal academical airs smoke the tu- 
 tor company for gentlemen and other broken 
 phrases, by which I did not suffer my quiet to 
 be disturbed, for they never proceeded to avowed 
 indignities, but contented themselves to murmur 
 in secret, and whenever I turned my eye upon 
 <hem, shrunk into stillness. 
 
 He was, however, desirous of withdrawing 
 from the subjection which he could not venture 
 to break, and made a secret appointment to as- 
 sist his companions in the persecution of a play. 
 His footman privately procured him a catcall, 
 on which he practised, in a back garret, for two 
 hours in the afternoon. At the proper time a 
 chair was called ; he pretended an engagement 
 at Lady Flutter's, and hastened to the place 
 where his critical associates had assembled. 
 They hurried away to the theatre, full of ma- 
 lignity and denunciations against a man whose 
 name they had never heard, and a performance 
 which they could not understand ; for they were 
 resolved to judge for themselves, and would not 
 
 suffer the town to be imposed upon by scribblers. 
 In the pit, they exerted themselves with great 
 spirit and vivacity; called out for the tunes of 
 obscene songs, talked loudly at intervals of 
 Shakspeare and Jonson, played on their catcalls 
 a short prelude of terror, clamoured vehemently 
 for the prologue, and clapped with great dex- 
 terity at the first entrance of the players. 
 
 Two scenes they heard without attempting in 
 terruption ; but being no longer able to restrain 
 their impatience, they then began to exert them- 
 selves in groans and hisses, and plied their cat- 
 calls with incessant diligence ; so that they were 
 soon considered by the audience" as disturbers of 
 the house, and some who sat near them, either 
 provoked at the obstruction of their entertain- 
 ment, or desirous to preserve the author from the 
 mortification of seeing his hopes destroyed by 
 children, snatched away their instruments of 
 criticism, and, by the seasonable vibration of a 
 stick, subdued them instantaneously to decency 
 and silence. 
 
 To exhilarate themselves after this vexatious 
 defeat, they posted to a tavern, where they re- 
 covered their alacrity, and, after two hours of 
 obstreperous jollity, burst out big with enter- 
 prise, and panting for some occasion to signal- 
 ise their prowess. They proceeded vigorously 
 through two streets, and with very little oppo- 
 sition dispersed a rabble of drunkards less daring 
 than themselves, then rolled two watchmen in 
 the kennel, and broke the windows of a tavern 
 in which the fugitives took shelter. At last it 
 was determined to march up to a row of chairs, 
 and demolish them for standing on the pavement; 
 the chairmen formed a line of battle, and blows 
 were exchanged for a time with equal courage on 
 both sides. At last the assailants were over- 
 powered, and the chairmen, when they knew 
 their captives brought them home by force. 
 
 The young gentleman, next morning, hung his 
 head, and was so much ashamed of his outrages 
 and defeat, that perhaps he might have been 
 checked in his first follies, had not his mother, 
 partly in pity of his dejection, and partly in ap- 
 probation of his spirit, relieved him from his per- 
 plexity by paying the damages privately, and dis- 
 couraging all animadversion and reproof. 
 
 This indulgence could not wholly preserve him 
 from the remembrance of his disgrace, nor at 
 once restore his confidence and elation. He was 
 for three days silent, modest and compliant, and 
 thought himself neither too wise for instruction, 
 nor too manly for restraint. But his levity over- 
 came this salutary sorrow ; he began to talk with 
 his former raptures of masquerades, taverns, and 
 frolics ; blustered when his wig was not combed 
 with exactness ; and threatened destruction to 
 a tailor who had mistaken his directions about 
 the pocket. 
 
 I knew that he was now rising again above 
 control, and that this inflation of spirits would 
 burst out into some mischievous absurdity. I 
 therefore watched him with great attention ; but 
 one evening, having attended his mother at a 
 visit, he withdrew himself unsuspected, while the 
 company was engaged at cards. His vivacity 
 and officiousness were soon missed, and his re- 
 turn impatiently expected ; supper was delayed 
 and conversation suspended ; every coach that 
 rattled through the street was expected to bring 
 him, and every servant that entered the room
 
 292 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 196. 
 
 was examined concerning his departure. At 
 last the lady returned home, and was with great 
 difficulty preserved from fits by spirits and cor- 
 dials. The family was despatched a thousand 
 ways without success, and the house was filled 
 with distraction, till, as we were deliberating 
 what further measures to take, he returned from 
 a petty gaming-table, with his coat torn, and his 
 head broken ; without his sword, snuff-box, 
 sleeve-buttons, and watch. 
 
 Of this loss, or robbery, he gave little account ; 
 but, instead of sinking into his former shame, en- 
 deavoured to support himself by surliness and 
 asperity. " He was not the first that had played 
 away a few trifles, and of what use were birth 
 and fortune if they would not admit some sallies 
 and expenses ?" His mamma was so much pro- 
 voked by the cost of this prank, that she would 
 neither palliate nor conceal it ; and his father, 
 after some threats of rustication which his fond- 
 ness would not suffer him to execute, reduced the 
 allowance of his pocket, that he might not be 
 tempted by plenty to profusion. This method 
 would have succeeded m a place where there are 
 no panders to folly and extravagance, but was 
 now likely to have produced pernicious conse- 
 quences ; for we have discovered a treaty with a 
 broker, whose daughter he seems disposed to 
 marry, on condition that he shall be supplied 
 with present money, for which he is to repay 
 thrice the value at the death of his father. 
 
 There was now no time to be lost. A domes- 
 tic consultation was immediately held, and he 
 was doomed to pass two years in the country ; 
 but his mother, touched with his tears, declared 
 that she thought him too much of a man to be 
 any longer confined to his book, and he there- 
 fore begins his travels to-morrow under a French 
 governor. 
 
 I am, &c. 
 
 EUMATHES. 
 
 No. 196.] SATURDAY, FEB. 1, 1752. 
 
 Multnferunt anni venientes commoda scrum, 
 Malta recedentes adimunt. HOR. 
 
 The blessings flowing in with life's full tide 
 Down with our ebb of life decreasing glide. 
 
 FRANCIS. 
 
 BAXTER, in the narrative of his own life, has 
 enumerated several opinions, which, though he 
 thought them evident and incontestable at his 
 first entrance into tho world, time and experience 
 disposed him to change. 
 
 Whoever reviews the state of his own mind 
 from the dawn of manhood to its decline, and 
 considers what he pursued or dreaded, slighted 
 or esteemed, at different periods of his age, will 
 have no reason to imagine such changes of sen- 
 timent peculiar to any station or character. Every 
 man, however careless and inattentive, has con- 
 viction forced upon him ; the lectures of time ob- 
 trude themselves upon the most unwilling or 
 dissipated auditor ; and by comparing our past 
 with our present thoughts, we perceive that we 
 have changed our minds, though perhaps we 
 cannot discover when the alteration happened, or 
 by what causes it was produced. 
 
 This revolution of sentiments occasions a per- 
 petual contest between the old and young. They 
 who imagine themselves entitled to veneration 
 
 by the prerogative of longer life, are inclined to 
 treat the notions of those whoso conduct they 
 superintend with superciliousness and contempt, 
 for want of considering that the future and the 
 past have different appearances ; that the dis- 
 proportion will always be great between expect- 
 ation and enjoyment, between new possession 
 and satiety ; that the truth of many maxims of 
 age gives too little pleasure to be allowed till it 
 's felt; and that the miseries of life would be 
 increased beyond all human power of endurance, 
 if we 'were to enter the world with the same 
 opinions as we carry from it. 
 
 We naturally indulge those ideas that please 
 us. Hope will predominate in every mind, till 
 it has been suppressed by frequent disappoint- 
 ments. The youth has not yet discovered how 
 many evils are continually hovering about us, 
 and when he is set free from the shackles of dis- 
 cipline, looks abroad into the world with rapture ; 
 he sees an elysian region open before him, so 
 variegated with beauty, and so stored with plea- 
 sure, that his care is rather to accumulate good, 
 than to shun evil ; he stands distracted by differ- 
 ent forms of delight, and has no other doubt, 
 than which path to follow of those which all lead 
 equally to the bowers of happiness. 
 
 He who has seen only the superficies of life 
 believes every thing to be what it appears, and 
 rarely suspects that external splendour conceals 
 any latent sorrow or vexation. He never ima- 
 gines that there may be greatness without safety, 
 affluence without content, jollity without friend- 
 ship, and solitude without peace. He fancies 
 himself permitted to cull the blessings of every 
 condition, and to leave its inconveniences to the 
 idle and the ignorant. He is inclined to believe 
 no man miserable but by his own fault, and sel- 
 dom looks with much pity upon failings or mis- 
 carriages, because he thinks them willingly ad 
 mitted, or negligently incurred. 
 
 It is impossible, without pity and contempt, to 
 hear a youth of generous sentiments and warm 
 imagination, declaring in the moment of open- 
 ness and confidence, his designs and expecta- 
 tions ; because long life is possible, he considers 
 it as certain, and therefore promises himself all 
 the changes of happiness, and provides gratifica- 
 tions for every desire. He is, for a time, to give 
 himself wholly to frolic and diversion, to range 
 the world in search of pleasure, to delight every 
 eye, to gain every heart, and to be celebrated 
 equally for his pleasing levities and solid attain 
 ments, his deep reflections and his sparklingrepar- 
 tees. He then elevates his views to nobler en- 
 joyments, and finds all the scattered excellences 
 of the female world united in a woman, who 
 prefers his addresses to wealth and titles ; he is 
 afterwards to engage in business, to dissipate dif- 
 ficulty, and overpower opposition ; to climb, by 
 the mere force of merit, to fame and greatness ; 
 and reward all those who countenanced his rise, 
 or paid due regard to his early excellence. At 
 last he will retire in peace and honour; contract 
 his views to domestic pleasures ; form the man- 
 ners of children like himself; observe how every 
 year expands the beauty of his daughters, and 
 how his sons catch ardour from their father's 
 history; he will give laws to the neighbourhood , 
 dictate axioms to posterity ; and leave the world 
 an example of wisdom and of happiness. 
 
 With hopes like these, he sallies jocund into
 
 No. 197.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 293 
 
 life ; to little purpose is he told, that the condi- 
 tion of humanity admits no pure and unmingled 
 happiness ; that the exuberant gayety of youth 
 ends in poverty or disease ; that uncommon qua- 
 lifications and contrarieties of excellence, pro- 
 duce envy equally with applause ; that, whatever 
 admiration and fondness may promise him, he 
 must marry a wife like the wives of others, with 
 some virtues and some faults, and be as often 
 disgusted by her vices, as delighted by her ele- 
 gance ; that if he adventures into the circle of 
 action, he must expect to encounter men as art- 
 ful, as daring, as resolute as himself; that of his 
 children, some may be deformed, and others vi- 
 cious ; some may disgrace him by their follies ; 
 some offend him by their insolence, and some 
 exhaust him by their profusion. He hears all 
 this with obstinate incredulity, and wonders by 
 what malignity old age is influenced, that it can- 
 not forbear to fill his ears with predictions of 
 misery. 
 
 Among other pleasing errors of young minds, 
 is the opinion of their own importance. He that 
 has not yet remarked how little attention his 
 contemporaries can spare from their own affairs, 
 conceives all eyes turned upon himself, and ima- 
 gines every one that approaches him to be an 
 enemy or a follower, an admirer or a spy. He 
 therefore considers his fame as involved in the 
 event of every action. Many of the virtues and 
 vices of youth proceed from this quick sense of 
 reputation. This it is that gives firmness and 
 constancy, fidelity and disinterestedness, and it is 
 this that kindles resentment for slight injuries, 
 and dictates all the principles of sanguinary 
 honour. 
 
 But as time brings him forward into the world, 
 he soon discovers that he only shares'fame or re- 
 proach with innumerable partners ; that he is 
 left unmarked in the obscurity of the crowd ; 
 and that what he does, whether good or bad, 
 soon gives way to new objects of regard. He 
 then easily sets himself free from the anxieties of 
 reputation, and considers praise or censure as a 
 transient breath, which, while he hears it, is 
 passing away, without any lasting mischief or ad- 
 vantage. 
 
 In youth, it is common to measure right and 
 wrong by the opinion of the world, and in age, 
 to act without any measure but interest, and to 
 lose shame without substituting virtue. 
 
 Such is the condition of life, that something is 
 always wanting to happiness. In youth, we 
 have warm hopes, which are soon blasted by 
 rashness and negligence, and great designs, 
 which are defeated by inexperience. In age, we 
 have knowledge and prudence without spirit to 
 exert, or motives to prompt them ; we are able 
 to plan schemes, and regulate measures; but 
 have not time remaining to bring them to com- 
 pletion. 
 
 No. 197.] TUESDAY, FEB. 4, 1752. 
 
 Cujus vulturis hoc erit cadaver ? MART. 
 
 Say, to what vulture's share this carcass falls ? 
 
 F. LEWIS. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I BELONG to an order of mankind, considerable 
 nl least for th"ir number, to which vour notice 
 
 has never been formally extended, though equally 
 entitled to regard with those triflers, who have 
 hitherto supplied you with topics of amusement 
 or instruction. I am, Mr. Rambler, a legacy- 
 hunter; and, as every man is willing to think 
 well of the tribe in which his name is registered, 
 you will forgive my vanity, if I remind you that 
 the legacy-hunter, however degraded by an ill- 
 compounded appellation in our barbarous lan- 
 guage, was known, as I am told, in ancient 
 Rome, by the sonorous titles of ca'ptator and h<e- 
 rcdipeta. 
 
 My father was an attorney in the country, 
 who married his master's daughter in hopes of a 
 fortune which he did not obtain, having been, as 
 he afterwards discovered, chosen by her only 
 because she had no better offer, and was afraid 
 of service. I was the first offspring of a marriage, 
 thus reciprocally fraudulent, and therefore could 
 not be expected to inherit much dignity or gene- 
 rosity, and if I had them not from nature, was 
 not likely ever to attain them ; for, in the years 
 which I spent at home, I never heard any reason 
 for action or forbearance, but that we should 
 gain money or lose it ; nor was taught any other 
 style of commendation, than that Mr. Sneaker is 
 a warm man, Mr. Gripe has done his business, 
 and needs care for nobody. 
 
 My parents, though otherwise not great phi- 
 losophers, knew the force of early education, 
 and took care that the blank of my understanding 
 should be filled with impressions of the value of 
 money. My mother used, upon all occasions, 
 to inculcate some salutary axioms, such as might 
 incite me to keep what I had, and get what I could; 
 she informed me that we were in a world, where 
 all must catch that catch can; and as I grew up, 
 stored my memory with deeper observations; 
 restrained me from the usual puerile expenses, 
 by remarking that many a little make a mickle; 
 and when I envied the finery of my neighbours, 
 told me that brag teas a good dog, but holdfast was 
 a better. 
 
 I was soon sagacious enough to discover that 
 I was not born to great wealth; and having 
 heard no other name for happiness, was some- 
 times inclined to repine at my condition. But 
 my mother always relieved me by saying that 
 there was money enough in the family, that it 
 teas good to be of kin to means, that I had nothing 
 to do but to please my friends, and I might come 
 to hold up my head with the best squire in the 
 country. 
 
 These splendid expectations arose from our 
 alliance to three persons of considerable fortune. 
 My mother's aunt had attended on a lady, who, 
 when she died, rewarded her officiousness and 
 fidelity with a large legacy. My father had two 
 relations, of whom one had broken his inden- 
 tures and run to sea, from whence, after an ab- 
 sence of thirty years, he returned with ten thou- 
 sand pounds; and the other had lured an heiress 
 out of a window, who dying of her first child, 
 had left him her estate, on which he lived, with- 
 out any other care than to collect his rents, and 
 preserve from poachers that game which ho 
 could not kill himself, 
 
 These hoarders of money were visited and 
 courted by all who had any pretence to approach 
 them, and received presents and compliments 
 from cousins who could scarcely tell the degree 
 of their relation. But we had peculiar advan
 
 294 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 198. 
 
 tages, which encouraged us to hope, that we 
 should by degrees supplant our competitors. My 
 lather, by his profession, made himself necessary 
 ia their affairs; for the sailor and the chamber- 
 maid, he inquired out mortgages and securities, 
 and wrote bonds and contracts ; and had en- 
 deared himself to the old woman, who once 
 rashly lent a hundred pounds without consulting 
 him, by informing her that her debtor was on 
 the point of bankruptcy, and posting so expedi- 
 tiously with an execution that all the other credi- 
 tors were defrauded. 
 
 To the squire he was a kind of steward, and 
 had distinguished himself in his office by his ad- 
 dress in raising the rents, his inflexibility in dis- 
 tressing the tardy tenants, and his acuteness in 
 setting the parish free from burdensome inhabit- 
 ants, by shifting them off to some other settle- 
 ment. 
 
 Business made frequent attendance necessary; 
 trust soon produced intimacy ; and success gave 
 a claim to kindness ; so that we had opportunity 
 to practise all the arts of flattery and endearment. 
 My mother, who could not support the thought 
 of losing any thing, determined that all their for- 
 tunes should centre in me ; and, in the prosecu- 
 tion of her schemes, took care to inform me that 
 nothing cost less than good words, and that it is 
 comfortable to leap into an estate which another 
 has got. 
 
 She trained me by these precepts to the utmost 
 ductility of obedience, and the closest attention 
 to profit. At an age when other boys are sport- 
 ing the fields, or murmuring in the school, I 
 was contriving some new method of paying my 
 court; inquiring the age of my future benefactors; 
 or considering how I should employ their lega- 
 cies. 
 
 If our eagerness of money could have been 
 satisfied with the possessions of any one of my 
 relations, they might perhaps have been obtained , 
 but as it was impossible to be always present 
 with all three, our competitors were busy to ef- 
 face any trace of affection which we might have 
 left behind ; and since there was not, on any 
 part, such superiority of merit as could enforce a 
 constant and unshaken preference, whoever was 
 the last that flattered or obliged had for a time 
 the ascendant. 
 
 My relations maintained a regular exchange 
 of courtesy, took care to miss no occasion of 
 condolence or congratulation, and sent presents 
 at stated times, but had in their hearts not much 
 esteem for one another. The seaman looked 
 with contempt upon the squire as a milksop and 
 a landman, who had lived without knowing the 
 points of the compass, or seeing any part of the 
 world beyond the county-town ; and, whenever 
 they met, would talk of longitude and latitude, 
 and circles and tropics, would scarcely tell him 
 the hour without some mention of the horizon 
 and meridian, nor show him the news without 
 detecting his ignorance of the situation of other 
 countries. 
 
 The squire considered the sailor as a rude un- 
 cultivated savage, with little more of human than 
 his form, and diverted himself with his ignorance 
 of all common objects and affairs ; when he 
 conld persuade him to go into the fields, he al- 
 ways exposed him to the sportsmen, by sending 
 him to look for game in improper places ; and 
 once prevailed upon him to be present at the 
 
 races, only that he might show the gentlemen 
 how a sailor sat upon a horse. 
 
 The old gentlewoman thought herself wiser 
 than both, for she lived with no servant but a 
 maid, and saved her money. The others were 
 indeed sufficiently frugal ; but the squire could 
 not live without dogs and horses, and the sailor 
 never suffered the day to pass but over a bowl 
 of punch, to which, as he was not critical in the 
 choice of his company, every man was welcome 
 that could roar out a catch, or tell a story. 
 
 All these, however, I was to please ; an ar- 
 duous task ; but what will not youth and ava- 
 rice undertake ? I had an unresisting suppleness 
 of temper, and an unsatiable wish for riches ; I 
 was perpetually instigated by the ambition of my 
 parents, and assisted occasionally by their in- 
 structions. What these advantages enabled me 
 to perform, shall be told in the next letter of, 
 Yours, &c. 
 
 CAPTATOR. 
 
 No. 198.] SATURDAY, FEB. 8, 1752. 
 
 Fil mihidas vivus, dicis post fata daturum, 
 Si nun insanis, scis, Maro, quid cupiam. 
 
 MART 
 
 You've told me, Maro, whilst you live, 
 You'd not a single penny give, 
 But that whene'er you chanced to dio 
 You'd leave a handsome legacy ; 
 You must be mad beyond redress, 
 If my next wish you cannot guess. 
 
 F. LEWIS 
 
 MR. RAMBLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 You, who must have observed the inclination 
 which almost every man, however unactive or 
 insignificant, discovers of representing his life as 
 distinguished by extraordinary events, will not 
 wonder that Captator thinks his narrative im- 
 portant enough to be continued. Nothing is 
 more common than for those to teaze their com- 
 panions with their history, who have neither 
 done nor suffered any thing that can excite cu- 
 riosity, or afford instruction. 
 
 As I was taught to flatter with the first essays 
 of speech, and had very early lost every other 
 passion in the desire of money, I began my pur- 
 suit with omens of success ; for I divided my 
 officiousness so judiciously among my relations, 
 that I was equally the favourite of all. When 
 any of them entered the door, I went to welcome 
 him with raptures ; when he went away, I hung 
 down my head, and sometimes entreated to go 
 with him with so much importunity, that I very 
 narrowly escaped a consent which I dreaded in 
 my heart. When at an annual entertainment 
 they were all together, I had a harder task; but 
 plied them so impatiently with caresses, that 
 none could charge me with neglect ; and when 
 they were wearied with my fondness and civili- 
 ties, I was always dismissed with money to buy 
 playthings. 
 
 Life cannot be kept at a stand ; the years of 
 innocence and prattle were soon at an end, and 
 other qualifications were necessary to recom- 
 mend me to continuance of kindness. It luckily 
 happened that none of my friends had high no- 
 tions of book-learning. The sailor hated to see 
 tall boys shut up in a school, when they might
 
 No. 198.J 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 more properly be seeing the world, and making 
 their fortunes ; and was of opinion that, when 
 the first rules of arithmetic were known, all tha 
 was necessary to make a man complete migh 
 be learned on ship-board. The squire only in- 
 sisted that so much scholarship was indispensa- 
 bly necessary as might confer ability to draw a 
 lease and read the court-hands ; and the olc 
 chambermaid declared loudly her contempt of 
 books, and her opinion that they only took the 
 head of the main chance. 
 
 To unite, as well as we could, all their sys- 
 tems, I was bred at home. Each was taught to 
 believe that I followed his directions, and 1 
 gained likewise, as my mother observed, this 
 advantage, that I was always in the way; for 
 she had known many favourite children sent to 
 schools or academies, and forgotten. 
 
 As 1 grew fitter to be trusted to my own dis- 
 cretion, I was often despatched upon various 
 pretences to visit my relations, with directions 
 from my parents how to ingratiate myself, and 
 drive away competitors. 
 
 I was, from my infancy, considered by the 
 sailor as a promising genius, because I liked 
 punch better than wine ; and I took care to im- 
 prove this prepossession by continual inquiries 
 about the art of navigation, the degree of heat 
 and cold in different climates, the profits of trade, 
 and the dangers of shipwreck. I admired the 
 courage of the seaman, and gained his heart by 
 importuning him for a recital of his adventures, 
 and a sight of his foreign curiosities. I listened 
 with an appearance of close attention to stories 
 which I could already repeat, and at the close 
 never failed to express my resolution to visit 
 distant countries, and my contempt of the cow- 
 ards and drones that spend all their lives in their 
 native parish ; though I had in reality no desire 
 of any thing but money, nor ever felt the stimu- 
 lations of curiosity or ardour of adventure, but 
 would contentedly have passed the years of 
 Nestor in receiving rents, and lending upon 
 mortgages. 
 
 The squire I was able to please with less hy- 
 pocrisy, for I really thought it pleasant enough to 
 kill the game and eat it. Some arts of falsehood, 
 however, the hunger of gold persuaded me to prac- 
 tise, by which, though no other mischief was pro- 
 duced, the purity of my thoughts was vitiated, 
 and the reverence for truth gradually destroyed. 
 I sometimes purchased fish, and pretended to 
 have caught them ; I hired the countrymen to 
 show me partridges, and then gave my uncle in- 
 telligence of their haunt ; I learned the seats of 
 hares at night, and discovered them in the morn- 
 ing with a sagacity that raised the wonder and 
 envy of old sportsmen. One only obstruction 
 to the advancement of my reputation I could ne- 
 ver fully surmount ; I was naturally a coward, 
 and was therefore always left shamefully behind, 
 when there was a necessity to leap a hedge, to 
 swim a river, or force the horses to their utmost 
 speed ; but as these exigencies did not frequently 
 happen, I maintained my honour with sufficient 
 success, and was never left out of a hunting 
 party. 
 
 The old chambermaid was not so certainly, 
 nor so easily pleased, for she had no predominant 
 passion but avarice, and was therefore cold and 
 inaccessible. She had no conception of any vir- 
 tue in a young man but that of saving his money. 
 
 When she heard of my exploits in the field, she 
 would shake her head, inquire how much I should 
 be the richer for all my performances, and lament 
 that such sums should be spent upon dogs and 
 horses. If the sailor told her of my inclination 
 to travel, she was sure there was no place like 
 England, and could not imagine why any man 
 that can live in his own country should leave it. 
 This sullen and frigid being I found means, 
 however, to propitiate by frequent commenda- 
 tions of frugality, and perpetual care to avoid 
 expense. 
 
 From the sailor was our first and most consi- 
 derable expectation ; for he was richer than the 
 chambermaid, and older than the squire. He 
 was so awkward and bashful among women, 
 that we concluded him secure from matrimony ; 
 and the noisy fondness with which he used to 
 welcome me to his house, made us imagine that 
 he would look out for no other heir, and that 
 we had nothing to do but wait patiently for his 
 death. But in the midst of our triumph, my un- 
 cle saluted us one morning with a cry of trans- 
 port, and clapping his hand hard on my shoulder, 
 told me, I was a happy fellow to have a friend 
 like him in the world, for he came to fit me out 
 for a voyage with one of his old acquaintances. 
 I turned pale and trembled ; my father told him 
 that he believed my constitution not fitted to the 
 sea ; and my mother, bursting into tears, cried 
 out that her heart would break if she lost me. 
 All this had no effect; the sailor was wholly in- 
 susceptive of the softer passions, and, without 
 regard to tears or arguments, persisted in his re- 
 solution to make me a man. 
 
 We were obliged to comply in appearance, and 
 preparations were accordingly made. I took 
 leave of my friends with great alacrity, proclaim- 
 ed the beneficence of my uncle with the highest 
 strains of gratitude, and rejoiced at the opportu- 
 nity now put into my hands of gratifying my thirst 
 of knowledge. But a week before the day ap- 
 pointed for my departure I fell sick by my mo- 
 ther's direction, and refused all food but what 
 she privately brought me ; whenever my uncle 
 visited me I was lethargic or delirious, but took 
 care in my raving fits to talk incessantly of travel 
 and merchandize. The room was kept dark ; 
 the table was filled with vials and gallipots ; my 
 mother was with difficulty persuaded not to en- 
 danger her life with nocturnal attendance ; my 
 "amer lamented the loss of the profits of the 
 ^oyages ; and such superfluity of artifices was 
 imployed, as perhaps might have discovered the 
 :heatto a man of penetration. But the sailor, 
 unacquainted with subtilties and stratagems, was 
 easily deluded ; and as the ship could not stay 
 or my recovery, sold the cargo, and left me to re- 
 establish my health at leisure. 
 
 I was sent to regain my flesh in a purer air, lest 
 t should appear never to have been wasted, and 
 n two months returned to deplore my disap- 
 iointment. My uncle pitied my dejection, and 
 id me prepare myself against next year, for no 
 and-lubber should touch his money. 
 
 A reprieve however was obtained, and per- 
 aps some new stratagem might have succeeded 
 another spring ; but my uncle unhappily made 
 amorous advances to my mother's maid : who, 
 o promote so advantageous a match, discovered 
 he secret with which only she had been entrusted. 
 3e stormed, and raved, and declaring that he
 
 29G 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 199. 
 
 would have heirs of his own, and not give his 
 substance to cheats and cowards, married the 
 girl in two days, and has now four children. 
 
 Cowardice is always scorned, and deceit uni- 
 versally detested. I found my friends, if not 
 wholly alienated, at least cooled in their affec- 
 tion ; the squire, though he did not wholly dis- 
 card me, was less fond, and often inquired when 
 I would go to sea. I was obliged to bear his in- 
 sults, and endeavoured to rekindle his kindness 
 by assiduity and respect ; but all my care was 
 vain ; he died without a will, and the estate de- 
 volved to the legal heir. 
 
 Thus has the folly of my parents condemned 
 me to spend in flattery and attendance those 
 years in which I might have been qualified to 
 place myself above hope or fear. I am arrived 
 at manhood without any useful art or generous 
 sentiment; and if the old woman should like- 
 wise at last deceive me, am in danger at once of 
 beggary and ignorance. 
 
 I am, &c. 
 
 CAPTATOR. 
 
 No. 199.] TUESDAY, FEB. 11, 1752. 
 
 Decolor, obscurus, vilis, non ille repexam 
 Ctesariem regum, Candida Virginia ornat 
 Co/la, nee insigni splendet per cingula mortu ; 
 Sed nova si nigri videos miracula saxi, 
 Tune superatpulchros cultus, et quicquid Eols 
 Indus littoribus rubra scrutatur in alga. 
 
 CLAUDIANUS. 
 
 Obscure, unprized, and dark, the magnet lies, 
 Nor lures the search of avaricious eyes, 
 Nor binds the neck, nor sparkles in the hair, 
 Nor dignifies the great, nor decks the fair. 
 But search the wonders of the dusky stone, 
 And own all glories of the mine outdone, 
 Each grace of form, each ornament of state, 
 That decks the fair, or dignifies the great. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 THOUGH you have seldom digressed from moral 
 subjects, I suppose you are not so rigorous or 
 cynical as to deny the value or usefulness of na- 
 tural philosophy ; or to have lived in this age of 
 inquiry and experiment, without any attention to 
 the wonders every day produced by the pokers 
 of magnetism and the wheels of electricity. At 
 least, 1 may be allowed to hope that, since no- 
 thing is more contrary to moral excellence than 
 env y> you will not refuse to promote the happi- 
 ness of others, merely because you cannot par- 
 take of their enjoyments. 
 
 In confidence, therefore, that your ignorance 
 has not made you an enemy to knowledge, I 
 offer you the honour of introducing to the notice 
 of the public an adept, who, having long laboured 
 for the benefit of mankind, is not willing, like too 
 many of his predecessors, to conceal his secrets 
 in the grave. 
 
 Many have signalized themselves my melting 
 their estates in crucibles. I was born to no fortune, 
 and therefore had only my mind and my body to 
 devote to knowledge, and the gratitude of pos- 
 terity will attest that neither mind nor body has 
 been spared. I have sat whole weeks without 
 sleep by the side of an athanor, to watch the 
 movement of projection ; I have made the first 
 experiment in nineteen diving-engines of new 
 construction ; I have fallen eleven times speech- 
 
 less under the shock of electricity ; I have twice 
 dislocated my limbs, and once fractured my 
 skull in essaying to fly,* and four limes endan- 
 gered my life by submitting to the transfusion of 
 blood. 
 
 In the first period of my studies I exerted the 
 powers of my body more than those of my mind, 
 and was not without hopes that fame might be 
 purchased by a few broken bones without the 
 toil of thinking ; but having been shattered by 
 some violent experiments ; and constrained to 
 confine myself to my books, I passed six and 
 thirty years in searching the treasures of ancient 
 wisdom, but am at last amply recompensed for 
 all my perseverance. 
 
 The curiosity of the present race of philoso- 
 phers, having been long exercised upon electri- 
 city, has been lately transformed to magnetism ; 
 the qualities of the loadstone have been investi- 
 gated, if not with much advantage, yet with great 
 applause ; and as the highest praise of art id to 
 imitate nature, I hope no man will think the 
 makers of artificial magnets celebrated or rever- 
 enced above their deserts. 
 
 I have for some time employed myself in the 
 same practice, but with deeper knowledge and 
 more extensive views. While my contempora 
 ries were touching needles and raising weights, 
 or busying themselves with inclination and varia- 
 tion, I have been examining those qualities of 
 magnetism which may be applied to the accom- 
 modation and happiness of common life. I have 
 left to inferior understandings the care of con- 
 ducting the sailor through the hazards of the 
 ocean, and reserved to myself the more difficult 
 and illustrious province of preserving the connu- 
 bial compact from violation, and setting mankind 
 free for ever from the danger of supposititious chil- 
 dren, and the torments of fruitless vigilance and 
 anxious suspicion. 
 
 To defraud any man of his due praise is un 
 worthy of a philosopher; I shall therefore openly 
 confess, that I owe the first hint of this inestima- 
 ble secret to the rabbi Abraham Ben Hannase, 
 who, in his treatise of precious stones, has left 
 this account of the magnet: " The calamita, or 
 loadstone that attracts iron, produces many bad 
 fantasies in man. Women fly from this stone. 
 If therefore any husband be disturbed with jea- 
 lousy, and fear lest his wife converses with oilier 
 men, let him lay this stone upon her while she is 
 asleep. If she be pure, she will, when she 
 wakes, clasp her husband fondly in her arms ; 
 but if she be guilty, she will fall out of bed, and 
 run away." 
 
 When I first read this wonderful passage, I 
 could not easily conceive why it had remained 
 hitherto unregarded in such a zealous competi- 
 tion for magnetical fame. It would surely be 
 unjust to suspect that any of the candidates are 
 strangers to the name or works of rabbi Abra- 
 ham, or to conclude, from a late edict of the 
 Royal Society in favour of the English language, 
 that philosophy and literature are no longer to 
 act in concert. Yet, how should a quality so 
 useful escape promulgation, but by the obscurity 
 of the language in which it was delivered? Why 
 are footmen and chambermaids paid on every 
 
 * It is said that Dr. Johnson once lodged in the same 
 house with a man who broke his legs in attempting to 
 fly C.
 
 JSo. 200.1 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 297 
 
 side for keeping secrets, which no caution nor 
 expense could secure from the all-penetrating 
 magnet? or, Why are so many witnesses sum- 
 moned, and so many artifices practised, to dis- 
 cover what so easy an experiment would infal- 
 ibly reveal ? 
 
 Full of this perplexity, I read the lines of 
 Abraham to a friend, who advised me not to 
 expose my life by a mad indulgence of the love 
 of fame; he warned me, by the fate of Orpheus, 
 that knowledge or genius could give no protec- 
 tion to the invader of female prerogatives ; as- 
 sured me that neither the armour of Achilles, nor 
 the antidotes of Mithridates, would be able to 
 preserve me ; and counselled me, if I could not 
 live without renown, to attempt the acquisition 
 of universal empire, in which the honour would 
 perhaps be equal, and the danger certainly be 
 less. 
 
 I, a solitary student, pretend not to much 
 knowledge of the world, but am unwilling to think 
 t so generally corrupt, as that a scheme for the 
 detection of incontinence should bring any dan- 
 ger upon its inventor. My friend has indeed 
 told me that all the women will be my enemies, 
 and that, however I flatter myself with hopes of 
 defence from the men, [ shall certainly find my- 
 self deserted in the hour of danger. Of the 
 young men, said he, some will be afraid of 
 sharing the disgrace of their mothers, and some 
 the danger of their mistresses ; of those who are 
 married, part are already convinced of the false- 
 hood of their wives, and part shut their eyes to 
 avoid conviction ; few ever sought for virtue in 
 marriage, and therefore few will try whether 
 they have found it. Almost every man is care- 
 less or timorous ; and to trust is easier and safer 
 than to examine. 
 
 These observations discouraged me, till I be- 
 
 fan to consider what reception I was likely to 
 nd among the ladies, whom I have reviewed 
 under the three classes of maids, wives and 
 widows, and cannot but hope that I may obtain 
 some countenance among them. The single 
 ladies I suppose universally ready to patronize 
 my method, by which connubial wickedness may 
 be detected, since no woman marries with a pre- 
 vious design to be unfaithful to her husband. 
 And, to keep them steady in my cause,! promise 
 never to sell one of my magnets to a man who 
 steals a girl from school, marries a woman forty 
 years younger than himself, or employs the au- 
 thority of parents to obtain a wife without her 
 own consent 
 
 Among the married ladies, notwithstanding 
 the insinuations of slander, I yet resolve to be- 
 lieve that the greater part are my friends, and 
 am at least convinced, that they who demand the 
 test, and appear on my side will supply by their 
 spirit the deficiency of their numbers, and that 
 their enemies will shrink and quake at the sight 
 of a magnet, as the slaves of Scythia fled from 
 the scourge. 
 
 The widows will be confederated in my favour 
 by their curiosity, if not by their virtue ; for it 
 may be observed, that women who have outlived 
 their husbands always think themselves entitled 
 to superintend the conduct of young wives; and 
 as they are themselves in no danger from this 
 magnetic trial, I shall expect them to be emi- 
 nently and unanimously zealous in recommend- 
 
 With these hopes I shall, in a short time, offer 
 to sale magnets armed with a particular metallic 
 composition which concentrates their virtue, and 
 determines their agency. It is known that the 
 efficacy of the magnet in common operations 
 depends much upon its armature ; and it cannot 
 be imagined, that a stone, naked, or cased only 
 in the common manner, will discover the virtues 
 ascribed to it by rabbi Abraham. The secret of 
 this metal I shall carefully conceal, and therefore 
 am not afraid of imitators, nor shall trouble the 
 offices with solicitation for a patent 
 
 I shall sell them of different sizes, and the va- 
 rious degrees of strength. I have some of a bulk 
 proper to be hung at the bed's head, as scare- 
 crows, and some so small that they may be easily 
 concealed. Some I have ground into oval forms 
 to be hung at watches ; and some, for the cu- 
 rious, 1 have set in wedding-rings, that ladies 
 may never want an attestation of their innocence. 
 Some I can produce so sluggish and inert, that 
 they will not act before the third failure ; and 
 others so vigorous and animated, that they exert 
 their influence against unlawful wishes, if they 
 have been willingly and deliberately indulged. 
 As it is my practice honestly to tell my cus- 
 tomers the properties of my magnets, I can 
 judge, by their choice, of the delicacy of their 
 sentiments. Many have been contented to spare 
 cost by purchasing only the lowest degree of 
 efficacy, and all have started with terror from 
 those which operate upon the thoughts. One 
 young lady only fitted on a ring of the strongest 
 energy, and declared that she scorned to separate 
 her wishes from her acts, or allow herself to 
 think what she was forbidden to practise. 
 I am, &c. 
 
 HERMETICUS. 
 
 No. 200.] SATURDAY, FEB. 15, 1752. 
 
 Nemo petit, modicis qmc mittcbantur amicis 
 A Seneca; qua, Piso bonus, qua Cotta solebat 
 Largiri : namque et titulis elfascibus olim 
 Major habebatur donandi gloria : solum 
 Poscimns, ut canes civiliter. Hoc face, et esto. 
 Esto, ut mine multi, dives tibi, pauper amicis. 
 
 IUT. 
 
 No man expects (for who so much a sot ? 
 
 Who has the times he lives in so forgot?) 
 
 What Seneca, what Piso used to send 
 
 To raise or to support a sinking friend. 
 
 Those godlike men, to wanting virtue kind. 
 
 Bounty well placed preferr'd, and well design'd, 
 
 To all their titles, all that height of power 
 
 Which turns the brains of fools, and fools alone adore. 
 
 When your poor client is condemn'd t' attend, 
 
 "Tis all we ask, receive him as a friend : 
 
 Descend to this, and then we ask no more 
 
 Rich to yourself, to all beside be poor. BOWLES. 
 
 TO THE RAMBLER. 
 
 MR. RAMBLER, 
 
 SUCH is the tenderness or infirmity of many 
 minds, that, when any affliction oppresses them, 
 they have immediate recourse to lamentation and 
 complaint, which, though it can only be allowed 
 reasonable when evils admit of remedy, and then 
 only when addressed to those from whom the 
 remedy is expected, yet seems even in hopeless 
 and incurable distresses to be natural, since those 
 by whom it is not indulged, imagine that they 
 give a proof of extraordinary fortitude, by sup 
 pressing it.
 
 298 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 200. 
 
 I am one of those who, with the Sancho of 
 Cervantes, leave to higher characters the merit 
 of suffering ill silence, and give vent without 
 scruple to any sorrow that swells in my heart. 
 It is therefore to me a severe aggravation of a 
 calamity, when it is such as in the common 
 opinion will not justify the acerbity of exclama- 
 tion, or support the solemnity of vocal grief. 
 Yet many pains are incident to a man of deli- 
 cacy, which the unfeeling world cannot be per- 
 suaded to pity, and which, when they are sepa- 
 rated from their peculiar and personal circum- 
 stances, will never be considered as important 
 enough to claim attention, or deserve redress. 
 
 Of this kind will appear, to gross and vulgar 
 apprehensions, the miseries which I endured in 
 a morning visit to Prospero, a man lately raised 
 to wealth by a lucky project, and too much intox- 
 icated by sudden elevation, or too little polished 
 by thought and conversation, to enjoy his present 
 fortune with elegance and decency. 
 
 We set out in the world together; and for a 
 long time mutually assisted each other in our 
 exigencies, as either happened to have money 
 or influence beyond his immediate necessities. 
 You know that nothing generally endears man 
 so much as participation of dangers and misfor- 
 tunes ; I therefore always considered Prospero as 
 united with me in the strongest league of kind- 
 ness, and imagined that our friendship was only 
 to be broken by the hand of death. I felt at his 
 sudden shoot of success an honest and disin- 
 terested joy; but, as I want no part of his super- 
 fluities, am not willing to descend from that 
 equality in which we hitherto have lived. 
 
 Our intimacy was regarded by me as a dispen- 
 sation from ceremonial visits ; and it was so long 
 before I saw him at his new house, that he gently 
 complained of my neglect, and obliged me to 
 come on a day appointed. I kept my promise, 
 but found that the impatience of my friend arose 
 not from any desire to communicate his happi- 
 ness, but to enjoy his superiority. 
 
 When I told my name at the door, the footman 
 went to see if his master was at home, and, by 
 the tardiness of his return, gave me reason to 
 suspect that time was taken to deliberate. He 
 then informed me that Prospero desired my com- 
 pany, and showed the staircase carefully secured 
 by mats from the pollution of my feet. The best 
 apartments were ostentatiously set open, that I 
 might have a distant view of the magnificence 
 which I was not permitted to approach ; and my 
 old friend, receiving me with all the insolence of 
 condescension at the top of the stairs, conducted 
 me to a back room, where he told me he always 
 breakfasted when he had not great company. 
 
 On the floor where we sat, lay a carpet covered 
 with a cloth, of which Prospero ordered his ser- 
 vant to lift up a corner, that I might contemplate 
 the brightness of the colours, and the elegance 
 of the texture, and asked me whether I had ever 
 seen any thing so fine before. I did not gratify 
 his folly with any outcries of admiration, but 
 coldly bade the footman let down the cloth. 
 
 We then sat down, and I began to hope that 
 pride was glutted with persecution, when Pros- 
 pero desired that I would give the servant leave 
 to adjust the cover of my chair, which was slipped 
 a little aside, to show the damask ; he informed 
 me that he had bespoke ordinary chairs for 
 common use, but had been disappointed by his 
 
 tradesman. I put the chair aside with my foot, 
 and drew another so hastily, that I was entreated 
 not to rumple the carpet. 
 
 Breakfast was at last set ; and as I was not 
 willing to indulge the peevishness that began to 
 seize me, I commended the tea. Prospero then 
 told me, that another time I should taste his 
 finest sort, but that he had only a very small 
 quantity remaining, and reserved it for those 
 whom he thought himself obliged to treat with 
 particular respect. 
 
 While we were conversing upon such subjects, 
 as imagination happened to suggest he fre- 
 quently digressed in directions to the servant 
 that waited, or made a slight inquiry after the 
 jeweller or silversmith ; and once, as I was pur- 
 suing an argument with some degree of earnc Ft- 
 ness, he started from his posture of attention, 
 and ordered that if Lord Lofty called on him 
 that morning, he should be shown into the best 
 parlour. 
 
 My patience was yet not wholly subdued. 1 
 was willing to promote his satisfaction, and 
 therefore observed that the figures on the china 
 were eminently pretty. Prospero had now an 
 opportunity of calling for his Dresden chinn, 
 which, says he, I always associate with mv 
 chased lea-kettle. The cups were brought ; I 
 once resolved notto have looked upon them, but 
 my curiosity prevailed. When I had examined 
 them a little, Prospero desired me to set them 
 down, for they who were accustomed only to 
 common dishes seldom handled china with much 
 care. You will, I hope, commend my philoso- 
 phy, when I tell you that I did not dash his bau- 
 bles to the ground. 
 
 He was now so much elevated with his own 
 greatness, that, he thought some humility neces- 
 sary to avert the glance of envy ; and therefore 
 told me with an air of soft composure, that I was 
 not to estimate life by external appearance, that 
 all these shining acquisitions had added little to 
 his happiness, that he still remembered with plea- 
 sure the days in which he and I were upon the 
 level, and had often, in the moment of reflection, 
 been doubtful, whether he should lose much by 
 changing his condition for mine. 
 
 I began now to be afraid lest his pride should, 
 by silence and submission, be emboldened to in- 
 sults thatcould not easily be borne, and therefore 
 coolly considered how 1 should repress it with- 
 out such bitterness of reproof as I was yet unwill- 
 ing to use. But he interrupted my meditation, 
 by asking leave to be dressed, and told me, that 
 he had promised to attend some ladies in the 
 park, and, if I was going the same way, would 
 take me in his chariot. I had no inclination to 
 any other favours, and therefore left him without 
 any intention of seeing him again, unless some 
 misfortune should restore his understanding. 
 I am, &c. ASPER. 
 
 Though I am not wholly insensible of the pro 
 vocations which my correspondent has received, 
 I cannot altogether commend the keenness of 
 his resentment, nor encourage him to persist in 
 his resolution of breaking off all commerce with 
 his old acquaintance. One of the golden pre- 
 cepts of Pythagoras directs, that a friend shoula 
 not be hated far little faults : and surely he, upon 
 whom nothing worse can be charged, than that 
 he mats his stairs, and covers his carpet, and sets
 
 No. 201.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 299 
 
 out his finery to show before those whom he does 
 not admit to use it, has yet committed nothing 
 that should exclude him from common degrees 
 of kindness. Such improprieties often proceed 
 rather from stupidity than malice. Those who 
 thus shine only to dazzle, are influenced merely 
 by custom and example, and neither examine, 
 nor are qualified to examine, the motives of their 
 own practice, or to state the nice limits between 
 elegance and ostentation. They are often inno- 
 cent of the pain which their vanity produces, and 
 insult others when they have no worse purpose 
 than to please themselves. 
 
 He that too much refines his delicacy will al- 
 ways endanger his quiet. Of those with whom 
 nature and virtue oblige us to converse, some are 
 ignorant of the arts of pleasing, and offend when 
 they design to caress ; some are negligent, and 
 gratify themselves without regard to the quiet of 
 another ; some perhaps are malicious, and feel 
 no greater satisfaction in prosperity than that of 
 raising envy and trampling inferiority. But 
 whatever be the motive of insult, it is always best 
 to overlook it ; for folly scarcely can deserve re- 
 sentment, and malice is punished by neglect.* 
 
 No. 201.] TUESDAY, FEB. 18, 1752. 
 
 -Sanctut haberi, 
 
 Promissique tenaxfactis dictisque mererit 7 
 Agnosco procircm. JDV. 
 
 Convince the world lhat you're devout and true ; 
 Be just in all you say, and all you do ; 
 Whatever be your birth, you're sure to be 
 A peer of the first magnitude to me. STEPNEY. 
 
 BOTLE has observed, that the excellency of manu- 
 factures and the facility of labour would be much 
 promoted, if the various expedients and contriv- 
 ances which lie concealed in private hands, were 
 by reciprocal communications made generally- 
 known ; for there are few operations that are not 
 performed by one or other with some peculiar ad- 
 vantages, which, though singly of little import- 
 ance, would, by conjunction and concurrence, 
 open new inlets to knowledge, and give new 
 powers to diligence. 
 
 There are, in like manner, several moral excel- 
 lences distributed among the different classes of 
 a community. It was said by Cujacius, that he 
 never read more than one book by which he was 
 not instructed ; and he that shall inquire after 
 virtue with ardour and attention will seldom find 
 a man by whose example or sentiments he may 
 not be improved. 
 
 Every profession has some essential and ap- 
 
 Eropriate virtue, without which there can be no 
 ope of honour or success, and which as it is more 
 or less cultivated, confers within its sphere of ac- 
 tivity different degrees of merit and reputation. 
 As the astrologers range the subdivisions of 
 mankind under the planets which they suppose 
 to influence their lives, the moralist may distri- 
 bute them according to the virtues which they 
 necessarily practise, and consider them as dis- 
 tinguished by prudence or fortitude, diligence or 
 patience. 
 
 * The character of Prospero, it is universally acknow- 
 ledged, was intended for Garrick, who, says, Mr. Boswell, 
 ' never entirely forgave its pointed satire." C. 
 
 So much are the modes of excellence settled 
 by time and place, that men may be heard boast- 
 ing in one street of that which they would anx- 
 iously conceal in another. The grounds of scorn 
 and esteem, the topics of praise and satire are 
 varied according to the several virtues or vices 
 which the course of life has disposed men to ad- 
 mire or abhor ; but he who is solicitous for his 
 own improvement must not be limited by local 
 reputation, but select from every tribe of mortals 
 their characteristical virtues, and constellate in 
 himself the scattered graces which shine singly 
 in other men. 
 
 The chief praise to which a trader aspires is 
 that of punctuality, or an exact and rigorous ob- 
 servance of commercial engagements ; nor is 
 there any vice of which he so much dreads the im- 
 putation, as of negligence and instability. This 
 is a quality which the interest of mankind re- 
 quires to be diffused through all the ranks of life, 
 but which many seem to consider as a vulgar and 
 ignoble virtue, below the ambition of greatness 
 or attention of wit, scarcely requisite among men 
 of gayety and spirit, and sold at its highest rate 
 when it is sacrificed to a frolic or a jest. 
 
 Every man has daily occasion to remark what 
 vexations arise from this privilege of deceiving 
 one another. The active and vivacious have so 
 long disdained the restraints of truth, that pro- 
 mises and appointments have lost their cogency, 
 and both parties neglect their stipulations, be- 
 cause each concludes that they will be broken by 
 the other. 
 
 Negligence is first admitted in small affairs, 
 and strengthened by petty indulgences. He that 
 is not yet hardened by custom, ventures not on 
 the violation of important engagements, but 
 thinks himself bound by his word in cases of pro- 
 perty or danger, though he allows himself to for- 
 get at what time he is to meet ladies in the park, 
 or at what tavern his friends are expecting him. 
 
 This laxity of honour would be more tolerable, 
 if it could be restrained to the play-house, the 
 ball-room, or the card-table ; yet even there it 
 is sufficiently troublesome, and darkens those 
 moments, with expectation, suspense, and re- 
 sentment, which are set aside for pleasure, and 
 from which we naturally hope for unmingled en- 
 joyment and total relaxation. But he that suffers 
 the slightest breach in his morality can seldom 
 tell what shall enter it, or how wide it shall be 
 made ; when a passage is open, the influx of cor- 
 ruption is every moment wearing down opposi- 
 tion, and by slow degrees deluges the heart. 
 
 Aliger entered the world a youth of lively 
 imagination, extensive views, and untainted 
 
 Erinciples. His curiosity incited him to range 
 om place to place, and try all the varieties of 
 conversation ; his elegance of address and ferti- 
 lity of ideas gained him friends wherever he ap- 
 peared ; or at least he found the general kind- 
 ness of reception always shown to a young man 
 whose birth and fortune give him a claim to no- 
 tice, and who has neither by vice or folly de- 
 stroyed his privileges. Aliger was pleased with 
 this general smile of mankind, and was industri- 
 ous to preserve it by compliance and officious- 
 ness, but did not suffer his desire of pleasing to 
 vitiate his integrity. It was his established 
 maxim, that a promise is never to be broken ; 
 nor was it without long reluctance that he once 
 suffered himself to be drawn away from a festal
 
 500 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 engagement by the importunity of another corn- 
 He spent the evening, as is usual, in the rudi- 
 ments of vice, in perturbation and imperfect en- 
 joyment, and met his disappointed friends in the 
 morning with confusion and excuses. His com- 
 panions^ not accustomed to such scrupulous 
 anxiety, laughed at his uneasiness, compounded 
 the offence for a bottle, gave him courage to 
 break his word again, and again levied the pe- 
 nalty. He ventured the same experiment upon 
 another society, and found them equally ready 
 to consider it as a venial fault, always incident to 
 a man of quickness and gayety ; till, by degrees, 
 he began to think himself at liberty to follow the 
 last invitation, and was no longer shocked at the 
 turpitude of falsehood. He made no difficulty to 
 promise his presence at distant places ; and, if 
 listlessness happened to creep upon him, would 
 sit at home with great tranquillity, and has often 
 sunk to sleep in a chair, while he held ten tables 
 in continual expectations of his entrance. 
 
 It was so pleasant to live in perpetual vacancy, 
 that he soon dismissed his attention as a useless 
 incumbrance, and resigned himself to careless- 
 ness and dissipation, without any regard to the 
 future or the past, or any other motive of action 
 than the impulse of a sudden desire, or the attrac- 
 tion of immediate pleasure. The absent were 
 immediately forgotten, and the hopes or fears felt 
 by others had no influence upon his conduct. He 
 was in speculation completely just, but never 
 kept his promise to a creditor ; he was benevo- 
 lent, but always deceived thosa friends whom he 
 undertook to patronize or assist ; he was pru- 
 dent, but suffered his affairs to be embarrassed 
 for want of regulating his accounts at stated 
 times. He courted a young lady, and, when the 
 settlements were drawn, took a ramble into the 
 country on the day appointed to sign them. He 
 resolved to travel, and sent his chests on ship- 
 board, but delayed to follow them till he lost his 
 passage. He was summoned as an evidence in 
 a cause of great importance, and loitered on the 
 way till the trial was past. It is said that when 
 he had, with great expense, formed an interest in 
 a borough, his opponent contrived, by some 
 agents who knew his temper, to lure him away on 
 the day of election. 
 
 His benevolence draws him into the commis- 
 bion of a thousand crimes, which others less kind 
 or civil would escape. His courtesy invites ap- 
 plication ; his promise produces dependance ; he 
 lias his pockets filled with petitions, which he 
 intends some time to deliver and enforce, and his 
 table covered with letters of request, with which 
 he purposes .to comply ; but time slips imper- 
 ceptibly away, while he is either idle or busy ; his 
 friends lose their opportunities, and charge upon 
 him their miscarriages and calamities. 
 
 This character, however contemptible, is not 
 peculiar to Aliger. They whose activity of ima- 
 gination is often shifting the scenes of expecta- 
 tion, are frequently subject to such sallies of ca- 
 price as make all their actions fortuitious, destroy 
 the value of their friendship, obstruct the efficacy 
 of their virtues, and set them below the meanest 
 of those that persist in their resolutions, execute 
 what they design, and perform what they have 
 promised. 
 
 :N T J. 202.] SATURDAY, FEB. 22, 1752. 
 
 npis axavra foiAOs lariv b irivijs Trpay^iara, 
 ( irarraj avrou /cara^ipoi'uv v-xoAappdvci. 
 ' O Ic pCTptias rparruv irtpiffKtXfoTCpov 
 "Airayra r' di'xupa, Aupitiiia, fplpci. 
 
 CALLIMACHUI. 
 
 From no affliction is the poor exempt; 
 He thinks each eye surveys him with contempt: 
 Unmauly poverty, subdues the heart, 
 Cankers each wound, and sharpens every dart. 
 
 F. LEWIS 
 
 AMONG those who have endeavoured to promote 
 learning, and rectify judgment, it has been long 
 customary to complain of the abuse of words, 
 which are often admitted to signify things so dif- 
 ferent, that, instead of assisting the understand- 
 ing as vehicles of knowledge, they produce error, 
 dissension, and perplexity, because what is af- 
 firmed in one sense is received in another. 
 
 If this ambiguity sometimes embarrasses the 
 most solemn controversies, and obscures the de- 
 monstrations of science, it may well be expected 
 to infest the pompous periods of declaimers whose 
 purpose is often only to amuse with fallacies, 
 and change the colours of truth and falsehood ; 
 or the musical compositions of poets, whose style 
 is professedly figurative, and whose art is ima- 
 gined to consistin distorting words from their ori- 
 ginal meaning. 
 
 There are few words of which the reader be- 
 lieves himself better to know the import than of 
 poverty: yet, whoever studies either the poets 01 
 philosophers, will find such an account of the 
 condition expressed by that term as his experience 
 or observation will not easily discover to be true. 
 Instead of the meanness, distress, complaint, 
 anxiety, and dependence, which have hitherto 
 been combined in his ideas of poverty, he will 
 read of content, innocence, and cheerfulness, of 
 health and safety, tranquillity, and freedom; of 
 pleasures not known but to men unincumbered 
 with possessions ; and of sleep that sheds his 
 balsamic anodynes only on the cottage. Such 
 are the blessings to be obtained by the resigna- 
 tion of riches, that kings might descend from 
 their thrones, and generals retire from a triumph, 
 only to slumber, undisturbed in the elysium of 
 poverty. 
 
 If these authors do not deceive us, nothing can 
 be more absurd than that perpetual contest for 
 wealth which keeps the world in commotion ; nor 
 any complaints more justly censured than those 
 which proceed from want of the gifts of fortune, 
 which we are taught by the great masters of mo- 
 ral wisdom to consider as golden shackles, by 
 which the wearer is at once disabled and adorn- 
 ed ; as luscious poisons, which may for a time 
 please the palate, but soon betray their malignity 
 by languor and by pain. 
 
 It is the great privilege of poverty to be happy 
 unenvied, to be healthful without physic, and se- 
 cure without a guard ; to obtain from the bounty 
 of nature what the great and wealthy are com- 
 pelled to procure by the help of artists and at- 
 tendants, of flatterers and spies. 
 
 But it will be found, upon a nearer view, that 
 they who extol the happiness of poverty do not 
 mean the same state with those who deplore its 
 miseries. Poets have their imaginations filled 
 with ideas of magnificence ; and being accustomed 
 to contemplate the downfal of empires, or to con-
 
 No. 203.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 301 
 
 trive forms of lamentations for monarchs in dis- 
 tress, rank all the classes of mankind in a state 
 of poverty who make no approaches to the dig- 
 nity of crowns. To be poor in the epic language 
 is only not to command the wealth of nations, 
 nor to have fleets and armies in pay. 
 
 Vanity has perhaps contributed to this impro- 
 priety of style. He that wishes to become a phi- 
 losopher at a cheap rate, easily gratifies his am- 
 bition by submitting to poverty when he does not 
 feel it, and by boasting his contempt of riches 
 when he has already more than he enjoys. He 
 who would show the extent of his views, and 
 grandeur of his conceptions, or discover his ac- 
 quaintance with splendour and magnificence, 
 may talk, like Cowley, of an humble station and 
 quiet obscurity, of the paucity of nature's wants, 
 and the inconveniences of superfluity, and at last, 
 like him, limit his desires to rive hundred pounds 
 a year ; a fortune, indeed, not exuberant, when 
 we compare it with the expenses of pride and 
 luxury, but to which it little becomes a philoso- 
 pher to affix the name of poverty, since no man 
 can, with any propriety, be termed poor, who 
 does not see the greater part of mankind richer 
 than himself. 
 
 As little is the general condition of human life 
 understood by the panegyrists and historians, 
 who amuse us with accounts of the poverty of 
 heroes and sages. Riches are of no value in 
 themselves, their use is discovered only in that 
 which they procure. They are not coveted, un- 
 less by narrow understandings, which confound 
 the means with the end, but for the sake of pow- 
 er, influence, and esteem ; or, by some of less 
 elevated and refined sentiments, as necessary to 
 sensual enjoyment. 
 
 The pleasures of luxury many have, without 
 uncommon virtue, been able to despise, even 
 when affluence and idleness have concurred to 
 tempt them ; and therefore he who feels nothing 
 from indigence but the want of gratifications 
 which he could not in any other condition make 
 consistent with innocence, has given no proof of 
 eminent patience. Esteem and influence every 
 man desires, but they are equally pleasing, and 
 equally valuable, by whatever means they are 
 obtained ; and whoever has found the art of se- 
 curing them without the help of money, ought, in 
 reality, to be accounted rich, since he has all that 
 riches can purchase to a wise man. Cincinnatus, 
 though he lived upon a few acres cultivated by 
 his own hand, was sufficiently removed from all 
 the evils generally comprehended under the name 
 of poverty, when his reputation was such, that 
 the voice of his country called him from his farm 
 to take absolute command into his hand ; nor 
 was Diogenes much mortified by his residence in 
 a tub, where he was honoured with the visit of 
 Alexander the Great. 
 
 The same fallacy has conciliated veneration to 
 the religious orders. When we behold a man 
 abdicating the hope of terrestrial possessions, 
 and precluding himself, by an irrevocable vow, 
 from the pursuit and acquisition of all that his 
 fellow-beings consider as worthy of wishes and 
 endeavours, we are immediately struck with the 
 purity, abstraction, and firmness of his mind, and 
 regard him as wholly employed in securing the 
 interests of futurity, and devoid of any other care 
 than to gain at whatever price the surest passage 
 to eternal rest. 
 
 Yet, what can the votary be justly said to have 
 lost of his present happiness ? if he resides in a 
 convent, he converses only with men whose con- 
 dition is the same with his own ; he has, from 
 the munificence of the founder, all the necessaries 
 of life, and is safe from that destitution, which 
 Hooker declares to be such an impediment to vir- 
 tue, as, till it be removed, sitffereth not the mind of 
 man to admit any other care. All temptations to 
 envy and competition are shut out from his re- 
 treat ; he is not pained with the sight of unat- 
 tainable dignity, nor insulted with the bluster of 
 insolence, or the smile of forced familiarity. If 
 he wanders abroad, the sanctity of his character 
 amply compensates ail other distinctions ; he is 
 seldom seen but with reverence, nor heard but 
 with submission. 
 
 It has been remarked, that death, though often 
 defied in the field, seldom fails to terrify when it 
 approaches the bed of sickness in its natural hor- 
 ror ; so poverty may easily be endured while as- 
 sociated with dignity and reputation, but will al- 
 ways be shunned and dreaded when it is accom- 
 panied with ignominy and contempt. 
 
 No. 203.] TUESDAY, FEB. 25, 1752. 
 
 Cum volet ilia dies, qua nil nisi corporis hvjus 
 
 Jus habet, incerti spaiium mihifniat tzti. OVID. 
 
 Come, soon or Inte, death's undetermined day, 
 
 This mortal being only can decay. WELSTED. 
 
 IT seems to be the fate of man to seek all his con 
 solations in futurity. The time present is seldom 
 able to fill desire or imagination with immediate 
 enjoyment, and we are forced to supply its defi- 
 ciencies by recollection or anticipation. 
 
 Every one has so often detected the fallacious- 
 ness of hope, and the inconvenience of teaching 
 himself to expect what a thousand accidents may 
 preclude, that, when time has abated the confi 
 dence with which youth rushes out to take pos- 
 session of the world, we endeavour, or wish, to 
 find entertainment in the review of life, and to 
 repose upon real facts and certain experience. 
 This is perhaps one reason, among many, why 
 age delights in narratives. 
 
 But so full is the world of calamity, that every 
 source of pleasure is polluted, and every retire- 
 ment of tranquillity disturbed. When time has 
 supplied us with events sufficient to employ our 
 thoughts, it has mingled them with so many dis- 
 asters, that we shrink from their remembrance, 
 dread their intrusion upon our minds, and fly 
 from them as from enemies that pursue us with 
 torture. 
 
 No man past the middle point of life can sit 
 down to feast upon the pleasures of youth with- 
 out finding the banquet embittered by the cup of 
 sorrow ; he may revive lucky accidents and 
 pleasing extravagances ; many days of harmless 
 irolic, or nights of honest festivity, will perhaps 
 recur ; or, if he has been engaged in scenes of 
 action and acquainted with affairs of difficulty 
 and vicissitudes of fortune, he may enjoy the no- 
 bler pleasure of looking back upon distress firmly 
 supported, dangers resolutely encountered, and 
 opposition artfully defeated. ./Eneas properly 
 comforts his companions, when, after the horrors 
 of a storm, they have landed on an unknown and 
 desolate country, with the hope that their miseries
 
 302 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 204. 
 
 will be at some distant time recounted with de- 
 light. There are few higher gratifications than 
 that of reflection on surmounted evils, when they 
 were not incurred nor protracted by our fault, 
 and neither reproach us with cowardice nor guilt. 
 
 But this felicity is almost always abated by the 
 reflection, that they with whom we should be 
 most pleased to share it are now in the grave. 
 A few years make such havoc in human genera- 
 tions, that we soon see ourselves deprived of 
 those with whom we entered the world, and 
 whom the participation of pleasures or fatigues 
 had endeared to our remembrance. The man 
 of enterprise recounts his adventures and expe- 
 dients, but is forced at the close of the relation to 
 pay a sigh to the names of those that contributed 
 to his success ; he that passes his life among the 
 gayer part of mankind, has his remembrance 
 stored with remarks and repartees of wits, whose 
 sprightliness and merriment are now lost in per- 
 petual silence ; the trader, whose industry has 
 supplied the want of inheritance, repines in soli- 
 tary plenty at the absence of companions with 
 whom he had planned out amusements for his 
 latter years ; and the scholar, whose merit, after 
 a long series of efforts, raises him from obscurity, 
 looks round in vain from his exaltation for his 
 old friends or enemies, whose applause or mor- 
 tification would heighten his triumph. 
 
 Among Martial's requisites to happiness is, 
 Res non parta labore, sed relicta, An estate not 
 gained by industry, but left by inheritance. It is 
 necessary to the completion of every good, that it 
 be timely obtained for whatever comes at the 
 close of life will come too late to give much de- 
 light. Yet all human happiness has its defects ; 
 of what we do not gain for ourselves we have 
 only a faint and imperfect fruition, because we 
 cannot compare the difference between want and 
 possession, or at least can derive from it no con- 
 viction of our own abilities, nor any increase of 
 self-esteem. What we acquire by bravery or 
 science, by mental or corporal diligence ; comes 
 at last when we cannot communicate, and there- 
 fore cannot enjoy it. 
 
 Thus every period of life is obliged to borrow 
 its happiness from the time to come. In youth 
 we have nothing past to entertain us, and in age 
 we derive little from retrospect but hopeless sor- 
 row. Yet the future likewise has its limits, which 
 the imagination dreads to approach, but which 
 we see to be not far distant. The loss of our 
 friends and companions impresses hourly upon 
 us the necessity of our own departure ; we know 
 that the schemes of man are quickly at an end, 
 that we must soon lie down in the grave with the 
 forgotten multitudes of former ages, and yield our 
 place to others, who, like us, shall be driven a 
 while, by hope or fear, about the surface of the 
 earth, and then like us be lost in the shades of 
 death. 
 
 Beyond this termination of our material exist- 
 ence we are therefore obliged to extend our hopes; 
 and almost every man indulges his imagination 
 with something, which is not to happen till he 
 has changed his manner of being: some amuse 
 themselves with entails and settlements, provide 
 for the perpetuation of families and honours, or 
 contrive to obviate the dissipation of the fortunes 
 which it has been their business to accumulate ; 
 others, more refined or exalted, congratulate 
 their own hearts upon the future extent of their 
 
 reputation, the reverence of distant nations, and 
 the gratitude of unprejudiced posterity. 
 
 They whose souls are so chained down to cof- 
 fers and tenements, that they cannot conceive a 
 state in which they shall look upon them with 
 less solicitude, are seldom attentive or flexible to 
 arguments ; but the votaries of fame are capable 
 of reflection, and therefore may be called to re- 
 consider the probability of their expectations. 
 
 Whether to be remembered in remote times be 
 worthy of a wise man's wish, has not yet been 
 satisfactorily decided ; and indeed, to be long re- 
 membered, can happen to so small a number, 
 that the bulk of mankind has very little interest 
 in the question. There is never room in the 
 world for more than a certain quantity or mea- 
 sure of renown. The necessary business of life, 
 the immediate pleasures or pains of every condi- 
 tion, leave us not leisure beyond a fixed portion 
 for contemplations which do not forcibly influ- 
 ence our present welfare. When this vacuity is 
 filled, no characters can be admitted into the cir- 
 culation of fame, but by occupying the place of 
 some that must be thrust into oblivion. The 
 eye of the mind, like that of the body, can only 
 extend its view to new objects, by losing sight of 
 those which are now before it. 
 
 Reputation is therefore a meteor, which blazes 
 awhile and disappears for ever ; and, if we ex 
 cept a few transcendent and invincible names, 
 which no revolutions of opinion or length of time 
 is able to suppress ; all those that engage our 
 thoughts, or diversify our conversation, are every 
 moment hasting to obscurity, aS new favourites 
 are adopted by faehion. 
 
 It is not therefore from this world that any ray 
 of comfort can proceed, to cheer the gloom of the 
 last hour. But futurity has still its prospects ; 
 there is yet happiness in reserve, which, if we 
 transfer our attention to it, will support us in the 
 pains of disease, and the languor of decay. This 
 happiness we may expect with confidence, be- 
 cause it is out of the power of chance, and may 
 be attained by all that sincerely desire and ear- 
 nestly pursue it. On this therefore every mind 
 ought finally to rest. Hope is the chief blessing 
 of man, and that hope only is rational, of which 
 we are certain that it cannot deceive us. 
 
 No. 204.] SATURDAY, FEB. 29, 1752. 
 
 Nemo tamdivos habuilfaventes, 
 
 Crastinum tit possil sibi polliceri. SENECA. 
 
 Of Heaven's protection who can be 
 
 So confident to utter this ? 
 
 To-morrow 1 will spend in bliss. F. LEWIS 
 
 SEGED, lord of Ethiopia, to the inhabitants of the 
 world : To the sons of presumption, humility and 
 fear ; and to the daughters of sorrow, content 
 and acquiesence, 
 
 Thus, in the twenty-seventh year of his reign, 
 spoke Seged, the monarch of forty nations, the 
 distributor of the waters of the Nile : "At length, 
 Seged, thy toils are at an end; thou hast recon 
 ciled disaffection, thou hast suppressed rebellion; 
 thou hast pacified the jealousies of thy courtiers, 
 thou hast chased war from thy confines, and 
 erected fortresses in the lands of thy enemies. 
 All who have offended thee tremble in thy pre-
 
 No. 204.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 303 
 
 sence, and wherever thy voice is heard it is obey- 
 ed. Thy throne is surrounded by armies, nu- 
 merous as the locusts of the summer, and resist- 
 less as the blasts of pestilence. Thy magazines 
 are stored with ammunition, thy treasuries over- 
 flow with the tribute of conquered kingdoms. 
 Plenty waves upon thy fields, and opulence glit- 
 ters in thy cities. Thy nod is as the earthquake 
 that shakes the mountains, and thy smile as the 
 dawn of the vernal day. In thy hand is the 
 strength of thousands, and thy health is the health 
 of millions. Thy palace is gladdened by the 
 song of praise, and thy path perfumed by the 
 breath of benediction. Thy subjects gaze upon 
 thy greatness, and think of danger or misery no 
 more. Why, Seged, wilt not thou partake the 
 blessings thou bestowest ? Why shouldst thou 
 only forbear to rejoice in this general felicity ? 
 Why should thy face be clouded with anxiety, 
 when the meanest of those who call thee sove- 
 reign gives the day to festivity, and the night to 
 peace ? At length, Seged, reflect and be wise. 
 What is the gift of conquest but safety ? Why 
 are riches collected but to purchase happiness ?" 
 
 Seged then ordered the house of pleasure, 
 built in an island of the lake of Dambea, to be 
 prepared for his reception. " I will retire," says 
 he, " for ten days from tumult and care, from 
 counsels and decrees. Long quiet is not the lot 
 of the governors of nations, but a cessation of 
 ten days cannot be denied me. This short in- 
 terval of happiness may surely be secured from 
 the interruption of fear or perplexity, sorrow or 
 disappointment. I will exclude all trouble from 
 my abode, and remove from my thoughts what- 
 ever may confuse the harmony ef the concert, or 
 abate the sweetness of the banquet. I will fill 
 the whole capacity of my soul with enjoyment, 
 and fry what it is to live without a wish unsa- 
 tisfied." 
 
 In a few days the orders were performed, and 
 Seged hasted to the palace of Dambea, which 
 stood in an island cultivated only for pleasure, 
 planted with every flower that spreads its colours 
 to the sun. and every shrub that sheds fragrance 
 in the air. In one part of this extensive garden, 
 were open walks for excursions in the morning ; 
 in another, thick groves, and silent arbours, and 
 bubbling fountains, for repose at noon. Alt that 
 could solace the sense, or flatter the fancy, all 
 that industry could extort from nature, or wealth 
 furnish to art, all that conquest could seize, or 
 beneficence attract, was collected together, and 
 every perception of delight was excited and gra- 
 tified. 
 
 Into this delicious region Seged summoned 
 all the persons of his court who seemed emi- 
 nently qualified to receive or communicate plea- 
 sure. His call was readily obeyed : the young, 
 the fair, the vivacious, and the witty, were all 
 in haste to be sated with felicity. They sailed 
 jocund over the lake, which seemed to smooth 
 its surface before them ; their passage was 
 cheered with music, and their hearts dilated with 
 expectation. 
 
 Seged, landing herewith his band of pleasure^ 
 determined from that hour to break ofF all ac- 
 quaintance with discontent, to give his heart 
 for ten days to ease and jollity, and then fall 
 Dack to the common state of man, and suffer 
 nis life to be diversified, as before, with joy and 
 sorrow. 
 
 He immediately entered his chamber, to con. 
 sider where he should begin his circle of happi- 
 ness. He had all the artists of delight before 
 him, but knew not whom to call, since he could 
 not enjoy one but by delaying the performance 
 of another. He chose and rejected, he resolved 
 and changed his resolution, till his faculties were 
 harassed, and his thoughts confused : then re- 
 turned to the apartment where his presence was 
 expected, with languid eyes and clouded coun- 
 tenance, and spread the infection of uneasiness 
 over the whole assembly. He observed their 
 depression, and was offended ; for he found his 
 vexation increased by those whom he expected 
 to dissipate and relieve it. He retired again to 
 his private chamber, and sought for consolation 
 in his own mind ; one thought flowed in upon 
 another ; a long succession of images seized his 
 attention ; the moments crept imperceptibly 
 away through the gloom of pensiveness, till, 
 having recovered his tranquillity, he lifted up 
 his head, and saw the lake brightened by the 
 setting sun. " Such," said Seged, sighing, " is 
 the longest day of human existence : before we 
 have learned to use it, we find it at an end." 
 
 The regret which he felt for the loss of so 
 great a part of his first day, took from him all 
 disposition to enjoy the evening ; and after hav- 
 ing endeavoured, for the sake of his attendants, 
 to force an air of gayety, and excite that mirth 
 which he could not share, he resolved to defer 
 his hopes to the next morr?ng, and lay down to 
 partake with the slaves of labour and poverty the 
 blessing of sleep. 
 
 He rose early the second morning, and re- 
 solved now to be happy. He therefore fixed 
 upon the gate of the palace an edict, importing, 
 that whoever, during nine days, should appear 
 in the presence of the king with dejected coun- 
 tenance, or utter any expression of discontent or 
 sorrow, should be driven for ever from the palace 
 of Dambea. 
 
 This edict was immediately made known in 
 every chamber of the court and bower of the 
 gardens. Mirth was frighted away ; and they 
 who were before dancing in the lawns, or sing 
 ing in the shades, were at once engaged in the 
 care of regulating their looks, that Seged might 
 find his will punctually obeyed, and see none 
 among them liable to banishment. 
 
 Seged now met every face settled in a smile , 
 but a smile that betrayed solicitude, timidity, 
 and constraint. He accosted his favourites with 
 familiarity and softness ; but they durst not 
 speak without premeditation, lest they should 
 be convicted of discontent or sorrow. He pro- 
 posed diversions, to which no objection was 
 made, because objection would have implied un- 
 easiness ; but they were regarded with indiffer- 
 ence by the courtiers, who had no other desire 
 than to signalize themselves by clamorous exult- 
 ation. He offered various topics of conversa- 
 tion ; but obtained only forced jests and labo- 
 rious laughter; and, after many attempts to ani- 
 mate his train to confidence and alacrity, wag 
 obliged to confess to himself the impotence of 
 command, and resign another day to grief and 
 disappointment. 
 
 He at last relieved his companions from their 
 terrors, and shut himself up in his chamber to 
 ascertain, by different measures, the felicity of 
 the succeeding days. At length he threw him-
 
 304 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 (.No. 2U5 
 
 self on tl e bed, and closed his eyes, but imagined, 
 in his sleep, that his palace and gardens were 
 overwhelmed by an inundation, and waked with 
 all the terrors of a man struggling in the water. 
 He composed himself again to rest, but was af- 
 frighted by an imaginary irruption into his 
 kingdom ; and striving, as is usual in dreams, 
 without ability to move, fancied himself betrayed 
 to his enemies, and again started up with horror 
 and indignation. 
 It was now day, and fear was so strongly im- 
 
 Eessed on his mind, that he could sleep no more, 
 e rose ; but his thoughts were filled with the 
 deluge and invasion, nor was he able to disen- 
 gage his attention, or mingle with vacancy and 
 ease in any amusement. At length his perturba- 
 tion gave way to reason, and he resolved no 
 longer to be harassed by visionary miseries ; but 
 before this resolution could be completed, half 
 the day had elapsed. He felt a new conviction 
 of the uncertainty of human schemes, and could 
 not forbear to bewail the weakness of that being, 
 whose quiet was to be interrupted by vapours of 
 the fancy. Having been first disturbed by a 
 dream, he afterwards grieved that a dream could 
 disturb him. He at last discovered that his ter- 
 rors and grief were equally vain, and that to lose 
 the present in lamenting the past was volunta- 
 rily to protract a melancholy vision. The third 
 day was now declining, and Seged again re- 
 solved to be happy on the morrow. 
 
 No. 205.] TUESDAY, MARCH 3, 1752. 
 
 - Volat 
 
 SENECA. 
 
 r UUIL itiiiuf^uiv 
 
 Mobilis alia hora, nee ulli 
 Prtcslat veloz fortuna jidtm. 
 
 On fickle wings the minutes haste, 
 And fortune's favours never last. 
 
 ON the fourth morning Seged rose early, re- 
 freshed with sleep, vigorous with health, and 
 eager with expectation. He entered the garden, 
 attended by the princess and ladies of his court, 
 and, seeing nothing about but airy cheerfulness, 
 began to say to his heart, " This day shall be a 
 day of pleasure." The sun played upon the 
 water, the birds warbled in the groves, and the 
 gales quivered among the branches. He roved 
 from walk to walk as chance directed him, and 
 sometimes listened to the songs, sometimes 
 mingled with the dancers, sometimes let loose 
 his imagination in flights of merriment, and 
 sometimes uttered grave reflections and senten- 
 tious maxims, and feasted on the admiration 
 with which they were received. 
 
 Thus the day rolled on, without any accident 
 of vexation, or intrusion of melancholy thoughts. 
 All that beheld him caught gladness from his 
 .ooks, and the sight of happiness conferred by 
 himself filled his heart with satisfaction : but 
 having passed three hours in this harmless lux- 
 ury, he was alarmed on a sudden by a univer- 
 sal scream among the women, and, turning back, 
 saw the whole assembly flying in confusion. A 
 young crocodile had risen out of the lake, and 
 was ranging the garden in wantonness or hun- 
 
 er. Seged beheld him with indignation, as a 
 isturber of his felicity, and chased him back in- 
 .o flie lake, but could not persuade his retinue to 
 
 stay, or free their hearts from the terror which 
 had seized upon them. The princesses inclosed 
 themselves in the palace, and could yet scarcely 
 believe themselves in safety. Every attention 
 was fixed upon the late danger and escape, and 
 no mind was any longer at leisure for gay sallies 
 or careless prattle. 
 
 Seged had now no other employment than to 
 contemplate the innumerable casualties which 
 lie in ambush on every side to intercept the hap- 
 piness of man, and break in upon the hour of 
 delight and tranquillity. He had, however, the 
 consolation of thinking, that he had not been 
 now disappointed by his own fault, and that the 
 accident which had blasted the hopes of the day 
 might easily be prevented by future caution. 
 
 That he might provide for the pleasure of the 
 next morning, he resolved to repeal his penal 
 edict, since he had already found that discontent 
 and melancholy were not to be frighted away bj 
 the threats of authority, and that pleasure would 
 only reside where she was exempted from con- 
 trol. He therefore invited all the companions 
 of his retreat to unbounded pleasantry, by pro 
 posing prizes for those who should, on the fol 
 lowing day, distinguish themselves by anj 
 festive performances ; the tables of the anti 
 chamber were covered with gold and pearls, 
 and robes and garlands decreed the rewards ol 
 those who could refine elegance or heighten 
 pleasure. 
 
 At this display of riches every eye immediately 
 sparkled, and every tongue was busied in cele- 
 brating the bounty and magnificence of the em- 
 peror. But when Seged entered, in hopes of 
 uncommon entertainment from universal emu- 
 lation, he found that any passion too strongly 
 agitated puts an end to that tranquillity which is 
 necessary to mirth, and that the mind that is to 
 be moved by the gentle ventilations of gayety 
 must be first smoothed by a total calm. What- 
 ever we ardently wish to gain, we must, in the 
 same degree, be afraid to lose, and fear and 
 pleasure cannot dwell together. 
 
 All was now care and solicitude. Nothing 
 was done or spoken, but with so visible an en- 
 deavour at perfection, as always failed to de- 
 lijrht, though it sometimes forced admiration: 
 and Seged could not but observe with sorrow, 
 that his prizes had more influence than himself. 
 As the evening approached, the contest grew 
 more earnest, and those who were forced to 
 allow themselves excelled began to discover the 
 malignity of defeat, first by angry glances, and 
 at last by contemptuous murmurs. Seged like- 
 wise shared the anxiety of the day ; for consider- 
 ing himself as obliged to distribute with exact 
 justice the prizes which had been so zealously 
 sought, he durst never remit his attention, but 
 passed his time upon the rack of doubt, in ba- 
 lancing different kinds of merit, and adjusting 
 the claims of all the competitors. 
 
 At last, knowing that no exactness could 
 satisfy those whose hopes he should disappoint, 
 and thinking that, on a day set apart for hap- 
 piness, it would bo cruel to oppress any heart 
 with sorrow, he declared that all had pleased 
 him alike, and dismissed all with presents of 
 equal value. 
 
 Seged soon saw that his caution had not been 
 able to avoid offence. They who had believed 
 themselves secure of the highest prizes, wer
 
 THE RAMBLER 
 
 not pleased to be levelled with the crowd; and 
 though, by the liberality of the king, they re- 
 ceived more than his promise had entitled "them 
 to expect, they departed unsatisfied, because 
 they were honoured with no distinction, and want- 
 ed an opportunity to triumph in the mortification 
 of their opponents. . " Behold here," said Seged, 
 " the condition of him who places his happiness 
 in the happiness of others." He then retired 
 to meditate, and, while the courtiers were re- 
 pining at his distributions, saw the fifth sun go 
 down in discontent. 
 
 The next dawn renewed his resolution to be 
 happy. But having learned how little he could 
 effect by settled schemes or preparatory mea- 
 sures, he thought it best to give up one day en- 
 tirely to chance, and left every one to please and 
 be pleased his own way. 
 
 This relaxation of regularity diffused a general 
 Complacence through the whole court, and the 
 emperor imagined that he had at last found the 
 secret of obtaining an interval of felicity. But 
 as he was roving in this careless assembly with 
 eaual carelessness, he overheard one of his 
 courtiers in a close arbour murmuring alone : 
 'What merit has Seged above us, that we 
 should thus fear and obey him ? a man whom, 
 whatever he may have formerly performed, his 
 luxury now shows to have the same weakness 
 with ourselves !" This charge affected him the 
 more, as it was uttered by one whom he had 
 always observed among the most abject of his 
 flatterers. At first his indignation prompted 
 him to severity; but reflecting, that what was 
 spoken without intention to be heard was to be 
 considered as only thought, and was, perhaps, 
 but the sudden burst of casual and temporary 
 vexation, he invented some decent pretence to 
 send him away, that his retreat might not be 
 tainted with the breath of envy ; and after the 
 struggle of deliberation was past, and all desire 
 of revenge utterly suppressed, passed the even- 
 ing not only with tranquillity, but triumph, 
 though none but himself was conscious of the 
 victory. 
 
 The remembrance of this clemency cheered 
 the beginning of the seventh day, and nothing 
 happened to disturb the pleasure of Seged, till, 
 looking on the tree that shaded him, he recol- 
 lected that under a tree of the same kind he had 
 passed the night after his defeat in the kingdom 
 of Goiama. The reflection on his loss, his dis- 
 nonour, and the miseries which his subjects suf- 
 fered from the invader, filled him with sadness. 
 At last he shook off the weight of sorrow, and 
 began to solace himself with his usual pleasure ; 
 when his tranquillity was again disturbed by 
 jealousies which the late contest for the prizes 
 nad produced, and which, having in vain tried 
 to pacify them by persuasion, he was forced to 
 silence by command. 
 
 On the eighth morning Seged was awakened 
 early by an unusual hurry in the apartments, 
 and, inquiring the cause, was told that the 
 princess Balkis was seized with sickness. He 
 rose, and, calling the physicians, found that 
 they had little hope of her recovery. Here was 
 an end of jollity ; all his thoughts were now 
 upon his daughter, whose eyes he closed on the 
 tenth day. 
 
 Such were the days which Seged of Ehtiopia 
 had appropriated to a short respiration from the 
 
 fatigues of war, and the cares of government. 
 This narrative he has bequeathed to future ge- 
 nerations, that no man hereafter may presume 
 to say, " This day shall be a day of happiness." 
 
 No. 206.] SATURDAY, MARCH 7, 1752 
 
 Propositi nondum pudet, atque eadem eat mem, 
 
 Ut bona summo. putts, aliena Divert quadra. juv. 
 
 But harden'd by affronts, and still the some, 
 
 Lost to all sense of honour and of fame, 
 
 Thou yet canst love to haunt the great man's board, 
 
 And think no supper good but with a lord. BOWLE*. 
 
 WHEN Diogenes was once asked, what kind of 
 wine he liked best, he answered, " That which 
 is drunk at the cost of others." 
 
 Though the character of Diogenes has never 
 excited any general zeal of imitation, there are 
 many who resemble him in his taste of wine ; 
 many who are frugal, though not abstemious ; 
 whose appetites, though too powerful for reason, 
 are kept under restraint by avarice ; and to 
 whom all delicacies lose their flavour, when 
 they cannot be obtained but at their own ex 
 pense. 
 
 Nothing produces more singularity of man 
 ners, and inconstancy of life, than the conflict of 
 opposite vices in the same mind. He that uni- 
 formly pursues any purpose, whether good or 
 bad, has a settled principle of action ; and, as he 
 may always find associates who are travelling 
 the same way, is countenanced by example, and 
 sheltered in the multitude ; but a man actuated 
 at once by different desires must move in a di 
 rection peculiar to himself, and suffer that re 
 proach which we are naturally inclined to be- 
 stow on those who deviate from the rest of the 
 world, even without inquiring whether they are 
 worse or better. 
 
 Yet this conflict of desires sometimes produces 
 wonderful efforts. To riot in far-fetched dishes, 
 or surfeit with unexhausted variety, and yet 
 practise the most rigid economy, is surely an art 
 which may justly draw the eyes of mankind 
 upon them whose industry or judgment has 
 enabled them to attain it. To him, indeed, who 
 is content to break open the chests, or mortgage 
 the manors of his ancestors, that he may hiro 
 the ministers of excess at the highest price, glut 
 tony is an easy science ; yet we often hear the 
 votaries of luxury boasting of the elegance which 
 they owe to the taste of others ; relating with 
 rapture the succession of dishes with which their 
 cooks and caterers supply them ; and expecting 
 their share of praise with the discoverers of arts, 
 and the civilizers of nations. But to shorten 
 the way to convivial happiness, by eating with- 
 out cost, is a secret hitherto in few hands, but 
 which certainly deserves the curiosity of those 
 whose principal employment is their dinner, and 
 who see the sun rise with no other hope than 
 that they shall fill their bellies before it sets. 
 
 Of them that have within my knowledge at- 
 tempted this scheme of happiness, the greater 
 part have been immediately obliged to desist; 
 and some, whom their first attempts flattered 
 with success, were reduced by degrees to a few 
 tables, from which they were at last chased to 
 make way for others ; and, having long habitu 
 ated themselves to superfluous plenty, growled
 
 30G 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. >:07 
 
 away their latter years in discontented compe- 
 tence. 
 
 None enter the regions of luxury with higher 
 expectations than men of wit, who imagine that 
 they shall never want a welcome to that com- 
 pany whose ideas they can enlarge, or whose 
 imaginations they can elevate, and bdieve them- 
 selves able to pay for their wine with the mirth 
 which it qualifies them to produce. Full of this 
 opinion, tney crowd with little invitation where- 
 ever the smell of a feast allures them, but are 
 seldom encouraged to repeat their visits, being 
 dreaded by the pert as rivals, and hated by the 
 dull as disturbers of the company. 
 
 No man has been so happy in gaining and 
 keeping the privilege of living at luxurious 
 houses as Gulosulus, who, after thirty years of 
 continual revelry, has now established, by un- 
 controverted prescription, his claim to partake 
 of every entertainment, and whose presence 
 they who aspire to the praise of a sumptuous 
 table are careful to procure on a day of import- 
 ance, by sending the invitation a fortnight be- 
 fore. 
 
 Gulosulus entered the world without any 
 eminent degree of merit ; but was careful to 
 frequent houses where persons of rank resorted. 
 By being often seen, he became in time known ; 
 and, from sitting in the same room, was suffered 
 to mix in idle conversation, or assisted to fill 
 up a vacant hour, when better amusement was 
 not readily to be had. From the coffee-house he 
 was sometimes taken away to dinner ; and, as 
 no man refuses the acquaintance of him whom 
 he sees admitted to familiarity by others of equal 
 dignity, when he had been met at a few tables, 
 he with less difficulty found the way to more, till 
 at last he was regularly expected to appear 
 wherever preparations are made for a feast, 
 within the circuit of his acquaintance. 
 
 When he was thus by accident initiated in 
 luxury, he felt in himself no inclination to re- 
 tire from a life of so much pleasure, and there- 
 fore very seriously considered how he might 
 continue it. Great qualities or uncommon ac- 
 complishments 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 ex- 
 cellence 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 politics, 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 argumentas he had never known 
 before. By this silent concession, he generally 
 preserved in either controvertist such a convic- 
 tion of his own superiority, as inclined him ra- 
 ther to pity than irritate his adversary, and pre- 
 vented 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 in- 
 variable rule to adopt the notions of those that 
 invited him. 
 
 It will sometimes happen that the insolence of 
 wealth breaks into contemptuousncss, or the 
 turbulence of wine requires a vent ; and Gulo- 
 sulus 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 free- 
 dom : 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 dic- 
 tatorial authority ; his taste becomes the stand- 
 ard of pickles and seasoning, and he is vene- 
 rated 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 pro- 
 cures the earliest intelligence, and the most au- 
 thentic 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 di- 
 rections have been fully understood. 
 
 By this method of life Gulosulus has so im 
 pressed on his imagination the dignity of feast- 
 ing, that he has no other topic of talk or sub- 
 ject of meditation. His calendar is a bill oi 
 fare ; he measures the year by successive 
 dainties. The only common places of his me 
 mory 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 equvm , ne 
 
 Peccet ad extremum ridendus. HOR. 
 
 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 posses- 
 sion by disgust ; and the malicious remark oi
 
 No. 207.J 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 307 
 
 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 tha 
 wakens the fancy till the hour of actual execu- 
 tion, all is improvement and progress, triumph 
 and felicity. Every hour brings additions to 
 the original scheme, suggests some new expedi- 
 ent to secure success, or discovers consequentia 
 advantages not hitherto foreseen. While pre- 
 parations 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 vision- 
 ary 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 it* 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 exaspe- 
 rates, 01 neglect depresses. We proceed be- 
 cause we have begun ; we complete our design 
 that the labour already spent may not be vain ; 
 but, as expectation gradually dies away, the gay 
 emile 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 excel- 
 lences; 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 what- 
 ever he is engaged, consoles himself with the 
 hope of change ; if he has made his way by as- 
 siduity to public 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 univer- 
 
 sal theatre, and enjoy the pleasure of distinction 
 and applause. 
 
 Every desire, however innocent, grows dan- 
 gerous, as by long indulgence it becomes ascend- 
 ant 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 swell- 
 ing bud and opening blossom, and pleased him- 
 self 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 pur 
 pose, we are willing to believe that we have at- 
 tained 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 unseason- 
 able 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 rea- 
 sons are given why in the defective part less or- 
 nament was necessary, or less could be admit- 
 ted. But, perhaps, the author would have con- 
 fessed, that his fancy was tired, and his perse 
 verance 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 considera- 
 tions which once concurred to kindle the ardour 
 of enterprise. Whatever motive first incited 
 action, has still greater force to stimulate per- 
 severance ; since he that might have lain still at 
 irst in blameless obscurity, cannot afterwards 
 desist but with infamy and reproach. He whom 
 a doubtful promise of distant good could en- 
 :ourage to set difficulties at defiance, ought not 
 :o remit his vigour when he has almost obtained 
 his recompense. To faint or loiter, when only 
 ;he last efforts are required, is to steer the ship 
 hrough tempests, and abandon it to the winds 
 n sight of land ; it is to break the ground and 
 scatter the seed, and at last to neglect the har 
 vest 
 
 The masters of rhetoric direct, that the most 
 brcible arguments be produced in the latter part 
 of an oration, lest they should be effaced or per- 
 >lexed by supervenient images. This precept 
 nay be justly extended to the series of life : no- 
 hing is ended with honour, which does not 
 onclude better than it began. It is not suffi- 
 .ient to maintain the first vigour ; for excellence 
 oses its effect upon the mind by custom, as light
 
 yos 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 [No. 208 
 
 after a time ceases to dazzle. Admiration must 
 be continued by that novelty which first pro- 
 duced it, and how much soever is given, there 
 must always be reason to imagine that more re- 
 mains. 
 
 We not only are most sensible of the last im- 
 pressions ; but such is the unwillingness of man- 
 kind to admit transcendant merit, that though it 
 be difficult to obliterate the reproach of miscar- 
 riages by any subsequent achievement, however 
 illustrious, yet the reputation raised by along 
 train of success may be finally ruined by a single 
 failure ; for weakness or error will be always re- 
 membered by that malice and envy which it gra- 
 tifies. 
 
 For the prevention of that disgrace, which 
 lassitude and negligence may bring at last upon 
 the greatest performances, it is necessary to pro- 
 portion carefully our labour to our strength. If 
 the design comprises many parts, equally essen- 
 tial, 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 
 public. Let him therefore lay down his employ- 
 ment, whatever it be, who can no longer exert 
 his former activity or attention ; let him not en- 
 deavour to struggle with censure, or obstinately 
 infest the stage till a general hiss commands him 
 to depart. 
 
 No. 20S.] SATURDAY, MARCH 14, 1752. 
 
 ' HpdxAecros cyia' ri [t G> KO.TU> C\KCT' afiovaot; 
 
 O&x' fijiiv c-rr6vovv, rots ie p' farirrap/tfltf 
 ETj tftol avQptinro; Tpi<r/*6pioi' ot 6' AvaaiQjtoi. 
 
 O6Ws TOUT 1 nvcia Kat irapa Hef>Gt<j>6vri. 
 
 DIOG. LAERT. 
 
 Begone, yc blockheads, Heraclitus cries, 
 And leave my labours to the learn'd and wie ; 
 By wit, by knowledge, studious to be read, 
 I scorn the multitude, alive and dead. 
 
 TIME, which puts an end to all human plea- 
 sures and sorrows, has likewise concluded the 
 labours of the Rambler. Having supported, for 
 two years, the anxious employment of a period- 
 ical 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 un- 
 necessary when no objection is made. I am 
 far from supposing that the cessation of my per- 
 formances will raise any inquiry, for I have 
 never been much a favourite of the public, nor 
 can boast that, in the progress of my undertak- 
 ing 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 sub- 
 mission, 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 me 
 teors of fashion rise and fall, without any at- 
 tempt to add a moment to their duration. I have 
 never complied with temporary curiosity, nor 
 enabled my readers to discuss the topic 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 ol 
 himself; and they only were expected to peruse 
 them, whose passions left them leisure for ab- 
 stracted truth, and whom virtue could please by 
 its naked dignity. 
 
 To some, however, I am indebted for encou- 
 ragement, 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 pro- 
 ductions, 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 lettei 
 in the hundred and seventh. 
 
 Having thus deprived myself of many excuses 
 which candour might have admitted for the in- 
 equality of my compositions, being no longer 
 able to allege the necessity of gratifying corre- 
 spondents, the importunity with which publica- 
 tion was solicited, or obstinacy with which cor- 
 rection was rejected, I must remain accountable 
 for all my faults, and submit, without subter- 
 fuge, to the censures of criticism, which, how- 
 ever, 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 dul- 
 ness. Having hitherto attempted only the pro- 
 pagation of truth, I will not at last violate it by 
 the confession of terrors which I do not feel; 
 having laboured to maintain the dignity of vir- 
 tue, I will not now degrade it by the meanness 
 of dedication. 
 
 The seeming vanity with which I have some- 
 times spoken of myself, would perhaps require 
 an apology, were it not extenuated by the exam- 
 ple 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 dis 
 covered without his own consent, may claim 
 some indulgence, and cannott>e rigorously called
 
 No. 208.] 
 
 THE RAMBLER. 
 
 309 
 
 to justify those sanies or frolics which his dis- 
 guise 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 confi- 
 dence 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 imagina- 
 tion overwhelmed, a mind distracted with 
 anxieties, a body languishing with disease : he 
 will labour on a barren topic, till it is too late to 
 chance it ; or, in the ardour of invention, dif- 
 fuse 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 man- 
 kind, 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, per- 
 haps, I have added to the elegance of its con- 
 struction, and something to the harmony of its 
 cadence. When common words were less 
 pleasing to the ear, or less distinct in their signi- 
 fication, I have familiarised the terms of philo- 
 sophy, by applying them to popular ideas, but 
 have rarely admitted any word not authorised 
 by former writers ; for I believe that whoever 
 knows the English tongue in its present extent, 
 will be able to express his thoughts without far- 
 ther help from other nations. 
 
 As it has been my principal design to inculcate 
 wisdom or piety, I have allotted a 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 disqui- 
 sitions of criticism, which, in my opinion, is only 
 to be ranked among the subordinate and instru- 
 mental arts. Arbitrary decision and general 
 exclamation I have carefully avoided, by assert- 
 ing 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 exag- 
 geration to burlesque ; but as they deviate fur- 
 ther from reality, they become less useful, be- 
 cause 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 Christian 
 ity, without any accommodation to the licen- 
 tiousness and levity of the present age. I there- 
 fore look back on this part of my work with 
 pleasure, which no blame or praise of man can 
 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. 
 
 AlrGtv tK paKapw <ivraioj ttij aiiotfiij. 
 
 Celestial powers ; that piety regard, 
 From you my labours wait their last reward 
 
 END OF THE RAMBLER.
 
 PAPERS IN THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 No. 34.] SATURDAY, MARCH 3, 1753. 
 
 Has toties optata exegit gloria panas. Jov. 
 Such fate pursues the votaries of praise. 
 
 TO THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 Fleet Prison, Feb. 24. 
 
 To a benevolent disposition, every state of life 
 will afford some opportunities of contributing to 
 the welfare of mankind. Opulence and splen- 
 dour are enabled to dispel the cloud of adversity, 
 to dry up the tears of the widow and the orphan, 
 and to increase the felicity of all around them ; 
 their example will animate virtue, and retard 
 the progress of vice. And even indigence and 
 obscurity, though without power to confer hap- 
 piness, may at least prevent misery, and apprize 
 those who are blinded by their passions, that 
 they are on the brink of irremediable calamity. 
 
 Pleased, therefore, with the thought of reco- 
 vering others from that folly which has embit- 
 tered my own days, I have presumed to address 
 the Adventurer from the dreary mansions of 
 wretchedness and despair, of which the gates are 
 BO wonderfully constructed as to fly open for the 
 reception of strangers, though they are imper- 
 vious as a rock of adamant to such as are within 
 them: 
 
 Facilis descensui Averni ; 
 
 Nodes atque dies patet alrijanua Ditix ; 
 
 Sr.d recocare gradum, superasque evadere ad auras, 
 
 Woe opus, hie labor ett. VIRG. 
 
 The gates of Hell are open night and day ; 
 
 Smooth the descent, and easy is the way : 
 
 But to return and view the cheerful skies ; 
 
 In this the task and mighty labour lies. DRYDEN. 
 
 Suffer me to acquaint you, Sir, that I have 
 glittered at the ball, and sparkled in the circle ; 
 that I have had the happiness to be the unknown 
 favourite of an unknown lady at the masquerade, 
 have been the delight of tables of the first 
 fashion, and envy of my brother beaux ; and to 
 descend a little lower, it is, I believe, still remem- 
 bered, that Messrs. Velours and d'Espagne stand 
 indebted for a great part of their present influ- 
 ence at Guildhall, to the elegance of my shape, 
 and the graceful freedom of my carriage. 
 
 Sfd quit praclara et prospera tanti, 
 
 Ut rebus latis par sit mensura malorum ! juv. 
 
 See the wild purchase of the bold and vain, 
 Where every bliee is bought with equal pain ! 
 
 As I entered into the world very young, with 
 an elegant person and a large estate, it was not 
 long before I disentangled myself from the 
 shackles of religion; for I was determined to the 
 pursuit of pleasure, which, according to my no- 
 tions, consisted in the unrestrained and unlimit- 
 ed gratifications of every passion and every ap 
 petite; and as this could not be obtained under 
 the frowns of a perpetual dictator, I considered 
 religion as my enemy ; and proceeding to treat 
 her with contempt and derision, was not a little 
 delighted, that the unfashionableness of her ap- 
 pearance, and the unanimated uniformity of her 
 motions, afforded frequent opportunities for the 
 sallies of my imagination. 
 
 Conceiving now that I was sufficiently quali- 
 fied to laugh away scruples, I imparted my re- 
 marks to those among my female favourites, 
 whose virtue I intended to attack ; for 1 was 
 well assured, that pride would be able to make 
 but a weak defence, when religion was subvert- 
 ed ; nor was my success below my expectation : 
 the love of pleasure is too strongly implanted in 
 the female breast, to suffer them scrupulously to 
 examine the validity of arguments designed to 
 weaken restraint ; all are easily led to believe, 
 that whatever thwarts their inclination must be 
 wrong ; little more, therefore, was required, 
 than by the addition of some circumstances, and 
 the exaggeration of others, to make merriment 
 supply the place of demonstration ; nor was I so 
 senseless as to offer arguments to such as could 
 not attend to them, and with whom a repartee 
 or catch would more effectually answer the same 
 purpose. This being effected, there remained 
 only " the dread of the world ;" but Roxana 
 soared too high, to think the opinion of others 
 worthy her notice ; Lffititia seemed to think of 
 it only to declare, that " if all her hairs were 
 worlds," she should reckon them " well lost for 
 love ;" and Pastorella fondly conceived, that she 
 could dwell for ever by the side of a bubbling 
 fountain, content with her swain and fleecy 
 care ; without considering that stillness and so- 
 litude can afford satisfaction only to innocence. 
 
 It is not the desire of new acquisitions, but 
 the glory of conquests, that fires the soldier's 
 breast ; as indeed the town is seldom worth 
 much, when it has suffered the devastations of a 
 siege ; so that though I did not openly declare 
 the effects of my own prowess, which is forbid- 
 den by the laws of honour, it cannot be supposed 
 that I was very solicitous to bury rny reputa- 
 tion, or to hinder accidental discoveries. To 
 have gained one victory, is an inducement to
 
 . 34] 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 311 
 
 hazard a second engagement : and though the 
 auccess of the general should be a reason for in- 
 creasing the strength of the fortification, it be- 
 eomes, with many a pretence for an immediate 
 surrender, under the notion that no power is 
 able to withstand so formidable an adversary ; 
 while others brave the danger, and think it 
 mean to surrender, and dastardly to fly. Me- 
 lissa, indeed, knew better; and though she could 
 not boast the apathy, steadiness, and inflexibi- 
 lity of a Cato, wanted not the more prudent 
 virtue of Scipio, and gained the victory by de- 
 clining the contest. 
 
 You must not, however, imagine, that I was, 
 during this state of abandoned libertinism, so 
 fully convinced of the fitness of my own con- 
 duct, as to be free from uneasiness. I knew 
 very well, that I might justly be deemed the 
 pest of society, and that such proceedings must 
 terminate in the destruction of my health and 
 fortune ; but to admit thoughts of this kind was 
 to live upon the rack : I fled, therefore, to the 
 regions of mirth and jollity as they are called, 
 and endeavoured with burgundy, and a continual 
 rotation of company, to free myself from the 
 pangs of reflection. From these orgies we fre- 
 quently sallied forth in quest of adventures, to 
 the no small terror and consternation of all the 
 sober stragglers that came in our way : and 
 though we never injured, like our illustrious 
 progenitors, the Mohocks, either life or limbs ; 
 yet we have in the midst of Covent Garden 
 buried a tailor, who had been troublesome to 
 some of our fine gentlemen, beneath a heap of 
 cabbage-leaves and stalks, with this conceit, 
 
 Satia te caule quern semper eupisti. 
 
 Glut yourself with cnbbage, of which you have always 
 been greedy. 
 
 There can be no reason for mentioning the 
 common exploits of breaking windows and bruis- 
 ing the watch ; unless it be to tell you of the 
 device of producing before the justice broken 
 lanthorns, which have been paid for a hundred 
 times : or their appearances with patches on their 
 heads, under pretence of being cut by the sword 
 that was never drawn : nor need I say any thing 
 of the more formidable attack of sturdy chair- 
 men, armed with poles ; by a slight stroke of 
 which, the pride of Ned Revel's face was at 
 once laid flat, and that effected in an instant, 
 which its most mortal foe had for years assayed 
 in vain. I shall pass over the accidents that at- 
 tended attempts to scale windows, and endea- 
 vours to dislodge signs from their hooks ; there 
 are many " hair breadth 'scapes," besides those 
 in the " imminent deadly breach ;" but the 
 rake's life, though it be equally hazardous with 
 that of the soldier, is neither accompanied with 
 present honour nor with pleasing retrospect ; 
 such is, and such ought to be, the difference 
 between the enemy and the preserver of his 
 country. 
 
 Amidst such giddy and thoughtless extrava- 
 gance, it will not seem strange, that I was often 
 the dupe of coarse flattery. When Mons. 
 L' Allonge assured me that I thrust quart over 
 arm better than any man in England, what could 
 1 less than present him with a sword that cost 
 me thirty pieces ? I was bound for a hundred 
 pounds for Tom Trippet, because he had de- 
 
 clared that he would dance a minuet with any 
 man in the three kingdoms except myself. But 
 I often parted with money against' my incli- 
 nation, either because I wanted the resolution to 
 refuse, or dreaded the appellation of a niggardly 
 fellow ; and I may be truly said to have'squan- 
 dered my estate, without honour, without 
 friends, and without pleasure. The last may, 
 perhaps, appear strange to men unacquainted 
 with the masquerade of life : I deceived others, 
 and I endeavoured to deceive myself; and have 
 worn the face of pleasantry and gayety, while 
 my heart suffered the most exquisite torture. 
 
 By the instigation and encouragement of my 
 friends, I became at length ambitious of a seat 
 in parliament ; and accordingly set out for the 
 town of Wallop in the west, where my arrival 
 was welcomed by a thousand throats, and I was 
 in three days sure of a majority ; but after drink- 
 ing out one hundred and fifty hogsheads of wine, 
 and bribing two-thirds of the corporation twice 
 over, I had the mortification to find that the bo- 
 rough had been before sold to Mr. Courtly. 
 
 In a life of this kind, my fortune, though con- 
 siderable, was presently dissipated ; and as the 
 attraction grows more strong the nearer any body 
 approaches the earth, when once a man begins 
 to sink into poverty, he falls with velocity always 
 increasing ; every supply is purchased at a higher 
 and higher price, and every office of kindness 
 obtained with greater and greater difficulty. 
 Having now acquainted you with my state of 
 elevation, I shall, if you encourage the continu- 
 ance of my correspondence, show you by what 
 steps I descended from a first floor in Pail-Mall 
 to my present habitation. I am, Sir, your 
 humble servant, 
 
 MISARGTRUS. 
 
 No. 39.] TUESDAY, MARCH 20, 1753. 
 
 OSvcrcv; <j>v\\oiat Ka\viparo, ria &' ap' Adrjvr; 
 ' Yirvov CTT' oujtaat jfcv', Iva fiiv iravccte ra^i 
 
 Pallas pour'd sweet slumbers on his soul ; 
 And balmy dreams, the gift of f oft repose, 
 Calm'd all his pains, and banish d all Ins woes. 
 
 IF every day did not produce fresh instances of 
 the ingratitude of mankind, we might, perhaps, 
 be at a loss why so liberal and impartial a bene- 
 factor as Sleep should meet with so few histo 
 rians or panegyrists. Writers are so totally ab- 
 sorbed by the business of the day, as never to 
 turn their attention to that power, whose of- 
 ficious hand so seasonably suspends the burden 
 of life : and without whose interposition man 
 would not be able to endure the fatigue of la- 
 bour, however rewarded, or the struggle with 
 opposition, however successful. 
 
 Night, though she divides to many the longest 
 part of life, anil to almost all the most innocent 
 and happy, is yet unthankfully neglected, except 
 by those who pervert her gifts. 
 
 The astronomers, indeed, expect her with im- 
 patience, and felicitate themselves upon her ar 
 rival : Fontenelle has not failed to celebrate het 
 praises ; and to chide the sun for hiding from his 
 view the worlds, which he imagines to appear in
 
 312 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 [No. 39 
 
 every constellation. Nor have the poets been 
 always deficient in her praises ; Milton has ob- 
 served of the Ni/jht, that it is " the pleasant time, 
 the cool, the silent." 
 
 These men may, indeed, well be expected to 
 pav particular lioinage to Night, since they are 
 indebted to her, not only for cessation of pain, 
 but increase of pleasure ; not only for slumber, 
 but for knowledge. But the greater part of her 
 avowed votaries) are the sons of luxury : who ap- 
 propriate to festivity the hours designed for rest ; 
 who consider the reign of pleasure as commenc- 
 ing when day begins to withdraw her busy mul- 
 titudes, and ceases to dissipate attention by in- 
 trusive and unwelcome variety ; who begin to 
 awake to joy when the rest of the world sinks 
 into insensibility ; and revel in the soft affluence 
 of flattering and artificial lights, which " more 
 shadowy set off" the face of things." 
 
 Without touching upon the fatal consequences 
 of a custom, which, as Ramazzini observes, will 
 be for ever condemned, and for ever retained ; 
 it may be observed, that however Sleep may be 
 put off from time to time, yet the demand is of 
 so importunate a nature, as not to remain long 
 unsatisfied : and if, as some have done, we con- 
 sider it as the tax of life, we cannot but observe 
 it as a tax that must be paid, unless we could 
 cease to be men ; for Alexander declared, that 
 nothing convinced him that he was not a di- 
 vinity, but his not being able to live without 
 sleep. 
 
 To live without sleep in our present fluctuat- 
 ing state, however desirable it might seem to the 
 lady in Clelia, can surely be the wish only of 
 the young or the ignorant ; to every one else, 
 a perpetual vigil will appear to be a state of 
 wretchedness, second only to that of the miser- 
 able beings whom Swift has in his travels so 
 elegantly described, as " supremely cursed with 
 immortality." 
 
 Sleep is necessary to the happy to prevent sa- 
 tiety, and to endear life by a short absence ; and 
 to the miserable, to relieve them by intervals of 
 quiet. Life is to most, such as could not be en- 
 dured without frequent intermission of exist- 
 ence : Homer, therefore, has thought it an of- 
 fice worthy of the goddess of wisdom, to lay 
 Ulysses asleep when landed on Phaeacia. 
 
 It is related of Barretier, whose early ad- 
 vances in literature scarce any human mind has 
 equalled, that he spent twelve hours of the four 
 and twenty in sleep : yet this appears from the 
 bad state of his health, and the shortness of his 
 life, to have been too small a respite for a mind 
 so vigorously and intensely employed : it is to 
 be regretted, therefore, that he did not exercise 
 his mind less, and his body more : since by 
 this means it is highly probable, that though he 
 would not then have astonished with the blaze 
 of a comet, he would yet have shone with the 
 permanent radiance of a fixed star. 
 
 Nor should it be objected, that there have been 
 many men who daily spend fifteen or sixteen 
 hours in study : for by some of whom this is re- 
 ported it has never been done: others have done 
 it for a short time only ; and of the rest it ap- 
 pears, that they employed their minds in such 
 operations as required neither celerity nor 
 strength, in the low drudgery of collating copies, 
 comparing authorities, digesting dictionaries, or 
 
 accumulating compilations. 
 * 
 
 Men of study and imagination are frequently 
 upbraided by the industrious and plodding sons 
 of care, with passing too great a part of their 
 life in a state of inaction. But these defiers of 
 sleep seem not to remember, that though it must 
 be granted them that they are crawling about 
 before the break of day, it can seldom be said 
 that they are perfectly awake ; they exhaust no 
 spirits, and require no repairs ; but lie torpid as 
 a toad in marble, or at least are known to live 
 only by an inert and sluggish locomotive facul- 
 ty, and may be said, like a wounded snake, to 
 " drag their slow length along." 
 
 Man has been long known among philoso- 
 phers by the appellation of the microcosm, or 
 epitome of the world : the resemblance between 
 the great and little world might, by a rational 
 observer, be detailed to many particulars ; and 
 to many more by a fanciful speculatist. I know 
 not in which of these two classes I shall be 
 ranged for observing, that as the total quantity 
 of light and darkness allotted in the course of 
 the year to every region of the earth is the 
 same, though distributed at various times and in 
 different portions ; so, perhaps, to each indivi- 
 dual of the human species, nature has ordained 
 the same quantity of wakefulness and sleep ; 
 though divided by some into a total quiescence 
 and vigorous exertion of their faculties, and 
 blended by others in a kind of twilight of exist- 
 ence, in a state between dreaming and reason- 
 ing, in which they either think without action, 
 or act without thought. 
 
 The poets are generally well affected to sleep : 
 as men who think with vigour, they require re- 
 spite from thought; and gladly resign them- 
 selves to that gentle power, who not only be- 
 stows rest, but frequently leads them to happier 
 regions, where patrons are always kind, and 
 audiences are always candid, where they are 
 feasted in the bowers of imagination, and 
 crowned with flowers divested of their prickles, 
 and laurels of unfading verdure. 
 
 The more refined and penetrating part of 
 mankind, who take wide surveys of the wilds of 
 life, who see the innumerable terrors and die- 
 tresses that are perpetually preying on the heart 
 of man, and discern with unhappy perspicuity, 
 calamities yet latent in their causes, are glad to 
 close their eyes upon the gloomy prospect, and 
 lose in a short insensibility the remembrance of 
 others' miseries and their own. The hero has no 
 higher hope, than that, after having routed le- 
 gions after legions, and added kingdom to king- 
 dom, he shall retire to milder happiness," and 
 close his days in social festivity. The wit or the 
 sage can expect no greater happiness, than that, 
 after having harassed his reason in deep re- 
 searches, and fatigued his fancy in boundless 
 excursions, he shall sink at night in the tran- 
 quillity of sleep. 
 
 The poets, among all those that enjoy the 
 blessings of sleep, have been least ashamed to 
 acknowledge their benefactor. How much 
 Statius considered the evils of life as assuaged 
 and softened by the balm of slumber, we may 
 discover by that pathetic invocation, which he 
 poured out in his waking nights : and that Cow- 
 ley among the other felicities of his darling so- 
 litude, did not forget to number the privilege of 
 sleeping without disturbance, we may learn from 
 the rank that he assigns among the gifts of na-
 
 No. 41.J 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 ture to the poppy, " which is scattered," says 
 he, " over the fields of corn, that all the needs of 
 man may be easily satisfied, and that bread and 
 sleep may be found together." 
 
 Si quit invisum Cereri benigntt 
 Meputat germen, vehementer errat ; 
 [lla me in portent recipit libentcr 
 
 Fertilia agri. 
 
 Mequefrumcntumque simulper omnes 
 Consulens mando Dta spargit oral ; 
 Crescite, O .' dizit, duo magna susten- 
 tacula vita. 
 
 Carpe, mortalis, mea dona lectus, 
 Carpe, nee plantas alias require, 
 Scd sattir panis, satur etsoporif, 
 
 Ctztera sperne. 
 
 He wildly errs who tliinks I yield 
 Precedence in the well-cloth'd field, 
 
 Though mix'd with wheat I grow: 
 Indulgent Ceres knew my worth, 
 And to adorn the teeming earth, 
 
 She bade the poppy blow. 
 
 Nor vainly gay the fright to please, 
 
 But bli-ss'd with power mankind to ease, 
 
 The goddess saw me rise : 
 " Thrive with the life-supporting grain," 
 She cried, "the solace of the swain, 
 
 The cordial of his eyes. 
 
 ' Seize, happy mortal, seize the good, 
 My hand supplies thy sleep and food, 
 
 And makes thee truly blest : 
 'With plenteous meals enjoy the day, 
 In slumbers pass the night away, 
 
 And leave to fate the rest." c. B. 
 
 Sleep, therefore, as the chief of ail earthly 
 blessings, is justly appropriated to industry and 
 temperance ; the refreshing rest, and the peace- 
 ful night, are the portion only of him who lies 
 down weary with honest labour, and free from 
 the fumes of indigested luxury ; it is the just 
 doom of laziness and gluttony, to be inactive 
 without ease, and drowsy without tranquillity. 
 
 Sleep has been often mentioned as the image of 
 death ; " so like it," says Sir Thomas Brown, 
 " that I dare not trust it without my prayers ;" 
 their resemblance is, indeed, apparent and strik- 
 ing ; they both, when they seize the body, leave 
 the soul at liberty ; and wise is he that remem- 
 bers of both, that they can be safe and happy 
 only by virtue. 
 
 No. 41.] TUESDAY, MARCH 27, 1753. 
 
 Si mutabile pectta 
 
 Est tibi, consiliis, nan curribus, iitere nostrit, 
 Dumpotcs, el solidis etiamnum sedibus adstas . 
 Dumque male optatos nondum premis inscius aits. 
 
 ovi D. 
 
 Th' attempt forsake, 
 
 And not my chariot but my counsel take ; 
 While yet securely on the earth you stand ; 
 Nor touch the horses with too rash a hand. 
 
 TO THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 Fleet, March 24th. 
 
 I NOW send you the sequel of my story ; which 
 had not been so long delayed, if I could have 
 brought myself to imagine, that any real impa- 
 tience was felt for the fate of Misargyrus ; who 
 has travelled no unbeaten track to misery, and 
 2P 
 
 consequently can present the reader only with 
 such incidents as occur in daily life. 
 
 You have seen me, Sir, in the zenith of my 
 glory, not dispensing the kindly warmth of an 
 all-cheering sun; but like another Phaeton, 
 scorching and blasting every thing round me. 
 [ shall proceed, therefore, to finish my career, 
 and pass as rapidly as possible through the re- 
 maining vicissitudes of my life. 
 
 When I first began to be in want of money, I 
 made no doubt of an immediate supply. The 
 newspapers were perpetually offering directions 
 to men, who seemed to have no other business 
 than to gather heaps of gold for those who place 
 their supreme felicity in scattering it. I posted 
 away, therefore, to one of these advertisers, who 
 by his proposals seemed to deal in thousands : 
 and was not a little chagrined to find, that this 
 general benefactor would have nothing to do 
 with any larger sum than thirty pounds, nor 
 would venture that without a joint note from 
 myself and a reputable housekeeper, or for a 
 longer time than three months. 
 
 It was not yet so bad with me, as that 1 
 needed to solicit surety for thirty pounds : yet 
 partly from the greediness that extravagance al- 
 ways produces, and partly from a desire of see- 
 ing the humour of a petty usurer, a character of 
 which I had hitherto lived in ignorance, I con- 
 descended to listen to his terms. He proceeded 
 to inform me of my great felicity in not falling 
 into the hands of an extortioner ; and assured 
 me, that I should find him extremely moderate 
 in his demands: he was not, indeed, certain 
 that he could furnish me with the whole sum, 
 for people were at this particular time extremely 
 
 Eressing and importunate for money : yet, as I 
 ad the appearance of a gentleman, he would 
 try what he could do, and give 'me his answer 
 in three days. 
 
 At the expiration of the time, I called upon 
 him again ; and was again informed of the great 
 demand for money, and that " money was money 
 now :" he then advised me to be punctual in my 
 payment, as that might induce him to befriend 
 me hereafter ; and delivered me the money, de- 
 ducting at the rate of five and thirty per cent., 
 with another panegyric upon his own modera- 
 tion. 
 
 I will not tire you with the various practices 
 of usurious oppression ; but cannot omit my 
 transaction with Squeeze on Tower-hill, who, 
 finding me a young man of considerable ex- 
 pectations, employed an agent to persuade me to 
 borrow five hundred pounds, to be refunded by 
 an annual payment of twenty per cent, during 
 the joint lives of his daughter Nancy Squeeze 
 and myself. The negociator came prepared to 
 enforce his proposal with all his art ; but finding 
 that I caught his offer with the eagerness of 
 necessity, he grew cold and languid ; " he had 
 mentioned it out of kindness ; he would try to 
 serve me : Mr. Squeeze was an honest man, but 
 extremely cautious." In three days he came to 
 tell me, that his endeavours had been ineffectual, 
 Mr. Squeeze having no good opinion of my life ; 
 but that there was one expedient remaining : 
 Mrs. Squeeze could influence her husband, and 
 her good will might be gained by a compliment 
 I waited that afternoon on Mrs. Squeeze, and 
 poured out before her the flatteries which usually 
 gain access to rank and beauty ; I did not then
 
 314 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 [No. 45. 
 
 know, that there arc places in which the only 
 compliment is a bribe. Having yet credit with 
 a jeweller, I afterwards procured a ring of 
 thirty guineas, which I humbly presented, and 
 was soon admitted to a treaty with Mr. Squeeze. 
 He appeared peevish and backward, and my old 
 friend whispered me, that he would never make 
 a dry bargain : I therefore invited him to a ta- 
 vern. Nine times we met on the affair ; nine 
 times I paid four pounds for the supper and cla- 
 ret ; and nine guineas I gave the agent for good 
 offices. I then obtained the money, paying ten 
 per cent, advance ; and at the tenth meeting gave 
 another supper, and disbursed fifteen pounds for 
 the writings. 
 
 Others who styled themselves brokers, would 
 only trust their money upon goods : that I might, 
 therefore, try every art of expensive folly, I took 
 a house and furnished it. I amused myself with 
 despoiling my moveables of their glossy appear- 
 ance, for fear of alarming the lender with sus- 
 picions ; and in this I succeeded so well, that he 
 favoured me with one hundred and sixty pounds 
 upon that which was rated at seven hundred. I 
 then found that I was to maintain a guardian 
 about me to prevent the goods from being broken 
 or removed. This was, indeed, an unexpected 
 tax ; but it was too late to recede : and I com- 
 forted myself, that I might prevent a creditor, of 
 whom I had some apprehensions, from seizing, 
 by having a prior execution always in the house. 
 
 By such means I had so embarrassed myself, 
 that my whole attention was engaged in contriv- 
 ing excuses, and raising small sums to quiet such 
 as words would no longer mollify. It cost me 
 eighty pounds in presents to Mr. Leech, the at- 
 torney, for his forbearance of one hundred, 
 which he solicited me to take when I had no 
 need. I was perpetually harassed with impor- 
 tunate demands, and insulted by wretches, who 
 a few months before would not have dared to 
 raise their eyes from the dust before me. I lived 
 in continual terror, frighted by every noise at the 
 door, and terrified at the approach of every step 
 quicker than common. I never retired to rest 
 without feeling the justness of the Spanish pro- 
 verb, " Let him who sleeps too much, borrow 
 the pillow of a debtor:" my solicitude and vexa- 
 tion kept me long waking; and when I had 
 closed my eyes, I was pursued or insulted by 
 visionary bailiffs. 
 
 When I reflected upon the meanness of the 
 shifts I had reduced myself to, I could not but 
 curse the folly and extravagance that had over- 
 whelmed me in a sea of troubles, from which it 
 was highly improbable that I should ever 
 emerge. I had some time lived in hopes of an 
 estate, at the death of my uncle ; but he disap- 
 pointed me by marrying his housekeeper ; and, 
 catching an opportunity soon after of quarrelling 
 with me, for settling twenty pounds a year upon 
 a girl whom I had seduced, told me that he 
 would take care to prevent his fortune from be- 
 ing squandered upon prostitutes. 
 
 Nothing now remained, but the chance ol ex- 
 tricating myself by marriage ; a scheme which, I 
 flattered myself, nothing but my present distress 
 would have made me think on with patience. I 
 determined, therefore, to look out for a tender 
 novice, with a large fortune at her own disposal ; 
 and accordingly fixed my eyes upon Miss Biddy 
 Simper. I had now paid her six or seven visits ; 
 
 and so fully convinced her of my being a gentle- 
 man and a rake, that I made no doubt that both 
 her person and fortune would soon be mine. 
 
 At this critical time, Miss Gripe called upon 
 me, in a chariot bought with my money, and 
 loaded with trinkets that I had in my days of 
 affluence lavished on her. Those days were now 
 over ; and there was little hope that they would 
 ever return. She was not able to withstand the 
 temptation of ten pounds that Talon the bailiff 
 offered her, but brought him into my apartment 
 disguised in a livery; and taking my sword to 
 the window, under pretence of admiring the 
 workmanship, beckoned him to seize me. 
 
 Delay would have been expensive without use, 
 as the debt was too considerable for payment or 
 bail: I therefore suffered myself to be immedi- 
 ately conducted to jail. 
 
 Vestibulum ante ipsumprimisque infaitcibui Orel, 
 Lucius et ultricesposuere cubilia cur<c ; 
 Pallentesgue habitant morbi, tristisque scnectui, 
 Et metus, et malcsuada fames, et tvrpis cgesias. 
 
 VIRG. 
 
 Just in the gate and in the jaws of hell, 
 Revengeful cares and sullen sorrows dwell 
 And pale diseases, and repining age ; 
 Want, fear, and famine's unresisted rage. 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 Confinement of any kind is dreadful : a prison 
 is sometimes able to shock those, who endure it 
 in a good cause : let your imagination, therefore, 
 acquaint you with what I have not words to 
 express, and conceive, if possible, the horrors of 
 imprisonment attended with reproach and igno- 
 miny, of involuntary association with the refuse 
 of mankind, with wretches who were before too 
 abandoned for society, but being now freed from 
 shame or fear, are hourly improving their vices 
 by consorting with each other. 
 
 There are, however, a few whom, like myself, 
 imprisonment has rather mortified than har- 
 dened : with these only I converse ; and of these 
 you may perhaps hereafter receive some account 
 from your humble servant, 
 
 MlSAEGTRUS. 
 
 No. 45.] TUESDAY, APRIL 10, 1753. 
 
 flulla fides regni sociis. omnisque potestas 
 Impatiens consortis erit. LUCAN 
 
 No faith of partnership dominion owns : 
 Still discord hovers o'er divided tlirone.s. 
 
 IT is well known, that many things appear plau- 
 sible in speculation, which can never be reduced 
 to practice ; and that of the numberless projects 
 that have flattered mankind with theoretical spe- 
 ciousness, few have served any other purpose 
 than to show the ingenuity of their contrivers. 
 A voyage to the moon, however romantic and 
 absurd the scheme may now appear, since the 
 properties of air have been better understood, 
 seemed highly probable to many of the aspiring 
 wits in the last century, who began to doat upon 
 their glossy plumes, and fluttered with impa- 
 tience for the hour of their departure : 
 
 Pereunt vestiga mille 
 
 Antefuffam, abientemgue ferit gravis ungula campum 
 
 Hills, vales, and floods appear already crost . 
 
 And, ere he starts, a thousand steps are lost. POPB
 
 No. 45.1 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 315 
 
 Among the fallacies which only experience 
 can detect, there are dome of which scarcely ex- 
 perience itself can destroy the influence; some 
 which, by a captivating show of indubitable cer- 
 tainty, are perpetually gaining upon the human 
 mind ; and which, though every trial ends in 
 disappointment, obtain new credit as the sense 
 of miscarriage wears gradually away, persuade 
 us to try again what we have tried already, 
 and expose us by the same failure to double 
 vexation. 
 
 Of this tempting, this delusive kind, is the 
 expectation of great performances by confede- 
 rated strength. The speculatist, when he has 
 carefully observed how much may be performed 
 by a single hand, calculates by a very easy ope- 
 ration the force of thousands, and goes on accu- 
 mulating power till resistance vanishes before 
 it ; then rejoices in the success of his new 
 scheme, and wonders at the folly or idleness of 
 former ages, who have lived in want of what 
 might so readily be procured, and suffered them- 
 selves to be debarred from happiness by obstacles 
 which one united effort would have so easily 
 surmounted. 
 
 But this gigantic phantom of collective power 
 vanishes at once into air and emptiness, at the 
 first attempt to put it into action. The different 
 apprehensions, the discordant passions, the jar- 
 ring interests of men, will scarcely permit that 
 many should unite in one undertaking. 
 
 Of a great and complicated design some will 
 never be brought to discern the end ; and of the 
 several means by which it maybe accomplished, 
 the choice will be a perpetual subject of debate, 
 a?i every man is swayed in his determination by 
 hist own knowledge or convenience. In a long 
 series of action some will languish with fatigue, 
 and some be drawn off by present gratifications: 
 jome will loiter because others labour, and some 
 will cease to labour because others loiter: and if 
 once they come within prospect of success and 
 profit, some will be greedy and others envious ; 
 some will undertake more than they can per- 
 form, to enlarge their claims of advantage ; some 
 will perform less than they undertake, lest their 
 labours should chiefly turn to the benefit of 
 others. 
 
 The history of mankind informs us that a 
 single power is very seldom broken by a confe- 
 deracy. States of different interests, and aspects 
 malevolent to each other, may be united for a 
 time by common distress ; and in the ardour of 
 self preservation fall unanimously upon an ene- 
 my, by whom they are all equally endangered. 
 But if their first attack can be withstood, time 
 will never fail to dissolve their union : success 
 and miscarriage will be equally destructive : 
 after the conquest of a province, they will 
 quarrel in the division ; after the loss of a battle, 
 all will be endeavouring to secure themselves by 
 abandoning the rest. 
 
 From the impossibility of confining numbers 
 to the constant and uniform prosecution of a 
 common interest, arises the difficulty of securing 
 subjects against the encroachment of governors. 
 Power is always gradually stealing away from 
 the many to the few, because the few are more 
 vigilant and consistent ; it still contracts to a 
 smaller number, till in time it centres in a single 
 person. 
 
 Thus all the forms of governments instituted 
 
 among mankind, perpetually tend towards mo- 
 narchy ; and power, however diffused through 
 the whole community, is by negligence or cor- 
 ruption, commotion or distress, reposed at last 
 in the chief magistrate. 
 
 " There never appear," says Swift, " more 
 than five or six men of genius in an age ; but if 
 they were united, the world could not stand be- 
 fore them." It is happy, therefore, for man- 
 kind, that of this union there is no probability. 
 As men take in a wider compass of intellectual 
 survey, they are more likely to choose different 
 objects of pursuit : as they see more ways to the 
 same end, they will be less easily persuaded to 
 travel together; as each is better qualified to 
 form an independent scheme of private great- 
 ness, he will reject with greater obstinacy the 
 project of another ; as each is more able to distin- 
 guish himself as the head of a party, he will less 
 readily be made a follower or an associate. 
 
 The reigning philosophy informs us, that the 
 vast bodies which constitute the universe, are 
 regulated in their progress through the ethereal 
 spaces, by the perpetual agency of contrary 
 forces ; by one of which they are restrained 
 from deserting their orbits, and losing them- 
 selves in the immensity of heaven ; and held 
 off by the other from rushing together, and 
 clustering round their centre with everlasting 
 cohesion. 
 
 The same contrariety of impulse may be per- 
 haps discovered in the motions of men : we are 
 formed for society, not for combination : we are 
 equally unqualified to live in a close connexion 
 with our fellow-beings, and in total separation 
 from them ; we are attracted towards each other 
 by general sympathy, but kept back from con- 
 tact by private interests. 
 
 Some philosophers have been foolish enough 
 to imagine, that improvements might be made 
 in the system of the universe, by a different ar- 
 rangement of the orbs of heaven ; and politicians, 
 equally ignorant and equally presumptuous, may 
 easily be led to suppose that the happiness of our 
 world would be promoted by a different tendency 
 of the human mind. It appears, indeed, to a 
 slight and superficial observer, that many things 
 impracticable in our present state, might be 
 easily effected, if mankind were better disposed 
 to union and co-operation : but a little reflection 
 will discover, that if confederacies were easily 
 formed, they would lose their efficacy, since 
 numbers would be opposed to numbers, and 
 unanimity to unanimity: and instead of the 
 present petty competitions of individuals or 
 single families, multitudes would be supplanting 
 multitudes, and thousands plotting against 
 thousands. 
 
 There is no class of the human species, of 
 which the union seems to have been more ex- 
 pected, than of the learned : the rest o f the world 
 have almost always agreed to shut scholars up 
 together in colleges and cloisters; surely not 
 without hope, that they would look for that hap- 
 piness in concord, which they were debarred from 
 finding in variety ; and that such conjunctions 
 of intellect would recompense the munificence 
 of founders and patrons, by performances above 
 the reach of any single mind. 
 
 But Discord, who found means to roll her apple 
 into the banquetting chamber of the goddesses, 
 has had the address to scatter her laurels in the
 
 316 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 seminaries of learning. The friendship of stu- 
 dents and of beauties is for the most part equally 
 sincere and equally durable : as both depend for 
 happiness on the regard of others, on that of 
 which the value arises merely from comparison, 
 they are both exposed to perpetual jealousies, 
 and both incessantly employed in schemes to in- 
 tercept the praises of each other. 
 
 I am, however, far from intending to inculcate 
 that this confinement of the studious to studious 
 companions, has been wholly without advantage 
 to the public: neighbourhood, where it do*e not 
 conciliate friendship, incites competition ; and 
 he that would contentedly rest in a lower degree 
 of excellence, where he had no rival to dread, 
 will be urged by his impatience of inferiority to 
 incessant endeavours after great attainments. 
 
 These stimulations of honest rivalry are, per- 
 haps, the chief effects of academies and societies ; 
 for whatever be the bulk of their joint labours, 
 every single piece is always the production of 
 an individual, that owes nothing to his colleagues 
 but the contagion of diligence, a resolution to 
 write, because the rest are writing, and the scorn 
 of obscurity while the rest arc illustrious. 
 
 No. 50.] SATURDAY, APRIL 28, 1753. 
 
 Qv.icv.nque turpi frauds scmelinnotuit, 
 
 Ktiamsi -cerum dicit, amittitjidem. PHJED. 
 
 The wretch that often has deceived, 
 Though truth he speaks, is ne'er believed. 
 
 WHEN Aristotle was once asked, what a man 
 could gain by uttering falsehoods ? he replied, 
 "Not to be credited when he shall tell tb.Q 
 truth." 
 
 The character of a liar is at once so hateful 
 and contemptible, that even of those who have 
 lost their virtue it might be expected that from 
 the violation of truth they should be restrained 
 by their pride. Almost every other vice that 
 disgraces human nature, may be kept in counte- 
 nance by applause and association ; the corrupter 
 of virgin innocence sees himself envied by the 
 men, and at least not detested by the women ; 
 the drunkard may easily unite with beings, de- 
 voted like himself to noisy merriments or silent 
 insensibility, who will celebrate his victories over 
 the novices of intemperance, boast themselves 
 the companions of his prowess, and tell with 
 rapture of the multitudes whom unsuccessful 
 emulation has hurried to the grave ; even the 
 robber and the cut-throat have their followers, 
 who admire their address and intrepidity, their 
 stratagems of rapine, and their fidelity to the gang. 
 
 The liar, and only the liar, is invariably and 
 universally despised, abandoned, and disowned ; 
 he has no domestic consolations which he can 
 oppose to the censure of mankind ; he can retire 
 to no fraternity, where his crimes my stand in 
 the place of virtues : but is given up to the hisses 
 of the multitude, without friend and without 
 apologist. It is the peculiar condition of false- 
 hood, to be equally detested by the good and bad : 
 " The devils," says Sir Thomas Brown, " do 
 not tell lies to one another ; for truth is necessary 
 to all societies : nor can the society of hell sub- 
 sist without it." 
 
 It is natural to expect, that a crime thus general- 
 y detected, should be generally avoided ; at least 
 
 that none should expose himself to unabated 
 and unpitied infamy, without an adequate tempt- 
 ation ; and that to guilt so easily detected, and 
 so severely punished, an adequate temptation 
 would not readily be found. 
 
 Yet so it is in defiance of censure and con- 
 tempt, truth is frequently violated : and scarcely 
 the most vigilant and unremitted circumspection 
 will secure him that mixes with mankind, from 
 being hourly deceived by men of whom it can 
 scarcely be imagined, that they mean any injury 
 to him or profit to themselves : even where the 
 subject of conversation could not have been ex- 
 pected to put the passions in motion, or to have 
 excited either hope or fear, or zeal or malignity, 
 sufficient to induce any man to put his reputation 
 in hazard, however little he might value it, 01 
 to overpower the love of truth, however weak 
 might be its influence. 
 
 The casuists have very diligently distinguish 
 ed lies into their several classes, according t 
 their various degrees of malignity ; but they 
 have, I think, generally omitted that which is 
 most common, and, perhaps, not least mischiev- 
 ous: which, since the moralists have not given it 
 a name, I shall distinguish as the lie of vanity. 
 
 To vanity may justly be imputed most of the 
 falsehoods which every man perceives hourly 
 playing upon his ear, and, perhaps, most of 
 those that are propagated with success. To the 
 lie of commerce, and the lie of malice, the motive 
 is so apparent, that they are seldom negligently 
 or implicitly received ; suspicion is always watch- 
 ful over the practices of interest; and whatever 
 the hope of gain, or desire of mischief, can prompt 
 one man to assert, another is by reasons equally 
 cogent incited to refute. But vanity pleases her- 
 self with such slight gratifications, and looks for- 
 ward to pleasure so remotely consequential, that 
 her practices raise no alarm, and her stratagems 
 are not easily discovered. 
 
 Vanity is, indeed, often suffered to pass un 
 pursued by suspicion, because he that would 
 watch her motions, can never be at rest ; fraud 
 and malice are bounded in their influence ; 
 some opportunity of time and place is necessary 
 to their agency ; but scarce any man is abstract- 
 ed one moment from his vanity ; and he, to 
 whom truth affords no gratifications, is generally 
 inclined to seek them in falsehoods. 
 
 It is remarked by Sir Kenelm Digby, " That 
 every man has a desire to appear superior to 
 others, though it were only in having seen what 
 they have not seen.'' Such an accidental advan- 
 tage, since it neither implies merit, nor confers 
 dignity, one would think should not be desired 
 so much as to be counterfeited : yet even this 
 vanity, trifling as it is, produces innumerable 
 narratives, all equally false ; but more or less 
 credible in proportion to the skill or confidence 
 of the relater. How many may a man of diffu- 
 sive conversation count among his acquaint- 
 ances, whose lives have been signalized by 
 numberless escapes ; who never cro?s the rivci 
 but in a storm, or take a journey in the country 
 without more adventures than befell the knights- 
 errant of ancient times in pathless forests or en- 
 chanted castles ! How many must he know, to 
 whom portents and prodigies are of daily occur- 
 rence ; and for whom nature is hourly working 
 wonders invisible to every other eye, only to sup- 
 ply them with subjects of conversation ?
 
 No. 53.] 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 317 
 
 Others there are that amuse themselves with 
 the dissemination of falsehood, at greater hazard 
 of detection and disgrace ; men marked out by 
 pome lucky planet for universal confidence and 
 friendship, who have been consulted in every 
 difficulty, intrusted with every secret, and sum- 
 moned to every transaction ; it is the supreme 
 felicity of these men, to stun all companies with 
 noisy information ; to still doubt, and overbear 
 opposition, with certain knowledge or authentic 
 intelligence. A liar of this kind with a strong 
 memory or brisk imagination, is often the oracle 
 of an obscure club, and, till time discovers his 
 impostures, dictates to his hearers with uncon- 
 trolled authority ; for if a public question be 
 started, he was present at the debate ; if a new 
 fashion be mentioned, he was at court the first 
 day of its appearance ; if a new performance of 
 literature draws the attention of the public, he 
 has patronized the author, and seen his work 
 in manuscript; if a criminal of eminence be 
 condemned to die, he often predicted his fate, 
 and endeavoured his reformation : and who that 
 lives at a distance from the scene of action, will 
 .fare to contradict a man who reports from his 
 jwn eyes and ears, and to whom all persons and 
 affairs are thus intimately known ? 
 
 This kind of falsehood is generally successful 
 for a time, because it is practised at first with ti- 
 midity and caution ; but the prosperity of the 
 liar is of short duration ; the reception of one 
 story is always an incitement to the forgery of 
 another less probable ; and he goes on to tri- 
 umph over tacit credulity, till pride or reason 
 rise upragainst him, and his companions will no 
 longer endure to see him wiser than themselves. 
 
 Jt is apparent, that the inventors of all these 
 fictions intend some exaltation of themselves, 
 and are led off by the pursuit of honour from 
 their attendance upon truth : their narratives 
 always imply some consequence in favour of 
 their courage, their sagacity, or their activity, 
 their familiarity with the learned, or their recep- 
 tion among the great ; they are always bribed 
 by the present pleasure of seeing themselves su- 
 perior to those that surround them, and receiv- 
 ing the homage of silent attention, and envious 
 admiration. 
 
 But vanity is sometimes excited to fiction by 
 less visible gratifications; the present age abounds 
 with a race of liars who are content with the 
 consciousness of falsehood, and whose pride is 
 to deceive others without any gain or glory to 
 themselves. Of this tribe it is the supreme 
 pleasure to remark a lady in the play-house or 
 the park, and to publish, under the character of a 
 man suddenly enamoured, an advertisement in 
 the news of the next day, containing a minute 
 description of her person and her dress. From 
 this artifice, however, no other effect can be ex- 
 pected than perturbations which the writer can 
 never see, and conjectures of which he never can 
 be informed ; some mischief, however, he hopes 
 he has done ; and to have done mischief is of 
 some importance. He sets his invention to 
 work again, and produces a narrative of a robbe- 
 ry or a murder, with all the circumstances of 
 time and place accurately adjusted. This is a 
 jest of greater effect, and longer duration : if he 
 fixes his scene at a proper distance, he may for 
 several days keep a wife in terror for her hus- 
 band, or a mother for her son ; and please him- 
 
 self with reflecting, that by his abilities and ad- 
 dress some additionis made to the miseries of life. 
 There is, 1 think, an ancient law of Scotland, 
 by which leasing-making was capitallv punished. 
 I am, indeed, far from desiring to increase in this 
 kingdom the number of executions ; yet I can- 
 not but think, that they who destroy the confi- 
 dence of society, weaken the credit of intelligence, 
 and interrupt the security of life ; harass the 
 delicate with shame, and perplex the timorous 
 with alarms ; might very properly be awakened 
 to a sense of their crimes, by denunciations of a 
 whipping-post or pillory : since many are so in- 
 sensible of right and wrong, that they have no 
 standard of action but the law ; nor feel guilt, 
 but as they dread punishment. 
 
 No. 53.J TUESDAY MAY 8, 1753 
 
 Quisque suospalimur manet. VIRG. 
 
 Each has his lot, and bears the fate he drew, 
 
 Fleet, May 6. 
 SIR, 
 IN consequence of my engagements, I address 
 
 f r ou once more from the habitations of misery. 
 n this place, from which business and pleasure 
 are equally excluded, and in which our only em- 
 ployment and diversion is to hear the narratives 
 of each other, I might much sooner have gathered 
 materials fora letter, had I not hoped to have been 
 reminded of my promise : but since 1 find myself 
 placed in the regions of oblivion, where I am no 
 less neglected by you than by the rest of man- 
 kind, I resolved no longer to wait for solicitation, 
 but stole early this evening from between gloomy 
 sullenriess, and riotous merriment, to give you 
 an account of part of my companions. 
 
 One of the most eminent members of our 
 club is Mr. Edward Scamper, a man of whose 
 name the Olympic heroes would not have been 
 ashamed. Ned was born to a small estate, which 
 he determined to improve ; and therefore as 
 soon as he became of age, mortgaged part of 
 his land to buy a mare and stallion, and bred 
 horses for the course. He was at first very suc- 
 cessful, and gained several of the king's plates, 
 as he is now every day boasting, at the expense 
 of very little more than ten times their value. 
 At last, however, he discovered, that victory 
 brought him more honour than profit : resolving, 
 therefore, to be rich as well as illustrious, he re- 
 plenished his pockets by another mortgage, be- 
 came on a sudden a daring better, and resolving 
 not to trust a jockey with his fortune, rode bis 
 horse himself, distanced two of his competitors 
 the first heat, and at last won the race by forc- 
 ing his horse on a descent to full speed at the 
 hazard of his neck. His estate was thus re- 
 paired, and some friends that had no souls ad- 
 vised him to give over ; but Ned now knew the 
 way to riches, and therefore without caution in 
 creased his expenses. From this hour he talked 
 and dreamed of nothing but a horse-race ; and 
 rising soon to the summit of equestrian reputa- 
 tion, he was constantly expected on every course, 
 divided all his time between lords and jockeys, 
 and, as the unexperienced regulated their bets 
 by his example, gained a great deal of money by 
 laying openly on one horse, and secretly on 
 the other. Ned was now so sure of growing
 
 318 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 [No. 58. 
 
 rich, that he involved his estate in a third mort- 
 gage, borrowed money of all his friends, and 
 risked his whole fortune upon Bay Lincoln. He 
 mounted with beating heart, started fair, and 
 won the first heat : but in the second, as he was 
 pushing against the foremost of his rivals, his 
 girth broke, his shoulder was dislocated, and be- 
 fore he was dismissed by the surgeon, two bai- 
 liffs fastened upon him, and he saw Newmarket 
 no more. His daily amusement for four years 
 has been to blow the signal for starting, to make 
 imaginary matches, to repeat the pedigree of Bay 
 Lincoln, and to form resolutions against trusting 
 another groom with the choice of his girth. 
 
 The next in seniority is Mr. Timothy Snug, a 
 man of deep contrivance, and impenetrable se- 
 crecy. His father died with the reputation of 
 more wealth than he possessed ; Tim, therefore, 
 entered the world with a reputed fortune of ten 
 thousand pounds. Of this he very well knew 
 that eight thousand was imaginary ; but being a 
 man of refined policy, and knowing how much 
 honour is annexed to riches, he resolved never to 
 detect his own poverty ; but furnished his house 
 with elegance, scattered his money with profu- 
 sion, encouraged every scheme of costly plea- 
 sure, spoke of petty losses with negligence, 
 and on the day before an execution entered his 
 doors, had proclaimed at a public table his reso- 
 lution to be jolted no longer in a hackney coach. 
 
 Another of my companions is the magnani- 
 mous Jack Scatter, the son of a country gentle- 
 man, who, having no other care than to leave 
 him rich, considered that literature could not be 
 had without expense ; masters would not teach 
 for nothing; and when a book was bought and 
 read, it would sell for little. Jack was, therefore, 
 taught to read and write by the butler; and when 
 this acquisition was made, was left to pass his 
 days in the kitchen and the stable, where he 
 heard no crime censured but covetousness and 
 distrust of poor honest servants, and where all 
 the praise was bestowed on good house-keeping, 
 and a free heart. At the death of his father, 
 Jack set himself to retrieve the honour of his 
 family : he abandoned his cellar to the butler, 
 ordered his groom to provide hay and corn at 
 discretion, took his housekeeper's word for the 
 expenses of the kitchen, allowed all his servants 
 to do their work by deputies, permitted his do- 
 mestics to keep his house open to their relations 
 and acquaintance, and in ten years was convey- 
 ed hither, without having purchased by the loss 
 of his patrimony either honour or pleasure, or 
 obtained any other gratification than that of hav- 
 ing corrupted the neighbouring villagers by luxu- 
 ry and idleness. 
 
 Dick Serge was a draper in Cornhill, and 
 passed eight years in prosperous diligence, with- 
 out any care but to keep his books, or any ambi- 
 tion but to be in time an alderman : but then, by 
 some unaccountable revolution in his under- 
 standing, he became enamoured of wit and hu- 
 mour, despised the conversation of pedlars and 
 stock-jobbers, and rambled every night to the re- 
 gions of gayety, in quest of company suited to 
 his taste. The wits at first flocked about him 
 for sport, and afterwards for interest ; some 
 found their way into his books, and some into 
 his pockets ; the man of adventure was equip- 
 ped from his shop for the pursuit of a fortune ; 
 ind he had sometimes the honour to have hie se- 
 
 curity accepted when his friends were in dis- 
 tress. Elated with these associations, he soon 
 learned to neglect his shop ; and having drawn 
 his money out of the funds, to avoid the neces- 
 sity of teasing men of honour for trifling debts, 
 he has been forced at last to retire hither, till his 
 friends can procure him a post at court. 
 
 Another that joins in the same mess is Bob 
 Cornice, whose life has been spent in fitting up 
 a house. About ten years ago, Bob purchased 
 the country habitation of a bankrupt : the mere 
 shell of a building Bob holds no great matter ; 
 the inside is the test of elegance. Uf this house 
 he was no sooner master, than he summoned 
 twenty workmen to his assistance, tore up the 
 floors and laid them anew, stripped off the wain- 
 scot, drew the windows from their frames, alter- 
 ed the disposition of doors and fire-places, and 
 cast the whole fabric into a new form : his next 
 care was to have his ceilings painted, his pan- 
 nels gilt, and his chimney-pieces carved : every 
 thing was executed by the ablest hands : Bob's 
 business was to follow the workmen with a mi- 
 croscope, and call upon them to retouch their 
 performances, and heighten excellence to perfec- 
 tion. The reputation of his house now brings 
 round him a daily confluence of visitants, and 
 every one tells him of some elegance which he 
 has hitherto overlooked, some convenience not 
 yet procured, or some new mode in ornament or 
 furniture. Bob, who had no wish but to be ad- 
 mired, nor any guide but the fashion, thought 
 every thing beautiful in proportion as it was new, 
 and considered his work as unfinished while any 
 observer could suggest an addition ; some altera- 
 tion was therefore every day made, without any 
 other motive than the charms of novelty. A tra- 
 veller at last suggested to him the convenience 
 of a grotto; Bob immediately ordered the mount 
 of his garden to be excavated : and having laid 
 out a large sum in shells and minerals, was busy 
 in regulating the disposition of the colours and 
 lustres, when two gentlemen, who had asked 
 permission to see his gardens, presented him a 
 writ, and led him off to less elegant apartments. 
 
 1 know not, Sir, whether among this fraternity 
 of sorrow, you will think any much to be pitied ; 
 nor indeed do many of them appear to solicit 
 compassion, for they generally applaud their own 
 conduct, and despise those whom want of taste 
 or spirit suffers to grow rich. It were happy if 
 the prisons of the kingdom were filled only with 
 characters like these, men whom prosperity could 
 not make useful, and whom ruin cannot makj 
 wise : but there are among us many who raise 
 different sensations, many that owe their present 
 misery to the seductions of treachery, the strokes 
 of casualty, or the tenderness of pity ; many 
 whose sufferings disgrace society, and whose 
 virtues would adorn it: of these, when familiar- 
 ity shall have enabled me to recount their stories 
 without horror, you may expect another narra 
 tive from, Sir, your most humble servant, 
 
 MISARGTRUS. 
 
 No. 58.] SATURDAY, MAT 25, 1753. 
 
 Damnant quod non intdligunt. Crc. 
 
 They condemn what they do not understand. 
 
 EURIPIDES having presented Socrates with the 
 writings of Herachtup, a philosopher famed for
 
 No. 58.] 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 310 
 
 involution and obscurity, inquired afterwards his 
 opinion of their merit. ""What I understand," 
 said Socrates, " I find to be excellent ; and, there- 
 fore, believe that to be of equal value which I 
 cannot understand." 
 
 The reflection of every man who reads this 
 passage will suggest to him the difference be- 
 tween the practice of Socrates, and that of mo- 
 dern critics ; Socrates, who had, by long observa- 
 tion upon himself and others, discovered the 
 weakness of the strongest, and the dimness of 
 the most enlightened intellect, was afraid to de- 
 cide hastily in his own favour, or to conclude that 
 an author had written without meaning, because 
 he could not immediately catch his ideas ; he 
 knew that the faults of books are often more 
 justly imputable to the reader, who sometimes 
 wants attention, and sometimes penetration ; 
 whose understanding is often obstructed by pre- 
 judice, and often dissipated by remissness : who 
 comes sometimes to a new study, unfurnished 
 with knowledge previously necessary; and finds 
 difficulties insuperable, for want of ardour suffi- 
 cient to encounter them. 
 
 Obscurity and clearness are relative terms : to 
 some readers scarce any book is easy, to others 
 not many are difficult: and surely they, whom 
 neither any exuberant praise bestowed by others, 
 nor any eminent conquests over stubborn pro- 
 blems, have entitled to exalt themselves above 
 the common orders of mankind, might conde- 
 scend to imitate the candour of Socrates ; and 
 where they find incontestable proofs of superior 
 genius, be content to think that there is justness 
 in the connexion which they cannot trace, and 
 cogency in the reason ing which they cannot com- 
 prehend. 
 
 This diffidence is never more reasonable than 
 in the perusal of the authors of antiquity ; of 
 those whose works have been the delight of ages, 
 and transmitted as the great inheritance of man- 
 kind from one generation to another : surely, no 
 man can, without the utmost arrogance, imagine 
 that he brings any superiority of understanding 
 to the perusal of these books which have been 
 preserved in the devastation of cities, and snatch- 
 ed up from the wreck of nations ; which those 
 who fled before barbarians have been careful to 
 carry off" in the hurry of migration, and of which 
 barbarians have repented the destruction. If in 
 books thus made venerable by the uniform attes- 
 tation of successive ages, any passages shall ap- 
 pear unworthy of that praise which they have 
 formerly received, let us not immediately deter- 
 mine, that they owed their reputation to dulness 
 or bigotry ; but suspect at least that our ances- 
 tors had some reasons for their opinions, and 
 that our ignorance of those reasons makes us 
 differ from them. 
 
 It often happens that an author's reputation 
 is endangered in succeeding times, by that which 
 raised the loudest applause among his contem- 
 poraries : nothing is read with greater pleasure 
 than allusions to recent facts, reigning opinions, 
 or present controversies ; but when facts are for- 
 gotten, and controversies extinguished, these fa- 
 vourite touches lose all their graces ; and the au- 
 thor in his descent to posterity must be left to the 
 mercy of chance, without any power of ascer- 
 taining the memory of those things, to which he 
 owed his luckiest thoughts and his kindest re- 
 ception. 
 
 On such occasions, every reader should re- 
 member the diffidence of Socrates, and repair by 
 his candour the injuries of time : he should im- 
 pute the seeming defects of his author to some 
 chasm of intelligence, and suppose that the sense 
 which is now weak was once forcible, and th" 
 expression which is now dubious formerly de- 
 terminate. 
 
 How much the mutilation of ancient history 
 has taken away from the beauty of poetical per- 
 formances, may be conjectured from the light 
 which a lucky commentator sometimes effuses, 
 by the recovery of an incident that had been 
 long forgotten : thus, in the third book of Ho- 
 race, Juno's denunciations against thoso that 
 should presume to raise again the walls of Troy, 
 could for many ages please only by splendid 
 images and swelling language, of which no man 
 discovered the use or propriety, till Le Fevie, by 
 showing on what occasion the Ode was written, 
 changed wonder to rational delight. Many pas- 
 sages yet undoubtedly remain in the same au- 
 thor, which an exacter knowledge of the inci- 
 dents of his time would clear from objections. 
 Among these I have always numbered the fol- 
 lowing lines : 
 
 Aurum per medios ire satellites, 
 Et perrumjiere amat saxa, potentiiu 
 Ictu fulmineo. Concidit Avgitrit 
 
 Argivi domus ob lucrum 
 Demersa excidiu. Dijjidit urbium 
 Porlas vir Macedo, et submit temulot 
 Regcs muneribiis. Munera navium 
 Sieves illaqueant cluces. 
 
 Stronger than thunder's winged force, 
 All-powerful gold can spread its course, 
 Through watchful guards its passage make. 
 And loves through solid walls to break - 
 From gold the overwhelming woes 
 That crush'd the Grecian augur rose 
 Philip with gold through cities broke, 
 And rival monarchs felt his yoke ; 
 Captains of ships to gold arc slaves, 
 Though fierce as their own winds and wave*. 
 FRANCIS 
 
 The close of this passage, by which every rea- 
 der is now disappointed and offended, was pro- 
 bably the delight of the Roman Court : it cannot 
 be imagined, that Horace, after having given to 
 golJ the force of thunder, and told of its power to 
 storm cities and to conquer kings, would have 
 concluded his account of its efficacy with its in- 
 fluence over naval commanders, had he not al- 
 luded to some fact then current in the mouths of 
 men, and therefore more interesting for a time 
 than the conquests of Philip. Of the like kind 
 may be reckoned another stanza in the same 
 book : 
 
 -Jussa coram non sine conscio 
 
 Surgit marilo, seu vocat institor 
 Sen navis Hispanaemagister 
 
 Dedecorum pretiosus emptor 
 
 The conscious husband bills her rise, 
 
 When some rich factor courts her charm*, 
 
 Who calls the wanton to his arms, 
 
 And, prodieal of wealth and fame, 
 
 Profusely buys the costly shame. FRANCW. 
 
 He has little knowledge of Horace who imagines 
 that the jactor, or the Spanish merchant, are men- 
 tioned by chance : there was undoubtedly some 
 popular story of an intrigue, which those name 
 recalled to the memory of his r eader.
 
 320 
 
 TJii-1 ADVENTURER. 
 
 [No. 62. 
 
 The flame of his genius in other parts, though 
 somewhat dimmed by lime, is not totally eclipsed; 
 his address and judgment yet appear, though 
 much of the spirit and vigour of his sentiment is 
 lost : this has happened to the twentieth Ode 
 of the first book ; 
 
 Vile potabis modicis Sabinnm 
 Cantliaris, Grteca quod ego ipse testa 
 Conditum levi ; datus in theatro 
 
 Cum tibi plausus, 
 
 Chare Mecccnas eques. Ut pater >ti 
 Fluminis riptc, simul et jocosa 
 Redderet laudes tibi f^aticani 
 
 Montis imago. 
 
 A poet's beverage humbly cheap, 
 
 (Should great Msecenas be ray guest) 
 The vintage of the t'abine grape. 
 
 But yet in sober cups shall crown the feast : 
 Twas rack'd into a Grecian cask, 
 
 Its rougher juice to melt away : 
 I seal'd it too a pleasing task ! 
 
 With annual joy to mark the glorious day, 
 When in applausive shouts thy name 
 
 Spread from the theatre around, 
 Floating on thy own Tiber's stream, 
 
 And Echo, playful nymph, return'd the sound. 
 
 FRANCIS. 
 
 We here easily remark the intertexture of a 
 happy compliment with an humble invitation ; 
 but certainly are less delighted than those, to 
 whom the mention of the applause bestowed 
 upon Maecenas gave occasion to recount the 
 actions or words that produced it. 
 
 Two lines which have exercised the ingenuity 
 of modern critics, may, I think, be reconciled to 
 the judgment, by an easy supposition : Horace 
 thus addresses Agrippa : 
 
 Scriberis Variofortis, et hostium 
 fictor, Mzonii car-minis alite. 
 
 Varius a swan of Homer's wing, 
 Shall brave Agrippa's conquests sing. 
 
 That Varius should be called " A bird of Ho- 
 meric song," appears so ..harsh to modern ears, 
 that an emendation of the texthasbeen proposed; 
 but surely the learning of the ancients had been 
 long ago obliterated, had every man thought him- 
 self at liberty to corrupt the lines which he did 
 not understand. Tf we imagine that Varius had 
 been by any of his cotemporaries celebrated 
 under the appellation of Musarum Jlles, the swan 
 of the Muses, the language of Horace becomes 
 graceful and familiar ; and that such a compli- 
 ment was at least possible, we know from the 
 transformation feigned by Horace of himself. 
 
 The most elegant compliment that was paid 
 to Addison, is of this obscure and perishable 
 kind: 
 
 When panting Virtue her last efforts made. 
 You brought your Clio to the virgin's aid. 
 
 These lines must please as long as they are un- 
 derstood ; but can be understood only by those 
 that have observed Addison's signatures in the 
 Spectator. 
 
 The nicety of these minute allusions I shall 
 exemplify by another instance, which I take this 
 occasion to mention, because, as I am told, 
 the. commentators have omitted it. Tibullus 
 addresses Cynthia in this manner : 
 
 Te tpectum, suprema mihi cum venerit hora 
 Te teneam moriens def.ciente manu. 
 
 Before my closing eyes dear Cynthia stand, 
 Held weakly by my fainting trembling hand 
 
 To these lines Ovid thus refers in his elegy on 
 the death of Tibullus : 
 
 Cynthia dectdens,felicius, intjuit, amata 
 Sum tibi ; vizisti dum tuns ignis cram. 
 
 Cui Nemesis, quid, ait, tibi sunt men. damna dolori 
 Me tenuit moriens deficiente manu. 
 
 Blest was my reign, retiring Cynthia cried ; 
 Nor till he left my breast, Tibullus died. 
 Forbear, said Nemesis, my loss to moan. 
 The fainting trembling hand was mine alone. 
 
 The beauty of this passage, which consists in 
 the appropriation made by Nemesis of the line 
 originally directed to Cynthia, had been wholly 
 imperceptible to succeeding ages, had chance, 
 which has destroyed so many greater volumes, 
 deprived us likewise of the poems of Tibullus. 
 
 No 62.] SATURDAY, JUNE. 9, 1753 
 
 O fortunu viris invidajortibus, 
 Quam non aqua bonis prtcmia dividit. 
 
 Capricious Fortune ever joys, 
 With partial band to deal the prize, 
 To crush the brave, and cheat the wise 
 
 TO THE ADVENTURER 
 
 SIR, 
 
 Fleet, June 6. 
 
 To the account of such of my companions as 
 are imprisoned without being miserable, or are 
 miserable without any claim to compassion ; I 
 promised to add the histories of those, whose 
 virtue has made them unhappy, or whose mis- 
 fortunes are at least without a crime. That this 
 catalogue should be very numerous, neither you 
 nor your readers ought to expect: " rari quippe 
 front;" " the good men are few." Virtue is un- 
 common in all the classes of humanity ; and I 
 suppose it will scarcely be imagined more ire 
 quent in a prison than in other places. 
 
 Yet in these gloomy regions is to be found the 
 tenderness, the generosity, the philanthropy of 
 Serenus, who might have lived in competence 
 and ease, if he could have looked without emo- 
 tion on the miseries of another. Serenus was 
 one of those exalted minds, whom knowledge 
 and sagacity could not make suspicious ; who 
 poured out his soul in boundless intimacy, and 
 thought community of possessions the law of 
 friendship. The friend of Serenus was arrested 
 for debt, and after many endeavours to soften his 
 creditor, sent his wife to solicit that assistance 
 which never was refused. The tears and impor- 
 tunity of female distress were more than was 
 necessary to move the heart of Serenus ; he 
 hasted immediately away, and conferring a long 
 time with his friend, found him confident that if 
 the present pressure was taken off, he should 
 soon be able to re-establish his affairs. Serenus, 
 accustomed to believe, and afraid to aggravate 
 distress, did not attempt to detect the fallacies of 
 hope, nor reflect that every man overwhelmed 
 with calamity, believes, that if that was removed 
 he shall immediately be happy ; he, therefore, 
 with little hesitation offered himself as surety. 
 
 In the first raptures of escape all was joy, gra
 
 Xo. G2.] 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 titude, and confidence ; the t'riend of Serenas 
 displayed his prospects, and counted over the 
 sums of which he should infallibly be master 
 before the day of payment. Serenus in a short 
 time began to find his danger, but could not pre- 
 vail with himself to repent of beneficence: and 
 therefore suffered himself still to be amused with 
 projects which he durst not consider, for fear of 
 finding them impracticable. The debtor, after 
 he had tried every method of raising money 
 vyhich art or indigence could prompt, wanted 
 either fidelity or resolution to surrender himself 
 to prison, and left Serenus to take his place. 
 
 Serenus has often proposed to the creditor, to 
 pay him whatever he shall appear to have lost by 
 the flight of his friend : but however reasonable 
 this proposal may be thought, avarice and bru- 
 tality have been hitherto inexorable, and Sere- 
 nus still continues to languish in prison. 
 
 In this place, however, where want makes 
 almost every man selfish, or desperation gloomy, 
 it is the good fortune of Serenus not to live with- 
 out a friend ; he passes most of his hours in the 
 conversation of Candidus, a man whom the 
 same virtuous ductility has, with some difference 
 of circumstances, made equally unhappy. Candi- 
 dus, when he was young, helpless, and ignorant, 
 found a patron that educated, protected, and 
 supported him : his patron being more vigilant 
 for others than himself, left at his death an only 
 son, destitute and friendless. Candidus was 
 eager to repay the benefits he had received ; and 
 having maintained the youth for a few years at 
 his own house, afterwards placed him with a 
 merchant of eminence, and gave bonds to a 
 great value as a security for his conduct. 
 
 The young man, removed too early from the 
 only eye of which he dreaded the observation, 
 and deprived of the only instruction which he 
 heard with reverence, soon learned to consider 
 virtue as restraint, and restraint as oppression ; 
 and to look with a longing eye at every expense 
 to which he could not reach, and every pleasure 
 which he could not partake : by degrees he de- 
 viated from his first regularity, and unhappily 
 mingling among young men busy in dissipating 
 the gains of their father's industry, he forgot 
 the precepts of Candidus, spent the evening in 
 parties of pleasure, and the morning in expedi- 
 ents to support his riots. He was, however, 
 dexterous and active in business ; and his mas- 
 ter, being secured against any consequences of 
 dishonesty, was very little solicitous to inspect 
 his manners, or to inquire how he passed those 
 hours, which were not immediately devoted to 
 the business of his profession : when he was in- 
 formed of the young man's extravagance or de- 
 bauchery, " let his bondsman look to that," said 
 he, " I have taken care of myself." 
 
 Thus the unhappy spendthrift proceeded from 
 folly to folly, and from vice to vice, with the con- 
 nivance if not the encouragement of his master ; 
 till in the heat of a nocturnal revel he committed 
 such violences in the street as drew upon him a 
 criminal prosecution. Guilty ami unexperienced, 
 he knew not what course to take ; to confess his 
 crime to Candidus, and solicit his interposition, 
 was little less dreadful than to stand before the 
 frown of a court of justice. Having, therefore, 
 passed the day with anguish in his heart, and 
 distraction in his looks, he seized at night a very 
 large sum of money in the compting house, and 
 2Q. 
 
 setting out he knew not whither, was heard of no 
 more. 
 
 The consequence'of his flight was the ruin of 
 Candidus : ruin surely undeserved and irre- 
 proachable, and such as the laws of a just 
 government ought either to prevent or repair ; 
 nothing is more inequitable than that one man 
 should suffer for the crimes of another, for crimes 
 which he neither prompted nor permitted, which 
 he could neither foresee nor prevent. When we 
 consider the weakness of human resolutions and 
 the inconsistency of human conduct, it must ap- 
 pear absurd that one man shall engage for ano- 
 ther, that he will not change his opinions or alter 
 his conduct. 
 
 It is, I think, worthy of consideration, whe- 
 ther, since no wager is binding without a pos- 
 sibility of Joss on each side, it is not equally 
 reasonable, that no contract should be valid with- 
 out reciprocal stipulations ; but in this case, and 
 others of the same kind, what is stipulated on 
 his side to whom the bond is given ? he takes 
 advantage of the security, neglects his affairs, 
 omits his duty, suffers timorous wickedness to 
 grow daring by degrees, permits appetite to call 
 for new gratifications, and, perhaps, secretly 
 longs for the time in which he shall have power 
 to seize the forfeiture ; and if virtue or gratitude 
 should prove too strong for temptation, and a 
 young man persist in honesty, however instigat- 
 ed by his passions, what can secure him at last 
 against a false accusation ? I for my part always 
 shall suspect, that he who can by such methods 
 secure his property, will go one step farther to 
 increase it ; nor can 1 think that man safely 
 trusted with the means of mischief, who by his 
 desire to have them in his hands, gives an evi- 
 dent proof how much less he values his neigh 
 hour's happiness than his own. 
 
 Another of our companions is Lentulus, a man 
 whose dignity of birth was very ill supported by 
 his fortune. As some of the first offices in the 
 kingdom were filled by his relations, he was 
 early invited to court, and encouraged by caresses 
 and promises to attendance and solicitation : a 
 constant appearance in splendid company, ne- 
 cessarily required magnificence of dress ; and a 
 frequent participation of fashionable amusements 
 forced him into expense : but these measures 
 were requisite to his success : since every body 
 knows, that to be lost to sight is to be lost to 
 remembrance, and that he who desires to fill a 
 vacancy, must be always at hand, lest some 
 man of greater vigilance should step in before 
 him. 
 
 By this course of life his little fortune was 
 everyday made less: but he received so many 
 distinctions in public, and was known to resort 
 so familiarly to the houses of the great, that 
 every man looked on his preferment as certain, 
 and believed that its value would compensate for 
 its slowness : he, therefore, found no difficulty 
 in obtaining credit for all that his rank or his 
 vanity made necessary : and, as ready payment 
 was not expected, the bills were proportionably 
 enlarged, and the value of the hazard or delay 
 were adjusted solely by the equity of the credit- 
 or. At length death deprived Lentulus of one 
 of his patrons, and a revolution in the ministry 
 of another ; so that all his prospects vanished at 
 once, and those that had before encouraged hia 
 expenses, began to perceive that their money
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 [No. 67. 
 
 was,in danger ; tliere was now no other conten- 
 tion but who should first seize upon his person, 
 and by forcing immediate payment, deliver him up 
 naked to the vengeance of the rest. In pursu- 
 ance of this scheme, one of them invited him to 
 a tavern, and procured him to be arrested at the 
 door; but Lentulus, instead of endeavouring 
 secretly to pacify .him by payment, gave notice 
 to the rest, and offered to divide amongst them 
 the remnant of his fortune: they feasted six 
 hours at his expense, to deliberate on his proposal: 
 and at last determined that as he could not offer 
 more than five shillings in the pound, it would be 
 more prudent to keep him in prison, till he could 
 procure from his relations the payment of his 
 debts. 
 
 Lentulus is not the only man confined within 
 these walls, on the same account ; the like pro- 
 cedure, upon the like motives, is common among 
 men whom yet the law allows to partake the use 
 of fire and water with the compassionate and the 
 just ; who frequent the assemblies of commerce 
 in open day, and talk with detestation and con- 
 tempt of highwaymen or housebreakers : but, 
 surely, that man must be confessedly robbed, 
 who is compelled, by whatever means, to pay 
 the debts which he does not owe : nor can I look 
 with equal hatred upon him, who, at the hazard 
 of his life, holds out his pistol and demands my 
 purse, as on him who plunders under shelter of 
 the law, and by detaining my son or my friend 
 in prison, extorts from me the price of their 
 liberty. No man can be more an enemy to soci- 
 ety than he, by whose machinations our virtues 
 are turned to our disadvantage ; he is less de- 
 structive to mankind that plunders cowardice, 
 than he that preys upon compassion. 
 
 I believe, Mr. Adventurer, you will readily 
 confess, that though not one of these, if tried be- 
 fore a commercial judicature, can be wholly 
 acquitted from imprudence or temerity ; yet 
 that, in the eye of all who can consider virtue as 
 distinct from wealth, the fault of two of them, at 
 least, is outweighed by the merit ; and that of the 
 third is so much extenuated by the circumstances 
 of his life, as not to deserve a perpetual prison : 
 yet must these, with multitudes equally blame- 
 less, languish in confinement, till malevolence 
 shall relent, or the law be changed. I am, Sir, 
 your humble servant 
 
 MISARGYRUS. 
 
 No. 67.] TUESDAY, JUNE 26, 1753. 
 
 Intentas vitam excoluere per artet. VIRG. 
 
 They polish life by useful arts. 
 
 THAT familiarity produces neglect, has been long 
 observed. The effect of all external objects, 
 however great or splendid, ceases with their no- 
 velty ; the courtier stands without emotion in the 
 royal presence; the rustic tramples under his 
 foot the beauties of the spring with little atten- 
 tion to their colours or their fragrance ; and the 
 inhabitant of the coast darts his eye upon the 
 immense diffusion of waters, without awe, won- 
 der, or terror. 
 
 Those who have passed much of their lives 
 In this great city, look upon its opulence and its 
 multitudes, its extent and variety, with cold in- 
 
 difference ; but an inhabitant of the remoter 
 parts of the kingdom is immediately distinguish- 
 ed by a kind of dissipated curiosity, a busy en- 
 deavour to divide his atteulion amongst a thou- 
 sand objects, and a wild confusion of astonish- 
 ment and alarm. 
 
 The attention of a new comer is generally 
 first struck by the multiplicity of cries that stun 
 him in the streets, and the variety of merchan- 
 dise and manufactures which the shopkeepers 
 expose on every hand ; and he is apt, by unwary 
 bursts of admiration, to excite the merriment 
 and contempt of those who mistake the use of 
 their eyes for effects of their understanding, 
 and confound accidental knowledge with just 
 reasoning. 
 
 But, surely, these are subjects on which any 
 man may without reproach employ his medita 
 tions : the innumerable occupations, among 
 which the thousands that swarm in the streets 
 of London are distributed, may furnish employ- 
 ment to minds of every cast, and capacities o. 
 every degree. He that contemplates the extent 
 of this wonderful city, finds it difficult to con- 
 ceive, by what method plenty is maintained in 
 our markets, and how the inhabitants are regu- 
 larly supplied with the necessaries of life ; but 
 when he examines the shops and warehouses, 
 sees the immense stores of every kind of mer 
 chandise piled up for sale, and runs over all the 
 manufactures of art and products of nature, 
 which are every where attracting his eye and 
 soliciting his purse, he will be inclined to con- 
 clude, that such quantities cannot easily be ex- 
 hausted, and that part of mankind mu^t soon 
 stand still for want of employment, till the wares 
 already provided shall be worn out and destroyed. 
 
 As Socrates was passing through the fair at 
 Athens, and casting his eyes over the shops and 
 customers " haw many things are here," says 
 he, "that I do not want!" The same senti- 
 ment is every moment rising in the mind of him 
 that walks the streets of London, however infe- 
 rior in philosophy to Socrates ; he beholds a 
 thousand shops crowded with goods, of which 
 he can scarcely tell the use, and which, therefore, 
 he is apt to consider as of no value : and, indeed, 
 many of the arts by which families are support- 
 ed, and wealth is heaped together, ai e of that 
 minute and superfluous kind, which nothing but 
 experience could evince possible to be prosecuted 
 with advantage, and which, as the world might 
 easily want, it could scarcely be expected to en- 
 courage. 
 
 But so it is, that custom, curiosity, or wanton- 
 ness, supplies every art with patrons, and finds 
 purchasers for every manufacture ; the world is 
 so adjusted, that not only bread, but riches may 
 be obtained without great abilities or arduous 
 performances ; the most unskilful hand and un- 
 enlightened mind have sufficient incitements 
 to industry ; for he that is resolutely busy can 
 scarcely be in want. There is, indeed, no em- 
 ployment, however despicable, from which a 
 man may not promise himself more than com- 
 petence, when he sees thousands and myriads 
 raised to dignity, by no other merit than that of 
 contributing to supply their neighbours with the 
 means of sucking smoke through a tube of clay ; 
 and others raising contributions upon those, 
 whose elegance disdains the grossness of smoky 
 lujury, by grinding the same materials into a
 
 N'o. 67.] 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 323 
 
 powder that may at once gratify and impair the 
 mell. 
 
 Not only by these popular and modish trifles, 
 but by a thousand unheeded and evanescent 
 kinds of business, are the multitudes of this city, 
 preserved from idleness, and consequently from 
 want. In the endless variety of tastes and cir- 
 cumstances that diversify mankind, nothing is so 
 superfluous, but that some one desires it : or so 
 common, but that some one is compelled to buy 
 it. As nothing is useless but because it is in 
 improper hands, what is thrown away by one is 
 gathered up by another : and the refuse of part 
 of mankind furnishes a subordinate class with 
 the materials necessary to their support. 
 
 When I look round upon those who are thus 
 variously exerting their qualifications, I cannot 
 but admire the secret concatenation of society 
 that links together the great and the mean, the 
 illustrious and the obscure ; and consider with 
 benevolent satisfaction, that no man, unless his 
 body or mind be totally disabled, has need to 
 suffer the mortification of seeing himself useless 
 or burdensome to the community: he that will dili- 
 gently labour, in whatever occupation, will de- 
 serve the sustenance which he obtains, and the 
 protection which he enjoys : and may lie down 
 every night with the pleasing consciousness of 
 having contributed something to the happiness of 
 life. 
 
 Contempt and admiration are equally incident 
 to narrow minds : he whose comprehension can 
 take in the whole subordination of mankind, and 
 whose perspicacity can pierce to the real state of 
 things through the thin veils of fortune or of 
 fashion, will discover meanness in the highest 
 stations, and dignity in the meanest ; and find 
 that no man can become venerable but by virtue, 
 or contemptible but by wickedness. 
 
 In the midst of this universal hurry, no man 
 ought to be so little influenced by example, or 
 so void of honest emulation, as to stand a lazy 
 spectator of incessant labour ; or please himself 
 with the mean happiness of a drone, while the 
 active swarms are buzzing about him ; no man 
 is without some quality, by the due application 
 of which he might deserve well of the world ; 
 and whoever he be that has but little in his 
 
 Eower, should be in haste to do that little, lest he 
 e confounded with him that can do nothing. 
 By this general concurrence of endeavours, 
 arts of every kind have been so long cultivated, 
 that all the wants of man may be immediately 
 supplied ; idleness can scarcely form a wish 
 which she may not gratify by the toil of others, 
 or curiosity dream of a toy, which the shops are 
 not ready to afford her. 
 
 Happiness is enjoyed onlv in proportion as it 
 is known ; and such is the state or tolly of man, 
 that it is known only by experience of its con- 
 trary : we who have Jong lived amidst the conve- 
 niences of a town immensely populous, have 
 scarce an idea of a place where desire cannot be 
 gratified by money. In order to have a just 
 sense of this artificial plenty, it is necessary to 
 Aave passed some time in a distant colony, or 
 those parts of our island which are thinly inha- 
 bited : he that has once known how many trades 
 every man in such situations is compelled to ex- 
 ercise, with how much labour the products of 
 nature must be accommodated to human use, 
 bow long the loss or defect of any common uten- 
 
 sil must be endured, or by what awkward expe- 
 dients it must be supplied, how far men may wan- 
 der with money in their hands before any can 
 sell them what they wish to buy, will know how 
 to rate at its proper value the plenty and ease of 
 a great city. 
 
 T3ut that the happiness of man may still re- 
 main imperfect, as wants in this place are easily 
 supplied, new wants likewise are easily created; 
 every man in surveying the shops of London, 
 sees numberless instruments and conveniences, 
 of which, while he did not know them, he, never 
 felt the need ; and yet, when use has made them 
 familiar, wonders how life could be supported 
 without them. Thus it comes to pass, that our 
 desires always increase with our possessions; the 
 knowledge that something remains yet unenjoy- 
 ed, impairs our enjoyment of the good before us. 
 
 They who have been accustomed to the refine- 
 ments of science, and multiplications of contri- 
 vance, soon lose their confidence in the unassist- 
 ed powers of nature, forget the paucity of our real 
 necessities, and overlook the easy methods by 
 which they may be supplied. It were a specu- 
 lation worthy of a philosophical mind, to examine 
 how much is taken away from our native abili- 
 ties, as w r ell as added to them, by artificial ex- 
 pedients. We are so accustomed to give and 
 receive assistance, that each of us singly can do 
 little for himself; and there is scarce any one 
 among us, however contracted may be his form 
 of life, who does not enjoy the labour of a thou- 
 sand artists. 
 
 But a survey of the various nations that inha 
 bit the earth will inform us, that life may be sup- 
 ported with less assistance ; and that the dexte- 
 rity, which practice enforced by necessity pro- 
 duces, is able to effect much by very scanty 
 means. The nations of Mexico and Peru erect- 
 ed cities and temples without the use of iron; and 
 at this day the rude Indian supplies himself with 
 all the necessaries of life : sent like the rest of 
 mankind naked into the world, as soon as his 
 parents have nursed him up to strength, he is to 
 provide by his own labour for his own support. 
 His first care is to find a sharp flint among the 
 rocks ; with this he undertakes to fell the trees of 
 the forest ; he shapes his bow, heads his arrows, 
 builds his cottage, and hollows his canoe, and 
 from that time lives in a state of plenty and pros- 
 perity ; he is sheltered from the storms, he is for- 
 tified against beasts of prey, he is enabled to 
 pursue the fish of the sea, and the deer of the 
 mountains ; and as he does not know, does not 
 envy the happiness of polished nations, where 
 gold can supply the want of fortitude and skill, 
 and he whose laborious ancestors have made him 
 rich, may lie stretched upon a couch, and see all 
 the treasures of all the elements poured down 
 before him. 
 
 This picture of a savage life, if it shows how 
 much individuals may perform, shows likewise 
 how much society is to be desired. Though the 
 perseverance and address of the Indian excite 
 our admiration, they nevertheless cannot procure 
 him the conveniences which are enjoyed by the 
 vagrant beggar of a civilized country : he hunts 
 like a wild beast to satisfy his hunger: and when 
 he lies down to rest after a successful chase, can- 
 not pronounce himself secure against the danger 
 of perishing in a few days ; he is, perhaps, con- 
 tent with his condition, because be know?
 
 324 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 [No. 6y. 
 
 that a better is attainable by man ; as he that is 
 born blind does not long lor the perception of 
 licrht because he cannot conceive the advan- 
 tages which light would afford him ; but hun- 
 ger wounds, and weariness are real evils, though 
 he believes them equally incident to all his fel- 
 low-creatures ; and when a tempest compels 
 him to lie starving in his hut, he cannot justly 
 be concluded equally happy with those whom 
 art has exempted from the power of chance, and 
 who make the foregoing year provide for the 
 following. 
 
 To receive and to communicate assistance, 
 constitutes the happiness of human life; man 
 may, indeed, preserve his existence in solitude, 
 but can enjoy it only in society ; the greatest un- 
 derstanding of an individual doomed to procure 
 food and clothing for himself, will barely supply 
 him with expedients to keep off death from day 
 to day ; but as one of a large community per- 
 forming only his share of the common business, 
 he gains leisure for intellectual pleasures, and 
 enjoys the happiness of reason and reflection. 
 
 No. 69.] TUESDAY, JULY 3, 1753. 
 
 Fere libenter homines id quod volunt crtAv.nl. CJESAR. 
 Men willingly believe what they wish to be true. 
 
 TULLY has long ago observed, that no man 
 however weakened by long life, is so conscious 
 of his own decrepitude, as not to imagine that 
 he may yet hold his station in the world for ano- 
 ther year. 
 
 Of the truth of this remark every day furnishes 
 new confirmation: there is no time of life, in 
 which men for the most part seem less to expect 
 the stroke of death, than when every other eye 
 sees it impending ; or are more busy in providing 
 for another year, than when it is plain to all but 
 themselves, that at another year they cannot ar- 
 rive. Though every funeral that passes before 
 their eyes evinces the deceitfulness of such ex- 
 pectations, since every man who is borne to the 
 grave thought himself equally certain of living at 
 least to the next year ; the survivor still continues 
 to flatter himself, and is never at a loss for some 
 reason why his life should be protracted, and the 
 voracity of death continue to be pacified with 
 some other prey. 
 
 But this is only one of the innumerable artifices 
 practised in the universal conspiracy of mankind 
 against themselves ; every age and every condi- 
 tion indulges some darling fallacy ; every man 
 amuses himself with projects which he knows to 
 be improbable, and which, therefore, he resolves 
 to pursue without daring to examine them. 
 Whatever any man ardently desires, he very 
 readily believes that he shall some time attain : 
 he whose intemperance has overwhelmed him 
 with diseases, while he languishes in the spring, 
 expects vigour and recovery from the summer 
 sun ; and while he melts away in the summer, 
 transfers his hopes to the frosts of winter : he 
 that gazes upon elegance or pleasure, which 
 want of money hinders him from imitating or 
 partaking, comforts himself that the time of dis- 
 tress will soon be at an end, and that every day 
 orings him nearer to a state of happiness; though 
 he knows it has passed not only without acqui- 
 
 sition of advantage, but perhaps without endea- 
 vours after it, in the formation of schemes that 
 cannot be executed, and in the contemplation of 
 prospects which cannot be approached. 
 
 Such is the general dream in which we all 
 slum car out our time : every man thinks the day 
 coming, in which he shall be gratified with all 
 his w'jshes, in which he shall leave all those com- 
 petitors oenind, who are now rejoicing like him- 
 self in the expectation of victory ; the day is al- 
 ways coming to the servile in which they shall 
 be powerful, to the obscure in which they shall 
 be eminent, and to the deformed in which they 
 shall be beautiful. 
 
 If any of my readers has looked with so littlo 
 attention on the world about him, as to imagine 
 this representation exaggerated beyond probabi 
 li'.y, let him reflect a little upon his own life ; let 
 him consider what were his hopes and prospects 
 ten years ago, and what additions he then ex- 
 pected to be made by ten years to his happiness: 
 those years are now elapsed ; have they made 
 good the promise that was extorted from them, 
 have they advanced his fortune, enlarged his 
 knowledge, or reformed his conduct, to the de- 
 gree that was once expected ? I am afraid every 
 man that recollects his hopes must confess his 
 disappointment ; and own that day has glided 
 unprofitably after day, and that he is still at the 
 same distance from the point of happiness. 
 
 With what consolations can those, who have 
 thus miscarried in their chief design, elude the 
 memory of their ill-success ? with what amuse- 
 ments can they pacify their discontent, after the 
 loss of so large a portion of life ? They can give 
 themselves up again to the same delusions, they 
 can form new schemes of airy gratifications, and 
 fix another period of felicity ; they can again re- 
 solve to trust the promise which they know will 
 be broken, they can walk in a circle with their 
 eyes shut, and persuade themselves to think that 
 they go forward. 
 
 Of every great and complicated event, part de- 
 pends upon causes out of our power, and part 
 must be effected by vigour and perseverance. 
 With regard to that which is styled in common 
 language the work of chance, men will always 
 find reasons for confidence or distrust, according 
 to their different tempers or inclinations ; and 
 he that has been long accustomed to please him- 
 self with possibilities of fortuitous happiness, will 
 not easily or willingly be reclaimed from his 
 mistake. But the effects of human industry and 
 skill are more easily subjected to calculation ; 
 whatever can be completed in a year, is divisible 
 into parts, of which each may be performed in 
 the compass of a day ; he, therefore, that has 
 passed the day without attention to the task as- 
 signed him, may be certain, that the lapse of life 
 has brought him no nearer to his object ; for 
 whatever idleness may expect from time, its pro- 
 duce will be only in proportion to the diligence 
 with which it has been used. He that floats la- 
 zily down the stream, in pursuit of something 
 borne along by the same current, will find him- 
 self indeed move forward ; but unless he lays 
 his hand to the oar, and increases his speed by 
 his own labour, must be always at the same 
 distance from that which he is following. 
 
 There have happened in every age some con- 
 tingencies of unexpected and indeservea suc- 
 cess, by which those who are determined to be-
 
 No. 74.] 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 325 
 
 beve whatever favours their inclinations, have 
 been encouraged to delight themselves with fu- 
 ture advantages ; they support confidence by 
 considerations, of which the only proper use is to 
 chase away despair: it is equally absurd to sit 
 down in idleness because some have been en- 
 riched without labour, as to leap a precipice be- 
 cause some have fallen and escaped with life, or 
 to put to sea in a storm because some have been 
 driven from a wreck upon the coast to which 
 they were bound. 
 
 We are all ready to confess, that belief ought 
 to be proportioned to evidence or probability ; 
 let any man, therefore, compare the number of 
 those who have been thus favoured by fortune, 
 and of those who have failed of their expecta- 
 tions, and he will easily determine, with what 
 justness he has registered himself in the lucky 
 catalogue. 
 
 But there is no need on these occasions for 
 deep inquiries or laborious calculations ; there is 
 a far easier method of distinguishing the hopes 
 of folly from those of reason, of finding the dif- 
 ference between prospects that exist before the 
 eyes, and those that are only painted on a fond 
 imagination. Tom Drowsy had accustomed 
 himself to compute the profit of a darling pro- 
 ject till he had no longer any doubt of its success: 
 it was at last matured by close consideration, 
 all the measures were accurately adjusted, and 
 he wanted only five hundred pounds to become 
 master of a fortune that might be envied by a di- 
 rector of a trading company. Tom was gene- 
 rous and grateful, and was resolved to recom- 
 pense this small assistance with an ample for- 
 tune : he, therefore, deliberated for a time, to 
 whom amongst his friends he should declare his 
 necessities ; not that he suspected a refusal, but 
 because he could not suddenly determine which 
 of them would make the best use of riches, and 
 was, therefore, most worthy of his favour. At 
 last his choice was settled ; and knowing that in 
 order to borrow he must show the probability of 
 repayment, he prepared for a minute and copious 
 explanation of his project. But here the golden 
 dream was at an end: he soon discovered the 
 impossibility of imposing upon others the notions 
 by which he had so long imposed upon himself; 
 which way soever he turned his thoughts, im- 
 possibility and absurdity arose in opposition on 
 every side ; even credulity and prejudice were at 
 last forced to give way, and he grew ashamed of 
 crediting himself what shame would not suffer 
 him to communicate to another. 
 
 To this test let every man bring his imagina- 
 tions, before they have been too long predomi- 
 nant in his mind. Whatever is true will bear to 
 be related, whatever is rational will endure to be 
 explained ; but when we delight to brood in se- 
 cret over future happiness, and silently to em- 
 ploy our meditations upon schemes of which we 
 are conscious that the bare mention would ex- 
 pose us to derision and contempt : we should 
 then remember, that we are cheating ourselves 
 by voluntary delusions : and giving up to the un- 
 real mockeries of fancy, those hours in which 
 solid advantages might be attained by sober 
 thought and rational assiduity. 
 
 There is, indeed, so little certainty in human 
 affairs, that the most cautious and severe exa- 
 miner may be allowed to indulge some hopes 
 which he cannot prove to be much favoured by 
 
 probability ; since, after his utmost endeavours to 
 ascertain events, he .mist often leave the issue in 
 the hands of chance. And so scanty is our pre- 
 sent allowance of happiness, that in many situa- 
 tions life could scarcely be supported, if hope 
 were not allowed to relieve the present hour by 
 pleasures borrowed from futurity ; and reani- 
 mate the languor of dejection to new efforts, 
 by pointing to distant regions of felicity, which 
 yet no resolution or perseverance shall ever 
 reach. 
 
 But these, like all other cordials, though they 
 may invigorate in a small quantity, intoxicate in 
 a greater ; these pleasures, like the rest, are law 
 ful only in certain circumstances, and to certain 
 degrees ; they may be useful in a due subservi- 
 ency to nobler purposes, but become dangerous 
 and destructive when once they gain the ascend- 
 ant in the heart : to soothe the mind to tran- 
 quillity by hope, even when that hope is likely 
 to deceive us, may be sometimes useful ; but to 
 lull our faculties in a lethargy, is poor and des- 
 picable. 
 
 Vices and errors are differently modified, ac- 
 cording to the state of the minds to which they 
 are incident ; to indulge hope beyond the war- 
 rant of reason, is the failure alike of mean and 
 elevated understandings ; but its foundation and 
 its effects are totally different : the man of high 
 courage and great abilities is apt to place too 
 much confidence in himself, and to expect from 
 a vigorous exertion of his powers more than spi- 
 rit or diligence can attain ; between him and his 
 wish he sees obstacles indeed, but he expects to 
 overleap or break them ; his mistaken ardour 
 hurries him forward ; and though perhaps he 
 misses his end, he nevertheless obtains some 
 collateral good, and performs something useful to 
 mankind and honourable to himself. 
 
 The drone of timidity presumes likewise to 
 hope, but without ground and without conse- 
 quence ; the bliss with which he solaces his 
 hours, he always expects from others, though 
 very often he knows not from whom: he folds 
 his arms about him, and sits in expectation of 
 some revolution in the state that shall raise him 
 to greatness, or some golden shower that shall 
 load him with wealth ; he dozes away the day in 
 musing upon the morrow ; and at the end or' life 
 is roused from his dream only to discover that 
 the time of action is past, and that he can now 
 show his wisdom only by repentance. 
 
 No. 74.] SATURDAY, JULY 21, 1753. 
 
 Insanientii dum aapienti 
 
 Consultus erro. Ho* 
 
 I miss'd my end, and lost my way, 
 By crack-brain'd wisdom led astray. 
 
 TO THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 IT has long been charged by one part of man- 
 kind upon the other, that they will not take ad- 
 vice ; that counsel and instruction are generally 
 thrown away ; and that, in defiance both of ad- 
 monition and example, all claim the right to 
 choose their own measures, and to regulate their 
 own lives. 
 
 That there is something in advice very useful
 
 326 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 [No. 74 
 
 nd salutary, seems to be equally confessed on 
 all hands ; since even those that reject it, allow 
 for the most part that rejection to be wrong, but 
 charge the fault upon the unskilful manner in 
 which it is given : they admit the efficacy of the 
 medicine, but abhor the nauseousness of the ve- 
 hicle. 
 
 Thus mankind have gone on from century to 
 century: some have been advising others how 
 to act, and some have been teaching the advisers 
 how to advise ; yet very little alteration has been 
 made in the world. As we must all by the 
 law of nature enter life in ignorance, we must 
 all make our way through it by the light of 
 our own experience ; and for any security that 
 advice has been yet able to afford, must endea- 
 vour after success at the hazard of miscarriage, 
 and learn to do right by venturing to do wrong. 
 
 By advice I would not be understood to mean, 
 the everlasting and invariable principles of moral 
 and religious truth, from which no change of ex- 
 ternal circumstances can justify any deviation; 
 but such directions as respect merely the pru- 
 dential part of conduct, and which may be fol- 
 lowed or neglected without any violation of es- 
 sential duties. 
 
 It is, indeed, not so frequently to make us 
 good as to make us wise, that our friends em- 
 ploy the officiousness of counsel ; and among 
 the rejecters of advice, who are mentioned by the 
 grave and sententious with so much acrimony, 
 you will not so often find the vicious and aban- 
 doned, s the pert and the petulant, the vivacious 
 and the gid Jy. 
 
 As the great end of female education is to get 
 a husband, this likewise is the general subject of 
 female advice; and the dreadful denunciation 
 against those volatile girls, who will not listen 
 patiently to the lectures of wrinkled wisdom, is, 
 that they will die unmarried, or throw themselves 
 away upon some worthless fellow, who will ne- 
 ver be able to keep them a coach. 
 
 I being naturally of a ductile and easy temper, 
 without strong desires or quick resentments, was 
 always a favourite amongst the elderly ladies, 
 because I never rebelled against seniority, nor 
 could be charged with thinking myself wise be- 
 fore my time ; but heard every opinion with sub- 
 missive silence, professed myself ready to learn 
 from all who seemed inclined to teach me, paid 
 the same grateful acknowledgments for precepts 
 contradictory to each other, and if any contro- 
 versy arose, was careful to side with her who 
 presided in the company. 
 
 Of this compliance I very early found the ad- 
 vantage ; for my aunt Matilda left me a very 
 large addition to my fortune, for this reason 
 chiefly, as she herself declared, because I was 
 not above hearing good counsel, but would sit 
 from morning till night to be instructed, while 
 my sister Sukey, who was a year younger than 
 myself, and was, therefore, in greater want of in- 
 formation, was so much conceited of her own 
 knowledge, that whenever the good lady in the 
 ardour of benevolence reproved or instructed 
 her, she would pout or titter, interrupt her with 
 questions, or embarrass her with objections. 
 
 I had no design to supplant my sister by this 
 complaisant attention ; nor, when the conse- 
 quence of my obsequiousness came to be known, 
 did Sukey so much envy as despise me : I was, 
 However, ^ery well pleased with my success; and 
 
 having received, from the concurrent opinion of 
 all mankind, a notion that to be rich was to be 
 great and happy, I thought I had obtained my 
 advantages at an easy rate, and resolved to con- 
 tinue the same passive attention, since I found 
 myself so powerfully recommended by it to kind- 
 ness and esteem. 
 
 The desire of advising has a very extensive 
 prevalence ; and since advice cannot be given 
 but to those that will hear it, a patient listener is 
 necessary to the accommodation of all those 
 who desire to be confirmed in the opinion of 
 their own wisdom : a patient listener, however, 
 is not always to be had ; the present age, what- 
 ever age is present, is so vitiated and disordered, 
 that young people are readier to talk than to at- 
 tend, and good counsel is only thrown away 
 upon those who are full of their own perfec 
 tions. 
 
 I was, therefore, in this scarcity of good sense, 
 a general favourite ; and seldom saw a day in 
 which some sober matron did not invite me to 
 her house, or take me out in her chariot, for the 
 sake of instructing me how to keep my charac 
 ter in this censorious age, how to conduct my 
 self in the time of courtship, how to stipulate foi 
 a settlement, how to manage a husband of every 
 character, regulate my family, and educate mj 
 children. 
 
 We are all naturally credulous in our own fa 
 vour. Having been so often caressed and ap 
 plauded for docility, I was willing to believe 
 myself really enlightened by instruction, and 
 completely qualified for the task of life. I did not 
 doubt but I was entering the world with a mind 
 furnished against all exigencies, with expedients 
 to extricate myself from every difficulty, and 
 sagacity to provide against every danger, I was 
 therefore, in haste to give some specimen of my 
 prudence, and to show that this liberality of in- 
 struction had not been idly lavished upon a mind 
 incapable of improvement. 
 
 My purpose, for why should I deny it ? was 
 like that of other women, to obtain a husband cl 
 rank and fortune superior to my own ; and in 
 this I had the concurrence of all those that had 
 assumed the province of directing me. That 
 the woman was undone who marri-to below her 
 self, was universally agreed : and though somo 
 ventured to assert, that the richer man ought in- 
 variably to be preferred, and that money was a 
 sufficient compensation for a defective ancestry; 
 yet the majority declared warmly for a gentle- 
 man, and were of opinion that upstarts should 
 not be encouraged. 
 
 With regard to other qualifications, I had an 
 irreconcilable variety of instructions. I was 
 sometimes told that deformity was no defect in a 
 man ; and that he who was not encouraged to 
 intrigue by an opinion of his person, was more 
 likely to value the tenderness of his wife : but a 
 grave widow directed me to choose a man who 
 might imagine himself agreeable to me, for that 
 the deformed were always insupportably vigilant 
 and apt to sink into sullenness, or burst into 
 rage, if they found their wife's eye wandering 
 for a moment to a good face or a handsome 
 shape. 
 
 They were, however, all unanimous in warn- 
 ing me, with repeated cautions, against all 
 thoughts of union with a wit, as a being with 
 whom no happiness could possibly be enjoyed
 
 No. 81.] 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 327 
 
 men of every other kind I was taught to govern, 
 but a wit was an animal for whom no arts of 
 taming had been yet discovered : the woman 
 whom he could once get within his power, was 
 considered as lost to all hope of dominion or of 
 quiet : for he would detect artifice and defeat al- 
 lurement; and if once he discovered any failure 
 oT conduct, would believe his own eyes, in defi- 
 ance of tears, caresses, and protestations. 
 
 In pursuance of these sage principles, I pro- 
 ceeded to form my schemes j and while I was 
 yet in the first bloom of youth, was taken out at 
 an assembly by Mr. Frisk. I am afraid my 
 cheeks glowed, and my eyes sparkled ; for I ob- 
 served the looks of all my superintendents fixed 
 anxiously upon me ; and I was next day caution- 
 ed against him from all hands, as a man of the 
 most dangerous and formidable kind, who had 
 writ verses to one lady, and then forsaken her 
 only because she could not read them, and had 
 lampooned another for no other fault than de- 
 faming his sister. 
 
 Having been hitherto accustomed to obey, I 
 ventured to dismiss Mr. Frisk, who happily did 
 not think me worth the labour of a lampoon. I 
 was then addressed by Mr. Sturdy, and congra- 
 tulated by all my friends on the manors of 
 which I was shortly to be lady : but Sturdy's 
 conversation was so gross, that after the third 
 visit I could endure him no longer ; and incur- 
 red, by dismissing him, the censure of all my 
 friends, who declared that my nicety was greater 
 than my prudence, and that they feared it would 
 be my fate at last to be wretched with a wit 
 
 By a wit, however, I was never afterwards at- 
 tacked, but lovers of every other class, or pre- 
 tended lovers, I have often had; and notwith- 
 standing the advice constantly given me, to have 
 no regard in my choice to my own inclinations, 
 I could not forbear to discard some for vice, and 
 some for rudeness. I was once loudly censured 
 for refusing an old gentleman who offered an 
 enormous jointure, and died of the phthisic a 
 year after; and was so baited with incessant im- 
 portunities, that I should have given my hand to 
 Drone the stock-jobber, had not the reduction of 
 interest made him afraid of the expenses of ma- 
 trimony. 
 
 Some indeed, I was permitted to encourage; 
 but miscarried of the main end, by treating them 
 according to the rules of art which had been pre- 
 scribed me. Altilis, an old maid, infused into 
 me so much haughtiness and reserve, that some 
 of my lovers withdrew themselves from my 
 frown, and returned no more, others were dri- 
 ven away, by the demands of settlement which 
 the widow Trapland directed me to make; and 
 I have learned, by many experiments, that to ask 
 advice is to lose opportunity. I am sir, your 
 humble servant, 
 
 PERDITA. 
 
 No. 81.] TUESDAY, AUG. 14, 1753. 
 
 ffil dteperandtim. HOR. 
 
 A vaunt despair. 
 
 I HAVE sometimes heard it disputed in conver- 
 sation, whether it be more laudable or desirable, 
 that a man should think too highly or too meanly 
 of himself: it is on all hands agreed to be best, 
 
 that he should think rightly ; but since a fallible 
 being will always make some deviations from 
 exact rectitude, it is not wholly useless to inquire 
 towards which side it is safer to decline. 
 
 The prejudices of mankind seem to favour him. 
 who errs by underrating his own powers : he is 
 considered as a modest and harmless member of 
 society, not likely to break the peace by com- 
 petition, to endeavour after such splendour of 
 reputation as may dim the lustre of others, or 
 to interrupt any in the enjoyment of themselves ; 
 he is no man's rival, and, therefore, may be eve- 
 ry man's friend. 
 
 The opinion which a man entertains of him- 
 self ought to be distinguished, in order to an ac- 
 curate discussion of this question, as it relates to 
 persons or to things. To think highly of our- 
 selves in comparison with others, to assume by 
 our own authority that precedence which none 
 is willing to grant, must be always invidious and 
 offensive ; but to rate our powers high in pro- 
 portion to things, and imagine ourselves equal 
 to great undertakings, while we leave others in 
 possession of the same abilities, cannot with equal 
 justice provoke censure. 
 
 It must be confessed, that self-love may dis- 
 pose us to decide too hastily in our own favour : 
 but who is hurt by the mistake ? If we are in- 
 cited by this vain opinion ti attempt more than 
 we can perform, ours is the labour, and ours is 
 the disgrace. 
 
 But he that dares to think well of himself, will 
 not always prove to be mistaken ; and the good 
 effects of his confidence will then appear in great 
 attempts and great performances : if he should 
 not fully complete his design, he will at least ad- 
 vance it so far as to leave an easier task for him 
 that succeeds him ; and even though he should 
 wholly fail, he will fail with honour. 
 
 But from the opposite error, from torpid de- 
 spondency, can come no advantage ; it is the 
 frost of the soul, which binds up all its powers, 
 and congeals life in perpetual sterility. He that 
 has no hopes of success, will make no attempts ; 
 and where nothing is attempted, nothing can be 
 done. 
 
 =Lvery man should, therefore, endeavour to 
 maintain in himself a favourable opinion of the 
 powers of the human mind ; which arc, perhaps, 
 in every man, greater than they appear, and 
 might, by diligent cultivation, be exalted to a de- 
 gree beyond what their possessor presumes to 
 believe. There is scarce any man but has found 
 himself able, at the instigation of necessity, to 
 do what in a state of leisure and deliberation ha 
 would have concluded impossible ; and some of 
 our species have signalized themselves by such 
 achievements, as prove that there are few thing* 
 above human hope. 
 
 It has been the policy of all nations to pre- 
 serve, by some public monuments, the memory 
 of those who have served their country by great 
 exploits : there is the same reason for continuing 
 or reviving the names of those, whose extensivi 
 abilities have dignified humanity. An honest 
 emulation may be alike excited ; and the philo- 
 sopher's curiosity may be inflamed by a cata. 
 logue of the works of Boyle or Bacon, as Tha 
 mistocles was kept awake by the trophies ol 
 Miltiades. 
 
 Among the favourites of nature that havti 
 from time to time appeared in the world, enrich-
 
 S28 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 [No. 81. 
 
 ed with various endowments and contrarieties 
 of excellence, none seems to have been more ex- 
 alted above the common rate of humanity, than 
 the man known about two centuries ago by the 
 appellation of the Admirable Crichton ; of 
 whose history, whatever we may suppress as 
 irpassing credibility, yet we shall, upon bc^n- 
 testable authority, relate enough to ran*, mm 
 among prodigies. 
 
 "Virtue," says Virgil, "is better accepted 
 vhen it comes in a pleasing form : " the person 
 f Crichton was eminently beautiful ; but his 
 eauty was consistent with such activity and 
 trength, that in fencing he would spring at one 
 >ound the length of twenty feet upon his anta- 
 gonist ; and he used the sword in either hand 
 with such force and dexterity, that scarce any 
 one had courage to engage him. 
 
 Having studied at St. Andrew's in Scotland, 
 he went to Paris in his twenty-first year, and af- 
 fixed on the gate of the college of Navarre a kind 
 of challenge to the learned of that university to 
 dispute with him on a certain day : offering to 
 his opponents, whoever they should be the 
 choice of ten languages, and of all the faculties 
 and sciences. On the day appointed three thou- 
 sand auditors assembled, when four doctors of 
 the church and fifty masters appeared against 
 him ; and one of his antagonists confesses, that 
 the doctors were defeated ; that he gave proofs 
 of knowledge above the reach of man ; and that 
 a hundred years passed without food or sleep, 
 would not be sufficient for the attainment of his 
 learning. After a disputation of nine hours, he 
 was presented by the president and professors 
 with a diamond and a purse of gold, and dis- 
 missed with repeated acclamations. 
 
 From Paris he went away to Rome, where he 
 made the same challenge, and had in the pre- 
 sence of the Pope and cardinals the same suc- 
 cess. Afterwards he contracted at Venice an 
 acquaintance with Aldus Manutius, by whom he 
 was introduced to the learned of that city : then 
 visited Padua, where he engaged in another pub- 
 lic disputation, beginning his performance with 
 an extemporal poem in praise of the city and 
 the assembly then present, and concluding with 
 an oration equally unpremeditated in commen- 
 dation of ignorance. 
 
 He afterwards published another challenge, in 
 which he declared himself ready to detect the 
 errors of Aristotle and all his commentators, ei- 
 ther in the common forms of logic, or in any 
 which his antagonists should propose of a hun- 
 dred different kinds of verse. 
 
 These acquisitions of learning, however stu- 
 pendous, were not gained at the expense of any 
 pleasure which youth generally indulges, or by 
 the omission of any accomplishment in which it 
 becomes a gentleman to excel . He practised in 
 great perfection the arts of drawing and paint- 
 ing, he was an eminent performer in both vocal 
 and instrumental music, he danced with uncom- 
 mon gracefulness, and on the day after his dis- 
 putation at Paris exhibited his skill in horseman- 
 ship before the court of France, where at a pub- 
 .ic match of tilting, he bore away the ring upon 
 his lance fifteen times together. 
 
 He excelled likewise in domestic games of 
 less dignity and reputation : and, in the in;erval 
 between his challenge and disputation at Paris, 
 So spent so much of his time at cards, dice, and 
 
 tennis, that a lampoon was fixed upon the gate of 
 the Sorbonne, directing those that would see this 
 monster of erudition, to look for him at the tavern. 
 
 So extensive was his acquaintance with life 
 and manners, that in an Italian comedy composed 
 by himself, and exhibited before the court of 
 Mantua, he is said to have personated fifteen 
 different characters : in all of which ho might suc- 
 ceed without great difficulty, since he had such 
 power of retention, that once hearing an oration 
 of an hour, he would repeat it exac.'iy, and in the 
 recital follow the speaker through all his variety 
 of tone and gesticulation. 
 
 Nor was his skill in arms less than in learn- 
 ing, or his courage inferior to his skill : there was 
 a prize-fighter at Mantua, who travelling about 
 the world, according to the barbarous custom of 
 that age, as a general challenger, had defeated 
 the most celebrated masters in many parts of 
 Europe ; and in Mantua, where lie then resided, 
 had killed three that appeared against him. The 
 duke repented that he had granted him his pro- 
 tection ; when Crichton, looking on his sanguin- 
 ary success with indignation, offered to stake 
 fifteen hundred pistoles, and mount the stage 
 against him. The duke, with some reluctance, 
 consented, and on the day fixed, the combatants 
 appeared : their weapon seems to have been sin- 
 gle rapier, which was then newly introduced in 
 Italy. The prize-fighter advanced with great 
 violence and fierceness, and Crichton contented 
 himself calmly to ward his passes, and suffered 
 him to exhaust his vigour by his own fury. 
 Crichton then became the assailant; and press- 
 ed upon him with such force and agility, that he 
 thrust him thrice through the body, and saw him 
 expire ; he then divided the prize he had won 
 among the widows whose husbands had been 
 killed. 
 
 The death of this wonderful man I should be 
 willing to conceal, did I not know that every 
 reader will inquire curiously after that fatal hour, 
 which is common to all human beings, however 
 distinguished from each other by nature or by 
 fortune. 
 
 The duke of Mantua having received so many 
 proofs of his various merit, made him tutor to 
 his son Vicentio di Gozaga, a prince of loose 
 manners and turbulent disposition. On this 
 occasion it was, that he composed the comedy in 
 which he exhibited so many different characters 
 with exact propriety. But his honour was of 
 short continuance : for as he was one night in the 
 time of Carnival rambling about the streets, with 
 his guitar in his hand, he was attacked by six 
 men masked. Neither his courage nor skill in 
 this exigence deserted him : he opposed them 
 with such activity and spirit, that he soon dis- 
 persed them, and disarmed their leader, who 
 throwing off his mask, discovered himself to be 
 the prince his pupil. Crichton, falling on his 
 knees, took his own sword by the point, and 
 presented it to the prince ; who immediately 
 seized it, and instigated, as some say, by jea 
 lousy, according to others only by drunken fury 
 and brutal resentment, thrust him through the 
 heart. 
 
 Thus was the admirable Crichton brought into 
 that state, in which he could excel the meanest 
 of mankind only by a few empty honours paid 
 to his memory : the court of Mantua testified 
 their esteem by a public mourning, the contem-
 
 04.] 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 829 
 
 porary wits were profuse of their encomiums, 
 and the palaces of Italy were adorned with pic- 
 tures, representing him on horsehack, with a 
 lance in one hand and a hook in the other. 
 
 No. 84.] SATURDAY, AUGUST 25, 1753. 
 
 Tolle periculum. 
 
 Jam vaga prosilietf ranis natura remotis. HOR. 
 
 But take the danger and the shame away, 
 
 And vagrant nature bounds upuu her prey FRANCIS 
 
 TO THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 IT has been observed, I think, by Sir William 
 Temple, and after him by almost every other 
 writer, that England affords a greater variety of 
 characters than the rest of the world. This is 
 ascribed to the liberty prevailing among us, 
 which gives every man the privilege of being 
 wise or foolish his own way, and preserves him 
 from the necessity of hypocrisy or the servility of 
 imitation. 
 
 That the position itself is true, I am not com* 
 pletely satisfied. To he nearly acquainted with 
 the people of different countries can happen to 
 very few ; and in life, as in every thing else be- 
 held at a distance, there appears an even uni- 
 formity: the petty discriminations which diver- 
 sify the natural character, are not discoverable 
 but by a close inspection ; we, therefore, find 
 them most at home, because there we have most 
 opportunities of remarking 'them. Much less 
 am I convinced, that this peculiar diversification, 
 if it be real, is the consequence of peculiar liber- 
 ty ; for where is the government to be found that 
 superintends individuals with so much vigi- 
 lance, as not to leave their private conduct with- 
 out restraint? Can it enter into a reasonable 
 mind to imagine, that men of every other nation 
 are not equally masters of their own time or 
 houses with ourselves ; and equally at liberty to 
 be parsimonious or profuse, frolic or sullen, ab- 
 stinent or luxurious ? Liberty is certainly neces- 
 sary to the full play of predominant humours ; 
 but such liberty is to be found alike under the 
 government of the many or the few, in monarch- 
 ies or in commonwealths. 
 
 How readily the predominant passion snatches 
 an interval of liberty, and how fast it expands it- 
 self when the weight of restraint is taken away, 
 I had lately an opportunity to discover, as I took 
 a journey into the country in a stage coach, 
 which, as every journey is a kind of adventure, 
 may be very properly related to you, though I can 
 display no such extraordinary assembly as Cer- 
 vantes has collected at Don Quixote's inn. 
 
 In a stage coach, the passengers are for the 
 most part wholly unknown to one another, and 
 without expectation of ever meeting again when 
 their journey is at an end ; one should therefore 
 imagine, that it was of little importance to any 
 of them, what conjectures the rest should form 
 concerning him. Yet so it is that as all think 
 themselves secure from detection, all assume that 
 character of which they are most desirous, and 
 on no occasion is the general ambition of superi- 
 ority more apparently indulged. 
 
 On the day of our departure, in the twilight of 
 the morning, 1 ascended the vehicle with three 
 mn and two women, my fellow-travellers. It 
 2R 
 
 was easy to observe the affected elevation of 
 mien with which every one. entered, and the su- 
 percilious civility with which they paid their 
 compliments to each other. When the first cere- 
 mony was despatched, we sat silent for a long 
 time, all employed in collecting importance into 
 our faces, and endeavouring to strike reverence 
 and submission into our companions. 
 
 It is always observable, that silence propagates 
 itself, and that the longer talk has been suspend- 
 ed, the more difficult it is to find any thing to 
 say. We began now to wish for conversation ; 
 but no one seemed inclined to descend from his 
 dignity, or first propose a topic of discourse. At 
 last a corpulent gentleman, who had equipped 
 himself for this expedition with a scarlet surtout 
 and a large hat with a broad lace, drew out his 
 watch, looking on it in silence, and then held it 
 dangling at his finger. This was, I suppose, un- 
 derstood by all the company as an invitation to ask 
 the time of the day, but nobody appeared to heed 
 his overture ; and his desire to be talking so far 
 overcame his resentment, that he let us know of 
 his own accord that it was past five, and that in 
 two hours we should be at breakfast. 
 
 His condescension was thrown away; we 
 continued all obdurate ; the ladies held up their 
 heads; I amused myself with watching their be- 
 haviour ; and of the other two, one seemed to 
 employ himself in counting the trees as we drove 
 by them, the other drew his hat over his eyes, 
 and counterfeited a slumber. The man of bene- 
 volence, to show that he was not depressed by 
 our neglect, hummed a tune, and beat time upon 
 his snuff-box. 
 
 Thus universally displeased with one another, 
 and not much delighted with ourselves, we came 
 at last to the little inn appointed for our repast ; 
 and all began at once to recompense themselves 
 for the constraint of silence, by innumerable 
 questions and orders to the people that attended 
 us. At last, what every one had called for was 
 got, or declared impossible to be got at that time, 
 and we were persuaded to sit round the same 
 table ; when the gentleman in the red surtout 
 looked again upon his watch, told us that we 
 had half an hour to spare, but he was sorry to 
 see so little merriment among us ; that all fellow 
 travellers were for the time upon the level, and 
 that it was always his way to make himself one 
 of the company. " I remember," says he, " it 
 was on just such a morning as this, that I and 
 my Lord Mumble and the duke of Tenterden 
 were out upon a ramble : we called at a little 
 house, as it might be this ; and my landlady, I war- 
 rant you, not suspecting to whom she was talk- 
 ing, was so jocular and facetious, and made so 
 many merry answers to our questions, that we 
 were all ready to burst with laughter. At last 
 the good woman happening to overhear me whis- 
 per the duke, and call him by this title, was so 
 surprised and confounded, that we could scarcely 
 get a word from her ; and the duke never met 
 me from that day to this, but he talks of the little 
 house, and quarrels with me for terrifying the 
 landlady." 
 
 He had scarcely time to congratulate himself 
 on the veneration which this narrative must have 
 procured him from the company, when one of 
 the ladies having reached out for a plate on a 
 distant part of the table, began to remark " the 
 inconveniences of travelling, and the difficulty
 
 i.30 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 (No 85. 
 
 which tiicy who never sat ut home without a 
 great number of attendants, found in performing 
 ti>r themselves e'.ich offices as the road required ; 
 out that people of quality often travelled in dis- 
 guise, and might be generally known from the 
 vulgar by their condescension to poor innkeep- 
 ers, D and the allowance which they made for any 
 defect in their entertainment ; that for her part, 
 while people were civil and meant well, it was 
 never her custom to find fault, for one was not to 
 expect upon a journey all that one enjoyed at 
 one's own house." 
 
 A general emulation now seemed to be excited. 
 One of the men who had hitherto said nothing, 
 called for the last newspaper ; and having pe- 
 rused it a while with deep pensiveness, " It is 
 impossible," says he, " for any man to guess 
 how to act with regard to the stocks ; last week 
 it was the general opinion that they would fall ; 
 and I sold out twenty thousand pounds in order 
 to a purchase; they have now risen unexpect- 
 edly ; and I make no doubt but at my return to 
 London I shall risk thirty thousand pounds 
 among them again." 
 
 A young man, who had hitherto distinguished 
 himself only by the vivacity of his looks, and a 
 frequent diversion of his eyes from one object 
 to another, upon this closed his snuffbox, and 
 told us that "he had a hundred times talked with 
 the chancellor and the judges on the subject of 
 the stocks ; that for his part he did not pretend 
 to be well acquainted with the principles on 
 which they were established, but had always 
 heard them reckoned pernicious to trade, uncer- 
 tain in their produce, and unsolid in their found- 
 ation; and that he had been advised by three 
 judges, his most intimate friends, never to ven- 
 ture his money in the funds, but to put it out upon 
 land security, till he could light upon an estate in 
 his own country." 
 
 ^It might be expected, that upon these glimpses 
 of latent dignity, we should all have begun to 
 look round us with veneration ; and have be- 
 haved like the princes of romance, when the en- 
 chantment that disguises them is dissolved, and 
 they discover the dignity of each other ; yet it 
 happened, that none of these hints made much 
 impression on the company ; every one was ap- 
 parently suspected of endeavouring to impose 
 false appearances upon the rest ; all continued 
 their haughtiness in hopes to enforce their 
 claims; and all grew every hour more sullen, 
 because they found their representations of 
 themselves without effect. 
 
 Thus we travelled on four days with malevo- 
 lence perpetually increasing, and without any 
 endeavour but to outvie each other in supercili- 
 ousness and neglect ; and when any two of us 
 could separate ourselves for a moment, we vented 
 our indignation at the sauciness of the rest. 
 
 At length the journey was at an end ; and 
 time and chance, that strip off all disguises, have 
 discovered that the intimate of lords and dukes 
 is a nobleman's butler, who has furnished a 
 shop with the money he has saved ; the man 
 who deals so largely in the funds, is the clerk of 
 a broker in 'Change-alley ; the lady who so 
 carefully concealed her quality, keeps a cook- 
 shop behind the Exchange ; and the young man 
 who is so happy in the friendship of the judges, 
 engrosses and transcribes for bread in a garret 
 of the Temple. Of one of the women only I 
 
 could make no disadvantageous detection, he- 
 cause she had assumed no character, out accom- 
 modate- \ herself to the scenes before her, without 
 any struggle fnr distinction r.r s"periorit". 
 
 I could not forbear to reflect on the folly of 
 practising a fraud, which, as the event showed, 
 hail been already practised too often to succeed, 
 and by the success of which no advantage could 
 have been obtained ; of assuming a character, 
 which was to end with the day; and of claiming 
 upon false pretences honours which must perish 
 with the breath that paid them. 
 
 But, Mr. Adventurer, let not those who laugh 
 at me and my companions, think this folly con 
 fined to a stage coach. Every man in the jour 
 ney of life takes the same advantage of the Jgno 
 jance of his fellow travellers, disguises himself in 
 counterfeit merit, and hears those praises with 
 complacency, which his conscience reproaches' 
 him for accepting. Every man deceives himself, 
 while he thinks he is deceiving others ; and for- 
 gets that the time is at hand when every illusion 
 shall cease, when fictitious excellence shall be 
 torn away, and all must be shown to all in their 
 real estate. I am, Sir, your humble servant, 
 
 VIATOR. 
 
 No. 85.] TUESDAY, AUG. 28, 1753. 
 
 Qui cupit optatam cursu contingere metam, 
 Multa tulil fecitque puer. HOR 
 
 The youth, who hopes th'Oljmpic prize to gain, 
 AH arts must try, oiid every toil sustain. FRANCIS 
 
 IT is observed by Bacon, that " reading makes a 
 full man, conversation a ready man, and writing 
 an exact man." 
 
 As Bacon attained to degrees of knowledge 
 scarcely ever reached by any other man, the di- 
 rections which he gives for study have certainly 
 a just claim to our regard ; for who can teach an 
 art with so great authority, as he that has prac- 
 tised it with undisputed success ? 
 
 Under the protection of so great a name, J 
 shall, therefore, venture to inculcate to my inge- 
 nious contemporaries, the necessity of reading, 
 the fitness of consulting other understandings 
 than their own, and of considering the sentiments 
 and opinions of those who, however neglected 
 in the present age, had in their own times, and 
 many of them a long time afterwards, such re- 
 putation for knowledge and acuteness as will 
 scarcely ever be attained by those that despise 
 them. 
 
 An opinion has of late been, I know not how, 
 propagated among us, that libraries are filled 
 only with useless lumber; that men of parts 
 stand in need of no assistance; and that to spend 
 life in poring upon books, is only to imbibe pre- 
 judices, to obstruct and embarrass the powers 
 of nature, to cultivate memory at the expense of 
 judgment, and to bury reason under a chaos of 
 indigested learning. 
 
 Such is the talk of many who think themselves 
 wise,and of some who are thought wise by others; 
 of whom part probably believe their own tenets, 
 and part may be justly suspected of endeavour- 
 ing to shelter their ignorance in multitudes, and 
 of wishing to destroy that reputation which they 
 have no hopes to share. It will, I believe, b
 
 No. 85.] 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 &und invariably true, that learning was never 
 decried by any learned man : and what credit can 
 be given to those who venture to condemn that 
 which they do not know? 
 
 If reason has the power ascribed to it by its ad- 
 vocates, if so much is to be discovered by atten- 
 tion and meditation, it is hard to believe, that so 
 many millions, equally participating of the boun- 
 ties of nature with ourselves, have been for ages 
 upon ages meditating in vain : if the wits of the 
 present time expect the regard of posterity, 
 which will then inherit the reason which is now 
 thought superior to instruction, surely they may 
 allow themselves to be instructed by the reason 
 of former generations. When, therefore, an au- 
 thor declares, that he has been able to learn no- 
 thing from the writings of his predecessors, and 
 such a declaration has been lately made, nothing 
 but a degree of arrogance unpardonable in the 
 greatest human understanding, can hinder him 
 from perceiving that he is raising prejudices 
 against his own performance ; for with what 
 hopes of success can he attempt, that in which 
 Itfreater abilities have hitherto miscarried ? or 
 with what peculiar force does he suppose him- 
 self invigorated, that difficulties hitherto invinci- 
 ble should give way before him ? 
 
 Of those whom Providence has qualified to 
 make any additions to human knowledge, the 
 number is extremely small; and what can be 
 added by each single mind, even of his superior 
 class, is very little ; the greatest part of mankind 
 must owe all their knowledge, and all must owe 
 far the larger part of it, to the information of 
 others. To understand the works of celebrated 
 authors, comprehend their systems, and retain 
 their reasonings, is a task more than equal to 
 common intellects ; and he is by no means to be 
 accounted useless or idle, who has stored his 
 mind with acquired knowledge, andean detail it 
 occasionally to others who have less leisure or 
 weaker abilities. 
 
 Persius has justly observed, that knowledge is 
 nothing to him who is not known by others to 
 possess it : to the scholar himself it is nothing 
 with respect either to honour or advantage, for 
 the world cannot reward those qualities which 
 are concealed from it ; with respect to others it 
 is nothing, because it affords no help to igno- 
 rance or error. 
 
 It is with justice, therefore, that in an accom- 
 plished character, Horace unites just sentiments 
 with the power of expressing them; and he that 
 has once accumulated learning, is next to con- 
 sider, how he shall most widely diffuse and most 
 agreeably impart it. 
 
 A ready man is made by conversation. He 
 that buries himself among his manuscripts "be- 
 sprent," as Pope expresses it, "with learned dust," 
 and wears out his days and nights in perpetual 
 research and solitary meditation, is too apt to 
 lose in his elocution what he adds to his wis- 
 dom; and when he comes into the world, to ap- 
 pear overloaded with his own notions, like a man 
 armed with weapons which he cannot wield. He 
 has no facility of inculcating his speculations, of 
 adapting himself to the various degrees of intel- 
 lect which the accidents of conversation will pre- 
 sent ; but will talk to most unintelligibly, and to 
 all unpleasantly. 
 
 I was once present at the lectures of a pro- 
 found philosopher, a man really skilled in the 
 
 science which he professed, who having occasion 
 to explain the terms opacum and pellucidum, told 
 us, after some hesitation, that opacum was, as one 
 might say, opake, and that pellucidum signified 
 pellucid. Such was the dexterity with which 
 this learned reader facilitated to his auditors the 
 intricacies of science ; and so true is it that a man 
 may know what he cannot teach. 
 
 Bqerhaave complains, that the writers who 
 have treated of chymistry before him, are useless 
 to the greater part of students, because they pre- 
 suppose their readers to have such degrees of 
 skill as are not often to be found. Into the same 
 error are all men apt to fall, who have familiar- 
 ized any subject to themselves in solitude : they 
 discourse, as if they thought every other man had 
 been employed in the same inquiries ; and ex- 
 pect that short hints and obscure allusions will 
 produce in others the same strain of ideas which 
 they excite in themselves. 
 
 Nor is this the only inconvenience which the 
 man of study suffers from a recluse life. When 
 he meets with an opinion that pleases him, he 
 catches it up with eagerness ; looks only after 
 such arguments as tend to his confirmation ; or 
 spares himself the trouble of discussion, and 
 adopts it with very little proof; indulges it long 
 without suspicion, and in time unites it to the ge- 
 neral body of his knowledge, and treasures it up 
 among incontestable truths ; but when he comes 
 into the world among men who, arguing upon 
 dissimilar principles, have been led to different 
 conclusions, and being placed in various situa- 
 tions, view the same object on many sides ; he 
 finds his darling position attacked, and himself 
 in no condition to defend it : having thought al- 
 ways in one train, he is in the state of a man who 
 having fenced always with the same master, is 
 perplexed and amazed by a new posture of his 
 antagonist ; he is entangled in unexpected difH 
 culties, he is harassed by sudden objections, he 
 is unprovided with solutions or replies : his sur- 
 
 Erise impedes his natural powers of reasoning, 
 is thoughts are scattered and confounded, and 
 he gratifies the pride of airy petulance, with an 
 easy victory. 
 
 It is difficult to imagine, with what obstinacy 
 truths which one mind perceives almost by intui- 
 tion, will be rejected by another, and how many 
 artifices must be practised, to procure admission 
 for the most evident propositions into under 
 standings frighted by their novelty, or hardened 
 against them by accidental prejudice ; it can 
 scarcely be conceived, how frequently, in these 
 extemporaneous controversies, the dull will be 
 subtle, and the acute absurd ; how often stupid- 
 ity will elude the force of argument, by involv- 
 ing itself in its own gloom ; and mistaken inge- 
 nuity will weave artful fallacies, which reason 
 can scarcely find means to disentangle. 
 
 In these encounters the learning of the recluse 
 usually fails him ; nothing but long habit and 
 frequent experiments can confer the power of 
 changing a position into various forms, present- 
 ing it in different points of view, connecting it 
 with known and granted truths, fortifying it. with 
 intelligible arguments, and illustrating it by apt 
 similitudes ; and he, therefore, that has collected 
 his knowledge in solitude, mustleara its applica- 
 tion by mixing with mankind. 
 
 But while the various opportunities of conver- 
 sation invite us to try every mode of argument,
 
 332 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 [Xo. 91 
 
 and every art of recommending our sentiments, 
 we are frequently betrayed to the use of such as 
 are not in themselves strictly defensible : a man 
 heated in talk, and eager of victory, takes advan- 
 tage of the mistakes or ignorance of his adversa- 
 ry, lays hold of concessions to which he knows 
 he" has no right, and urges proofs likely to prevail 
 on his opponent, though he knows himself that 
 they have no force : thus the severity of reason 
 ia relaxed, many topics are accumulated', but 
 without just arrangement or distinction ; we 
 learn to satisfy ourselves with such ratiocination 
 as silences others ; and seldom recall to a close 
 examination, that discourse which has gratified 
 our vanity with victory and applause. 
 
 Some caution, therefore, must be used lest co- 
 piousness and facility be made less valuable by 
 inaccuracy and confusion. To fix the thoughts 
 by writing, and subject them to frequent exami- 
 nations and reviews, is the best method of ena- 
 bling the mind to detect its own sophisms, and 
 keep it on guard against the fallacies which it 
 practises on others : in conversation we naturally 
 diffuse our thoughts, and in writing we contract 
 them ; method is the excellence of writing, and 
 unconstraint the grace of conversation. 
 
 To read, write, and converse in due propor- 
 tions, is, therefore, the business of a man of let- 
 ters. For all these there is not often equal op- 
 portunity ; excellence, therefore, is not often 
 attainable ; and most men fail in one or other of 
 the ends proposed, and are full without readi- 
 ness, or ready without exactness. Some defi 
 ciency must be forgiven all, because all are men ; 
 and more must be allowed to pass uncensured in 
 the greater part of the world, because none can 
 confer upon himself abilities, and few have the 
 choice of situations proper for the improvement 
 of those which nature has bestowed : it is, how- 
 ever, reasonable to have perfection in our eye ; 
 that we may always advance towards it, though 
 we know it never can be reached. 
 
 No. 92.] SATURDAY SEPTEMBER 22, 1753. 
 Cum tabulis animum cenioris tttmet honesti. HOR. 
 
 Bold be the critic, zealous to his trust, 
 Like the firm judge inexorably just. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 TO THE ADVENTURER, 
 
 IN the papers of criticism which you have given 
 to the public, I have remarked a spirit of candour 
 and love of truth, equally remote from bigotry 
 and captiousness : a just distribution of praise 
 amongst the ancients and the moderns : a sober 
 deference to reputation long established, with- 
 out, a Wind adoration of antiquity ; and a will- 
 ingness to favour later performances without a 
 light, or puerile fondness for novelty. 
 
 I shall, therefore, venture to lay before you, 
 such observations as have risen to my mind in 
 the consideration of Virgil's pastorals, without 
 any inquiry how far my sentiments deviate from 
 established rules or common opinions. 
 
 If we survey the ten pastorals in a general 
 view, it will be found that Virgil can derive from 
 them very little claim to the praise of an inventor. 
 To search into the antiquity of this kind of poet- 
 ry, is not my present purpose ; that it has long 
 subsisted in the east, the Sacred Writings suffi- 
 
 ciently inform us; and we may conjecture, with 
 great probability, that it was sometimes the de- 
 votion, and sometimes the entertainment, of uie 
 first generations of mankind. Theocritus united 
 elegance with simplicity ; and taught his shep- 
 herds to sing with so much ease and harmony 
 that his countrymen, despairing, to excel, for 
 bore to imitate him ; and the Greeks, however 
 vain or ambitious, left him in quiet possession ol 
 the garlands which the wood nymphs had be 
 stowed upon him. 
 
 Virgil, however, taking advantage of another 
 language, ventured to copy or to rival the Sici- 
 lian bard : he has written with greater splendour 
 of diction, and elevation of sentiment: but aa 
 the magnificence of his performances was more, 
 the simplicity was less ; and perhaps, where he 
 excels Theocritus, he sometimes obtains his su 
 periority by deviating from the pastoral charac 
 ter, and performing what Theocritus never at- 
 tempted. 
 
 Yet, though I would willingly pay to Theo- 
 critus the honour which is always due to an ori 
 ginal author, I am far from intending to depre- 
 ciate Virgil; of whom Horace justly declares, 
 that the rural muses have appropriated to him 
 their elegance and sweetness, and who, as he co- 
 pied Theocritus in his design, has resembled him 
 likewise in his success ; for, if we except Cal- 
 phurnius, an obscure author of the lower ages, I 
 know not that a single pastoral was written after 
 him by any poet, till the revival of literature. 
 
 But though his general merit has been univer- 
 sally acknowledged, I am far from thinking all the 
 productions of his rural Thalia equally excellent ; 
 there is, indeed, in all his pastorals a strain of 
 versification which it is vain to seek in any 
 other poet ; but if we except the first and the 
 tenth, they seem liable either wholly or in part to 
 considerable objections. 
 
 The second, though we should forget the great 
 charge against it, which I am afraid can never 
 be refuted, might, I think, have perished without 
 any diminution of the praise of its author ; for I 
 know not that it contains one affecting sentiment 
 or pleasing description, or one passage that 
 strikes the imagination or awakcn-s the passions. 
 
 The third contains a contest between two 
 shepherds, begun with a quarrel of which some 
 particulars might well be spared, carried on with 
 sprightliness and elegance, and terminated at 
 last in a reconciliation : but, surely, whether the 
 invectives with which they attack each other be 
 true or false, they are too much degraded from 
 the dignity of pastoral innocence ; and instead 
 of rejoicing that they are both victorious, I should 
 not have grieved could they have been both de- 
 feated. 
 
 The Poem to Pollio is indeed of another kind : 
 it is filled with images at once splendid and pleas- 
 ing, and it is elevated with grandeur of language 
 worthy of the first of Roman poets, but I am not 
 able to reconcile myself to the disproportion be- 
 tween the performance and the occasion that 
 produced it : that the golden age should return 
 because Pollio had a son, appears so wild a fic- 
 tion, that I am ready to suspect the poet of hav 
 ing written for some other purpose, what he took 
 this opportunity of producing to the public. 
 
 The fifth contains a celebration of Daphnis, 
 which has stood to all succeeding ages as the 
 model of pastoral elegies. To deny praise to
 
 No. 92.] 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 333 
 
 performance which so many thousands have la- 
 boured to imitate, would be to judge with too 
 little deference for the opinion of mankind : yet 
 whoever shall read it with impartiality, will find 
 that most of the images are of the mythological 
 kind, and therefore easily invented ; and that 
 there are few sentiments of rational praise or na- 
 tural lamentation. 
 
 In the Silenus he again rises to the dignity of 
 philosophic sentiments, and heroic poetry. The 
 address to Varus is eminently beautiful ; but 
 since the compliment paid to Gallus fixes the 
 transaction to his own time, the fiction of Silenus 
 seems injudicious : nor has any sufficient reason 
 yet been found, to justify his choice of those fa- 
 bles that make the subject of the song. 
 
 The seventh exhibits another contest of the 
 tuneful shepherds : and, surely, it is not without 
 some reproach to his inventive power, that often 
 pastorals, Virgil has written two upon the same 
 plan. One of the shepherds now gains an ac- 
 knowledged victory, but without any apparent 
 superiority, and the reader when he sees the 
 prize adjudged, is not able to discover how it was 
 deserved. 
 
 Of the eighth pastoral, so little is properly the 
 work of Virgil, that he has no claim to other 
 praise or blame than that of a translator. 
 
 Of the ninth it is scarce possible to discover 
 the design or tendency : it is said, I know not 
 upon what authority, to have been composed 
 from fragments of other poems : and except a 
 few lines in which the author touches upon his 
 own misfortunes, there is nothing that seems ap- 
 propriated to any time or place, or of which any 
 other use can be discovered than to fill up the 
 poem. 
 
 The first and the tenth pastorals, whatever be 
 determined of the rest, are sufficient to place 
 their author above the reach of rivalry. The 
 complaint of Gallus disappointed in his love, is 
 full of such sentiments as disappointed 'ove na- 
 turally produces : his wishes are wild, his resent- 
 ment is tender; and his purposes are inconstant. 
 In the genuine language of despair, he soothes 
 himself awhile with the pity that shall be paid 
 him after his death. 
 
 Tamen cantabitis, Arcades, inquit, 
 
 Montibus hecc vestris ; soli cantare periti 
 Arcades. O milii turn qvam molliter ossa quiescant. 
 Vestra meos olim si fistula dicat amores '. 
 
 Yet, O Arcadian swains, 
 
 Ye best artificers of soothing strains ! 
 
 Tune your soft reeds, and teach your rocks my woes, 
 
 So shall my .-hade in sweeter re.n repose. 
 
 O that your birth and business had been mine ; 
 
 To feed the flock, and pruue the spreading vine ! 
 
 WARTON. 
 
 Discontented with his present condition, and 
 desirous to be any thing but what he is, he wishes 
 himself one of the shepherds. He then catches 
 the idea of rural tranquillity ; but soon discovers 
 how much happier he should be in these happy 
 regions, with Lycoris at his side : 
 
 Hie pelidifontes, hie mollia, prata Lycori : 
 Hie nemus ; hit ipso tr.cum consumerer avo. 
 ffunr. insnnas amor duri me Mortis in armis, 
 Tela inter media, atijue odvcrsos detinet hostel. 
 Tuprocul apatria (nee sit mihi credere) tantum 
 Alpinas, ah durn ! nives, etfrigora Rheni 
 Me sine sola vidcs. All te ncfrigora ladant ! 
 Ah tibi ne teneras glacics tecet aspera plantas ' 
 
 Here cooling fountains roll through flowery mead*. 
 
 Here woods, Lycoris, lift their verdant heads ; 
 
 Here could I wear my careless life away, 
 
 And in thy arms insensibly decay. 
 
 Instead of that, me frantic love detains, 
 
 'Mid foes, and dreadful darts, and bloody plains : 
 
 While you and can my soul the tale believe. 
 
 Far from your country, lonely wandering leave 
 
 Me, me your lover, barbarous fugitive ! 
 
 Seek the rough Alps whore snows eternal shine, 
 
 And joyless borders of the frozen Rhine. 
 
 Ah ! may no cold e'er blast my dearest maid, 
 
 Nor pointed ice thy tender feet invade. WARTOJT. 
 
 He then turns his thoughts on every side, in 
 quest of something that may solace or amuse 
 him ; he proposes happiness to himself, first in 
 one scene and then in another: and at last finds 
 that nothing will satisfy : 
 
 Jam neque Hamaaryades rursum, nee carmina r&bii 
 Ipsa placent : ipsa rursum concedite sylca. 
 ffon ilium nostri possunt mutare labores ; 
 Hec sifngoribns mediis Hebrumque bibamm, 
 Sithoniasque nives hyemis subeamns ai/uosa 
 Sfec si, cvm moriens alia liber ai et in ulmo, 
 JEthiopum versemus oces sub side.re Cancri. 
 Omnia vincit amor ; et nos cedamns amor*. 
 
 But now again no more the woodland maids, 
 Nor pas-toral songs delight Farewell, ye saades 
 No toils of ours the cruel god can change, 
 Though lost in frozen deserts we should rf.nge ; 
 Though we should drink where chilling Hsbrus flowg, 
 Endure bleak winter blasts', and Thracia.i snows . 
 Or on hot India's plains our flocks should feed, 
 Where the paroh'd elm declines his sickening head, 
 Beneath fierce-glowing Cancer's fiery beams, 
 Far from cool breezes and refreshing streams. 
 Love over all maintains resistless sway, 
 And let us love's all-conquering power obey. 
 
 WARTON. 
 
 But notwithstanding the excellence of the 
 tenth pastoral, I cannot forbear to give the pre- 
 ference to the first, which is equally natural and 
 more diversified. The complaint of the shep- 
 herd, who saw his old companion at ease in the 
 shade, while himself was driving his little flock 
 he knew not whither, is such as, with variation 
 of circumstances, misery always utters at the 
 sight of prosperity : 
 
 Jfospatriec fines, et dulcia linquimits arva : 
 
 ffos patriamfugimus : tu, Tityre, lentus in umbra, 
 
 Formosam resonare daces Amaryllida salvos. 
 
 We leave our country's bounds, our much-loved plains, 
 
 We from our country fly, unhappy swains ! 
 
 You, Tit'rus, in the groves at leisure laid, 
 
 Teach Amaryllis' name to every shade. WARTON. 
 
 His account of the difficulties of his journey, 
 gives a very tender image of pastoral distress : 
 
 En ! ipse capellas 
 
 Protemts tfffer ago : hanc etiam vix, Tityre, duco 
 Hie inter densas corylos modo namque gemf.llos, 
 Spem gregis, ah ! filice in nuda connixa reliquit. 
 
 And, lo I sad partner of the general care, 
 
 Weary and faint I drive my goats afar ! 
 
 While scarcely this my loading hand sustains, 
 
 Tired with the way, and recent from her pains ; 
 
 For 'mid yon tangled hazels as we past, 
 
 On the bare flints her hapless twin she cast, 
 
 The hopes and promise of my ruin'd fold ! WARTOX. 
 
 The description of Virgil's happiness in hU 
 little farm, combines almost all the images of ru- 
 ral pleasure ; and he, therefore, that can read it 
 with indifference, has no sense of pastoral poetry
 
 331 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 [Ko. 95. 
 
 Fortunate scncx, ergo tua rura manebunt, 
 Kt tibi muffna satis ; quamvis lapis omnia nudut, 
 I Amoaoque pallia obducat puscua junco : 
 Kon insueta graves lentabunt pabula fcctat, 
 Jtf.c mala vicini pccoris contagia ladint. 
 Fortunate senix, hicinttr fluiuina tona, 
 Et/untci sacros.fiigus captabis opacum. 
 Ulnc tibi, </u<z semper cicino ab timtte sepes, 
 Uyblai* ajnbusjlviem dipa.~ta s-ilicli, 
 Sapc Icvisomnum suadebit inire susurro 
 J/tttc alta sub rupe Lanctfronilator ad tiurai ; 
 A", c tnmen interea rauctt, tua cnra,palumbes, 
 Jfecgemere atria cesaabit turtuab ulmo. 
 
 Happy old man ! then still thy farms restored, 
 Enough for thee shall bless thy frugal board. 
 What though rough stones the nakeil soil o'erspread, 
 Or marshy bulrush rear its watery head, 
 Ni> foreign food thy teeming ewes shall fear, 
 No touch contagious spread its influence here. 
 Happy old man ! here 'mid th' accustom'd streams, 
 And sacred springs, you'll shun the scorching beams; 
 While from you willow-fence, thy picture's bound, 
 The beesth^t suck the flowery stores arouiid, 
 Shall sweetly mingle with the whispering boughs, 
 Their lulling murmurs and invite repose : 
 While from steep rocks the pruner's song is heard ; 
 Nor the soft-cooing dove, thy favourite bird, 
 Meanwhile shall cease to breathe her melting strain, 
 Nor turtles from th' aerial elm to 'plain. WARTON. 
 
 It may be observed, that these two poems were 
 produced by events that really happened ; and 
 may, therefore, be of use to prove, that we can 
 always feel more than we can imagine and that 
 the most artful fiction must give way to truth. I 
 am, Sir, your humble servant, 
 
 DUBIUS. 
 
 No. 95.J TUESDAY, OCTOBER 2, 1753. 
 
 Dulcique animos novitate tentbo. OVID. 
 
 And with sweet novelty your soul detain. 
 
 IT is often charged upon writers, that with all 
 their pretensions to genius and discoveries, they 
 do little more than copy one another , and that 
 compositions obtruded upon the world with the 
 pomp of novelty, contain only tedious repetitions 
 of common sentiments, or at best exhibit a trans- 
 position of known images, and give a new ap- 
 pearance to truth only by some slight difference 
 of dress and decoration. 
 
 The allegation of resemblance between au- 
 thors is indisputably true; but the charge of pla- 
 giarism, which is raised upon it, is not to be al- 
 lowed with equal readiness. A coincidence of 
 sentiment may easily happen without any com- 
 munication, since there are many occasions in 
 which all reasonable men will nearly think alike. 
 Writers of all ages have had the same sentiments, 
 because they have in all ages had the same ob- 
 jects of speculation ; the interests and passions, 
 the virtues and vices of mankind, have been di- 
 versified in different times, only by unessential 
 and casual varieties: and we must, therefore, ex- 
 pect in the works of all those who attempt to de- 
 scribe them, such a likeness as we find in the 
 pictures of the same person drawn in different 
 periods of his life. 
 
 It is necessary, therefore, that before an author 
 be charged with plagiarism, one of the most re- 
 proachful, though perhaps not the most atrocious, 
 of literary crimes, the subject on which he treats 
 should be carefully considered. We do not 
 Wonder, that historians, relating the same facts, 
 
 agree in their narration ; or that authors, deliver- 
 ing the elements of science, advance the same 
 theorems, and lay down the same definitions: 
 yet it is not wholly without use to mankind, that 
 books are multiplied, and that different authors 
 lay out their labours on the same subject ; for 
 there will always be some reason why one should 
 on particular occasions, or to particular persons, 
 be preferable to another; some will be clear 
 where others are obscure, some will please by 
 their style and others by their method, some by 
 their embellishments and others by their simpli- 
 city, some by closeness and others by diffusion. 
 
 The same indulgence is to be shown to the 
 writers of morality : right and wrong are immut- 
 able ; and those, therefore, who teach us to dis- 
 tinguish them, if they all teach us right, must 
 agree with one another. The relations of social 
 life, and the duties resulting from them, must be 
 the same at all times and in all nations : some 
 petty differences, may be, indeed, produced by 
 forms of government or arbitrary customs ; but 
 the general doctrine can receive no alteration. 
 
 rt it is not to be desired, that morality should 
 be considered as interdicted to all future writ- 
 ers ; men will always be tempted to deviate from 
 their duty, and will, therefore, always want a 
 monitor to recall them ; and a new book often 
 seizes the attention of the public without any 
 other claim than that it is new. There is like 
 wise in composition, as in other things, a perpe 
 tual vicissitude of fashion ; and truth is recom- 
 mended at one time to regard, by appearances 
 which at another would expose it to neglect ; the 
 author, therefore, who has judgment to discern 
 the taste of his contemporaries, and skill to gra- 
 tify it, will have always an opportunity to de- 
 serve well of mankind, by conveying instruction 
 to them in a grateful vehicle. 
 
 There are likewise many modes of compost 
 tion, by which a moralist may deserve the name 
 of an original writer: he may familiarize his sys- 
 tem by dialogues after the manner of the an- 
 cients," or subtilize it into a series of syllogistic 
 arguments: he may enforce his doctrine by se- 
 riousness and solemnity, or enliven it by spright- 
 liness and gayety : he may deliver his sentiments 
 in naked precepts, or illustrate them by histori- 
 cal examples: he may detain the studious by the 
 artful concatenation of a continued discourse, or 
 relieve the busy by short strictures, and uncon- 
 nected essays. 
 
 To excel in any of these forms of writing will 
 require a particular cultivation of the genius : 
 whoever can attain to excellence, will be certain 
 to engage a set of readers, whom no other me- 
 thod would have equally allured ; and he that 
 communicates truth with success, must be num- 
 bered among the first benefactors to mankind. 
 
 The same observation may be extended like- 
 wise to the passions: their influence is uniform, 
 and their effects nearly the same in every human 
 breast, a man loves and hates, desires and avoids, 
 exactly like his neighbour ; resentment and am- 
 bition, avarice and indolence, discover them 
 selves by the same symptoms in minds distant a 
 thousand years from one another. 
 
 Nothing, therefore, can be more unjust, thar 
 to charge an author with plagiarism, merely be 
 cause he assigns to every cause its natural ef 
 feet ; and makes his personages act, as others in 
 like circumstances have always done. There ar
 
 No. 99.] 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 conceptions in which all men will agree, though 
 each derives them from his own observation : 
 whoever has bet i in love, will represent a lover 
 impatient of every idea that interrupts his medi- 
 tations on his mistress, retiring to shades and 
 solitude, that he may muse without disturbance 
 on his approaching happiness, or associating 
 himself with some friend 1 that flatters his passion, 
 and talking away the hours of absence upon his 
 darling subject. Whoever has been so unhappy 
 as to have felt the miseries of long-continued 
 hatred, will, without any assistance from an- 
 cient volumes, be able to relate how the passions 
 are kept in perpetual agitation, by the recollec- 
 tion of injury, and meditations of revenge ; how 
 the blood boils at the name of the enemy, and 
 life is worn away in contrivances of mischief. 
 
 Every other passion is alike simple and limit- 
 ed, if it be considered only with regard to the 
 breast which it inhabits ; the anatomy of the 
 mind, as that of the body, must perpetually ex- 
 hibit the same appearances ; and though by the 
 continued industry of successive inquirers, new 
 movements will be from time to time discovered, 
 they can affect only the minuter parts, and are 
 commonly of more curiosity than importance. 
 
 It will now be natural to inquire, by what arts 
 are the writers of the present and future ages to 
 attract the notice and -favour of mankind. They 
 are to observe the alterations which time is al- 
 ways making in the modes of life, that they may 
 gratify every generation with a picture of them- 
 selves. Thus love is uniform, but courtship is 
 perpetually varying : the different arts of gallant- 
 rv, which beauty has inspired, would of them- 
 selves be sufficient to fill a volume ; sometimes 
 balls and serenades; sometimes tournaments and 
 adventures, have been employed to melt the 
 hearts of ladies, who in another century have 
 been sensible of scarce any other merit than that 
 of riches, and listened only to jointures arid pin- 
 money. Thus the ambitious man has at all times 
 been eager of wealth and power ; but these hopes 
 have been gratified in some countries by suppli- 
 cating the people, and in others, by flattering the 
 prince : honour in some states has been only the 
 reward of military achievements, in others, it 
 has been gained by noisy turbulence, and popu- 
 lar clamours. Avarice has worn a different form, 
 as she actuated the usurer of Rome, and the stock- 
 jobber of England ; and idleness itself, how little 
 soever inclined to the trouble of invention, has 
 been forced from time to time to change its amuse. 
 mcnls, and contrive different methods of wearing 
 out the day. 
 
 Here then is tne fund, from which those who 
 study mankind may-fill their compositions with 
 an inexhaustible variety of images and allusions; 
 and he must be confessed to look with little atten- 
 tion upon scenes thus perpetually changing, who 
 cannot catch some of the figures before they are 
 made vulgar by reiterated descriptions. 
 
 It has been discovered by Sir Isaac Newton, 
 that the distinct and primogenial colours are only 
 seven ; but every eye can witness, that from va- 
 rious mixtures, in various proportions, infinite di- 
 versification of tints may be produced. In like 
 manner, the passions of the mind, which put the 
 world in motion, and produce all the bustle and 
 eagerness of the busy crowds that swarm upon 
 the earth ; the passions, from whence arise all 
 tfce pleasures and pains that we see and hear of, 
 
 if we analyze the mind of man, are very few : 
 but those few agitated and combined, as external 
 causes shall happen to operate, and modified by 
 prevailing opinions and accidental caprices, make 
 such frequent alterations on the surface of life, 
 that the show, while we are busied in delineating 
 it, vanishes from the view, and a new set of ob- 
 jects succeed, doomed to the same shortness of du- 
 ration with the former: thus curiosity may always 
 find employment, and the busy part of mankind 
 will furnish the contemplative with the materials 
 of speculation, to the end of time. 
 
 The complaint, therefore, that all topics are 
 pre-occupied, is nothing more than the murmur 
 of ignorance or idleness, by which some discou 
 rage others, and some themselves ; the mutabi- 
 lity of mankind will always furnish writers with 
 new images, and the luxuriance of fancy may al- 
 ways embellish them with new decorations. 
 
 No. 99.] TUESDAY, OCT. 16, 1753. 
 
 Magnis lumen excidit aufis. OVID. 
 
 But in the glorious enterprise he died. ADDISOM 
 
 IT has always been the practice ot mankino, to 
 judge of actions by the event. The same at- 
 tempts, conducted in the same manner, but ter- 
 minated by different success, produce different 
 judgments : they who attain their wishes, never 
 want celebrators of their wisdom and their virtue; 
 and they that miscarry, are quickly discovered to 
 have been defective not only in mental but in mo- 
 ral qualities. The world will never be long with 
 out some good reason to hate the unhappy ; their 
 real faults are immediately detected ; and if 
 those are not sufficient to sink them into infamy, 
 an additional weight of calumny will be super- 
 added : he that fails in his endeavours after 
 wealth or power, will not long retain either ho- 
 nesty or courage. 
 
 This species of injustice has so long prevailed 
 in universal practice, that it seems likewise to 
 have infected speculation : so few minds are ablo 
 to separate the ideas of greatness and prosperity, 
 that even Sir William Temple has determined, 
 "that he who can deserve the name of a hero, 
 must not only be virtuous but fortunate." 
 
 By this unreasonable distribution of praise and 
 blame, none have suffered oftener than project- 
 ors, whose rapidity of imagination, and vastnesa 
 of design, raise such envy in their fellow mortals, 
 that every eye watches for their fall, and every 
 heart exults at their distresses : yet even a pro- 
 jector may gain favour by success ; and the tongue 
 thai was prepared to hiss, then endeavours to 
 excel others in loudness of applause. 
 
 When Coriolanus, in-Shakspeare, deserted to 
 Aufidius, the Volscian servants at first insulted 
 him, even while he stood under the protection 
 of the household gods: but when they saw that 
 the project took effect, and the stranger was seat- 
 ed at the head of the table, one of them very judi- 
 ciously observes, "that he always thought there 
 was more in him than he could think." 
 
 Machiavcl has justly animadverted on the dif- 
 ferent notice taken by all succeeding times, of 
 the two great projectors, Catiline and C;esar. 
 Both formed the same project, and intended to 
 raise themselves to power, by subverting th 
 commonwealth : they pursued their design, n>r-
 
 336 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 [No. 
 
 hang, with equal abilities and with equal virtue ; 
 But Catiline perished in the field, and Caesar re- 
 turned from Pharsalia with unlimited authority : 
 and from that time, every monarch of the earth 
 lias thought himself honoured by a comparison 
 with Caesar ; and Catiline has been never men- 
 tioned, but that his name might be applied to 
 traitors and incendiaries. 
 
 la an age more remote, Xerxes projected the 
 conquest of Greece, and brought down the power 
 of Asia against it : but after the world had been 
 filled with expectation and terror, his army was 
 beaten, his rleet was destroyed, and Xerxes has 
 never been mentioned without contempt. 
 
 A few years afterwards Greece likewise had 
 her turn of giving birth to a projector ; who, in- 
 vading Asia with a small army, went forward in 
 search of adventures, and by his escape from one 
 danger, gained only more rashness to rush into 
 another ; he stormed city after city, overran king- 
 do-.n after kingdom, fought battles only for bar- 
 ren victory, and invaded nations only that he 
 might make his way through them to new inva- 
 sions ; but having been fortunate in the execu- 
 tion of his projects, he died with the name of 
 Alexander the Great 
 
 Thess are, indeed, events of ancient times ; 
 but human nature is always the same, and every 
 age will afford us instances of public censures 
 influenced by events. The great business of the 
 middle centuries, was the holy war; which un- 
 doubtedly was a noble project, and was for a long 
 time prosecuted with a spirit equal to that with 
 which it had been contrived ; but the ardour of 
 the European heroes only hurried them to de- 
 struction ; for a long time they could not gain 
 the territories for which they fought, and, when 
 at last gained, they could not keep them : their 
 expeditions, therefore, have been the scoff of idle- 
 ness and ignorance, their understanding and 
 their virtue have been equally vilified, their con- 
 duct has been ridiculed, and their cause has been 
 defamed. 
 
 When Columbus had engaged king Ferdinand 
 in the discovery of the other hemisphere, the 
 sailors with whom he embarked in the expedi- 
 tion had so little confidence in their commander, 
 hat after having been long at sea looking for 
 .oasts which they expected never to find, they 
 aised a general mutiny, and demanded to re- 
 turn. He found means to soothe them into a 
 permission to continue the same course three 
 days longer, and on the evening of the third day 
 descried land. Had the impatience of his crew 
 denied him a few hours of the time requested, 
 what had been his fate but to have come back 
 with the infamy of a vain projector, who had be- 
 trayed the kind's credulity to useless expenses, 
 and risked his life in seeking countries that had 
 no existence ? how would those that had rejected 
 his proposals, have triumphed in their acuteness ! 
 ,\nd when would his name have been mentioned, 
 hut with the makers of potable gold and malea- 
 bls glass ? 
 
 The last royal projectors with whom the 
 world has been troubled, were Charles of Swe- 
 den, and the U/f.r of Muscovy. Charles, if any 
 Judgment mny be formed of his designs by his 
 ineasur-'s and his inquiries, had purposed first 
 i'i dethrone the Czar, then to lead his army 
 through pathless deserts into China, thence to 
 make his way by tho sword through the whole 
 
 circuit of Asia, and by the conquest of Turkey t<r 
 unite Sweden with his new dominions: but this 
 mighty project was crushed at Pultowa ; and 
 Charles has since been considered as a madman 
 by those powers, who asm their ambassadors to 
 solicit his friendship, and their generals " to learn 
 under him the art of war." 
 
 The Czar found employment sufficient in his 
 own dominions, and amused himself in digging 
 canals, and building cities ; murdering his sub- 
 jects with insufferable fatigues, and transplant- 
 ing nations from one corner of his dominions to 
 another, without regretting the thousands that 
 perished on the way: but he attained his end, 
 he made his people formidable, and is numbered 
 by fame among the demi-gods. 
 
 I am far from intending to vindicate the san 
 guinary projects of heroes and conquerors, and 
 would wish rather to diminish the reputation of 
 their success, than the infamy of their miscar- 
 riages : for I cannot conceive, why he that has 
 burned cities, wasted nations, and filled the 
 world with horror and desolation, should be 
 more kindly regarded by mankind, than he who 
 died in the rudiments of wickedness ; why he 
 that accomplished wickedness should be glori- 
 ous, and he that only endeavoured it should be 
 criminal. I would wish Caesar and Catiline, 
 Xerxes and Alexander, Charles and Peter, hud- 
 dled together in obscurity or detestation. 
 
 But there is another species of projectors, to 
 whom I would willingly conciliate mankind ; 
 whose ends are generally laudable, and whose 
 labours are innocent ; who are searching out 
 new powers of nature, or contriving new works 
 of art ; but who are yet persecuted with inces- 
 sant obloquy, and whom the universal contempt 
 with which they are treated, often debars from 
 that success which their industry would obtain, 
 if it were permitted to act without opposition. 
 
 They who find themselves inclined to censure 
 new undertakings, only because they are new, 
 should consider, that the folly of projection is 
 very seldom the folly of a fool ; it is commonly 
 the ebullition of a capacious mind, crowded with 
 variety of knowledge, and heated with intense- 
 ness of thought ; it proceeds often from the con- 
 sciousness of uncommon powers, from the con 
 fidence of those, who, having already done 
 much, are easily persuaded that they can do 
 more. When Rowley had completed the or- 
 rery, he attempted the perpetual motion ; when 
 Boyle had exhausted the secrets of vulgar chy- 
 mistry, he turned his thoughts to the work of 
 transmutation. 
 
 A projector generally unites those qualities 
 which have the fairest claim to veneration, ex- 
 tent of knowledge, and greatness of design ; it 
 was said of Catiline, " immoderate/, incrr.dibilia, 
 nimis alta semptr cupiebat." Projectors of all 
 kinds agree in their intellects, though they differ 
 in their morals ; they all fail by attempting things 
 beyond their power, by despising vulgar attain- 
 ments, and aspiring to performances to which 
 perhaps nature has not proportioned the force of 
 man ; when they fail, therefore, they fail not by 
 idleness or timidity, but by rash adventure and 
 fruitless diligence. 
 
 That the attempts of such men will often mis- 
 carry, we may reasonably expect ; yet from such 
 men, and such only, are we to hope for the culti- 
 vation of those parts of nature which lie yet
 
 . 102.] 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 337 
 
 waste, and '.he invention of those arts which are 
 yet WHuting to the felicity of life. If they are, 
 therefoMJ, universally discouraged, art and dis- 
 covery can make no advances. Whatever is at- 
 tempted without previous certainty of success, 
 may lie considered as a project, and amongst nar- 
 row minds may, therefore, expose its author to 
 censure and contempt; and if the liberty of laugh- 
 ing be once indulged, every man will laugh at 
 what he does not understand, every project will 
 be considered as madness, and every great or 
 new design will be censured as a project. Men, 
 unaccustomed to reason and researches, think 
 every enterprise impracticable, which is extend- 
 ed beyond common effects, or comprises many 
 intermediate operations. Many that presume to 
 laush at projectors, would consider a flight through 
 the air in a winged chariot, and the movement of 
 a mighty engine by the steam of water, as equal- 
 ly the dreams of mechanic lunacy ; and would 
 hear, with equal negligence, of the union of the 
 Thames and Severn by a canal, and the scheme 
 of Albuquerque, the viceroy of the Indies, who 
 in the rage of hostility had contrived to make 
 Egypt a barren desert, by turning the Nile into 
 the Red Sea. 
 
 Those who have attempted much, have seldom 
 failed to perform more than those who never de- 
 viate from the common roads of action : many 
 valuable preparations of chymistry are supposed 
 to have risen from unsuccessful inquiries after 
 the grand elixir ; it is, therefore, just to encou- 
 rage those who endeavour to enlarge the power 
 of art, sirvce they often succeed beyond expecta- 
 tion ; and when they fail, may sometimes benefit 
 the world even by their miscarriages. 
 
 N"o. 102.] SATURDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1753. 
 
 Quirf tarn de.xtro pede concipis, ut te 
 
 Conatus non panitcat, votique pcracti ? ju v. 
 
 What in the conduct of our life appears 
 
 So well design'd, so luckily begun, 
 
 But when we have our wish, we wish undone ? 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 TO THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I HAVE been for many years a trader in London. 
 My beginning was narrow, and my stock small. 
 I was, therefore, a long time brow-beaten and 
 despised by those, who, having more money, 
 thought they had more merit than myself. I did 
 not, however, suffer my resentment to instigate 
 me to any mean arts of supplantation, nor my 
 eagerness of riches to betray me to any indirect 
 methods of gain ; I pursued my business with 
 incessant assiduity, supported by the hope of 
 being one day richer than those who contemned 
 me ; and had, upon every annual review of my 
 books, the satisfaction of finding my fortune in- 
 creased beyond my expectation. 
 
 In a few years my industry and probity were 
 fully recompensed ; my wealth was really great, 
 and my reputation for wealth still greater. I 
 had large warehouses crowded with goods, and 
 considerable sums in the public funds; I was 
 caressed upon the Exchange by the most emi- 
 nent merchants; became the oracle of the com- 
 mon council ; was solicited to engage in all com- 
 mercial undertakings; wa flattered with the 
 
 iiopes of becoming in a short time one of the di- 
 rectors of a wealthy company, and, to complete 
 my mercantile honours, enjoyed the expensive 
 happiness of fining for sheriff. 
 
 Riches, you know, easily produce riches: 
 when I had arrived to this degree of wealth, I 
 bad no longer any obstruction or opposition to 
 fear ; new acquisitions were hourly brought 
 within my reach, and I continued for some years 
 longer to heap thousands upon thousands. 
 
 At last I resolved to complete the circle of a 
 citizen's prosperity by the purchase of an estate 
 in the country, and to close my life in retire- 
 ment From the hour that this design entered 
 my imagination, I found the fatigues of my em- 
 ployment every day more oppressive, and per- 
 suaded myself that I was no longer equal to 
 perpetual attention, and that my health would 
 soon be destroyed by the torment and distrac- 
 tion of extensive business. I could image to 
 myself no happiness, but in vacant jollity, and 
 uninterrupted leisure ; nor entertain my friends 
 with any other topic, than the vexation and un- 
 certainty of trade, and the happiness of rural 
 privacy. 
 
 But notwithstandingthese declarations, I could 
 not at once reconcile myself to the thoughts ot 
 ceasing to get money ; and though I was every 
 day inquiring for a purchase, I found some rea- 
 son for rejecting all that were offered me ; and, 
 indeed, had accumulated so many beauties and 
 conveniences in my idea of the spot where I 
 was finally to be happy, that, perhaps, the world 
 might have been travelled over without disco- 
 ery of a place whicn ould not have been de- 
 fective in some particular. 
 
 Thus I went on, still talking of retirement, 
 and still refusing to retire ; my friends began to 
 laugh at my delays, and I grew ashamed to trifle 
 longer with my own inclinations ; an estate was 
 at length purchased, I transferred my stock to 
 a prudent young man who had married my 
 daughter, went down into the country, and com 
 menced lord of a spacious manor. 
 
 Here for some time, I found happiness equal 
 to my expectation. I reformed the old house 
 according to the advice of the best architects, I 
 threw down the walls of the garden, and en- 
 closed it with palisades, planted long avenues of 
 trees, filled a greenhouse with exotic plants, dug 
 a new canal, and threw the earth into the old 
 moat. 
 
 The fame of these expensive improvements 
 brought in all the country to see the show. I 
 entertained my visitors with great liberality, led 
 them round my gardens, showed them my apart- 
 ments, laid before them plans for new decora- 
 tions, and was gratified by the wonder of some 
 and the envy of others. 
 
 I was envied : but how little can one man 
 judge of the condition of another ! The time was 
 now coming, in which affluence and splendour 
 could no longer make me pleased with myself. 
 I had built till the imagination of the architect 
 was exhausted ; I had added one convenience to 
 another, till I knew not what more to wish or to 
 design ; I had laid out my gardens, planted my 
 park, and completed my waterworks ; and what 
 now remained to be done? what, but to look up 
 to turrets, of which, when they were once raised 
 I had no further use, to range over apartments 
 where time waa tarnishing the furniture, to
 
 333 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 (Xo. 
 
 stand by the cascade of which I scarcely now 
 perceived the sound, and to watch the growth 
 of woods that must give their shade to a distant 
 generation. 
 
 In this gloomy inactivity, is every day begun 
 and ended : the happiness that I have been so 
 long procuring is now at an end, because it has 
 been procured ; I wander from room to room, till 
 I arn weary of myself ; 1 ride out to a neighbour- 
 ing hill in the centre of my estate, from whence 
 nil my lands lie in prospect around me; I see 
 nothing that I have not seen before, and return 
 home disappointed, though I knew that I had 
 nothing to expect. 
 
 In my happy days of business I had been ac- 
 customed to rise early in the morning : and re- 
 member the time when I grieved that the night 
 came so soon upon me, and obliged me, fora few 
 hours, to shut out affluence and prosperity. I 
 now seldom see the rising sun, but to " tell 
 him," with the fallen angel, " how I hate his 
 beams." I awake from sleep as to languor or 
 imprisonment, and have no employment for the 
 first hour but to consider by what art I shall rid 
 myself of the second. I protract the breakfast 
 as long as I can, because when it is ended I have 
 no call for my attention, till I can with some de- 
 gree of decency grow impatient for my dinner. 
 If I could dine all my life I should be happy ; I 
 eat not because I am hungry, but because 1 am 
 idle: but, alas! the time quickly comes when I 
 can eat no longer ; and so ill does my constitu- 
 tion second my inclination, that I cannot bear 
 strong liquors; seven hours must then be en- 
 dured, before I shall sup ; but supper comes at 
 last, the more welcome as it is in a short time 
 succeeded by sleep. 
 
 Such, Mr. Adventurer, is the happiness, the 
 hope of which seduced me from the duties of a 
 mercantile life. I shall be told by those who 
 read my narrative, that there are many means 
 of innocent amusement, and many schemes of 
 useful employment, which I do not appear ever 
 to have known ; and that nature and art have 
 provided pleasures by which, without the drud- 
 gery of settled business, the active may be en- 
 gaged, the solitary soothed, and the social en- 
 tertained. 
 
 These arts, Sir, I have tried. When first I 
 took possession of my estate, in conformity to 
 the taste of my neighbours, I bought guns and 
 nets, filled my kennel with dogs, and my stable 
 with horses : but a little experience showed me, 
 that these instruments of rural felicity would af- 
 ford me few gratifications. I never shot but to 
 miss the mark, and, to confess the truth, was 
 afraid of the fire of my own gun. I could dis- 
 cover no music in the cry of the dogs, nor could 
 divest myself of pity for the animal whose peace- 
 ful and inoffensive life was sacrificed to our 
 sport. I was not, indeed, always at leisure to 
 reflect upon her danger; for my horse, who had 
 been bred to the chase, did not always regard 
 my choice either of speed or way, but leaped 
 hedges and ditches at his own discretion, and 
 hurried me along with the dogs, to the great di- 
 version of my brother sportsmen. His eager- 
 ness of pursuit once incited him to swim a river ; 
 and I had leisure to resolve in the water, that I 
 would never hazard my life again for the de- 
 Sruction of a hare. 
 
 . .tan ordered books to be procured, and by the 
 
 direction of the vicar had within a few weeks, <i 
 closet elegantly furnished. You will, perhaps, 
 be surprised when 1 shall tell you, that when 
 once I had ranged them according to their sizes, 
 and piled them up in regular gradations, I had 
 received all the pleasure which they could give 
 me. I am not able to excite in myself any curi- 
 osity after events which have been long passed, 
 and in which I can therefore have no interest ; 
 I am utterly unconcerned to know whether Tullj 
 or Demosthenes excelled in oratory, whether 
 Hannibal lost Italy by his own negligence 01 
 the corruption of his countrymen. I have no 
 skill in controversial learning, nor can conceive 
 why so many volumes should have been written 
 upon questions, which I have lived so long and 
 so happily without understanding. I once re- 
 solved to go through the volumes relating to tho 
 office of justice of the peace, but found them so 
 crabbed and intricate, that in less than a month 
 I desisted in despair, and resolved to supply my 
 deficiencies by paying a competent salary to a 
 skilful clerk. 
 
 I am naturally inclined to hospitality, and for 
 some time kept up a constant intercourse of visits 
 with the neighbouring gentlemen ; but though 
 they are easily brought about me by better wine 
 than they can find at any other house, I am not 
 much relieved by their conversation ; they have 
 no skill in commerce or the stocks, and I have no 
 knowledge of the history of families or the fac- 
 tions of the country ; so that when the first civili- 
 ties are over, they usually talk to one another, 
 and I am left alone in the midst of the company. 
 Though I cannot drink myself, I am obliged to 
 encourage the circulation of the glass ; their 
 mirth grows more turbulent and obstreperous ; 
 and before their merriment is at an end, I L:n 
 sick with disgust, and perhaps reproached with 
 my sobriety, or by some sly insinuations ininsult- 
 ed as a cit. 
 
 Such, Mr. Adventurer, is the life to which I 
 am condemned by a foolish endeavour to be hap- 
 
 ?y by imitation ; such is the happiness to which 
 pleased myseif with approaching, and which I 
 considered as the chief end of my cares and my 
 labours. I toiled_ year after year with cheerful- 
 ness, in expectation of the happy hour in which I 
 might be idle : the privilege of happiness is at- 
 tained, but has not brought with it the blessing 
 of tranquillity. I am yours, &c. 
 
 MERCATOR 
 
 No. 107.] TUESDAY, Nov. 13, 1753. 
 
 Subjudicelisest. HOB. 
 
 And of their vain disputings fiud no end. FRANCIS. 
 
 IT has been sometimes asked by those who find 
 the appearance of wisdom more easily attained 
 by questions than solutions, how it comes to 
 pass, that the world is divided by such difference 
 of opinion ; and why men equally reasonable, 
 and equally lovers of truth, do not always think 
 in the same manner? 
 
 With regard to simple propositions, where the 
 terms are understood, and the whole subject is 
 comprehended at once, there is such a uniformi- 
 ty of sentiment among all human beings, that, 
 for many ages, a very numerous set of notions 
 were supposed to be innate, or necessarily coex
 
 No. 107.] 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 339 
 
 istent with the faculty of reason ; it being ima- 
 gined, that universal agreement could proceed 
 only from the invariable dictates of the universal 
 parent. 
 
 In questions diffuse and compounded, this simi- 
 larity of determination is no longer to be expect- 
 ed. At our first sally into the intellectual world, 
 ,ve all march together along one straight and 
 open road ; but as we proceed further, and wider 
 prospects open to our view, every eye fixes upon 
 a different scene ; we divide into various paths, 
 and, as we move forward, are still at a greater dis- 
 tance from each other. As a question becomes 
 more complicated and involved, and extends to 
 a greater number of relations, disagreement of 
 opinion will always be multiplied ; not because 
 we are irrational, but because we are finite be- 
 ings, furnished with different kinds of knowledge, 
 exerting different degrees of attention, one dis- 
 covering consequences which escape another, 
 none taking in the whole concatenation of causes 
 and effects, and most comprehending but a very 
 small part, each comparing what he observes 
 with a different criterion, and each referring it to 
 a different purpose. 
 
 Where, then, is the wonder, that they who see 
 only a small part, should judge erroneously of the 
 whole ? or that they, who see different and dis- 
 similar parts, should judge differently from each 
 other? 
 
 Whatever has various respects, must have va- 
 rious appearances of good and evil, beauty or 
 deformity ; thus the gardener tears up as a weed, 
 the plant which the physician gathers as a me- 
 dicine ; and " a general," says Sir Kenelm Dig- 
 by, " will look with pleasure over a plain, as a 
 fit place on which the fate of empires might be 
 decided in battle, which the farmer will despise as 
 bleak and barren, neither fruitful of pasturage, 
 nor fit for tillage." 
 
 Two men examining the same question, pro- 
 ceed commonly like the physician and gardener 
 in selecting heibs, or the farmer and hero look- 
 ing on the plain ; they bring minds impressed 
 with different notions, and direct their inquiries 
 to different ends ; they form, therefore, contrary 
 conclusions, and each wonders at the other's ab- 
 surdity. 
 
 We have less reason to be surprised or offend- 
 ed when we find others differ from us in opinion, 
 because we very often differ from ourselves. 
 How often we alter our minds, we do not always 
 remark ; because the change is sometimes made 
 imperceptibly and gradually, and the last convic- 
 tion effaces all memory of the former, yet every 
 man accustomed from time to time to take a sur- 
 vey of his own notions, will, by a slight retro- 
 spection, be able to discover, that his mind has 
 Buffered many revolutions ; that the same things 
 have in the several parts of his life been condemn- 
 ed and approved, pursued and shunned : and that 
 on many occasions, even when his practice has 
 been steady, his mind has been wavering, and 
 he has persisted in a scheme of action, rather 
 because he feared the censure of inconstancy, 
 than because he was always pleased with his 
 own choice. 
 
 Of the different faces shown by the same ob- 
 jects, as they are viewed on opposite sides, and 
 of the different inclinations which they must con- 
 stantly raise in him that contemplates them, a 
 more striking example cannot easily be found 
 
 than two Greek epigrammatists will afford us in 
 their accounts of human life, which 1 shall lay 
 before the reader in Euglish prose. 
 
 Posidippus, a comic poet, utters this com- 
 plaint : "Through which of the paths of life is it 
 eligible to pass ? In public assemblies are de- 
 bates and troublesome affairs : domestic priva- 
 cies are haunted with anxieties ; in the country 
 is labour ; on the sea is terror : in a foreign land, 
 he that has money must live in fear, he that wants 
 it must pine in distress : are you married ? you 
 are troubled with suspicions ; are you single ? 
 you languish in solitude ; children occasion toil, 
 and a childless life is a state of destitution : the 
 time of youth is a time of folly, and gray hairs 
 are loaded with infirmity. This choice only, 
 therefore, can be made, either never to receive 
 being, or immediately to lose it." 
 
 Such and so gloomy is the prospect which Po- 
 sidippus has laid before us. But we are not to 
 acquiesce too hastily in his determination against 
 the value of existence: for Metrodorus, a philo- 
 sopher of Athens, has shown, that life has plea- 
 sures as well as pains ; and having exhibited the 
 present state of man in brighter colours, draws 
 with equal appearance of reason, a contrary con- 
 clusion. 
 
 " You may pass well through any of the paths 
 of life. In public assemblies are honours and 
 transactions of wisdom : in domestic privacy is 
 stillness and quiet: in the country are the beau- 
 ties of nature : on the sea is the hope of gain : in 
 a foreign land, he that is rich is honoured, he 
 that is poor may keep his poverty secret : are you 
 married ? you have a cheerful house ; are you 
 single : you are unincumbered ; children are ob- 
 jects of affection, to be without children is to be 
 without care : the time of youth is the time of 
 vigour, and gray hairs are made venerable by 
 piety. It will, therefore, never be a wise man's 
 choice, either not to obtain existence, or to lose 
 it ; for every state of life has its felicity." 
 
 In these epigrams are included most of the 
 questions which have engaged the speculations 
 of the inquirers after happiness ; and though they 
 will not much assist our determinations, they 
 may, perhaps, equally promote our quiet, by 
 showing that no absolute determination ever can 
 be formed. 
 
 Whether a public station, or private life, be 
 desirable, has always been debated. We see 
 here both the allurements and discouragements 
 of civil employments ; on one side there is trou- 
 ble, on the other honour ; the management of 
 affairs is vexatious and difficult, but it is the only 
 duty in which wisdom can be conspicuously dis- 
 played : it must then still be left to every man to 
 choose either ease or glory ; nor can any general 
 precept be given, since no man can be happy by 
 the prescription of another. 
 
 Thus, what is said of children by Posidippus, 
 " that they are occasions of fatigue," and by Me- 
 trodorus, " that they are objects of affection," is 
 equally certain ; but whether they will give most 
 pain or pleasure, must depend on their future 
 conduct and dispositions, on many causes over 
 which the parent can have little influence : there 
 is, therefore, room for all the caprices of imagin- 
 ation, and desire must be proportioned to the 
 hope or fear that shall happen to predominate. 
 
 Such is the uncertainty in which we are al- 
 ways likely to remain with regard to questions
 
 340 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 [No. 108. 
 
 wherein we have most interest, and which every 
 dav affords us fresh opportunity to examine: we 
 mav examine, indeed, but we never can decide, 
 because our faculties are unequal to the subject; 
 we see a little, and form an opinion ; we see 
 more, and change it. 
 
 This inconstancy and unsteadiness, to which 
 we must so often find ourselves liable, ought cer- 
 tainly to teach us moderation and forbearance 
 towards those who cannot accommodate them- 
 selves to our sentiments: if they are deceived, 
 we have no right to attribute their mistake to 
 obstinacy or negligence, because we likewise 
 have been mistaken ; we may, perhaps, again, 
 change our own opinion : and what excuse shall 
 we be able to find for aversion and malignity 
 conceived against him, whom we shall then find 
 to have committed no fault, and who offended us 
 only by refusing to follow us into error ? 
 
 It may likewise contribute to soften that re- 
 sentment which pride naturally raises against 
 opposition, if we consider, that he who differs 
 from us, does not always contradict us ; he has 
 one view of an object, and we have another ; 
 each describes what he sees with equal fidelity, 
 and each regulates his steps by his own eyes : 
 one man, with Posidippus, looks on celibacy as a 
 state of gloomy solitude, without a partner in 
 joy, or a comforter in sorrow; the other consi- 
 ders it, with Metrodorus, as a state free from in- 
 cumbrances, in which a man is at liberty to 
 choose his own gratifications, to remove from 
 place to place in quest of pleasure, and to think 
 of nothing but merriment and diversion : full of 
 these notions one hastens to choose a wife, and 
 the other laughs at his rashness, or pities his ig- 
 norance ; yet it is possible that each is right, but 
 that each is right only for himself. 
 
 Life is not the object of science : we. see a lit- 
 tle, very little; and what is beyond we only can 
 conjecture. If we inquire of those who have 
 gone before us, we receive small satisfaction ; 
 some have travelled life without observation, and 
 some willingly mislead us. The only thought, 
 therefore, on which we can repose with comfort, 
 is that which presents to us the care of Provi- 
 dence, whose eye takes in the whole of things, 
 and under whose direction all involuntary errors 
 will terminate in happiness. 
 
 No. 108.] SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1753. 
 
 If obis, cum simul occidit orevis lux, 
 Nox estperpetuo una dormienda. 
 
 CATULLUS. 
 
 When once the short-lived mortal dies, 
 
 A night eternal seals his eyes. ADDISON. 
 
 IT may have been observed by every reader, that 
 there are certain topics which never are exhaust- 
 ed. Of some images and sentiments the mind 
 of man may be said to be enamoured ; it meets 
 them, however often they occur, with the same 
 irdour which a lover feels at the sight of his mis- 
 tress, and parts from them with the same regret 
 when they can no longer be enjoyed. 
 
 Of this kind are many descriptions which the 
 poets have transcribed from each other and 
 their successors will probably copy to the end 
 of time ; which will continue to engage, or as 
 the French term it, to flatter the imagination, 
 
 as long as human nature shall remain the 
 same. 
 
 When a poet mentions the spring, we know 
 that the zephyrs are about to whisper, that the 
 groves are to recover their verdure, the linnets 
 to warble forth their notes of love, and the flock 
 and herds to frisk over vales painted with flow 
 ers: yet, who is there so insensible of the beau 
 ties of nature, so little delighted with the renova 
 tion of the world, as not to feel his heart bound 
 at the mention of the spring ? 
 
 When night overshadows a romantic scene 
 all is stillness, silence, and quiet ; the poets d 
 the grove cease their melody, the moon tower- 
 over the world in gentle majesty, men forget 
 their labours, and their cares, and every passion 
 and pursuit is for a while suspended. All this 
 we know already, yet we hear it repeated with- 
 out weariness ; because such is generally the life 
 of man, that he is pleased to think on the time 
 when he shall pause from a sense of his condi- 
 tion. 
 
 When a poetical grove invites us to its covert, 
 we know that we shall find what we have al- 
 ready seen, a limpid brook murmuring over peb- 
 bles, a bank diversified with flowers, a green 
 arch that excludes the sun, and a natural grot 
 shaded with myrtles ; yet who can forbear to 
 enter the pleasing gloom, to enjoy coolness and 
 privacy, and gratify himself once more by scenes 
 with which nature has formed him to be de- 
 lighted ? 
 
 Many moral sentiments likewise are so adapt- 
 ed to our state, that they find approbation when- 
 ever they solicit it, and are seldom read without 
 exciting a gentle emotion in the mind : such is 
 the comparison of the life of man with the dura- 
 tion of a flower, a thought which perhaps every 
 nation has heard warbled in its own language, 
 from the inspired poets of the Hebrews to our 
 own times ; yet this comparison must always 
 please, because every heart feels its justness, 
 and every hour confirms it by example. 
 
 Such, likewise, is the precept that directs us 
 to use the present hour, and refer nothing to a 
 distant time, which we are uncertain whether we 
 shall reach : this every moralist may venture to 
 inculcate, because it will always be approved, 
 and because it is always forgotten. 
 
 This rule is, indeed, every day enforced, by 
 arguments more powerful than the dissertations 
 of moralists: we see men pleasing themselves 
 with future happiness, fixing a certain hour for 
 the completion of their wishes, and perishing 
 some at a greater and some at a less distance 
 from the happy time; all complaining of their 
 disappointments, and lamenting that they had 
 suffered the years which Heavsn allowed them, 
 to pass without improvement, and deferred the 
 principal purpose of their lives to the time when 
 life itself was to forsake them. 
 
 It is not only uncertain, whether through oil 
 the casualties and dangers which beset the life 
 of man, we shall be able to reach the time ap 
 pointed for happiness or wisdom ; but it is likely, 
 that whatever now hinders us from doing that 
 which our reason and conscience declare neces- 
 sary to be done, will equally obstruct us in times 
 to come. It is easy for the imagination, operat- 
 ing on things not yet existing,~to please itself 
 with scenes of unmingled felicity, or plan out 
 courses of uniform virtue ; but good and evil are
 
 No. 111.] 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 in real life inseparably united; habits grow 
 stronger by indulgence ; and reason loses her 
 dignity, in proportion as she has oftener yielded 
 to temptation : " he that cannot live well to- 
 day," says Martial, "will be less qualified to 
 live well to-morrow." 
 
 Of the uncertainty of every human good, 
 every human being seems to be convinced ; yet 
 this uncertainty is voluntarily increased by un- 
 necessary delay, whether we respect external 
 causes, or consider the nature of our own minds. 
 He that now feels a desire to do right, and wishes 
 to regulate his life according to his reason, is 
 not sure that, at any future time assignable, he 
 shall be able to rekindle the same ardour ; he 
 that has now an opportunity offered him of 
 breaking loose from vice and folly, cannot know, 
 but that he shall hereafter be more entangled, 
 and struggle for freedom without obtaining it, 
 
 We are so unwilling to believe any thing to 
 our own disadvantage, that we will always 
 imagine the perspicacity of our judgment and 
 the strength of our resolution more likely to in- 
 crease than to grow less by time ; and, therefore, 
 conclude, that the will to pursue laudable pur- 
 poses, will be always seconded by the power. 
 
 But, however we may be deceived in calculat- 
 ing the strength of our faculties, we cannot doubt 
 the uncertainty of that life in which they must 
 be employed : we see every day the unexpected 
 death of our friends and our enemies, we see 
 new graves hourly opened for men older and 
 younger than ourselves, for the cautious and the 
 careless, the dissolute and the temperate, for 
 men who, like us, were providing to enjoy or 
 improve hours now irreversibly cut off: we see 
 all this, and yet, instead of living, let year glide 
 after year in preparations to live. 
 
 Men are so frequently cut off in the midst of 
 their projections, that sudden death causes little 
 emotion in them that behold it, unless it be im- 
 pressed upon the attention by uncommon cir- 
 cumstances. I, like every other man, have out- 
 lived multitudes, have seen ambition sink in its 
 triumphs, and beauty perish in its bloom ; but 
 have been seldom so much affected as by the 
 fate of Euryalus, whom I lately lost as I began 
 to love him. 
 
 Euryalus had for some time flourished in a 
 lucrative profession ; but having suffered his 
 imagination to be fired by an unextinguishable 
 curiosity, he grew weary of the same dull round 
 of life, resolved to harass himself no longer with 
 the drudgery of getting money, but to quit his 
 business and his profit, and enjoy for a few years 
 the pleasures of travel. His friends heard him 
 proclaim his resolution without suspecting that 
 he intended to pursue it : but he was constant 
 to his purpose, and with great expedition closed 
 his accounts and sold his moveables, passed a 
 few days in bidding farewell to his companions, 
 und with all the eagerness of romantic chivalry, 
 crossed the sea in search of happiness. What- 
 ever place was renowned in ancient or modern 
 history, whatever region art or nature had dis- 
 tinguished, he determined to visit: full of de- 
 sign and hope, he landed on the continent ; his 
 friends expected accounts from him of the new 
 scenes that opened in his progress, but were in- 
 formed in a few days, that Euryalus was dead. 
 
 Such was the end of Euryalus. He is entered 
 that state whence none ever shall return ; and 
 
 can now only benefit his friends, by remaining 
 to their memories a permanent and efficacious 
 instance of the blindness of desire, and the un- 
 certainty of all terrestrial good. But perhaps 
 every man has, like me, lost an Euryalus, has 
 known a friend die with happiness in his grasp; 
 and yet every man continues to think himself 
 secure of life, and defers to some future time of 
 leisure what he knows it will be fatal to have 
 finally omitted. 
 
 It is, indeed, with this as with other frailties 
 inherent in our nature ; the desire of deferring 
 to another time, what cannot be done without 
 endurance of some pain, or forbearance of some 
 pleasure, will, perhaps, never be totally overcome 
 or suppressed ; there will always be something 
 that we shall wish to have finished, and be ne- 
 vertheless unwilling to begin : but against this 
 unwillingness it is our duty to struggle, and 
 every conquest over our passions will make way 
 for an easier conquest: custom is equally forci- 
 ble to bad and good ; nature will always be at 
 variance with reason, but will rebel more feebly 
 as she is oftener subdued. 
 
 The common neglect of the present hour is 
 more shameful and criminal, as no man is be- 
 trayed to it by error, but admits it by negligencp. 
 Of the instability of life, the weakest understand 
 ing never thinks wrong, though the strongest 
 often omits to think justly : reason and experi- 
 ence are always ready to inform us of our real 
 state ; but we 'refuse to listen to their sugges- 
 tions, because we feel our hearts unwilling to 
 obey them: but, surely, nothing is more un- 
 worthy of a reasonable being, than to shut his 
 eyes, when he sees the road which he is com- 
 manded to travel, that he may deviate with few- 
 er reproaches from himself: nor could any mo- 
 tive to tenderness, except the consciousness that 
 we have all been guilty of the same fault, dis- 
 pose us to pity those who thus consign them- 
 selves to voluntary ruin. 
 
 No. 111.] TUESDAY, Nov. 27. 1753. 
 Qua non fecimut ipri, 
 
 Fix ea nostra coco. 
 
 OVID. 
 
 The deeds of long descended ancestors 
 
 Are but by grace of imputation ours. DRYDCTI 
 
 THE evils inseparably annexed to the present 
 condition of man, are so numerous and afflictive, 
 that it has been, from age to age, the task of 
 some to bewail, and of others to solace them , 
 and he, therefore, will be in danger of seeming 
 a common enemy, who shall attempt to depreci- 
 ate the few pleasures and felicities which nature 
 has allowed us. 
 
 Yet I will confess, that I have sometimes em- 
 ployed my thoughts in examining the preten- 
 sions that are made to happiness, by the splendid 
 and envied condition of life ; and have not 
 thought the hour unprofitably spent, when I have 
 detected the imposture of counterfeit advan- 
 tages, and found disquiet lurking under false ap- 
 pearances of gayety and greatness. 
 
 It is asserted by a tragic poet, that " est misei 
 nemo nisi comparatus," " no man is miserable, 
 but as he is compared with others happier than
 
 S42 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 [No. JiJ. 
 
 himself:" this position is not strictly and philo- 
 sophically true. He might have said with rigor- 
 ous propriety, that no man ' s happy but as he is 
 compared with the miserable ; ibr such is the 
 stiitn of this world, that we find in it absolute mi- 
 eery, but happiness only comparative ; we may 
 incur as much pain as we can possibly endure, 
 though we can never obtain as much happiness 
 as we might possibly enjoy. 
 
 Yet it is certain likewise, that many of our 
 miseries are merely comparative : we are often 
 made unhappy, not by the presence of any real 
 evil, but by the absence of some fictitious good ; 
 of something which is not required by any real 
 want of nature which has not in itself any power 
 of gratification, and which neither reason nor 
 fancy would have prompted us to wish, did we 
 not see it in the possession of others. 
 
 For a mind diseased with vain longings after 
 unattainable advantages, no medicine can be 
 prescribed, but an impartial inquiry into the real 
 worth of that which is so ardently desired. It is 
 well known, how much the mind, as well as the 
 eye, is deceived by distance ; and, perhaps, it 
 will be found, that of many imagined blessings it 
 may be doubted, whether he that wants or pos- 
 sesses them has more reason to be satisfied with 
 his lot. 
 
 The dignity of high birth and long extraction, 
 no man, to whom nature has denied it, can con- 
 fer upon himself; and, therefore, it deserves to 
 be considered, whether the want of that which 
 can never be gained, may not easily be endured. 
 It is true, that if we consider the triumph and de- 
 light with which most of those recount their an- 
 cestors, who have ancestors to recount, and the 
 artifices by which some who have risen to unex- 
 pected fortune endeavour to insert themselves 
 into an honourable stem, we shall be inclined to 
 lancy that wisdom or virtue may be had by inhe- 
 ritance, or that all the excellences of a line of pro- 
 genitors are accumulated on their descendant. 
 Reason, indeed, will soon inform us, that our es- 
 timation of birth is arbitrary, and capricious, and 
 that dead ancestors can have no influence but 
 upon imagination : let it then be examined, whe- 
 ther one dream may not operate in the place of 
 another ; whether he that owes nothing to fore- 
 fathers, may not receive equal pleasure from the 
 consciousness of owing all to himself; whether 
 he may not, with a little meditation, find it more 
 honourable to found than to continue a family, 
 and to gain dignity than transm it it ; whether, if he 
 receives no dignity from the virtues of his family, 
 he does not likewise escape the danger of being 
 disgraced by their crimes ; and whether he that 
 brings a new name into the world, has not the 
 convenience of playing the game of life without 
 a stake, and opportunity of winning much though 
 he has nothing to lose. 
 
 There is another opinion concerning happi- 
 ness, which approacnes much more nearly to 
 universality, but which may, perhaps, with equal 
 reason be disputed. The pretensions to ances- 
 tral honours many of the sons of earth easily see 
 to be ill-grounded ; hut all agree to celebrate the 
 advantage of hereditary riches, and to consider 
 those as the minions of fortune, who are wealthy 
 from their cradles, whose estate is "res nanparta 
 labors, sed relicta;" " the acquisition of another, 
 not of themselves;" and whom a father's indus- 
 try has dispensed from a laborious attention to 
 
 arts or commerce, and left at liberty to dispose of 
 life as fancy shall direct them. 
 
 If every man were wise and virtuous, capable 
 to discern the best use of time, and resolute to 
 practise it, it might be granted, I think, without 
 hesitation, that total liberty would be a blessing; 
 and that it would be desirable to be left at large 
 to the exercise of religious and social duties, with- 
 out the interruption of importunate avocations. 
 
 But, since felicity is relative, and that which is 
 the means of happiness to one man may be to 
 another the cause of misery, we are to consider, 
 what state is best adapted to human nature in its 
 present degeneracy and frailty. And, surely, to 
 far the greater number it is highly expedient, that 
 they should by some settled scheme of duties be 
 rescued from the tyranny of caprice, that they 
 should be driven on by necessity through the 
 paths of life with their attention confined to a 
 stated task, that they may be less at leisure to 
 deviate into mischief at the call of folly. 
 
 When we observe the lives of those whom an 
 ample inheritance has let loose to their own di- 
 rection, what do we discover that can excite our 
 envy? Their time seems not to pass with much 
 applause from others, or satisfaction to them- 
 selves : many squander their exuberance of for- 
 tune in luxury and debauchery, and have no other 
 use of money than to inflame their passions, and 
 riot in a wide range of licentiousness ; others, 
 less criminal indeed, but surely not much to be 
 praised, lie down to sleep, and rise up to trifle, 
 are employed every morning in finding expedi- 
 ents to rid themselves of the day, chase pleasure 
 through all the places of public resort, fly from 
 London to Bath, and from Bath to London, with- 
 out any other reason for changing place, but that 
 they go in quest of company as idle and as va- 
 grant as themselves, always endeavouring to 
 raise some new desire, that they may have some- 
 thing to pursue, to kindle some hope which they 
 know will be disappointed, changing one amuse- 
 ment for another which a few months will make 
 equally insipid, or sinking into languor and dis- 
 ease for want of something to actuate their bo- 
 dies or exhilarate their minds. 
 
 Whoever has frequented those places, where 
 idlers assemble to escape from solitude, knows 
 that this is generally the state of the wealthy ; 
 and from this state it is no great hardship to be 
 debarred. No man can be happy in total idle- 
 ness : he that should be condemned to lie torpid 
 and motionless, " would fly for recreation," says 
 South, "to the mines and the galleys ;" and it 
 is well, when nature or fortune finds employ- 
 ment for those, who would not have known how 
 to procure it for themselves. 
 
 He, whose mind is engaged by the acquisition 
 or improvement of a fcrtune, not only escapes 
 the insipidity of indifference, and the tediousness 
 of inactivity, but gains enjoyments wholly un- 
 known to those, who live lazily on the toil of 
 others ; for life affords no higher pleasure than 
 that of surmounting difficulties, passing from 
 one step of success to another, forming new 
 wishes, and seeing them gratified. He that la- 
 bours in any great or laudable undertaking, has 
 his fatigues first supported by hope, and after- 
 wards rewarded by joy ; he is always moving 
 to a certain end, and wnen he has attained it, 
 an end more distant invites him to a new pur- 
 suit.
 
 No. 115.] 
 
 THE ADVENTURER 
 
 343 
 
 It does not, indeed, always happen, that dili- 
 
 ence is fortunate ; the wisest schemes are 
 roken by unexpected accidents ; the most con- 
 stant perseverance sometimes toils through life 
 without a recompense ; but labour, though un- 
 successful, is more eligible than idleness ; he 
 that prosecutes a lawful purpose by lawful 
 means, acts always with the approbation of his 
 own reason ; he is animated through the course 
 of his endeavours by an expectation which, 
 though not certain, he knows to be just; and is 
 at last comforted in his disappointment, by the 
 consciousness that he has not failed by his own 
 fault. 
 
 That kind of life is most happy which affords 
 us most opportunities of gaining our own esteem; 
 and what can any man infer in his own favour 
 from a condition to which, however prosperous, 
 he contributed nothing, and which the vilest and 
 weakest of the species would have obtained by 
 the same right, had he happened to be the son 
 of the same father ? 
 
 To strive with difficulties, and to conquer 
 them, is the highest human felicity ; the next is, 
 to strive, and deserve to conquer: but he whose 
 life has passed without a contest, and who can 
 boast neither success nor merit, can survey him- 
 self only as a useless filler of existence ; and if 
 he is content with his own character, must owe 
 his satisfaction to insensibility. 
 
 Thus it appears that the satirist advised right- 
 ly, when he directed us to resign ourselves to the 
 hands of Heaven, and to leave to superior pow- 
 ers the determination of our lot : 
 
 Permittes ipiis ezpendtrt Numinibus, quid 
 Convcnial nobis, rabusque sit utile iwstrit: 
 Carior esl illis homo guam sibi. 
 
 Intrust thy fortune to the Powers aoove : 
 Leave them to manage for thee, and to grant 
 What their unerring wisdom sees thee want. 
 In goodness as in greatness they excel ; 
 Ah ! that we loved ourselves but half so well. 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 What state of life admits most happiness, is 
 uncertain ; but that uncertainty ought to repress 
 the petulance of comparison, and silence the 
 murmurs of discontent. 
 
 > T o. 115.] TUESDAY, DEC. 11, 1753. 
 
 Scribirmu indocti doctiqae. HOR. 
 
 All dare to write, who can or cannot read. 
 
 THEY who have attentively considered the his- 
 tory of mankind, know that every age has its 
 peculiar character. At one time, no desire is 
 ielt but for military honours ; every summer af- 
 fords battles and sieges, and the world is filled 
 with ravage, bloodshed, and devastation : this 
 sanguinary fury at length subsides, and nations 
 arc divided into factions, by controversies about 
 points that will never be decided. Men then 
 grow weary of debate and altercation, and apply 
 themselves to the arts of profit; trading com- 
 panies are formed, manufactures improved, and 
 navigation extended ; and nothing is any longer 
 thought on, but the increase and preservation of 
 property, the artifices of getting money, and the 
 pleasures of spending it 
 
 The present age, if we consider chiefly the 
 state of our own country, may be styled with 
 groat propriety The dge of Authors ; for, per- 
 haps, there never was a time in which men of 
 all degrees of ability, of every kind of education, 
 of every profession and employment, were post- 
 ing with ardour so general to the press. The 
 province of writing was formerly left to those, 
 who by study, or appearance of study, were sup- 
 posed to have gained knowledge unattainable by 
 the busy part of mankind ; but in these enlight- 
 ened days, every man is qualified to instruct eve- 
 ry other man : and he that beats the anvil, or 
 guides the plough, not content with supplying cor- 
 poral necessities, amuses himself in the hours of 
 leisure with providing intellectual pleasures for 
 his countrymen. 
 
 It may be observed, that of this, as of other 
 evils, complaints have been made by every gene- 
 ration ; but though it may, perhaps, be true, that 
 at all times more have been willing than have 
 been able to write, yet there is no reason for be- 
 lieving, that the dogmatical legions of the present 
 race were ever equalled in number by any former 
 period : for so widely is spread the itch of lite- 
 rary praise, that almost every man is an author 
 either in act or in purpose ; has either bestowed 
 his favours on the public, or withholds them, that 
 they may be more seasonably offered, or made 
 more worthy of acceptance. 
 
 In former times, the pen, like the sword, was 
 considered as consigned by nature to the hands 
 of men ; the ladies contented themselves with 
 private virtues and domestic excellence ; and a 
 female wrifer, like a female warrior, was consi- 
 dered as a kind of eccentric being, that deviated, 
 however illustriously, from her due sphere of mo- 
 tion, and was, therefore, rather to be gazed at 
 with wonder, than countenanced by imitation. 
 But as in the times past are said to have been a n a- 
 tion of Amazons, who drew the bow and wielded 
 the battle-axe, formed encampments and wasted 
 nations, the revolution of years has now produced 
 a generation of Amazons of the pen, who with 
 the spirit of their predecessors have set mascu- 
 line tyranny at defiance, asserted their claim to 
 the regions of science, and seem resolved to 
 contest the usurpation of virility. 
 
 Some, indeed, there are of both sexes, who arj 
 authors only in desire, but have not yet attained 
 the power of executing their intentions ; whoso 
 performances have not arrived at bulk sufficient 
 to form a volume, or who have not the confi- 
 dence, however impatient of nameless obscurity, 
 to solicit openly the assistance of the printer. 
 Among these are the innumerable correspond- 
 ents of public papers, who are always offering 
 assistance which no man will receive, and sug- 
 gesting hints that are never taken, and who com- 
 plain loudly of the perverseness and arrogance 
 of authors, lament their insensibility of their own 
 interest, and fill the coffee-houses with dark sto- 
 ries of performances by eminent hands, which 
 have been offered and rejected. 
 
 To what cause this universal eagerness of 
 writing can be properly ascribed, I have not yet 
 been able to discover. It is said, that every art 
 is propagated in proportion to the rewards confer- 
 red upon it ; a position from which a stranger 
 would naturally infer, that literature was now 
 blessed with patronage far transcending the can- 
 dour or munificence of the Augustan age, that
 
 344 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 [.No. 
 
 the road to greatness was open to none but au- 
 thors, and that by writing alone riches and honour 
 were to be obtained. 
 
 But since it is true, that writers, like other 
 competitors, are very li'ctle disposed to favour one 
 another, it is not to lie expected that at a time 
 when every man writes, any man will patronize; 
 and accordingly, there is not one that I can re- 
 collect at present, who professes the least re- 
 gard for the votaries of science, invites the ad- 
 dresses of learned men, or seems to hope for re- 
 putation from any pen but his own. 
 
 The cause, therefore, of this epidemical con- 
 spiracy for the destruction of paper, must remain 
 a secret ; nor can I discover, whether we owe it 
 f the influences of the constellations, or the in- 
 t mperature of seasons : whether the long con- 
 ti uiance of the wind at any single point, or in- 
 to xicating vapours exhaled from the earth, have 
 turned our nobles and our peasants, our soldiers 
 and traders, our men and women, all into wits, 
 philosophers, and writers. 
 
 It is, indeed, of more importance to search out 
 the cure than the cause of this intellectual ma- 
 lady ; and he would deserve well of his country, 
 who, instead of amusing himself with conjectu- 
 ral speculations, should find means of persuad- 
 ing the peer to inspect his steward's accounts, or 
 repair the rural mansion of his ancestors, who 
 could replace the tradesman behind his counter, 
 and send back the fanner to the mattock and the 
 flail. 
 
 General irregularities are known in time to 
 remedy themselves. By the constitution of an- 
 cient Egypt, the priesthood was continually in- 
 creasing, till at length there was no people be- 
 side themselves; the establishment was then 
 dissolved, and the number of priests was reduced 
 and limited. Thus among us, writers will per- 
 haps be multiplied, till no readers will bs found, 
 and then the ambition of writing must necessarily 
 cease. 
 
 But as it will be long before the cure is thus 
 gradually effected, and ths evil should be stop- 
 ped, if it be possible, before it rises to so great a 
 height, I could wish that both sexes would fix 
 their thoughts upon some salutary considera- 
 tions, which might repress their ardour for that 
 reputation which not one of many thousands is 
 fated to obtain. 
 
 Let it be deeply impressed and frequently re- 
 collected, that he who has not obtained the pro- 
 per qualifications of an author, can have no ex- 
 cuse for the arrogance of writing, but the power 
 of imparting to mankind something necessary to 
 be known. A man uneducated or unlettered 
 may sometimes start a useful thought, or make 
 a lucky discovery, or obtain by chance some se- 
 cret of nature, or some intelligence of facts, of 
 which the most enlightened mind may be igno- 
 rant, and which it is better to reveal, though by 
 a rude and unskilful communication, than to lose 
 for ever by suppressing it. 
 
 But few will be justified by this plea ; for of 
 the innumerable books and pamphlets that have 
 overflowed the nation, scarce one has made any 
 addition to real knowledge, or contained more 
 than a transposition of common sentiments and 
 a repetition of common phrases. 
 
 It will be naturally inquired, when the man 
 who feels an inclination to write, may venture 
 to suppose himself properly qualified ; and, since 
 
 every man is inclined to think well cf his own in 
 teHect, by what test he may try his abilities, with- 
 out hazarding the contempt or resentment of the 
 public. 
 
 The first qualification of a writer, is a perfect 
 knowledge of the subject which he undertakes 
 to treat ; since we cannot teach what we do not 
 know, nor can properly undertake to instruct 
 others while we are ourselves in want of in- 
 struction. The next requisite is, that he be 
 master of the language in which he delivers his 
 sentiments: if he treats of science and demon- 
 stration, that he has attained a style clear, pure, 
 nervous, and expressive ; if his topics be proba- 
 ble and persuasory, that he be able to recom- 
 mend them by the superaddition of elegance and 
 imagery, to display the colours of varied uiction, 
 and pour forth the music of modulated periods. 
 
 If it be again inquired, upon what principles 
 any man shall conclude that he wants those 
 powers, it may be readily answered, that no end 
 is attained but by the proper means; he only 
 can rationally presume that he understands a 
 subject, who has read and compared the writers 
 that have hitherto discussed it, familiarized theii 
 arguments to himself by long meditation, con- 
 sulted the foundations of different systems, and 
 separated truth from error by a rigorous exami 
 nation. 
 
 In like manner, he only has aright to suppose 
 that he can express his thoughts, whatever they 
 are, with perspicuity or elegance, who has care- 
 fully perused the best authors, accurately noted 
 their diversities of style, diligently selected the 
 best modes of diction, and familiarized them by 
 long habits of attentive practice; 
 
 No man is a rhetorician or philosopher by 
 chance. He who knows that he undertakes to 
 write on questions which he has never studied, 
 may without hesitation determine, that he is 
 about to waste his own time and that of his read- 
 er, and expose himself to the derision of those 
 whom he aspires to instruct; he that without 
 forming his style by the study of the best models 
 hastens to obtrude his compositions on the pub- 
 lic, may be certain, that whatever hope or flat- 
 tery may suggest, he shall shock the learned ear 
 with barbarisms, and contribute, wherever his 
 work shall be received, to the depravation of 
 taste and the corruption of language. 
 
 No. 119.] TUESDAY, DEC. 25, 1753. 
 
 atius regnes aviditm domando 
 Spiritum, quam si Lybiam remotif 
 Gadibusjungas, et ute.rque Pasrua 
 Servia.1 uni. 
 
 By virtue's precepts to control 
 
 The thirsty cravings of the soul, 
 
 Is over wider realms to reigri 
 
 Unenvied monarch, than if Spain 
 
 You could to distant Lybia join, 
 
 And both the Carthages were thine. FRANCIS. 
 
 WHEN Socrates was asked, " which of mortal 
 men was to be accounted nearest to the gods in 
 happiness?" he answered, "that man who is in 
 want of the fewest things." 
 
 In this answer, Socrates, left it to be guessed 
 by his auditors, whether, by the exemption from 
 want which was to constitute happiness hti
 
 No. 119.J 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 o45 
 
 meant amplitude of possessions or contraction 
 oi desire. And, indeed, there is so little differ- 
 ence between them, that Alexander the Great 
 confessed the inhabitant of a tub the next man to 
 the master of the world ; and left a declaration 
 to future ases, that if he was not Alexander, he 
 should wish to be Diogenes. 
 
 These two states, however, though they re- 
 semble each other in their consequence, differ 
 widely with respect to the facility with which 
 they may be attained. To make great acquisi- 
 tions can happen to very few ; and in the uncer- 
 tainty of human affairs, to many it will be inci- 
 dent to labour without reward, and to lose what 
 they already possess by endeavours to make it 
 more; some will always want abilities, and others 
 opportunities to accumulate wealth. It is there- 
 fore happy, that nature has allowed us a more 
 certain and easy road to plenty ; every man may 
 grow rich by contracting his wishes, and by 
 quiet acquiescence in what has been given him, 
 supply the absence of more. 
 
 Yet so far is almost every man from emulat- 
 ing the happiness ef the gods, by any other 
 means than grasping at their power, that it 
 seems to be the great business of life to create 
 wants as fast as they are satisfied. It has been 
 long observed by moralists, that every man 
 squanders or loses a great part of that life, of 
 which every man knows and deplores the short- 
 ness : and it may be remarked with equal just- 
 ness, that though every man laments his own 
 insufficiency In his happiness, and knows him- 
 self a necessitous and precarious being, inces- 
 santly soliciting the assistance of others, and 
 feeling wants which bis own art or strength can- 
 not supply ; yet there is no man, who does not, 
 by the superaddition of unnatural cares, render 
 himself still more dependent ; who does not cre- 
 ate an artificial poverty, and suffer himself to feel 
 pain for the want of that, of which, when it is 
 gained, he can have no enjoyment. 
 
 It must, indeed, be allowed, that as we lose 
 part of our time because it steals away silent and 
 invisible, and many an hour is passed before we 
 recollect that it is passing ; so unnatural desires 
 insinuate themselves unobserved into the mind, 
 and we do not perceive that they are gaining 
 upon us, till the pain which they give us awakens 
 us to notice. No man is sufficiently vigilant to 
 take account of every minute of his life, or to 
 watch every motion of his heart. Much of our 
 time likewise is sacrificed to custom: we trifle, 
 because we see others trifle ; in the same man- 
 ner we catch from example the contagion of de- 
 sire ; we see all about us busied in pursuit of 
 imaginary good, and begin to bustle in the same 
 chase, lest greater activity should triumph over 
 us. 
 
 It is true that to man as a member of society, 
 many things become necessary, which, perhaps, 
 in a state of nature are superfluous ; and that 
 many things not absolutely necessary, are yet 
 so useful and convenient, that they cannot ea- 
 sily be spared. I will make yet a more ample 
 and liberal concession. In opulent states, and 
 regular governments, the temptations to wealth 
 and rank, and to the distinctions that follow 
 them, are such as no force of understanding finds 
 it easy to resist. 
 
 If, therefore, I saw the quiet of life disturbed 
 only by endeavours after wealth and honour ; by 
 
 solicitude, which the world, whether justly or 
 not, considered as important; I should scarcely 
 have had courage to inculcate any precepts of 
 moderation and forbearance. He that is en- 
 gaged in a pursuit, in which all mankind profess 
 to be his rivals, is supported by the authority of 
 all mankind in the prosecution of his design, and 
 will, therefore, scarcely stop to hear the lectures 
 of a solitary philosopher. Nor am I certain, that 
 the accumulation of honest gain ought to be hin- 
 dered, or the ambition of just honours always to 
 be repressed. Whatever can enable the pos- 
 sessor to confer any benefit upon others, may be 
 desired upon virtuous principles ; and we ought 
 not too rashly to accuse any man of intending to 
 confine the influence of his acquisitions to him- 
 self. 
 
 But if we look round upon mankind, whom 
 shall we find among those that fortune permits 
 to form their own manners, that is not torment 
 ing himself with a wish for something, of which 
 all the pleasure and all the benefit will cease at 
 the moment of attainment? One man is beggar- 
 ing his posterity to build a house, which when 
 finished he never will inhabit ; another is level- 
 ling mountains to open a prospect, which when 
 he has enjoyed it, he can enjoy no more; another 
 is painting ceilings, carving wainscot, and filling 
 his apartments with costly furniture, only that 
 some neighbouring house may not be richer or 
 finer than his own. 
 
 That splendour and elegance are not desirable, 
 I am not so abstracted from life as to inculcate ; 
 but if we inquire closely into the reason for 
 which they are esteemed, we shall find them 
 valued principally as evidences of wealth. No- 
 thing, therefore, can show greater depravity of 
 understanding, than to delight in the show when 
 the reality is wanting; or voluntarily to become 
 poor, that strangers may for a time imagine us to 
 be rich. 
 
 But there are yet minuter objects and more 
 trifling anxieties. Men may be found, who are 
 kept from sleep by the want of a shell particularly 
 variegated ; who are wasting their lives in stra- 
 tagems to obtain a book in a language which 
 they do not understand ; who pine with envy 
 at the flowers of another man's parterre ; who 
 hover like vultures round the owner of a fossil, 
 in hopes to plunder his cabinet at his death ; and 
 who would not much regret to see a street in 
 flames, if a box of medals might be scattered in 
 the tumult. 
 
 He that imagines me to speak of these sages 
 in terms exaggerated and hyperbolical, has con- 
 versed but little with the race of virtuosos. A 
 slight acquaintance with their studies, and a few 
 visits to their assemblies, would inform him, that 
 nothing is so worthless, but that prejudice and 
 caprice can give it value ; nor any thing of so 
 little use, but that by indulging an idle competi- 
 tion or unreasonable pride, a man may make it 
 to himself one of the necessaries of life. 
 
 Desires like these, I may surely, without in- 
 curring the censure of moroseness, advise every 
 man to repel when they invade his mind ; or if 
 he admits them, never to allow them any great- 
 er influence than is necessary to give petty em- 
 ployments the power of pleasing, and diversify 
 the day with slight amusements. 
 
 An ardent wish, whatever be its object, wiL 
 always be able to interrupt tranquillity. What
 
 316 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 [No. 120. 
 
 wo believe ourselves to want, torments us not in 
 proportion to its real value, but according to the 
 estimation by which we have rated it in our own 
 minds ; in some diseases, the patient has been 
 observed to long for food, which scarce any ex- 
 tremity of hunger would in health have com- 
 pelled him to swallow; but while his organs 
 were thus depraved, the craving was irresisti- 
 ble, nor could any rest be obtained till it was ap- 
 peased by compliance. Of the same nature are 
 the irregular appetites of the mind : though they 
 are often excited by trifles, they are equally dis- 
 quieting with real wants ; the Roman, who wept 
 at the death of his lamprey, felt the same degree 
 of sorrow that extorts tears on other occasions. 
 
 Inordinate desires, of whatever kind, ought to 
 be repressed upon a yet higher consideration ; 
 they must be considered as enemies not only to 
 happiness but to virtue. There are men, among 
 those commonly reckoned the learned and the 
 wise, who spare no stratagems to remove a com- 
 petitor at an auction, who will sink the price of 
 a rarity at the expense of truth, and whom it is 
 not sale to trust alone in a library or cabinet. 
 These are faults, which the fraternity seem to 
 look upon as jocular mischiefs, or to think ex- 
 cused by the violence of temptation : but I shall 
 always fear that he who accustoms himself to 
 fraud in little things, wants only opportunity to 
 practise it in greater ; " he that has hardened 
 himself by killing a sheep," says Pythagoras, 
 " will with less reluctance shed the blood of a 
 man." 
 
 To prize every thing according to its real use, 
 ought to be the aim of a rational being. There 
 are few things which can much conduce to hap- 
 piness, and, therefore, few things to be ardently 
 desired. He that looks upon the business and 
 bustle of the world, with the philosophy with 
 which Socrates surveyed the fair at Athens, 
 will turn away at last with his exclamation, 
 "How many things are here which I do not 
 want !" 
 
 No. 120.] SATURDAY, DEC. 29, 175* 
 
 -Ultima semper 
 
 Etpeetanda dies homini, dicique bcittus 
 
 Ante ulntum nemo supremaque funera debet. OVID. 
 
 But no frail man, however great or hiffh, 
 Can be concluded bless'd before lie die. 
 
 ADDISON. 
 
 THE numerous miseries of human life have ex- 
 torted in all ages a universal complaint. The 
 wisest of men terminated all his experiments in 
 search of happiness, by the mournful confession, 
 that " all is vanity ;" and the ancient patriarchs 
 lamented, that " the days of their pilgrimage 
 were few and evil." 
 
 There is, indeed, no topic on which it is more 
 superfluous to accumulate authorities, nor any 
 assertion of which our own eyes will more easily 
 discover, or our sensations more frequently im- 
 press the truth, than, that misery is the lot of 
 man, that our present state is a state of danger 
 and infelicity. 
 
 When we take the most distant prospect of 
 life, what does it present us but a chaos of un- 
 bappiness, a confused and tumultuous scene of 
 'aoour and contest, disappointment and defeat ? 
 
 If we view past ages in the reflection of history 
 what do they offer to our meditation but crimes 
 and calamities ? One year is distinguished by a 
 famine, another by an earthquake: kingdoms 
 are made de?olate, sometimes by wars, and some 
 times by pestilence ; the peace of the world is 
 interrupted at one time by the caprices of a ty- 
 rant, at another by the rago of the conqueror, 
 The memory is stored only with vicissitudes of 
 evil ; acid the happiness, such as it is, of one part 
 of mankind, is found to arise commonly from 
 sanguinary success, from victories which confer 
 upon them the power, not so much of improving 
 life by any new enjoyment, as of inflicting misery 
 on others, and gratifying their own pride by com- 
 parative greatness. 
 
 But by him that examined life with a more 
 close attention, the happiness of the world will 
 be found still less than it appears. In some in- 
 tervals of public prosperity, or to use terms 
 more proper, in some intermissions of calamity, 
 a general diffusion of happiness may seem to 
 overspread a people ; all is triumph and exulta- 
 tion, jollity and plenty; there are no public fears 
 and dangers, and "no complainings in the 
 streets." But the condition of individuals is 
 very little mended by this general calm ; pain 
 and malice and discontent still continue their 
 havoc; the silent depredation goes incessantly 
 forward ; and the grave continues to be filled by 
 the victims of sorrow. 
 
 He that enters a gay assembly, beholds the 
 cheerfulness displayed in every countenance, 
 and finds all sitting vacant and disengaged, with 
 no other attention than to give or receive plea- 
 sure, would naturally imagine thathe had reach- 
 ed at last the metropolis of felicity, the place sa- 
 cred to gladness of heart, from whence all fear 
 and anxiety were irreversibly excluded. Such, 
 indeed, we may often find to bs the opinion ot 
 those, who from a lower station look up to the 
 pomp and gayety which they cannot reach ; but 
 who is there of those who frequent these luxuri- 
 ous assemblies, that will not confess his own 
 uneasiness, or cannot recount the vexations and 
 distresses that prey upon the lives of his gay 
 companions? 
 
 The world, in its best state, is nothing more 
 than a larger assembly of beings, combining to 
 counterfeit happiness which they do not feel, 
 employing every art and contrivance to embel- 
 lish life, and to hide their real condition from the 
 eyes of one another. 
 
 The species of happiness most obvious to the 
 observation of others, is that which depends upon 
 the goods of fortune ; yet even this. is often ficti- 
 tious. There is in the world more poverty than 
 is generally imagined ; not only because many 
 whose possessions are large have desires still 
 larger, and many measure their wants by the 
 gratifications which others enjoy: but great 
 numbers are pressed by real necessities which it 
 is their chief ambition to conceal, and are forced 
 to purchase the appearance of competence and 
 cheerfulness at the expense of many comforts 
 and conveniences of life. 
 
 Many, however, are confessedly rich, and 
 many more are sufficiently removed from all 
 danger of real poverty : but it has been long ago 
 remarked, that money cannot purchase quiet j 
 the highest of mankind can promise themselves 
 no exemption from that discord or suspicion, bj
 
 No. 126.] 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 34? 
 
 which the sweetness of domestic retirement is 
 destroyed ; and must always be even more ex- 
 posed, in the same degree as they are elevated 
 above others, to the treachery of dependents, 
 the calumny of defamers, and the violence of 
 opponents. 
 
 Affliction is inseparable from our present 
 state ; it adheres to all the inhabitants of this 
 world, in different proportions indeed, but with 
 an allotment which seems very little regulated 
 by our own conduct. 
 
 It has been the boast of some swelling moral- 
 ists, that every man's fortune was in his own 
 power, that prudence supplied the place of all 
 other divinities, and that happiness is the un- 
 failing consequence of virtue. But, surely, the 
 quiver of Omnipotence is stored with arrows, 
 against which the shield of human virtue, how- 
 ever adamantine it has been boasted, is held up 
 in vain : we do not always suffer by our crimes ; 
 we are not always protected by our innocence. 
 
 A good man is by no means exempt from the 
 danger of suffering by the crimes of others ; even 
 his goodness may raise him enemies of implaca- 
 ble malice and restless perseverance : the good 
 man has never been warranted by Heaven from 
 the treachery of friends, the disobedience of chil- 
 dren, or the dishonesty of a wife ; he may see his 
 cares made useless by profusion, his instructions 
 defeated by perverseness, and his kindness re- 
 jected by ingratitude : he may languish under the 
 infamy of false accusations, or perish reproach- 
 fully by an unjust sentence. 
 
 A good man is subject, like other mortals, to 
 all the influences of natural evil ; his harvest is 
 not spared by the tempest, nor his cattle by the 
 murrain ; his house flames like others in a con- 
 flagration ; nor have his ships any peculiar power 
 of resisting hurricanes : his mind, however ele- 
 vated, inhabits a body subject to innumerable 
 casualties, of which he must always share the 
 dangers and the pains ; he bears about him the 
 seeds of disease, and may linger away a great 
 part of his life under the tortures of the gout or 
 stone; at one time groaning with insufferable 
 anguish, at another dissolved in listlessness and 
 languor. 
 
 From this general and indiscriminate distribu- 
 tion of misery, the moralists have always derived 
 one of their strongest moral arguments for a fu- 
 ture state ; for since the common events of the 
 present life happey alike to the good and bad, it 
 follows from the justice of the Supreme Being, 
 that there must be another state of existence, in 
 which a just retribution shall be made, and every 
 man shall be happy and miserable according to 
 his works. 
 
 The miseries of life may, perhaps, afford some 
 proof of a future state, compared as well with the 
 mercy as the justice of God. It is scarcely to be 
 in.agined that Infinite Benevolence would create 
 a being capable of enjoying so much more than 
 is here to be enjoyed, and qualified by nature to 
 prolong pajn by remembrance, and anticipate it 
 by terror, if he was not designed for something 
 nobler and better than a state, in which many 
 of his faculties can serve only for his torment: 
 in which he is to be importuned by desires that 
 never can be satisfied, to feel many evils which 
 he had no power to avoid, and to fear many 
 which he shall never feel : there will surely come 
 a time, when every capacity of happiness 'shall 
 
 be filled, and none shall be wretched but by his 
 own fault. 
 
 In the mean time, it is by affliction chiefly that 
 the heart of man is purified, and that the thoughts 
 are fixed upon a better state. Prosperity, allay- 
 ed and imperfect as it is, has power to intoxicate 
 the imagination, to fix the mind upon the present 
 scene, to produce confidence and elation, and to 
 make him who enjoys affluence and honours for- 
 get the hand by which they were bestowed. It 
 is seldom that we are otherwise, than by afflic- 
 tion, awakened to a sense of our own imbecility, 
 or taught to know how little all our acquisitions 
 can conduce to safety or to quiet; and how justly 
 we may ascribe to the superintendence of a high- 
 er Power, those blessings which in the wanton- 
 ness of success we considered as the attainments 
 of our policy or courage. 
 
 Nothing confers so much ability to resist the 
 temptations that perpetually surround us, as an 
 habitual consideration of the shortness of life, 
 and the uncertainty of those pleasures that so- 
 licit our pursuit; and this consideration can be 
 inculcated only by affliction. " O Death ! how 
 bitter is the remembrance of thee, to a man that 
 lives at ease in his possessions!" If our present 
 state were one continued succession of delights, 
 or one uniform flow of calmness and tranquillity, 
 we should never willingly think upon its end ; 
 death would then surely surprise us as " a thief 
 in the night ;" and our task of duty would re- 
 main unfinished, till " the night came when no 
 man can work." 
 
 While affliction thus prepares us for felicity, 
 we may console ourselves under its pressures, by 
 remembering, that they are no particular marks 
 of divine displeasure : since all the distresses of 
 persecution have been suffered by those " of 
 whom the world was not worthy ;" and the Re- 
 deemer of mankind himself was "a man of sor- 
 rows and acquainted with grief!" 
 
 No. 126.] SATURDAY, JAN. 19, 1754. 
 
 -Sterilesnec legit arenas 
 
 Ut caneret paucis, mersitque hoc pulvere verum. 
 
 L.UCAN 
 
 Canst thou believe the vast eternal Mind 
 
 Was e'er to Syrts and Lybian sands confined ? 
 
 That he would choose this waste, this barren ground, 
 
 To teach the thin inhabitants around, 
 
 And leave his truth in wilds and deserts drown'd ? 
 
 THERE has always prevailed among that part of 
 mankind that addict their minds to speculation, 
 a propensity to talk much of the delights of re- 
 tirement : and some of the most pleasing com- 
 positions produced in every age contain descrip- 
 tions of the peace and happiness of a country 
 life. 
 
 I know not whether those who thus ambitious- 
 ly repeat the praises of solitude, have always 
 considered, how much they depreciate mankind 
 by declaring, that whatever is excellent or desir- 
 able is to be obtained by departing from them; 
 that the assistance which we may derive from 
 one another, is not equivalent to the evils which 
 we have to fear; that the kindness of a few if 
 overbalanced by the malice of many ; and that 
 the protection of society is too dearly purchased 
 by encountering its dangers and enduring its op- 
 pressions.
 
 343 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 [No. 126. 
 
 These specious representations of solitary hap- 
 piness, however opprobrious to human nature, 
 have so far spread their influence over the world, 
 that almost every man delights his imagination 
 with the hopes of obtaining some time an oppor- 
 tunity of retreat. Many, indeed, who enjoy re- 
 treat only in imagination, content themselves 
 with believing, that another year will transport 
 them to rural tranquillity, and die while they talk 
 of doing what, if they had lived longer, they 
 would never have done. But many likewise 
 there are, either of greater resolution or more 
 credulity, who in earnest try the state which 
 they have been taught to think thus secure from 
 cares and dangers ; and retire to privacy, either 
 that they may improve their happiness, increase 
 their knowledge, or exalt their virtue. 
 
 The greater part of the admirers of solitude, 
 as of all other classes of mankind, have no high- 
 er or remoter view, than the present gratification 
 of their passions. Of these, some, haughty and 
 impetuous, fly from society only because they 
 cannot bear to repay to others the regard which 
 themselves exact ; and think no state of life eli- 
 gible, but that which places them out of the 
 reach of censure or control, and affords them op- 
 portunities of living in a perpetual compliance 
 with their own inclinations, without the neces- 
 sity of regulating their actions by any other 
 man's convenience or opinion. 
 
 There are others, of minds more delicate and 
 tender, easily offbnded by every deviation from 
 rectitude, soon disgusted by ignorance or imper- 
 tinence, and always expecting from the conver- 
 sation of mankind more elegance, purity, and 
 truth, than the mingled mass of life will easily 
 afford. Such men are in haste to retire from 
 grossness, falsehood, and brutality ; and hope to 
 find in private habitations at least negative fe- 
 licity, an exemption from the shocks and pertur- 
 bations with which public scenes are continually 
 distressing them. 
 
 To neither of these votaries will solitude af- 
 ford that content, which she has been taught so 
 lavishly to promise. The man of arrogance will 
 quickly discover, that by escaping from his op- 
 ponents he has lost his flatterers, that greatness 
 is nothing where it is not seen, and power no- 
 thing where it cannot be felt : and he whose fa- 
 culties are employed in too close an observation 
 of failings and defects, will find his condition 
 very little mended by transferring his attention 
 from others to himself: he will probably soon 
 come back in quest of new objects, and be glad 
 to keep his captiousness employed on any cha- 
 racter rather than his own. 
 
 Others are seduced into solitude merely by 
 ihe authority of great names, and expect to find 
 those charms in tranquillity which have allured 
 statesmen and conquerors to the shades : these 
 likewise arc apt to wonder at their disappoint- 
 ment, for want of considering, that those whom 
 they aspire to imitate, carried with them to their 
 country seats minds full fraught with subjects 
 of reflection, the consciousness of great merit, the 
 memory of illustrious actions, the knowledge 
 of important events, and the seeds of mighty de- 
 signs to be ripened by future meditation. Soli- 
 tude was to such men a release from fatigue, and 
 ?m opportunity of usefulness. But what can re- 
 trement confer upon him, who having done no- 
 thing, can receive no support from his own im 
 
 portance, who having known nothing ran find 
 no entertainment in reviewing the past. j.nd who 
 intending nothing can form no hopes from pros- 
 pects of the future ? He can, surely, take no wiser 
 course than that of losing himself again in the 
 crowd, and filling the vacuities of his mind with, 
 the news of the day. 
 
 Others consider solitude as the parent of phi- 
 losophy, and retire in expectation of greater in- 
 timacies with science, as Numa repaired to the 
 groves when he conferred with Egeria. These 
 men have not always reason to repent. Some 
 studies require a continued prosecution of the 
 same train of thought, such as is too often inter 
 rupted by the petty avocations of common life, 
 sometimes, likewise, it is necessary, that a mul- 
 tiplicity of objects be at once present to the mind; 
 and every thing, therefore, must be kept at a 
 distance, which may perplex the memory, or dis- 
 sipate the attention. 
 
 But though learning may be conferred by soli 
 tude, its application must be attained by general 
 converse. He has learned to no purpose, that is 
 not able to teach ; and he will always teach un- 
 successfully, who cannot recommend his senti- 
 ments by his diction or address. 
 
 Even the acquisition of knowledge is often 
 much facilitated by the advantages of society: he 
 that never compares his notions with those of 
 others readily acquiesces in his first thoughts, 
 and very seldom discovers the objections which 
 may be raised against his opinions: he, therefore, 
 often thinks himself in possession of truth, when 
 he is only fondling an error long since exploded. 
 He that has neither companions nor rivals in his 
 studies, will always applaud his own progress, 
 and think highly of his performances, because 
 he knows not that others have equalled or excell- 
 ed him. And I am afraid it may be added, that 
 the student who withdraws himself from the 
 world, will soon feel that ardour extinguished 
 which praise and emulation had enkindled, and 
 take the advantage of secrecy to sleep, rather 
 than to labour. 
 
 There remains yet another set of recluses, 
 whose intention entitles them to higher respect, 
 and whose motives deserve a more serious consi- 
 deration. These retire from the world, not 
 merely to bask in ease or gratify curiosity ; but 
 that being disengaged from common cares, they 
 may employ more time in the duties of religion : 
 that they may regulate their actions with stricter 
 vigilance, and purify their thoughts by more fre- 
 quent meditation. 
 
 To men thus elevated above the mists of mor- 
 tality, I am far from presuming myself qualified 
 to give directions. On him that appears " to 
 pass through things temporary," with no other 
 care than " not to lose finally the things eternal," 
 I look with such veneration as inclines me to ap- 
 prove his conduct in the whole, without a minute 
 examination of its parts ; yet I could never for- 
 bear to wish, that while vice is every day multi- 
 plying seducements, anil stalking forth with more 
 hardened effrontery, virtue would not withdraw 
 the influence of her presence, or forbear to assert 
 her natural dignity by open and undaunted per- 
 severance in the right. Piety practised in soli- 
 tude, like the flower that blooms in the deserts, 
 may give its fragrance to the winds of heaven, 
 and delight those unbodied spirits that survey 
 the works of God and the actions of men ; but it
 
 >. 128.] 
 
 *ics',o f V3 no assistance upon earthly beings, and 
 no*V3ver free from taints of impurity, yet wants 
 the sacred splendour of beneficence. 
 
 Oui Maker, who though he gave us such va- 
 rieties of temper and such difference of powers, 
 yet designed us all for happiness, undoubtedly 
 intended, that, we should obtain that happiness 
 by different means. Some are unable to resist 
 the temptations of importunity, or the impetuosi- 
 ty of their own passions incited by the force of 
 present temptations : of these it is undoubtedly 
 the duty to fly from enemies which they cannot 
 conquer, and to cultivate, in the calm of solitude, 
 that virtue which is too tender to endure the tem- 
 pest of public life. But there are others, whose 
 passions grow more strong and irregular in pri- 
 vacy ; and who cannot maintain a uniform te- 
 nour of virtue, but by exposing their manners to 
 the public eye, and assisting the admonitions of 
 conscience with the fear of infamy : for such, it is 
 dangerous to exclude all witnesses of their con- 
 duct till they have formed strong habits of virtue, 
 and weakened their passions by frequent victo- 
 ries. But there is a higher order of men so in- 
 spired with ardour, and so fortified with resolu- 
 tion, that the world passes before them without 
 influence or regard : these ought to consider 
 themselves as appointed the guardians of man- 
 kind : they are placed in an evil world, to ex- 
 hibit public examples of good life: and may be 
 said, when they withdraw to solitude, to desert 
 the station which Providence assigned them. 
 
 No. 128.] SATURDAY, JAN. 26, 1754. 
 
 lilt, linittronum, hie deztrorsum abit; vnus vtrique 
 Error, sed varriia illudit partibiw. Hon. 
 
 When in a wood we leave the certain way, 
 One error fools us, though we various stray, 
 Some to the left, and some to t'other side. FRANCIS. 
 
 IT is common among all the classes of mankind, 
 to charge each other with trifling away life: 
 every man looks on the occupation or amuse- 
 ment of his neighbour as something below the 
 dignity of our nature, and unworthy of the at- 
 tention of a rational being. 
 
 A man who considers the paucity of the 
 wants of nature, and who, being acquainted with 
 the various means by which all manual occupa- 
 tions are now facilitated, observes what numbers 
 are supported by the labour of a few, would, 
 indeed, be inclined to wonder, how the multi- 
 tudes who are exempted from the necessity of 
 working either for themselves or others, find 
 business to fill up the vacuities of life. The 
 greater part of mankind neither card the fleece, 
 dig the mine, fell the wood, nor gather in the 
 harvest ; they neither tend herds nor build 
 houses; in what then are they employed ? 
 
 This is certainly a question, which a distant 
 prospect of the world will not enable us to an- 
 swer. We find all ranks and ages mingled to- 
 gether in a tumultuous confusion, with haste in 
 their motions, and eagerness in their looks ; but 
 what they have to pursue or avoid, a more mi- 
 nute observation must inform us. 
 
 When we analyze the crowd into individuals, 
 it soon appears that the passions and imagina- 
 tions of men will not easily suffer them to be 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 34? 
 
 j idle; we see tilings coveted merely because th-^ 
 I are rare, and pursued because they are fugitive ; 
 ' we see men conspire to fix an arbitrary value 
 on that which is worthless in itself, and then con- 
 tend for the possession. One is a collector of 
 fossils, of which he knows no other use than to 
 show them ; and when he has stocked his own 
 repository, grieves that the stones which he has 
 left behind him should be picked up by another. 
 The florist nurses a tulip, and repines that his 
 rival's beds enjoy the same showers and sunshine 
 with his own. This man is hurrying to a con- 
 cert, only lest others should have heard the new 
 musician before him ; another bursts from his 
 company to the play, because he fancies himself 
 the patron of an actress ; some spend the morn- 
 ing in consultations with their tailor, and some 
 in directions to their cook ; some are forming 
 parties for cards, and some laying wagers at a 
 horse-race. 
 
 It cannot, I think, be denied, that some of 
 these lives are passed in trifles, in occupations by 
 which the busy neither benefit themselves nor 
 others, and by which no man could be long en- 
 gaged, who seriously considered what he was do- 
 ing, or had knowledge enough to compare what 
 he is with what he might be made. However, 
 as people who have the same inclination gene- 
 rally flock together, every trifler is kept in coun- 
 tenance by the sight of others as unprofitably 
 active as himself; by kindling the heat of com- 
 petition, he in time thinks himself important, and 
 by having his mind intensely engaged, he is se- 
 cured from weariness of himself. 
 
 Some degree of self approbation is always the 
 reward of diligence ; and I cannot, therefore, but 
 consider the laborious cultivation of petty plea- 
 sures, as a more happy and more virtuous dis- 
 position, than that universal contempt and 
 haughty negligence, which is sometimes asso- 
 ciated with powerful faculties, but is often as- 
 sumed by indolence when it disowns its name, 
 and aspires to the appellation of greatness of 
 mind. 
 
 It has been long observed, that drollery and 
 ridicule is the most easy kind of wit : let it be 
 added, that contempt and arrogance is the easi- 
 est philosophy. To find some objection to every 
 thing, and to dissolve in perpetual laziness under 
 pretence that occasions are wanting to call forth 
 activity, to laugh at those who are ridiculously 
 busy without setting an example of more rational 
 industry, is no less in the power of the meanest 
 than of the highest intellects. 
 
 Our present state has placed us at once in such 
 different relations, that every human employ- 
 ment, which is not a visible and immediate act 
 of goodness, will be in some respect or other 
 subject to contempt: but it is true, likewise, 
 that almost every act, which is not directly vi- 
 cious, is in some respect beneficial -and laudable. 
 " I often," says Bruyere, " observe from my 
 window, two beings of erect form and amiable 
 countenance, endowed with the powers of rea- 
 son, able to clothe their thoughts in language, 
 and convey their notions to each other. They 
 rise early in the morning, and are every day 
 employed till sunset in rubbing two smooth 
 stones together, or, in other terms, in polishing 
 marble." 
 
 "If lions could paint," says the fable, "in the 
 room of those pictures which exhibit men van
 
 350 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 [No. 131. 
 
 quishing lions, we should see lions feeding upon 
 m>n." If the stone-cutte*. could have written 
 liks Bruyere, what would he have replied? 
 
 ' I look up," says he, " every day from my 
 shop upon a man whom the idlers, who stand 
 still to gaze upon my work, often celebrate as a 
 wit and a philosopher. I often perceive his face 
 clouded with care, and am told that his taper is 
 sometimes burning at midnight. The sight of a 
 man who works so much harder than myself, ex- 
 cited my curiosity. I heard no sound of tools in 
 his apartment, and, therefore, could not imagine 
 what he was doing; but was told at last, that he 
 was writing descriptions of mankind, who when 
 he had described them would live just as they 
 had lived before ; that he sat up whole nights to 
 change a sentence, because the sound of a letter 
 was too often repeated : that he was often dis- 
 quieted with doubts, about the propriety of a 
 woi-1 which every body understood ; that he 
 wjtild hesitate between two expressions equally 
 proper, till he could not fix his choice but by con- 
 s;i!ii:ig his friends; that he will run from one 
 end of Paris to the other, for an opportunity of 
 reading a period to a nice ear; that if a single 
 line is heard with coldness and inattention, he 
 returns home dejected and disconsolate; and 
 that by all this care and labour, he hopes only to 
 make a little book, which at last will teach no 
 useful art, and which none who has it not will 
 perceive himself to want. I have often wonder- 
 ed for what end such a being as this was sent into 
 the world ; and should be glad to see those who 
 live thus foolishly, seized by an order of the go- 
 vernment, and obliged to labour at some useful 
 occupation." 
 
 Thus, by a partial and imperfect representa- 
 tion, may every thing be made equally ridicu- 
 lous. He that gazed with contempt on human 
 beings rubbing stones together, might have pro- 
 longed the same amusement by walking through 
 the city, and seeing others with looks of import- 
 ance heaping one brick upon another; or by 
 rambling into the country, where he might ob- 
 serve other creatures of the same kind driving 
 in pieces of sharp iron into the clay, or, in the 
 language of men less enlightened, ploughing the 
 field. 
 
 As it is thus easy by a detail of minute circum- 
 stances to make every thing little, so it is not 
 difficult by an aggregation of effects to make 
 every thing great. The polisher of marble may 
 be forming ornaments for the palaces of virtue, 
 and the schools of science : or providing tables 
 on which the actions of heroes and the disco- 
 veries of sages shall be recorded, for the incite- 
 ment and instruction of future generations. The 
 mason is exercising one of the principal arts by 
 which reasoning beings are distinguished from 
 the brute, the art to which life owes much of its 
 safety and all its convenience, by which we are 
 secured from the inclemency of the seasons, and 
 fortified against the ravages of hostility; and the 
 ploughman is changing the face of nature, dif- 
 fusing plenty and happiness over kingdoms, and 
 compelling the earth to give food to her inha- 
 bitants. 
 
 Greatness and littleness are terms merely com- 
 parative ; and we err in our estimation of things, 
 because we measure them by some wrong stand- 
 ard. The trifler proposes to himself only to 
 equal or excel some other trifler, and is happy 
 
 or miserable as he succeeds or miscarries: the 
 man of sedentary desire and unactive ambition 
 sits comparing his power with his wishes ; and 
 makes his inability to perform things impossible, 
 an excuse to himself for performing nothing. Man 
 can only form a just estimate of his own actions, 
 by making his power the test of his performance, 
 by comparing what he does with what he can do. 
 Whoever steadily perseveres in the exertion of 
 all his faculties, does what is great with respect 
 to himself; and what will not be despised by 
 Him, who has given to all created beings their 
 different abilities : he faithfully performs the task 
 of life, within whatever limits his labours may be 
 confined, or how soon soever they may be for- 
 gotten. 
 
 We can conceive so much more than we can 
 accomplish, that whoever tries his own actions 
 by his imagination, may appear despicable in his 
 own eyes. He that despises forks littleness any 
 thing really useful, has no pretensions to applaud 
 the grandeur of his conceptions ; since nothing 
 but narrowness of mind hinders him from see- 
 ing, that by pursuing the same principles every 
 thing limited will appear contemptible. 
 
 He that neglects the care of his family, whi!i 
 his benevolence expands itself in scheming the 
 happiness of imaginary kingdoms, might with 
 equal reason sit on a throne dreaming of univer- 
 sal empire, and of the diffusion of blessings over 
 all the globe : yet even this globe is little, com- 
 pared with the system of matter within our view; 
 and that system barely something more than 
 nonentity, compared with the boundless regions 
 of space, to which neither eye nor imagination 
 can extend. 
 
 From conceptions, therefore, of what we might 
 have been, and from wishes to be what we are 
 not, conceptions that we know to be foolish, and 
 wishes which we feel to be vain, we must neces- 
 sarily descend to the consideration of what we 
 are. We have powers very scanty in their ut- 
 most extent, but which in different men are dif- 
 ferently proportioned. Suitably to these powers 
 we have duties prescribed, which we must nei- 
 ther decline for the sake of delighting ourselves 
 with easier amusements, nor overlook in idle 
 contemplation of greater excellence or more ex- 
 tensive comprehension. 
 
 In order to the right conduct of our lives, we 
 must remember that we are not born to please 
 ourselves. He that studies simply his own satis- 
 faction, will always find the proper business of 
 his station too hard or to easy for him. But if 
 we bear continually in mind, our relation to The 
 Father of Being, by whom we are placed in the 
 world, and who has allotted us the part which 
 we are to bear in the general system of life, we 
 shall be easily persuaded to resign our own in- 
 clinations to Unerring Wisdom, and do the work 
 decreed for us with cheerfulness and diligence. 
 
 No. 131.J TUESDAY, FEB. 5, 1754. 
 
 Misce 
 
 Ergo aliquid nostris de moribns. JUVENAL. 
 
 And mingle something of our times to please. 
 
 URYDEN, JUN. 
 
 FONTENELLE, in his panegyric on Sir Isaac New 
 ton, closes a long enumeration of that gre&i phi
 
 ADVENTURER. 
 
 351 
 
 iosopher's virtues and attainments, with an ob- 
 servation, that " he was not distinguished from 
 other men by any singularity either natural or 
 affected." 
 
 It 13 an eminent instance of Newton's superi- 
 ority to the rest of mankind, that he was able to 
 separate knowledge from those weaknesses by 
 which knowledge is generally disgraced ; that he 
 was able to excel in science and wisdom without 
 purchasing them by the neglect of little things ; 
 and that he stood alone, merely because he had 
 left the rest of mankind behind him, not because 
 he deviated from the beaten track. 
 
 Whoever, after the example of Plutarch, 
 should compare the lives of illustrious men, 
 might set this part of Newton's character to 
 view with great advantage, by opposing it to 
 that of Bacon, perhaps the only man of latter 
 ages who has any pretensions to dispute with 
 him the palm of genius or science. 
 
 Bacon, after he had added to a long and care- 
 ful contemplation of almost every other object of 
 knowledge a curious inspection into common- 
 life, and after having surveyed nature as a philo- 
 sopher, had examined " men's business and 
 bosoms" as a statesman ; yet failed so much in 
 the conduct of domestic affairs, that, in the most 
 lucrative post to which a great and wealthy king- 
 dom could advance him, he felt ell the miseries 
 of distressful poverty, and committed all the 
 crimes to which poverty incites. Such were at 
 once his negligence and rapacity, that, as it is 
 said, he would gain by unworthy practices that 
 money, which, when so acquired, his servants 
 might steal from one end of the table, while he 
 sat studious and abstracted at the other. 
 
 As scarcely any man has reached the excel- 
 lence, very few have sunk to the weakness of 
 Bacon: but almost all the studious tribe as they 
 obtain any participation of his knowledge, feel 
 likewise some contagion of his defects ; and ob- 
 struct the veneration which learning would pro- 
 cure, by follies greater or less, to which only 
 learning could betray them. 
 
 It has been formerly remarked by The Guar- 
 dian, that the world punishes with too great se- 
 verity the error of those, who imagine that the 
 ignorance of little things may be compensated 
 by the knowledge of great ; for so it is, that as 
 more can detect petty failings than can distin- 
 guish or esteem great qualifications, and as man- 
 tind is in general more easily disposed to cen- 
 sure than to admiration, contempt is often incur- 
 : cd by slight mistakes, which real virtue or use- 
 iilness cannot counterbalance. 
 
 Yet such mistakes and inadvertencies, it is 
 not easy for a man deeply immersed in study to 
 avoid ; no man can become qualified for the 
 common intercourses of life, by private medita- 
 tion ; the manners of the world are not a regular 
 system, planned by philosophers upon settled 
 principles, in which every cause has a congruous 
 effect, and one part has a just reference to ano- 
 ther. Of the fashions prevalent in every coun- 
 try, a few have arisen, perhaps, from particular 
 temperatures of the climate ; a few more from 
 the constitution of the government ; but the 
 greater part have grown up by chance; been 
 started by caprice, been contrived by affectation, 
 or borrowed without any just motives of choice 
 from other countries. 
 Of all these, the savage that hunts his prey 
 
 upon the mountains, and the sage that specu- 
 lates in his closet, must necessarily live in equal 
 ignorance; yet by the observation of these trifles 
 ir. is, that the ranks of mankind are kept in order 
 that the address of one to another is regulatrd, 
 and the general business of the world carried on 
 with facility and method. 
 
 These things, therefore, though small in them- 
 selves, become great by their frequency ; and he 
 very much mistakes his own interest, who to 
 the unavoidable unskil fulness of abstraction and 
 retirement, adds a voluntary neglect of common 
 forms, and increases the disadvantages of a stu- 
 dious course of life by an arrogant contempt of 
 those practices, by which others endeavour to 
 gain favour and multiply friendships. 
 
 A real and interior disdain of fashion and ce- 
 remony is, indeed, not very often to be found; 
 much the greater part of those who pretend to 
 laugh at foppery and formality, secretly wish to 
 have possessed those qualifications which they 
 pretend to despise ; and because they find it dif- 
 ficult to wash away the tincture which they have 
 so deeply imbibed, endeavour to harden them- 
 selves in a sullen approbation of their own co- 
 lour. Neutrality is a state into which the busy 
 passions of man cannot easily subside ; and he 
 who is in danger of the pangs of envy, is gene- 
 rally forced to recreate his imagination with an 
 effort of comfort. 
 
 Some, however, may be found, who, support- 
 ed by the consciousness of great abilities, and 
 elevated by a long course of reputation and ap- 
 plause, voluntarily consign themselves to singu- 
 larity, affect to cross the roads of life because 
 they know that they shall not be jostled, and in- 
 dulge a boundless gratification of will because 
 they perceive that they shall be quietly obeyed. 
 Men of this kind are generally known by the 
 name of Humourists, an appellation by which he 
 that has obtained it, and can be contented to 
 keep it, is set free at once from the shackles of 
 fashion : and can go in or out, sit or stand, bo 
 talkative or silent, gloomy or merry, advance ab- 
 surdities or oppose demonstration, without any 
 other reprehension from mankind than that it is 
 his way, that he is an odd fellow, and must be 
 let alone. 
 
 This seems to many an easy passport tnrough 
 the various factions of mankind ; and those on 
 whom it is bestowed, appear too frequently to 
 consider the patience with which their caprices 
 are suffered as an undoubted evidence of their 
 own importance, of a genius to which submis- 
 sion is universally paid, and whose irregularities 
 are only considered as consequences of its vi- 
 gour. These peculiarities, however, are always 
 found to spot a character, though they may not 
 totally obscure it ; and he who expects from 
 mankind, that they should give up established 
 customs in compliance with his single will, and 
 exacts that deference which he does not pay, 
 may be endured, but can never be approved. 
 
 Singularity is, I think, in its own nature uni- 
 versally and invariably displeasing. In what- 
 ever respect a man differs from others, he must 
 be considered by them as either worse or better; 
 by being better, it is well known that a man 
 gains admiration oftener than love, since all ap- 
 probation of his practice must necessarily con- 
 demn hirt that gives it ; and though a man often 
 pleases by inferiority, there are few who desire
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 [No. 
 
 to give such pleasure. Yet the truth is, that 
 singularity is almost always regarded us a brand 
 of slight reproach ; and where it is associated 
 with "auk no wl edged merit, serves as an abate- 
 ment or an allay of excellence, by which weak 
 eyes are reconciled to its lustre, and by which, 
 though kindness is not gained, at least envy is 
 averted. 
 
 But let no man be in haste to conclude his own 
 merit so great or conspicuous, as to require or 
 justify singularity ; it is as hazardous for a mo- 
 derate understanding to usurp the prerogatives 
 of genius, as for a common form to play over the 
 aiis of uncontested beauty. The pride of men 
 will not patiently endure to see one whose un- 
 derstanding or attainments are but level with 
 their own, break the rules by which they have 
 consented to be bound, or forsake the direction 
 which they submissively follow. All violation 
 of established practice implies in its own nature 
 a rejection of the common opinion, a defiance 
 of common censure, and an appeal from gene- 
 ral laws to private judgment : he, therefore, who 
 differs from others without apparent advantage, 
 ought not to be angry if his arrogance is punish- 
 ed with ridicule ; if those whose example he su- 
 peit;iliously overlooks, point him out to derision, 
 and hoot him back again into the common road. 
 
 The pride of singularity is often exerted in lit- 
 tle things, where right and wrong are indetermi- 
 nable, and where, therefore, vanity is without ex- 
 cuse. But there are occasions on which it is 
 noble to dare to stand alone. To be pious 
 among infidels, to be disinterested in a time of 
 general venality, to lead a life of virtue and rea- 
 son in the midst of sensualists, is a proof of a 
 mind intent on nobler things than the praise or 
 blame of men, of a soul fixed in the contempla- 
 tion of the highest good, and superior to the ty- 
 ranny of custom and example. 
 
 In moral and religious questions only, a wise 
 man will hold no consultations with fashion, be- 
 cause these duties are constant and immutable, 
 and depend not on the notions of men, but the 
 commands of Heaven ; yet even of these, the 
 external mode is to be in some measure regu- 
 lated by the prevailing taste of the age in which 
 we live ; for he is certainly no friend to virtue, 
 who neglects to give it any lawful attraction, or 
 suffers it to deceive the eye or alienate the affec- 
 tions for want of innocent compliance with fa- 
 shionable decorations. 
 
 It is yet remembered of the learned and pious 
 Nelson, that he was remarkably elegant in his 
 manners, and splendid in his dress. He knew, 
 that the eminence of his character drew many 
 eyes upon him ; and he was careful not to drive 
 the young or the gay away from religion, by re- 
 presenting it as an enemy to any distinction or 
 enjoyment in which human nature may inno- 
 cently delight. 
 
 In this censure of singularity, I have, there- 
 fore, no intention to subject reason or conscience 
 to custom or example. To comply with the de- 
 gree and practices of mankind, is in some no- 
 tions the duty of a social being; because by com- 
 pliance only he can please, and by pleasing only 
 he can become useful: but as the end is not to be 
 lost for the sake of the means, we are not to give 
 up virtue to complaisance ; for the end of com- 
 plaisance 13 only to gain the kindness of our fel- 
 low beings, whose kindness is desirable only as 
 
 instrumental to happiness, and happiness must 
 be always lost by departure from virtue. 
 
 No. 137.] TUESDAY. FEB. 26, 1754. 
 
 Ti &' I'ftc^a PVTH. 
 
 What have I been doing ? 
 
 As man is a being very sparingly furnished with 
 the power of prescience, he can provide for the 
 future only by considering the past; and as fu- 
 turity is all in which he has any real interest, he 
 ought very diligently to use the only means by 
 which he can be enabled to enjoy it, and fre- 
 quently to revolve the experiments which he has 
 hitherto made upon life, that he may gain wis- 
 dom from his mistakes, and caution from his 
 
 mscarraes. 
 
 Though I do not so exactly conform to the 
 precepts of Pythagoras, as to practise every 
 night this solemn recollection, yet I am not so 
 lost in dissipation as wholly to omit it; nor can 
 I forbear sometimes to inquire of myself, in 
 what employment my life has passed away. 
 Much of my time has sunk into nothing, and 
 left no trace by which it can be distinguished ; 
 and of this now I only know, that it was once 
 in my power, and might once have been im- 
 proved. 
 
 Of other parts of life, memory can give some 
 account ; at some hours I have been gay, and 
 at others serious ; I have sometimes mingled in 
 conversation, and sometimes meditated in soli- 
 tude ; one day has been spent in consulting 
 the ancient sages, and another in writing Ad- 
 venturers. 
 
 At the conclusion of any undertaking, it is 
 usual to compute the loss and profit. As I shall 
 soon cease to write Adventurers, I could not for- 
 bear lately to consider what has been the conse- 
 quence of my labours; and whether I am to 
 reckon the hours laid out in these compositions, 
 as applied to a good and laudable purpose, or 
 suffered to fume away in useless evaporations. 
 
 That I have intended well, I have the attesta- 
 tion of my own heart : but good intentions may 
 be frustrated when they are executed without 
 suitable skill, or directed to an end unattainable 
 in itself. 
 
 Some there are, who leave writers very little 
 room for self-congratulation : some who affirm, 
 that books have no influence upon the public, 
 that no age was ever made better by its authors, 
 and that to call upon mankind to correct their 
 manners, is, like Xerxes, to scourge the wind, or 
 shackle the torrent. 
 
 This opinion they pretend to support by un 
 failing experience. The world is full of fraud 
 and corruption, rapine or malignity ; interest is 
 the ruling motive of mankind, and every one is 
 endeavouring to increase his own stores of hap- 
 piness by perpetual accumulation, without re- 
 flecting upon the numbers whom his superfluity 
 condemns to want: in this state of things a book 
 of morality is published, in which charity and 
 benevolence are strongly enforced ; and it is 
 proved beyond opposition, that men are happy 
 in proportion as they are virtuous, and rich as 
 they are liberal. The book is applauded, and 
 the author is preferred j he imagines his applause
 
 . 137.] 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 deserved, and receives less pleasure from the 
 acquisition of reward than the consciousness of 
 merit. Let us look again upon mankind ; in- 
 terest is still the ruling motive, and the world is 
 yet full of fraud and corruption, malevolence and 
 rapine. 
 
 The difficulty of confuting this assertion, 
 arises merely from its generality and compre- 
 hension; to overthrow it by a detail of distinct 
 facts, requires a wider survey of the world than 
 human eyes can take ; the progress of reforma- 
 tion is gradual and silent, as the extension of 
 evening shadows; we know that they were short 
 at noon, and are long at sunset, but our senses 
 were not able to discern their increase; we know 
 of every civil nation, that it was once savage, 
 and how was it reclaimed but by precept and 
 admonition ? 
 
 Mankind are universally corrupt, but corrupt 
 in different degrees ; as they are universally ig- 
 norant, yet with greater or less irradiations of 
 knowledge. How has knowledge or virtue been 
 increased and preserved in one place beyond 
 another, but, by diligent inculcation and rational 
 enforcement? 
 
 Books of morality are daily written, yet its in- 
 fluence is still little in the world ; so the ground 
 is annually ploughed, and yet multitudes are in 
 want of bread. But, surely, neither the labours 
 of the moralist nor of the husbandman are vain; 
 let them for a while neglect their tasks, and their 
 usefulness will be known ; the wickedness that 
 is now frequent would become universal, the 
 bread that is now scarce would wholly fail. 
 
 The power, indeed, of every individual is 
 small, and the consequence of his endeavours 
 imperceptible, in a general prospect of the world. 
 Providence has given no man ability to do much, 
 that something might be left for every man to do. 
 The business of life is carried on by a general 
 co-operation ; in which the part of any single 
 man can be no more distinguished, than the ef- 
 fect of a particular drop when the meadows are 
 floated by a summer shower; yet every drop 
 increases the inundation, and every hand adds 
 to the happiness or misery of mankind. 
 
 That a writer, however zealous or eloquent, 
 seldom works a visible effect upon cities or na- 
 tions, will readily be granted. The book which 
 is read most, is read by few, compared with those 
 that read it not ; and of those few, the greater 
 part peruse it with dispositions that very little 
 favour their own improvement. 
 
 It. is difficult to enumerate the several motives 
 which procure to books the honour of perusal : 
 spite, vanity, and curiosity, hope and fear, love 
 and hatred, every passion which incites to any 
 other action, serves at one time or other to sti- 
 mulate a reader. 
 
 Some are fond to take a celebrated volume 
 into their hands, because they hope to distinguish 
 their penetration, by finding faults which have 
 escaped the public ; others eagerly buy it in the 
 first bloom of reputation, that they may join the 
 chorus of praise, and not lag, as Falstaff terms 
 it, in "the rearward of the fashion." 
 
 Some read for style and some for argument: 
 one has little care about the sentiment, he ob- 
 serves only how it is expressed ; another regards 
 not the conclusion, but is diligent to mark how 
 it is inferred : they read for other purposes than 
 the attainment of practical knowledge -, and are 
 2U 
 
 no more likely to grow wise by an examination 
 of a treatise of moral prudence, than an archi- 
 tect to inflame his devotion by considering atten- 
 tively the proportions of a temple. 
 
 Some read that they may embellish their con- 
 versation, or shine in dispute ; some that they 
 may not be detected in ignorance, or want the 
 reputation of literary accomplishments : but the 
 most general and prevalent reason of study is 
 the impossibility of finding another amusement 
 equally cheap or constant, equally independent 
 on the hour or the weather. He that wants 
 money to follow the chase of pleasure through 
 her yearly circuit, and is left at home when the 
 gay world rolls to Bath or Tunbridge ; he whose 
 gout compels him to hear from his chamber the 
 rattle of chariots transporting happier beings to 
 plays and assemblies, will be forced to seek in 
 books a refuge from himself. 
 
 The author is not wholly useless, who provides 
 innocent amusements for minds like these. 
 There are in the present state of things, so many 
 more instigations to evil, than incitements to good, 
 that he who keeps men in a neutral state, may 
 be justly considered as a benefactor to Jife. 
 
 But, perhaps, it seldom happens, that study 
 terminates in mere pastime. Books have always 
 a secret influence on the understanding ; we 
 cannot at pleasure obliterate ideas : he that 
 reads books of science, though without any fixed 
 desire of improvement, will grow more knowing; 
 he that entertains himself with moral or religious 
 treatises, will imperceptibly advance in good- 
 ness; the ideas which are often offered to the 
 mind, will at last find a lucky moment when it 
 is disposed to receive them. 
 
 It is, therefore, urged without reason, as a dis- 
 couragement to writers, that there are already 
 books sufficient in the world ; that all the topics 
 of persuasion have been discussed, and every 
 important question clearly stated and justly de- 
 cided ; and that, therefore, there is no room to 
 hope, that pigmies should conquer where heroes 
 have been defeated, or that the petty copiers of 
 the present time should advance the great work 
 of reformation, which their predecessors were 
 forced to leave unfinished. 
 
 Whatever be the present extent of human 
 knowledge, it is not only finite, and therefore in 
 its own nature capable of increase; but so nar- 
 row, that almost every understanding may, by 
 a diligent application of its powers, hope to en- 
 large it. It is, however, not necessary, that a 
 man should forbear to write, till he has disco- 
 vered some truth unknown before ; he may be 
 sufficiently useful, by only diversifying the sur- 
 face of knowledge, and luring the mind by a 
 new appearance to a second view of those beau- 
 ties which it had passed over inattentively be- 
 fore. Every writer may find intellects corre- 
 spondent to his own, to whom his expressions 
 are familiar, and his thoughts congenial ; and, 
 perhaps, truth is often more successfully propa- 
 gated by men of moderate abilities, who, adopt- 
 ing the opinions of others, have no care but to 
 explain them clearly, than by subtle ppecnlatists 
 and curious searchers, who exact from their 
 readers powers equal to their own, and if their 
 fabrics of science be strong, take no care to ren- 
 der them accessible. 
 
 For my part, I do not regret the hours which 
 I have laid out in these little compositions.
 
 354 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 [No. 1SS. 
 
 That the world has grown apparently better, 
 since the publication of the Adventurer, I have 
 not observed; but am willing to think, that 
 many have been affected by single sentiments, 
 of which it is their business to renew the im- 
 pression ; that many have caught hints of truth, 
 which it is now their duty to pursue ; and that 
 those who have received no improvement, have 
 wanted not opportunity but intention to im- 
 prove. 
 
 No. 138.] SATURDAY, MARCH 2, 1754. 
 
 Quid pure tranqnillet? honos, an dulce lucellum, 
 An sccretum iter, etfallentis semita vita ? Hon. 
 
 Whether the tranquil mind and pure, 
 
 Honours or wealth our bliss insure : 
 
 Or down through life unknown to stray, 
 
 Whare lonely leads the silent way. FRANCIS. 
 
 HAVING considered the importance of authors 
 to the welfare of the public, I am led by a natu- 
 ral train gf thought, to reflect on their condition 
 with regard to themselves ; and to inquire 
 what degree oi happiness or vexation is annex- 
 ed to the difficult and laborious employment 
 of providing instruction or entertainment for 
 mankind. 
 
 In estimating the pain or pleasure of any par- 
 ticular state, every man, indeed, draws his de- 
 cisions from his own breast, and cannot with 
 certainty determine whether other minds are 
 affected by the same causes in the same manner. 
 Yet by this criterion we must be content to 
 judge, because no other can be obtained ; and, 
 indeed, we have no reason to think it very fal- 
 lacious, for excepting here and there an anoma- 
 lous mind, which either does not feel like others, 
 or dissembles its sensibility, -we find men unani- 
 mously concur in attributing happiness or misery 
 to particular conditions, as they agree in ac- 
 Knowledging the cold of winter, and the heat of 
 autumn. 
 
 If we apply to authors themselves for an ac- 
 count of their state, it will appear very little to 
 deserve envy: for they have in all ages been ad- 
 dicted to complaint. The neglect of learning, 
 the ingratitude of the present age, and the ab- 
 surd preference by which ignorance and dulness 
 often obtain favour and rewards, have been from 
 age to age topics of invective ; and few have 
 left their names to posterity, without some ap- 
 peal to future candour from the perverseness and 
 malice of their own times. 
 
 I have, nevertheless, been often inclined to 
 doubt, whether authors, however querulous, are 
 in reality more miserable than their fellow-mor- 
 tals. The present life is to all a state of infeli- 
 city; every man, like an author, believes him- 
 self to merit more than he obtains, and solaces 
 the present with the prospect of the future ; 
 others, indeed, suffer those disappointments in 
 silence, of which the writer complains, to show 
 how well he has learnt the art of lamentation. 
 
 There is at least one gleam of felicity, of which 
 few writers have missed the enjoyment: he 
 whose hopes have so far overpowered his fears, 
 as that he has resolved to stand forth a candidate 
 for fame, seldom fails to amuse himself, before 
 his appearance, with pleasing scenes of affluence 
 
 or honour ; while his fortune is yet under the 
 regulation of fancy, he easily models it to his 
 wish, suffers no thoughts of critics or rivals to 
 intrude upon his mind, but counts over the 
 bounties of patronage, or listens to the voice of 
 praise. 
 
 Some there are, that talk very luxuriously of 
 the second period of an author's happiness, and 
 tell of the tumultuous raptures of invention, 
 when the mind riots in imagery, and the choice 
 stands suspended between different sentiments. 
 
 These pleasures, I believe, may sometimes be 
 indulged to those, who come to a subject of dis- 
 quisition with minds full of ideas, and with fan- 
 cies so vigorous, as easily to excite, select, arid 
 arrange them. To write is, indeed, no unpleas- 
 ing employment, when one sentiment readily 
 produces another, and both ideas and expres- 
 sions present themselves at the first summons ; 
 but such happiness, the greatest genius does not 
 always obtain ; and common writers know it 
 only to such a degree, as to credit its possibility. 
 Composition is, for the most part, an effort of 
 slow diligence and steady perseverance, to which 
 the mind is dragged by necessity or resolution, 
 and from which the attention is every moment 
 starting to more delightful amusements. 
 
 It frequently happens, that a design which, 
 when considered at a distance, gave flattering 
 hopes of facility, mocks us in the execution with 
 unexpected difficulties ; the mind which, while 
 it considered it in the gross, imagined itself 
 amply furnished with materials, finds sometimes 
 an unexpected barrenness and vacuity, and 
 wonders whither all those ideas are vanished, 
 which a little before seemed struggling for emis 
 sion. 
 
 Sometimes many thoughts present themselves- 
 but so confused and unconnected, that they aro 
 not without difficulty reduced to method or con* 
 catenated in a regular and dependent series ; 
 the mind falls at once into a labyrinth, of which 
 neither the beginning nor end can be discover- 
 ed, and toils and struggles without progress oi 
 extrication. 
 
 It is asserted by Horace, that "if matter be 
 once got together, words will be found with very 
 little difficulty ;" a position which, though suffi- 
 ciently plausible to be inserted in poetical pre- 
 cepts, is by no means strictly and philosophically 
 true. If words were naturally and necessarily 
 consequential to sentiments, it would always 
 follow, that he who has most knowledge must 
 have most eloquence, and that every man would 
 clearly express what he fully understood : yet 
 we find, that to think, and discourse, are often 
 the qualities of different persons : and many 
 books might surely be produced, where just and 
 noble sentiments are degraded and obscured by 
 unsuitable diction. 
 
 Words, therefore, as well as things, claim the 
 care of an author. Indeed, of many authors, and 
 those not useless or contemptible, words are al 
 most the only care : many make it their study, 
 not so much to strike out new sentiments, as to 
 recommend those which are already known to 
 more favourable notice by fairer decorations : 
 but every man, whether he copies or invents, 
 whether he delivers his own thoughts or those 
 of another, has often found himself deficient in 
 the power of expression, big with ideas which 
 he could not utter, obliged to ransack his me-
 
 No. 138.] 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 355 
 
 mory for terms adequate to his conceptions, and 
 at last unable to impress upon his reader the 
 image existing in his own mind. 
 
 It is one of the common distresses of a writer, 
 to be within a word of a happy period, to want 
 only a single epithet to give amplification its full 
 force, to require only a correspondent term in 
 order to finish a paragraph with elegance, and 
 make one of its members answer to the other : 
 but these deficiences cannot always be supplied: 
 and after a long study and vexation, the passage 
 is turned anew, and the web unwoven that was 
 so nearly finished. 
 
 But when thoughts and words are collected 
 and adjusted, and the whole composition at last 
 concluded, it seldom gratifies the author, when 
 he comes coolly and deliberately to review it, 
 with the hopes which had been excited in the 
 fury of the performance : novelty always capti- 
 vates the mind ; as our thoughts rise fresh upon 
 us, we readily believe them just and original, 
 which, when the pleasure of production is over, 
 we find to be mean and common, or borrowed 
 from the works of others, and supplied by me- 
 mory rather than invention. 
 
 But though it should happen that the writer 
 finds no such fault in his performance, he is still 
 to remember, that he looks upon it with partial 
 eyes ; and when he considers how much men 
 who could judge of others with great exactness, 
 have often failed of judging of themselves, he will 
 be afraid of deciding too hastily in his own fa- 
 vour, or of allowing himself to contemplate with 
 too much complacence, treasure that has not yet 
 been brought to the test, nor passed the only trial 
 that can stamp its value. 
 
 From tne public, and only from the public, is 
 
 he to await a confirmation of his claim, and a 
 final justification of self-esteem ; bat the public 
 is not easily persuaded to favour an author. If 
 mankind were left to judge for themselves it is 
 reasonable to imagine, that of such writing. 3 , at 
 least, as describe the movements of the human 
 passions, and of which every man carries the 
 archetype within him, a just opinion would be 
 formed ; but whoever has remarked the fate of 
 books must have found it governed by other 
 causes than general consent arising from general 
 conviction. If a new performance happens not 
 to fall into the hands of some who have courage 
 to tell, and authority to propagate their opinion, 
 it often remains long in obscurity, and perishes 
 unknown and unexamined. A few, a very few, 
 commonly constitute the taste of the time ; the 
 judgment which they have once pronounced, 
 some are too lazy to discuss, and some too timo- 
 rous to contradict ; it may however be, I think, 
 observed, that their power is greater to depress 
 than exalt, as mankind are more credulous of 
 censure than of praise. 
 
 This perversion of the public judgment is not 
 to be rashly numbered amongst the miseries of 
 an author: since it commonly serves, after mis- 
 carriage, to reconcile him to himself. Because 
 the world has sometimes passed an unjust sen- 
 tence, he readily concludes the sentence unjust 
 by which his performance is condemned ; because 
 some have been exalted above their merits by 
 partiality, he is sure to ascribe the success of a 
 rival, not to the merit of his work, but the zeal of 
 his patrons. Upon the whole, as the author 
 seems to share all the common miseries of life, 
 he appears to partake likewise of its lenitives and 
 abatements. 
 
 END OF THE ADVENTURER.
 
 ADVERTISEMENT TO THE IDLER. 
 
 THE whole number of papers of which the 
 IDLER originally consisted, are contained in this 
 edition, although not all the productions of Dr. 
 Johnson. The authors of 9, 15, 42, 54, and 98, 
 are unknown. Nos. 33, 93, and 96, are by 
 WHARTON. No. 67 by LANG TON. Nos. 76, 79, 
 and 82, by REYNOLDS. 
 
 Of the Essays written by Dr. Johnson, those 
 contained in the Idler were the most popular. 
 The Rambler, though unquestionably the basis 
 of Dr. Johnson's great fame, did not during the 
 author's lifetime meet with the success it deserved. 
 Its style was more dignified, and less miscella- 
 neous than the Spectator. The Spectator pleased 
 and charmed by its variety it could not fail to do 
 otherwise ; for the great wits of dueen Anne's 
 reign were its contributors. The Rambler was 
 more uniform and less amusing, though not less 
 instructive partaking somewhat of that settled 
 gloom which always seemed to hang over the 
 author's mind. That it should be wanting in 
 novelty is not to be wondered at ; for Dr. John- 
 son stood alone in its composition. Yet it must 
 be confessed, that in this collection the great 
 moral teachings of Dr. Johnson are seldom, if 
 at all, equalled by any thing in the Spectator. 
 His observation upon men and things shows an 
 acute observance of all that was passing around 
 him. He brought in all things, men and their 
 actiois, to the test of principle ; and made truth 
 and virtue the great levers by which human 
 
 conduct should be regulated. The essays in 
 the Rambler might, indeed, almost form a body 
 of Ethics. 
 
 Dr. Johnson had probably become aware of 
 the objections which had been made to the gravity 
 and seeming pomp of diction which marked the 
 Rambler ; and seems to have studied to make 
 the papers which constitute the Idler, to be in 
 keeping with its title. He lays aside his auste- 
 rity, and assumes a style more easy and less 
 vigorous, losing nothing however of the elegance 
 of composition which is to be found in all his 
 productions. Great depth of thought and pro- 
 found research into motives and principles, would 
 not well become an Idler. He should look upon 
 men and manners as one desirous of passing 
 his life with as little trouble, as would comport 
 with his general character which simply is, to 
 know something of the motives and actions by 
 which society is governed, without too laborioua 
 investigation of the one, or too severe a criticism 
 upon the other. We accordingly find that wnile 
 Dr. Johnson still continues his lectures upon 
 human life, he takes hold of the local follies and 
 gayeties of his time, seeks to place common occur- 
 rences in a stronger light, and adverts more fre- 
 quently to the ordinary topics of the day. He thua 
 made the Idler much more popular at the time 
 than the Rambler. He, in fact, may be said to 
 have written the Rambler for posterity the 
 Idler for his own time and himself.
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 No. 1.] SATURDAT, APRIL 15, 1758. 
 
 Vacui sub umbra 
 Lustmus. HOR. 
 
 THOSE who attempt periodical essays seem to 
 be often stopped in the beginning by the diffi- 
 culty of finding a proper title. Two writers, 
 since the time of the Spectator, have assumed 
 his name, without any pretensions to lawful in- 
 heritance ; an effort was once made to revive 
 the Taller; and the strange appellations by 
 which other papers have been called, show that 
 the authors were distressed, like the natives of 
 America, who come to the Europeans to beg a 
 name. 
 
 It will be easily believed of the Idler, that if 
 his title had required any search, he never 
 would have found it. Every mode of life has 
 its conveniences. The Idler who habituates 
 himself to be satisfied with what he can most 
 easily obtain, not only escapes labours which 
 are often fruitless, but sometimes succeeds 
 better than those who despise all that is within 
 their reach, and think every thing more valua- 
 ble as it is harder to be acquired. 
 
 If similitude of manners be a motive to kind- 
 ness, the Idler may flatter himself with univer- 
 sal patronage. There is no single character 
 under which such numbers are comprised. 
 Every man is, or hopes to be, an Idler. Even 
 those who seem to differ most from us are hast- 
 ening to increase our fraternity ; as peace is 
 the end of war, so to be idle is the ultimate 
 purpose of the busy. 
 
 There is perhaps, no appellation by which a 
 writer can better denote his kindred to the hu- 
 man species. It has been found hard to de- 
 scribe man by an adequate definition. Some 
 philosophers have called him a reasonable ani- 
 mal ; but others have considered reason as a 
 quality of which many creatures partake. He 
 has been termed, likewise, a laughing animal ; 
 but it is said that some men have never laughed. 
 Perhaps man may be more properly distin- 
 guished as an idle animal ; for there is no man 
 who is not sometimes idle. It is at least a de- 
 finition from which none that shall find it in 
 this paper can be excepted ; for who can be 
 more idle than the reader of the Idler ? 
 
 That the definition may be complete, idleness 
 must be not only the general, but the peculiar 
 characteristic of man ; and, perhaps, man is 
 the onl being that can be properly called idle, 
 
 that does by others what he might do himself, 
 or sacrifices duty or pleasure to the love of ease. 
 
 Scarcely any name can be imagined from 
 which less envy or competition is to be dreaded. 
 The Idler has no rivals or enemies. The man 
 of business forgets him ; the man of enterprise 
 despises him ; and though such as tread the 
 same track of life fall commonly into jealousy 
 and discord, Idlers are always found to asso- 
 ciate in peace ; and he who is most famed for 
 doing nothing, is glad to meet another as idle 
 as himself. 
 
 What is to be expected from this paper, 
 whether it will be uniform or various, learned 
 or familiar, serious or gay, political or moral, 
 continued or interrupted, it is hoped that no 
 reader will inquire. That the Idler has some 
 scheme cannot be doubted; for to form schemes 
 is the Idler's privilege. But though he has 
 many projects in his head, he is now grown 
 sparing of communication, having observed, 
 that his hearers are apt to remember what he 
 forgets himself; that his tardiness of execution 
 exposes him to the encroachments of those who 
 catch a hint and fall to work ; and that very 
 specious plans, after long contrivance and pom- 
 pous displays, have subsided in weariness 
 without a trial, and without miscarriage have 
 been blasted by derision. 
 
 Something the Idler's character may be'sup- 
 posed to promise. Those that are curious after 
 diminutive history, who watch the revolutions 
 of families, and the rise and fall of characters 
 either male or female, will hope to be gratified 
 by "this paper ; for the Idler is always inquisi- 
 tive and seldom retentive. He that delights in 
 obloquy and satire, and wishes to see clouds 
 gathering over any reputation that dazzles him 
 with its brightness, will snatch up the Idler's 
 essays with a beating heart. The Idler is na - 
 turally censorious ; those who attempt nothing 
 themselves, think e\ery thing easily perform- 
 ed, and consider the unsuccessful always as 
 criminal. 
 
 I think it necessary to give notice, that I 
 make no contract nor incur any obligation. If 
 those who depend on the Idler for intelligence 
 and entertainment, should suffer the disap- 
 pointment which commonly follows ill-placed 
 expectations, they are to lay the blame only on 
 themselves. 
 
 Yet hope is not wholly to be cast away. 
 The Idler, though sluggish, is vet alive and
 
 358 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 may sometimes be stimulated to vigour and 
 activity. He may descend into profoundness, 
 or towe'r into sublimity ; for the diligence of 
 an Idler is rapid and impetuous, as ponderous 
 bodies forced into velocity move with violence 
 proportionate to their weight. 
 
 But these vehement exertions of intellect can- 
 not be frequent, and he will therefore gladly 
 receive help from any correspondent, who shall 
 enable him to please without his own labour. 
 He excludes no style, he prohibits no subject ; 
 only let him that writes to the Idler remember, 
 that his letters must not be long : no words are 
 to be squandered in declaration of esteem, or 
 confessions)of inability ; conscious dullness has 
 little right to be prolix, and praise is not so 
 welcome to the Idler as quiet. 
 
 No. 2.] SATURDAY, APRIL 22, 1758. 
 
 Toto nix quater anno 
 Membranam. HOR. 
 
 MANY positions are often on the tongue, and 
 seldom in the mind ; there are many truths 
 which every human being acknowledges and 
 forgets. It is generally known, that he who 
 expects much will he often disappointed ; yet 
 disappointment seldom cures us of expectation, 
 or has any other effect than that of producing 
 a moral sentence, or peevish exclamation. He 
 that embarks in the voyage of life, will always 
 wish to advance rather by the impulse of the 
 wind, than the strokes of the oar ; and many 
 founder in the passage, while they lie waiting 
 for the gale that is to waft them to their wish. 
 
 It will naturally be suspected that the Idler 
 has lately suffered some disappointment, and 
 that he does not talk thus gravely for nothing. 
 No man is required to betray his own secrets. 
 I will, however, confess, that I have now been 
 a writer almost a week, and have not yet heard 
 a single word of praise, nor received one hint 
 from any correspondent. 
 
 Whence this negligence proceeds I am not 
 able to discover. Many of my predecessors 
 have thought themselves obliged to return their 
 acknowledgments in the second paper, for the 
 kind reception of the first, and in a short time 
 apologies have become necessary to those inge- 
 nious gentlemen and ladies whose performan- 
 ces, though in the highest degree elegant and 
 learned, have been unavoidably delayed. 
 
 What then will be thought of me, who hav- 
 ing experienced no kindness, have no thanks 
 to return ; whom no gentleman or lady has yet 
 enabled to give any cause of discontent, and 
 who have, therefore, no opportunity of showing 
 how skilfully I can pacify resentment, extenu- 
 ate negligence, or palliate rejection ? 
 
 I have long known that splendour of reputa- 
 tion is not to be counted among the necessaries 
 of life, and therefore shall not much repine 
 if praise be withheld till it is better deserved. 
 But surely I may be allowed to complain that, 
 in a nation of authors, not one has thought me 
 worthy of notice after so fair an invitation. 
 
 At the time when the rage of writing had 
 seized the old and the young, when the cook 
 warbles her lyrics in the kitchen, and the 
 
 thrasher vociferates his heroics in the barn ; 
 when our traders deal out knowledge in bulky 
 volumes, and our girls forsake their samplers 
 to teach kingdoms wisdom, it may seem very 
 unnecessary to draw any more from their pro- 
 per occupations, by affording new opportuni- 
 ties of literary fame. 
 
 I should be, indeed, unwilling to find that, 
 for the sake of corresponding with the Idler, 
 the smith's iron had cooled on the anvil, or the 
 spinster's distaff stood unemployed. I solicit 
 only the contributions of those who have al- 
 ready devoted themselves to literature, or, with- 
 out any determinate intention, wander at large 
 through the expanse of life, and wear out the 
 day in hearing at one place what they utter at 
 another. 
 
 Of these the great part are already writers. 
 One has a friend in the country upon whom he 
 exrcises his powers ; whose passions he raises 
 and depresses ; whose understanding he per- 
 plexes with paradoxes, or strengthens by argu- 
 ment; whose admiration he courts, whose 
 praises he enjoys ; and who serves him instead 
 of a senate or a theatre ; As the young soldiers 
 in the Roman camp learned the use of their 
 weapons by fencing against a post in the place 
 of an enemy. 
 
 Another has his pockets filled with essays 
 and epigrams which he reads from house tc 
 house, to select parties, and which his ac 
 quaintances are daily entreating him to with- 
 hold no longer from the impatience of the 
 public. 
 
 If among these any one is persuaded that, 
 by such preludes of composition, he has quali- 
 fied himself to appear in the open world, and 
 is yet afraid of those censures which they who 
 have already written, and they who cannot 
 write, are equally ready to fulminate against 
 public pretenders to fame, he may, by trans- 
 mitting his performances to the Idler, make a 
 cheap experiment of his abilities, and enjoy 
 the pleasure of success, without the hazard of 
 miscarriage. 
 
 Many advantages not generally known arise 
 from this method of stealing on the public. 
 The standing author of the paper is always the 
 object of critical malignity. Whatever is mean 
 will be imputed to him, and whatever is excel- 
 lent be ascribed to his assistants. It does not 
 much alter the event, that the author and his 
 correspondents are equally unknown ; for the 
 author, whoever he be, is an individual, of 
 whom every reader has some fixed idea, and 
 whom he is, therefore, unwilling to gratify 
 with applause ; but the praises given to his 
 correspondents are scattered in the air, none 
 can tell on whom they will light, and therefore 
 none are unwilling to bestow them. 
 
 He that is known to contribute to a periodi- 
 cal work, needs no other caution than not to tell 
 what particular pieces are his own ; sucheecre- 
 cy is, indeed, very difficult ; but if it can be 
 maintained, it is scarcely to be imagined at how 
 small an expense he may grow considerable. 
 
 A person of quality, by a single paper, may 
 engross the honour of a volume. Fame is, in 
 deed, dealt with a hand less and less bounteous 
 through the subordinate ranks, till it descends
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 359 
 
 to the professed author, who will find it very 
 difficult to get more than he deserves ; but 
 every man who does not want it, or who needs 
 not value it, may have liberal allowances ; and, 
 for five letters in the year sent to the Idler, of 
 which perhaps only two are printed, will be 
 promoted to the first rank of writers by those 
 who are weary of the present race of wits, and 
 wish to sink them into obscurity before the lus- 
 tre of a name not yet known enough to be 
 detested. 
 
 No. 3.] SATURDAY, APRIL 29, 1758. 
 
 Of/a Vitas. 
 Solamar cantu. STAT. 
 
 IT hag long been the complaint of those who 
 frequent the theatre, that all the dramatic art 
 lias been long exhausted, and that the vicissi- 
 tudes of fortune, and accidents of life, have 
 been shown in every possible combination, till 
 the first scene informs us of the last, and the 
 play no sooner opens, than every auditor knows 
 now it will conclude. When a conspiracy is 
 formed in a tragedy, we guess by whom it will 
 be detected ; when a letter is dropt in a come- 
 dy, we can tell by whom it will be found. 
 Nothing is now left for the poet but character 
 and sentiment, which are to make their way 
 as they can without the soft anxiety of sus- 
 pense, or the enlivening agitation of surprise. 
 
 A new paper lies under the same disadvan- 
 tages as a new play. There is danger lest it 
 be new without novelty. 
 
 Aly earlier predecessors had their choice of 
 vices and follies, and selected such as were 
 most likely to raise meriment or attract atten- 
 tion ; they had the whole field of life before 
 them, untrodden and unsurveyed ; characters 
 of every kind shot up in theff way, and those 
 of the most luxuriant growth, or most conspi- 
 cuous colours, were naturally crept by the 
 first sickle. They that follow are forced to 
 peep into neglected corners, to note the ca- 
 sual varieties of the same species, and to re- 
 commend themselves by minute industry, and 
 distinctions too subtle for common eyes. 
 
 Sometimes it may happen that the haste or 
 negligence of the first inquirers has left enough 
 behind to reward another search ; sometimes 
 new objects start up under the eye, and he 
 that is looking for one kind of matter is amply 
 gratified by the discovery of another. But still 
 it must be allowed that as more is taken less 
 can remain ; and every truth brought newly to 
 light impoverishes the mine from which suc- 
 ceeding intellects are to dig their treasures. 
 
 Many philosophers imagine that the ele- 
 ments themselves may be in time exhausted ; 
 that the sun, by shining long, will effuse all 
 its light ; and that by the continual waste of 
 aqueous particles, the whole earth will at last 
 oecome a sandy desert. 
 
 I would not advise my readers to disturb 
 themselves by contriving how they shall live 
 without light and water. For the days of uni- 
 versal thirst and perpetual darkness are at a 
 great dista ic , The ocean and the sun will 
 
 last our time, and we may leave posterity to 
 shifUfor themselves. 
 
 But if the stores of nature are limited, much 
 more narrow bounds must be set to the modes 
 of life ; and mankind may want a moral or 
 amusing paper, many "years before they shall 
 be deprived of drink or day-light. This want, 
 which to the busy and inventive may seem 
 easily remediable by some substitute or other, 
 the whole race of Idlers will feel with all the 
 sensibility that such torpid animals can suffer. 
 
 When I consider the innumerable multitudes 
 that, having no motive of desire, or determina- 
 tion of will, lie freezing in perpetual inactivity, 
 till some external impulse puts them in motion ; 
 who awake in the morning vacant of thought, 
 with minds gaping for the intellectual food, 
 which some kind essayist has been accustomed 
 to supply, I am moved by the commiseration 
 with which all human beings ought to behold 
 the distresses of each other, to try some expe 
 dients for their relief, and to inquire by what 
 methods the listless may be actuated, and the 
 empty be replenished. 
 
 There are said to be pleasures in madness 
 known only to madmen. There are certainly 
 miseries in idleness which the Idler only can 
 conceive. These miseries I have often felt 
 and often bewailed. I know by experience how 
 welcome is every avocation that summons the 
 thoughts to a new image ; and how much lan- 
 guor and lassitude are relieved by that officious- 
 ness which offers a momentary amusement to 
 him who is unable to find it for himself. 
 
 It is naturally indifferent to this race of men 
 what entertainment they receive, so they are 
 but entertained. They catch with equal eager- 
 ness, at a moral lecture, or the memoirs of a 
 robber; a prediction of the appearance of a 
 comet, or the calculation of the chances of a 
 lottery. 
 
 They might therefore easily be pleased if 
 they consulted only their own minds ; but those 
 who will not take the trouble to think for 
 themselves, have always somebody that thinks 
 for them ; and the difficulty of writing is to 
 please those from whom others learn to be 
 pleased. 
 
 Much mischief is done in the world with very 
 little interest or design. He that assumes the 
 character of a critic, and justifies his claim by 
 perpetual censure, and imagines that he is hurt- 
 ing none but the author, and him he considers as 
 a pestilent animal, whom every other being has 
 a right to persecute ; little does he think how 
 many harmless men he involves in his own 
 guilt, by teaching them to be noxious without 
 malignity, and to repeat objections which they 
 do not understand ; or how many honest minds 
 he debars from pleasure, by exciting an artificial 
 fastidiousness, and making them too wise to 
 concur with their own sensations. He who is 
 taught by a critic to dislike that which pleased 
 him in his natural state, has the same reason 
 to complain of his instructor, as the madman 
 to rail at his doctor, who when he thought him- 
 self master of Peru, physicked him to poverty. 
 
 If men will struggle against their own ad- 
 vantage they are not to expect that the Idler 
 will take much pains upon them ; he has him
 
 260 
 
 sulf to please as well as them, and has long 
 learned, or endeavoured to learn, not to make 
 the pleasure of others too necessary to his own. 
 
 No. 4.] SATURDAY, MAT 6, 1758. 
 
 HdvTas yap <pi\haice. HOM. 
 
 CHARITY, or tenderness for the poor, which is 
 now justly considered, by a great part of man- 
 kind, as inseparable from piety, and in which 
 almost all the goodness of the present age 
 consists, is, I think, known only to those who 
 enjoy, either immediately or by transmission 
 the light of revelation. 
 
 Those ancient nations who have given us the 
 wisest models of government and the brightest 
 examples of patriotism, whose institutions have 
 been transcribed by all succeeding legislatures, 
 and whose history is studied by every candi- 
 date for political or military reputation, have 
 left behind them no mention of alms-houses, or 
 hospitals, of places where age might repose, 
 or sickness be relieved. 
 
 The Roman emperors, indeed, gave large 
 donations to the citizens and soldiers, but these 
 distributions were always reckoned rather 
 popular than virtuous ; nothing more was in- 
 tended than an ostentation of liberality, nor 
 was any recompense expected, but suffrages 
 and acclamations. 
 
 Their beneficence was merely occasional ; 
 he that ceased to need the favour of the people, 
 ceased likewise to court it ; and therefore, no 
 man thought it either necesfery or wise to 
 make any standing provision for the needy, to 
 look forwards to the wants of posterity, or to 
 secure successions of charity, for successions 
 of distress. 
 
 Compassion is, by some reasoners, on whom 
 the name of philosophers has been too easily 
 conferred, resolved into an affection merely 
 selfish and involuntary perception of pain at 
 the involuntary sight of a being like ourselves 
 languishing in misery. But this sensation, if 
 ever it be felt at all from the brute instinct of 
 uninstructed nature, will only produce effects 
 desultory and transient : it will never settle 
 into a principle of action or extend relief to 
 calamities unseen, in generations not yet in 
 being. 
 
 The devotion of life or fortune to the succour 
 of the poor, is a height of virtue to which hu- 
 manity has never risen by its own power. The 
 charity of the Mahometans is a precept which 
 their teacher evidently transplanted from the 
 doctrines of Christianity ; and the care with 
 which some of the Oriental sects attend, as it 
 is said, to the necessities of the diseased and 
 indigent, may be added to the other arguments 
 which prove Zoroaster to have borrowed his 
 institutions from the law of Moses. 
 
 The present age, though not likely to shine 
 hereafter among the most splendid periods of 
 history, has yet given examples of charity, 
 which may be very properly recommended to 
 imitation. The equal distribution of wealth, 
 which long commerce has produced, does not 
 enable any single hand to raise edifices of piety 
 
 [No. 4. 
 
 like fortified cities, to appropriate manors to re- 
 ligious uses, or deal out such large and lasting 
 beneficence as was scattered over the land in 
 ancient times, by those who possessed counties 
 or provinces. But no sooner is a new species 
 of misery brought to view, and a design of re- 
 lieving it professed, than every hand is open 
 to contribute something, every tongue is busi- 
 ed in solicitation, and every art of pleasure 
 is employed for a time in the interest of virtue. 
 
 The most apparent and pressing miseries in- 
 cident to man, have now their peculiar houses 
 of reception and relief ; and there are few a- 
 mong us, raised however little above the dan- 
 ger of poverty, who may not justly claim, what 
 is implored by the Mahometans in their most 
 ardent benedictions, the prayers of the poor. 
 
 Among those actions which the mind can 
 most securely review with unabated pleasure is 
 that of having contributed to an hospital for 
 the sick. Of some kinds of charity the conse- 
 quences are dubious ; some evils which benefi- 
 cence has been busy to remedy, are not certain- 
 ly known to be very grievous to the sufferer or 
 detrimental to the community ; but no man can 
 question whether wounds and sickness are not 
 really painful ; whether it be not worthy of a 
 good man's care to restore those to ease and 
 usefulnesss, from whose labour infants and wo 
 men expect their bread, and who, by a casual 
 hurt, or lingering disease, lie pining in want 
 and anguish, burthensome to others, and weary 
 of themselves. 
 
 Yet, as the hospitals of the present time sub- 
 sist only by gifts bestowed at pleasure, without 
 any solid fund of support, there is danger lest 
 the blaze of chanty which now burns wi;h so 
 much heat and splendour, should die away for 
 wanting of lasting fuel ; lest fashion should 
 suddenly withdraw her smile, and inconstancy 
 transfer the public attention to something which 
 may appear more^ eligible, because it will be 
 new. 
 
 Whatever is left in the hands of chance must 
 be subject to vicissitude ; and when any estab- 
 lishment is found to be useful, it ought to bo 
 the next care to make it permanent. 
 
 But man is a transitory being, and his de- 
 signs must partake of the impeifections of their 
 author. To confer duration is not always in 
 our power. We must snatch the present mo- 
 ment, and employ it well, without too much 
 solicitude for the future, and content ourselves 
 with reflecting that our part is performed. He 
 that waits for an opportunity to do much at 
 once, may breathe out his life in idle wishes, 
 and regret, in the last hour, his useless inten- 
 tions, and barren zeal. 
 
 The most active promoters of the present 
 schemes of charity, cannot be cleared from some 
 instances of misconduct, which may awaken 
 contempt or censure, and hasten that neglect 
 which is likely to come too soon of itself. The 
 open competitions between different hospitals, 
 and the animosity with which their patrons 
 oppose one another, may prejudice weak minds 
 against them all. For it will not be easily 
 believed, that any man can, for good reasons 
 wish to exclude another from doing good. The 
 spirit of charity can only be continued bv a re-
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 361 
 
 conciliation of these ridiculous feuds ; and, 
 therefore, instead of contentions who shall be 
 the only benefactors to the needy, let there be 
 no other stru-<rle than who shall be the first. 
 
 No. 5.] SATURDAY, MAT 13, 1758. 
 
 KdAXoj 
 
 itav airavrtav 
 
 OUR military operations are at last begun ; our 
 troops are marching in all the pomp of war, and 
 a camp is marked out on the Isle of Wight ; the 
 heart of every Englishman now swells with 
 confidence, though somewhat softened by gen- 
 erous compassion for the consternationand dis- 
 tresses of our enemies. 
 
 This formidable armament, and splendid 
 march, produce different effects upon different 
 minds, according to the boundless diversities 
 or temper, occupation, and habits of thought. 
 
 Many a tender maiden considers her lover 
 as already lost, because he cannot reach the 
 camp but by crossing the soa ; men of a more 
 political understanding are persuaded that we 
 shall now see, in a few days, the ambassadors 
 of France supplicating for pity. Some are 
 hoping for a bloody battle, because a bloody 
 battle makes a vendible narrative ; some are 
 composing songs of victory ; some planning 
 arches of triumph ; and some are mixing fire- 
 works for the celebration of a peace. 
 
 Of all extensive and complicated objects dif- 
 ferent parts are selected by different eyes ; and 
 minds are variously affected, as they vary their 
 attention. The care of the public is now fixed 
 upon our soldiers, who are leaving their native 
 country to wander, none can tell how long, in 
 the pathless deserts of the Isle of Wight. The 
 tender sigh for their sufferings, and the gay 
 drink to their success. I who look, or believe 
 myself to look, with most philosophic eyes on 
 human affairs, must confess, that I saw the 
 troops march with little emotion ; my thoughts 
 ivere fixed upon other scenes, and the tear stole 
 into my eyes, not for those who were going 
 away, but for those who were left behind. 
 
 We have no reason to doubt but our troops 
 will proceed with proper caution ; there are 
 men among them who can take care of them- 
 selves. But how shall the ladies endure with- 
 out them ? By what arts can they, who have 
 long had no joy but from the civilities of a sol- 
 dier, now amuse their hours, and solace their 
 separation ? 
 
 Of fifty thousand men, now destined to diffe- 
 rent stations, if we allow each to have been oc- 
 casionally necessary only to four women, a 
 short computation will inform us, that two 
 hundred thousand ladies are left to languish in 
 distress ; two hundred thousand ladies, who 
 ' must run to sales and auctions without an at- 
 tendant ; sit at the play without a critic to di- 
 rect their opinion ; buy their fans by their own 
 judgment ; dispose shells by their own inven- 
 tion ; Walk in the Mall without a gallant ; go 
 to the gardens without a protector ; and shuffle 
 cards with vain impatience, for want of a fourth 
 to complete the party. 
 2V 
 
 Of these ladies, some, I hope, have lap-dogs, 
 and some monkeys ; but they are unsatisfactory 
 companions. Many useful offices are perform- 
 ed by men of scarlet, to which neither dog nor 
 monkey has adequate abilities. A parrot, in- 
 deed, is as fine as a colonel, and if he has been 
 much used to good company, is not wholly 
 without conversation ; but a parrot, after all is 
 a poor little creature, and has neither sword 
 nor shoulder knot, can neither dance nor play 
 at cards. 
 
 Since the soldiers must obey the call of their 
 duty, and go to that side of the kingdom which 
 faces France, I know not why the ladies, who 
 cannot live without them, should not follow 
 them. The prejudices and pride of man have 
 long presumed the sword and spindle made for 
 different hands, and denied the other sex to par- 
 take the grandeur of military glory. This no- 
 tion may be consistently enough received in 
 France, where the salique law excludes females 
 from the throne ; but we, who allow them to 
 be sovereigns, may surely suppose them capa- 
 ble to be soldiers. 
 
 It were to be wished that some men, whose 
 experience and authority might enforce regard, 
 would propose that our encampments for the 
 present year should comprise an equal number 
 of men and women who should march and 
 fight in mingled bodies. If proper colonels 
 were once appointed, and the drums ordered to 
 beat for female volunteers, our regiments would 
 soon be filled without the reproach or cruelty 
 of an impress. 
 
 Of these heroines some might serve on foot, 
 under the denomination of the Female Buffs, 
 and some on horseback, with the title of Lady 
 Hussars. 
 
 What objections can be made to this scheme 
 I have endeavoured maturely to consider, and 
 cannot find that a modern soldier has any duties 
 except that of obedience, which a lady cannot 
 perform. If the hair has lost its powder, a 
 lady has a puff; if a coat be spotted, a lady has 
 a brush. Strength is of less importance since 
 fire-arms have been used ; blows of the hand are 
 now seldom exchanged ; and what is there to 
 be done in the charge or the retreat beyond the 
 powers of a sprightly maiden ? 
 
 Our masculine squadrons will not suppose 
 themselves disgraced by their auxiliaries, till 
 they have done something which women could 
 not have done. The troops of Braddock never 
 saw their enemies, and perhaps were defeated 
 by women. If our American general had head- 
 ed an army of girls, he might still have built 
 a fort and taken it. Had Minorca been de- 
 fended by a female garrison, it might have 
 been surrendered, as it was, without a breach ; 
 and I cannot but think, that seven thousand 
 women might have ventured to look at Roch- 
 fort, sack a village, rob a vineyard, and return 
 in safety. 
 
 No. 6.] SATURDAY, MAY 20, 1758. 
 
 Tantiov aperfjj ytvata yuvi?. OR. PBO. 
 
 THE lady who had undertaken to ride on one 
 horse a thousand miles in a thousand hours, has
 
 362 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 7. 
 
 completed her journey in little more than two 
 thirds of the time stipulated, and was conductec 
 through the last mile with triumphal honours 
 Acclamation shouted before her, and all the 
 flowers of the spring were scattered in her 
 way. 
 
 Every heart ought to rejoice when true merit 
 is distinguished with public notice. I am far 
 from wishing either to the Amazon or her 
 horse any diminution of happiness or fame, anc 
 cannot but lament that they were not more 
 amply and suitably rewarded. 
 
 There once a time when wreaths of bays or 
 oak were considered as recompenses equal to 
 the most wearisome labours and terrific dan- 
 gers, and when the miseries of long marches 
 and stormy seas were at once driven from the 
 remembrance by the fragrance of a garland. 
 
 If this heroine had been born in ancienl 
 times, she might, perhaps, have been delighted 
 with the simplicity of ancient gratitude ; or, il 
 any thing was wanting to full satisfaction, she 
 might have supplied the deficiency with the 
 hope of deification, and anticipated the altars 
 that would be raised, and the vows that would 
 be made, by future candidates for equestrian 
 glory, to the patroness of the race, and the 
 goddess of the stable. 
 
 But fate reserved her for a more enlightened 
 age, which has discovered leaves and flowers to 
 be transitory things ; which considers profit as 
 the end of honour ; and rates the event of every 
 undertaking only by the money that is gained 
 or lost. In these days, to strew the road with 
 daises and lilies is to mock merit, and delude 
 hope. The toyman will not give his jewels, nor 
 the mercer measure out his silks for vegetable 
 coin. A primrose, though picked up under the 
 feet of the most renowned courser, will neither 
 be received as a stake at cards, nor procure a 
 seat at an opera, nor buy candles for a rout, nor 
 lace for a livery. And though there are many 
 virtuosos, whose sole ambition is to possess 
 something which can be found in no other 
 hand, yet some are more accustomed to store 
 their cabinets by theft than purchase, and 
 none of them would either steal or buy one of 
 the flowers of gratulation till he knows" that all 
 the rest are totally destroyed. 
 
 Little, therefore, did it avail this wonderful 
 lady to be received, however joyfully, with such 
 obsolete and barren ceremonies of praise. Had 
 the way been covered with guineas, though but 
 for the tenth part of the last mile, she would 
 have considered her skill and diligence as not 
 wholly lost ; and might have rejoiced in the 
 speed and perserverance which had left her such 
 superfluity of time, that she could at leisure 
 gather her reward without the danger of Ata- 
 lanta's miscarriage. 
 
 So much ground could not, indeed, have been 
 paved with gold but at a large expense, and 
 we are at present engaged in a war, which 
 demands and enforces frugality. But common 
 rules are made only for common life, and some 
 deviation from general policy may be allowed 
 in favour of a lady that rode a thousand miles 
 in a thousand hours. 
 
 Since the spirit of antiquity so much prevails 
 amongst us, that even on this great occasion we 
 
 have given flowers instead of money, let us at 
 least complete our imitation of tho ancients, and 
 endeavour to transmit to posterity the memory 
 of that virtue which we consider as superior to 
 pecuniary recompense. Let an equestrian sta- 
 tue of this heroine be erected, near the starting- 
 post on the heath of Newmarket, to fill kindred 
 souls with emulation, and tell the grand-daugh- 
 ters of our grand-daughters what an English 
 maiden has once performed. 
 
 As events, however illustrious, are soon ob- 
 scured if they are intrusted to tradition, I think 
 it necessary that the pedestal should be in- 
 scribed with a concise account of this great 
 performance. The composition of this narra- 
 tive ought not to be committed rashly to im- 
 proper hands. If the rhetoricians of New- 
 market, who may be supposed likely to con- 
 ceive in its full strength the dignity of the sub- 
 ject, should undertake to express it, there is 
 danger lest they admit some phrases which, 
 though well understood at present, may be 
 ambiguous in another century. If posterity 
 should read on a public monument, that the 
 lady carried her horse a thousand miles in a thou- 
 sand hours, they may think that the statue and 
 inscription are at variance, because one will 
 represent the horse as carrving his lady, and 
 the other tell that the lady carried her horse. 
 
 Some doubts likewise may be raised by spe- 
 culatists, and some controversies be agitated 
 among historians, concerning the motive as 
 well as the manner of the action. As it will 
 be known that this wonder was performed in 
 a time of war, some will suppose that the lady 
 was frightened by invaders, and fled to pre- 
 serve her life or her chastity : others will con- 
 jectnre that she was thus honoured for some 
 intelligence carried of the enemy's designs : 
 some will think that she brought news of a vic- 
 tory : others that she was commissioned to tell 
 of a conspiracy : and some will congratulate 
 themselves on their acuter penetration, and 
 find, that all these notions of patriotism and 
 public spirit are improbable and chimerical; 
 they will confidently tell, that she only ran 
 away from her guardians, and the true causes 
 of her speed were, fear and love. 
 
 Let it therefore be carefully mentioned, that 
 by this performance she icon her ivager ; and, 
 lest this should, by any change of manners, 
 seem an inadequateor incredible incitement, let 
 it be added, that at this time the original mo- 
 tives of human actions had lost their influence; 
 that the love of praise was extinct; the fear of 
 nfamy was become ridiculous ; and the only 
 wish of an Englishman was, to win his wager. 
 
 No. 7.] SATURDAY, MAT 27, 1758. 
 
 ONE of the principal amusements of the Id 
 ler is, to read the works of those minute his- 
 torians the writers of news, who, though con- 
 temptuously overlooked by the composers of 
 bulky volumes, are yet necessary in a nation 
 where much wealth produces much leisure, 
 and one part of the people has nothing to do 
 but to observe the lives and fortunes of the 
 other.
 
 No. 7. 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 363 
 
 To us who are regaled every morning and 
 evening with intelligence, and are supplied 
 from day to day with materials for conversa- 
 tion, it is difficult to conceive how man can sub- 
 sist without a newspaper, or to what entertain- 
 ment companies can assemble in those wide 
 regions of the earth that have neither Chronicles 
 nor Magazines, neither Gazettes nor Adver- 
 tisers, neither Journals nor Evening Posts. 
 
 There are never great numbers in any nation, 
 whose reason or invention can find employment 
 for their tongues, who can raise a pleasing dis- 
 course from their own stock of sentiments and 
 images ; and those few who have qualified them- 
 selves by speculation for general disquisitions 
 are soon left without an audience. The com- 
 mon talk of men must relate to facts in which 
 the talkers have, or think they have an interest; 
 and where such facts cannot be known, the 
 pleasures of society will be merely sensual. 
 Thus the natives of the Mahometan empires, 
 who approach most nearly to European civility, 
 have no higher pleasure at their convivial as- 
 sembles than to hear a piper, or gaze upon a 
 tumbler; and no company can keep together 
 longer than they are diverted by sounds or 
 shows. 
 
 All foreigners remark, that the knowledge 
 of the common people of England is greater 
 than that of any other vulgar. This superi- 
 ority we undoubtedly owe to the rivulets of intel- 
 ligence which are continually trickling among 
 us, which every one may catch, and of which 
 every one partakes. 
 
 This universal diffusion of instruction is, per- 
 haps, not wholly without its inconveniences ; 
 it certainly fills the nation with superficial dis- 
 Dutants ; enables those to talk who were born 
 to work ; and affords information sufficient to 
 elate vanity, and stiffen obstinacy, but too little 
 to enlarge the mind into complete skill for full 
 comprehension. 
 
 Whatever is found to gratify the public will 
 be multiplied, by the emulation of venders, be- 
 yond necessity or use. This plenty, indeed, 
 produces cheapnes, but cheapness always 
 ends in negligence and depravation. 
 
 The compilation of newspapers often com- 
 mitted to narrow and mercenary minds, not 
 qualified for the task of delighting or instruct- 
 ing ; who are content to fill their paper, with 
 whatever matter, without industry to gather, 
 or discernment to select. 
 
 Thus journals are daily multiplied without 
 increase of knowledge. The tale of the morn- 
 ing paper is told again in the evening, and the 
 narratives of the evening are bought again in 
 the morning. These repetitions, indeed, waste i 
 time, but they do not shorten it. The most I 
 eager peruser of news is tired before he has 
 completed his labour; and many a man, who 
 enters the coffee-house in his night-gown and 
 slippers, is called away to his shop, or his din- 
 ner, before he has well considered the state of 
 Europe. 
 
 It is discovered by Reaumur, that spiders 
 might make silk, if they could be persuaded to 
 live in peace together. The writers of news, 
 if they could be confederated, might give more 
 pleasure to the public. The morning and even- 
 
 ing authors might divide an event between 
 them ; a single action, and that not of much 
 importance, might be gradually discovered, so 
 as to vary a whole week with joy, anxiety, and 
 conjecture. 
 
 We know that a French ship of war was 
 lately taken by a ship of England ; but this 
 event was suffered to burst upon us all at once, 
 and then what we knew already was echoed 
 from day to day, and from week to week. 
 
 Let us suppose these spiders of literature to 
 spin together, and inquire to what an exten- 
 sive web such another event might be regularly 
 drawn, and how six morning and six evening 
 writers might agree to retail their articles. 
 
 On Monday morning the captain of a ship 
 might arrive, who left the Friseur of France, 
 and the Bull-dog, captain Grim, in sight of one 
 another, so that an engagement seemed una- 
 voidable. 
 
 Monday evening. A sound of cannon was 
 heard offCape Finisterre, supposed to be those 
 of the Bull-dog and Friseur. 
 
 Tuesday morning. It was this morning re- 
 ported, that the Bull-dog engaged the Friseur, 
 yard-arm and yard-arm, three glasses and a 
 half, but was obliged to sheer off for want of 
 powder. It is hoped that inquiry will be made 
 into this affair in a proper place. 
 
 Tuesday evening. The account of the en- 
 gagement between the Bull-dog and Friseur 
 was premature. 
 
 Wednesday morning. Another express is 
 arrived, which brings news, that the Friseur 
 had lost all her masts, and three hundred of 
 her men, in the late engagement ; and that cap- 
 tain Grim is come into harbour much shattered. 
 Wednesday evening. We hear that the 
 brave captain Grim, having expended his pow- 
 der, proposed to enter the Friseur, sword in 
 hand ; but that his lieutenant, the nephew of 
 a certain nobleman, remonstrated against it. 
 
 Thursday morning. We wait impatiently 
 for a full account of the late engagement be- 
 tween the Bull-dog and Friseur. 
 
 Thursday evening. It is said the order of 
 the Bath will be sent to captain Grim. 
 
 Friday morning. A certain Lord of the Ad- 
 miralty has been heard to say of a certain cap- 
 tain, that if he had done his duty, a certain 
 French ship might have been taken. It was 
 not thus that merit was rewarded in the days of 
 romwell. 
 
 Friday evening. There is certain informa- 
 tion at the Admiralty, that the Friseur is 
 taken, after a resistance of two hours. 
 
 Saturday morning. A letter from one of the 
 gunners of the Bull-dog, mentions the taking of 
 the Friseur, and attributes their success wholly 
 to the bravery and resolution of captain Grim, 
 who never owed any of his advancement to 
 borough-jobbers, or any other corrupters of the 
 people. 
 
 Saturday evening. Captain Grim arrived at 
 the Admiralty, with an account that he engag- 
 ed the Friseur, a ship of equal force with his 
 own, off Cape Finisterre, and took her, after 
 an obstinate resistance, having killed one hun 
 dred and fifty of the French, with the loss of 
 ninety-five of his own men.
 
 364 THE IDLER. 
 
 No. 8.] SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 1758. 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 IN the time of public danger, it is every man's 
 duty to withdraw his thoughts in some measure 
 from his private interest, and employ part of 
 his time for the general welfare. National con- 
 duct ought to be the result of national wisdom, 
 a plan formed by mature consideration and 
 diligent selection out of all the schemes which 
 may be offered, and all the information which 
 can be procured. 
 
 In a battle, every man should fight as if he 
 was the single champion ; in preparations for 
 war, every man should think, as if the last event 
 depended on his counsel. None can tell what 
 discoveries are within his reach, or how much 
 he may contribute to the public safety. 
 
 Full of these considerations, I have carefully 
 reviewed the process of the war, and find, what 
 every other man has found, that we have 
 hitherto added nothing to our military reputa- 
 tion : that at one time we have been beaten by 
 enemies whom we did not see ; and, at another, 
 have avoided the sight of enemies lest we 
 should be beaten. 
 
 Whether our troops are defective in disci- 
 pline or in courage, is not very useful to inquire ; 
 they evidently want something necessary tc 
 success ; and he that shall supply that want 
 will deserve well of his country. 
 
 To learn of an enemy has always been ac- 
 counted politic and honourable ; and, therefore, 
 I hope it will raise no prejudice against my 
 project, to confess that I borrowed it from a 
 Frenchman. 
 
 When the Isle of Rhodes was, many centu- 
 ries ago, in the hands of that military order, 
 now called the Knights of Malta, it was rava- 
 ged by a dragon, who inhabited a den under a 
 rock, from which he issued forth when he was 
 hungry or wanton, and without fear or mercy 
 devoured men and beasts as they came in his 
 way. Many councils were held, and many 
 devices offered, for his destruction ; but as his 
 back was armed with impenetrable scales, 
 none would venture to attack him. At last 
 Dudon, a French knight, undertook the deli- 
 verance of the island. From some place of 
 security he took a view of the dragon, or, as a 
 modern soldier would say, reconnoitered him, 
 and observed that his belly was naked and vul- 
 nerable. He then returned home to take his 
 arrangements ; and, by a very exact imitation 
 of nature, made a dragon of pasteboard, in the 
 belly of which he put beef and mutton, and 
 accustomed two sturdy mastiffs to feed them- 
 selves by tearing their way to the concealed 
 flesh. When his dogs were well practised in 
 this method of plunder, he marched out with 
 them at his heels, and showed them the dra- 
 gon , they rushed upon him in quest of their 
 dinner ; Dudon battered his skull, while they 
 lacerated his belly ; and neither his sting nor 
 claws were able to defend him. 
 
 Something like this might be practised in 
 our present state. Let a fortification be raised 
 on Salisbury-Plain, resembling Brest, or Tou- 
 
 | Ion, or Paris itself, with all the usual prepara- 
 I tion for defence : let the inclosure be filled 
 with beef and ale ; let the soldiers from somo 
 proper eminence, see shirts waving upon 
 lines, and here and there a plump landlady hur- 
 rying about with pots in their hands. When 
 they are sufficiently animated to advance, lead 
 them in exact order, with fife and drum, to that 
 side whence the wind blows, till they como 
 within the scent of roast meat and tobacco. 
 Contrive that they may approach the place 
 fasting, about half an hour after dinner-time, 
 assure them that there is no danger, and com- 
 mand an attack. 
 
 If nobody within either moves or speaks, it 
 is not unlikely that they may carry the place 
 by storm ; but if a panic should seize them, it 
 will be proper to defer the enterprise to a more 
 hungry hour. When they have entered, let 
 them fill their bellies and return to the camp. 
 
 On the next day let the same place be shown 
 them again, but with some additions of strength 
 or terror. I cannot pretend to inform our gen- 
 erals through what gradations of danger they 
 should train their men to fortitude. They best 
 know what the soldiers and what themselves 
 can bear. It will be proper that the warshould 
 every day vary its appearance. Sometimes, 
 as they mount the rampart, a cook may throw 
 fat upon the fire, to accustom them to a sudden 
 biaze ; and sometimes by the clatter of empty 
 pots, they may be inured to formidable noises. 
 But let it never be forgotten, that victory must 
 repose with a full belly. 
 
 In time it will be proper to bring our French 
 prisoners from the coast, and place them upon 
 the walls in martial order. At their first ap- 
 pearance their hands must be tied, but they 
 may be allowed to grin. In a month the may 
 guard the place with their hands loosed, pro- 
 vided that on pain of death they be forbidden 
 to strike. 
 
 By this method our army will soon be 
 brought to look an enemy in the face. But it 
 has been lately observed, that fear is received 
 by the ear as well as the eyes ; and the Indian 
 war-cry is represented as too dreadful to be 
 endured ; as a sound that will force the bra- 
 vest veteran to drop his weapon, and desert 
 his rank ; that will deafen his ear and chill his 
 breast ; that will neither suffer him to hear or- 
 ders or to feel shame, or retain any sensibility 
 but the dread of death. 
 
 That the savage clamours of naked barba- 
 rians should thus terrify troops disciplined to 
 war, and ranged in array with arms in their 
 hands, is surely strange. But this is no time 
 to reason. I am of opinion, that by a proper 
 mixture of asses, bulls, turkeys, geese, and 
 tragedians, a noise migkt be procured equallj 
 horrid with the war-cry. When our men have 
 been encouraged by frequent victories, nolh 
 ing will remain but to qualify them for ex- 
 treme danger, by a sudden concert of terrific 
 vociferation. When they have endured this 
 last trial, let them be led to action, as men 
 who are no longer to be frightened ; as men 
 who can bear at once the grimaces of (I* 
 Gauls, and the howl of the Americans.
 
 No. 9.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 365 
 
 No.9.] SATURDAY, JUNE 10, 1758. 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I have read you ; that is a favour few authors 
 can boast of having received from me besides 
 yourself. My intention in telling you of it is 
 to inform you, that you have both pleased and 
 angered me. Never did writer appear so de- 
 lightful to me as you did when you adopted 
 the name of the Idler. But what a falling-off 
 was there when your first production was 
 brought to light! A natural, irresistible at- 
 tachment to that favourite passion, idling, had 
 led me to hope for indulgence from the Idler, 
 but I find him a stranger to the title. 
 
 What rules has he proposed totally to un- 
 brace the slackened nerve ; to shade the hea- 
 vy eye of inattention ; to give the smooth 
 feature and the uncontracted muscle ; or pro- 
 cure insensibility to the whole animal compo- 
 sition ? 
 
 These were some of the placid blessings I 
 promised myself the enjoyment of, when I com- 
 mitted violence upon myself by mustering up 
 all my strength to set about reading you ; but 
 I am disappointed in them all, and the stroke 
 of eleven in the morning is still as terrible to 
 me as before, and I find putting on my clothes 
 still as painful and laborious. Oh that our 
 climate would permit that original nakedness 
 which the thrice happy Indians to this day en- 
 joy ! How many unsolicitous hours should I 
 bask away, warmed in bed by the sun's glo- 
 rious beams, could I, like them, tumble from 
 thence in a moment, when necessity obliges 
 me to endure the torment of getting upon my 
 legs! 
 
 But wherefore do I talk to you upon subjects 
 of this delicate nature ? you, who seem igno- 
 rant of the inexpressible charms of the elbow- 
 chair, attended with a soft stool for the eleva- 
 tion of the feet ! Thus, vacant of thought, do 
 I indulge the live-long day. 
 
 You may define happiness as you please ; 
 I embrace that opinion which makes it con- 
 sist in the absence of pain. To reflect is pain ; 
 to stir is pain ; therefore I never reflect or stir 
 but when I cannot help it. Perhaps you will 
 call my scheme of life indolence, and therefore 
 think the Idler excused from taking any no- 
 tice of me : but I have always looked upon in- 
 dolence and idleness as the same ; and so de- 
 sire you will now and then, while you profess 
 yourself of our fraternity, take some notice of 
 me, and others in my situation, who think they 
 have a right to your assistance ; or relinquish 
 the name. 
 
 You may publish, burn, or destroy this, just 
 as you are in the humour ; it is ten to one but 
 I forget that I wrote it before it reaches you. 
 I believe you may find a motto for it in Ho- 
 race, but I cannot reach him without getting 
 out of my chair; that is a sufficient reason 
 for my not affixing any. And being obliged 
 to sit upright to ring the bell for my servant 
 to convey this to the penny-post, if I slip the 
 opportunity of his being now in the room, 
 makes be break off" abruptly 
 
 THIS correspondent, whoever he bt;, is not 
 to be dismissed without some tokens of re- 
 gard. There is no mark more certain of a 
 genuine Idler than uneasiness without moles- 
 tation, and complaint without a grievance. 
 
 Yet my gratitude to the contributor of half 
 a paper shall not wholly overpower mysincer- 
 ity. I must inform you, that, with all his pre- 
 tensions, he that calls for directions to be idle, 
 is yet but in the rudiments of idleness, and has 
 attained neither the practice nor theory of wast- 
 ing life. The true nature of idleness he will 
 know in time, by continuing to be idle. Vir- 
 gil tells us of an impetuous and rapid being, 
 that acquires strength by motion. The Idler 
 acquires weight by lying still. 
 
 The vis inertice, the quality of resisting all 
 external impulse, is hourly increasing; the 
 restless and troublesome faculties of attention 
 and distinction, reflection on the the past, and 
 solitude for the future, by a long indulgence 
 of idleness, will, like tapers in unelastic air, be 
 gradually extinguished ; and the officious lo- 
 ver, the vigilant soldier, the busy trader, may, 
 by a judicious composure of his mind, sink in- 
 to a state approaching to that of brute matter ; 
 in which he shall retain the consciousness of 
 his own existence, only by an obtuse langour 
 and drowsy discontent. 
 
 This is the lowest stage to which the favour- 
 ites of idleness can descend : these regions 
 of undelighted quiet can be entered by few. 
 Of those that are prepared to sink down into 
 their shade, some are roused into action by 
 avarice or ambition, some are awakened by the 
 voice of fame, some allured by the smile of 
 beauty, and many withheld by the importuni- 
 ties of want. Of all the enemies of idleness, 
 want is the most formidable. Fame is soon 
 found to be a sound, and love a dream ; ava- 
 rice and ambition may be justly suspected of 
 privy confederacies with idleness ; for when 
 they have for a while protected their votaries, 
 they often deliver them up to end their lives 
 under her dominion. Want always struggles 
 against idleness, but Want her herself is often 
 overcome ; and every hour shows the careful 
 observer those who had rather live in ease than 
 in plenty. 
 
 So wide is the region of Idleness, and so 
 powerful her influence. But she does not im- 
 mediately confer all her gifts. My correspon- 
 dent, who seems, with all his errors, worthy of 
 advice, must be told, that, he is calling too 
 hastily for the last effusion of total insensibili- 
 ty. Whatever he may have been taught by 
 unskilful Idlers, to believe, labour is necessary 
 in his initiation to idleness. He that never la- 
 bours may know the pains of idleness, but not 
 the pleasure. The comfort is, that if he de- 
 votes himself to insensibility, he will daily 
 lengthen the intervals of idleness, and shorten 
 those of labour, till at last he will lie down to 
 rest, and no longer disturb the world or him- 
 self by bustle or competition. 
 
 Thus I have endeavoured to give him that 
 information which, perhaps, after all, he did not 
 want : for a true Idler often calls for that which 
 he knows is never to be had, and asks ques-
 
 366 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 10. 
 
 tions which he does not desire ever to be an- 
 swered. 
 
 No. 10.] SATURDAY, JUNE 17, 1758. 
 
 CREDULITY, or confidence of opinion too great 
 for the evidence from which opinion is derived, 
 we find to be a general weakness imputed by 
 every sect and party to all others ; and, indeed. 
 by every man to every other man. 
 
 Of all kinds of credulity, the most obstinate 
 and wonderful is that of political zealots ; of 
 men, who being numbered, they know not how 
 or why, in any of the parties that divide a state, 
 resign the use of their own eyes and ears, and 
 resolve to believe nothing that does not favour 
 those whom they profess to follow. 
 
 The bigot of philosophy is seduced by autho- 
 rities which he has not always opportunities to 
 examine, is entangled in systems by which truth 
 and falsehood are inextricably complicated, or 
 undertakes to talk on subjects which nature did 
 not form him able to comprehend. 
 
 The Cartesian, who denies that his horse 
 feels the spur, or that the hare is afraid when 
 the hounds approach her ; the disciple of Mal- 
 branche, who maintains that the man was not 
 hurt by the bullet, which, according to vulgar 
 apprehension, swept away his legs ; the fol- 
 lower of Berkely, who, while he sits writing 
 at his table, declares that he has neither table, 
 paper, nor fingers ; have all the honour at least 
 of being deceived by fallacies not easily de- 
 tected, and may plead that they did not forsake 
 truth, but for appearances which they were 
 not able to distinguish from it. 
 
 But the man who engages in a party has sel- 
 dom to do with any thing remote or abstruse. 
 The present state of things is before his eyes; 
 and, if he cannot be satisfied without retrospec- 
 t'on, yet he seldom extends his views beyond 
 the historical events of the last century. All 
 the knowledge that he can want is within his 
 attainment, and most of the arguments which 
 he can hear are within his capacity. 
 
 Yet so it is that an Idler meets every hour of 
 his life with men who have different opinions 
 upon every thing past, present, and future ; 
 who deny the most notorious facts, contradict 
 the most cogent truths, and persist in assert- 
 ing to-day what they asserted yesterday, in de- 
 fiance of evidence, and contempt of confuta- 
 tion. 
 
 Two of my companions, who are grown old 
 in idleness, are Tom Tempest and Jack Sneak- 
 er. Both of them consider themselves as neg- 
 lected by their parties, and therefore entitled 
 to credit ; for why should they favour ingrati- 
 tude ? They are both men of integrity, where 
 no factious interest is to be promoted ; and 
 both lovers of truth, when they are not heated 
 with political debate. 
 
 Tom Tempest is a steady friend to tho 
 house of Stuart. He can recount the pro- 
 digies that have appeared in the sky, and the 
 calamities that have afflicted the nation every 
 year from the Revolution ; and is cf opin- 
 ion, that, if the exiled family had continued 
 to reign, there would have neither been worms 
 
 in our ships, nor caterpillars in our trees. He 
 wonders that the nation was not awakened by 
 the hard frost to a revocation of the true king, 
 and is hourly afraid that the whole island will 
 be lost in the sea. He believes that king Wil- 
 liam burnt Whitehall that he might steal the 
 furniture ; and that Tillotson died an atheist. 
 Of queen Anne he speaks with more tenderness, 
 owns that she meant well, and can tell by 
 whom and why she was poisoned. In the suc- 
 ceeding reigns all has been corruption, malice, 
 and design. He believes that nothing ill has 
 ever happened for these forty years by chance 
 or error ; he holds that the battle of Dittingen 
 was won by mistake, and that of Fontenoy Tost 
 by contract ; that the Victory was sunk by a 
 private order ; that Cornhill was fired by emis- 
 saries from the council ; and the arch of West- 
 minster-bridge was so contrived as to sink, on 
 purpose that the nation might be put to charge. 
 He considers the new road to Islington as an 
 encroachment on liberty, and often asserts that 
 broad wheel will be the ruin of England. 
 
 Tom is generally vehement and noisy, but 
 nevertheless has some secrets which he always 
 communicates in a whisper. Many and many 
 a time has Tom told me, in a corner, that our 
 miseries were almost at an end, and that we 
 should see, in a month, another monarch on the 
 throne ; the time elapses without a revolution ; 
 Tom meets me again with new intelligence, 
 the whole scheme is now settled, and we shall 
 see great events in another month. 
 
 Jack Sneakeris a hearty adherent to the pre- 
 sent establishment ; he has known those who 
 saw the bed into which the Pretender was con- 
 veyed in a warming-pan. He often rejoices 
 that the nation was not enslaved by the Irish. 
 He believes that king William never lost a bat- 
 tle, and that if he had lived one year longer he 
 would have conquered France. He holds that 
 Charles the First was a Papist He allows 
 there were some good men in the reign of 
 queen Anne, but the peace of Utrecht brought 
 a blast upon the nation, and has been the cause 
 of all the evil that we have suffered to the pre- 
 sent hour. He believes that the scheme of 
 the South Sea was well intended, but that it 
 miscarried by the influence of France. He 
 considers a standing army as the bulwark of 
 liberty ; thinks us secured from corruption by 
 septennial parliaments ; relates how we are en- 
 riched and strengthened by the electoral do- 
 minions, and declares that the public debt is a 
 blessing to the nation. 
 
 Yet, amidst all this prosperity, poor Jack is 
 hourly disturbed by the dread of Popery. 
 He wonders that some stricter laws are not 
 made against Papists, and is sometimes afraid 
 that they are busy with French gold among 
 the bishops and Judges. 
 
 He cannot believe that the Nonjurors arc so 
 quiet for nothing ; they must certainly be 
 forming some plot for the establishment of 
 popery ; he does not think the present oath suf- 
 ficiently binding, and wishes that some better 
 security could be found for the succession of 
 Hanover. He is zealous for the naturalization 
 of foreign Protestants, and rejoiced a.t the ad- 
 mission of the Jews to the English privileges
 
 No. 11.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 367 
 
 because he thought a Jew would never be a 
 Papist. 
 
 No. 11.] SATURDAY, JUNE 24, 1758. 
 
 IT is uncommonly observed, that when two 
 Englishman meet, their first talk is of the 
 weather; they are in haste to tell each other, 
 what each must already know, that it is hot or 
 cold, bright or cloudy, windy or calm. 
 
 There are, among the numerous lovers of 
 subtilties and paradoxes, some who derive the 
 civil institutions of every country from its cli- 
 mate, who impute freedom and slavery to the 
 temperature, of the air, can fix the meridian 
 of vice and virtue, and tell at what degree of 
 latitude we are to expect courage or timidity, 
 knowledge or ignorance. 
 
 From these dreams of idle speculation, a 
 slight survey of life, and a little knowledge of 
 history, is sufficient to awaken any inquirer, 
 whose ambition of distinction has not overpow- 
 ered his love of truth. Forms of government 
 are seldom the result of much deliberation ; 
 they are framed by chance in popular assem- 
 blies, or in conquered countries by despotic au- 
 thority. Laws are often occasional, often ca- 
 pricious, made always by a few, and some- 
 times by a single voice. Nations have chang- 
 ed their characters ; slavery is now nowhere 
 more patiently endured, than in countries once 
 inhabited by the zealots of liberty. 
 
 But national customs can arise only from 
 general agreement ; they are not imposed, but 
 chosen, and are continued only by the continu- 
 ance of their cause. An Englishman's notice 
 of the weather, is the natural censequence of 
 changeable skies and uncertain seasons. In 
 many parts of the world, wet weather and c'ry 
 are regularly expected at certain periods ; but 
 in our island every man goes to sleep, unable 
 to guess whether he shall behold in the morn- 
 ing a bright or cloudy atmosphere, whether 
 his rest shall be lulled by a shower, or broken 
 by a tempest. We therefore rejoice mutually 
 at good weather, as at an escape from some- 
 thing that we feared ; and mutually complain 
 of bad, as of the loss of something that we 
 hoped. Such is the reason of our practice ; 
 and who shall treat it with contempt? Surely 
 not the attendant on a court, whose business 
 is to watch the looks of a being weak and fool- 
 ish as himself, and whose vanity is, to recount 
 the names of men who might drop into nothing, 
 and leave no vacuity ; nor the proprietor of 
 funds, who stops his acquaintance in the street 
 to tell him of the loss of half-a-crown ; nor the 
 inquirer after news, who fills his head with for- 
 eign events; and talks of skirmishes and sieg- 
 es, of which no consequence will ever reach 
 his hearers or himself. The weather is a nobler 
 and more interesting subject ; it is the present 
 state of the skies and of the earth, on which 
 plenty and famine are suspended, on which 
 millions depend for the necessaries of life. 
 
 The weather is frequently mentioned for an- 
 other reason, less honourable to my dear coun- 
 trymen. Our dispositions too frequently 
 change with the colour of the sky ; and when 
 
 we find ourselves cheerful and good-natured, 
 we naturally pay our acknowledgements to 
 the powers of sunshine ; or, if we sink into dul- 
 ness and peevishness, look round the horizon 
 for an excuse, and charge our discontent upon 
 an easterly wind or a cloudy day. 
 
 Surely nothing is more reproachful to a being 
 endowed with reason, than to resign its powers 
 to the influence of the air, and live in depen- 
 dence on the weather and the wind, for the only 
 blessings which nature has put into our power, 
 tranquillity and benevolence. To look up to 
 the sky for the nutriment of our bodies, is the 
 condition of nature ; to call upon the sun for 
 peace and gayety, to deprecate the clouds lest 
 sorrow should overwhelm us, is the cowardice 
 of idleness, and idolatry of folly. 
 
 Yet, even in this age of inquiry and know- 
 ledge, when superstition is driven away, and 
 omens and prodigies have lost their terrors, we 
 find this folly countenanced by frequent exam- 
 ples. Those that laugh at the portentous 
 glare of a comet, and hear a crow with equal 
 tranquillity from the right or left, will yet talk 
 of times and situations proper for intellectual 
 performances, will imagine the fancy exalted 
 by vernal breezes, and the reason invigorated 
 by a bright calm. 
 
 If men who have given up themselves to fan 
 ciful credulity, would confine their conceits 
 in their own minds, they might regulate their 
 lives by the barometer, with inconvenience on- 
 ly to themselves ; but to fill the world with ac- 
 counts of intellects subject to ebb and flow, of 
 one genius that awakened in the spring, and 
 another that ripened in the autumn, of one 
 mind expanded in the summer, and of another 
 concentrated in the winter, is no less danger- 
 ous than to tell children of bugbears and gob- 
 lins. Fear will find every house haunted; and 
 idleness will wait for ever for the moment of 
 illumination. 
 
 This distinction of seasons is produced only 
 by imagination operating on luxury. To tern 
 perance every day is bright, and every hour is 
 propitious to diligence. He that shall reso 
 lutely excite his faculties, or exert his virtues, 
 will soon make himself superior to the seasons, 
 and may set at defiance the morning mist, ana 
 the evening damp, the blasts of the east, and 
 the clouds of the south. 
 
 It was the boast of the Stoic philosophy, to 
 make man unshaken by calamity, and unelat- 
 ed by success ; incorruptible by pleasure, and 
 invulnerable by pain ; these are heights of 
 wisdom which none ever attained, and to which 
 few can aspire ; but there are lower degrees of 
 constancy necessary to common virtue ; and 
 every man, however he may distrust himself in 
 the extremes of good or evil, might at least 
 struggle against the tyranny of the climate, 
 and refuse to enslave his virtue or his reason 
 to the most variable of all variations, the chan- 
 ges of the weather. 
 
 No. 12.] SATURDAY, JULY 1, 1758. 
 
 THAT every man is important in his own eyes, 
 is a position of which we all, either voluntarily
 
 368 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 13 
 
 or unwarily, at least once an hour confess the 
 truth , and it will unavoidably follow, that eve- 
 ry man believes himself important to the public. 
 
 The rig-lit which this importance gives us to 
 general notice and visible distinction, is one of 
 those disputable privileges which we have not 
 always courage to assert, and which we there- 
 fore suffer to lie dormant, till some elation of 
 mind, or > ; cissitude of fortune, incites us to de- 
 clare our pretensions, and enforce our de- 
 mands. And hopeless as the claim of vulgar 
 characters may seem to the supercilious and 
 sovere, there are few who do not at one time 
 or other endeavour to step forward beyond their 
 rank, who do not make some struggles for 
 fame, and show that they think all other con- 
 reniences and delights imperfectly enjoyed 
 without a name. 
 
 To get a name can happen but to few. A 
 name, even in the most commercial nation, is 
 one of the few things which cannot be bought. 
 It is the free gift of mankind, which must be 
 deserved before it will be granted, and is at 
 last unwillingly bestowed. But this unwilling- 
 ness only increases desire in him who believes 
 his merit sufficient to overcome it. 
 
 There is a particular period of life in which 
 this fondness for a name seems principally to 
 predominate in both sexes. Scarce any cou- 
 ple comes together but the nuptials are declar- 
 ed in the newspapers with encomiums on each 
 party. Many an eye, ranging over the page 
 with eager curiosity in quest of statesmen and 
 heroes, is stopped by a marriage celebrated be- 
 tween Mr. Buckram, an eminent salesman in 
 Threadneedle-street, and Miss Dolly Juniper, 
 the only daughter of an eminent distiller of the 
 parish of St. Giles's in the Fields, a young lady 
 adorned with every accomplishment that can 
 give happiness to the married state. Or we 
 are told amidst our impatience for the event of 
 a battle, that on a certain day Mr. Winker, a 
 tide-waiter at Yarmouth, was married to Mrs. 
 Cackle, a widow lady of great accomplish- 
 ments ; and that as soon as the ceremony was 
 performed they set out in a post chaise for 
 Yarmouth. 
 
 Many are the inquiries which such intelli- 
 gence must undoubtedly raise, but nothing in 
 the world is lasting. When the reader has 
 contemplated with envy, or with gladness, the 
 felicity of Mr. Buckram and Mr. Winker, and 
 ransacked his memory for the names of Juniper 
 and Cackle, his attention is diverted to other 
 thoughts, by finding that Mirza will not cover 
 this season ; or that a spaniel has been lost or 
 stolen, that answers to the name of Ranger. 
 
 Whence it arises that on the day of marriage 
 all agree to call thus openly for honours, I am 
 not able to discover. Some, perhaps, think it 
 kind by a public declaration, to put an end to 
 the hopes of rivalry and the fears of jealousy, to 
 let parents know that they may set their daugh- 
 ters at liberty whom they have locked up for 
 fear of of the bridegroom, or to dismiss to their 
 counters and their offices the amorous youths 
 that had been used to hover round the dwelling 
 of the bride. 
 
 These connubial praises may have another 
 cause. It may be the intention of the husband 
 
 and wile to dignify themselves in the eyes ol 
 each other, and, according to their different 
 tempers or expectations, to win affection, 01 
 enforce respect. 
 
 It was said of the family of Lucas that it 
 was noble, for all the brothers were valiant, ana 
 all the sisters were virtuous. What would & 
 stranger say of the English nation, in \vhich, 
 on the day of marriage, all the men are eminent 
 and all the women beautiful, accomplished, and 
 rich 1 
 
 How long the wife will be persuaded of the 
 eminence of her husband, or the husband con 
 tinue to believe that his wife has the qualities 
 required to make marriage happy, may reason 
 ably be questioned. I am afraid that much 
 time seldom passes before each is convinced 
 that praises are fallacious, and, particularly 
 those praises which we confer upon ourselves 
 
 I should, therefore, think that this custom 
 might be omitted without any loss to the com- 
 munity ; and that the sons and daughters of 
 lanes and alleys might go hereafter to the next 
 church, with no witnesses of their worth or 
 happiness but their parents and their friends ; 
 but if they cannot be happy on their bridal day 
 without some gratification of their vanity, I 
 hope they will be willing to encourage a friend 
 of mine who proposes to devote his powers to 
 their service. 
 
 Mr. Settle, a man whose eminence was once 
 allowed by the eminent, and whose accomplish- 
 ments were confessed by the accomplished, in 
 the latter part of a long life supported himself 
 by an uncommon expedient. He had a stand- 
 ing elegy and cpithalamium, of which only the 
 first and last leaves were varied occasionally, 
 and the intermediate pages were, by general 
 terms, left applicable alike to every character 
 When any marriage became known, Settle 
 ran to the bridegroom with his epithalamium ; 
 and when he heard of any death, ran to the heir 
 with his elegy. 
 
 Who can think himself disgraced by a trade 
 that was practised so long by the rival of Dry- 
 den, by the poet whose Empress of Morocco 
 was played before princes by ladies of the 
 court ? 
 
 My friend proposes to open an office in the 
 Fleet for matrimonial panegyrics, and will ac- 
 commodate all with praise who think their own 
 powers of expression inadequate to their merit. 
 He will sell any man or woman the virtue or 
 qualification which is most fashionable or mosi 
 desired ; but desires his customers to remem- 
 ber, that he sets beauty at the highest price, 
 and riches at the next ; and if he be well paid, 
 throws in virtue for nothing. 
 
 No. 13.] SATURDAY, JULY 8, 1758. 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 DEAR MR. IDLER, 
 
 THOUGH few men of prudence are much in- 
 clined to interpose in disputes between man 
 and wife, who commonly make peace at the 
 expense of the arbitrator, yet I will venture to 
 lay before you a controversy, by which the 
 quiet of my house has been long disturbed,
 
 No. 14.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 369 
 
 and which, unless you can decide it, is likely 
 to produce lasting evils, and embitter those 
 hours which nature seems to have appropriat- 
 ed to tenderness and repose. 
 
 I married a wife with no great fortune, but 
 of a family remarkable for domestic prudence, 
 and elegant frugality. I lived with her at ease, 
 if not with happiness, and seldom had any rea- 
 son of complaint. The house was always 
 clean, the servants very active and regular, 
 dinner was on the table every day at the same 
 minute, and the ladies of the neighbourhood 
 were frightened when I invited their husbands, 
 lest their own economy should be less esteem- 
 ed. 
 
 During this gentle lapse of life my dear 
 brought me three daughters. I Wished for a 
 son, to continue the family ; but my wife often 
 tells me, that boys are dirty things, and, are 
 always troublesome in a house ; and declares 
 that she has hated the sight of them ever since 
 she saw lady Fondle's eldest son ride over a 
 carpet with his hobby-horse all mire. 
 
 I did not much attend to her opinion, but 
 knew that girls could not be made boys ; and 
 therefore composed myself to bear whatl could 
 not remedy, and resolved to bestow that care on 
 my daughters to which only the sons are com- 
 monly thought entitled. 
 
 But my wife's notions of education differ 
 widely from mine. She is an irreconcileable 
 enemy to idleness, and considers every state 
 of life as idleness, in which the hands are not 
 employed, or some art acquired, by which she 
 thinks money may be got or saved. 
 
 In pursuance of this principle, she calls up 
 her daughters at a certain hour, and appoints 
 them a task of needlework to be performed 
 before breakfast. They are confined in a gar- 
 ret, which has its window in the roof, both be- 
 cause the work is best done at a skylight, and 
 because children are apt to lose time by look- 
 ing about them. 
 
 They bring down their work to breakfast, 
 and as they deserve are commended or reprov- 
 ed ; they are then sent up with a new task till 
 dinner ; if no company is expected, their 
 mother sits with them the whole afternoon, to 
 direct their operations, and to draw patterns, 
 and is sometimes denied to her nearest rela- 
 tions, when she is engaged in teaching them 
 a new stitch. 
 
 By this continual exercise oftheir diligence, 
 she has obtained a very considerable number of 
 laborious performances. We have twice as 
 many fire-screens as chimneys, and three flour- 
 ished quilts for every bed. Half the rooms are 
 adorned with a kind of sutile pictures, which 
 imitate tapestry. But all their work is not set 
 out to show ; she has boxes filled with knit gar- 
 ters and braided shoes. She has twenty covers 
 for side-saddles embroidered with silver flow- 
 ers, and has curtains wrought with gold in va- 
 rious figures, which she resolves some time or 
 other to hang up. All these she displays to 
 her company whenever she is elate with merit, 
 and eager for praise ; and amidst the the prai- 
 ses which her friends and herself bestow upon 
 her merit, she never fails to turn to me, and 
 
 2W 
 
 ask what all these would cost, if I had been to 
 buy them. 
 
 I sometimes venture to tell her that many of 
 the ornaments are superfluous; that what is 
 done with so much labour might have been 
 supplied by a very easy purchase ; that the 
 work is not always worth the materials ; and 
 that I know not why the children should be 
 persecuted with useless tasks, or obliged to 
 make shoes that are never worn. She an- 
 swers with a look of contempt, that men never 
 care how money goes, and proceeds to tell of 
 a dozen new chairs for which she is contriving 
 covers, and of a couch which she intends to 
 stand as a monument of needle-work. 
 
 In the meantime the girls grow up in total 
 ignorance of every thing past, present, and fu- 
 ture. Molly asked me the other day, whether 
 Ireland was in France, and was ordered by her 
 mother to mind her hem. Kitty knows not, 
 at sixteen, the difference between a protestant 
 and a papist, because she has been employed 
 three years in filling a side of a closet with a 
 hanging that is to represent Cranmer in the 
 flames. And Dolly, my eldest girl, is now un- 
 able to read a chapter in the Bible, having spent 
 all the time, which other children pass at 
 school, in working the interview between Solo 
 mon and the queen of Sheba. 
 
 About a month ago Tent and Turkey-stitch 
 seemed at a stand ; my wife knew not what 
 new work to introduce ; I ventured to propose 
 that the girls should now learn to read and 
 write, and mentioned the necessity of a little 
 arithmetic ; but, unhappily, my wife has dis- 
 covered that linen wears out and has bought 
 the girls three little wheels that they may spin 
 huckaback for the servants' table. I remon- 
 strated, that with larger wheels they might 
 despatch in an hour what must now cost them 
 a day ; but she told me, with irresistible au- 
 thority, that any business is better than idle- 
 ness ; that when these wheels are set upon a 
 table with mats under them, they will turn 
 without noise and keep the girls upright; that 
 great wheels are not fit for gentlewomen ; and 
 that with these, small as they are, she does 
 not doubt but that the three girls, if they are 
 kept close, will spin every year as much cloth 
 as would cost five pounds if one were to buv it. 
 
 No. 14.] SATDRDAT, JULY 15, 1758. 
 
 WHEN Diogenes received a visit in his tub from 
 Alexander the Great, and was asked, according 
 to the ancient forms of royal courtesy, what 
 petition he had to offer ; I have nothing, said he, 
 to ask, but that you would remove to the other side, 
 that you may not, by intercepting the sunshine, 
 take from me what you cannot give. 
 
 Such was the demand of Diogenes from the 
 greatest monarch of the earth, which those, 
 who have less power than Alexander, may, 
 with yet more propriety, apply to themselves. 
 He that does much good, may be allowed to do 
 sometimes a little harm. But if the oppor- 
 tunities of beneficence be denied by fortane, 
 innocence should at least be vigilantly pre- 
 served
 
 370 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 15. 
 
 It is well known that time once past never 
 returns ; and that the moment which is lost, is 
 lost forever. Time, therefore, ought, above 
 all other kinds of property, to be free from 
 invasion ; and yet there is no man who does 
 not claim the power of wasting that time which 
 is the right of others. 
 
 This usurpation is so general, that a very 
 small part of the year is spent by choice ; 
 scarcely any thing is done when it is intended, 
 or obtained when it is desired. Life is contin- 
 ually ravaged by invaders ; one steals away an 
 hour, and another a day : one conceals the rob- 
 bery by hurrying us into business, another by 
 lulling us with amusement ; the depredation is 
 continued through a thousand vicissitudes of 
 tumult and tranquillity, till, having lost all, 
 we can lose no more. 
 
 This waste of the lives of men has been very 
 frequently charged upon the Great, whose fol- 
 lowers linger from year to year in expectations, 
 and die at last with petitions in their hands. 
 Those who raise envy will easily incur censure. 
 I know not whether statesmen and patrons do 
 not suffer more reproaches than they deserve, 
 and may not rather themselves complain, that 
 they are given up a prey to pretensions with- 
 out merit, and to importunity without shame. 
 
 The truth is, that the inconveniences of at- 
 tendance are more lamented than felt. To the 
 greater number solicitation is its own reward. 
 To be seen in good company, to talk of fami- 
 liarities with men of power, to be able to tell 
 the freshest news, to gratify inferior circles with 
 predictions of increase or decline of favour, and 
 to be regarded as a candidate for high offices, 
 are compensations more than equivalent to the 
 delay of favours, which, perhaps, he that begs 
 them has hardly confidence to expect. 
 
 A man, conspicuous in a high station, who 
 multiplies hopes that he may multiply depen- 
 dents, may be considered as a beast of prey, 
 justly dreaded, but easily avoided ; his den is 
 known, and they who would not be devoured, 
 need not approach it. The great danger of the 
 waste of time is from caterpillars and moths, 
 who are not resisted, because they are not 
 feared, and who work on with unheeded mis- 
 chiefs, and invisible encroachments. 
 
 He whose rank or merit procures him the 
 notice of mankind, must give up himself, in a 
 great measure, to the convenience or humour of 
 those who surround him. Every man who is 
 sick of himself will fly to him for relief; he 
 that wants to speak will require him to hear ; 
 and he that wants to hear will expect him 
 to speak. Hour passes after hour, the noon 
 succeeds to morning, and the evening to noon, 
 while a thousand objects are forced upon his 
 attention, which he rejects as fast as they are 
 offered, but which the custom of the world re- 
 quires to be received with appearance of regard. 
 
 If we will have the kindness of others, we 
 must endure their follies. He who cannot per- 
 suade himself to withdraw from society, must 
 be content to pay a tribute of his time to a mul- 
 titude of tyrants ; to the loiterer, who makes ap- 
 pointments which he never keeps ; to the con- 
 suiter who asks advice which he never takes ; to 
 the boaster who blusters only to be praised ; to 
 
 the complainer, who whines only lo be pitied ; 
 to the projector, whose happiness is to entertain 
 his friends with expectations which all but 
 himself know to be vain ; to the economist, 
 who tells of bargains and settlements ; to the 
 politician, who predicts the fate of battles and 
 breach of alliances ; to the usurer, who com- 
 pares the different funds ; and to the talker, 
 who talks only because he loves to be talking. 
 To put every man in possession of his own 
 time, and rescue the day from the succession of 
 usurpers, is beyond my power, and beyond my 
 hope. Yet perhaps some stop might be put to 
 this unmerciful persecution, if all would seri- 
 ously reflect, that whoever pays a visit that is 
 not desired, or talks longer than the hearer is 
 willing to attend, is guilty of an injury which 
 he cannot repair, and takes away that which 
 he cannot give. 
 
 No. 15.] SATURDAY, JULT 22, 1758. 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I HAVE the misfortune to be a man of business, 
 that, you will say, is a most grievous one ; but 
 what makes it the more so to me is, that my 
 wife has nothing to do ; at least she had too 
 good an education, and the prospect of too 
 good a fortune in reversion when I married 
 her, to think of employing herself either in 
 my shop affairs, or the management of my 
 family. 
 
 Her time, you know, as well as my own, 
 must be filled up soma way or other. For my 
 part, I have enough to mind in weighing my 
 goods out, and waiting on my customers ; but 
 my wife though she could be of as much use as 
 a shopman to me, if she would put her hand to 
 it, is now only in my way. She walks all the 
 morning sauntering about the shop, with her 
 arms through her pocket-holes, or stands gap- 
 ing at the door-sill, and looking at every person 
 that passes by. She is continually asking me 
 a thousand frivolous questions about every cus- 
 tomer that comes in and goes out ; and all the 
 while that I am entering any thing in my day- 
 book, she is lolling over the counter and staring 
 at it, as if I was only scribbling or drawing 
 figures for her amusement. Sometimes, indeed, 
 she will take a needle ; but as she always works 
 at the door, or in the middle of the shop, she 
 has so many interruptions, that she is longer 
 hemming a towel, or darning a stocking, than 
 I am in breaking forty loaves of sugar, and 
 making it up into pounds. 
 
 In the afternoon I am sure, likewise, to 
 have her company, except she is called upon 
 by some of her acquaintance : and then, as 
 we let out all the upper part of our house, 
 and we have only a little room backwards for 
 ourselves, they either keep such a chattering, 
 or else are calling out every moment to me, 
 that I cannot mind my business for them. 
 
 My wife, I am sure, might do all the little 
 matters our family requires ; and I could wish 
 that she would employ herself in them ; but, in- 
 stead of that, we have a girl to do the work.
 
 No. 16.1 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 371 
 
 and look after a little boy about two years old, 
 which I may fairly say is the mothers's own 
 child. The brat must be humoured in every 
 thing : he is, therefore, suffered constantly to 
 play in the shop, pull all the goods about, and 
 clamberup the shelves to get at the plums and 
 sugar. I dare not correct him; because, if I 
 did, I should have wife and maid both upon me 
 at once. As to the latter, she is as lazy and 
 sluttish as her mistress ; and because she com- 
 plains she has too much work, we can scarcely 
 get her to do any thing at all ; nay, what is 
 worse than that, I am afraid she is hardly 
 honest; and as she is entrusted to buy in all 
 our provisions, the jade, I am sure, makes a 
 marketpenny out of every article. 
 
 But to return to my deary. The evenin_ 
 are the only time, when it is fine weather, that 
 I am left to myself; for then she generally 
 takes the child out to give it milk in the park. 
 When she comes home again she is so fati- 
 gued with walking, that she cannot stir from 
 her chair ; and it is an hour after shop is shut, 
 before I can get a bit of supper, while the 
 maid is taken up in undressing and putting the 
 child to bed. 
 
 But you will pity me much more when I tell 
 you the manner in which we generally pass 
 our Sundays. In the morning she is common- 
 y too ill to dress herself to go to church ; she 
 therefore, never gets up till noon ; and what is 
 still more vexatious, keeps me in bed with her, 
 when I ought to be busily engaged in belter 
 employment. It is well if she can get her 
 things on by dinner-time ; and when that is 
 over I am sure to be dragged out by her, either 
 to Georgia, or Hornsey Wood, or the White- 
 Conduit House. Yet even these near excur- 
 sions are so very fatiguing to her, that, besides 
 what it costs me in tea and hot rolls, and syl- 
 labubs, and cakes for the boy, I am frequently 
 forced to take a hackney-coach, or drive them 
 home in a one-horse chair. At other times, as 
 my wife is rather of the fattest, and a very 
 poor walker, besides bearing her whole weight 
 upon my arm, I am obliged to carry the child 
 myself. 
 
 Thus, Sir, does she constantly drawl out her 
 time, without either profit or satisfaction ; and, 
 while I see my neighbours' wives helping in 
 the shop, and almost earning as much as their 
 husbands, I have the mortification to find, that 
 mine is nothing but a dead weight upon me. 
 In short, I do not know any greater misfortune 
 can happen to a plain hard- working tradesman, 
 as I am, than to be joined to such a woman, 
 who is rather a clog than a help-mate to him. 
 I am, Sir, 
 
 Your humble servant, 
 
 ZACHARY TREACLE. 
 
 No. 16.] SATURDAY, JULY 29, 1758. 
 
 [ PAID a visit yesterday to my old friend Ned 
 Drugget, at his country lodgings. Ned began 
 trade with a very small fortune ; he took a 
 small house in an obscure street, and for some 
 years dealt only in remnants. Knowing that 
 light gains make a heavy purse, he was content 
 
 with moderate profit ; having observed or 
 heard the effects of civility, he bowed down 
 to the counter-edge at the entrance and de- 
 parture of every customer, listened without 
 impatience to the objections of the ignorant, 
 and refused without resentment the offers 
 of the penurious. His only recreation was, 
 to stand at his own door and look into the 
 street His dinner was sent him from a neigh- 
 bouring alehouse, and he opened and shut the 
 shop at a certain hour with his own hands. 
 
 His reputation soon extended from one end 
 of the street to the other; and Mr. Drugget's 
 exemplary conduct was recommended by 
 every master to his apprentice, and by every 
 father to his son. Ned was not only consider- 
 ed as a thriving trader, but as a man of ele- 
 gance and politeness, for he was remarkably 
 neat in his dress, and would wear his coat 
 threadbare without spotting it ; his hat was 
 always brushed, his shoes glossy, his wig nice- 
 ly curled, and his stockings without a wrinkle. 
 With such qualifications it was not very diffi- 
 cult for him to gain the heart of Miss Comfit, 
 the only daughter of Mr. Comfit the confec- 
 tioner. 
 
 Ned is one of those whose happiness mar- 
 riage has increased. His wife had the same 
 disposition with himself; and his method of 
 life was very little changed, except that he 
 dismissed the lodgers of the first floor and 
 took the whole house into his own hands. 
 
 He had already, by his parsimony accumu- 
 lated a considerable sum, to which the fortune 
 of his wife was now added. From this time 
 lie began to grasp at greater acquisitions, and 
 was always ready with money in his hand, to 
 pick up the refuse of a sale, or to buy the stock 
 jf a trader who retired from business. He soon 
 added his parlour to his shop, and was obliged 
 a few months afterwards, to hire a warehouse. 
 He had now a shop splendidly and copiously 
 furnished with every thing that time had injur- 
 ed, or fashion had degraded, with fragments of 
 tissues, odd yards of brocade, vast bales of fad- 
 ed silk, and innumerable boxes of antiquated 
 ribbons. His shop was soon celebrated through 
 all quarters of the town, and frequented by 
 every form of ostentatious poverty. Every maid 
 whose misfortune it was to be taller than her 
 ady, matched her gown a Mr. Drugget's; and 
 many a maiden who had passed a winter, with 
 icr aunt in London, dazzled the rustics, at 
 ler return, with cheap finery which Drug- 
 get had supplied. His shop was often visited 
 n a morning by ladies who left their coaches 
 n the next street, and crept through the alley 
 _n linen gowns. Drugget knows the rank of 
 lis customers by their bashfulness ; and when 
 ic finds them unwilling to be seen he invites 
 :hem up stairs or retires with them to the 
 >ack window. 
 
 I rejoiced at the increasing prosperity of my 
 friend, and imagined that as he grew rich, he 
 was growing happy. His mind has partaken 
 the enlargement of his fortune. When I step- 
 ped in for the first five years, I was welcomed 
 _..ly with a shake of the hand ; in the next 
 period of his life, he beckoned across the way 
 or a pot of beer ; but for six years past h
 
 372 
 
 THE IDLER 
 
 [No. 17. 
 
 invited me to dinnei ; and if he bespeaks me 
 the day before, never fails to regale me with a 
 fillet of veal. 
 
 His riches neither make him uncivil nor neg- 
 ligent; he rose at the same hour, attended with 
 the same assiduity, and bowed with the same 
 gentleness. But for some years' he has been 
 much inclined to talk of the fatigues of business 
 and the confinement of a shop, and to wish that 
 he had .been so happy as to have renewed his 
 uncle's lease of a farm, that he might have lived 
 without noise and hurry, in a pure air, in the 
 artless society of honest villagers, and the con- 
 templation of the works of nature. 
 
 I soon discovered the cause of my friend's 
 philosophy. He thought himself grown rich 
 enough to have a lodging in the country, like 
 the mercers on Ludgate-hill, and was resolved 
 to enjoy himself in the decline of life. This 
 was a revolution not to be made suddenly. He 
 talked three years of the pleasures of the coun- 
 try, but passed every night over his own shop. 
 But at last he resolved to be happy, and hired a 
 lodging in the country, that he may steal some 
 hours in the week from business ; for, says he, 
 when a man advances in life, he loves to entertain 
 himself sometimes with his own thoughts. 
 
 I was invited to this seat of quiet and con- 
 templation among those whom Mr. Drugget 
 considers as his most reputable friends, and de- 
 sires to make the first witnesses of his elevation 
 to the highest dignities of a shopkeeper. I 
 found him at Islington, in a room which over- 
 looked the high road, amusing himself with 
 looking through the window, which the clouds 
 of dust would not suffer him to open. He em- 
 braced me, told me I was welcome into the 
 country, and asked me, if I did not feel myself 
 refreshed. He then desired that dinner might 
 be hastened, for fresh air always sharpened 
 his appetite, and ordered me a toast and a glass 
 of wine after my walk. He told me much of 
 the pleasure he found in retirement, and won- 
 dered what had kept him so long out of the 
 country. After dinner, company carn,e in, 
 and Mr. Drugget again repeated the praises of 
 the country, recommended the pleasures of 
 meditation, and told them, that he had been all 
 the morning at the window, counting the car- 
 riages as they passed before him. 
 
 No. 17.] SATURDAY, AUG. 5, 1758. 
 
 THE rainy weather, which has continued the 
 last month is said to have given great disturb- 
 ance to the inspectors of barometers. The qra- 
 culous glasses have deceived their votaries ; 
 shower has succeeded shower though they pre- 
 dicted sunshine and dry skies ; and by fatal con- 
 fidence in these fallacious promises, many coats 
 nave lost their gloss, and many curls have been 
 moistened to flaccidity. 
 
 This is one of the distresses to which mortals 
 subject themselves by the pride of speculation. 
 I had no part in this learned disappointment, 
 who am content to credit my senses, and to be- 
 lieve that rain will fall when the air blackens, 
 and that the weather will be dry when the sun 
 is bright. My caution indeed does not always 
 
 preserve me from a shower. To be wet, may 
 happen to the genuine Idler ; but to be wet in 
 opposition to theory, can befall only the Idler 
 that pretends to be busy. Of those that spin 
 out life in trifles, and die without a memorial, 
 many flatter themselves with high opinions of 
 their own importance, and imagine that they 
 are every day adding some improvement to 
 human life. To be idle and to be poor, have 
 always been reproaches, and therefore every 
 man endeavours, with his utmost care, to hide 
 his poverty from others, and his idleness from 
 himself. 
 
 Among those whom I never could persuade 
 to rank themselves with Idlers, and who speak 
 with indignation of my morning sleeps and noc- 
 turnal rambles, one passes the day in catching 
 spiders, that he may count their eyes with a 
 microscope ; another erects his head, and exhi 
 bits the dust of a marygold separated from the 
 flower with a dexterity worthy of Leuwen- 
 hoeck himself. Some turn the wheel of electri- 
 city: some suspend rings to a loadstone, and 
 find that what they did yesterday they can do 
 again to-day. Some register the changes of 
 the wind, and die fully convinced that the wind 
 is changeable. 
 
 There are men yet more profound, who have 
 heard that two colourless liquors may produce 
 a colour by union, and that two cold bodies will 
 grow hot if they are mingled ; they mingle 
 them, and produce the effect expected, say it 
 is strange, and mingle them again. 
 
 The Idlers that sport only with inanimate na- 
 ture may claim some indulgence ; if they are 
 useless, they are still innocent ; but there are 
 others, whom I know not how to mention with- 
 out more emotion than my love of quiet will- 
 ingly admits. Among the inferior professors 
 of medical knowledge, is a race of wretches, 
 whose lives are only varied by varieties of 
 cruelty ; whose favourite amusement is, to 
 nail dogs to tables and open them alive ; to try 
 how long life may be continued in various de- 
 grees of mutilation, or with the excision or 
 laceration of the vital parts ; to examine whe- 
 ther burning irons are felt more acutely by 
 the bone or tendon ; and whether the more 
 lasting agonies are produced by poison forced 
 into the mouth, or injected into the veins. 
 
 It is not without reluctance that I offend the 
 sensibility of the tender mind with images like 
 these. If such cruelties were not practised, it 
 were to be desired that they should not be con- 
 ceived ; but, since they are published every day 
 with ostentation, let me be allowed once to 
 mention them since 1 mention them with ab- 
 horrence. 
 
 Mead has invidiously remarked of Wood- 
 ward, that he gathered shells and stones, and 
 would pass for a philosopher. With preten- 
 sionsj much less reasonable, the anatomical 
 novice tears out the living bowels of an animal, 
 and styles himself physician, prepares himself 
 by familiar cruelty for that profession which he 
 is to exercise upon the tender and the helpless, 
 upon feeble bodies and broken minds, and by 
 which he has opportunities to extend his arts of 
 torture, and continue those experiments upon
 
 No. 18.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 373 
 
 infancy and age, which he has hitherto tried 
 upon cats and doirs. 
 
 What is alleged in defence of these hateful 
 practices, every one knows ; but the truth is, 
 that by knives, fire, and poison, knowledge is 
 not always sought, and is very seldom attained. 
 The experiments that have been tried, are tried 
 again ; he that burned an animal with irons yes- 
 terday, will be willing to amuse himself with 
 burning another to-morrow. I know not, that 
 by living dissections any discovery has been 
 made by which a single malady is more easily 
 cured. And if the knowledge of physiology has 
 been somewhat increased, he surely buys 
 knowledge dear, who learns the use of the lac- 
 teals at the expense of his humanity. It is 
 time that universal resentment should arise 
 against these horrid operations, which tend to 
 harden the heart, extinguish those sensations 
 which give man confidence in man, and make 
 the physician more dreadful than the gout or 
 stone. 
 
 No. 18.] SATURDAY, AUG. 12, 1758. 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 IT commonly happens to him who endeavours 
 to obtain distinction by ridicule, or censure, that 
 ne teacher others to practise his own arts 
 against himself; and that, after a short enjoy- 
 ment of the applause paid to his sagacity, or 
 of the mirth excited by his wit, he is doomed 
 to suffer the same severities of scrutiny, to hear 
 inquiry detecting his faults, and exaggeration 
 sporting with his failings. 
 
 The natural discontent of inferiority will sel- 
 dom fail to operate in some degree of malice 
 against him who professes to superintend the 
 conduct of others, especially if he seats him- 
 self uncalled in the chair of judicature, and 
 exercises authority by his own commission. 
 
 You cannot, therefore wonder that your ob- 
 servations on human folly, if they produce 
 laughter at one time, awaken criticism at ano- 
 ther ; and that among the numbers whom you 
 have taught to scoff" at the retirement of Drug- 
 get there is one who offers his apology. 
 
 The mistake of your old friend is by no means 
 peculiar. The public pleasures of far the 
 greater part of mankind are counterfeit. Very 
 few carry their philosophy to places of diver- 
 sion, or are very careful to analyse their enjoy- 
 ments. The general condition of life is so full 
 of misery, that we are glad to catch delight 
 without inquiring whence it comes, or by what 
 power it is bestowed. 
 
 The mind is seldom quickened to very vigor- 
 ous operations but by pain, or the dread of pain. 
 We do not disturb ourselves with the detection 
 of fallacies which do us no harm, nor willingly 
 H ecline a pleasing effect to investigate its cause. 
 He that is happy, by whatever means, desires 
 nothing but the continuance of happiness, and 
 is no more solicitous to distribute his sensations 
 into their proper species, than the common ga- 
 zer on the beauties of the spring to separate 
 light into its original rays. 
 
 Pleasure is therefore seldom such as it ap- 
 pears to others, nor often such as we represent 
 it to ourselves. Of the ladies that sparkle at a 
 musical performance, a very small number has 
 any quick sensibility of harmonious sounds. But 
 every one that goes has her pleasure. She has 
 the pleasure of wearing fine clothes and of 
 showing them, of outshining those whom she 
 suspects to envy her; she has the pleasure of 
 appearing among other ladies in a place whi- 
 ther the race of meaner mortals seldom intrudes, 
 and of reflecting that, in the conversations or" 
 the next morning, her name will be mentioned 
 among those that sat in the first row ; she has 
 the pleasure of returning courtesies or refusing 
 to return them, of receiving compliments 
 with civility, or rejecting them with disdain. 
 She has the pleasure of meeting some of her 
 acquaintance, of guessing why the rest are ab- 
 sent, and of telling them that she saw the ope- 
 ra, on pretence of inquiring why they would 
 miss it. She has the pleasure of being sup- 
 posed to be pleased with a refined amusement, 
 and of hoping to be numbered among the vo- 
 taresses of harmony. She has the pleasure of 
 escaping for two hours the superiority of a 
 sister, or the control of a husband ; and from 
 all these pleasures she concludes, that heavenly 
 music is the balm of life. 
 
 All assemblies of gayety are brought together 
 by motives of the same kind. The theatre is 
 not filled with those that know or regard the 
 skill of the actor, nor the ball-room by those 
 who dance, or attend to the dancers. To all 
 places of general resort, where the standard of 
 pleasure is erected, we run with equal eager- 
 ness, or appearance of eagerness, for very diffe- 
 rent reasons. One goes that he may say he has 
 been there, another because he never misses. 
 This man goes to try what he can find, and that 
 to discover what others find. Whatever diver- 
 sion is costly will be frequented by those who 
 desire to be thought rich ; and whatever has by 
 any accident become fashionable, easily con- 
 tinues its reputation, because every one is 
 ashamed of not partaking it. 
 
 To every place of entertainment we go with 
 expectation and desire of being pleased ; we 
 meet others who are brought by the same mo- 
 tives ; no one will be the first to own the disap- 
 pointment ; one face reflects the smile of an- 
 other, till each believes the rest delighted, and 
 endeavours to catch and transmit the circulat- 
 ing rapture. In time all are deceived by the 
 cheat to which all contribute. The fiction of 
 happiness is propagated by every tongue, and 
 confirmed by every look, till at last all profess 
 the joy which they do not feel, consent to yield 
 to the general delusion ; and when the volunta- 
 ry dream is at an end, lament that bliss is of so 
 short a duration. 
 
 If Drugget pretended to pleasures of which 
 he had no perception, or boasted of one amuse- 
 ment where he was indulging anpther, what did 
 he which is not done by all those who read his 
 story ? of whom some pretend delight in con- 
 versation, only because theydare not be alone ; 
 some praise the quiet of solitude, becase they 
 are envious of sense, and impatient of folly j
 
 374 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 19. 
 
 and some gratify their pride, by writing cha- 
 acters which expose the vanity of life. 
 I am, Sir, 
 
 Your humble Servant. 
 
 No. 19.] SATURDAY, AUG. 19, 1758. 
 
 SOME of those ancient sages that have exercised 
 their abilities in the inquiry after the supreme 
 good, have been of opinion, that the highest de- 
 gree of earthly happiness is quiet ; a calm re- 
 pose both of mind and body, undisturbed by the 
 sight of folly or the noise of business, the tu- 
 mults of public commotion, or the agitations 
 of private interest ; a state in which the mind 
 has no other employment, but to observe and 
 regulate her own motions, to trace thought 
 from thought, combine one image with an- 
 other, raise systems of science, and form theo- 
 ries of virtue. 
 
 To the scheme of these solitary speculatists, 
 it has been justly objected, that if they are hap- 
 py, they are happy only by being useless. That 
 mankind is one vast republic, where every in- 
 dividual receives many benefits from the la- 
 bours of others, which, by labouring in his 
 turn for others, he is obliged to repay ; and 
 that where the united efforts of all are not 
 able to exempt all from misery, none have a 
 right to withdraw from their task of vigilance, 
 or to be indulged in idle wisdom or solitary 
 pleasures. 
 
 It is common for c-o.ntrovertists in the heat of 
 disputation, to add one position to another till 
 they reach the extremities of knowledge, where 
 truth and falsehood lose their distinction. Their 
 admirers follow them to the brink of absurdity, 
 and then start back from each side towards the 
 middle point. So it has happened in this great 
 disquisition. Many perceive alike the force of 
 the contrary arguments, find quiet shameful, 
 and business dangerous ; and therefore pass 
 their lives between them, in bustle without bu- 
 siness, and negligence without quiet. 
 
 Among the principal names of this moderate 
 set is that great philosopher Jack Whirler, 
 whose business keeps him in perpetual motion, 
 and whose motion always eludes his business ; 
 who is always to do what he never does, who 
 cannot stand still because he is wanted in ano- 
 ther place and who is wanted in many places 
 because he stays in none. 
 
 Jack has more business than he can conve- 
 niently transact in one house; he has therefore 
 one habitation near Bow-Church, and another 
 about a mile distant. By this ingenious distri- 
 bution of himself between two houses, Jack has 
 contrived to be found at neither. Jack's trade 
 is extensive, and he has many dealers ; his con- 
 versation is sprightly, and he has many com- 
 panions ; his disposition is kind and he has 
 many friends. Jack neither forbears pleasure 
 for business, nor omits business for pleasure, 
 but is equally invisible to his friends and his 
 customers ; to him that comes with an invita- 
 tion to a club, and to him that waits to settle 
 an account. 
 
 When you call at his house, his clerk tells 
 you, that Mr. Whirler has just slept out, but 
 
 will be at home exactly at two ; you wait at 
 a coffee-house till two, and then find that he 
 has been at home, and is gone out again, but 
 left word that he should be at the Half-moon 
 tavern at seven, where he hopes to meet you. 
 At seven you go to the tavern. At eight in 
 comes Mr. Whirler to tell you, that he is glad 
 to see you and only begs leave to run for a few 
 minutes to a gentleman that lives near the Ex- 
 change, from whom he will return before sup- 
 per can be ready. Away he runs to the Ex- 
 change, to tell those who are waiting for him, 
 that he must beg them to defer the business 
 till to-morrow, because his time is come at 
 the Half-moon. 
 
 Jack's cheerfulness and civility rank him 
 among those whose presence never gives pain, 
 and whom all receive with fondness and ca- 
 resses. He calls often on his friends to tell 
 them, that he will come again to-morrow ; 
 on the morrow he comes again, to tell them 
 how an unexpected summons hurries him 
 away. When he enters a house, his first decla- 
 ration is, that he cannot sit down ; and so short 
 are his visits, that he seldom appears to have 
 come for any other reason but to say he must 
 
 g- 
 
 The dogs of Egypt, when thirst brings 
 them to the Nile are said to run as they drink 
 for fear of the crocodiles. Jack Whirler al- 
 ways dines at full speed. He enters, finds 
 the family at table, sits familiarly down and 
 fills his plate ; but while the first morsel is in his 
 mouth, hears the clock strike, and rises; then 
 goes to another house, sits down again, recol- 
 lects another engagement ; has only time to 
 taste the soup, makes a short excuse to the 
 company, and continues through another street 
 his desultory dinner. 
 
 But overwhelmed as he is with business, his 
 chief desire is to have still more. Every new 
 proposal takes possession of his thoughts ; he 
 soon balances probabilities, engages in the 
 project, brings it almost to completion, and 
 then forsakes it for another, which he catches 
 with some alacrity, urges with the same vehe- 
 mence, and abandons with the same coldness. 
 
 Everyman may be observed to have a certain 
 strain of lamentation, some peculiar theme of 
 complaint on which he dwells in his moments 
 of dejection. Jack's topic of sorrow is his want 
 of time. Many an excellent design languishes 
 in empty theory for want of time. For the 
 omission of any civilities, want of time is his 
 plea to others ; for the neglect of any affairs, 
 want of time is his excuse to himself. That he 
 wants time he sincerely believes ; for he once 
 pined away many months with a lingering dis- 
 temper, for want of time to attend to his health. 
 
 Thus Jack Whirler lives in perpetual fatigues 
 without proportionate advantage, because he 
 does not consider that no man can see all with 
 his own eyes, or do all with his own hands ; 
 that whoever is engaged in multiplicity of busi- 
 ness, must transact much by substitution, and 
 leave something to hazard ; and that he who 
 attempts to do all, will waste his life in doino- 
 little.
 
 No. 20.) 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 375 
 
 No. 20.] SATURDAY, AUG. 26, 1758. 
 
 THERE is no crime more infamous than th 
 riolation of truth. It is apparent that men ca 
 be social beings no longer than they believ 
 each other. When speech is employed only a 
 the vehicle of falsehood, every man must dis 
 unite himself from others, inhabit his own cav 
 and seek prey only for himself. 
 
 Yet the law of truth, thus sacred and neces 
 sary, is broken without punishment, withou 
 censure, in compliance with inveterate preji 
 dice and prevailing passions. Men are wil. 
 ing to credit what they wish, and encourag 
 rather those who gratify them with pleasures 
 than those that instruct them with fidelity. 
 
 For this reason every historian discovers hi 
 country ; and it is impossible to read the differ 
 ent accounts of any great event, without a wis" 
 that truth had more power over partiality. 
 
 Amidst the joy of my countrymen for th 
 acquisition of Louisbourg, I could not forbea 
 to consider how differently this revolution o 
 American power is not only now mentioned b; 
 the contending nations, but will be represente 
 by the writers of another century. 
 
 The English historian will imagine himsel 
 barely doing justice to English virtue, when h< 
 r elates the capture of Louisbourg in the follow 
 ing manner : 
 
 " The English had hitherto seen, with grea 
 indignation, their attempts baffled and theii 
 force defied by an enemy, whom they consider- 
 ed themselves as entitled to conquer by the 
 right of prescription, and whom many ages o 
 hereditary superiority had taught them to des- 
 pis3. Their fleets were more numerous, anc 
 t'.ieir seamen braver, than those of France ; ye: 
 t!i~y only floated useless on the ocean, and the 
 French derided them from their ports. Mis- 
 fortunes, as is usual, produced discontent, the 
 people murmured at the ministers, and the 
 ministers censured the commanders. 
 
 " In the summer of this year, the English 
 began to find their success answerable to their 
 causo. A fleet and an army were sent^to 
 America to dislodge the enemies from the set- 
 tlements which they had so perfidiously made, 
 and so insolently maintained, and to repress 
 that power which was growing more every day 
 bv the association of the Indians with whom 
 these degenerate Europeans intermarried, and 
 whom they secured to their party by presents 
 and promises. 
 
 " In the beginning of June the ships of war 
 and vessels containing the land forces appeared 
 before Louisbourg, a place so secure by nature 
 that art was almost superfluous, and yet forti- 
 fied by art as if nature had left it open. The 
 French boasted that it was impregnable, and 
 spoke with scorn of all attempts that could be 
 made against it. The garrison was numerous, 
 the stores equal to the longest siege, and their 
 engineers and commanders high in reputation. 
 " The mouth of the harbour was so narrow, 
 that three ships within might easily defend it 
 against all attacks from the sea. The French 
 had, with that caution which cowards borrow 
 from fear, and attribute to policy, eluded our 
 fleets, and sent into that port five great ships 
 
 and six smaller, of which they sunk four in the 
 mouth of the passage, having raised batteries 
 and posted troops at all the places where they 
 thought it possible to make a descent The 
 English, however, had more to dread from the 
 roughness of the sea, than from the skill or 
 bravery of the defendants. Some days passed 
 before the surges, which rise very high round 
 that island, would suffer them to land. At last 
 their impatience could be restrained no longer ; 
 they got possession of the shore with little loss 
 by the sea, and with less by the enemy. In a 
 few days the artillery was landed, the batteries 
 were raised, and the French had no other hope 
 than to escape from one post to another. A 
 shot from the batteries fired the powder in one 
 of their largest ships, the flame spread to the 
 two next, and all three were destroyed ; the 
 English admiral sent his boats against the two 
 large ships yet remaining, took them without 
 resistance, and terrified the garrison to an im- 
 mediate capitulation." 
 
 Let us now oppose to this English narrative 
 the relation which will be produced, about the 
 same time, by the writer of the age of Louis XV. 
 
 " About this time, the English admitted to the 
 conduct of affairs a man who undertook to save 
 from destruction that ferocious and turbulent 
 people, who from the mean insolence of weal 
 thy traders, and the lawless confidence of suc- 
 cessful robbers, were now sunk in despair and 
 stupified with horror. He called in the ships 
 which had been dispersed over the ocean to 
 guard their merchants, and sent a fleet and an 
 army, in which almost the whole strength of 
 England was comprised, to secure their posses- 
 sions in America, which were endangered alike 
 >y the French arms and the French virtue. 
 We had taken the English fortresses by force, 
 and gained the Indian nations by humanit}. 
 The English wherever they come, are sure to 
 lave the natives for their enemies : for, the only 
 motive of their settlements is avarice, and the 
 only consequence of their success is oppression, 
 'n this war they acted like other barbarians, 
 and, with a degree of outrageous cruelty which 
 ;he gentleness of our manners scarcely suffers 
 us 'to conceive, offered rewards by open pro- 
 ilamation to those who should bring in the 
 calps of Indian women and children. A tra- 
 ler always makes war with the cruelity of a 
 irate. 
 
 " They had long looked with envy and with 
 error upon the influence which the French ex- 
 rted over all the northern regions of America 
 y the possession of Louisbourg, a place na- 
 urally strong, and new fortified with some 
 light outworks. They hoped to surprise the 
 arrison unprovided ; but that sluggishness 
 'hich always defeats their malice, gave us tima 
 o send supplies, and to station ships for the 
 efence of the harbour. They came before 
 lOuisbourg in June, and were for some time in 
 oubt whether they should land. But the com- 
 manders, who had lately seen an admiral be- 
 caded for not having done what he had not 
 ower to do, durst not leave the place unassault- 
 d. An Englishman has no ardour for honour, 
 or zeal for duty ; he neither values glory nor 
 ves his king, but balances one danger with
 
 376 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 No. 21.] 
 
 another, and will fight rather than be hangec 
 They therefore landed, but with great loss 
 their engineers had, in the last war with th 
 French, learned something of the military sc 
 ence, and made their approaches with sufficien 
 skill ; but all their efforts had been without e 
 feet, had not a ball unfortunately fallen into th 
 powder of one our ships, which communicate 
 the fire to the rest, and, by opening the passag 
 of the harbour, obliged the garrison to capi 
 tulatc. Thus was Loiiisbourg lost, and ou 
 troops marched out with the admiration of thei 
 enemies, who durst hardly think themselve 
 masters of the place." 
 
 No. 21.] SATURDAY, SEPT. 2, 1758. 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 DEAR MR. IDLER, 
 THERE is a species of misery, or of disease 
 for which our language is commonly supposei 
 to be without a name, but which I think i 
 emphatically enough denominated listlessness 
 and which is commonly termed a want of some 
 thing to do. 
 
 Of the unhappiness of this state I db riot ex 
 pect all your readers to have an adequate idea 
 Many are overburthened with business, and can 
 imagine no comfort but in rest ; many have 
 minds so placid, as willingly to indulge a vo- 
 luntary lethargy ; or so narrow, as easily to be 
 filled to their utmost capacity. By these T 
 shall not be understood, and therefore canno 
 be pitied. Those only will sympathise with 
 my complaint, whose imagination is active anc 
 resolution weak, whose desires are ardent, anc 
 whose choice is delicate; who cannot satisfy 
 themselves with standing still, and yet cannot 
 find a motive to direct their course. 
 
 I was the second son of a gentleman, whose 
 estate was barely sufficient to support himseli 
 and his heir in the dignity of killing game. He 
 therefore made use of the interest which the 
 alliances of his family afforded him, to procure 
 me a post in the army. I passed some years 
 in the most contemptible of all human stations, 
 that of a soldier in time of peace. I wandered 
 with the regiment as the quarters were chang- 
 ed, without opportunity for business, taste for 
 knowledge, or money for pleasure. Wherever 
 I came, I was for some time a stranger with- 
 out curiosity, and afterwards an acquaintance 
 without friendship. Having nothing to hope 
 in these places of fortuitous residence, I re- 
 signed my conduct to chance ; I had no inten- 
 tion to offend, I had no ambition to delight. 
 
 I suppose every man is shocked when he 
 hears how frequently soldiers are wishing for 
 war. The wish is not always sincere ; the 
 greater part are content with sleep and lace, 
 and counterfeit an ardour which they db not 
 feel ; but those who desire it most are neither 
 prompted by malevolence nor patriotism ; they 
 neither pant for laurels nor delight in blood ; 
 but long to be delivered from the tyranny of 
 idleness, and restored to the dignity of active 
 beings. 
 
 I never imagined myself to have more cou- 
 
 rage than other men, yet was often involunta- 
 rily wishing for a war, but of a war at that time 
 I had no prospect; and being enabled, by the 
 death of an uncle, to live without my pay, I 
 quitted the army, and resolved to regulate my 
 own motions. 
 
 I was pleased, for a while, with the novelty 
 of independence, and imagined that I had now 
 found what every man desires. My time was 
 in my own power, and my habitation was 
 wherever my choice should fix it. I amused 
 myself for two years in passing from place to 
 place, and comparing one convenience with 
 another ; but being at last ashamed of inquiry, 
 and weary of uncertainty, I purchased a house, 
 and established my family. 
 
 I now expected to begin to be happy, and 
 was happy for a short time with that expecta- 
 tion. But I soon perceived my spirits to sub- 
 side, and my imagination to grow dark. The 
 gloom thickened every day around me. I won- 
 dered by what malignant power my peace was 
 blasted, till I discovered at last that I had no 
 thing to do. 
 
 Time, with all its celerity, moves slowly to 
 him whose whole employment is to watch its 
 flight. I am forced upon a thousand shifts to 
 enable me to endure the tediousness of the 
 day. I rise when I can sleep no longer, and 
 take my morning walk ; I see what I have 
 seen before, and return. I set down and per- 
 suade myself that I sit down to think, find it 
 impossible to think without a subject, rise up 
 to inquire after news, and endeavour to kindle 
 in myself an artificial impatience for intelli- 
 ence of events, which will never extend any 
 consequence to me, but that a few minutes 
 they abstract me from myself. 
 
 When I have heard any thing that may gra- 
 tify curiosity, I am busied for a while in run- 
 ning to relate it. I hasten from one place of 
 concourse to another, delighted with my own 
 'mportance, and proud to think that I am do- 
 ng something, though I know that another 
 lour would spare my labour. 
 
 had once a round of visits, which I paid 
 very regularly ; but I have now tired most of 
 my friends. When I have sat down I forget to 
 rise, and have more than once overheard one 
 asking another when I would be gone. I per- 
 ceive the company tired, I observe the mistress 
 f the family whispering to her servants, I find 
 orders given to put off business till to-morrow, 
 see the watches frequently inspected, and yet 
 cannot withdraw to the vacuity of solitude, 01 
 venture myself in my own company. 
 
 Thus burthensome to myself and others, I 
 orm many schemes of employment which may 
 make my life useful or agreeable, and exempt 
 le from the ignominy of living by sufferance. 
 This new course I have long designed, but 
 lave not yet begun. The present moment is 
 lever proper for the change, but there is al- 
 ways a time in view when all obstacles will be 
 emoved, and I shall surprise all that know me 
 vith a new distribution of my time. Twenty 
 ears have passed since I have resolved a 
 omplete amendment, and twenty years have 
 een lost in delays. Age is coming upon me; 
 nd I should look back with rage and despair
 
 No. 22.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 377 
 
 upon the waste of life, but that I am now be- 
 ginning in earnest to begin a reformation. 
 I am, Sir, 
 
 Your humble servant, 
 
 DICK LINGER. 
 
 No. 22. J SATURDAY SEPT. 16 1758. 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 As I was passing lately under one of the gates 
 of this city, I was struck with horror by a rue- 
 ful cry which summoned me to remember the 
 poor debtors. 
 
 The wisdom and justice of the English laws 
 are, by Englishmen at least loudly, celebrated : 
 but scarcely the most zealous admirers of our 
 institutions can think that law wise, which, 
 when men are capable of work, obliges them 
 to beg ; or just, which exposes the liberty of 
 one to the passions of another. 
 
 The prosperity of a people is proportionate 
 to the number of hands and minds usefully em- 
 ployed. To the community, sedition is a fever, 
 corruption is a gangrene, and idleness is an 
 atrophy. What ever body, and whatever society 
 wastes more than it acquires, must gradually 
 dscay; and every being that continues to be 
 i\'d, and ceases to labour, takes away some- 
 thing from the public stock. 
 
 The confinement, therefore, of any man in 
 the sloth and darkness of a prison, is a loss to 
 the nation, and no gain to the creditor. For of 
 the multitudes who are pining in those cells of 
 misery, a very small part is suspected of any 
 fraudulent act by which they retain what be- 
 longs to others. The rest are imprisoned by 
 the wantonness of pride, the malignity of re- 
 venge, or the acrimony of dissappointed ex- 
 pectation. 
 
 If those, who thus rigorously exercise the 
 power which the law has put into their hands, 
 be asked, why they continue to imprison those 
 whom they know to be unable to pay them ? 
 one will answer, that his debtor once lived bet- 
 ter than himself; another, that his wife looked 
 above her neighbours, and his children went in 
 silk clothes to the dancing-school ; and another, 
 that he pretended to be a joker and a wit. Some 
 will reply, that if they were in debt, they should 
 meet with the same treatment ; some, that they 
 owe no more than they can pay, and need there- 
 fore give no account of their actions. Some 
 will confess their resolution that their debtors 
 shall rot in gaol ; and some will discover, that 
 they hope, by cruelty, to wring the payment 
 from their friends. 
 
 The end of all civil regulations is, to secure 
 private happiness from private malignity; to 
 keep individuals from the power of one another : 
 but this end is apparently neglected, when a 
 man, irritated with loss, is allowed to be the 
 judge of his own cause, and to assign the pu- 
 nishment of his own pain ; when the distinc- 
 tion between guilt and happiness, between 
 casualty and design, is entrusted to eyes blind 
 with interest, to understandings depraved by 
 resentment. 
 
 Since poverty is punished among us as a 
 crime, it ought at least to be treated with the 
 same lenity as other crimes : the offender ought 
 not to languish at the will of him whom he 
 has offended, but to be allowed some appeal 
 to the justice of his country. There can be no 
 reason why any debtor should be imprisoned, 
 but that he may be compelled to payment ; and 
 a term should therefore be fixed, in which the 
 creditor should exhibit his accusation of con- 
 cealed property. If such property can be dis- 
 covered, let it be given to the creditor; if the 
 charge is not offered, or cannot be proved, let 
 the prisoner be dismissed. 
 
 Those who made the laws have apparently 
 supposed, that every deficiency of payment is 
 the crime of the debtor. But the truth is, that 
 the creditor always shares the act, and often 
 more than shares the guilt of improper trust. 
 It seldom happens that any man imprisons an- 
 other but for debts which he suffered to be con- 
 tracted in hope of advantage to himself, and 
 for bargains in which he proportioned his pro- 
 fit to his own opinion of the hazard ; and there 
 is no reason why one should punish the other 
 for a contract in which both concurred. 
 
 Many of the inhabitants of prisons may justly 
 complain of harder treatment. He that once 
 owes more than he can pay, is often obliged to 
 bribe his creditor to patience, by increasing hi 
 debt. Worse and worse commodities, at a 
 higher and higher price, are forced upon him ; 
 he is impoverished by compulsive traffic, and 
 at last overwhelmed, in the common recepta- 
 cles of misery, by debts, which, without his own 
 consent, were accumulated on his head. To 
 the relief of this distress, no other objection 
 can be made, but that by an easy dissolution of 
 debts, fraud will be left without punishment, 
 and imprudence without awe; and that when 
 insolvency should be no longer punishable, 
 credit will cease. 
 
 The motive to credit is the hope of advan- 
 tage. Commerce can never be at a stop, while 
 one man wants what another can supply ; and 
 credit will never be denied, while it is likely to 
 be repaid with profit. He that trusts one whom 
 he designs to sue, is criminal by the act of trust- 
 the cessation of such insiduous traffic is to be 
 desired, and no reason can be given why a 
 change of the law should impair any other. 
 
 We see nation trade with nation, where no 
 payment can be compelled. Mutual convene 
 ence produces mutual confidence ; and the mer- 
 chants continue to satisfy the demands of each 
 other, though they have nothing to dread but 
 the loss of trade. 
 
 It is vain to continue an institution, which 
 experience shows to be ineffectual. We have 
 now imprisoned one generation of debtors after 
 another, but we do not find that their numbers 
 lessen. We have now learned that rashness 
 and imprudence will not be deterred from tak- 
 ing credit ; let us try whether fraud and ava- 
 rice may be more easily restrained from giv- 
 ing it. 
 
 I am, Sir, &c.
 
 873 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 23 
 
 No. 23.] SATURDAY, SEPT. 23, 1758. 
 
 LIFE has no pleasure higher or nobler than 
 that of friendship. It is painful to consider, 
 that this sublime enjoyment may be impaired 
 or destroyed by innumerable causes, and that 
 there is no human possession of which the 
 duration is less certain. 
 
 Many have talked, in very exalted language, 
 of the perpetuity of friendship, of invincible 
 constancy, and unalienable kindness ; and 
 some examples have been seen of men who 
 have continued faithful to their earliest choice, 
 and whose affection has predominated over 
 changes of fortune, and contrariety of opinion. 
 
 But these instances are memorable, because 
 they are rare. The friendship which is to be 
 practised or expected by common mortals, must 
 take its rise from mutual pleasure, and must 
 end when power ceases of delighting each 
 other. 
 
 Many accidents therefore may happen, by 
 which the ardour of kindness will be abated, 
 without criminal baseness or contemptible in- 
 constancy on either part. To give pleasure is 
 not always in our power ; and little does he 
 know himself, who believes that he can be al- 
 ways able to receive it. 
 
 Those who would gladly pass their days to- 
 gether may be separated by the different course 
 of their affairs: and friendship, like love, is 
 destroyed by long absence, though it may be 
 increased by short intermissions. What we 
 have missed long enough to want it, we value 
 more when it is regained ; but that which has 
 been lost till it is forgotten, will be found at 
 last with little gladness, and with still less, if 
 a substitute has supplied the place. A man 
 deprived of the companion to whom he used to 
 open his bosom, and with whom he shared the 
 hours of leisure and merriment, feels the day 
 at first hanging heavy on him ; his difficul- 
 ties oppress, and his doubts distract him ; 
 he sees time come and go without his wonted 
 gratification, and all is sadness within and 
 solitude about him. But this uneasiness never 
 lasts long ; necessity produces expedients, new 
 amusements are discovered, and new conver- 
 sation is admitted. 
 
 No expectation is more frequently disap- 
 pointed, than that which naturally arises in the 
 mind from the prospect of meeting an old 
 friend after long separation. We expect the 
 attraction to be revived, and the coalition to be 
 renewed ; no man considers how much altera- 
 tion time has made in himself, and very few 
 inquire what effect it has had upon others. The 
 first hour convinces them, that the pleasure 
 which they have formerly enjoyed, is forever 
 at an end ; different scenes have made differ- 
 ent impressions ; the opinions of both are 
 changed ; and that similitude of manners and 
 sentiment is lost which confirmed them both 
 in the approbation of themselves. 
 
 Friendship is often destroyed by opposition 
 of interest, not only by the ponderous and visi- 
 ble interest which the desire of wealth and 
 greatness forms and maintains, but by a thou- 
 sand secret and slight competitions, scarcely 
 known to the mina upon which they ope- 
 
 rate. There is scarcely any man without some 
 favourite trifle which he values above greate. 
 attainments, some desire of petty praise which 
 he cannot patiently suffer to be frustrated. This 
 minute ambition is sometimes crossed before 
 it is known, and sometimes defeated by wan- 
 ton petulance ; but such attacks are seldom 
 made without the loss of friendship ; for who- 
 ever has once found the vulnerable part will 
 always be feared, and the resentment will burn 
 on in secret, of which shame hinders the dis- 
 covery. 
 
 This, however, is a slow malignity, which a 
 wise man will obviate as inconsistent with 
 quiet, and a good man will repress as contrary 
 to virtue; but human happiness is sometimes 
 violated by some more sudden strokes. 
 
 A dispute begun in jest upon a subject which 
 a moment before was on both parts regarded 
 with careless indifference, is continued by the 
 desire of conquest, till vanity kindles into rage, 
 and opposition rankles into enmity. Against 
 this hasty mischief, I know not what security 
 can be obtained ; men will be sometimes sur- 
 prised into quarrels ; and though they might 
 both hasten to reconciliation, as soon as their 
 tumult had subsided, yet two minds will seldom 
 be found together, which can at once subdue 
 their discontent, or immediately enjoy the 
 sweets of peace, without remembering the 
 wounds of the conflict. 
 
 Friendship has other enemies. Suspicion is 
 always hardening the cautious, and disgust re- 
 pelling the delicate. Very slender differences 
 will sometimes part those whom long recipro- 
 cation of civility or beneficence has united. 
 Lonelove and Ranger retired into the country 
 to enjoy the company of each other, and re- 
 turned in six weeks cold and petulant : Ran- 
 ger's pleasure was, to walk in the fields, and 
 Lonelove's to sit in a bower ; each had com- 
 plied with the other in his turn, and each was 
 angry that compliance had been exacted. 
 
 The most fatal disease of friendship is grad- 
 ual decay, or dislike hourly increased by cau- 
 ses too slender for complaint and too numerous 
 for removal. Those who are angry may be re- 
 conciled ; those who have been injured may 
 receive a recompense ; but when the desire 
 of pleasing and willingness to be pleased is 
 silently diminished, the renovation of friendship 
 is hopeless ; as, when the vital powers sink 
 into langour, there is no longer any use of the 
 physician. 
 
 No- 24.] SATURDAY, SEPT. 30, 1758. 
 
 WHEN man sees one of the inferior creatures 
 perched upon a tree or basking in the sunshine, 
 without any apparent endeavour or pursuit, he 
 often asks himself, or his companion, On what 
 that animal can be supposed to be thinking 1 
 
 Of this question since neither bird nor beast 
 can answer it, we must be content to live with- 
 out the resolution. We know not how much 
 the brutes recollect of the past, or anticipate ot 
 the future; what power they have of comparing 
 and preferring ; or whether their faculties may 
 not rest in motionless indifference, till they are
 
 No. 25.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 379 
 
 moved by the presence of their proper object, 
 or stimulated to act by corporal sensations. 
 
 I am the less inclined to these superfluous in- 
 quiries, because I have always been able to 
 find sufficient matter for curiosity in my own 
 species. It is useless to go far in quest of that 
 which may be found at home ; a very narrow 
 circle of observation will supply a sufficient 
 number of men and women, who might be 
 asked, with equal propriety, On what they can 
 be thinking ? 
 
 It is reasonable to believe, that thought, like 
 every thing else, has its causes and effects ; that 
 it must proceed from something known, done, 
 or suffered ; and must produce some action or 
 event. Yet how great is the number of those 
 in whose minds no source of thought has ever 
 been opened, in whose life no thought of conse- 
 quence is ever discovered ; who have learned 
 nothing upon which they can reflect ; who have 
 neither seen nor felt any thing which could 
 leave its traces on the memory ; who neither 
 foresee nor desire any change of their condi- 
 tion, and have therefore neither fear hope, nor 
 design, and yet are supposed to be thinking 
 beings. 
 
 To every act a subject is required. He that 
 thinks must think upon something. But tell 
 me, ye that pierce deepest into nature, ye that 
 take the widest surveys of life, inform me, kind 
 shades of Malbranche and of Locke, what 
 that something can be, which excites and con- 
 tinues thought in maiden aunts with small for- 
 tunes ; in younger brothers that live upon an- 
 nuities ; in traders retired from business ; in 
 soldiers absent from their regiments; or in 
 widows that have no children ? 
 
 Life is commonly considered as either active 
 or contemplative ; but surely this division, how 
 long soever it has been received, is inadequate 
 and fallacious. There are mortals whose life 
 is certainly not active for they do neither good 
 nor evil ; and whose life cannot be properly call- 
 ed contemplative, for they never attend either 
 to the conduct of men, or the works of nature, 
 but rise in the morning, look round them till 
 night in careless stupidity, go to bed and sleep, 
 and rise again in the morning. 
 
 It has been lately a celebrated question in the 
 schools of philosophy, Whether the soul always 
 thinks ? Some have denned the soul to be the 
 power of thinking ; concluded that its essence 
 consists in act ; that, if it should cease to act, 
 it would cease to be ; and that cessation of 
 thought is but another name for extinction of 
 mind. This argument is subtile, but not con- 
 clusive ; because it supposes what cannot be 
 proved, that the nature of mind is properly 
 denned. Others affect to disdain subtilty, 
 when subtilty will not serve their purpose, 
 and appeal to daily experience. We spend 
 many hours, they say, in sleep, without the 
 least remembrance of any thoughts which 
 then passed in our minds ; and since we can 
 only by our own consciousness be sure that 
 we think, why thould we imagine that we have 
 had thought of which no consciousness re- 
 mains? 
 
 This argument, which appeals to experience, 
 may from experience be confuted. We every 
 
 day do something which we forget when it is 
 done, and know to have been done only by con- 
 sequence. The waking hours are not denied to 
 have been passed in thought ; yet he that shall 
 endeavour to recollect on one day the ideas of 
 the fonner, will only turn the eye of reflection 
 upon vacancy ; he will find, that the greater 
 part is irrevocably vanished, and wonder how 
 the moments could come and go, and leave so 
 little behind them. 
 
 To discover only that the arguments on both 
 sides are defective, and to throw back the 
 tenet into its former uncertainty, is the sport of 
 wanton or malevolent scepticism, delighting 
 to see the sons of philosophy at work upon a 
 task which never can be decided. I shall 
 suggest an argument hitherto overlooked, 
 which may perhaps determine the controversy. 
 
 If it be impossible to think without materials, 
 there must necessarily be minds that do not 
 always think ; and whence shall we furnish 
 materials for the meditation of the glutton be- 
 tween his meals, of the sportsman in a rainy 
 month, of the annuitant between the days of 
 quarterly payment, of the politician when the 
 mails are detained by contrary winds ? 
 
 But how frequent soever may be the exam- 
 ples of existence without thought, it is certainly 
 a state not much to be desired. He that lives 
 in torpid insensibility, wants nothing of a car- 
 cass but putrefaction. It is the part of every 
 inhabitant of the earth to partake the pains and 
 pleasures of his fellow-beings ; and, as in a 
 road through a country desert and uniform, the 
 traveller languishes for want of amusement, so 
 the passage of life will be tedious and irksome 
 to him who does not beguile it by diversified 
 ideas. 
 
 No. 25.] SATURDAY, OCT. 7, 1758. 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I AM am a very constant frequenter of the play- 
 house, a place to which I suppose the Idler not 
 much a stranger, since he can have no where 
 else so much entertainment with so little con- 
 currence of his own endeavour. At all other 
 assemblies he that comes to receive delight, 
 will be expected to give it ; but in the theatre 
 nothing is necessary to the amusement of two 
 hours, but to sit down and be willing to be 
 pleased. 
 
 The last week has offered two new actors to 
 the town. The appearance and retirement of 
 actors are the great events of the theatrical 
 world ; and their first performance fills the pit 
 with conjecture and prognostication, as the first 
 actions of a new monarch agitate nations with 
 hope or fear. 
 
 What opinion I have formed of ths future 
 excellence of these candidates for dramatic 
 glory, it is not necessary to declare. Their en- 
 trance gave me a higher and nobler pleasure 
 than any borrowed character can afford. I saw 
 the ranks of the theatre emulating each other 
 in candour and humanity, and contending who 
 should most effectually assist the struggles of
 
 80 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 26. 
 
 endeavour, dissipate the blush of diffidence, 
 and still the flutter of timidity. 
 
 This behaviour is such as becomes a people, 
 too tender to repress those who wish to please, 
 too generous to insult those who can make no 
 resistance. A public performer is so much in 
 the power of spectators, that all unnecessary 
 severity is restrained by that general law of 
 humanity which forbids us to be cruel, where 
 there is nothing to be feared. 
 
 In every new performer something must be 
 pardoned. No man can by any force of reso- 
 lution, secure to himself the full posession of 
 his own powers under the eye of a large assem- 
 bly. Variation of gesture, and flexion of voice, 
 are to be obtained only by experience. 
 
 There is nothing for which such numbers 
 think themselves qualified as for theatrical ex- 
 hibition. Every human being has an action 
 graceful to his own eye, a voice musical to his 
 own ear, and a sensibility which nature forbids 
 him to know that any other bosom can excel. 
 An art in -which such numbers fancy them- 
 selves excellent, and which the public liberally 
 rewards, will excite many competitors, and in 
 many attempts there must be many miscar- 
 riages. 
 
 The care of the critic should be to distinguish 
 error from inability, faults of inexperience from 
 defects of nature. Action irregular and turbu- 
 lent may be reclaimed ; vociferation vehement 
 and confused may be restrained and modulated ; 
 the stalk of the tyrant may become the gait of 
 the man ; the yell of inarticulate distress may 
 be reduced to human lamentation. All these 
 faults should be for a time overlooked, and af- 
 terwards censured with gentleness and can- 
 dour. But if in an actor there appears an utter 
 vacancy of meaning, a frigid equality, a stupid 
 languor, a torbid apathy, the greatest kindness 
 that can be shown him, is a speedy sentence 
 of expulsion. 
 
 1 am, Sir &c. 
 
 The plea which my correspondent has offered 
 for young actors, I am very far from wishing to 
 invalidate. I always considered those combina- 
 tions which are sometimes formed in the play- 
 house, as acts of fraud or of cruelty ; he that 
 applauds him who does not deserve praise, is 
 endeavouring to deceive the public : he that 
 hisses in malice or sport, is an oppressor and 
 a robber. 
 
 But surely this laudable forbearance might be 
 justly extended to youn g poets. The art of the 
 writer, like that of the player, is attained by 
 slow degrees. The power of distinguishing and 
 discriminating comic characters, or of filling 
 tragedy with poetical images, must be the gift 
 of nature, which no instruction nor labour can 
 supply ; but the art of dramatic disposition, the 
 contexture of the scenes, the opposition of cha- 
 . racters, the involution of the plot, the expedi- 
 ents of suspension, and the stratagems of sur- 
 prise are to be learned by practice; and it is 
 cruel to discourage a poet for ever, because he 
 has not from genius what only experience can 
 bestow. 
 
 Life is a stage. Let me likewise solicit can- 
 dour for the young actor on the stage of life. 
 
 They that enter into the world are too often 
 treated with unreasonable rigour by those that 
 were once as ignorant and heady as themselves; 
 and distinction is not always made between the 
 faults which require speedy and violent eradica- 
 tion, and those that will gradually drop away 
 in the progression of life. Vicious solicitations 
 of appetite, if not checked will grow more 
 importunate; and mean arts of profit or ambi- 
 tion will gather strength in the mind, if they 
 are not early suppressed. But mistaken notions 
 of superiority, desires of useless show, pride 
 of little accomplishments, and all the train of 
 vanity, will be brushed away by the wing of 
 Time. 
 
 Reproof should not exhaust its power upon 
 petty failings ; let it watch diligently against 
 the incursion of vice, and leave foppery and 
 futility to die of themselves. 
 
 No. 26.] SATURDAY, OCT. 14, 1758. 
 
 MR. IDLER, 
 
 I NEVER thought that I should write any thing 
 to be printed ; but having lately seen your firs 
 essay, which was sent down into the kitchen, 
 with a great bundle of gazettes and uselss pa- 
 pers, I find that you are willing to admit any 
 correspondent, and therefore hope you will not 
 reject me. If you publish my letter, it may 
 encourage others, in the same condition with 
 myself, to tell their stories, which may be per 
 haps as useful as those of great ladies. 
 
 I am a poor girl. I was bred in the countrj 
 at a charity-school, maintained by the contri 
 butions of wealthy neighbours. The ladies, or 
 patronesses, visited us from time to time, ex- 
 amined how we were taught, and saw that our 
 clothes were clean. We lived happily enough, 
 and were instructed to be thankful to those at 
 whose cost we were educated. I was always 
 the favourite of my mistress ; she used to call 
 me to read, and show my copy-book to all 
 strangers, who never dismissed me without 
 commendation, and very seldom without a 
 shilling. 
 
 At last the chief of our subscribers, having 
 passed a winter in London, came dawn full of 
 an opinion new and strange to the whole coun- 
 try. She held it little less than criminal to 
 teach poor girls to read and write. They who 
 are born to poverty, said she, are born to igno- 
 rance, and will work the harder the less they 
 know. 
 
 She told her friends, that London was in 
 confusion by the insolence of servants ; that 
 scarcely a wench was to be got for allwork, since 
 education had made such numbers of fine la- 
 dies, that nobody would now accept a lower title 
 than that of a waiting-maid or something that 
 might qualify her to wear laced shoes and long 
 ruffles, and to sit at work in the parlour win- 
 dow. But she was resolved, for her part, to 
 spoil no more girls ; those, who were to live by 
 their hands, should neither read nor write out 
 of her pocket ; the world was bad enough al- 
 ready, and she would have no part in making 
 it worse. 
 
 She was for a short time wamly opposed
 
 No. 27.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 381 
 
 but she persevered in her notions, and with 
 drew her subscription. Few listen without 
 desire of conviction to those who advise them t 
 spare their money. Her example and her ar 
 guments gained ground daily ; and in less tha 
 a year the whole parish was convinced, tha 
 the nation would be ruined, if the children o 
 the poor were taught to read and write. 
 
 Our school was now dissolved ; my mistres 
 kissed me when we parted, and told me, that 
 being old and helpless, she could not assist me 
 advised me to seek a service, and charged m 
 not to forget what I had learned. 
 
 My reputation for scholarship, which hai 
 hitherto recommended me to favour, was, b 1 
 the adherents to the new opinion, considered as 
 a crime ; and, when I offered myself to an] 
 mistress, I had no other answer than Sure 
 child, you would not work ! hard work is not fi 
 for a pen-woman ; a scrubbing brush would spot 
 your hand, child ! 
 
 I could not live at home ; and while I was 
 considering to what I should betake me, one o 
 the girls, who had gone from our school to Lon- 
 don, came down in a silk gown and told her 
 acquaintance how well she lived, what fine 
 things she saw, and what great wages she re- 
 ceived. I resolved to try my fortune, and took 
 my passage in the next week's wagon to Lon- 
 don. 1 had no snares laid for me at my arrival, 
 but came safe to a sister of my mistress, who 
 undertook to get me a place. She knew only 
 the families of mean tradesmen ; and I, having 
 no high opinion of my own qualifications, wa 
 willing to accept the first offer. 
 
 My first mistress was wife of a working 
 watchmaker, who earned more than was suffi- 
 cient to keep his family in decency and plenty ; 
 out it was their constant practice to hire a 
 cnaise on Sunday, and spent half the wages of 
 the week on Richmond Hill ; of Monday he 
 commonly lay half in bed, and spent the other 
 half in merriment; Tuesday and Wednesday 
 consumed the rest of his money ; and three 
 days every week were passed in extremity of 
 want by us who were left at home, while my 
 master lived on trust at an ale-house. You 
 may be sure, that of the sufferers, the maid suf- 
 fered most ; and I left them, after three months, 
 rather than be starved. 
 
 I was then maid to a hatter's wife. There 
 was no want to be dreaded, for they lived in 
 perpetual luxury. My mistress was a diligent 
 woman, and rose early in the morning to set 
 the journeymen to work ; my master was a 
 man much beloved by his neighbours, and sat 
 at one club or other every night. I was obliged 
 to wait on my master at night, and on my 
 mistress in the morning. He seldom came 
 home before two, and she rose at five. I could 
 no more live without sleep than without food, 
 and therefore entreated them to look out for 
 another servant. 
 
 My next removal was to a linen-draper's, 
 who had six children. My mistress, when I 
 first entered the house, informed me, that I 
 must never contradict the children, nor suffer 
 them to cry. I had no desire to offend, and 
 readily promised to do my best. But when I 
 gave them their breakfast, I could not help all 
 
 first ; when I was playing with one in my lap, 
 I was forced to keep the rest in expectation. 
 That which was not gratified always resented 
 the injury with a loud outcry, M'hich put my 
 mistress in a fury at me, and procured sugar- 
 plums to the child. I could not keep six chil- 
 dren quiet, who were bribed to be clamorous ; 
 and was therefore dismissed, as a girl honest, 
 but not good-natured. 
 
 I then lived with a couple that kept a petty 
 shop of remnants and cheap linen. I was quali- 
 fied to make a bill or keep a book ; and being 
 therefore often called, at a busy time, to serve 
 the customers, expected that I should now be 
 happy, in proportion as I was useful. But 
 my mistress appropriated every day part of the 
 profit to some private use, and, as she grew 
 bolder in her theft, at last deducted such sums, 
 that my master began to wonder how he sold 
 so much, and gained so little. She pretended 
 to assist his inquiries, and began, very gravely, 
 to hope that Betty was honest, and yet those sharp 
 girls were apt to be light fingered. You will be- 
 lieve that I did not stay there much longer. 
 
 The rest of my story I will tell you in ano- 
 ther letter ; and only beg to be informed in some 
 paper, for which of my places, except perhaps 
 the last, I was disqualified by my skill in read- 
 ing and writing. 
 
 I am, Sir, 
 
 Your verv humble servant, 
 
 BETTY BROOM. 
 
 No. 27.] SATURDAY, OCT. 21, 1758. 
 
 [T has been the endeavour of all those whom 
 the world has reverenced for superior wisdom, 
 to persuade man to be acquainted with himself, 
 to learn his own powers and his own weakness, 
 to observe by what evils he is most dangerously 
 ieset, and by what temptations most easily 
 overcome. 
 
 This counsel has been often given with seri- 
 ous dignity, and often received with appearance 
 of conviction ; but, as very few can search deep 
 nto their own minds without meeting what 
 ;hey wish to hide from themselves, scarcely 
 my man persists in cultivating such disagreea- 
 >le acquaintance, but draws the veil again be- 
 ,ween his eyes and his heart, leaves his passions 
 ind appetites as he found them, and advises 
 thers to look into themselves. 
 
 This is the common result of inquiry even 
 among those that endeavour to grow wiser or 
 >etter ; but this endeavour is far enough from 
 requency ; the greater part of the multitudes 
 hat swarm upon the earth have never been dis- 
 urbed by such uneasy curiosity, but deliver 
 hemselves up to business or to pleasure, plunge 
 nto the current of life, whether placid or tur- 
 iulent, and pass on from one point of prospect 
 o another, attentive rather to any thing than 
 he state of their minds ; satisfied, at an easy 
 ate, with an opinion, that they are no worse 
 'jan others, that every man must mind his own 
 nterest, or that their pleasures hurt only them- 
 elves, and are therefore no proper subjects of 
 ensure 
 Some, however, there are, whom the intrn
 
 62 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 2? 
 
 sion of scruples, the recollection of better no- 
 tions or the latent reprehension of good exam- 
 ples, will not suffer to live entirely contented 
 with their own conduct ; these are forced to pa- 
 cify the mutiny of reason with fair promises, and 
 quiet their thoughts with designs of calling 
 all their actions to review, and planning a new 
 scheme for the time to come. 
 
 There is nothing which we estimate so falla- 
 ciously as the force of our own resolutions, nor 
 any fallacy which we so unwillingly and tardi- 
 ly detect He that has resolved a thousand 
 times, and a thousand times deserted his own 
 purpose, yet suffers no abatement of his confi- 
 dence, but still believes himself his own master ; 
 and able, by innate vigour of soul, to press for- 
 ward to his end through all the obstructions 
 that inconveniences or delights can put in his 
 way. 
 
 That this mistake should prevail for a time is 
 very natural. When conviction is present, and 
 temptation out of sight, we do not easily con- 
 ceive how any reasonable being can deviate 
 from his true interest. What ought to be done, 
 while it yet hangs only in speculation, is so plain 
 and certain, that there is no place for doubt ; 
 the whole soul yields itself to the predominance 
 of truth, and readily determines to do what, 
 when the time of action comes, will be at last 
 omitted. 
 
 I believe most men may review all the lives 
 that have past within their observation, without 
 remembering one efficacious resolution, or be- 
 ing able to tell a single instance of a course of 
 practice suddenly changed in consequence of a 
 change of opinion, or an establishment of deter- 
 mination. Many, indeed, alter their conduct, 
 and are not at fifty what they were at thirty ; 
 but they commonly varied imperceptibly from 
 themselves, followed the train of external 
 causes, and rather suffered reformation than 
 made it. 
 
 It is not uncommon to charge the difference 
 between promise and performance, between 
 profession and reality, upon deep design and 
 studied deceit ; but the truth is, that there is very 
 little hypocrisy in the world: we do not so 
 often endeavour or wish to impose on others as 
 on ourselves ; we resolve to do right, we hope 
 to keep our resolutions, we declare them to con- 
 firm our own hope, and fix our own inconstan- 
 cy by calling witnesses of our actions ; but 
 at last habit prevails, and those, whom we 
 invited to our triumph, laugh at our defeat. 
 
 Custom is commonly too strong for the most 
 resolute resolver, though furnished for the as- 
 sault with all the weapons of philosophy. " He 
 that endeavours to free himself from an ill 
 habit," says Bacon, " must not change too much 
 at a time, lest he should be discouraged by diffi- 
 culty ; nor too little, for then he will make but 
 slow advances." This is a precept which may 
 be applauded in a book, but will fail in the trial, 
 in which every change will be found too great 
 or too little. Those who have been able to con- 
 quer habjt, are like those that are fabled to 
 have returned from the realms of Pluto : 
 
 Pauci, quos cequvs amavit 
 Jupiter, atque araens etexil ail cethtra *-irtus. 
 
 They are sufficient to give hope but not seco 
 rity ; to animate the contest, but not to pro 
 mise victory. 
 
 Those who are in the power of evil habits, 
 must conquer them as they can ; and conquered 
 they must be, or neither wisdom nor happiness 
 can be attained; but those who are not yet 
 subject to their influence may, by timely cau- 
 tion, preserve their freedom ; they may effectu- 
 ally resolve to escape the tyrant, whom they 
 will very vainly resolve to conquer. 
 
 No. 28.] SATURDAY, OCT. 23, 1758. 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 IT is very easy for a man who sits idle at home, 
 and has nobody to please but himself, to ridi- 
 cule or to censure the common practices of man- 
 kind ; and those who have no present tempta- 
 tion to break the rules of propriety, may ap- 
 plaud hia judgment, and join in his merriment ; 
 but let the author or his readers mingle with 
 common life, they will find themselves irre- 
 sistibly borne away by the stream of custom, 
 and must submit after they have laughed at 
 others, to give others the same opportunity of 
 laughing at them. 
 
 There is no paper published by the Idler which 
 I have read with more approbation than that 
 which censures the practice of recording vulgai 
 marriages in the newspapers. I carried it 
 about in my pocket, and read it to all those 
 whom I suspected of having published their 
 nuptials, or of being inclined to publish them, 
 and sent transcripts of it to all the couples that 
 transgressed your precepts for the next fort- 
 night. I hoped that they were all vexed, 
 and pleased myself with imagining their 
 misery. 
 
 But short is the triumph of malignity. I 
 was married last week to Miss Mohair, the 
 daughter of a salesman ; and, at my first ap- 
 pearance after the wedding night, was asked 
 by my wife's mother whether I had sent our 
 marriage to the Advertiser ; I endeavoured to 
 show how unfit it was to demand the attention 
 of the public to our domestic affairs ; but she 
 told me with great vehemence, "That she 
 would not have it thought to be a stolen match; 
 that the blood of the Mohairs should never be 
 disgraced ; that her husband had served all 
 the parish offices but one ; that she had lived 
 five-and-thirty years at the same house, and 
 paid every body twenty shillings in the pound, 
 and would have me know, though she was not 
 as fine and as flaunting as Mrs. Gingham, the 
 deputy's wife, she was not ashamed to tell her 
 name, and would show her face with the best 
 of them, and since I had married her daughter 
 " At this instant entered my father-in- 
 law, a grave man, from whom I expected sue 
 cour: but upon hearing the case, he told me, 
 " That it would be very imprudent to miss 
 such an opportunity of advertising my shop ; 
 and that when notice was given of my mar- 
 riage, many of mv wife's friends would think 
 themselves obligeJ to be my customers." I waa
 
 No. 29.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 383 
 
 subdued by clamour on one side, and gravity on 
 the other, and shall be obliged to tell the town 
 that three days ago Timothy Mushroon, an eminent 
 oilman in Sea- Coal-lane, was married to Miss 
 Polly Mohair, of Lothbury, a beautiful young lady 
 with a large fortune. 
 
 I am, Sir, &c. 
 
 I AM the unfortunate wife of the grocer whose 
 letter you published about ten weeks ago, in 
 which he complains like a sorry fellow, that I 
 loiter in me shop with my needle-work in my 
 hand, and that I oblige him to take me out on 
 Sundays, and keep a girl to look after the child. 
 Sweet Mr. Idler, if you did but know all, you 
 would give no encouragement to such an un- 
 reasonable grumbler. I brought him three 
 hundred pounds, which set him up in a shop, 
 and bought in a stock, on which, with good 
 management, we might live comfortably ; but 
 now I have given him a shop, I am forced to 
 watch him and the shop too. I will tell you, 
 Mr. Idler, how it is. There is an alehouse 
 over the way, with a nine-pin alley, to which 
 he is sure to run when I turn my back, and 
 there he loses his money, for he plays at nine- 
 pins as he does every thing else. While he is 
 at this favourite sport, he sets a dirty boy to 
 watch his door, and call him to his customers ; 
 but he is so long in coming, and so rude when 
 he comes, that our custom falls off every day. 
 
 Those who cannot govern themselves, must 
 be governed ; I am resolved to keep him for the 
 future behind his counter, and let him bounce 
 at his customers if he dares. I cannot be aboVe 
 stairs and below at the same time, and have 
 therefore taken a girl to look after the child, and 
 dress the dinner ; and, after all, pray who is 
 to blame ? 
 
 On a Sunday, it is true, I make him walk 
 abroad, and sometimes carry the child ; 1 won- 
 der who should carry it! But I never take 
 him out till after church-time, nor would I do it 
 then, but that if he is left alone, he will be 
 upon the bed. On a Sunday, if he stays at 
 home he has six meals ; and, when he can eat 
 no longer, has twenty stratagems to escape from 
 me to the ale-house ; but I commonly keep the 
 door locked, till Monday produces something 
 for him to do. 
 
 This is the true state of the case, and these 
 are the provocations for which he has written 
 his letter to you. I hope you will write a 
 paper to show that if a wife must spend her 
 whole time in watching her husband, she can- 
 not conveniently tend her child, or sit at her 
 needle. 
 
 I am, Sir, &c. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 THERE is in this town a species of oppression 
 which the law has not hitherto prevented or re- 
 dressed. 
 
 I am a chairman. You know, Sir, we come 
 when we are called, and are expected to carry 
 
 all who require our assistance. It is common 
 for men of the most unwieldy corpulence to 
 crowd themselves into a chair, and demand to 
 be carried for a shilling as far as an airy young 
 lady whom we scarcely feel upon our poles. 
 Surely we ought to be paid like all other mor- 
 tals, in proportion to our labour. Engines 
 should be fixed in proper places to weigh chairs 
 as they weigh wagons ; and those, whom ease 
 and plenty have made unable to carry them- 
 selves, should give part of their superfluities to 
 those who carry them. 
 
 I am, Sir, &c. 
 
 No. 29.] SATURDAY, Nov. 4, 1758. 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I HAVE often observed that friends are lost by 
 discontinuance of intercourse, without any of- 
 fence on either part, and have long known, that 
 it is more dangerous to be forgotten than to be 
 blamed ; I therefore make haste to send you 
 the rest of my story, lest, by the delay of 
 another fortnight, the name of Betty Broom 
 might be no longer rememberd by you or your 
 readers. 
 
 Having left the last place in haste, to avoid 
 the charge or the suspicion of theft, I had not 
 secured another service, and was forced to take 
 a lodging in a back street. I had now got good 
 clothes. The woman who lived in the garret 
 opposite to mine was very officious, and offered 
 to take care of my room and clean it, while I 
 went round to my acquaintance to inquire for 
 a mistress. I knew not why she was so kind, 
 nor how I could recompense her; but in a few 
 days I missed some of my linen, went to 
 another lodging, and resolved not to have 
 another friend in the next garret. 
 
 In six weeks I became under-maid at the 
 house of a mercer in Cornhill, whose son was 
 his apprentice. The young gentleman used to 
 sit late at the tavern, without the knowledge of 
 his father ; and I was ordered by my mistress 
 to let him in silently to his bed under the coun- 
 ter, and to be very careful to take away his can- 
 dle. The hours which I was obliged to watch, 
 whilst the rest of the family was in bed, I 
 considered as supernumerary, and, having no 
 business assigned for them, thought myself at 
 liberty to spend them my own way : I kept 
 myself awake with a book, and for some time 
 liked my state the better for this opportunity of 
 reading. At last, the upper-maid found ray 
 book, and showed it to my mistress, who told 
 me, that wenches like me might spend their 
 time better ; that she never knew any of the 
 readers that had good designs in their heads ; 
 that she could always find something else to 
 do with her time, than to puzzle over books ; 
 and did not like that such a fine lady should 
 sit up for her young master. 
 
 This was the first time that I found it thought 
 criminal or dangerous to know how to read. 
 I was dismissed decently, lest I should tell 
 tales, and had a small gratuity above my 
 wages.
 
 34 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 30. 
 
 I then lived witn a gentlewoman of a small 
 fortune. This was the only happy part of a 
 my life. My mistress, for whom public diver- 
 sions were too expensive, spent her time with 
 books, and was pleased to rind a maid who 
 could partake her amusements. I rose early 
 in the morning, that I might have time in the 
 afternoon to read or listen, and was suffered 
 to tell my opinion, or express my delight. Thus 
 fifteen months stole away, in which I did not 
 repine that I was born to servitude. But a 
 burning fever seized my mistress, of whom I 
 shall say no more, than that her servant wept 
 upon her grave. 
 
 I had lived in a kind of luxury which made 
 me very unfit for another place ; and was 
 rather too delicate for the conversation of a 
 kitchen ; so that when I was hired in the fami- 
 ly of an East India director, my behaviour 
 was so different, as they said, from that of a 
 common servant, that they concluded me a 
 gentlewoman in disguise, and turned me out in 
 three weeks, on suspicion of some design 
 which they could not comprehend. 
 
 I then fled for refuge to the other end of the 
 town, where I hoped to find no obstruction 
 from my new accomplishments, and was hired 
 under the housekeeper in a splendid family. 
 Here I was too wise for the maids, and too 
 nice for the footman ; yet I might have lived 
 on without much uneasiness, had not my mis- 
 tress, the housekeeper, who used to employ 
 me in buying necessaries for the family, found 
 a bill which I had made of one day's expense. 
 I suppose it did not quite agree with her own 
 book, for she fiercely declared her resolution, 
 that there should be no pen and ink in that 
 kitchen but her own. 
 
 She had the justice, or the prudence, not to 
 injure my reputation ; and I was easily admit- 
 ted into another house in the neighbourhood, 
 where my business was, to sweep the rooms 
 and make the beds. Here I was for some time 
 the favourite of Mrs. Simper, my lady's wo- 
 man, who could not bear the vulgar girls, and 
 was happy in the attendance of a young woman 
 of some education. Mrs. Simper loved a no- 
 vel, though she could not read hard words, and 
 therefore when her lady was abroad, we always 
 laid hold on her books. At last, my abilities 
 became so much celebrated, that the house- 
 steward used to employ me in keeping his ac- 
 counts. Mrs. Simper then found out, that my 
 Bauciness was grown to such a height that no- 
 body could endure it, and told my lady, that 
 there had never been a room well swept since 
 Betty Broom came into the house. 
 
 I was then hired by a consumptive lady, who 
 wanted a maid that could read and write. I 
 attended her four years, and though she was 
 never pleased, yet when I declared my resolu- 
 tion to leave her, she burst into tears, and told 
 me that I must bear the peevishness of a sick 
 bed, and I should find myself remembered in 
 her will. I complied, and a codicil was added 
 in my favour ; but in less than a week, when I 
 set her gruel before her, I laid the spoon on the 
 left side, and she thew her will into the fire. 
 In two days she made another, which she burnt 
 in the same manner, because she could not eat 
 
 her chicken. A third was made, and destroyed 
 because she heard a mouse within the wainscot, 
 and was sure that I should suffer her to be car- 
 ried away alive. After this I was for some 
 time out of favour, but as her illness grew upon 
 her, resentment and sullenness gave way to 
 kinder sentiments. She died, and left me five 
 hundred pounds ; with this fortune I am going 
 to settle in my native parish, where I resolve 
 to spend some hours every day in teaching 
 poor girls to read and write. 
 I am, Sir, 
 
 Your humb.e servant, 
 
 BETTY BROOM. 
 
 No. 30.] SATURDAY, Nov. 11, 1758. 
 
 THE desires of man increase with his acqui- 
 sitions ; every step which he advances brings 
 something within his view, which he did not 
 see before, and which, as soon as he sees it, 
 he begins to want. Where necessity ends, 
 curiosity begins ; and no sooner are we sup- 
 plied with everything that nature can demand, 
 than we sit down to contrive artificial appe- 
 tites. 
 
 By this restlessness of mind, every populous 
 and wealthy city is filled with innumerable em- 
 ployments, for which the greater part of man- 
 kind is without a name ; with artificers, whose 
 labour is exerted in producing such petty con- 
 veniences, that many shops are furnished with 
 instruments of which the use can hardly be 
 found without inquiry, but which he that once 
 knows them quickly learns to number among 
 necessary things. 
 
 Such is the diligence with which, in coun- 
 tries completely civilized, one part of mankind 
 labours for another, that wants are supplied 
 faster than they can be formed, and the idle and 
 luxurious find life stagnate for want of some 
 desire to keep it in motion. This species of 
 distress furnishes a new set of occupations ; 
 and multitudes are busied from day to day, in 
 finding the rich and the fortunate something to 
 do. 
 
 It is very common to reproach those artists 
 as useless, who produce only such superfluities 
 as neither accommodate the body, nor improve 
 the mind ; and of which no other effect can be 
 imagined, than that they are the occasions of 
 spending money and consuming time. 
 
 But this censure will be mitigated when it is 
 seriously considered that money and time are 
 the heaviest burdens of life, and that the un- 
 happiest of all mortals are those who have moro 
 of either than they know how to use. To set 
 himself free from these incumbrances, one 
 hurries to Newmarket ; another travels over 
 Europe ; one pulls down his house and calls 
 architects about him ; anotfter buys a seat in 
 the country, and follows his hounds over hedges 
 and through rivers ; one makes collections of 
 shells ; and another searches the world for tu- 
 lips and carnations. 
 
 He is surely a public benefactor who finds 
 employment for those to whom it is thus diffi- 
 cult to find it for themselves. It is true, that 
 this is seldom done merely from generosity or
 
 No. 31.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 385 
 
 compassion j almost every man seeks his own 
 idvantage in helping others, and therefore it 
 te too common for mercenary officiousness to 
 tonsider rather what is grateful, than what is 
 fight. 
 
 We all know that it is more profitable to be 
 loved than esteemed ; and ministers of plea- 
 sure will always be found, who study to make 
 themselves necessary, and to supplant those 
 who are practising the same arts. 
 
 One of the amusements of idleness is read- 
 ing without the fatigue of close attention ; and 
 the world, therefore, swarms with writers whose 
 wish is not to be studied, but to be read. 
 
 No species of literary men has lately been 
 so much multiplied as the writers of news. 
 Not many years ago the nation was content 
 with one gazette ; but now we have not only in 
 the metropolis papers for every morning and 
 every evening, but almost every large town has 
 its weekly historian, who regularly circulates 
 his periodical intelligence, and fills the villages 
 of his district with conjectures on the events 
 of war, and with debates on the true interests 
 of Europe. 
 
 To write news in its perfection requires such 
 a combination of qualities, that a man com- 
 pletely fitted for the task is not always to be 
 found. In Sir Henry Wotton's jocular defini- 
 tion, Jin ambassador is said to be a man of vir- 
 tue sent abroad to tell lies for the advantage of 
 his country ; a newswriter is a man without vir- 
 tue, who writes lies at home for his own profit. 
 To these compositions is required neither 
 genius nor knowledge, neither industry nor 
 sprightliness ; but contempt of shame, and 
 indifference to truth, are absolutely necessary. 
 He who by a long familiarity with infamy has 
 obtained these qualities, may confidently tell 
 to-day what he intends to contradict to-mor- 
 row ; he may affirm fearlessly what he knows 
 that he shall be obliged to recant, and may 
 write letters from Amsterdam or Dresden to 
 himself. 
 
 In a time of war the nation is always of one 
 mind, eager to hear something good of them- 
 selves, and ill of the enemy. At this time the 
 task of news-writers is easy ; they have noth- 
 ing to do but to tell that the battle is expected, 
 and afterwards that a battle has been fought, 
 in which we and our friends, whether conquer- 
 ing or conquered, did all, and our enemies did 
 nothing. 
 
 Scarcely anything awakens attention like a 
 tale of cruelty. The writer of news never 
 fails in the intermission of action to tell how 
 the enemies murdered children and ravished 
 virgins ; and if the scene of action be some- 
 what distant, scalps half the inhabitants of a 
 province. 
 
 Among the calamities of war, may be justly 
 numbered the diminution of the love of truth, 
 by the falsehoods which interest dictates, and 
 credulity encourages. A peace will equally 
 leave the warrior and relator of wars destitute 
 of employment ; and I know not whether more 
 is to be dreaded from streets filled with soldiers 
 accustomed to plunder, or from garrets filled 
 with scribblers accustomed to lie. 
 
 2Y 
 
 No. 31.] SATURDAY, Nov. 18, 1758. 
 
 MANY moralists have remarked, that pride has 
 of all human vices the widest dominion, appears 
 in the greatest multiplicity of forms, and lies 
 hid under the greatest variety of disguises ; of 
 disguises which, like the moon's veil of bright- 
 ness, are both its lustre and its shade, and be- 
 tray it to others, though they hide it from our 
 selves. 
 
 It is not my intention to degrade pride from 
 this pre-eminence of mischief; yet I know not 
 whether idleness may not maintain a very 
 doubtful and obstinate competition. 
 
 There are some that profess idleness in its 
 full dignity, who call themselves the Idle as Bu- 
 siris in the play calls himself the Proud; who 
 boast that they can do nothing, and thank 
 their stars that they have nothing to do ; who 
 sleep every night till they can sleep no longer, 
 and rise only that exercise may enable them to 
 sleep again ; who prolong the reign of darkness 
 by double curtains ; and never see the sun but 
 to tell him how they hate his beams ; whose whole 
 labour is to vary the posture of indulgence, and 
 whose day differs from their night but as a 
 couch or chair differs from a bed. 
 
 These are the true and open votaries of idle 
 ness, for whom she weaves the garlands of pop 
 pies, and into whose cup she pours the waters 
 of oblivion; who exist in a state of unruffled 
 stupidity forgetting and forgotten ; who have 
 long ceased to live, and at whose death the sur- 
 vivors can only say that they have ceased to 
 breathe. 
 
 But idleness predominates in many lives 
 where it is not suspected ; for, being a vice 
 which terminates in itself, it may be enjoyed 
 without injury to others; and it is therefore 
 not watched like fraud, which endangers pro- 
 perty ; or like pride, which naturally seeks its 
 gratifications in another's inferiority. Idleness 
 is a silent and peaceful quality, that neither 
 raises envy by ostentation, nor hatred by opposi- 
 tion ; and therefore nobody is busy to censure 
 or detect it. 
 
 As pride sometimes is hid under humility, 
 idleness is often covered by turbulence and 
 hurry. He that neglects his known duty and 
 real employment, naturally endeavours to 
 crowd his mind with something that may bar 
 out the remembrance of his own folly, and does 
 av.y thing but what he ought to do with eager 
 diligence, that he may keep himself in his own 
 favour. 
 
 Some are always in a state of preparation, 
 occupied in previous measures, forming plans, 
 accumulating materials, and providing for the 
 main affair. These are certainly under the se- 
 cret power of idleness. Nothing is to be expect- 
 ed from the workman whose tools are for ever 
 to be sought. I was once told by a great mas- 
 ter that no man ever excelled in painting, who 
 was eminently curious about pencils and co- 
 lours. 
 
 There are others to whom idleness dictates 
 another expedient, by which life may be passed 
 unprofitably away without the tediousness of 
 many vacant hours. The art is, to fill the day 
 with petty business, to have always something
 
 386 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 32 
 
 in hand which may raise curiosity, but not 
 solicitude, and keep the mind in a state of ac- 
 tion, but not of labour. 
 
 This art has for many years been practised 
 by my old friend Sober with wonderful success. 
 '(Sober is a man of strong desires and quick 
 imagination, so exactly balanced by the love of 
 ease, that they can seldom stimulate him to any 
 difficult undertaking ; they have, however, so 
 much power, that they will not suffer him to lie 
 quite at rest ; and though they do not make 
 him sufficiently useful to others, they make him 
 at least weary of himself. 
 
 Mr. Sober's chief pleasure is conversation ; 
 there is no end of his talk or his attention ; to 
 speak or to hear is equally pleasing ; for he 
 still fancies that he is teaching or learning 
 something, and is free for the time from his 
 own reproaches. 
 
 But there is one time at night when he must 
 go home, that his friends may sleep ; and ano- 
 ther time in the morning, when all the world 
 agrees to shut out interruption. These are the 
 moments of which poor Sober trembles at the 
 thought. But the misery of these irksome inter- 
 vals he has many means of alleviating. He has 
 persuaded himself that the manual arts are un- 
 deservedly overlooked ; he has observed in 
 many trades the effects of close thought, and 
 just ratiocination. From speculation he pro- 
 ceeded to practice, and supplied himself with 
 the tools of a carpenter, with which he mended 
 hiscoalbox very successfully, and which he still 
 continues to employ, as he finds occasion. 
 
 He has attempted at other times the crafts of 
 shoe-maker, tinman, plumber, and potter; in 
 all these arts he has failed, and resolves to quali- 
 fy himself for them, by better information. 
 But his daily amusement is chemistry. He 
 has a small furnace which he employs in distil- 
 lation, and which has long been the solace of 
 his life. He draws oils and waters and essen- 
 ces and spirits, which he knows to be of no use, 
 sits and counts the drops as they come from his 
 retort, and forgets that whilst a drop is falling, 
 a moment flies away. 
 
 Poor Sober ! I have often teased him with 
 reproof, and he has often promised reformation; 
 for no man is so much open to conviction as the 
 Idler, but there is none on which it operates so 
 little. What will be the effect of this paper I 
 know not ; perhaps he will read it and laugh, 
 and light the fire in his furnace ; but my hope 
 is that he will quit his trifles, and betake him- 
 self to rational and useful diligence. 
 
 No. 32.] SATURDAY, Nov. 25, 1758. 
 
 AMONG the innumerable mortifications that 
 waylay human arrogance on every side, may 
 well be reckoned our ignorance of the most 
 common objects and effects a defect of which 
 we become more sensible, by every attempt to 
 supply it. Vulgar and inactive minds confound 
 familiarity with knowledge, and conceive them- 
 selves informed of the whole nature of things, 
 when they are shown their form or told their 
 use ; but the speculatist, who is not content 
 with superficial views, harrasses himself with 
 
 fruitless curiosity, and slill as he acquires more, 
 perceives only that he knows less. 
 
 Sleep is a state in which a great part of every 
 life is passed. No animal has yet been discov- 
 ered, whose existence is not varied with inter- 
 vals of insensibility; and some late philosophers 
 have extended the empire of sleep over the 
 vegetable world. 
 
 Yet of this change, so frequent, so great, so 
 general, and so necessary, no searcher has yet 
 found either the efficient or final cause ; or can 
 tell by what power the mind and body are 
 thus chained down in irresistible stupefaction ; 
 or what benefits the animal receives from this 
 alternate suspension of its active powers. 
 
 Whatever may be the multiplicity or contra- 
 riety of opinions upon this subject, Nature 
 has taken sufficient care that theory shall have 
 little influence on practice. The most diligent 
 inquirer is not able long to keep his eyes 
 open ; the most eager disputant will begin 
 about midnight to desert his argument ; and 
 once in four-and-twenty hours, the gay and the 
 gloomy, the witty and the dull, the clamorous 
 and the silent, the busy and the idle, arc all 
 overpowered by the gentle tyrant, and all lie 
 down in the equality of sleep. 
 
 Philosophy has often attempted to repress 
 insolence, by asserting that all conditions are 
 levelled by death ; a position which, however it 
 may deject the happy, will seldom afford much 
 comfort to the wretched. It is far more pleas- 
 ing to consider, that sleep is equally a leveller 
 with death ; -that the time is never at a great 
 distance, when the balm of rest shall be diffused 
 alike upon every head, when the diversities of 
 life shall stop their operation, and the high and 
 low shall lie down together. 
 
 It is somewhere recorded of Alexander, that 
 in the pride of conquests, and intoxication of 
 flattery, he declared that he only perceived him- 
 self to be a man by the necessity of sleep. 
 Whether he considered sleep as necessary to 
 his mind or body it was indeed a sufficient evi- 
 dence of human infirmity ; the body which re- 
 quired such frequency of renovation, gave but 
 faint promises of immortality ; and the mind 
 which from time to time, sunk gladly into in- 
 sensibility, had made no very near approaches 
 to the felicity of the supreme and self-sufficient 
 nature. 
 
 I know not what can tend more to repress all 
 the passions that disturb the peace of the world, 
 than the consideration that there is no height 
 of happiness or honour from which man does 
 not eagerly descend to a state of unconcious re- 
 pose ; that the best condition of life is such, 
 that we contentedly quit its good to be disen- 
 tangled from its evils ; that in a few hours 
 splendour fades before the eye, and praise itself 
 deadens in the ear; the senses withdraw from 
 their objects, and reason favours the retreat. 
 
 What then are the hopes and prospects o. 
 covetousness, ambition, and rapacity ? Let him 
 that desires most have all his desires gratified, 
 he never shall attain a state which he can for a 
 day and a night contemplate with satisfaction, 
 or from which, if he had the power of perpetual 
 vigilance, he would not long for periodical 
 separations
 
 No. 33.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 887 
 
 AH envy would be extinguished, if it were 
 universally known that there are none to be 
 envied, and surely none can be much envied 
 who are not pleased with themselves. There is 
 reason to suspect, that the distinctions of man- 
 kind have more show than value, when it is 
 found that all agree to be weary alike of plea- 
 sures and of cares ; that the powerful and the 
 weak, the celebrated and obscure, join in one 
 common wish, and implore from nature's hand 
 the nectar of oblivion. 
 
 Snoh is our desire of abstraction from our- 
 selves, that very few are satisfied with the 
 quantity of stupefaction which the needs of the 
 body force upon the mind. Alexander himself 
 added intemperance to sleep, and solaced with 
 the fumes of wine the sovereignty of the world; 
 and almost every man has some art by which 
 he steals his thoughts away from his present 
 state. 
 
 It is not much of life that is spent in close 
 attention to any important duty. Many hours 
 of every day are suffered to fly away without 
 any traces left upon the intellects. We suffer 
 phantoms to rise up before us, and amuse our- 
 selves with the dance of airy images, which, 
 after a time, we dismiss forever, and know not 
 how we have been busied. 
 
 Many have no happier moments than those 
 that they pass in solitude, abandoned to their 
 own imagination, which sometimes puts scep- 
 tres in their hand or mitres on their heads, 
 shifts the scene of pleasure with endless variety, 
 bids all the forms of beauty sparkle before them, 
 and gluts them with every change of visionary- 
 luxury. 
 
 It is easy in these semi-slumbers to collect 
 all the possibilities of happiness, to alter the 
 course of the sun, to bring back the past, and 
 anticipate the future, to unite all the beauties 
 of all seasons, and all the blessings of all cli- 
 mates, to receive and bestow felicity, and for- 
 get that misery is the lot of man. All this is a 
 voluntary dream, a temporary recession from 
 the realities of life to airy fiction ; an habitual 
 subjection of reason to fancy. 
 
 Others are afraid to be alone, and amuse 
 themselves by a perpetual succession of com- 
 panions ; but the difference is not great : in 
 solitude we have our dreams to ourselves, and 
 in company we agree to dream in concert. 
 The end sought in both is, forgetfulness of 
 ourselves. 
 
 No. 33.] SATURDAY, DEC. 2, 1758. 
 
 [ I hope the author of the following letter will 
 excuse the omission of some parts, and al- 
 low me to remark, that the Journal of the 
 Citizen in the Spectatorhas almost precluded 
 the attempt of any future writer.] 
 
 -Non ita Romuli 
 
 Prcescriptum, if intonsi Catonis 
 Jluspiciis, ceterumquc norma. HOE. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 You have often solicited correspondence. I 
 have sent you the Journal of a Senior Fellow, 
 
 or Genuine Idler, just transmitted from Cam- 
 bridge by a facetious correspondent, and war- 
 ranted to have been transcribed from the com- 
 mon-place book of the journalist. 
 
 Monday, nine o'clock. Turned off my bed- 
 maker for waking me at night. Weather rainy. 
 Consulted my weather-glass. No hopes of a 
 ride before dinner. 
 
 Ditto, ten. After breakfast transcribed half 
 a sermon from Dr. Hickman. N. B. Never to 
 transcribe any more from Calamy ; Mrs. Pil- 
 cocks, at my curacy, having one volume of 
 that author lying in her parlour-window. 
 
 Ditto, eleven. Went down into my cellar, 
 Mem. My mountain will be fit to drink in a 
 month's time. N. B. To remove the five year 
 old port into the new bin on the left hand. 
 
 Ditto, twelve. Mended a pen. Looked at 
 my weather-glass again, duicksilver very low. 
 Shaved. Barber's hand shakes. 
 
 Ditto, one. Dined alone in my room on a 
 soal. N. B. The shrimp-sauce not so good as 
 Mr. H. of Peterhouse and I used to eat in 
 London last winter, at the Mitre in Fleet-street 
 Sat down to a pint of Madeira. Mr. H. sur- 
 prised me over it. We finished two bottles 
 of port together, and were very cheerful. Mem. 
 To dine with Mr. H. at Peterhouse next Wed- 
 nesday. One of the dishes a leg of pork and 
 pease, by my desire. 
 
 Ditto, six. Newspaper in the common 
 room. 
 
 Ditto, seven. Returned to my room. Made 
 a tiff of warm punch, and to bed before nine ; 
 did not fall asleep till ten, a young fellow-com- 
 moner being very noisy over my head. 
 
 Tuesday, nine. Rose squeamish. A fine 
 morning. Weather-glass very high. 
 
 Ditto, ten. Ordered my horse, and rode to 
 the five-mile stone on the Newmarket road. 
 Appetite gets better. A pack of hounds in full 
 cry crossed the road, aud startled my horse. 
 
 Ditto, twelve. Dressed. Found a letter on 
 my table to be in London the 19th inst Be- 
 spoke a new wig. 
 
 Ditto, one. At dinner in the hall. Too much 
 water in the soup. Dr. Dry always orders the 
 ieef to be salted too much for me. 
 
 Ditto, two. In the common-room. Dr. 
 Dry gave us an instance of a gentleman who 
 sept the gout out of his stomach by drinking 
 old Madeira. Conversation chiefly on the ex- 
 aeditions. Company broke up at four. Dr. 
 Dry and myself played at back-gammon for a 
 jrace of snipes. Won. 
 
 Ditto, five. At the coffee-house. Met Mr. 
 EL there. Could not get a sight of the Moni- 
 
 r. 
 
 Ditto, seven. Returned home, and stirred 
 my fire. Went to the common-room, and sup- 
 ped on the snipes with Dr. Dry. 
 
 Ditto, eight. Began the evening in the com- 
 mon-room. Dr. Dry told several stories. 
 Were very merry. Our new fellow that 
 studie physic, very talkative toward twelv% 
 Pretends he will bring the youngest Miss 
 ,o drink tea with me soon. Impertinent block- 
 lead! 
 
 Wednesday, nine. Alarmed with a pain in 
 my ankle. Q.. The gout ? Fear I can't din
 
 388 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 34. 
 
 at Peterhouse ; but hope a ride will set all to 
 rights. Weather-glass below fair. 
 
 Ditto, ten. Mounted my horse, thought the 
 weather suspicious. Pain in my ankle entirely 
 
 gone. Catched in a shower coming back, 
 onvinced that my weather-glass is the best in 
 Cambridge. 
 
 Ditto, twelve. Dressed. Sauntered up to the 
 Fishmonger's-hill. Met Mr. H. and went 
 with him to Peterhouse. Cook made us wait 
 thirty-six minutes beyond the time. The com- 
 pany; some of my Emanuel friends. For din- 
 ner, a pair of soals, a leg of pork and peas 
 among other things. Mem. Peas-pudding not 
 boiled enough. Cook reprimanded and sconced 
 in my presence. 
 
 Ditto, after dinner. Pain in my ankle re- 
 turns. Dull all the afternoon. Rallied for be- 
 ing no company. Mr. H. 's account of the ac- 
 commodations on the road in his Bath journey. 
 
 Ditto, six. Got into spirits. Never was 
 more chatty. We sat late at whist. Mr. H. 
 and self agreed at parting to take a gentle 
 ride, and dine at the old house on the London 
 road to-morrow. 
 
 Thursday, nine. My semptress. She has 
 lost the measure of my wrist. Forced to be 
 measured again. The baggage has got a trick 
 of smiling. 
 
 Ditto, ten to eleven. Made some rappee- 
 snuff. Read the magazines. Received a pre- 
 sent of pickles from Miss Pilcocks. Mem. 
 To send in return some collared eel, which I 
 know both the old lady and miss are fond of. 
 
 Ditto, eleven. Glass very high. Mounted 
 at the gate with Mr. H. Horse skittish and 
 wants exercise. Arrive at the old house. All 
 the provision bespoke by some rakish fellow- 
 commoner in the next room, who had been on 
 a scheme to Newmarket. Could get nothing 
 but mutton chops off the worst end. Port 
 very new. Agree to try some other house to- 
 morrow. 
 
 HERE the Journal breaks off: for the next 
 morning, as my friend informs me, our genial 
 academic was waked with a severe fit of the 
 gout ; and, at present, enjoys all the dignity of 
 that disease. But I believe we have lost no- 
 thing by this interruption ; since a continuation 
 of the remainder of the Journal, through the 
 remainder of the week, would most probably 
 have exhibited nothing more than a repeated 
 relation of the same circumstances of idling 
 and luxury. 
 
 I hope it will not be concluded, from this 
 specimen of academic life, that I have attempt- 
 ed to decry our universities. If literature is not 
 the essential requisite of the modern academic, 
 I am yet persuaded that Cambridge and Ox- 
 ord, however degenerated, surpass the fashion- 
 able academies of our metropolis, and the 
 gymnasia of foreign countries. The number 
 of learned persons in these celebrated seats is 
 still considerable, and more conveniences and 
 opportunities for study still subsist in them, 
 than in any other place. There is at least one 
 very powerful incentive to learning ; I mean 
 the Genius of the place. It is a sort of inspir- 
 ing deity, which every youth of quick sensi- 
 
 bility and ingenious disposition creates to him 
 self, by reflecting, that he is placed under 
 those venerable walls, where a Hooker and a 
 Hammond, a Bacon and a Newton, once pur- 
 sued the sone course of science, and from 
 whence they soared to the most elevated 
 heights of literary fame. This is that incite- 
 ment which Tully, according to his own tes- 
 timony, experienced at Athens, when he con- 
 templated the porticos where Socrates sat, and 
 the laurel groves where Plato disputed. But 
 there are other circumstances, and of the high- 
 est importance, which render our college su 
 perior to all other places of education. Their 
 institutions, although somewhat fallen from 
 their primeval simplicity, are such as influence, 
 in a particular manner, the moral conduct of 
 their youth ; and in this general depravity of 
 manners and laxity of principles, pure religion 
 is no where more strongly inculcated. The 
 academies, as they are presumptuously styled, 
 are too low to be mentioned : and foreign 
 seminaries are likely to prejudice the unwary 
 mind with Calvinism. But English universi- 
 ties render their students virtuous, at least by 
 excluding all opportunities of vice : and, by 
 teaching them the principles of the church 
 of England, confirm them in those of true 
 Christianity. 
 
 No. 34.] SATURDAY, DEC. 9, 1758. 
 
 To illustrate one thing by its resemblance to 
 another, has been always the most popular 
 and efficacious art of instruction, there is, in- 
 deed, no other method of teaching that of which 
 any one is ignorant, but by means of some- 
 thing already known ; and a mind so enlarged 
 by contemplation and inquiry, that it has al- 
 ways many objects within its view, will seldom 
 be long without some near and familiar image 
 
 ough which an easy transition maybemaur. 
 to truths more distant and obscure. 
 
 Of the parallels which have been drawn by 
 wit and curiosity, some are literal and real, 
 as between poetry and painting, two arts which 
 pursue the same end, by the operation of the 
 same mental faculties, and which differ only as 
 the one represents things by marks permanent 
 and natural, the other by signs accidental and 
 arbitrary. The one therefore is more easily 
 and generally understood, since similitude of 
 form is immediately perceived ; the other is 
 capable of conveying more ideas ; frr men 
 have thought and spoken of many things which 
 they do not see. 
 
 Other parallels are fortuitous and fanciful, 
 yet these have sometimes been extended to 
 many particulars of resemblance by a lucky 
 concurrence of diligence and chance. The 
 animal body is composed of many members, 
 united under the direction of one mind ; any 
 number of individuals, connected for some 
 common purpose, is therefore called a body. 
 From his participation of the same appel- 
 lation arose the comparison of the body na- 
 tural and body politic, of which, how far so- 
 ever it has been deduced, no end has hitherto 
 been found.
 
 No. 35.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 389 
 
 In these imaginary similitudes, the same 
 word is used at once in its primitive and me 
 taphorical sense. Thus health, ascribed t 
 the body natural, is opposed to sickness ; bu 
 attributed to the body politic stands as contrarj 
 to adversity. These parallels, therefore, have 
 more of genius, but less of truth ; they often 
 please, but they never convince. 
 
 Of this kind is a curious speculation frequent 
 ly indulged by a philosopher of my acquain 
 tance, who had discovered, the qualities re. 
 quisite to conversation are very exactly repre- 
 sented by a bowl of punch. 
 
 Punch, says this profound investigator, is a 
 liquor compounded of spirit and acid juices 
 sugar and water. The spirit, volatile and fiery, 
 is the proper emblem of vivacity and wit; the 
 acidity of the lemon will very aptly figure pun- 
 gency of raillery, and acrimony of censure ; 
 sugar is the natural representative of luscious 
 adulation and gentle complaisance ; and water 
 is the proper hieroglyphic of easy prattle, inno- 
 1 cent and tasteless. 
 
 Spirit alone is too powerful for use. It will 
 produce madness rather than merriment ; and 
 instead of quenching thirst will inflame the 
 blood. Thus wit, too copiously poured out, 
 agitates the hearer with emotions rather violent 
 than pleasing; every one shrinks from the force 
 of its oppression, the company sits entranced 
 and overpowered ; all are astonished but no- 
 body is pleased. 
 
 The acid juices give this genial liquor all its 
 power of stimulating the palate. Conversation 
 would become dull and vapid, if negligence 
 were not sometimes roused, and sluggishness 
 quickened by due severity of reprehension. 
 But acids unmixed will distort the face and 
 torture the palate ; and he that has no other 
 qualities than penetration and aspersity, he 
 whose constant employment is detection and 
 censure, who looks only to find faults, and 
 speaksonly to publish them, will soon be dread- 
 ed, hated, and avoided. 
 
 The taste of sugar is generally pleasing, but 
 it cannot long be eaten by itself. Thus meek- 
 ness and courtesy will always recommend the 
 first address, but soon pall and nauseate, unless 
 they are associated with more sprightly quali- 
 ties. The chief use of sugar is to temper the 
 taste of other substances ; and softness of be- 
 haviour in the same manner mitigates the 
 roughness of contradiction, and allays the bit- 
 terness of unwelcome truth. 
 
 Water is the universal vehicle by which are 
 conveyed the particles necessary to sustenance 
 and growth, by which thirst is quenched, and 
 all the wants of life and nature are supplied. 
 Thus all the business of the world is transacted 
 by artless and easy talk, neither sublimed by 
 fancy, nor discoloured by affectation, without 
 either the harshness of satire, or the luscious- 
 ness of flattery. By this limpid vein of lan- 
 guage, curiosity is gratified, and all the know- 
 ledge is conveyed which one man is required 
 to impart for the safety or convenience of 
 another. Water is the only ingredient in punch 
 which can be used alone, and with which man 
 is content till fancy has framed an artificial 
 want. Thus while we only desire to have our 
 
 ignorance informed we are most delighted 
 with the plainest diction ; and it is only in 
 the moments of idleness or pride, that we call 
 for the gratifications of wit or flattery. 
 
 He only will please long, who by tempering 
 the acidity of satire with the sugar of civility, 
 and allaying the heat of wit with the frigidity 
 of humble chat, can make the true punch of 
 conversation ; and as that punch can be drank 
 in the greatest quantity which has the largest 
 proportion of water, so that companion will 
 be oftenest welcome, whose talk flows out 
 with inoffensive copiousness, and unenvied in- 
 sipidity. 
 
 No. 35.] SATCRDAT, DEC. 16, 1758. 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 MR. IDLER, 
 
 IF it be difficult to persuade the idle to be busy, 
 it is likewise, as experience has taught me, 
 not easy to convince the busy that it is better 
 to be idle. When you shall despair of stimu- 
 lating sluggishness to motion, I hope you will 
 turn your thoughts towards the means of still- 
 ing the bustle of pernicious activity. 
 
 I am the unfortunate husband of a buyer of 
 bargains. My wife has somewhere heard that 
 a good housewife never has any thing to pur- 
 chase when it is wanted. This maxim is often 
 in her mouth, and always in her head. She 
 is not one of those philosophical talkers that 
 speculate without practice, and learn senten- 
 ces of wisdom only to repeat them ; she is 
 always making additions to her stores ; she 
 never looks into a broker's shop but she spies 
 something that may be wanted some time ; 
 and it is impossible to make her pass the door 
 of a house where she hears goods selling by 
 auction. 
 
 Whatever she thinks cheap she holds it the 
 duty of an economist to buy ; in consequence of 
 this maxim, we are encumbered on every side 
 with useless lumber. The servants can scarcely 
 
 reep to their beds through the chests and 
 Joxes that surround them. The carpenter is 
 employed once a week in building closets, fix- 
 ng cupboards, and fastening shelves ; and my 
 louse has the appearance of a ship stored for 
 a voyage to the colonies. 
 
 I had often observed that advertisements set 
 ler on fire ; and therefore pretending to emu- 
 ate her laudable frugality, I forbade the news- 
 >aper to be taken any longer; but my precau- 
 ion is vain ; I know not by what fatality, or 
 >y what confederacy, every catalogue of 
 enuine furniture comes to her hand, every 
 .dvertisement of a newspaper newly opened 
 s in her pocket-book, and she knows before 
 any of her neighbours when the stock of any 
 man leaving off trade is to be sold cheap for 
 ready money. 
 
 Such intelligence is to my dear one the 
 
 iren's song. No engagement, no duty, no 
 nterest, can withhold her from a sale, from 
 which she always returns congatulating her- 
 elf upon her dexterity at a bargain ; the por- 
 er lays down his burden in the hall ; she din-
 
 390 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 30. 
 
 plays her new acquisitions, and spends the 
 rr st of the day in contriving where they shall 
 bo put. 
 
 As she cannot bear to have any thing incom- 
 plete, one purchase necessitates another ; she 
 lias twenty feather-beds more than she can use, 
 and a late sale has supplied her with a propor- 
 tionable number of Witney blankets, a large 
 roll of linen for sheets, and five quilts for every 
 bed, which she bought because the seller told 
 her, that if she would clear his hands he would 
 let her have a bargain. 
 
 Thus by hourly encroachments my habita- 
 tion is made narrower and narrower ; the din- 
 ing-room is so crowded with tables, that dinner 
 scarcely can be served ; the parlour is decorated 
 with so many piles of china, that I dare not 
 step within the door ; at every turn of the 
 stairs I have a clock, and half the windows of 
 the upper floors are darkened that shelves 
 may be set before them. 
 
 This, however, might be borne, if she would 
 gratify her own inclinations without opposing 
 mine. But I, who am idle, am luxurious, and 
 she condemns me to live upon salt provision. 
 She knows the loss of buying in small quanti- 
 ties, we have therefore whole hogs and quar- 
 ters of oxen. Part of our meat is tainted be- 
 fore it is eaten, and part is thrown away because 
 it is spoiled, but she persists in her system, 
 and will never buy any thing by single penny- 
 worths. 
 
 The common vice of those who are still 
 grasping at more, is to neglect that which 
 they already possess ; but from this failing my 
 charmer is free. It is the great care of her 
 life that the pieces .. of beef should be boiled 
 in the order in which they are bought ; that 
 the second bag of peas should not be opened 
 till the first were eaten ; that every feather-bed 
 shall be lain on in its turn ; that the carpets 
 should be taken out of the chests once a 
 month and brushed ; and the rolls of linen 
 opened now and then before the fire. She is 
 daily inquiring after the best traps for mice, 
 and keeps the rooms always scented by fumi- 
 gations to destroy the moths. She employs a 
 workman from time to time to adjust six 
 clocks that never go, and clean five jacks that 
 rust in the garret ; and a woman in the next 
 alley that lives by scouring the brass and 
 pewter which are only laid up to tarnish again. 
 
 She is always imagining some distant time in 
 which she shall use whatever she accumulates ; 
 she has four looking-glasses which she cannot 
 hang up in her house, but which will be hand- 
 some in more lofty rooms ; and pays rent for 
 the place of a vast copper in some warehouse, 
 because when we live in the country we shall 
 brew our own beer. 
 
 Of this life I have long been weary, but I 
 know not how to change it ; all the married 
 men whom I consult advise me to have pa- 
 tience ; but some old bachelors are of opinion, 
 that since she loves sales so well, she should 
 have a sale of her own ; and I have, I think 
 resolved to open her hoards, and advertise a* 
 auction. I am, Sir, 
 
 Your very humble Servant. 
 PETER PLENT 
 
 No. 36.] SATURDAY, DEC. 23, 1758. 
 
 THE great differences that disturb the peace ol 
 mankind are not about ends, but means. We 
 have all the same general desires, but how 
 those desires shall be accomplished will for 
 ever be disputed. The ultimate purpose of 
 government is temporal, and that of religion 
 is eternal happiness. Hitherto we agree : but 
 here we must part to try according to the end- 
 less varieties of passion and understanding 
 combined with one another, every possible 
 form of government, and every imaginable 
 tenet of religion. 
 
 We are told by Cumberland that rectitude, 
 applied to action or contemplation, is merely 
 metaphorical ; and that as a right line de- 
 scribes the shortest passage from point to 
 point, so a right action effects a good design 
 by the fewest means ; and so likewise a right 
 opinion is that which connects distant truths 
 by the shortest train of intermediate proposi- 
 tions. 
 
 To find the nearest way from truth to truth, 
 or from purpose to effect, not to use more in- 
 struments where fewer will be sufficient, not 
 to move by wheels and levers what will give 
 way to the naked hand, is the great proof of a 
 healthful and vigorous mind, neither feeble 
 with healthful ignorance, nor overburdened 
 with unwieldy knowledge. 
 
 But there are men who seem to think no- 
 thing so much the characteristic of a genius, as 
 to do common things in an uncommon manner ; 
 like Hudibras, to tell the clock by algebra; or 
 like the lady in Dr. Young's satires, to drink 
 tea by stratagem ; to quit the beaten track only 
 because it is known, and take a new path how 
 ever crooked or rough because the straight 
 was found out before. 
 
 Every man speaks and writes with intent to 
 be understood ; and it can seldom happen but 
 he that understands himself might convey his 
 notions to another, if, content to be understood, 
 he did not seek to be admired ; but when once 
 he begins to contrive how his sentiments may 
 be received, not with most case to his reader, 
 but with most advantage to himself, he then 
 transfers his consideration from words to 
 sounds, from sentences to periods, and as he 
 grows more elegant becomes less intelligible. 
 
 It is difficult to enumerate every species of 
 authors whose labours counteract themselves ; 
 the man of exuberance and copiousness, who 
 diffuses every thought through so many diversi- 
 ties of expression, that it is Tost like water in a 
 mist; the ponderous dictator of sentences, 
 whose notions are delivered in the lump, and 
 are like uncoined bullion, of more weight than 
 use ; the liberal illustrator, who shows by ex- 
 amples and comparisons what was clearly 
 seen when it was first proposed ; and the 
 stately son of demonstration, who proves with 
 mathematical formality what no man has yet 
 pretended to doubt. 
 
 There is a mode of style for which I know 
 not that the masters of oratory have yet found 
 a name ; a style by which the most evident 
 truths are so obscured, that they can no longer 
 be perceived, and the most familiar proposi-
 
 No. 37. J 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 39 J 
 
 tions so disguised that they cannot be known. 
 Every other kind of eloquence is the dress of 
 sense ; but this is the mask by which a true 
 master of his art will so effectually conceal it, 
 that a man will as easily mistake his own posi- 
 tions, if he meets them thus transformed, as he 
 may pass in a masquerade his nearest ac- 
 quaintance. 
 
 This style may be called the terrific, for its 
 chief intention is to terrify and amaze ; it may 
 be termed the repulsive, for its natural effect is 
 to drive away the reader ; or it may be distin- 
 guished, in plain English, by the denomination 
 of the bugbear style, for it has more terror than 
 danger, and will appear less formidable as it is 
 more nearly approached. 
 
 A mother tells her infant that two and two 
 make four ; the child remembers the proposition, 
 and is able to count four to all the purposes of 
 life, till the course of his education brings him 
 among philosophers who fright him from his 
 former knowledge, by telling him, that four is 
 a certain aggregate of units ; that all numbers 
 being only the repetition of an unit, which, 
 though not a number itself, is the parent, root, 
 or original of all number, four is the denomina- 
 tion assigned to a certain number of such repe- 
 titions. The only danger is, lest, when he first 
 hears these dreadful sounds, the pupil should 
 run away ; if he has but the courage to stay 
 till the conclusion, he will find that when spe- 
 culation has done its worst, two and two still 
 make four. 
 
 An illustrious example of this species of elo- 
 quence may be found in Letters concerning 
 Mind. The author begins by declaring, that 
 " the sorts of things are things that now are, 
 have been, and shall be, and the things that 
 strictly are." In this position, except the last 
 clause, in which he uses something of the 
 scholastic language, there is nothing but what 
 every man has heard and imagines himself to 
 know. But who would not believe that some 
 wonderful novelty is presented to his intellect 
 when he is afterwards told, in the true bugbear 
 style, that " the ares, in the former sense, are 
 things that lie between the have-beens and the 
 shall-bes. The have-beens are things that are 
 past ; the shall-bes are things that are to come ; 
 and the things that are, in the latter sense, are 
 things that have not been, nor shall be, nor 
 stand in the midst of such as are before them, 
 or shall be after them. The things that have 
 been, and shall be, have respect to present, 
 past, and future. Those likewise that now are 
 have moreover place ; that, for instance, which 
 is here, that which is to the east, that which 
 is to the west." 
 
 All this, my dear reader, is very strange; but 
 though it be strange, it is not new ; survey 
 these wonderful sentences again, and they 
 will be found to contain nothing more, than 
 very plain trut'is, which till this author arose 
 had always been delivered in plain language. 
 
 No. 37.] SATURDAY, DEC. 30, 1758. 
 
 THOSE who are skilled in the extraction and 
 preparation of metals, declare, that iron is every 
 
 where to be found ; and that not only its prc - 
 per ore is copiously treasured in the caverns o, 
 the earth, but that its particles are dispersed 
 throughout all other bodies. 
 
 If the extent of the human view could com- 
 prehend the whole frame of the universe, I be- 
 lieve it would be found invariably true, that 
 Providence has given that in greatest plenty, 
 which the condition of life makes of greatest 
 use ; and that nothing is penuriously imparted 
 or placed far from the reach of man, of which 
 a more liberal distribution, or more easy ac- 
 quisition, would increase real and rational 
 felicity. 
 
 Iron is common, and gold is rare. Iron con- 
 tributes so much to supply the wants of nature, 
 that its use constitutes much of the difference 
 between savage and polished life, between the 
 state of him that slumbers in European palaces, 
 and him that shelters himself in the cavities of 
 a rock from the chillness of the night, or the 
 violence of the storm. Gold can never be har 
 dened into saws or axes ; it can neither furnish 
 instruments of manufacture, utensils of agri- 
 culture, nor weapons of defence ; its only quality 
 is to shine, and the value of its lustre arises 
 from its scarcity. 
 
 Throughout the whole circle, both of natural 
 and moral life, necessaries are as iron, and su- 
 perfluities as gold. What we really need we 
 may readily obtain ; so readily that far the 
 greater part of mankind has, in the wanton 
 ness of abundance, confounded natural with 
 artificial desires, and invented necessities for 
 the sake 'of employment, because the mind is 
 impatient of inaction, and life is sustained with 
 so little labour, that the tediousness of idle 
 time cannot otherwise be supported. 
 
 Thus plenty is the original cause of many of 
 our needs ; and even the poverty, which is so 
 frequent and distressful in civilized nations, 
 proceeds often from that change of manners 
 which opulence has produced. Nature makes 
 us poor only when we want necessaries ; but 
 custom gives the name of poverty to the want 
 of superfluities. 
 
 When Socrates passed through shops of toys 
 and ornaments, he cried out, How many things 
 are here which 1 do not need ! And the same ex 
 clamation may every man make who surveys 
 the common accommodations of life. 
 
 Superfluity and difficulty begin together. To 
 dress food for the stomach is easy, the art is to 
 irritate the palate when the stomach is sufficed 
 A rude hand may build walls, form roofs, and 
 lay floors, and provide all that warmth and se- 
 curity require ; we only call the nicer artificers 
 to carve the cornice, or to paint the ceilings. 
 Such dress as may enable the body to endure 
 the different seasons, the most unenlightened 
 nations have been able to procure : but the work 
 of science begins in the ambition of distinction, 
 in variations of fashion, and emulation of ele- 
 gance. Corn grows with easy culture ; the 
 gardener's experiments are only employed to 
 exalt the flavours of fruits, and brighten the 
 colours of flowers. 
 
 Even of knowledge, those parts are most easy 
 which are generally necessary. The intercourse 
 of society is maintained without the elegance*
 
 3)2 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 33. 
 
 of language. Figures, criticisms, and refine- 
 p*tnts, are the work of those whom idleness 
 likes weary uf themselves. The commerce of 
 trve world is carried on by easy methods of com- 
 putation. Subtility and study are required only 
 v fien questions are invented merely to puzzle, 
 a id calculations are extended to show the skill 
 CM the calculator. The light of the sun is 
 e-iually beneficial to him whose eyes tell him 
 tiiat it moves, and to him whose reason per- 
 saades hire, that it stands still ; and plants 
 grow with the same luxuriance, whether we 
 suppose earth or water the parent of vegeta- 
 tion. 
 
 If we raise our thoughts to nobler inquiries, 
 we shall still find facility concurring with use- 
 fulness. No man needs stay to be virtuous till 
 the moralists have determined the essence of 
 virtue ; our duty is made apparent by its proxi- 
 mate consequences, though the general and ul- 
 timate reason should never be discovered. Re- 
 ligion may regulate the life of him to whom the 
 Scotists and Thomists are alike unknown ; and 
 the assertors of fate and free-will, however 
 different in their talk, agree to act in the same 
 manner. 
 
 It is not my intention to depreciate the po- 
 liter arts or abstruser studies. That curiosity 
 which always succeeds ease and plenty, was 
 undoubtedly given us as a proof of capacity 
 which our present state is not able to fill, as a 
 preparative for some better mode of existence, 
 which shall furnish employment for the whole 
 soul, and where pleasure shall be adequate to 
 our powers of fruition. In the mean time let 
 us gratefully acknowledge that Goodness which 
 grants us ease at a cheap rate, which changes 
 the seasons where the nature of heat and cold 
 has not been yet examined, and gives the vi- 
 cissitudes of day and night to those who never 
 marked the tropics, or numbered the constel- 
 lations. 
 
 No. 33.] SATURDAY, JAN. 6, 1759. 
 
 SINCE the publication of the letter concerning 
 the condition of those who are confined in goals 
 by their creditors, an inquiry is said to nave 
 been made, by which it appears that more than 
 twenty thousand* are at this time prisoners 
 for debt 
 
 We often look with indifference on the suc- 
 cessive parts of that, which, if the whole were 
 seen together, would shake us with emotion. 
 A debtor is dragged to prison, pitied for a mo- 
 ment, and then forgotten ; another follows him, 
 and is lost alike in the caverns of oblivion ; but 
 when the whole mass of calamity rises up at 
 once, when twenty thousand reasonable beings, 
 are heard all groaning in unnecessary misery, 
 not by the infirmity of nature, but the mistake 
 or negligence of policy, who can forbear to pity 
 and lament, to wonder and abhor ! 
 
 There is here no need of declamatory vehe- 
 
 * This number was at that time confidently published , 
 but (he author has since found reason to question the 
 calculation. 
 
 mence : we live in an age of commerce and com- 
 putation ; let us therefore coolly inquire what is 
 the sum of evil which the imprisonment of 
 debtors brings upon our country. 
 
 It seems to be the opinion of the later compu- 
 tists, that the inhabitants of England do not 
 exceed six millions, of which twenty thousand 
 is the three hundredth part. What shall we say 
 of the humanity or the wisdom of a nation, that 
 voluntarily sacrifices one in every three hun- 
 dred to lingering destruction ! 
 
 The misfortunes of an individual do not ex- 
 tend their influence to many ; yet if we con- 
 sider the effects of consanguinity and friendship, 
 and the general reciprocation of wants and 
 benefits, which make one man dearor necessary 
 to another, it may reasonably be supposed, that 
 every man languishing in prison gives trou- 
 ble of some kind to two others who love or need 
 him. By this multiplication of misery we see 
 distress extended to the hundredth part of the 
 whole society. 
 
 If we estimate at a shilling a day what is 
 lost by the inaction and consumed in the sup 
 port of each man thus chained down to invo 
 luntary idleness, the public loss will rise in one 
 year to three hundred thousand pounds ; in 
 ten years to more than a sixth part of our cir- 
 culating coin. 
 
 I am afraid that those who are best acquaint- 
 ed with the state of our prisons will confess 
 that my conjecture is too near the truth, when 
 I suppose that the corrosion of resentment, the 
 heaviness of sorrow, the corruption of confined 
 air, the want of exercise, and sometimes of 
 food, the contagion of diseases, from which 
 there is no retreat, and the severity of tyrants, 
 against whom there can be no resistance, and 
 all the complicated horrors of a prison, put an 
 end every year to the life of one in four of 
 those that are shut up from the ct.rmon com- 
 forts of human life. 
 
 Thus perish yearly five thousand men, over- 
 borne with sorrow, consumed by famine, or 
 putrified by filth : many of them in the most 
 vigorous and useful part of life ; for the 
 thoughtless and imprudent are commonly 
 young, and the active and busy are seldom old. 
 According to the rule generally received, 
 which supposes that one in thirty dies yearly, 
 the race of man may be said to be renewed at 
 the end of thirty years. Who would have be- 
 lieved till now, that of every English genera- 
 tion, a hundred and fifty thousand perish in 
 our gaols ! that in every century, a nation emi- 
 nent for science, studious of commerce, ambi- 
 tious of empire, should willingly lose, in 
 noisome dungeons, five hundred thousand of 
 its inhabitants ; a number greater than has 
 ever been destroyed in the same time by the 
 pestilence and sword ! 
 
 A very late occurrence may show us the 
 value of the number which we thus condemn 
 to be useless ; in the re-establishment of the 
 trained bands, thirty thousand are considered 
 as a force sufficient against all exigencies. 
 While, therefore, we detain twenty thousand 
 in prison, we shut up in darkness and useless- 
 ness two-thirds of an army which ourselves 
 judge equal to the defence of our country.
 
 No. 39.1 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 393 
 
 The monastic institutions have been often 
 blamed as tending to retard the increase of 
 mankind. And perhaps retirement ought 
 rarely to be permitted, except to those whose 
 employment is consistent with abstraction, 
 and who, though solitary, will not be idle : to 
 those whom infirmity makes useless to the 
 commonwealth, or to those who have paid 
 their due proportion to society, and who, having 
 lived for others, may be honourably dismissed 
 to live for themselves. But whatever be the 
 evil or the folly of these retreats, those have 
 no right to censure them whose prisons con- 
 tain greater numbers than the monasteries of 
 other countries. It is, surely, less foolish and 
 less criminal to permit inaction than compel it ; 
 to comply with doubtful opinions of happiness, 
 than condemn to certain and apparent misery; 
 to indulge the extravagances of erroneous 
 piety, than to multiply and enforce temptations 
 to wickedness. 
 
 The misery of gaols is not half their evil : 
 they are rilled with every corruption which 
 poverty and wickedness can generate between 
 them ; with all the shameless and profligate 
 enormities that can be produced by the impu- 
 dence of ignominy, the rage of want, and the 
 malignity of despair. In a prison, the awe of 
 the public eye is lost, and the power of the law 
 is spent ; there are few fears, there are no 
 blushes. The lewd inflame the lewd, the 
 audacious harden the audacious. Every one 
 fortifies himself as he can against his own sen- 
 sibility, endeavours to practise on others the 
 arts which are practised on himself; and gains 
 the kindness of his associates by similitude of 
 manners. 
 
 Thus some sink amidst their misery, and 
 others survive only to propagate villany. It 
 may be hoped, that our lawgivers will at length 
 take away from us this power of starving and 
 depraving one another ; but, if there be any 
 reason why this inveterate evil should not be 
 removed in our age, which true policy has en- 
 lightened beyond any former time, let those, 
 whose writings from the opinions and the prac- 
 tices of their contemporaries, endeavour to 
 transfer the reproach of such imprisonment 
 from the debtor to the creditor, till universal 
 infamy shall pursue the wretch whose wanton- 
 ness of power, or revenge of disappointment, 
 condemns another to torture and to ruin ; till 
 he shall be hunted through the world as an 
 enemy to man, and find in riches no shelter 
 from contempt. 
 
 Surely, he whose debtor has perished in 
 prison, although he may acquit himself of deli- 
 berate murder, must at least have his mind 
 clouded with discontent, when he considers 
 how much another has suffered from him ; 
 when he thinks on the wife bewailing her hus- 
 band, or the children begging the bread which 
 their father would have earned. If there are 
 any made so obdurate by avarice or cruelty, as 
 to revolve these consequences without dread 
 or pity, I must leave them to be awakened by 
 some other power, for I write only to human 
 beings. 
 
 No. 39.] SATURDAY, JAN. 18, 1759. 
 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 As none look more diligently about them than 
 those who have nothing to do, or who do no- 
 thing, I suppose it has not escaped your obser- 
 vation, that the bracelet, an ornament of great 
 antiquity, has been for some years revived 
 among the English ladies. 
 
 The genius of our nation is said, I know not 
 for what reason, to appear rather an improve- 
 ment than invention. The bracelet was known 
 in the earliest ages ; but it was formerly only 
 a hoop of gold, or a cluster of jewels, and 
 showed nothing but the wealth or vanity of the 
 wearer ; till our ladies, by carrying pictures 
 on their wrists, made their ornaments works 
 of fancy and exercises of judgment. 
 
 This addition of art to luxury is one of the 
 innumerable proofs that might be given of the 
 late increase of female erudition ; and I have 
 often congratulated myself that my life has 
 happened at a time when those, on whom so 
 much of human felicity depends, have learned 
 to think as well as speak, and when respect 
 takes possession of the ear, while love is enter- 
 ing at the eye. 
 
 I have observed, that even by the suffrages 
 of their own sex, those ladies are accounted 
 wisest who do not yet disdain to be taught ; 
 and therefore, I shall offer a few hints for the 
 completion of the bracelet, without any dread 
 of the fate of Orpheus. 
 
 To the ladies who wear the pictures of their 
 husbands or children, or any other relations, I 
 can offer nothing more decent or more proper. 
 It is reasonable to believe that she intends at 
 least to perform her duty, who carries a perpe- 
 tual excitement to recollection and caution, 
 whose own ornaments must upbraid her with 
 every failure, and who, by an open violation 
 of her engagements, must for ever forfeit her 
 bracelet. 
 
 Yet I know not whether it is the interest of 
 the husband to solicit very earnestly a place 
 on the bracelet. If his image be not in the 
 heart, it is of small avail to hang it on the 
 hand. A husband encircled with diamonds 
 and rubies may gain some esteem, but will 
 never excite love. He that thinks himself 
 most secure of his wife, should be fearful of 
 persecuting her continually with his presence. 
 The joy of life is variety ; the tenderest love 
 requires to be rekindled by intervals of ab- 
 sence ; and fidelity herself will be wearied 
 with transferring her eye only from the same 
 man to the same picture. 
 
 In many countries the condition of every 
 woman is known by her dress. Marriage is 
 rewarded with some honourable distinction 
 which celibacy is forbidden to usurp. Some 
 such information a bracelet might afford. The 
 ladies might enrol themselves in distinct 
 classes, and carry in open view the emblems of 
 their order. The bracelet of the authoress 
 may exhibit the muses in a grove of laurel ; the 
 housewife may show Penelope with her web ; 
 the votaress of a single life may carry Ursula 
 with her troop of virgins ; the gamester may
 
 394 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 | No. 40. 
 
 have Fortune with her wheel ; and those wo- 
 men that have no character at all, may display 
 u field of white enamel, as imploring help to 
 fill up the vacuity. 
 
 There is a set of ladies who have outlived 
 most animal pleasures, and having nothing ra- 
 tional to put in their place, solace with cards 
 the loss of what time has taken away, and the 
 want of what wisdom, having never been 
 courted, has never given. For these, I know 
 not now to provide a proper decoration. They 
 cannot be numbered among the gamesters: 
 for though they are always at play, they play 
 for nothing, and never rise to the dignity of 
 hazard or the reputation of skill. They neither 
 love nor are loved, and cannot be supposed to 
 contemplate any human image with delight. 
 Yet though they despair to please, they always 
 wish to be fine, and therefore cannot be with- 
 out a bracelet. To this sisterhood I can recom- 
 mend nothing more likely to please them than 
 the king of clubs, a personage very comely 
 and majestic, who will never meet their eyes 
 without reviving the thought of some past or 
 future party, and who may be displayed in the 
 act of dealing with grace and propriety. 
 
 But the bracelet which might be most easily 
 introduced into general use is a small convex 
 mirror, is which the lady may see herself when- 
 ever she shall lift her hand. This will be a per- 
 petual source of delight. Other ornaments 
 are of use only in public, but this will furnish 
 gratifications to solitude. This will show a face 
 that must always please ; she who is followed 
 by admirers will carry about her a perpetual 
 Justification of the public voice ; and she who 
 passes without notice may appeal from preju- 
 dice to her own eyes. 
 
 But I know not why the privilege of the 
 bracelet should be confined to women ; it was 
 in former ages worn by heroes in battle ; and 
 as modern soldiers are always distinguished 
 by splendour of dress, I should rejoice to see 
 the bracelet added to the cockade. 
 
 In hope of this ornamental innovation, I have 
 spent some thoughts upon military bracelets. 
 There is no passion more heroic than love ; and 
 therefore I should be glad to see the sons of 
 England marching in the field, every man with 
 the picture of a woman of honour bound upon 
 his hand. But since in the army, as every 
 where else, there will always be men who love 
 nobody but themselves, or whom no woman 
 of honour will permit to love her, there is a 
 necessity of some other distinctions and devices. 
 I have read of a prince who, having lost a 
 town, ordered the name of it to be every morning 
 shouted in his ear till it should be recovered. For 
 the same purpose I think the prospect of Minor- 
 ca might be properly worn on the hands of some 
 of our generals : others might delight their coun- 
 trymen, and dignify themselves with a view of 
 Rochefort as it appeared to them at sea : and 
 those that shall return from the conquest of 
 America, may exhibit the warehouse of Fron- 
 tenac, with an inscription denoting that it was 
 taken in less than three years by less than 
 Jffenty thousand men. 
 
 I am, Sir, &c. 
 
 TOM TOT. 
 
 No.40.] SATURDAY, JAN. 20, 1759. 
 
 THE practice of appending to the narratives 
 of public transactions more minute and do- 
 mestic intelligence, and filling the newspapers 
 with advertisements, has grown up by slow 
 degrees to its present state. 
 
 Genius is shown only by invention. The 
 man who first took advantage of the general 
 curiosity that was excited by a siege or battle, 
 to betray the readers of news into the know- 
 ledge of the shop where the best puffs and 
 powder were to be sold, was undoubtedly a 
 man of great sagacity and profound skill -in 
 the nature of man. But when he had once 
 shown the way, it was easy to follow him ; and 
 every man now knows a ready method of in- 
 forming the public of all that he desires to buy 
 or sell, whether hjs wares be material or intel- 
 lectual ; whether he makes clothes, or teaches 
 the mathematics; whether he be a tutor that 
 wants a pupil, or a pupil that wants a tutor. 
 
 Whatever is common is despised. Adver- 
 tisements are now so numerous that they are 
 very negligently perused, and it is therefore 
 become necessary to gain attention by magni 
 ficence of promises, and by eloquences some 
 times sublime and sometimes pathetic. 
 
 Promise, large promise, is the soul of an ad- 
 vertisement. I remember a wash-ball that had 
 a quality truly wonderful it gave an exquisite 
 edge to the razor. And there are now to be 
 sold, "for ready money only, some duvets for 
 bed coverings, of down, beyond comparison, 
 superior to what is called otter-down, and in- 
 deed such, that its many excellences cannot be 
 here set forth." With one excellence we are 
 made acquainted " it is warmer than four or 
 five blankets, and lighter than one. " 
 
 There are some, however, that know the 
 prejudice of mankind in favour of modest sin- 
 cerity. The vender of the beautifying fluid 
 sells a lotion that repels pimples, washes away 
 freckles, smooths tlie skin, and plumps the 
 9esh : and yet, with a generous abhorrence cf 
 ostentation, confesses, that it will not "restore 
 the bloom of fifteen to a lady of fifty. " 
 
 The true pathos of advertisements must have 
 sunk deep into the heart of every man that re- 
 members the zeal shown by the seller of the 
 anodyne necklace, for the ease and safety of 
 poor toothing infants, and the affection with 
 which he warned every mother, that " she 
 would never forgive herself" if her infant 
 should perish without a necklace. 
 
 I cannot but remark to the celebrated author 
 who gave, in his notifications of the camel and 
 dromedary, so many specimens of the genuine 
 sublime, that there is now arrived another sub- 
 |ect yet more worthy of his pen, ' ( A famous 
 Mohawk Indian warrior, who took Dieskaw 
 the French general prisoner, dressed in the 
 same manner with the native Indians when 
 they go to war, with his face and body painted, 
 with his scalping-knife, tom-ax and all other 
 implements of war! a sight worthy the curiosi- 
 ty of every true Briton ! " This is a very 
 powerful description : but a critic of great re- 
 finement would say, that it conveys rather 
 horror than terror. An Indian, dressed as he
 
 No. 41.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 395 
 
 goes to war, may bring company together 
 but if he carries the scalping knife, and tom- 
 ax, there are many true Britons that will never 
 be persuaded to see him but through a grate. 
 It has been remarked by the severer judges 
 that the salutary sorrow of tragic scenes is 
 too soon effaced by the merriment of the epi- 
 logue ; the same inconvenience arises from 
 the impioper disposition of advertisements. 
 The noblest objects may be so associated as to 
 be made ridiculous. The camel and drome- 
 dary themselves might have lost much of their 
 dignity between "the true flower of mustard 
 and the original Daffy's elixir ; " and I could 
 not but feel some indignation, when I found 
 this illustrious Indian warrior immediately 
 succeeded by "a fresh parcel of Dublin but- 
 ter. " 
 
 The trade of advertising is now so near to 
 perfection, that it is not easy to propose any 
 improvement. But as every art ought to be 
 exercised in due subordination to the public 
 good, I cannot but propose it as a moral 
 question to these masters of the public ear, 
 Whether they do not sometimes play too wan- 
 tonly with our passions, as when the registrar 
 of lottery tickets invites us to his shop by an ac- 
 count of the prizes which he sold last year ; 
 and whether the advertising controvertists do 
 not indulge asperity of language without any 
 adequate provocation ; as in the dispute about 
 straps for razors, now happily subsided, and in 
 the altercation which at present subsists con- 
 cerning eau de luce 1 
 
 In an advertisement it is allowed to every 
 man to speak well of himself, but I know not 
 why he should assume the privilege of censur- 
 ing his neighbour. He may proclaim his own 
 virtue or skill, but ought not to exclude others 
 from the same pretensions. 
 
 Every man that advertises his own excel- 
 lence should write with some consciousness 
 of character which dares to call the attention 
 of the public. He should remember that his 
 name is to stand in the same paper with those 
 of the king of Prussia and the emperor of Ger- 
 many, and endeavour to make himself worthy 
 of such association. 
 
 Some regard is likewise to be paid to pos- 
 terity. There are men of diligence and curio- 
 sity who treasure up the papers of the day 
 merely because others neglect them, and in 
 time they will be scarce. When these col- 
 lections shall be read in another century, how 
 will numberless contradictions be reconciled ; 
 and how shall fame be possibly distributed 
 among the tailors and boddice-makers of the 
 present age ? 
 
 Surely these things deserve consideration. 
 It is enough for me to have hinted my desire 
 that these abuses may be rectified ; but such 
 is the state of nature, that what all have the 
 right of doing, many will attempt without suf- 
 ficient care or due qualifications. 
 
 No. 41.] SATURDAY, JAN. 27, 1759. 
 
 THE following letter relates to an affliction 
 perhaps not necessary to bo imparted to the 
 
 public ; but I could not persuade myself to 
 suppress it, because I think I know the sen- 
 ttments to be sincere, and I feel no disposi- 
 tion to provide for this day any other enter 
 tainnment. 
 
 Jit tu miisquis en's, miseri qui crude poet<& 
 
 Credideria ftetu funera dina tuo, 
 H&cpostrema tibi'iit Jlendi cau.ia, Jluatque 
 
 Lenis inoffenso vitajue morsque gradu. 
 
 MR. IDLER, 
 
 NOTWITHSTANDING the warnings of philoso- 
 phers, and the daily examples of losses and 
 misfortunes which life forces upon our obser- 
 vation, such is the absorption of our thoughts 
 in the business of the present day, such the re- 
 signation of our reason to empty hopes of fu- 
 ture felicity, or such our unwillingness to fore- 
 see what we dread, that every calamity cornea 
 suddenly upon us, and not only presses us as 
 a burden, but crushes as a blow. 
 
 There are evils which happen out of the com- 
 mon course of nature, against which it is no re- 
 proach not to be provided. A flash of light- 
 ning intercepts the traveller in his way. The 
 concussion of an earthquake heaps the ruins 
 of cities upon their inhabitants. But other 
 miseries time brings, though silently, yet vi 
 sibly, forward by its even lapse, which yet ap- 
 proach us unseen, because we turn our eyes 
 away, and seize us unresisted, because we 
 could not arm ourselves against them but by 
 setting them before us. 
 
 That it is vain to shrink from what cannot 
 be avoided, and to hide that from ourselves 
 which must sometime be found, is a truth which 
 we all know, but which all neglect, and per- 
 laps none more than the speculative reasoner, 
 whose thoughts are always from home, whose 
 ye wanders over life, whose fancy dances 
 after meteors of happiness -kindled by itself, 
 and who examines every thing rather than 
 iis own state. 
 
 Nothing is more evident than that the decays 
 of age must terminate in death ; yet there is 
 no man, says Tully, who does not believe that 
 ic may yet live another year; and there is 
 none who does not, upon the same principle, 
 lope another year for his parent or his friend ; 
 >ut the fallacy will be in time detected ; the 
 ast year, the last day, must come. It has come, 
 and is past. The life which made my own lifo 
 )leasant is at an end, and the gates of death 
 are shut upon my prospects. 
 
 The loss of a friend upon whom the heart was 
 ixed, to whom every wish and endeavour 
 ended, is a state of dreary desolation, in 
 which the mind looks abroad impatient of it 
 self, and finds nothing but emptiness and hor- 
 The blameless life, the artless tender- 
 ness, the pious simplicity, the modest resigna- 
 ion, the patient sickness, and the quiet death, 
 are remembered only to add value to the 
 oss, to aggravate regret for what cannot be 
 .mended, to deepen sorrow for what cannot be 
 recalled. 
 
 These are the calamities by which Providence 
 gradually disengages us from the love of life, 
 ^ther evils fortitude may repel, or hop may 
 mitigate j but irreparable privation leav ao
 
 398 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 42 
 
 thing to exercise resolution or flatter expecta- 
 tion. The dead cannot return, and nothing is 
 left us here but languishment and grief. 
 
 Yet such is the course of nature, that who- 
 ever lives long must outlive those whom he 
 loves and honours. Such is the condition of 
 our present existence, that life must one time 
 lose it, associations, and every inhabitant of 
 the earth must walk downward to the grave 
 alone and unregarded, without any partner of 
 his joy or grief, without any interested witness 
 of his misfortunes or success. 
 
 Misfortune, indeed, he may yet feel; for 
 where is the bottom of the misery of man ? But 
 what is success to him that has none to enjoy 
 it ? Happiness is not found in self-contempla- 
 tion : it is perceived only when it is reflected 
 from another. 
 
 We know little of the state of departed souls, 
 because such knowledge is not necessary to a 
 good life. Reason deserts us at the brink of 
 the grave, and can give no farther intelligence. 
 Revelation is not wholly silent. " There is 
 joy in the angels of Heaven over one sinner 
 that repenteth:" and surely this joy is not in- 
 communicable to souls disentangled from the 
 body, and made like angels. 
 
 Let hope therefore dictate, what revelation 
 does not confute, that the union of souls may 
 still remain ; and that we who are struggling 
 with sin, sorrow, and infirmities, may have our 
 part in the attention and kindness of those who 
 have finished their course, and are now receiv- 
 ing their reward. 
 
 These are the great occasions which force the 
 mind to take refuge in religion ; when we have 
 no help in ourselves, what can remain but that 
 we look up to a higher and a greater Power ? 
 and to what hope may we not raise our eyes and 
 hearts when we consider that the greatest pow- 
 er is the best ? 
 
 Surely there is no man who, thus afflicted, 
 does not seek succour in the gospel, which has 
 brought life and immortality to light. The pre- 
 cepts of Epicurus, who teaches us to endure 
 what the laws of the universe make necessary, 
 may silence, but not content us. The dictates 
 of Zeno, who commands us to look with in- 
 difference on external things, may dispose us to 
 conceal our sorrow, but cannot assuage it. 
 Real alleviation of the loss of friends, and ra- 
 tional tranquillity in the prospect of our own 
 dissolution, can be received only from the 
 promises of Him in whose hands are life and 
 death, and from the assurance of another and 
 better state, in which all tears will be wiped 
 from the eyes, and the whole soul shall be 
 filled with joy. Philosophy may infuse stub- 
 bornness, but religion only can give patience. 
 I am, &c. 
 
 No. 42.] SATURDAY, FEB. 3, 1759. 
 
 THE subject of the following letter is not 
 wholly unmentioned by the Rambler. The 
 Spectator has also a letter containing a case 
 not much different. I hope my correspon- 
 dent's performance is more an effort of genius, 
 than effusion of the passions ; and that she 
 
 hath rather attempted to paint some possible 
 distress than really feels the evils she has de- 
 scribed. 
 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 There is a cause of misery, which, though cer- 
 tainly known both to you and your predecessors 
 has been but little taken notice of in your pa- 
 pers ; I mean the snares that the bad behaviour 
 of parents extends over the paths of life which 
 their children are to tread after them ; and as I 
 make no doubt but the Idler holds the shield 
 for virtue as well as the glass for folly, that he 
 will employ his leisure hours as much to his 
 own satisfaction, in warning his readers 
 against a danger, as in laughing them out of 
 a fashion : for this reason to ask admittance 
 for my story in your paper, though it has no- 
 thing to recommend it but truth, and the 
 honest wish of warning others to shun the 
 track which I am afraid may lead me at last to 
 ruin. 
 
 I am the child of a father, who, having 
 always lived in one spot in the country where 
 he was born, and having had no genteel edu- 
 cation himself, thought no qualification in the 
 world desirable but as they led up to fortune, 
 and no learning necessary to happiness but such 
 as might most effectually teach me to make the 
 best market of myself: I was unfortunately 
 born a beauty, to a full sense of which my fa- 
 ther took care to flatter me ; and having, when 
 very young, put me to school in the country, 
 afterwards transplanted me to another in town, 
 at the instigation of his friends, where his ill- 
 judged fondness let me remain no longer than 
 to learn just enough experience to convince me 
 of the sordidness of his views, to give me an 
 idea of perfections which my present situation 
 will never suffer me to reach, and to teach me 
 sufficient morals to dare to despise what is bad, 
 though it be in a father. 
 
 Thus equipped (as he thought completely) for 
 life, I was carried back into the county, and 
 lived with him and my mother in a small vil 
 lage, within a few miles of the county-town , 
 where I mixed, at first with reluctance, among 
 company which, though I never despised, I 
 could not approve, as they were brought up 
 with other inclinations and narrowerviews than 
 my own. My father took great pains to show 
 me every where, both at his own house, and 
 at such public diversions as the country afford- 
 ed : he frequently told the people all he had 
 was for his daughter ; took care to repeat the 
 civilities I had recived from all his friends in 
 London ; told how much I was admired, all 
 his little ambition could suggest to set me in 
 a stronger light 
 
 Thus have I continued tricked out for sale, as 
 I may call it, and doomed, by parental authori- 
 ty, to a state little better than that of prostitu- 
 tion. I look on myself as growing cheaper every 
 hour, and am losing all that honest pride, that 
 modest confidence, in which the virgin dignity 
 consists. Nor does my misfortune stop here 
 though many would be too generous to impute 
 the follies of a father to a child whoso heart has
 
 No. 43.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 397 
 
 set her above them ; yet I am afraid the most 
 charitable of them will hardly think it possible 
 for me to be daily spectatress of his vices with- 
 out tacitly allowing them, and at last consent- 
 ing to them, as the eye of the frighted infant 
 is, by degrees reconciled to the darkness of 
 which at first it was afraid. It is a common 
 opinion, he himself must very well know, that 
 vices, like diseases, are often hereditary ; and 
 that the property of the one is to infect the 
 manners, as the other poisons the springs of 
 life. 
 
 Yet this though bad, is not the worst ; my 
 father deceives himself the hopes of the very 
 child he has brought into the world ; he suffers 
 his house to be the seat of drunkenness, riot, 
 and irreligion : who seduces, almost in my 
 sight, the menial servant, converses with the 
 prostitute, and corrupts the wife ! Thus I, who 
 from my earliest dawn of reason was taught to 
 think that at my approach every eye sparkled 
 with pleasure, or was dejected as conscious of 
 superior charms, am excluded from society, 
 through fear lest I should partake, if not of 
 my father's crimes, at least of his reproach. 
 Is a parent, who is so little solicitous for the 
 welfare of a child, better than a pirate who 
 turns a wretch adrift in a boat at sea, without 
 a star to steer by, or an anchor to hold it fast ? 
 Am I not to lay all my miseries at those doors 
 which ought to have opened only for my protec- 
 tion ? And if doomed to add at last one more 
 to the number of those wretches whom neither 
 the world nor its law befriends, may I not 
 justly say that I have been awed by a parent 
 into ruin ? But though a parent's power is 
 screened from insult and violation by the very 
 words of Heaven, yet surely no laws, divine 
 or human, forbid me to remove myself from 
 the malignant shade of a plant that poisons all 
 around it, blasts the bloom of youth, checks its 
 improvements, and makes all its flowerets fade; 
 but to whom can the wretched, can the depen- 
 dent fly ? For me to fly a father's house, is to 
 be a beggar ; I have only one comforter amidst 
 my anxieties, a pious relation, who bids me 
 appeal to Heaven for a witness of my just in- 
 tentions, fly as a deserted wretch to its protec- 
 tion ; and being asked who my father is, point, 
 like the ancient philosopher, with my finger to 
 the heavens. 
 
 The hope in which I write this, is, that you 
 will give it a place in your paper ; and as your 
 essays sometimes find their way into the coun- 
 try, that my father may read my story there ; 
 and, if not for his own sake yet for mine, spare 
 to perpetuate that worst of calamities to me, 
 the loss of character, from which all his dis- 
 simulation has not been able to rescue himself. 
 Tell the world, Sir, that it is possible for virtue 
 to keep its throne unshaken without any other 
 guard than itself; that it is possible to maintain 
 that purity of thought so necessary to the com- 
 pletion of human excellence even in the midst 
 of temptations ; when they have no friend 
 within, nor are assisted by the voluntary indul- 
 gence of vicious thoughts. 
 
 If the insertion of a story like this does not 
 break in on the plan of your paper, you have it 
 
 in your power to be a better friend than her 
 father to 
 
 PERDITA. 
 
 No. 43.] SATURDAY, FEB. 10, 1759. 
 
 THE natural advantages which arise from the 
 position of the earth which we inhabit, with 
 respect to the other planets, afford much em- 
 ployment to mathematical speculation, by 
 which it has been discovered, that no other 
 conformation of the system could have given 
 such commodious distributions of light and 
 heat, or imparted fertility and pleasure to so 
 great a part of a revolving sphere. 
 
 It may be, perhaps, observed by the moralist, 
 with equal reason, that our globe seems particu- 
 larly fitted for the residence of a being, placed 
 here only for a short time, whose task is, to ad- 
 vance himself- to a higher and happier state of 
 existence, by unremitted vigilance of caution, 
 and activity of virtue. 
 
 The duties required of a man are such as hu- 
 man nature does not willingly perform, and 
 such as those are inclined to delay who yet in- 
 tend some time to fufil them. It was there- 
 fore necessary that this universal reluctance 
 should be conteracted, and the drowsiness of 
 hesitation wakened into resolve ; that the dan- 
 ger of procrastination should be always in 
 view, and the fallacies of security be hourly 
 detected. 
 
 To this end all the appearances of nature uni- 
 formly conspire. Whatever we see on every 
 side reminds us of the lapse of time and the flux 
 of life. The day and night succeed each other, 
 the rotation of seasons diversifies the year, the 
 sun rises, attains the meridian, declines and 
 sets ; and the moon every night changes its 
 form. 
 
 The day has been considered as an image of 
 the year and the year as the representation of 
 life. The morning answers to the spring, and 
 the spring to childhood and youth ; the noon 
 corresponds to the summer, and the summer to 
 the strength of manhood. The evening is an 
 emblem of autumn, and autumn of declining life. 
 The night with its silence and darkness shows 
 the winter, in which all the powers of vegeta- 
 tion are benumbed ; and the winter points out 
 the time when life shall cease, with its hopes 
 and pleasures. 
 
 He that is carried forward, however swiftly, 
 by a motion equable and easy, perceives not the 
 change of place but by the variation of ob- 
 jects. If the wheel of life, which rolls thus 
 silently along, passed on through undistinguish- 
 able uniformity, we should never mark its ap- 
 proaches to the end of the course. If one hour 
 were like another ; if the passage of the sun did 
 not show that the day is wasting ; if the change 
 of seasons did not impress upon us the flight of 
 the year; quantities of duration equal to days 
 and years would glide unobserved. If the parts 
 of time were not variously coloured, we should 
 never discern their departure or succession, but 
 should live thoughtless of the past, and careless 
 of the future, without will, and perhaps with- 
 out power, to compute the periods of life, or to
 
 398 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 44. 
 
 compare the time which is already lost with 
 thut which may probably remain. 
 
 But the course of time is so visibly marked, 
 that it is observed even by the birds of passage, 
 and by nations who have raised their minds 
 very little above animal instinct ; there are hu- 
 man beings whose language does not supply 
 them with words by which they can number 
 five, but I have read of none that have not 
 names for day and night, for summer and 
 winter. 
 
 Yet it is certain that these admonitions of na- 
 ture, however forcible, however importunate, 
 are too often vain ; and that many who mark 
 with such accuracy the course of time, appear 
 to have little sensibility of the decline of life. 
 Every man has something to do which he ne- 
 
 flects ; every man has faults to conquer which 
 e delays to combat 
 
 So little do we accustom ourselves to consider 
 the effects of time, that things necessary and 
 certain often surprise us like unexpected con- 
 tingencies. We leave the beauty in her bloom, 
 and, after an absence of twenty years, wonder, 
 at our return, to find her faded. We meet 
 those whom we left children, and can scarcely 
 persuade ourselves to treat them as men. The 
 traveller visits in age those countries through 
 which he rambled in his youth, and hopes for 
 merriment at the old place. The man of busi- 
 ness wearied with unsatisfactory prosperity, 
 retires to the town of his nativity, and expects 
 to play away the last years with the compan- 
 ions of his childhood, and recover youth in the 
 fields where he once was young. 
 
 From this inattention, so general and so mis- 
 chievous, let it be every man's study to exempt 
 himself. Let him that desires to see others 
 happy, make haste to give while his gift can be 
 enjoyed, and remember that every moment of 
 delay takes away something from the value of 
 his benefaction. And let him, who purposes 
 his own happiness, reflect, that while he forms 
 his purpose the day rolls on, and " the night 
 cometh when no man can work!" 
 
 No. 44.] SATURDAY, FEB. 17, 1759. 
 
 MEMORY is, among the faculties of the human 
 mind, that of which we make the most frequent 
 use, or rather that of which the agency is in- 
 cessant or perpetual. Memory is the primary 
 and fundamental power, without which there 
 could be no other intellectual operation. Judg- 
 ment and ratiocination suppose something al- 
 ready known, and draw their decisions only 
 from experience. Imagination selects ideas 
 from the treasures of remembrance, and pro- 
 duces novelty only by varied combinations. 
 We do not even form conjectures of distant, or 
 anticipations, of future events, but by conclud- 
 ing what is possible from what is past. 
 
 The two offices of memory are collection and 
 distribution ; by one images are accumulated, 
 and by the other produced for use. Collection 
 is always the employment of our first years ; 
 and distribution commonly that of our advanc- 
 ed age. 
 
 To collect and reposit the various forms of 
 
 things, is far the most pleasing part of mental 
 occupation. We are naturally delighted with 
 novelty, and there is a time when all that we 
 see is new. When first we enter into the world, 
 whithersoever we turn our eyes, they meet 
 Knowledge with Pleasure at her side ; every 
 diversity of nature pours ideas in upon the soul; 
 neither search nor labour are necessary ; we 
 have nothing more to do than to open our eyes, 
 and curiosity is gratified. 
 
 Much of the pleasure which the first survey 
 of the world affords, is exhausted before we are 
 conscious of our own felicity, or able to compare 
 our condition with some other possible state. 
 We have therefore few traces of the joy of our 
 earliest discoveries ; yet we all remember a time 
 when nature had so many untasted gratifica- 
 tions, that every excursion gave delight which 
 can now be found no longer, when the noise of 
 a torrent, the rustle of a wood, the song of birds, 
 or the play of lambs, had power to fill the at- 
 tention, and suspend all perception of the course 
 of time. 
 
 But these easy pleasures are soon at end ; we 
 have seen in a very little time so much, that we 
 call out for new objects of observation, and en 
 deavour to find variety in books and life. But 
 study is laborious, and not always satisfactory ; 
 and conversation has its pains as well as plea- 
 sures ; we are willing to learn but not will- 
 ing to be taught ; we are pained by ignorance, 
 but pained yet more by another's knowledge. 
 
 From the vexation of pupilage men common 
 ly set themselves free about the middle of life, 
 by shutting up the avenues of intelligence, and 
 resolving to rest in their present state ; and 
 they, whose ardour of inquiry continues longer, 
 find themselves insensibly forsaken by their in- 
 structors. As every man advances in life, the 
 proportion between those that are younger and 
 that are older than himself, is continually 
 changing ; and he that has lived half a century 
 finds few that do not require from him that in- 
 formation which he once expected from those 
 that went before him. 
 
 Then it is that the magazines of memory are 
 opened, and the stores of accumulated know- 
 ledge are displayed by vanity or benevolence, 
 or in honest commerce of mutual interest. 
 Every man wants others, and is therefore glad 
 when he is wanted by them. And as few men 
 will endure the labour of intense meditation 
 without necessity, he that has learned enough 
 for his profit or his honour, seldom endeavours 
 after further acquisitions. 
 
 The pleasure of recollecting speculative no- 
 tions would not be much less than that of gain- 
 ing them, if they could be kept pure and 
 unmingled with the passages of life ; but such 
 is the necessary concatention of our thoughts, 
 that good and evil are linked together, aifd no 
 pleasure recurs but associated with pain. Every 
 revived idea reminds us of a time, vhen some- 
 thing was enjoyed that is now lo.t, when some 
 hope was yet not blasted, when some purpose 
 had yet not languished into sluggishness or in- 
 difference. 
 
 Whether it be that life has more vexations 
 than comforts, or, what is in the event just the 
 same, that evil makes deeper impression than
 
 No. 45.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 399 
 
 good, it is certain that no man can review the 
 time past without heaviness of heart. He re- 
 members many calamities incurred by folly, 
 many oppotunities lost by negligence. The 
 shades of the dead rise up before him ; and he 
 laments the companions of his youth, the part- 
 ners of his amusements, the assistants of his 
 labours, whom the hand of death has snatched 
 away. 
 
 When an offer was made to Themistocles of 
 teaching him the art of memory, he answered, 
 that he would rather wish for the art of forget- 
 fulness. He felt his imagination haunted by 
 phantoms of misery which he was unable to 
 suppress, and would gladly have calmed his 
 thoughts with some oblivious antidote. In 
 this we all resemble one another : the hero 
 and the sage are like vulgar mortals, overbur- 
 dened by the weight of fife ; all shrink from 
 recollection, and all wish for an art of forget- 
 fulness. 
 
 No. 45.] SATURDAY, FEB. 24, 1758. 
 
 THERE is in many minds a kind of vanity ex- 
 erted to the disadvantage of themselves ; a de- 
 sire to be praised for superior acuteness disco- 
 vered only in the degradation of their species, 
 or censure of their country. 
 
 Defamation is sufficiently copious. The gen- 
 eral lampooner of mankind my find long exer- 
 cise for his zeal or wit, in the defects of nature, 
 ihe vexations of life, the follies of opinion, and 
 the corruptions of practice. But fiction is easi- 
 er than discernment ; and most of these writers 
 spare themselves the labour of inquiry, and ex- 
 haust their virulence upon imaginary crimes, 
 which, as they never existed can never be 
 mended. 
 
 That the painters find no encouragement 
 among the English for many other works than 
 portraits, has been imputed to national selfish- 
 ness. 'Tis vain, says the satirist, to set before 
 any Englishman the scenes of landscapes, or the 
 heroes of history ; nature and antiquity are 
 nothing in his eye ; he has no value but for 
 himself, nor desires any copy but of his own 
 form. 
 
 Whoever is delighted with his own picture 
 must derive his pleasure from the pleasure of 
 another. Every man is always present to him- 
 self, and has, therefore, little need of his own 
 resemblance, nor can desire it, but for the sake 
 of those whom he loves, and by whom he 
 hopes to be remembered. This use of the art is 
 a natural and reasonable consequence of affec- 
 tion ; and though, like other human actions, it 
 is often complicated with pride, yet even such 
 pride is more laudable than that, by which pa- 
 laces are covered with pictures, that, however 
 excellent, neither imply the owner's virtue nor 
 excite it. 
 
 Genius is chiefly exerted in historical pic- 
 tures ; and the art of the painter of portraits is 
 often lost in the obscurity of his subject. But 
 it is in painting as in life, what is greatest is 
 not always best. I should grieve to see Rey- 
 nolds transfer to heroes and to goddesses, to 
 
 empty splendour and to airy fiction, that art 
 which is now employed in diffusing friendship, 
 in reviving tenderness, in quickening the affec- 
 tions of the absent, and continuing the presence 
 of the dead. 
 
 Yet in a nation, great and opulent, there is 
 room, and ought to be patronage, for an art like 
 that of painting through all its diversities ; and 
 it is to be wished, that the reward now offered 
 for an historical picture may excite an honest 
 emulation, and give beginning to an English 
 school. 
 
 It is not very easy to find an action or event 
 that can be efficaciously represented by a 
 painter. 
 
 He must have an action not successive, but 
 instantaneous ; for the time of a picture is a 
 single moment. For this reason the death of 
 Hercules cannot well be painted, though at the 
 first view it flatters the imagination with very 
 glittering ideas ; the gloomy mountain over- 
 hanging the sea, and covered with trees, some 
 bending to the wind, and some torn from the 
 root by the raging hero ; the violence with which 
 he sends from his shoulders the envenomed gar- 
 ment ; the propriety with which his muscular 
 nakedness may be displayed : the death of 
 Lycas whirled from the promontory; the gigan- 
 tic presence of Philoctetes ; the blaze of the 
 fatal pile, which the deities behold with gri^f 
 and terror from the sky. 
 
 All these images fill the mind, but will not 
 compose a picture, because they cannot be 
 united in a single moment. Hercules must 
 have rent his flesh at one time, and tossed 
 Lycas into the air at another ; he must first 
 tear up the trees, and then lie down upon the 
 pile. 
 
 The action must be circumstantial and dis- 
 tinct There is a passage in the Iliad which 
 cannot be read without strong emotions. A 
 Trojan prince, seized by Achilles in the battle, 
 falls at his feet, and in moving terms supplicates 
 for life. " How can a wretch like thee," says 
 the haughty Greek, " intreat to live when thou 
 knowest that the time must come when Achilles 
 is to die ?" This cannot be painted, because no 
 peculiarity of attitude or disposition can so sup- 
 ply the place of language as to impiess the 
 sentiment. 
 
 The event painted must be such as excites 
 passions, and different passions in the several 
 actors or a tumult of contending passion in 
 the chief. 
 
 Perhaps the discovery of Ulysses by his nurse 
 is of this kind. The surprise of the nurse 
 mingled with joy ; that of Ulysses checked by 
 prudence, and clouded by solicitude ; and the 
 distinctness of the action by which the scar is 
 found ; all concur to complete the subject. But 
 the picture, having only two figures, will want 
 variety. 
 
 A much nobler assemblage may be furnished 
 by the death of Epaminondas. The mixture of 
 gladness and grief in the face of the messenger 
 who brings his dying general an account of 
 the victory ; the various passions of the atten- 
 dants ; the sublimity of composure in the he- 
 ro, while the dart is by his own command 
 drawn from his side, and the faint gleam of
 
 400 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 46. 
 
 atisfaction that dift'uses itself over the languor 
 of death, are worthy of that pencil which yet 
 I do not wish to see employed upon them. 
 
 If the design vvere not too multifarious and 
 extensive, I should wish that our painters 
 would attempt the dissolution of the parlia- 
 ment by Cromwell. The point of time may 
 be chosen when Cromwell looked round the 
 Pandaemonium with contempt, ordered the 
 bauble to be taken away ; and Harrison laid 
 hands on the speaker to drag him from the 
 chair. 
 
 The various appearances which rage, and ter- 
 ror, and astonishment, and guilt, might exhibit 
 in the faces of that hateful assembly, of whom 
 the principal persons may be faithfully drawn 
 from portraits or prints ; the irresolute repug- 
 nance of some, the hypocritical submission of 
 others, the ferocious insolence of Cromwell, the 
 rugged brutality of Harrison, and the general 
 trepidation of fear and wickedness, would, if 
 some proper disposition could be contrived, 
 make a picture of unexampled variety, and ir- 
 resistible instruction. 
 
 No. 46.] SATURDAY, MARCH 3, 1759. 
 
 MR. IDLER, 
 
 I AM encouraged, by the notice you have taken 
 of Betty Broom, to represent the miseries which 
 I suffer from a species of tyranny which, I be- 
 lieve, is not very uncommon, though perhaps it 
 may have escaped the observation of those who 
 converse little with fine ladies, or see them 
 only in their public characters. 
 
 To this method of venting my vexation I 
 am the more inclined, because if I do not com- 
 plain to you, I must burst in silence ; for my 
 mistress has teased me, and teased me till I 
 can hold no longer, and yet I must not tell 
 her of her tricks. The girls that live in com- 
 mon services can quarrel, and give warning, 
 and find other places ; but we that live with 
 great ladies, if we once offend 'them, have 
 nothing left but to return into the country. 
 
 I am waiting maid to a lady who keeps the 
 best company, and is seen at every place of fa- 
 shionable resort. I am envied by all the maids 
 in the square, for few countesses leave off so 
 many clothes as my mistress, and nobody shares 
 with me ; so that I supply two families in the 
 country with finery for the assizes and horse- 
 races, besides what I wear myself. The stew- 
 ard and house-keeper have joined against me to 
 procure my removal, that they may advance a 
 relation of their own ; but their designs are 
 found out by my lady, who says I need not fear 
 them, for she will never have dow dies about 
 her. 
 
 You would think, Mr. Idler, like others, that 
 I am very happy, and may well be contented 
 with my lot. But I will tell you. My lady 
 has an odd humour. She never orders any 
 thing in direct words, for she loves a sharp 
 girl that can take a hint. 
 
 I would not have you suspect that she has 
 any thing to hint which she is ashamed to 
 speak at length ; for none can have greater 
 purity of sentiment, or rectitude of intention. 
 
 She has nothing to hide, yet nothing will she 
 tell. She always gives her directions oblique 
 and allusively, by the mention of something 
 relative or consequential, without any other 
 purpose than to exercise my acuteness and 
 her own. 
 
 It is impossible to give a notion of this style 
 otherwise than by examples. One night, when 
 she had sat writing letters till it was time to be 
 dressed, " Molly," said she, " the ladies are 
 all to be at court to-night in white aprons." 
 When she means that I should send to order 
 the chair, she says, " I think the streets are 
 clean I may venture to walk." When she 
 would have something put into its place, she 
 bids me " lay it on the floor." If she would 
 have me snuff the candles, she asks, " whe- 
 ther I think her eyes are like a cat's ?" If 
 she thinks her chocolate delayed, she talks of 
 the benefit of abstinence. If any needle- 
 work is forgotten, she supposes that I have 
 heard of the lady who died by pricking her 
 finger. 
 
 She always imagines that I can recall every 
 thing past from a single word. If she wants 
 her head from the milliner she only says, 
 " Molly, you know Mrs. Tape." If she would 
 have the mantua-maker sent for, she remarks 
 that "Mr. Taffety, the mercer, was here last 
 week." She ordered, a fortnight ago, that the 
 first time she was abroad all-day I should choose 
 her a new set of coffee-cups at the china-shop ; 
 of this she reminded me yesterday, as she was 
 going down stairs, by saying, " You can't find 
 your way now to Pail-Mall." 
 
 All this would not vex me, if, by increasing 
 my trouble, she spared her own ; but, dear 
 Mr. Idler, is it not as easy to say coffee-cups, 
 as Pall-Mall ? and to tell me in plain words what 
 I am to do, and when it is to be done, as to 
 torment her own head with the labour of find- 
 ing hints, and mine with that of understand- 
 ing them ? 
 
 When first I came to this lady, I had nothing 
 like the learning that I have now ; for she has 
 many books, and I have much time to read ; so 
 that of late I have seldom missed her meaning : 
 but when she first took me I was an ignorant 
 girl ; and she, who, as is very common, con- 
 founded want of knowledge with want of un- 
 derstanding, began once to despair of bringing 
 me to any thing, because, when I came into her 
 chamber at the call of her bell, she asked me, 
 " Whether we lived in Zembla ;" and I did not 
 guess the meaning of inquiry, but modestly 
 answered that I could not tell. She had hap- 
 pened to ring once when I did not hear her, 
 and meant to put me in mind of that country 
 where sounds are said to be congealed by the 
 frost. 
 
 Another time, as I was dressing her head, 
 she began to talk on a sudden of Medusa and 
 snakes, and "men turned into stone, and maids 
 that, if they were not watched, would let their 
 mistresses be Gorgons." I looked round me 
 half frightened, and quite bewildered ; till at 
 last, finding that her literature was thrown 
 away upon me, she bid me, with great vehe- 
 mence, reach the curling-irons. 
 
 It is not without some indignation, Mr. Idler,
 
 No. 47. 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 40 
 
 that I discover, in these artifices of vexation, 
 something worse than foppery or caprice ; a 
 mean delight in superiority, which knows itself 
 in no danger of reproof or opposition ; a cruel 
 pleasure in seeing the perplexity of a mind 
 obliged to find what is studiously concealed, 
 and a mean indulgence of petty malevolence 
 in the sharp censure of involuntary, and very 
 often of inevitable failings. When, beyond 
 her expectation, I hit upon her meaning I 
 can perceive a sudden cloud of disappointment 
 spread over her face ; and have sometimes 
 been afraid lest I should lose her favour by 
 understanding her when she means to puz- 
 zle me. 
 
 This day, however, she has conquered my 
 sagacity. When she went out of her dressing- 
 room she said nothing but " Molly, you know," 
 and hastened to her chariot. What I am to 
 know is yet a secret ; but if I do not know 
 before she comes back, what I have yet no 
 means of discovering, she will make my dul- 
 ness a pretence for a fortnight's ill humour, 
 treat me as a creature devoid of the faculties 
 necessary to the common duties of life, and 
 perhaps give the next gown to the house- 
 keeper. 
 
 I am, Sir, 
 
 Your humble servant, 
 
 MOLLY Q.UICK. 
 
 No 47.] SATURDAY, MARCH 10, 1759. 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 MR. IDLER, 
 
 I AM the unfortunate wife of a city wit, and 
 cannot but think that my case may deserve 
 equal compassion with any of those which have 
 been represented in your paper. 
 
 I married my husband within three months 
 after the expiration of his apprenticeship ; we 
 put our money together, and furnished a large 
 and splendid shop, in which he was for five 
 years and a half diligent and civil. The notice 
 which curiosity or kindness commonly bestows 
 on beginners, was continued by confidence and 
 esteem ; one customer, pleased with his treat- 
 ment and his bargain recommended another ; 
 and we were busy behind the counter from 
 morning to night. 
 
 Thus everyday increased our wealth and our 
 reputation. My husband was often invited to 
 dinner openly on the Exchange by hundred- 
 thousand-pounds men : and whenever I went 
 to any of the halls, the wives of the aldermen 
 made me low courtesies. We always took up 
 our notes before the day, and made all conside- 
 rable payments by drafts upon our banker. 
 
 You will easily believe that I was well 
 enough pleased with my condition ; for what 
 happiness can be greater than that of growing 
 every day richer and richer ? I will not deny 
 that, imagining myself likely to be in a short 
 time the sheriff's lady, 1 broke off my acquain- 
 tance with some of my neighbours ; and advis- 
 ed my husband to keep good company, and 
 not to be seen with men that were worth no- 
 
 3 A 
 
 In time he found that ale disagreed with his 
 constitution, and went every nignt to drink his 
 pint at a tavern, where he met with a set of 
 critics, who disputed upon the merits of the 
 different theatrical performers. By these idle 
 fellows he was taken to the play, which at first 
 he did not seem much to heed ; for he owned, 
 that he very seldom knew what they were do- 
 ing, and that, while his companions would let 
 him alone, he was commonly thinking on his 
 last bargain. 
 
 Having once gone, however, he went again 
 and again, though I often told him that three 
 shillings were thrown away ; at last he grew 
 uneasy if he missed anight, and importuned me 
 to go with him. I went to a tragedy which 
 they called Macbeth ; and, when I came home, 
 told him, that I could not bear to see men and 
 women make themselves such fools, by pretend- 
 ing to be witches and ghosts, generals and 
 kings, and to walk in their sleep when they 
 were as much awake as those that looked at 
 them. He told me that I must get higher 
 notions, and that a play was the most rational 
 of all entertainments, and most proper to re- 
 lax the mind after the business of the day. 
 
 By degrees he gained knowledge of some of 
 the players ; and when the play was over, very 
 frequently treated them with suppers ; for 
 which he was admitted to stand behind the 
 scenes. 
 
 He soon began to lose some of his morning 
 hours in the same folly, and was for one winter 
 very diligent in his attendance on the rehear- 
 sals ; but of this species of idleness he grew 
 weary, and said, that the play was nothing 
 without the company. 
 
 His ardour for the diversion of the evening 
 increased ; he bought a sword, and paid five 
 shillings a night to sit in the boxes ; he went 
 sometimes into a place which he calls the green- 
 room where all the wits of the age assembled ; 
 and, when he had been there, could do nothing 
 for two or three days but repeat their jests, or 
 tell their disputesd 
 
 He has now lost his regard for every thing 
 but the play-house : he invites, three times a 
 week, one or other to drink claret, and talk of 
 the drama. His first care in the morning is to 
 read the play-bills ; and, if he remembers any 
 lines of the tragedy which is to be represented, 
 walks about the shop, repeating them so loud, 
 and with such strange gestures, that the pas- 
 sengers gather round the door. 
 
 His greatest pleasure, when I married him, 
 was to hear the situation of his shop commend- 
 ed, and to be told how many estates have been 
 got in it by the same trade ; but of late he grows 
 peevish at any mention of business, and delights 
 in nothing so much as to be told that he speaks 
 like Mossop. 
 
 Among his new associates he has learned 
 another language, and speaks in such a strain 
 that his neighbours cannot understand him. 
 If a customer talks longer than he is willing 
 to hear, he will complain that he has been 
 excrutiated with unmeaning verbosity ; he 
 laughs at the letters of his friends for their 
 tameness of expression, and often declares
 
 402 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 35. 
 
 to the minutite ol 
 
 himself weary of attendin 
 a shop. 
 
 It is well for me that I know how to keep a 
 book, for of late he is scarcely ever in the way 
 Since one of his friends told him that he had a 
 genius for tragic poetry, he has locked himself 
 in an upper room six or seven hours a day ; and, 
 when I carry him any paper to be read or sign- 
 ed, I hear him talking vehemently to himself, 
 sometimes of love and beauty, sometimes oi 
 friendship and virtue, but more frequently of 
 liberty and his country 
 
 I would gladly, Mr. Idler, be informed what 
 to think of a shopkeeper who is incessantly 
 talking about liberty ; a word which, since his 
 acquaintance with polite life, my husband has 
 always in his mouth ; he is, on all occasions, 
 afraid of our liberty, and declares his resolution 
 to hazard all for liberty. What can the man 
 mean ? I am sure he has liberty enough it 
 were better for him and me if his liberty was 
 lessened. 
 
 He has a friend whom he calls a critic, that 
 comes twice a week to read what he is writing. 
 This critic tells him that his piece is a little ir- 
 regular, but that some detached scenes will 
 shine prodigiously, and that in the character of 
 Bombulus he is wonderfully great. My scrib- 
 bler then squeezes his hand, calls him the best 
 of friends, thanks him for his sincerity, and tells 
 him that he hates to be flattered. I have reason 
 to believe that he seldom parts with his dear 
 friend without lending him two guineas, and 
 am afraid that he gave bail for him three days 
 ago. 
 
 By this course of life our credit as traders is 
 lessened, and I cannot forbear to suspect, that 
 my husband's honour as a wit is not much ad- 
 vanced, for he seem to be always the lowest of 
 the company, and is afraid to tell his opinion 
 till the rest have spoken. When he was behind 
 his counter, he used to be brisk, active, and jo- 
 cular, like a man that knew what he was doing 
 and did not fear to look another in the face ; 
 but among wits and critics he is timorous and 
 awkward, and hangs down his head at his own 
 table. Dear Mr. Idler, persuade him, if you 
 can, to return once more to his native element. 
 Tell him, that his wit will never make him 
 rich, but that there are places where riches will 
 always make a wit. 
 
 I am, Sir, &c. 
 
 DEBORAH GINGER. 
 
 No. 48.] SATURDAY, MARCH 17, 1759. 
 
 THERE is no kind of idleness, by which we are 
 so easily seduced as that which dignifies itself 
 by the appearance of business, and by making 
 the loiterer imagine that he has something to do 
 which must not be neglected, keeps him in per- 
 petual agitation, and hurries him rapidly from 
 place to place. 
 
 He that sits still or reposes himself upon a 
 couch, no more deceives himself than he de- 
 ceives others ; he knows that he is doing no- 
 thing, and has no other solace of his insigni- 
 ficance than the resolution, which the lazy 
 hourly make, of changing his mode of life. 
 
 To do nothing every man is ashamed ; and 
 do much almost every man is unwilling or afraid. 
 Innumerable expedients have therefore been 
 invented to produce motion without labour, and 
 employment without solicitude. The greater 
 part of those whom the kindness of fortune has 
 left to their own direction, and whom want does 
 not keep chained to the counter or the plough, 
 play throughout life with the shadows of busi- 
 ness, and know not at last what they have been 
 doing. 
 
 These imitators of action are of all denomi- 
 nations. Some are seen at every auction with- 
 out intention to purchase ; others appear punc- 
 tually at the Exchange, though they are known 
 there only by their faces. Some are always 
 making parties to visit collections for which 
 they have no taste ; and some neglect every 
 pleasure and every duty to hear questions, in 
 which they have no interest, debated in par- 
 liament. 
 
 These men never appear more ridiculous than 
 in the distress which they imagine themselves 
 to feel, from some accidental interruption of 
 those empty pursuits. A tiger newly imprison- 
 ed is indeed more formidable, but not more an- 
 gry, than Jack Tulip withheld from a florist's 
 feast, or Tom Distich hindered from seeing the 
 first representation of a play. 
 
 As political affairs are the highest and most 
 extensive of temporal concerns ; the mimic of a 
 politician is more busy and important than any 
 other trifler. Monsieur le Noir, a man who, 
 without property or importance in any corner 
 of the earth, has, in the present confusion of 
 the world, declared himself a steady adherent 
 to the French, is made miserable by a wind 
 that keeps back the packet boat, and still more 
 miserable by every account of a Malouin pri- 
 vateer caught in his cruise ; he knows well 
 that nothing can be done or said by him which 
 can produce any effect but that of laughter, 
 that he can neither hasten or retard good or 
 evil, that his joys and sorrows have scarcely 
 any partakers ; yet such is his zeal, and such 
 his curiosity, that he would run barefooted to 
 Gravesend, for the sake of knowing first that 
 the English had lost a tender, and would ride 
 out to meet every mail from the continent if he 
 might be permitted to open it. 
 
 Learning is generally confessed to be desi- 
 rable, and there are some who fancy themselves 
 always busy in acquiring it. Of these ambu- 
 latory students, one of the most busy is my 
 friend Tom Restless. 
 
 Tom has long had a mind to be a man of 
 knowledge, but he does not care to spend much 
 time among authors ; for he is of opinion that 
 few books deserve the labour of perusal, that 
 they give the mind an unfashionable cast, and 
 destroy that freedom of thought and easiness of 
 manners indispensably requisite to acceptance 
 in the world. Tom has therefore found ano- 
 ther way to wisdom. When he rises he goes 
 into a coffee-house, where he Creeps so near to 
 men whom he takes to be reasoners as to hear 
 their discourse, and endeavours to remember 
 something which, when it has been strained 
 through Tom's head, is so near nothing, that 
 what it once was cannot be discovered. This
 
 No. 49.1 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 403 
 
 he carries round from friend to friend through 
 a circle of visits, till, hearing what each says 
 upon the question, he becomes able at dinner 
 to say a little himself; and, as every great ge- 
 nius relaxes himself among his inferiors, meets 
 with some who wonder how so young a man 
 can talk so wisely. 
 
 At night he has a new feast prepared for his 
 intellects; he always runs to a disputing socie- 
 ty, or a speaking club, where he half hears 
 what, if he had heard the whole, he would but 
 half understand ; goes home pleased with the 
 consciousness of a day well spent, lies down 
 lull of ideas, and rises in the morning empty 
 as before. 
 
 No. 49.] SATURDAY, MARCH 24, 1759. 
 
 I SUPPED three nights ago with my friend Will 
 Marvel. His affairs obliged him lately to take 
 a journey into Devonshire, from which he has 
 just returned. He knows me to be a very pa- 
 tient hearer, and was glad of my company, as 
 it gave him an opportunity of disburdening 
 himself by a minute relation of the casualties 
 of his expedition. 
 
 Will is not one of those who go out and re- 
 turn with nothing to tell. He has a story of 
 his travels, which will strike a home-bred citi- 
 zen with horror, and has in ten days suffered so 
 often the extremes of terror and joy, that he is 
 in doubt whether he shall ever again expose 
 either his body or mind to such danger and fa- 
 tigue. 
 
 When he left London the morning was bright 
 and a fair day was promised. But Will is born 
 to struggle with difficulties. That happened to 
 him, which has sometimes, perhaps, happened 
 to others. Before he had gone more than ten 
 ten miles it began to rain. What course was 
 to be taken ? His soul disdained to turn back. 
 He did what the king of Prussia might have 
 done ; he flapped his hat, buttoned up his cape, 
 and went forwards, fortifying his mind by the 
 stoical consolation, that whatever is violent 
 will be short. 
 
 His constancy was not long tried ; at the 
 distance of about half a mile he saw an inn, 
 which he entered wet and weary, and found 
 civil treatment and proper refreshment. After 
 a respite of about two hours, he looked abroad, 
 and seeing the sky clear, called for his horse, 
 and passed the first stage without any other 
 memorable accident. 
 
 Will considered, that labour must be relieved 
 by pleasure, and that the strength which great 
 undertakings require must be maintained by 
 copious nutriment ; he therefore ordered him- 
 self an elegant supper, drank two bottles of 
 claret, and passed the beginning of the night 
 in sound sleep ; but, waking before light, was 
 forewarned of the troubles of the next day, by 
 a shower beating against his windows with 
 such violence as to threaten the dissolution of 
 nature. When he arose, he found what he ex- 
 pected, that the country was under water. He 
 joined himself, however, to a company that 
 was travelling the same way, and came safely 
 
 to the place of dinner, though every step of his 
 horse dashed the mud into the air. 
 
 In the afternoon, having parted from his com- 
 pany, he set forward alone, and passed many 
 collections of water, of which it was impos- 
 sible to guess the depth, and which he now 
 cannot review without some censure of hia 
 own rashness ; but what a man undertakes he 
 must perform, and Marvel hates a coward at 
 his heart. 
 
 Few that lie warm in their beds think what 
 others undergo, who have perhaps been as 
 tenderly educated, and have as acute sensa- 
 tions as themselves. My friend was now to 
 lodge the second night almost fifty miles from 
 home, in a house which he never had seen 
 before, among people to whom he was totally 
 a stranger, not knowing whether the next man 
 he should meet would prove good or bad ; but 
 seeing an inn of a good appearance, he rode 
 resolutely into the yard ; and knowing that re 
 spect is often paid in proportion as it is claimed, 
 delivered his injunctions to the hostler with 
 spirit, and entering the house called vigorously 
 about him. 
 
 On the third day up rose the sun and Mr. 
 Marvel. His troubles and his dangers were 
 now such as he wishes no other man ever to 
 encounter. The ways were less frequented, 
 and the country more thinly inhabited. He 
 rode many a lonely hour through mire and 
 water, and met not a single soul for two miles 
 together with whom he could exchange a 
 word. He cannot deny that, looking round 
 upon the dreary region, and seeing nothing 
 but bleak fields and naked trees, hills obscured 
 by fogs, and flats covered with inundations, 
 lie did for some time suffer melancholy to pre- 
 vail upon him, and wished himself again safe 
 at home. One comfort he had, which was to 
 consider that none of his friends were in the 
 same distress, for whom, if they had been with 
 him, he should have suffered more than for 
 himself ; he could not forbear sometimes to 
 onsider how happy the Idler is, settled in an 
 easier condition, who, surrounded like him 
 with terrors, could have done nothing but lie 
 down and die. 
 
 Admist these reflections he came to a town, 
 and found a dinner which disposed him to more 
 cheerful sentiments : but the joys of life are 
 short, and its miseries are long j he mounted 
 and travelled fiften miles more through dirt and 
 desolation. 
 
 At last the sun set, and all the horrors of 
 darkness came upon him. He then repented 
 :he weak indulgence in which he had gratified 
 limself at noon with too long an interval of 
 rest : yet he went forward along a path which 
 lie could no longer see, sometimes rushing 
 suddenly into water, and sometimes incum- 
 bered with stiff clay, ignorant whither he was 
 ^oing, and uncertain whether his next step 
 might not be the last. 
 
 In this dismal gloom of nocturnal peregrina- 
 tion his horse unexpectedly stood still. Mar 
 vel had heard many relations of the instinct of 
 horses, and was in doubt what danger might 
 be at hand. Sometimes he fancied that he 
 was on the bank of a river, still and deep, and
 
 *x\)^ 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 50. 
 
 sometimes that a dead body lay across th 
 track. He sat still awhile to recollect hi 
 thoughts ; and as he was about to alight an 
 explore the darkness, out stepped a man wit 
 a lantern, and opened the turnpike. He hirei 
 a guide to the town, arrived in safety, and slep 
 in quiet. 
 
 The rest of his journey was nothing but dan 
 ger. He climbed and descended precipices 01 
 which vulgar mortals tremble to look ; he 
 passed marshes like the "Serbonian bog 
 where armies whole have sunk ; " he fordec 
 rivers where the current roared like the Egre 
 or the Severn ; or ventured himself on bridges 
 that trembled under him, from which he lookec 
 down on foaming whirlpools, or dreadfu 
 abysses : he wandered over houseless heaths 
 amidst all the rage of the elements, with thi 
 snow driving in his face, and the tempest howl 
 ing in his ears. 
 
 Such are the colours in which Marvel paints 
 his adventures. He has accustomed himsel 
 to sounding words and hyperbolical images 
 till he has lost the power of true description 
 In a road through which the heaviest carnages 
 pass without difficulty, and the post-boy every 
 day and night goes and returns, he meets with 
 hardships like those which are endured in Sibe- 
 rian deserts, and misses nothing of romantic 
 danger but a giant and a dragon. When hi 
 dreadful story is told in proper terms, it is only 
 that the way was dirty in winter, and that he 
 experienced the common vicissitudes of rain 
 and sun-shine. 
 
 No. 50.] SATURDAY, MARCH 31, 1759. 
 
 THE character of Mr. Marvel has raised the mer- 
 riment of some and the contempt of others, who 
 do not sufficiently consider how often they hear 
 and practise the same arts of exaggerated nar- 
 ration. 
 
 There is not, perhaps, among the multitudes 
 of all conditions that swarm upon the earth, a 
 single man who does not believe that he has 
 something extraordinary to relate of himself; 
 and who does not, at one time or other, sum- 
 mon the attention of his friends to the casual- 
 ties of his adventures, and the vicissitudes of 
 his fortune ; casualties and vicissitudes that 
 happen alike in lives uniform and diversified ; 
 to the commander of armies, and the writer at 
 a desk, to the sailor who resigns himself to the 
 wind and water, and the farmer whose longest 
 journey is to the market. 
 
 In the present state of the world men may 
 pass through Shakspeare's seven stages of life, 
 and meet nothing singular and wonderful. 
 But such is every man's attention to himself, 
 that what is common and unheeded when it is 
 only seen, becomes remarkable and peculiar 
 when we happen to feel it. 
 
 It is well enough known to be according to 
 the usual process of nature that men should 
 sicken and recover, that some designs should 
 succeed and others miscarry, that friends 
 should be separated, and meet again, that some 
 should be made angry by endeavours to please 
 them, and some be pleased when no care has 
 
 been used to gain their approbation ; that men 
 and women should at first come together by 
 chance, like each other so well as to commence 
 acquaintance, improve acquaintance into fond- 
 ness, increase or extinguish fondness by mar- 
 riage, and have children of different degrees 
 of intellects and virtue, some of whom die be- 
 fore their parents, and others survive them. 
 
 Yet let any tell his own story, and nothing 
 of all this has ever befallen him according to 
 the common order of things ; something has 
 always discriminated his case ; some unusual 
 concurrence of events has appeared which made 
 him more happy or more miserable than other 
 mortals ; for in pleasures or calamities, how- 
 ever common, every one has comforts and afflic- 
 tions of his own. 
 
 It is certain that without some artificial aug- 
 mentations, many of the pleasures of life, and 
 almost all its embellishments, would fall to the 
 ground. If no man was to express more delight 
 than he felt, those who felt most would raise 
 little envy. If travellers were to describe the 
 most laboured performances of art with the 
 same coldness as the survey them, all expec- 
 tations of happiness from change of place 
 would cease. The pictures of Raphael would 
 hang without spectators, and the gardens of 
 Versailles might be inhabited by hermits. All 
 the pleasure that is received ends in an oppor- 
 tunity of splendid falsehood, in the power of 
 gaining notice by the display of beauties which 
 the eye was weary of beholding, and a history 
 of happy moments, of which in reality the 
 most happy was the last. 
 
 The ambition of superior sensibility and su- 
 perior eloquence disposes the lovers of arts to 
 receive rapture at one*time, and communicate 
 it at another ; and each labours first to im- 
 pose upen himself, and then to propagate the 
 mposture. 
 
 Pain is less subject than pleasure to caprices 
 
 of expression. The torments of disease, and 
 
 ;he grief for irremediable misfortunes, some- 
 
 imes, are such as no words can declare, and 
 
 can only be signified by groans, or sobs, or 
 
 narticulate ejaculations. Man has from nature 
 
 a mode of utterance peculiar to pain, but he 
 
 as none peculiar to pleasure, because he never 
 
 las pleasure, but in such degrees as the ordi- 
 
 ary use of language may equal or surpass. 
 
 It is nevertheless certain, that many pains 
 as well as pleasures are heightened by rhetorical 
 affectation, and that the picture is, for the most 
 art, bigger than the life. 
 
 When we describe our sensations of an- 
 >ther's sorrow either in friendly or ceremonious 
 ondolence, the customs of the world scarcely 
 admit of rigid veracity. Perhaps the fondest 
 riendship would enrage oftener than comfort, 
 .vere the tongue on such occasions faithfully 
 o represent the sentiments of the heart ; and 
 
 think the strictest moralists allow forms of 
 ddress to be used without much regard to 
 tieir literal acceptation, when either respect 
 r tenderness requires them, because they are 
 miversally know to denote not the degree but 
 ic species of our sentiments. 
 
 But the same indulgence cannot be allowed 
 o him who aggravates dangers incurred or
 
 No. 51.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 405 
 
 sorrow endured by himself, because he darkens 
 the prospect of futurity, and multiplies the 
 pains of our condition by useless terror. Those 
 who magnify their delights are less criminal 
 deceivers, yet they raise hopes which are sure 
 to be disappointed. It would be undoubtedly 
 best, if we could see and hear every thing as 
 it is, that nothing might be too anxiously 
 dreaded, or too ardently pursued. 
 
 No. 51.] SATURDAY, APRIL 7, 1759. 
 
 IT has been commonly remarked, that eminent 
 men are least eminent at home, that bright 
 characters lose much of their splendour at a 
 nearer view, and many who fill the world with 
 their fame, excite very little reverence among 
 those that surround them in their domestic 
 privacies. 
 
 To blame or to suspect is easy and natural. 
 When the fact is evident, and the cause doubt- 
 ful, some accusation is always engendered be- 
 tween idleness and malignity. This disparity 
 of general and familiar esteem is therefore im- 
 puted to hidden vices, and to practises in- 
 dulged in secret, but carefully covered from the 
 public eye. 
 
 Vice will indeed always produce contempt. 
 The dignity of Alexander, though nations fell 
 prostrate before him, was certainly held in lit- 
 tle veneration by the partakers of his midnight 
 revels, who had seen him, in the madness of 
 wine, murder his friend, or set fire to the Pen- 
 sian palace at the instigation of a harlot ; and 
 it is well remembered among us, that the ava- 
 rice of Marlborough kept him in subjection to 
 his wife while he was dreaded by France as 
 her conqueror, and honoured by the emperor 
 as his deliverer. 
 
 But though, where there is vice there must 
 be want of reverence, it is not reciprocally true 
 that when there is want of reverence there is 
 always vice. That awe which great actions or 
 abilities impress will be inevitably diminished 
 by acquaintance, though nothing either mean 
 or criminal should be found. 
 
 Of men, as of every thing else, we must judge 
 according to ourknowledge. When we see of 
 a hero onlyhis battles, or of a writer only his 
 books, we have nothing to allay our ideas of their 
 greatness. We consider the one only as the 
 guardian of his country, and the other only as 
 the instructor of mankind. We have neither 
 opportunity nor motive to examine the minuter 
 parts of their lives, or the less apparent peculi- 
 arities of their characters ; we name them with 
 habitual respect, and forget, what we still con- 
 tinue to know, that they are men like other 
 mortals. 
 
 But such is the constitution of the world, that 
 much of life must be spent in the same manner 
 by the wise and the ignorant, the exalted and 
 the low. Men, however distinguished by ex- 
 ternal accidents or intrinsic qualities, have all 
 the same wants, the same pains, and, as far as 
 the senses are consulted, the same pleasure. 
 The petty cares and petty duties are the same 
 in every station to every understanding, and 
 every hour brings some occasion on which we 
 
 all sink to the common level. We are all nak- 
 ed till we are dressed, and hungry till we are 
 fed; and the general's triumph, and sage's 
 disputation, end, like the humble labours of 
 the smith or ploughman, in a dinner or in 
 sleep. 
 
 Those notions which are to be collected by 
 reason, in opposition to the senses, will seldom 
 stand forward in the mind, but lie treasured in 
 the remoter repositories of memory, to be found 
 only when they are sought Whatever any man 
 may have written or done, his precepts or his 
 valour will scarcely overbalance the unimpor- 
 tant uniformity which runs through his time. 
 We do not easily consider him as great, whom 
 our own eyes show us to be little ; nor labour 
 to keep present to our thoughts the latent excel- 
 lencies of him who shares with us all our weak- 
 nesses and many of our follies ; who like us is 
 delighted with slight amusements, busied with 
 trifling employments, and disturbed by little 
 vexations. 
 
 Great powers cannot be exerted, but when 
 great exigencies make them necessary. Great 
 exigencies can happen but seldom, and there- 
 fore those qualities which have a claim to the 
 veneration of mankind lie hid, for the most 
 part, like subterranean treasures, over which 
 the foot passes as on common ground, till ne- 
 cessity breaks open the golden cavern. 
 
 In the ancient celebration of victory, a slave 
 was placed on a triumphal car, by the side of the 
 general, who reminded him by a short sentence, 
 that he was a man. Whatever danger there 
 might be lest a leader, in his passage to the 
 capitol, should forget the frailties of his nature, 
 there was surely no need of such an admoni- 
 tion : the intoxication could not have continued 
 long ; he would have been at home but a few 
 hours before some of hie dependents would have 
 forgot his greatness, and shown him, that not- 
 withstanding his laurels, he was yet a man. 
 
 There are some who try to escape this domes- 
 tic degradation, by labouring to appear always 
 wise oralways great; buthe that strives against 
 nature will for ever strive in vain. To be grave 
 of mien and slow of utterance ; to look with 
 solicitude and speak with hesitation, is attaina- 
 ble at will ; but the show of wisdom is ridicu- 
 lous when there is nothing to cause doubt, as 
 that of valour where there is nothing to be 
 feared. 
 
 A man who has duly considered the condition 
 of his being will contentedly yield to the course 
 of things ; he" will not pant for distinction 
 where distinction would imply no merit ; but 
 though on great occasions he may wish to be 
 greater than others, he will be satisfied in com- 
 mon occurrences not to be less. 
 
 No. 52.] SATURDAY, APRIL 14, 1759. 
 Responsare cupidinibus. HOR. 
 
 THE practice of self-denial, or the forebearance 
 of lawful pleasures, has been considered by 
 almost every nation, from the remotest ages, 
 as the highest exaltation of human virtue; 
 and all have agreed to pay respect and vene-
 
 406 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 53. 
 
 ration to those who abstained from the delights 
 of life, even when they did not censure those 
 who enjoy them. 
 
 The general voice of mankind, civil and bar- 
 barous, confesses that the mind and body are at 
 variance, and that neither can be made happy 
 by its proper gratifications but at-the expense of 
 the other ; that a pampered body will darken 
 the mind, and an enlightened mind will mace- 
 rate the body. And none have failed to confer 
 their esteem on those who prefer intellect to 
 sense, who control their lower by their higher 
 faculties, and forget the wants and desires of 
 animal life for rational disquisitions or pious 
 contemplations. 
 
 The earth has scarcely a country so far ad- 
 vanced towards political regularity as to divide 
 the inhabitants into classes, where some orders 
 of men or women are not distinguished by vo- 
 luntary severities, and where the reputation of 
 their sanctity is not increased in proportion to 
 the rigour of their rules, and the exactness of 
 their performance. 
 
 When an opinion to which there is no temp- 
 tation of interest spreads wide and continues 
 long, it may reasonably be presumed to have 
 been issued by nature or dictated by reason. 
 It has been often observed that the fictions of 
 imposture, and illusions of fancy soon give 
 way to time and experience ; and that 
 nothing keeps its ground but truth, which 
 
 fains every day new influence by new con- 
 rmation. 
 
 But truth, when it is reduced to practice, 
 easily becomes subject to caprice and imagina- 
 tion ; and many particular acts will be wrong, 
 though their general principal be right. It can- 
 not be denied that a just conviction of the re- 
 straint necessary to be laid upon the appetites 
 has produced extravagant and unnatural 
 modes of mortification, and institutions, which, 
 however favourably considered, will be found 
 to violate nature without promoting piety. 
 
 But the doctrine of self-denial is not weaken- 
 ed in itself by the errors of those who misin- 
 terpret or misapply it ; the encroachment of 
 the appetites upon the understanding is hour- 
 ly perceived ; and the state of those, whom 
 sensuality has enslaved, is known to be in the 
 highest degree despicable and wretched. 
 
 The dread of such shameful captivity may 
 justly raise alarms, and wisdom will endeavour 
 to keep danger at a distance. By timely caution 
 and suspicious vigilance those desires may be 
 repressed, to which indulgence would soon 
 give absolute dominion ; those enemies may 
 Be overcome, which, when they have been a 
 while accustomed to victory, can no longer be 
 resisted. 
 
 Nothing is more fatal to happiness or virtue 
 than that confidence which flatters us with an 
 opinion of our own strength, and by assuring 
 us of the power of retreat, precipitates us into 
 hazard. Some may safely venture farther thai 
 others into the regions of delight, lay them 
 selves more open to the golden shafts of plea 
 sure, and advance nearer to the residence o 
 the Sirens ; but he that is best armed wit! 
 constancy and reason is yet vulnerable in on 
 part 01 other, and to every man there is a poin 
 
 xed, beyond which, if he passes he will not 
 asily return. It is certainly most wise, as it 
 s most safe, to stop before he touches the ut- 
 nost limit, since every step of advance will 
 more and more entice him to go forward, till 
 shall at last enter into the recesses of vo- 
 uptuousness, and sloth and despondency close 
 he passage behind them. 
 
 To deny early and inflexibly, is the only art 
 
 f checking the importunity of desire, and of 
 
 ireserving quiet and innocence. Innocent grati- 
 
 ications must be sometimes withheld ; he that 
 
 omplies with all lawful desires will certainly 
 
 ose his empire over himself, and in time either 
 
 submit his reason to his wishes, and think all 
 
 lis desires lawful, or dismiss his reason as 
 
 roublesome and intrusive and resolve to snatch 
 
 what he may happen to wish, without inquiring 
 
 about right and wrong. 
 
 No man whose appetites are his masters, can 
 
 )erform the duties of his nature with strictness 
 
 and regularity; he that would be superior to 
 
 xternal influences must first become superior 
 
 to his own passions. 
 
 When the Roman general, sitting at supper 
 with a plate of turnips before him, was solicited 
 jy large presents to betray his trust, he asked 
 ;he messengers whether he that could sup on 
 turnips was a man likely to sell his own coun- 
 try. Upon him who has reduced his senses to 
 obedience, temptation has lost its power ; he is 
 able to attend impartially to virtue, and exe- 
 cute her commands without hesitation. 
 
 To set the mind above the appetites is the end 
 of abstinence, which one of the fathers observes 
 to be not a virtue, but the ground-work of vir- 
 tue. By forbearing to do what may innocently 
 be done, we may add hourly new vigour or re- 
 solution, and secure the power of resistance 
 when pleasure or interest shall lend their 
 charms to guilt. 
 
 No. 53.] SATURDAY, APRIL 21, 1759. 
 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I HAVE a wife that keeps good company. You 
 know that the word good varies its meaning 
 according to the value set upon different quali- 
 ties in different places. To be a good man in 
 a college, is to be learned; in a camp, to be 
 brave ; and in the city, to be rich. By good 
 company in the place which I have the misfor- 
 tune to inhabit, we understand not always those 
 from whom any good can be learned, whether 
 wisdom or virtue ; or by whom any good can 
 be conferred, whether profit or reputation. 
 Good company is the company of those whose 
 birth is high, and whose riches are great ; or 
 of those whom the rich and noble admit to fa- 
 miliarity. 
 
 I am a gentleman of fortune by no means 
 exuberant, but more than equal to the wants of 
 my family, and for some years equal to our de- 
 sires. My wife, who had never been accus- 
 tomed to splendour, joined her endeavours to 
 mine in the superintendence of our economy ,
 
 No. 54.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 407 
 
 we lived in decent plenty, and were not ex- 
 cluded from moderate pleasures. 
 
 But slight causes produce great effects. All 
 my happiness has been destroyed by change 
 of place ; virtue is too often merely local : in 
 some situations the air diseases the body, and 
 in others poisons the mind. Being obliged to 
 remove rny habitation, I was led by my evil 
 genius to a convenient house in a street where 
 many of the nobility reside. We had scarcely 
 ranged our furniture, and aired our rooms, 
 when my wife began to grow discontented, 
 and to wonder what the neighbours would 
 think when they saw so few chairs and chariots 
 at her door. 
 
 Her acquaintance, who came to see her from 
 the quarter that we had left, mortified her with- 
 out design, by continual inquiries about the 
 ladies whose houses they viewed from our win- 
 dows. She was ashamed to confess that she 
 had no intercourse with them, and sheltered 
 her distress under general answers, which al- 
 ways tended to raise suspicion that she knew 
 more than she would tell ; but she was often 
 reduced to difficulties, when the course of talk 
 introduced questions about the furniture or 
 ornaments of their houses, which, when she 
 could get no intelligence, she was forced to 
 pass slightly over, as things which she saw so 
 often that she never minded them. 
 
 To all these vexations she was resolved to 
 put an end, and redoubled her visits to those 
 few of her friends who visited those who kept 
 good company ; and, if ever she met a lady 
 of quality, forced herself into notice by respect 
 and assiduity. Her advances were generally 
 rejected ; and she heard them, as they went 
 down stairs talk how some creatures put them- 
 selves forward. 
 
 She was not discouraged, but crept forward 
 from one to another ; and as perseverance will 
 do great things, sapped her way unperceived, 
 till, unexpectedly, she appeared at the card 
 table of lady Biddy Porpoise, a lethargic virgin, 
 of seventy-six, whom all the families in the 
 next square visited very punctually when she 
 was not at home. 
 
 This was the first step of that elevation to 
 which my wife has since ascended. For five 
 months she had no name in her mouth but that 
 of lady Biddy, who, let the world say what it 
 would, had a fine understanding, and such a 
 command of her temper, that whether she won 
 or lost, she slept over her cards. 
 
 At lady Buldy's she met with lady Tawdry, 
 whose favour she gained by estimating her ear- 
 rings, which were counterfeit, at twice the value 
 of real diamonds. When she once entered 
 two houses of distinction, she was easily ad- 
 mitted into more, and in ten weeks had all her 
 time anticipated by parties and engagements. 
 Every morning she is bespoke, in the summer, 
 for the gardens ; in the winter, for a sale ; 
 every afternoon she has visits to pay, and every 
 night brings an inviolable appointment, or an 
 assembly in which the best company in the 
 town were to appear. 
 
 You will easily imagine that much of my 
 domestic comfort is withdrawn. I never see 
 my wi r e but in the hurry of preparation or the 
 
 languor of weaiiness. To dress and to un- 
 dress is almost her whole business in private, 
 and the servants take advantage of her negli- 
 gence to increase expense. But I can supply 
 her omission by my own diligence, and 
 should not much regret this new course of life, 
 if it did nothing more than transfer me to the 
 care of our accounts. The changes which it 
 has made are more vexatious. My wife haa 
 no longer the use of her understanding. She 
 has no rule of action but the fashion. She has 
 no opinion but that of the people of quality. 
 She has no language but the dialect of her 
 own set of company. She hates and admires 
 in humble imitation ; and echoes the words 
 charming and detestable without consulting 
 her own preceptions. 
 
 If for a few minutes we sit down together, 
 she entertains me with the repartees of lady 
 Cackle, or the conversation of lord Whiffler, 
 and Miss Quick, and wonder to find me 
 receiving with indifference sayings which put 
 all the company into laughter. 
 
 By her old friends she is no longer very will- 
 ing to be seen, but she must not rid herself of 
 them all at once : and is sometimes surprised 
 by her best visitants in company which she 
 would not show and cannot hide ; but from the 
 moment that a countess enters, she takes 
 care neither to hear nor see them ; they soon 
 find themselves neglected, and retire ; and 
 she tells her ladyship that they are somehow 
 related at a great distance, and that as they 
 are good sort of people she cannot be rude to 
 them. 
 
 As by this ambitious union with those that 
 are above her, she is always forced upon disad- 
 vantageous comparisons of her condition with 
 theirs, she haa a constant source of misery 
 within ; and never returns from glittering as- 
 semblies and magnificent apartments but she 
 growls out her discontent, and wonders why 
 she was doomsd to so indigent a state. When 
 she attends thedutchess to a sale, she always 
 sees something she cannot buy ; and, that she 
 may not seem wholly insignificant, she will 
 sometimes venture to bid, and often make ac- 
 quisitions which she did not want, at prices 
 which she cannot afford. 
 
 What adds to all this uneasiness is that this 
 expense is without use, and this vanity with- 
 out honour ; she forsakes houses where she 
 might be courted, for those where she is only 
 suffered ; her equals are daily made her ene- 
 mies, and her superiors will never be her 
 friends. 
 
 I am, Sir, yours, &c. 
 
 No.54.] SATURDAY, APRIL 28, 1759. 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 You have lately entertained your admirers 
 with the case of an unfortunate husband, and 
 thereby given a demonstrative proof you are 
 not averse even to hear appeals and terminate 
 differences between man and wife ; I there- 
 fore take the liberty to present you with the
 
 408 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 55. 
 
 case of an injured lady, which, as it chiefly 
 relates to what I think the lawyers call a point 
 of law, I shall do in as juridical a manner as I 
 am capable, and submit it to the consideration 
 of the learned gentlemen of that profession. 
 
 Imprimis. In the style of my marriage arti- 
 cles, a marriage was "had and solemnized," 
 about six months ago, between me and Mr. 
 Savecharges, a gentleman possessed of a plen- 
 tiful fortune of his own, and one who, I was 
 persuaded, would improve, and not spend, 
 mine. 
 
 Before our marriage, Mr. Savecharges had 
 all along preferred the salutary exercise of 
 walking on foot to the distempered ease, as he 
 terms it, of lolling in a chariot ; but, notwith- 
 standing his fine panegyrics on walking, the 
 great advantages the infantry were in the sole 
 possession of, and the many dreadful dangers 
 they escaped, he found I had very different 
 notions of an equipage, and was not easily to 
 be converted, or gained over to his party. 
 
 An equipage I was determined to have, 
 whenever I married. I too well knew the dis- 
 position of my intended consort to leave the 
 providing one entirely to his honour, and 
 flatter myself Mr. Savecharges has, in the 
 articles made previous to our marriage, agreed 
 to keep me a coach ; but lest I should be 
 mistaken, or the attorney should not have done 
 me justice in methodising or legalising these 
 half dozen words, I will set about and tran- 
 scribe that part of the agreement, which will 
 explain the matter to you much better than can 
 be done by one who is so deeply interested in 
 the event ; and show on what foundation I 
 build my hopes of being soon under the trans- 
 porting, delightful denomination of a fashiona- 
 ble lady, who enjoys the exalted and much- 
 envied felicity of bowling about in her own 
 ci ach. 
 
 " And further the said Solomon Savecharges, 
 for divers good causes and considerations him 
 hereunto moving, hath agreed, and doth, here- 
 by agree, that the said Solomon Savecharges 
 shall and will, so soon as conveniently may be 
 after the solemnization of the said intended 
 marriage, at his own proper cost and charges, 
 find and provide a certain vehicle or four- 
 wheel carriage, commonly called or known by 
 the name of a coach ; which said vehicle or 
 wheel carriage, so called or known by the 
 name of a coach, shall be used and enjoyed by 
 the said Sukey Modish, his intended wife, " 
 ( pray mind that, Mr. Idler,) "at such times 
 and in such manner as she the said Sukey 
 Modish shall think fit and convenient. " 
 
 Such, Mr. Idler, is the agreement my pas- 
 sionate admirer entered into ; and what the 
 dear frugal husband calls a performance of 
 it remains to be described. Soon after the 
 ceremony of signing and sealing was over, 
 our wedding-clothes being sent home, and, in 
 short, every thing in readiness except the 
 coach, my own shadow was scarcely more con- 
 stant than my passionate lover in his atten- 
 dance on me : wearied by his perpetual impor- 
 tunities for what he called a completion of his 
 bliss, I consented to make him happy ; in a 
 few days I gave him my hand, and, attended 
 
 by Hymen in his saffron robes, retired to a 
 country-seat of my husband's, where the honey- 
 moon flew over our heads ere we had time to re- 
 collect ourselves, or think of our engagements 
 in town. Well, to town we came, and you 
 may be sure, Sir, I expected to step into my 
 coach on my arrival here ; but what was my 
 surprise and disappointment, when, instead of 
 this, he began. to sound in my ears, " That the 
 interest of money was low, very low ; and 
 what a terrible thing it was to be incumbered 
 with a little regiment of servants in these hard 
 times ! " I could easily perceive what all this 
 tended to, but would not seem to understand 
 him ; which made it highly necessary for Mr. 
 Savecharges to explain himself more intelli- 
 gibly ; to harp upon and protest he dreaded the 
 expense of keeping a coach. And truly, for 
 his part, he could not, conceive how the plea 
 sure resulting from such a convenience could 
 be any way adequate to the heavy expense 
 attending it. I now thought it high time to 
 speak with equal plainness, and told him, as 
 the fortune I brought fairly entitled me to ride 
 in my own coach, and as I was sensible his 
 circumstances would very well afford it, he 
 must pardon me if I insisted on a performance 
 of his agreement 
 
 I appeal to you, Mr. Idler, whether any 
 thing could be more civil, more complaisant, 
 than this ? And, would you believe it, the crea 
 ture in return a few days after, accosted me, in 
 an offended tone, with "Madam, I can now 
 tell you your coach is ready ; and since you are 
 so passionately fond of one I intend you the 
 honour of keeping a pair of horses. You in- 
 sisted upon having an article of pin-money, 
 and horses are no part of my agreement." 
 Base, designing wretch ! I beg your pardon, 
 Mr. Idler,"the very recital of such mean, un- 
 gentleman-like behaviour fires my blood, and 
 lights up a flame within me. But hence, thou 
 worst of monsters, ill-timed Rage, and let me 
 not spoil my cause for want of temper. 
 
 Now, though I am convinced I might make 
 a worse use of part of my pin-money, than b\ 
 extending my bounty towards the support o 
 so useful a part of the brute creation ; yet 
 like a true-born Englishwoman, I am so tena 
 cious of my rights and privileges, and more. 
 over so good a friend to the gentlemen of th< 
 law, that I protest, Mr. Idler, sooner than tame 
 ly give up the point, and be quibbled out of m; 
 right, I will receive my pin-money, as it were 
 with one hand, and pay it to them with tht 
 other ; provided they will give me, or, which 
 is the same thing, my trustees, encouragement 
 to commence a suit against this dear, frugal 
 husband of mine. 
 
 And of this I can't have the least shadow of 
 doubt, inasmuch as I have been told by very 
 good authority, it is some way or other laid 
 down as a rule, " That whenever the law doth 
 give any thing to one, it giveth impliedly what- 
 ever is necessary for the taking and enjoying 
 the same."* Now, I would gladly know what 
 
 Coke on Ly ttelton.
 
 No. 55.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 409 
 
 enjoyment I, or any lady in the kingdom, can 
 have of a coach without horses ? The answer 
 obvious None at all ! For as Serjeant 
 
 Catlyne very wisely observes, " Though a Tiot doubt but my labour would be repaid by 
 
 coach has wheels, to the end it may thereby 
 and by virtue thereof be enabled to move ; yet 
 in point of utility it may as well have none, if 
 they are not put in motion by means of its vital 
 parts, that is, the horses." 
 
 And therefore, Sir, I humbly hope you and 
 the learned in the law will be of opinion, that 
 two certain animals, or quadruped creatures, 
 commonly called or known by the name of 
 horses, ought to be annexed to, and go along 
 with the coach. 
 
 SUCKEY SAVECHARGES. 
 
 No. 55.] SATURDAY, MAY 5, 1759. 
 
 MR. IDLER, 
 
 I HAVE taken the liberty of laying before you 
 my complaint, and desiring advice or conso- 
 lation with the greater confidence, because I be- 
 lieve many other writers have suffered the same 
 indignities with myself, and hope my quarrel 
 will be regarded by you and your readers as 
 the common cause of literature. 
 
 Having been long a student, I thought my- 
 self qualified in time to become an author. My 
 inquiries have been much diversified and far ex- 
 tended, and not finding my genius directing me 
 by irresistible impulse to any particular subject, 
 I deliberated three years which part of know- 
 ledge to illustrate by my labours. Choice is 
 more often determined by accident than by rea- 
 son : I walked abroad one morning with a cu- 
 rious lady, and by her inquiries and observations 
 was incited to write the natural history of the 
 country in which I reside. 
 
 Natural history is no work for one that 
 loves his chair or his bed. Speculation may 
 be pursued on a soft couch, but nature must 
 be observed in the open air. I have collected 
 materials with indefatigable pertinacity. I 
 have gathered glow-worms in the evening, and 
 snails in the morning ; I have seen the daisy 
 close and open ; I have heard the owl shriek at 
 midnight, and hunted insects in the heat of 
 noon. 
 
 Seven years I was employed in collecting 
 animals and vegetables, and then found that 
 my design was yet imperfect. The subterra- 
 nean treasures of the place had been passed 
 unobserved, and another year was to be spent 
 in mines and coal-pits. What I had already 
 done supplied a sufficient motive to do more. 
 I acquainted myself with the black inhabitants 
 of mettallic caverns, and, in defiance of damps 
 and floods, wandered through the gloomy 
 labyrinths, and gathejed fossils from every 
 fissure. 
 
 At last I began to write, and as I finished 
 any section of my book, read it to such of my 
 friends as were most skillful in the matter 
 which it treated. None of them were satis- 
 fied ; one disliked the disposition of the parts, 
 another the colours of the style ; one advised 
 me to enlarge another to abridge. I resolved 
 to read no more, but to take my own way and 
 3B 
 
 write on, for by consultation I only perplexed 
 my thoughts and retarded my worK. 
 
 The book was at last finished, and I did 
 
 profit and my ambition satisfied with honours. 
 I considered that natural history is neither 
 temporary nor local, and that though I limited 
 my inquiries to my own country, yet every 
 part of the earth has productions common to 
 all the rest. Civil history may be partially 
 studied, the revolutions of one nation may be 
 neglected by another ; but after that in which 
 all have an interest, all must be inquisitive. 
 No man can have sunk so far into stupidity as 
 not to consider the properties of the ground 
 on which he walks, of the plants on which he 
 feeds, or the animals that delight his ear, or 
 amuse his eye : and therefore I computed 
 that universal curiosity would call for many 
 editions of my book, and that in five years 
 I should gain fifteen thousand pounds by the 
 sale of thirty thousand copies. 
 
 When I began to write, I insured the house ; 
 and suffered the utmost solicitude when I en- 
 trusted my book to the carrier, though I had 
 secured it against mischances by lodging two 
 transcripts in different places. At my arrival, 
 I expected that the patrons of learning would 
 contend for the honour of a dedication, and re- 
 solved to maintain the dignity of letters by a 
 haughty contempt of pecuniary solicitations. 
 
 I took lodgings near the house of the Royal 
 Society, and expected every morning a visit 
 from the president. I walked in the Park, 
 and wondered that I overheard no mention of 
 the great naturalist. At last I visited a noble 
 earl, and told him of my work : he answered, 
 that he was under an engagement never to 
 subscribe. I was angry to have that refused 
 which I did not mean to ask, and concealed 
 my design of making him immortal. I went 
 next day to another, and, in resentment of 
 my late affront, offered to prefix his name to 
 my new book. He said, coldly, that " he did 
 not understand those things;" another thought 
 " there were too many books ;" and another 
 would " talk with me when the races were 
 
 Being amazed to find a man of learning so 
 indecently slighted, I resolved to indulge the 
 philosophical pride of retirement and indepen- 
 dence. I then sent to some of the principal 
 booksellers the plan of my book, and bespoke 
 a large room in the next tavern, that I might 
 more commodiously see them together, and 
 enjoy the contest, while they were outbidding 
 one another. I drank my coffee, and yet no- 
 body was come ; at last I received a note 
 from one, to tell me that he was going out ot 
 town ; and from another, that natural history 
 was out of his way. At last there came a 
 grave man, who desired to see the work, and 
 without opening it told me, that a book of that 
 size " would never do." 
 
 I then condescended to step into shops, ami 
 mentioned my work to the masters. Some 
 never dealt with authors ; others had their hands 
 full ; some never had known such a dead time ; 
 others had lost by all that they had published 
 for the last twelvemonth. One offered to print
 
 410 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [So. 36. 
 
 my work, if I could procure subscriptions for 
 five hundred, and would allow me two hundred 
 copies for my property. I lost my patience^ 
 and gave him a kick : for which he has indict- 
 
 j 
 ed me. 
 
 I can easily perceive that there is a combina- 
 tion among them to defeat my expectations ; 
 and I find it so general, that I am sure it must 
 have been long concerted. I suppose some of 
 my friends, to whom I read the first part, gave 
 notice of my design, and, perhaps sold the 
 treacherous intelligence at a higher price than 
 the fraudulence of trade will now allow me for 
 my book. 
 
 Inform me, Mr. Idler, what I must do ; 
 where must knowledge and industry find their 
 recompense, thus neglected by the high and 
 cheated by the low ? I sometimes resolve to 
 print my book at my own expense, and, like the 
 Sibyl, double the price ; and sometimes am 
 tempted in emulation of Raleigh, to throw it 
 into the fire, and leave this sordid generation to 
 the curses of posterity. Tell me, dear Idler, 
 what I shall do. 
 
 I am, Sir, &c. 
 
 No. 56.] SATURDAY, MAY 12, 1759. 
 
 THERE is such difference between the pursuits 
 of men, that one part of the inhabitants of a 
 great city lives to little other purpose than to 
 wonder at the rest. Some have hopes and fears, 
 wishes and aversions, which never enter into 
 the thoughts of others, and inquiry is laborious- 
 ly exerted to gain that which those who possess 
 it are ready to throw away. 
 
 To those who are accustomed to value every 
 thing by its use, and have no such superfluity 
 of time or money as may prompt them to un- 
 natural wants or capricious emulations, nothing 
 appears more improbable or extravagant than 
 the love of curiosities, or that desire of accumu- 
 lating trifles, which distinguishes many by 
 whom no other distinction could have ever 
 been obtained. 
 
 He that has lived without knowing to what 
 height desire may be raised by vanity, with 
 what rapture baubles are snatched out of the 
 hands of rival collectors, how the eagerness of 
 one raises eagerness in another, and one worth- 
 less purchase makes a second necessary, may, 
 by passing a few hours at an auction, learn 
 more than can be shown by many volumes of 
 maxims or essays. 
 
 The advertisement of a sale is a signal which 
 at once puts a thousand hearts in motion, and 
 brings contenders from every part to the scene 
 of distribution. He that had resolved to buy no 
 more, feels his constancy subdued ; there is 
 now something in the catalogue which com- 
 pletes his cabinet, and he was never before 
 able to find. He whose sober reflections in- 
 form him, that of adding collection to collec- 
 tion there is no end, and that it is wise to 
 leave early that which must be imperfect at 
 last, yet cannot withhold himself from coming 
 to see what it is that brings so many together, 
 and when he comes is soon overpowered by 
 his habitual passion ; he is attracted by 
 
 rarity, seduced by example, and inflamed by 
 competition. 
 
 While the stores of pride and happiness are 
 surveyed, one looks with longing eyes and 
 gloomy countenance on that which he despairs 
 to gain from a rich bidder ; another keeps his 
 eye with care from settling too long on that 
 which he most earnestly desires ; and another, 
 with more art than virtue, depreciates that 
 which he values most, in hope to have it at an 
 easy rate. 
 
 The novice is often surprised to see what mi- 
 nute and unimportant discriminations increase 
 or diminish value. An irregular contortion of 
 a turbinated shell, which common eyes pass 
 unregarded, will ten times treble its price in 
 the imagination of philosophers. Beauty is 
 far from operating upon collectors as upon 
 low and vulgar minds, even where beauty 
 might be thought the only quality that could 
 deserve notice. Among the shells that please 
 by their variety of colours, if one can be found 
 accidentally deformed by a cloudy spot, it is 
 boasted as the pride of the collection. China 
 is sometimes purchased for little less than its 
 weight in gold, only because it is old, though 
 neither less brittle nor better painted than the 
 modern ; and brown china is caught up with 
 ecstacy, though no reason can be imagined 
 for which it should be preferred to common 
 vessels of common clay. 
 
 The fate of prints and coins is equally inex- 
 plicable. Some prints are treasured up as in- 
 estimably valuable, because the impression was 
 made before the plate was finished. Of coins, 
 the price rises not from the purity of the meial, 
 the excellence of the workmanship, the ele- 
 gance of the legend, or the chronological use. 
 A piece of which neither the inscription can 
 be read, nor the face distinguished, if there 
 remain of it but enough to show that it is 
 rare, will be sought by contending nations, 
 and dignify the treasury in which it shall be 
 shown. 
 
 Whether this curiosity, so barren of imme- 
 diate advantage, and so liable to depravation, 
 does more harm or good, is not easily de- 
 cided. Its harm is apparent at the tirst view. 
 It fills the mind with trifling ambition*; iixes 
 the attention upon things which have seldom 
 any tendency towards virtue or wisdom ; em- 
 ploys in idle inquiries the time that is given for 
 better purposes ; and often ends in mean and 
 dishonest practices, when desire increases by 
 indulgence beyond the power of honest grati- 
 fication. 
 
 These are the effects of curiosity in excess ; 
 but what passion in excess will not become 
 vicious ? All indifferent qualities and practices 
 are bad if they are compared with those 
 which are good, and good if they are opposed 
 to those that are bad. The pride or the plea- 
 sure of making collections if it be restrained 
 by prudence and morality, produces a pleas- 
 ing remission after more laborious studies; 
 furnishes an amusement not wholly unprofita- 
 ble for that part of life, the greater part of 
 many lives, which would otherwise be lost in 
 idleness or vice ; it produces a useful traffic 
 between the industry of indigence and the
 
 No. 57.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 411 
 
 curiosity of wealth ; it brings many things 
 to notice that would be neglected, and, by 
 fixing the thoughts upon intellectual plea- 
 sures, resists the natural encroachments of 
 sensuality, and maintains the mind in her law- 
 ful superiority. 
 
 No. 57.] SATURDAY, MAY 19, 1759. 
 
 PRUDENCE is of more frequent use than any 
 other intellectual quality ; it is exerted on slight 
 occasions, and called into act by the cursory 
 business of common life. 
 
 Whatever is universally necessary, has been 
 granted to mankind on easy terms. Prudence, 
 as it is always wanted, is without great diffi- 
 culty obtained. It requires neither extensive 
 view nor profound search, but forces itself by 
 spontaneous impulse upon a mind neither 
 great nor busy, neither engrossed by vast de- 
 signs, nor distracted by multiplicity of atten- 
 tion. 
 
 Prudence operates on life in the same man- 
 ner as rules on composition : it produces vigi- 
 lance rather than elevation ; rather prevents 
 loss than procures advantage ; and often es- 
 capes miscarriages, but seldom reaches either 
 power or honour. It quenches that ardour of 
 enterprise by which every thing is done that 
 can claim praise or admiration ; and represses 
 that generous temerity which often fails and 
 often succeeds. Rules may obviate faults 
 but can never confer beauties : and prudence 
 keeps life safe but does not often make it 
 happy. The world is not amazed with prodi- 
 gies of excellence, but when wit tramples 
 upon rules, and magnanimity breaks the chains 
 of prudence. 
 
 One of the most prudent of all that have 
 fallen within my observation, is my old com- 
 panion Sophron, who has passed through the 
 world in quiet, by perpetual adherence to a 
 few plain maxims, and wonders how conten- 
 tion and distress can so often happen. 
 
 The first principle of Sophron is to run no 
 hazards. Though he loves money, he is of 
 opinion that frugality is a more certain source 
 of riches than industry. It is to no purpos 
 that any prospect of large profit is set before 
 him ; he believes little about futurity, and does 
 not love to trust his money out of his sight, for 
 nobody knows what may happen. He has a 
 small estate, which he lets at the old rent, 
 because " it is better to have a little than no- 
 thing ;" but he rigorously demands payment 
 on the stated day, for he that cannot pay one 
 quarter, cannot pay two." If he is told of 
 any improvements in agriculture, he likes the 
 old way, has observed that changes very sel- 
 dom answer expectation ; is of opinion that 
 our forefathers knew how to till the ground a 
 well as we ; and concludes with an argument 
 that nothing can overpower, that the expense 
 of planting and fencing is immediate, and 
 the advantage distant, and that " he is no 
 wise man who will quit a certainty for an un- 
 certainty." 
 
 Another of Sophron's rules is " to mind no 
 business but his own." In the state he ia o 
 
 no party ; but hears and speaks of public 
 affairs with the same coldness as of the ad- 
 ninistration of some ancient republic. If any 
 lagrant act of fraud or oppression is mention- 
 ed, he hopes " that all is not true that ia 
 old ;" if misconduct or corruption puts the 
 nation in a flame, he hopes that " every man 
 means well." At elections he leaves his de- 
 >endents to their own choice, and declines 
 .o vote himself, for every candidate is a good 
 man, whom he is unwilling to oppose or 
 offend. 
 
 If disputes happen among his neighbours 
 ic observes an invariable and cold neutrality. 
 His punctuality has gained him the reputation 
 of honesty, and his caution that of wisdom ; 
 and few would refuse to refer their claims to 
 lis award. He might have prevented many 
 expensive law-suits, and quenched many a feud 
 n its first smoke ; but always refuses the office 
 of arbitration, because he must decide against 
 one or the other. 
 
 With the affairs of other families he is al- 
 ways unacquainted. He sees estates bought 
 and sold, squandered and increased, without 
 praising the economist, or censuring the 
 spendthrift. He never courts the rising lest 
 they should fall; nor insults the fallen lest 
 they should rise again. His caution has the 
 appearance of virtue, and all who do not want 
 bis help praise his benevolence ; but if any 
 man solicits his assistance, he has just sent 
 away all his money ; and, when the petitioner 
 is gone, declares to his family that he is sorry 
 for his misfortunes, has always looked upon 
 him with particular kindness, and therefore 
 could not lend him money, lest he should 
 destroy their friendship by the necessity of en- 
 forcing payment. 
 
 Of domestic misfortunes he has never heard. 
 When he is told the hundredth time of a gen- 
 tleman's daughter who has married the coach- 
 man, he lifts up his hands with astonishment, 
 for he always thought her a very sober girl. 
 When nuptial quarrels, after having filled the 
 country with talk and laughter, at last end in 
 separation, he never can conceive how it hap- 
 pened, for he looked upon them as a happy 
 couple. 
 
 If his advice is asked, he never gives any 
 particular direction, because events are uncer- 
 tain, and he will bring no blame upon himself, 
 but he takes the con suiter tenderly by the 
 hand, tells him he makes his case his own, and 
 advises him not to act rashly, but to weigh the 
 reasons on both sides ; observes that a man 
 may be as easily too hasty as too slow, and that 
 as many fail by doing too much as too little ; 
 that " a wise man has two ears and one 
 tongue ;" and " that little said is soon mend- 
 ed ;" that he could tell him this and that, but 
 that after all every man is the best judge of his 
 own affairs. 
 
 With this some are satisfied, and go home 
 with great reverence of Sophron's wisdom; 
 and none are offended, because every one is 
 left in full possession of his own opinion. 
 
 Sophron gives no characters. It is equally 
 vain to tell him of vice and virtue ; for he hai 
 remarked, that no man likes to be censurec.
 
 412 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 53. 
 
 and that very few are delighted with the 
 praises of another. He has a few terms which 
 he uses to all alike. With respect to fortune, 
 he believes every family to be in good cir- 
 cumstances ; he never exalts any understand- 
 ing by lavish praise, yet he meets with none 
 but very sensible people. Every man is honest 
 and hearty ; and every woman is a good crea- 
 ture. 
 
 Thus Sophron creeps along, neither loved 
 nor hated, neither favoured nor opposed ; 
 he has never attempted to grow rich, for fear 
 of growing poor : and has raised no friends, 
 for fear of making enemies. 
 
 No. 58.] SATURDAY, MAT 26, 1759. 
 
 PLEASURE is very seldom found where it is 
 sought Our bi ight blazes of gladness are com- 
 monly kindled by unexpected sparks. The 
 flowers which scatter their odours from time 
 to time in the paths of life, grow up without 
 culture from seed scattered by chance. 
 
 Nothing is more hopeless than a scheme of 
 merriment. Wits and humourists are brought 
 together from distant quarters by preconcerted 
 invitations ; they come attended by their ad- 
 mirers, prepared to laugh and to applaud ; they 
 gaze a while on each other, ashamed to be silent, 
 and afraid to speak ; every man is discontented 
 with himself, grows angry with those that give 
 him pain, and resolves that he will contribute 
 nothing to the merriment of such worthless 
 company. Wine inflames the general malig- 
 nity, and changes sullenness to petulance, till 
 at last none can bear any longer the presence 
 of the rest. They retire to vent their indigna- 
 tion in safer places, where they are heard with 
 attention ; their importance is restored, they 
 recover their good humour, and gladden the 
 night with wit and jocularity. 
 
 Merriment is always the effect of a sudden 
 impression. The jest which is expected is al- 
 ready destroyed. The most active imagination 
 will be sometimes torpid under the frigid influ- 
 ence of melancholy, and sometimes occasions 
 will be wanting to tempt the mind, however vo- 
 latile, to sallies and excursions. Nothing was 
 ever said with uncommon felicity, but by the 
 co-operation of chance, and therefore, wit as 
 well as valour must be content to share its 
 honours with fortune. 
 
 All other pleasures are equally uncertain ; 
 the general remedy of uneasiness is change 
 of place ; almost every one has some journey 
 of pleasure in his mind, with which he flatters 
 his expectation. He that travels in theory lias 
 no inconvenience ; he has shade and sunshine 
 at his disposal, and wherever he alights finds 
 tables of plenty and looks of gaiety. These 
 ideas are indulged till the day of departure 
 arrives, the chaise is called, and the progress 
 of happiness begins. 
 
 A few miles teach him the fallacies of imagi- 
 nation. The road is dusty, the air is sultry, 
 the horses are sluggish, and the postillion 
 brutal. He longs for the time of dinner, that 
 he may eat and rest. The inn is crowded, his 
 orders are neglected, and nothing remains 
 
 but that he devour in haste what the cook has 
 spoiled, and drive on in quest of better enter- 
 tainment. He finds at night a more commo- 
 dious house, but the best is always worse than 
 he expected. 
 
 He at last enters his native province, and 
 resolves to feast his mind with the conversation 
 of his old friends and the recollection of juve- 
 nile frolics. He stops at the house of his 
 friend, whom he designs to overpower with 
 pleasure by the unexpected interview. He is 
 not known till he tells his name, and revives 
 the memory of himself by a gradual explana- 
 tion. He is then coldly received and ceremo- 
 niously feasted. He hastes away to another, 
 whom his affairs have called to a distant place, 
 and having seen the empty house, goes away 
 disgusted, by a disappointment which could 
 not be intended because it could be foreseen. 
 At the next house he finds every face clouded 
 with misfortune, and is regarded with male- 
 volence as an unreasonable intruder, who 
 comes not to visit but to insult them. 
 
 It is seldom that we find either men or places 
 such as we expect them. He that has pictured 
 a prospect upon his fancy, will receive little 
 pleasure from his eyes ; he that has anticipated 
 the conversation of a wit, will wonder to what 
 prejudice he owes his reputation. Yet it is ne- 
 cessary to hope, though hope should always be 
 deluded ; for hope itself is happiness, and its 
 frustrations, however frequent, are yet less 
 dreadful than its extinction. 
 
 No. 59.] SATURDAY, JUNE 2, 1759. 
 
 IN the common enjoyments of life, we cannot 
 very liberally indulge the present hour, but by 
 anticipating part of the pleasure which might 
 have relieved the tediousness of another day ; 
 and any uncommon exertion of strength, or 
 perseverance in labour, is succeeded by a long 
 interval of languor and weariness. What- 
 ever advantage we snatch beyond the certain 
 portion allotted us by nature, is like money 
 spent before it is due, which at the time of re- 
 gular payment will be missed and regretted. 
 
 Fame, like all other things which are sup 
 posed to give or to increase happiness, is dis 
 pensed with the same equality of distribution. 
 He that is loudly praised will be clamorously 
 censured ; he that rises hastly into fame will 
 be in danger of sinking suddenly into obli 
 vion. 
 
 Of many writers who filled their age with 
 wonder, and whose names we find celebrated 
 in the books of their contemporaries, the works 
 are now no longer to be seen, or are seen only 
 amidst the lumber of libraries which are seldom 
 visited, where they lie only to show the deceit- 
 fulness of hope, and the uncertainty of ho- 
 nour. 
 
 Of the decline of reputation many causes 
 may be assigned. It is commonly lost because 
 it never was deserved ; and was conferred at 
 first, not by the suffrage of criticism, but by 
 the fondness of friendship, or servility of flat- 
 tery. The great and popular are very freely 
 apolauded ; but all soon grow weary of echo
 
 No.60 .] 
 
 THE 1DLFR. 
 
 413 
 
 ing to each other a name which has no other 
 claim to notice, but that many mouths are pro- 
 nouncing it at o ice. 
 
 But many have lost the final reward of their 
 labours because they were too hasty to enjoy 
 it. They have laid hold on recent occurrences, 
 and eminent names, and delighted their readers 
 with allusions and remarks, in which all were 
 interested, and to which all therefore were at- 
 tentive. But the effect ceased with its cause ; 
 the time quickly came when new events drove 
 the former from memory, when the vicissitudes 
 of the world brought new hopes and fears, 
 transferred the love and hatred of the public 
 to other agents, and the writer, whose works 
 were no longer assisted by gratitude, or re- 
 sentment, was left to the cold regard of idle 
 curiosity. 
 
 He that writes upon general principles, or 
 delivers univfcsal truths, may hope to be often 
 read, because his work will be equally useful at 
 all times, and in every country ; but he cannot 
 expect it to be received with eagerness, or to 
 spread with rapidity, because desire can have 
 no particular stimulation ; that which is to be 
 loved long must be loved with reason rather 
 than with passion. He that lays out his la- 
 bours upon temporary subjects, easily finds 
 readers, and quickly loses them ; for, what 
 should make the book valued when its subject 
 is no more ? 
 
 These observations will show the reason 
 why the poem of Hudibras is almost forgotten, 
 however embellished with sentiments and di- 
 versified with allusions, however bright with 
 wit, and however solid with truth. The hy- 
 pocrisy which it detected, and the folly which 
 it ridiculed, have long vanished from public 
 notice. Those who had felt the mischief of 
 discord, and the tyranny of usurpation, read it 
 with rapture, for every line brought back to 
 memory something known, and to gratified re- 
 sentment by the just censure of something 
 nated. But the book which was once quoted 
 by princes, and which supplied conversation 
 to all the assemblies of the gay and witty, is 
 now seldom mentioned, and even by those 
 that affect to mention it is seldom read. So 
 vainly is wit lavished upon fugitive topics, so 
 little can architecture secure duration when 
 the ground is false. 
 
 No. 60.] SATURDAY, JUNE 9, 1759. 
 
 CRITICISM is a study by which men grow im- 
 portant and formidable at a very small expense. 
 The power of invention has been conferred by 
 nature upon few, and the labour of learning 
 those sciences which may by mere labour be ob- 
 tained is too great to be willingly endured ; but 
 every man can exert such judgment as he has 
 upon the works of others ; and he whom nature 
 has made weak, and idleness keeps ignorant, 
 may yet support his vanity by the name of a 
 Critic. 
 
 I hope it will give comfort to great numbers 
 who are passing through the world in obscuri- 
 ty, when I inform them how easily distinction 
 may be obtained. All the other powers of lite- 
 
 rature are coy and haughty, they must be long 
 courted, and at last are not always gained : 
 but Criticism is a goddess easy of access and 
 forward of advance ; who will meet the 
 slow, and encourage the timorous ; the want 
 of meaning she supplies with words, and the 
 want of spirit she recompenses with malignity. 
 
 This profession has one recommendation pe- 
 culiar to itself, that it gives vent to malignity 
 without real mischief. No genius was ever 
 blasted by the breath of critics. The poison 
 which, if confined, would have burst the heart, 
 fumes away in empty hisses, and malice is set 
 at ease with very little danger to merit. The 
 critic is the only man whose triumph is with- 
 out another's pain, and whose greatness does 
 not rise upon another's ruin. 
 
 To a study at once so easy and so reputable, 
 so malicious and so harmless, it cannot be ne- 
 cessary to invite my readers by a long or la- 
 boured exhortation ; it is sufficient, since all 
 would be critics if they could, to show by one 
 eminent example that all can be critics if they 
 will. 
 
 Dick Minim, after the common course of 
 puerile studies, in which he was no great pro- 
 ficient, was put an apprentice to a brewer, with 
 whom he had lived two years, when his uncle 
 died in the city, and left him a large fortune in 
 the stocks. Dick had for six months before 
 used the company of the lower players, of whom 
 he had learned to scorn a trade, and, being now 
 at liberty to follow his genius, he resolved to be 
 a man of wit and humour. That he might be 
 properly initiated in his new character, he fre- 
 quented the coffee-houses near the theatres, 
 where he listened very diligently, day after 
 day to those who talked of language and senti- 
 ments, and unities and catastrophes, till by slow 
 degrees he began to think that he understood 
 something of the stage, and hoped in time to 
 talk himself. 
 
 But he did not trust so much to natural saga- 
 city as wholly to neglect the help of books. 
 When the theatres were shut, he retired to 
 Richmond with a few select writers, whose 
 opinions he impressed upon his memory by 
 unwearied diligence ; and, when he returned 
 with other wits to the town, was able to tell, 
 in very proper phrases, that the chief business 
 of art is to follow nature ; that a perfect wri- 
 ter is not to be expected, because genius de- 
 cays as judgment increases; that the great 
 art is the art of blotting ; and that, according 
 ;o the rule of Horace, every piece should be 
 iept nine years. 
 
 Of the great authors he now began to dis- 
 play the characters, laying down as a univer- 
 sal position, that all had beauties and defects. 
 His opinion was, that Shakespeare, commit- 
 ;ing himself wholly to the impulse of nature, 
 wanted that correctness which learning would 
 lave given him ; and that Jonson, trusting to 
 earning, did not sufficiently cast his eye on 
 nature. He blamed the stanza of Spenser, 
 and could not bear the hexameters of Sidney. 
 ~)enham and Waller he held the first reformers 
 of English numbers ; and thought that if 
 Waller could have obtained the strength of 
 Denham, or Denham the sweetness of Waller
 
 414 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 there had been nothing wanting to complete 
 a poet. He often expressed his commisera- 
 tion of Dryden's poverty, and his indignation 
 at the age which suffered him to write for 
 bread ; he repeated with rapture the first lines 
 of Ml for Love, but wondered at the corrup- 
 tion of taste which could bear any thing so un- 
 natural as rhyming tragedies. In Otway he 
 found uncommon powers of moving the pas- 
 pions, but was disgusted by his general negli- 
 gence, and blamed him for making a conspira- 
 tor his hero ; and never concluded his disquisi- 
 tion without remarking how happily the sound 
 of the clock is made to alarm the audience. 
 Southern would have been his favourite, but 
 that he mixes comic with tragic scenes, inter- 
 cepts the natural course of the passions, and 
 fills the mind with a wild confusion of mirth 
 a melancholy. The versification of Rowe he 
 thought too melodious for the stage, and too 
 little varied in different passions. He made it 
 the great fault of Congreve, that all his per- 
 sons were wits, and that he always wrote with 
 more art than nature. He considered Cato 
 rather as a poem than a play, and allowed 
 Addison to be the complete master of allegory 
 and grave humour, but paid no great deference 
 to him as a critic. He thought the chief merit 
 of Prior was in his easy tales and lighter 
 
 Eoems, though he allowed that his Solomon 
 ad many noble sentiments elegantly express- 
 ed. In Swift he discovered an inimitable vein 
 of irony, and an easiness which all would 
 hope and few would attain. Pope he was in- 
 clined to degrade from a poet to a versifier, 
 and thought his numbers rather luscious than 
 sweet. He often lamented the neglect of Phae- 
 dra and Hippolitus, and wished to see the 
 stage under better regulation. 
 
 These assertions passed commonly uncon- 
 tradicted ; and if now and then an opponent 
 started up, he was quickly repressed by the suf- 
 frages of the company, and Minim went away 
 from every dispute with elation of heart and 
 increase of confidence. 
 
 He now grew conscious of his abilities, and 
 began to talk of the present state of dramatic 
 poetry ; wondered what was become of the 
 comic genius which supplied our ancestors with 
 wit and pleasantry, and why no writer could be 
 found that durst now venture beyond a farce. 
 He saw no reason for thinking that the vein of 
 humour was exhausted, since we live in a coun- 
 try where liberty suffers every character to 
 spread itself to its utmost bulk, and which, 
 therefore, produces more originals than all the 
 rest of the world together. Of tragedy he con- 
 cluded business to be the soul, and yet often 
 hinted that love predominates too much upon 
 the modern stage. 
 
 He was now an acknowledged critic, and had 
 his own seat in a coffee-house, and headed a 
 party in the pit. Minim has more vanity than 
 ill nature, and seldom desires to do much mis- 
 chief; he will perhaps murmur a little in the 
 ear of him that sits next him, but endeavours 
 to influence the audience to favour, by clapping 
 when an actor exclaims, " Ye gods !" or la- 
 ments the misery of his country. 
 
 By degrees he was admitted to rehearsals ; and 
 
 many of his frienas are of opinion, that our pre- 
 sent poets are indebted to him for their happi- 
 est thoughts ; by his contrivance the bell was 
 rung twice in Barbarossa, and by his persuasion 
 the author of Cleone concluded his play with 
 a couplet ; for what can be more absurd, said 
 Minim, than that part of a play should be 
 rhymed, and part written in blank verse ; and 
 by what acquisition of faculties is the speaker, 
 who never could find rhymes before, enabled 
 to rhyme at the conclusion of an act ? 
 
 He is the great investigator of hidden beau- 
 ties, and is particularly delighted when he finds 
 the sound an echo to the sense. He has read all 
 our poets with particular attention to this deli- 
 cacy of versification, and wonders at the su- 
 pineness with which their works have been 
 hitherto perused, so that no man has found the 
 sound of a drum in this distich. 
 
 
 
 " When pulpit, drum ecclesiastic, 
 Was beat with fist instead of a stick ;" 
 
 and that the wonderful lines upon honour 
 and a bubble, have hitherto passed without 
 notice : 
 
 " Honour is like the glassy bubble, 
 Which costs philosophers such trouble : 
 Where, one partcrack'd, the whole does fly 
 And wits are crack'd to find out why. 
 
 In these verses, says Minim, we have two 
 striking accommodations of the sound to the 
 sense. It is impossible to utter the two lines 
 emphatically without an act like that which 
 they describe ; bubble and trouble causing a 
 momentary inflation of the cheeks by the reten- 
 tion of the breath, which is afterwards forcibly 
 emitted, as in the practice of blowing bubbles. 
 But the greatest excellence is in the third line, 
 which is cracked in the middle to exoress a 
 crack, and then shivers into monosyllables. 
 Yet hath this diamond lain neglected with com- 
 mon stones, and among the innumerable ad 
 mirers of Hudibras the observation of this 
 superlative passage has been reserved for the 
 sagacity of Minim. 
 
 No. 61.] SATURDAY, JUNE 16, 1759. 
 
 MR. MINIM had now advanced himself to the 
 zenith of critical reputation ; when he was in 
 the pit, every eye in the boxes was fixed upon 
 him ; when he entered his coffee-house, he was 
 surrounded by circles of candidates, who passed 
 their noviciate of literature under his tuition : 
 his opinion was asked by all who had no opi- 
 nion of their own, and yet loved to debate and 
 decide ; and no composition was supposed to 
 pass in safety to posterity till it had been scour- 
 ed by Minim's approbation. 
 
 Minim professes great admiration of the wis- 
 dom and munificence by which the academies of 
 the continent were raised ; and often wishes for 
 some standard of taste, for some tribunal, to 
 which merit may appeal from caprice, prejudice, 
 and malignity. He has formed a plan for an 
 academy of criticism, where every work of 
 imagination may be read before it is printed, and
 
 No. 62.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 415 
 
 which shall authoritively direct the theatres 
 what pieces to receive or reject, to exclude or 
 to revive. 
 
 Such an institution would, in Dick's opinion, 
 spread the fame of English literature over Eu- 
 rope, and make London the metropolis of ele- 
 gance and politeness, the place to which the 
 learned and ingenious of all countries would 
 repair for instruction and improvement, and 
 where nothing would any longer be applauded 
 or endured that was not conformed to the ni- 
 cest rules, and finished with the highest ele- 
 gance. 
 
 Till some happy conjunction of the planets 
 shall dispose our princes or ministers to make 
 themselves immortal by such an academy, 
 Minim contents himself to preside four nights 
 in a week in a critical society selected by 
 himself, where he is heard without contradic- 
 tion, and whence his judgment is dissemi- 
 nated through the great vulgar and the small. 
 
 When he is placed in the chair of criticism, 
 he declares loudly for the noble simplicity of 
 our ancestors, in opposition to the petty refine- 
 ments, and ornamental luxuriance. Some- 
 times he is sunk in despair, and perceives 
 false delicacy daily gaining ground, and some- 
 limes brightens his countenance with a gleam 
 of hope, and predicts the revival of the true 
 sublime. He then fulminates his loudest cen- 
 sures against the monkish barbarity of rhyme ; 
 wonders how beings that pretend to reason can 
 be pleased with one line always ending like 
 another ; tells how unjustly and unnaturally 
 sense is sacrificed to sound ; how often the 
 best thoughts are mangled by the necessity of 
 confining or extending them to the dimensions of 
 a couplet ; and rejoices that genius has, in our 
 days, shaken of the shackles which had en- 
 cumbered it so long. Yet he allows that 
 rhyme may sometimes be borne if the lines 
 be often broken, and the pauses judiciously 
 diversified. 
 
 From blank verse he makes an easy transi- 
 tion to Milton, whom he produces as an exam- 
 ple of >he slow advance of lasting reputation. 
 Milton is the only writer in whose books 
 Minim can read for ever without weariness. 
 What cause is it that exempts this pleasure 
 from satiety he has long and diligently inquir- 
 ed, and believes it to consist in the perpetual 
 variation of the numbers, by which the ear is 
 gratified and the attention awakened. The 
 lines that are commonly thought rugged and 
 and unmusical he conceives to have been 
 written to temper the melodious luxury of the 
 rest, or to express things by z. proper cadence : 
 for he scarcely finds a verse that has not 
 this favourite beauty ; he declares that he 
 could shiver in a hot-house when he reads 
 that 
 
 
 
 " the ground 
 Burns frore, and cold performs the effect of fire ; 
 
 and that when Milton bewails his blindness, 
 the v^rse, 
 
 v 80 thick a drop serene has quench'd these orbs," 
 
 | has, he knowt not how, something that strikes 
 ' him with an obscure sensation like that which 
 he fancies would be felt from the sound of 
 darkness. 
 
 Minim is not so confident of his rules of 
 judgment as not very eagerly to catch new 
 light from the name of the author. He is 
 commonly so prudent as to spare those whom 
 he cannot resist, unless, as will sometimes hap- 
 pen, he finds the public combined against 
 them. But a fresh pretender to fame he is 
 strongly inclined to censure, till his own ho- 
 nour requires that he commend him. Till he 
 knows the success of a composition he in- 
 trenches himself in general terms ; them 
 are some new thoughts and beautiful pa.oa- 
 ges, but there is likewise much which he would 
 have advised the author to expunge. He has 
 several favourite epithets, of which he has 
 never settled the J,.eaning, but which are 
 very comm^ *i\inf applied to books which he 
 has not read, or cannot understand. O;>e is 
 manly, another is dry, another stiff, and ano- 
 ther flimsy : sometimes he discovers delicacy 
 of style, and scmetimes meets with strange 
 expressions. 
 
 He is never so great nor so happy, as when a 
 youth of promising parts is brought to receive 
 his directions for the prosecution of his studies. 
 He then puts on a very serious air ; he advises 
 the pupil to read none but the best authors, 
 and, when he finds one congenial to his own 
 mind, to study his beauties, but avoid his 
 faults, and, when he sits down to write, to con- 
 sider how his favourite author would think at 
 the present time on the present occasion. He 
 exhorts him to catch those moments when he 
 finds his thoughts expanded and his genius 
 exalted, but to take care lest imagination hurry 
 him beyond the bounds of nature. He holds 
 diligence the mother of success ; yet enjoins 
 him with great earnestness, not to read more 
 than he can digest, and not to confuse his 
 mind, by pursuing studies of contrary ten- 
 dencies. He tells him, that every man has 
 his genius, and that Cicero could never be a 
 poet. The boy retires illuminated, resolves to 
 follow his genius, and to think how Milton 
 would have thought : and Minim feasts upon 
 his own beneficence till another day brings 
 another pupil. 
 
 No. 62.] SATURDAY, JUNE 23, 1759. 
 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 AN opinion prevails almost universally in the 
 world, that he who has money has every thing. 
 This is not a modern paradox, or the tenet of 
 a small and obscure sect, but a persuasion 
 which appears to have operated upon most 
 minds in all ages, and which is supported by 
 authorities so numerous and so cogent, that 
 nothing but long experience could have given 
 me confidence to question its truth. 
 
 But experience is the test by which all the 
 philosophers of the present age agree, that 
 speculation must be tried ; and I may therefore
 
 416 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. G3. 
 
 be allowed to doubt the power of money, since 
 I have been a long time rich, and I have not 
 yet (buna that riches can make me happy. 
 
 My father was a farmer neither wealthy nor 
 indigent, who gave me a better education than 
 was suitable to my birth, because my uncle in 
 the city designed me for his heir and desired 
 that I might be bred a gentleman. My uncle's 
 wealth was the perpetual subject of conver- 
 sation in the house ; and when any little mis- 
 fortune befel us, or any mortification dejected 
 us, my father always exhorted me to hold up 
 my head, for my uncle would never marry. 
 
 My uncle, indeed, kept his promise. Having 
 his mind completely busied between his ware- 
 house and the Change, he felt no tediousness of 
 life, nor any want of domestic amusements. 
 When my father died, he received me kindly ; 
 but after a few months rinding no great plea- 
 sure in the conversation of each other, we part- 
 ed ; and he remitted me a small annuity, on 
 which I lived a quiet and studious life, without 
 any wish to grow great by the death of my 
 benefactor. 
 
 But though I never suffered any malignant 
 impatience to take holds on my mind, I could 
 not forbear sometimes to imagine to myself the 
 pleasure of being rich ; and when I read of 
 diversions and magnificence, resolved to try, 
 when time should put the trial in my power, 
 what pleasure they could afford. 
 
 My uncle, in the latter spring of his life, 
 when his ruddy cheek and his firm nerves 
 promised him a long and healthy age, died of 
 an apoplexy. His death gave me neither joy 
 nor sorrow. He did me good, and I regarded 
 him with gratitude ; but I could not please 
 him, and therefore could not love him. 
 
 He had the policy of little minds who 4ove 
 to surprise : and having always represented 
 his fortune as less than it was, had, I suppose, 
 often gratified himself with thinking, how I 
 should be delighted to find myself twice as 
 rich as I expected. My wealth was such as 
 exceeded all the schemes of expense which I 
 had formed ; and I soon began to expand my 
 thoughts and look round me for some purchase 
 of felicity. 
 
 The most striking effect of riches is the 
 splendour of dress, which every man has ob- 
 served to enforce respect, and facilitate recep- 
 tion ; and my first desire was to be fine. I 
 sent for a tailor who was employed by the no- 
 bility, and ordered such a suit of clothes as I 
 had often looked on with involuntary submis- 
 sion, and am ashamed to remember with what 
 flutters of expectation I waited for the hour 
 when I should issue forth in all the splendour 
 of embroidery. The clothes were brought and 
 for three days I observed many eyes turned 
 towards me as I passed ; but I felt myself ob- 
 structed in the common intercourse of civility, 
 by an uneasy consciousness of my new ap- 
 pearance ; as I thought myself more observed, 
 I was more anxious about my mien and beha- 
 viour ; and the mien which is formed by care 
 is commonly ridiculous. A short time accus- 
 tomed me to myself, and my dress was without 
 pain and without pleasure. 
 
 For a little while I tried to be a rake, but I 
 
 began too late ; and having by nature no turn 
 for a frolic, was in great danger of ending in a 
 drunkard. A fever, in which not one of my 
 companions paid me a visit, gave me time for 
 reflection. I found that there was no great 
 pleasure in breaking windows and lying in 
 the round-house ; and resolved to associate 
 no longer with those whom, though I had 
 treated and bailed them, I could not make 
 friends. 
 
 I then changed my measures kept running 
 horses, and had the comfort of seeing my name 
 very often in the news. I had a chesnut horse, 
 the grandson of Childers,, who won four plates, 
 and ten by-matches ; and a bay frlly who carried 
 off" the five-years-old plate, and was expected to 
 perform much greater exploits, when my groom 
 broke her wind because I happened to catch 
 him selling oats for beer. This happiness was 
 soon at an end ; there was no pleasure when I 
 lost, and when I won I could not much exalt 
 myself by the virtues of my horse. I grew 
 ashamed of the company of jockey-lords, and 
 resolved to spend no more of my time in the 
 stable. 
 
 It was now known that I had money, and 
 would spend it, and I passed four months in 
 the company of architects, whose whole busi- 
 ness was, to persuade me to build a house. I 
 told them that I had more room than I wanted, 
 but could not get rid of their importunities. A 
 new plan was brought me every morning ; till 
 at last my constancy was overpowered, and I 
 began to build. The happiness of building last- 
 ed but a little while, for though I love to spend, 
 I hate to be cheated ; and I soon found, that to 
 build is to be robbed. 
 
 How I proceed in the pursuit of happiness, 
 you shall hear when I find myself disposed to 
 write. 
 
 I am, Sir, 
 
 TIM. RANGER. 
 
 No. 63.] SATURDAY, JUNE 30, 1759. 
 
 THE natural progress of the works of men is 
 from rudeness to convenience, tiotn conve- 
 nience to elegance, and from elegance to 
 nicety. 
 
 The first labour is enforced by necessity. The 
 savage finds himself incommoded by heat and 
 cold, by rain and wind ; he shelters himself in 
 the hollow of a rock and learns to dig a cave 
 where there was none before. He finds the 
 sun and the wind excluded by the thicket, and 
 when the accidents of the chase, or the con- 
 venience of pasturage, lead him into more 
 open places, he forms a thicket for himself, by 
 planting stakes at proper distances, and laying 
 branches from one to another. 
 
 The next gradation of skill and industry 
 produces a hovfte closed with doors, and divid- 
 ed by partitions ; and apartments are multi- 
 plied and disposed according to the various 
 degrees of power or invention ; improvement 
 succeeds improvement, as he that is freed 
 from a greater evil grows impatient of a less, 
 till ease in time is advanced to pleasure. 
 The mind set free from the importunities of
 
 No. 64.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 41? 
 
 natural want, gains leisure to go in search o 
 superfluous gratifications, and adds to the uses 
 of habitation the delights of prospect. Then 
 begins the reign of symmetry ; orders o 
 architecture are invented, and one part of the 
 edifice is conformed to another, without any 
 other reason, than that the eye may not be of- 
 fended. 
 
 The passage is very short from elegance to 
 luxury. Ionic and Corinthian columns are 
 soon succeeded by gilt cornices, inlaid floors 
 and petty ornaments, which show rather the 
 wealth than the taste of the possessor. 
 
 Language proceeds, like every thing else, 
 through improvement to degeneracy. The 
 rovers who first take possession of a country, 
 having not many ideas, and those not nicely 
 modified or discriminated, were contented, if by 
 general terms and abrupt sentences they could 
 make their thoughts known to one another; 
 as life begins to be more regulated, and pro- 
 perty to become limited, disputes must be de- 
 cided, and claims adjusted ; the differences ol 
 things are noted, and distinctness and proprie- 
 ty of expression become necessary. In time, 
 happiness and plenty give rise to curiosity, 
 and the sciences are cultivated for ease and 
 pleasure ; to the arts, which are now to be 
 taught, emulation soon adds the art of teach- 
 ing ; and the studious and ambitious contend 
 not only who shall think best, but who shall 
 tell their thoughts in the most pleasing man- 
 ner. 
 
 Then begin the arts of rhetoric and poetry, 
 the regulation of figures, the selection of 
 words, the modulation of periods, the graces 
 of transition, the complication of clauses, and 
 all the delicacies of style and subtilities of 
 composition, useful while they advance per- 
 spicuity, and laudable while they increase 
 pleasure, but easily to be refined by needless 
 scrupulosity till they shall more embarrass 
 the writer than assist the reader or delight 
 him. 
 
 The first state is commonly antecedent to 
 the practice of writing ; the ignorant essays of 
 imperfect diction pass away with the savage 
 generation that uttered them. No nation can 
 trace their language beyond the second period, 
 and even of that it does not often happen 
 that many monuments remain. 
 
 The fate of the English tongue is like that 
 of others. We know nothing of the scanty 
 jargon of our barbarous ancestors ; but we 
 have specimens of our language when it began 
 to be adapted to civil and religious purposes, 
 and find it such as might naturally be expect- 
 ed, artless and simple, unconnected and con- 
 cise. The writers seem to have desired little 
 more than to be understood, and perhaps sel- 
 dom aspired to the praise of pleasing. Their 
 verses were considered chiefly as memorial, 
 and therefore did not differ from prose but by 
 the measure or the rhyme. 
 
 In this state, varied a little according to the 
 different purposes or abilities of writers, our 
 language may be said to have continued to 
 the time of Grower, whom Chaucer calls his 
 master, and who, however obscured by his 
 scholar's popularity, seems justly to claim the 
 3C 
 
 honour which has hitherto been denied liim, of 
 showing his countrymen that something more 
 was to be desired, and that English VBrse might 
 be exalted into poetry. 
 
 From the time of Gower arid Chaucer, the 
 English writers have studied elegance, and 
 advanced their language, by successive im- 
 provements, to as much harmony as it can 
 easily receive, and as much copiousness as 
 human knowledge has hitherto required. 
 These advances have not been made at all 
 times with the same diligence or the same 
 success. Negligence has suspended the 
 course of improvement, or affectation turned 
 it aside ; time has elapsed with little change, 
 or change has been made without amend- 
 ment. But elegance has been long kept in 
 view with attention as near to constancy as 
 life permits, till every man now endeavours to 
 excel others in accuracy o.r outshine them in 
 splendour of style, and the danger is, lest care 
 should too soon pass to affectation. 
 
 No 64.] SATURDAY, JULY 7, 1759. 
 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 As nature has made every man desirous of 
 happiness, I flatter myself, that you and your 
 readers cannol but feel some curiosity to 
 know the sequel of my story ; for though, by 
 trying the different schemes of pleasure, I 
 have yet found nothing in which I could final- 
 ly acquiesce ; yet the narrative of my at- 
 tempts will not be wholly without use, since 
 we always approach nearer to truth as we de- 
 tect more and more varieties of error. 
 
 When I had sold my racers, and put the 
 orders of architecture out of my head, my 
 next resolution was to be a fine gentleman. I 
 frequented the polite coffee-houses, grew ac- 
 quainted with all the men of humour, and 
 ained the right of bowing familiarly to half 
 The nobility. In this new scene of life my 
 great labour was to learn to laugh. I had 
 seen used to consider laughter as the effect of 
 merriment ; but I soon learned that it is one 
 of the arts of adulation, and, from laughing 
 only to show that I was pleased, I now began 
 o laugh when I wished to please. This was 
 at first very difficult. I sometimes heard the 
 story with dull indifference ; and, not exalting 
 myself to merriment by due gradations, burst 
 out suddenly into an awkward noise which 
 was not always favourably interpreted. Some- 
 times I was behind the rest of the company, 
 and lost the grace of laughing by delay, and 
 sometimes when I began at the right time 
 was deficient in loudness or in length. But, 
 >y diligent imitation of the best models, I at- 
 aincd at last such flexibility of muscles, that I 
 was always a welcome auditor of a story, 
 and got the reputation of a good-natured fe.- 
 ow. 
 
 This was something ; but much more was 
 o be done, that I might be universally allow- 
 :d to be a fine gentleman. I appeared at 
 ourt on all public days ; betted at gaming- 
 ables and plaved at all the routs of eminence.
 
 418 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 I wont every night to the opera, took a fiddler 
 ol' disputed merit under my protection, be- 
 came the head of a musical faction, and had 
 sometimes concerts at my own house. I once 
 thought to have attained the highest rank of 
 elegance, by taking a foreign singer into 
 keeping. But my favourite fiddler contrived 
 to be arrested on th,s night of a concert, for a 
 finer suit of clothes than I had ever presumed 
 to wear, and I lost all the fame of patronage 
 by refusing to bail him. 
 
 My next ambition was to sit for my picture. 
 I spent a whole winter in going from painter to 
 painter, to bespeak a whole length of one, and 
 a half length of another, I talked of nothing 
 but attitudes, draperies, and proper lights ; 
 took my friends to see the pictures after 
 every sitting ; heard every day of a wonder- 
 ful performer in crayons and miniature, and 
 sent my pictures to be copied ; was told by 
 the judges that they were not like, and was 
 recommended to other artists. At length be- 
 ing not able to please my friends, I grew less 
 pleased mjself, and at last resolved to think no 
 more about it. 
 
 It was impossible to live in total idleness : 
 and wandering about in search of something 
 to do I was invited to a weekly meeting of 
 virtuosos, and felt myself instantaneously 
 seized with an unextinguishahle ardour for all 
 natural curiosities. I ran from auction to auc- 
 tion, became a critic in shells and fossils, 
 bought a Hortus aiccus of inestimable value, 
 and purchased a secret art of preserving in- 
 sects, which made my collection the envy of 
 the other philosophers. I found this pleasure 
 mingled with much vexation. All the faults 
 of my life were for nine months circulated 
 through the town with the most active malig- 
 nity, because I happened to catch a moth of 
 peculiar variegation ; and because I once 
 outbid all the lovers of shells, and carried off 
 a nautilus, it was hinted that the validity of 
 my uncle's will ought to be disputed. I will 
 not deny that I was very proud both of the moth 
 and of the shell, and gratified myself with 
 the envy of my companions, and perhaps more 
 than became a benevolent being. But in time 
 I grew weary of being hated for that which 
 produced no advantage, gave my shells to 
 children that wanted play-things, and sup- 
 pressed the art of drying butterflies, because 
 I would not tempt idleness and cruelty to kill 
 them. 
 
 I now began to feel life tedious, and wished 
 to store myself with friends, with whom I 
 might grow old in the interchange of benevo- 
 lence. I had observed that popularity was most 
 easily gained by an open table, and therefore 
 hired a French cook, furnished my sideboard 
 with great magnificence, filled my cellar with 
 wines of pompous appellations, bought every 
 thing that was dear before it was good, and 
 invited all those who were most famous for 
 judging of a dinner. In three weeks my cook 
 gave me warning, and, upon inquiry told me 
 that Lord Glueasy, who dined with me the day 
 before, had sent him an offer of double wages. 
 My pride prevailed : I raised his wages, and 
 invited his lordship to another feast. I love 
 
 plain meat, and was therefore soon weary ol 
 spreading a table of which I could not partake. 
 I found that my guests, when they went 
 away, criticised their entertainment and cen- 
 sured my profusion ; my cook thought him 
 self necessary, and took upon him the di- 
 rection of the house ; and I could not rid my 
 self of flatterers, or break from slavery, but 
 by shutting up my house, and declaring my re- 
 solution to live in lodgings. 
 
 After all this, tell me, dear Idler, what I 
 must do next ; I have health, I have money, 
 and I hope that I have understanding ; yet, 
 with all these, I have never been able to pass 
 a single day which I did not wish at an end 
 before sunset. Tell me, dear Idler, what I 
 shall do. 
 
 I am, 
 
 Your humble servant, 
 
 TIM. RANGER. 
 
 No. 65.] SATURDAY, JULY 14, 17.?9. 
 
 THE sequel of Clarendon's history, at last 
 happily published, is an accession to English 
 literature equally agreeable to the admirers of 
 elegance and the lovers of truth ; many 
 doubtful facts may now be ascertainec4, and 
 many questions, after long debate, may be de- 
 termined by decisive authority. He that re- 
 cords transactions in which himself was en- 
 gaged has not only an opportunity of know- 
 ing innumerable particulars which escape 
 spectators, but has his natural powers exalted 
 by that ardour which always rises at the re- 
 membrance of our own importance, and by 
 which every man is enabled to relate his own 
 actions better than another's. 
 
 The difficulties through which this work has 
 struggled into light, and the delays with which 
 our hopes have been lon mocked, naturally 
 lead the mind to the consideration of the com- 
 mon fate of posthumous compositions. 
 
 He who sees himself surrounded by admirers, 
 and whose vanity is hourly feasted with all the 
 luxuries of studied praise, is easily persuaded 
 that his influence will be extended beyond his 
 life ; that they who cringe in his presence 
 will reverence his memory, and that those who 
 are proud to be numbered among his friends, 
 will endeavour to vindicate his choice by zeal 
 for his reputation. 
 
 With hopes like these, to the executors of 
 Swift was committed the history of the last 
 years of Glueen Anne, and to those of Pope, 
 the works which remained unprinted in his 
 closet. The performances of Pope were 
 burnt by those whom he had perhaps selected 
 from all mankind as most likely to publish 
 them ; and the history had likewise perished, 
 had not a straggling transcript fallen in*o 
 busy hands. 
 
 The papers left in the closet of Pieresc, sup- 
 plied his heirs with a whole winter's fuel ; and 
 many of the labours of the learned bishop 
 Lloyd were consumed in the kitchen of hii 
 descendants. 
 
 Some works, indeed, have escaped total de- 
 struction, hut yet have had reason to lament
 
 No. 66.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 419 
 
 the fate of orphans exposed to the frauds o 
 unfaithful guardians. How Hale would hav 
 borne the mutilations which his " Pleas o 
 the Crown " have suffered from the editor 
 they who know his character will easily con 
 neive 
 
 The original copy of Burnet's history, thouo-] 
 promised to some public* library, has been 
 never given ; and who then can prove the fideli 
 ty of the publication, when the authenticity o 
 Clarendon's history, though printed with the 
 sanction of one of the first universities of the 
 world, had not an unexpected manuscript been 
 happily discovered, would, with the help of fac 
 tious credulity, have been brought into ques 
 tion by the two lowest of all human beings, a 
 scribbler for a party, and a commissioner of ex- 
 cise ? 
 
 Vanity is often no less mischievous than neg- 
 ligence or dishonesty. He that possesses a 
 valuable manuscript, hopes to raise its esteem 
 by concealment, and delights in the distinction 
 which he imagines himself to obtain by keep- 
 ing the key of a treasure which he neither uses 
 nor imparts. From him it falls to some other 
 owner, less vain but more negligent, who con- 
 sider it as useless lumber, and rids himself ol 
 the incumbrance. 
 
 Yet there are some works which the authors 
 must consign unpublished to posterity, how- 
 ever uncertain be the event, however hopeless 
 be the trust. He that writes the history of 
 nis own times, if he adheres steadily to truth, 
 will write that which his own times will not 
 easily endure. He must be content to re- 
 posite his book till all private passions shall 
 cease, and love and hatred give way to curi- 
 osity. 
 
 But many leave the labours of half their life 
 to their executors and to chance, because they 
 will not send them abroad unfinished, and are 
 unable to finish them, having prescribed to 
 themselves such a degree of exactness as hu- 
 man diligence can scarcely attain. " Lloyd," 
 says Burnet, " did not lay out his learning 
 with the same diligence as he laid it in." He 
 was always hesitating and inquiring, raising 
 objections and removing them, and waiting 
 for clearer light and fuller discovery. Baker, 
 after many years passed in biography, left his 
 manuscripts to be buried in a library, because 
 that was imperfect which could never be per- 
 fected. 
 
 Of these learned men, let those who aspire 
 to the same praise imitate the diligence, and 
 avoid the scrupulosity. Let it be always re- 
 membered that life is short, that knowledge is 
 endless, and that many doubts deserve not to 
 be cleared. Let those whom nature and study 
 have qualified to teach mankind, tell us what 
 they have learned while they are yet able to 
 tell it, and trust their reputation only to them- 
 selves. 
 
 * It would be proper to reposite, in some rublic place, 
 (he manuscript of Clarendon, which has no escaped all 
 suspicion of unfaithful publication. 
 
 No. 66.] SATURDAY, JULY 21, 1759 
 
 No complaint is more frequently repeated 
 among the learned, than that of the waste 
 made by time among the labours of antiquity. 
 Of those who once filled the civilized world 
 with their renown, nothing is now left but 
 their names which are left only to raise desires 
 that never can be satisfied, and sorrow which 
 never can be comforted. 
 
 Had all the writings of the ancients been 
 faithfully delivered down from age to age, had 
 the Alexandrian library been spared, and the 
 Palatine repositories remained unimpaired, 
 how much might we have known of which we 
 are now doomed to be ignorant ! how many 
 laborious inquiries, and dark conjectures ; 
 how many collations of broken hints, and mu- 
 tilated passages might have been spared ! 
 We should have known the successions of 
 princes, the revolutions of empire, the actions 
 of the great, and opinions of the wise, the 
 laws and constitutions of every state, and the 
 arts by which public grandeur and happiness 
 are acquired and preserved ; we should have 
 traced the progress of life, seen colonies from 
 distant regions take possession of European 
 deserts, and troops of savages settled into com- 
 munities by the desire of keeping what they 
 had acquired ; we should have traced the gra- 
 dations of civility, and travelled upward to the 
 original of things by the light of history, till in 
 remoter time it had glimmered in fable, and at 
 last sunk into darkness. 
 
 If the works of imagination had been lesj 
 diminished, it is likely that all future times 
 might have been supplied with inexhaustible 
 amusement by the fictions of antiquity. The 
 ;ragedies of Sophocles and Euripides would 
 lave shown all the stronger passions in all 
 ;heir diversities ; and the comedies of Menan- 
 der would have furnished all the maxims 
 domestic life. Nothing would have be . 
 necessary to mortal wisdom but to have studi 
 ;hese great masters, whose knowledge would 
 lave guided doubt, and whose authority would 
 lave silenced cavils. 
 
 Such are the thoughts that rise in every stu 
 
 dent, when his curiosity is eluded, and hia 
 
 searches are frustrated ; yet it may perhaps be 
 
 doubted, whether our complaints are not some- 
 
 imes inconsiderate, and whether we do not 
 
 magine more evil than we feel. Of the an- 
 
 ients, enough remains to excite our emulation 
 
 and direct our endeavours. Many of the 
 
 works which time has left us, we know to have 
 
 >een those that were most esteemed, and which 
 
 ntiquity itself considered as models ; so that, 
 
 mving the originals, we may without much 
 
 egret lose the imitations. The obscurity 
 
 .vhich the want of contemporary writers often 
 
 jroduces, only darkens single passages, and 
 
 hose commonly of slight importance. The 
 
 jeneral tendency of every piece may be known : 
 
 and though that diligence deserves praise 
 
 which leaves nothing unexanrined, yet its mis- 
 
 arriages are not much to be lamented ; for 
 
 he most useful truths are always universal, 
 
 nd unconnected with accidents and customs. 
 
 Such ie the general conspiracy of human
 
 420 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 67. 
 
 nature against contemporary merit, that, if we 
 had inherited from antiquity enough to afford 
 employment for the labourious, and amuse- 
 ment for the i.'.le, I know not what room would 
 have been left for modern genius or modern 
 industry ; almost every subject would have 
 been pre-occupied, and every style would have 
 been fixed by a precedent from which few 
 would have ventured to depart Every writer 
 would have had a rival, whose superiority 
 was already acknowledged, and to whose fame 
 his work would, even before it was seen, be 
 marked out for a sacrifice. 
 
 We see how little the united experience of 
 mankind hath been able to add to the heroic 
 characters displayed by Homer, and how few 
 incidents the fertile imagination of modern 
 Italy has yet produced which may not be found 
 in the Iliad and Odyssey. It is likely that if 
 all the works of the Athenian philosophers 
 had been extant, Malbranche and Locke would 
 have been condemned to be silent readers of 
 the ancient metaphysicians; and it is apparent, 
 that, if the old writers had all remained, the 
 Idler could not have written a disquisition on 
 the loss. 
 
 No. 67.] SATURDAY, JULY 28, 1759. 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 IN the observations which you have made on 
 the various opinions and pursuits of mankind, 
 you must often, in literary conversations, have 
 met with men who consider dissipation as the 
 great enemy of the intellect ; and maintain, 
 that, in proportion as the student keeps him- 
 self within the bounds of a settled plan, he 
 will certainly advance in science. 
 
 This opinion is, perhaps, generally true ; 
 yet when we contemplate the inquisitive nature 
 of the human mind, and its perpetual impa- 
 tience of all restraint, it may be doubted whe- 
 ther the faculties may not be contracted by con- 
 fining the attention ; and whether it may not 
 sometimes be proper to risk the certainty of 
 little for the chance of much. Acquisitions of 
 knowledge, like blazes of genius, are often for- 
 tuitous. Those who had proposed to them- 
 selves a methodical course of reading, light 
 by accident on a new book, which seizes their 
 thoughts and kindles their curiosity, and opens 
 an unexpected prospect, to which the way 
 which they had prescribed to themselves would 
 never have conducted them. 
 
 To enforce and illustrate my meaning, I have 
 sent you a journal of three days' employment, 
 found among the papers of a late intimate ac- 
 quaintance ; who, as will plainly appear, was 
 a man of vast designs, and of vast perfor- 
 mances, though he sometimes designed one 
 thing and performed another. I allow tha 
 the Spectator's inimitable productions of thii 
 kind may well discourage all subsequent jour 
 nalists ; but as the subject of this is differen 
 from that of any which the Spectator has given 
 ns, I leave it to you to publish or suppres 
 
 Mem. The following three days I propose to 
 'ive up to reading ; and intend, after all the 
 elays which have obtruded themselves upon 
 me, to finish my "Essay on the Extent of the 
 Mental Powers;" to revise my "Treatise on 
 >ogic ; " to begin the " Epic" which I have 
 ong projected ; to proceed in my persual of 
 lie " Scriptures with Grotius's Comment ; " 
 nd at my leisure to regale myself with the 
 ivorks of classics, ancient and modern, and to 
 inish my " Ode to Astronomy. " 
 
 Monday. Designed to rise at six, but, by 
 ny servant's laziness, my fire was not lighted 
 efore eight; when I dropped into a slumber 
 hat lasted till nine, at which time I arose, and 
 after breakfast at ten sat down to study, pro- 
 >osing to begin upon my Essay : but, finding 
 ccasion to consult a passage in Plato, was 
 Lbsorbed in the persual of the Republic till 
 welve. I had neglected to forbid company, 
 ind now enters Tom Careless, who after half 
 in hour's chat, insisted upon my going with 
 lim to enjoy an absurd character, that he had 
 ippointed, by an advertisement, to meet him 
 at a particular coffee-house. After we had for 
 some time entertained ourselves with him, we 
 sallied out, designing each to repair his home , 
 jut, as it fell out, coming up in the street to a 
 man whose steel by his side declared him a 
 >utcher, we overheard him opening an address 
 ,o a genteelish sort of young lady, whom he 
 walked with : " Miss, though your father is 
 master of a coal-lighter, and you will be a 
 great fortune, 'tis true ; yet I wish I may be 
 cut into quarters, if it is not only love, and not 
 ucre of gain, that is my motive for offering 
 ;crms of marriage." As this lover proceeded 
 n his speech, he misled us the length of three 
 streets, in admiration at the unlimited power 
 of the tender passion that could soften even the 
 .icart of a butcher. We then adjourned to a 
 ;avern, and from thence to one of the public 
 gardens, where I was regaled with a most 
 imusing variety of men, possessing great ta- 
 lents, so discoloured by affectation, that they 
 only made them eminently ridiculous ; shallow 
 things, who, by continual dissipation, had an- 
 nihilated the few ideas nature had given them, 
 and yet were celebrated for wonderful pretty 
 gentlemen ; young ladies extolled for their wit, 
 because they were handsome ; illiterate empty 
 women, as well as men, in high life, admired 
 for their knowledge, from their being resolutely 
 positive ; and women of real understanding 
 so far from pleasing the polite million, that 
 they frightened them away, and were left soli- 
 tary. When we quitted this entertaining 
 scene, Tom pressed me irresistibly to sup 
 with him. I reached home at twelve, and then 
 reflected, that though indeed I had, by remark- 
 ing various characters, improved my insight 
 into human nature, yet still I neglected the 
 studies proposed, and accordingly took up my 
 Treatise on Logic, to give it the intented re- 
 visal, but found my spirits too much agitated, 
 and could not forbear a few satirical lines, un- 
 der the title of "The Evening's Walk." 
 
 Tuesday, At b.-eakfast, seeing my "Ode 
 to Astronomy" lying on my desk, I was struck 
 with a train of ideas, that I thought might
 
 No. 68.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 421 
 
 contribute to its improvement. I immediate! 
 rang my bell to forbid all visitants, when m 
 servant opened the door, with " Sir, Mr. Jeftre 
 Gape. " My cup dropped out of one ham 
 and my poem out of the other. I could scarce 
 ly ask him to sit ; he told me he was goin 
 to walk, but as there was a likelihood of rain 
 he would sit with me ; he said, he intended a 
 first to have called at Mr. Vacant's, but as h 
 had not seen me a great while, he did no 
 mind coming out of his way to wait on me 
 I made him a bow, but th.-mks for the favou 
 stuck in my throat. I asked him if he ha< 
 been to the coffee-house ; he replied, tw< 
 hours. 
 
 Under the oppression of this dull interrup 
 tion, I sat looking wishfully at the clock ; fo 
 which, to increase my satisfaction, I had cho 
 sen the inscription, " Art is long, and life 
 short ; " exchanging questions and answers a 
 long intervals, and not without some hint 
 that the weather-glass promised fair weather 
 At half an hour after three he told me he woul 
 trespass on me for a dinner, and desired me to 
 send to his house for a bundle of papers, abou 
 inclosing a common upon his estate, which he 
 would read to me in the evening. 1 declarec 
 myself busy, and Mr. Gape went away. 
 
 Having dined, to compose my chagrin, ] 
 took my Virgil, and several other classics, but 
 could not calm my mind, or proceed in my 
 scheme. At about five I laid my hand on a 
 Bible that lay on my table, at first with cold- 
 ness and insensibility ; but was imperceptibly 
 engaged in a close attention to its sublime mo- 
 rality, and felt my heart expanded by warm 
 philanthropy, and exalted to dignity of senti- 
 ment. I then censured my too great solicitude, 
 and my disgust conceived at my acquaintance, 
 who had been so far from designing to offend, 
 that he only meant to show kindness and re- 
 spect. In this strain of mind I wrote " An 
 Essay on Benevolence," and " An Elegy on 
 Sublunary Disappointments. " When I had 
 finished these at eleven, I supped and recol- 
 lected how little I had adhered to my plan, and 
 almost questioned the possibility of pursuing 
 any settled and uniform design ; however, I 
 was not so far persuaded of the truth of these 
 suggestions, but that I resolved to try once more 
 at my scheme. As I observed the moon shin- 
 ing through my window, from a calm and 
 bright sky, spangled with innumerable stars, 
 I indulged a pleasing meditation on the splen- 
 did scene, and finished my " Ode to Astro- 
 nomy. " 
 
 Wednesday. Rose at seven, and employed 
 three hours in perusal of the " Scriptures with 
 Grotius's Comment ;" and after breakfast fell 
 into meditation concerning my projected Epic ; 
 and being in some doubt as to the particular 
 lives of some heroes, whom I proposed to cele- 
 brate, I consulted Bayle and Moreri, and was 
 engaged two hours in examining various lives 
 and characters, but then resolved to go to my 
 employment. When I was seated at my 
 desk, and began to feel the glowing succes- 
 sion of poetical ideas, my servant brought me 
 a letter from a lawyer requiring my instant 
 attendance at Grav's Inn for half an hour. 1 
 
 went full of vexat'ion, and was involved in 
 business till eight at night ; and then, being 
 too much fatigued to study, supped, and 
 went to bed. 
 
 Here my friend's journal concludes, which 
 perhaps is pretty much a picture of the manner 
 in which many prosecute their studies. I there- 
 fore resolved to send it you, imagining, that, if 
 you think it worthy of appearing in your paper, 
 some of your readers may receive entertain- 
 ment by recognizing a resemblance between 
 my friend's conduct and their own. It must 
 be left to the Idler accurately to ascertain the 
 proper methods of advancing in literature ; 
 but this one position, deduciblc from what has 
 been said above, may, I think, be reasonably 
 asserted, that he who finds himself strongly 
 attracted to any particular study, though it 
 may happen to be out of his proposed scheme, 
 if it is not trifling or vicious, had better con- 
 tinue his application to it, since it is likely 
 that he will with much more ease and expe- 
 dition, attain that which a warm inclination 
 stimulates him to pursue, than that at which a 
 prescribed law compels him to toil. 
 I am, Sir, &c. 
 
 No. 68.] SATURDAY, AUG. 4, 1759. 
 
 AMONG the studies which have exercised the 
 ngenious and the learned for more than three 
 centuries, none has been more diligently or 
 more successfully cultivated than the art of 
 ranslation ; by which the impediments which 
 >ar the way to science, are, in some measure, 
 removed, and the multiplicity of languages be- 
 comes less incommodious. 
 
 Of every other kind of writing the ancients 
 lave left us models which all succeeding ages 
 lave laboured to imitate ; but translation may 
 ustly be claimed by the moderns as their own. 
 n the first ages of the world instruction was 
 commonly oral, and learning traditional, and 
 what was not written could not be translated. 
 iVhen alphabetical writing made the convey- 
 ance of opinions and the transmission of 
 vents more easy and certain, literature did 
 ot flourish in more than one country at once, 
 or distant nations had little commerce with 
 ach other ; and those few whom curiosity 
 ent abroad in quest of improvement, deliver- 
 d their acquisitions in their own manner, 
 esirous perhaps to be considered as the 
 nventors of that which they had learned from 
 thers. 
 
 The Greeks for a time travelled into Egypt, 
 ut they translated 10 books from the Egyptian 
 anguage ; and when the Macedonians had 
 verthrown the empire of Persia, the countries 
 lat became subject to Grecian dominion stu- 
 ied only the Grecian literature. The books 
 f the conquered nations, if they had any 
 mong them, sunk into oblivion ; Greece con- 
 dered herself as the mistress, if not as Uie pa- 
 ent of arts ; her language contained all that 
 fas supposed to be known, and, except the 
 acred writings of the Old Testament I know
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 69. 
 
 not that the library of Alexandria adopted any 
 thirty from a foreign tongue. 
 
 The Romans confessed themselves the scho- 
 lars of the Greeks, and do not appear to have 
 expected what has since happened, that the 
 ignorance of succeeding ages would prefer 
 tnem to their teachers. Every man, who in 
 Rome aspired to the praise of literature, 
 thoight it necessary to learn Greek, and had 
 no need of versions when they could study the 
 originals. Translation, however, was not 
 wholly neglected. Dramatic poems could be 
 understood by the people in no language but 
 their own, and the Romans were sometimes 
 entertained with the tragedies of Euripides 
 and the comedies of Menander. Other works 
 were sometimes attempted ; in an old scho- 
 liast there is mention of a Latin Iliad ; and 
 we have not wholly lost Tully's version of the 
 poem of Aratus ; but it does not appear that 
 any man grew eminent by interpreting ano- 
 ther, and perhaps it was more frequent to 
 translate for exercise or amusement, than for 
 fame. 
 
 The Arabs were the first nation who felt the 
 ardour of translation : when they had subdu- 
 ed the eastern provinces of the Greek empire, 
 they found their captives wiser than them- 
 selves, and made haste to relieve their wants 
 by imparted knowledge. They discovered 
 that many might grow wise by the labour of a 
 few, and that improvements might be made 
 with speed, when they had the knowledge of 
 former ages in their own language. They 
 therefore made haste to lay hold on medicine 
 and philosophy, and turned their chief authors 
 into Arabic. Whether they attempted the 
 poets is not known ; their literary zeal was 
 vehement, but it was short, and probably ex- 
 pired before they had time to add the arts of 
 elegance those of necessity. 
 
 The study of ancient literature was inter- 
 rupted in Europe by the irruption of the north- 
 ern nations, who subverted the Roman empire, 
 and erected new kingdoms with new langua- 
 ges. It is not strange, that such confusion 
 should suspend literary attention ; those who 
 lost, and those who gained dominion, had im- 
 mediate difficulties to encounter, and imme- 
 diate miseries to redress, and had little leisure, 
 amidst the violence war, the trepidation of 
 flight the distresses of forced migration, or 
 the tumults of unsettled conquest, to inquire 
 after speculative truth^ "to enjoy the amuse- 
 ment of imaginary adventures, to know the 
 history of former agrs, or study the events 
 of any other lives. But no sooner had this 
 chaos of dominion sunk into order, than 
 learning began again to flourish in the calm 
 of peace. When life and possessions were 
 secure, convenience and enjoyment were soon 
 sought, learning was found the highest gra- 
 tiricatioi. of the mind, and translation became 
 .me of the means by which it was imparted. 
 
 At last, by a concurrence of many causes, 
 the European world was roused from its lethar- 
 gy ; those arts which had been long obscurely 
 studied in the gloom of monasteries became the 
 general favourites of mankind ; every nation 
 vied with its neighbour for the prize of learn- 
 
 ing ; the epidemical emulation spread from 
 south to north, and curiosity and translation 
 found their way to Britain. 
 
 No. 69.] SATURDAY, AUG. 11, 1759. 
 
 HE that reviews the progress of English lite- 
 rature, will find that translation was very early 
 cultivated among us, but that some principles 
 either wholly erroneous or too far extended, 
 hindered our success from being always equal 
 to our diligence. 
 
 Chaucer, who is generally considered as the 
 father of our poetry, has left a version of Bce- 
 tius on the Comforts of Philosophy, the book 
 which seems to have been the favourite of 
 the middle ages, which had been translated 
 into Saxon by King Alfred, and illustrated 
 with a copious Comment ascribed to Aquinas. 
 It may be supposed that Chaucer would apply 
 more than common attention to an author of 
 so much celebrity, yet he has attempted no- 
 thing higher than a version strictly literal, and 
 has degraded the poetical parts to prose, that 
 the constraint of versification might not ob- 
 struct his zeal for fidelity. 
 
 Caxton taught us typography about the year 
 1474. The first book printed in English was 
 a translation. Caxton was both the translator 
 and printer of the Destruction of Troye, a book 
 which, in that infancy of learning, was con- 
 sidered as the best account of the fabulous ages, 
 and which, though now driven out of notice by 
 authors of no greater use or value, still con- 
 tinued to be read in Caxton's English to the 
 beginning of the present century. 
 
 Caxton proceeded as he began, and except the 
 poems of Gowerand Chaucer, printed nothing 
 but translations from the French, in which the 
 original is so scupulously followed, that they 
 afford us little knowledge of our own language; 
 though the words are English, the phrase is 
 foreign. 
 
 As learning advanced, new works were 
 adopted into our language, but I think with 
 little improvement of the art of translation, 
 though foreign nations and other languages 
 offered us models of a better method ; till in the 
 age of Elizabeth we began to find that greater 
 liberty was necessary to elegance, and that 
 elegance was necessary to general reception ; 
 some essays were then made upon the Italian 
 poets, which deserve the praise and gratitude 
 of posterity. 
 
 But the old practice was not suddenly for- 
 saken ; Holland filled the nation with literal 
 translation ; and what is yet more strange, the 
 same exactness was obstinately practised in 
 the versions of the poets. This absurd labour 
 of construing into rhyme was countenanced by 
 Jonson in his version of Horace ; and whether 
 it be that more men have learning than genius, 
 or that the endeavours of that time were more 
 directed towards knowledge than delight, the 
 accuracy of Jonson found more imitators than 
 the elegance of Fairfax ; and May, Sandys, 
 and Holiday, confined themselves to the toil 
 of rendering line for line, not indead with equal
 
 Nc 70.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 felicity, for May and Sandys were poets, and 
 Holiday only a scholar and a critic. 
 
 Feltham appears to consider it as the esta- 
 blished law of poetical tranlation, that the 
 lines should be neither more nor fewer than 
 those of the original ; and so long had this 
 prejudice prevailed, that Denham praises 
 Fanshaw's version of Guarini as the exam- 
 ple of a " new and noble way," as the first 
 attempt to break the boundaries of custom, 
 and assert the natural freedom, of the Muse. 
 
 In the general emulation of wit and genius 
 which the festivity of the Restoration produc- 
 ed, the poets shook of their constraint, and 
 considered translation as no longer confined to 
 servile closeness. But reformation is seldom 
 the work of pure virtue, or unassisted reason. 
 Translation was improved more by accident 
 than conviction. The writers of the foregoing 
 age had at least learning equal to their genius, 
 and being often more able to explain the sen- 
 timents or illustrate the allusions of the an- 
 cients, than to exhibit their graces and trans- 
 fuse their spirit, were perhaps willing some- 
 times to conceal their want of poetry by pro- 
 fusion of literature, and therefore translated 
 literally, that their fidelity might shelter their 
 insipidity or harshness. The wits of Charles' 
 time had seldom more than slight and superfi- 
 cial views ; and their care was, to hide their 
 want of learning behind the colours of a gay 
 imagination : they therefore translated always 
 with freedom, sometimes with licentiousness, 
 and perhaps expected that their readers should 
 accept sprightliness for knowledge, and con- 
 sider ignorance and mistake as impatience 
 and negligence of a mind too rapid to stop at 
 difficulties, and too elevated to descend to mi- 
 nuteness. 
 
 Thus was translation made more easy to the 
 writer, and more delightful to the reader ; and 
 there is no wonder if ease and pleasure have 
 found their advocates. The paraphrastic liber- 
 ties have been almost universally admitted ; 
 and Sherbourn, whose learning was eminent, 
 and who had no need of any excuse to pass 
 slightly over obscurities, is the only writer who 
 in later times has attempted to justify or revive 
 the ancient severity. 
 
 There is undoubtedly a mean to be observed. 
 Dryden saw very early that closeness best pre- 
 served an author's sense, and that freedom 
 best exhibited his spirit ; he therefore will de- 
 serve the highest praise, who can give a repre- 
 sentation at once faithful and plsasing, who 
 can convey the same thoughts with the same 
 graces, and who, when he translates, chan- 
 ges nothing but the language. 
 
 No. 70.] SATURDAY, AUG. 18, 1759. 
 
 FEW faults of style whether real or imaginary, 
 excite the malignity of a more numerous class 
 of readers than the use of hard words. 
 
 If an author be supposed to involve his 
 thoughts in voluntary obscurity, and to ob- 
 struct, by unnecessary difficulties, a mind 
 eager in pursuit of truth ; if he writes not to 
 make others learned, but to boast the learn- 
 
 ing which he posse ^--s himself, and wishes to 
 be admired rather than understood, he coun- 
 teracts the first end of writing and justly suf- 
 fers the utmost severity of censure, or tho 
 more afflictive severity of neglect. 
 
 But words are only hard to those who do 
 not understand them ; and the critic ought al- 
 ways to inquire, whether he is incommoded by 
 the fault of the writer, or by his own. 
 
 Every author does not write for every rea- 
 der ; many questions are such as the illiterate 
 part of mankind can have neither interest nor 
 pleasure to discussing, and which therefore it 
 would be a useless endeavour to level with 
 common minds, by tiresome circumlocutions or 
 laborious explanations ; and many subjects of 
 general use may be treated m a different 
 manner, as the book is intended for the learn- 
 ed or the ignorant. Diffusion and explication 
 are necessary to the instruction of those who, 
 being neither able nor accustomed to think 
 for themselves, can learn only what is express- 
 ly taught ; but they who can form parallels, 
 discover consequences, and multiply conclu- 
 sions, are best pleased with involution of ar- 
 gument and compression cf thought ; they 
 desire only to receive the seeds of knowledge 
 which they may branch out by their own 
 power to have the way to truth pointed out, 
 which they can follow without a guide. 
 
 The Guardian directs one of his pupils "to 
 think with the wise, but speak with the vul- 
 gar." This is a precept specious enough, but 
 not always practicable. Difference of thoughts 
 will produce difference of language. He that 
 thinks with more extent than another will 
 want words of larger meaning ; he that thinks 
 with more subtil ity will seek for terms ot 
 more nice discrimination ; and where is the 
 wonder, since words are but the images of 
 things, that he who never knew the original 
 should not know the copies ? 
 
 Yet vanity inclines us to find faults any 
 where rather than in ourselves. He that reads 
 and grows no wiser seldom suspects his own 
 deficiency ; but complains of hard words and 
 obscure sentences, and asks why books arc 
 written which cannot be understood ? 
 
 Among the hards words which are no longer 
 to be used, it has been long the custom to 
 number terms of art. " Every man^says Swift, 
 " is more able to explain the subject of an art 
 than it professors ; a farmer will tell you in 
 two words, that he has broken his leg ; but a 
 surgeon, after a long discourse, shall leave 
 you as ignorant as you were before." This 
 could only have been said by such an exact 
 observer of life, in gratification of malignity, 
 or in ostentation of acuteness. Every hour 
 produces instances of the necessity of terms 
 of art. Mankind could never conspire in uni- 
 form affectation ; it is not but by necessity that 
 every science and every trade has its peculiar 
 language. They that content themselves with 
 general ideas may rest in general terms ; but 
 those whose studies or employments force 
 them upon closer inspection, rmist have names 
 for particular parts, and words by which they 
 may express various modes of combination,
 
 424 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [jtfo. 7J 
 
 such as none but themselves have occasion to 
 consider. 
 
 Artists are indeed sometimes ready to sup- 
 pose that none can be strangers to words to 
 which themselves are familiar, talk to an inci- 
 dental inquirer as they talk to one another, 
 and make their knowledge ridiculous by 
 injudicious obtrusion. An art cannot be 
 taught but by its proper terms, but it is not 
 always necessary to teach the art. 
 
 That the vulgar express their thoughts clear- 
 ly is far from true ; and what perspicuity can 
 be found among them proceeds not from the 
 easiness of their language, but the shallow- 
 ness of their thoughts. He that sees a build- 
 ing as a common spectator, contents himself 
 with relating that it is great or little, mean or 
 splendid, lofty or low ; all these words are 
 intelligible and common, but they convey no 
 distinct or limited ideas ; if he attempts, 
 without the terms of architecture, to delinate 
 the parts, or enumerate the ornaments, his 
 narration at once becomes unintelligible. The 
 terms, indeed, generally displease, because 
 they are understood by few ; but they are little 
 understood only because few that look upon an 
 edifice, examine its parts, or analyse its co- 
 lumns into their members. 
 
 The state of every other art is the same ; as 
 it is cursorily surveyed or accurately examin- 
 ed, different forms of expression become pro- 
 per. In morality it is one thing to discuss the 
 niceties of the casuist, and another to direct 
 the practice of common life. In agriculture, 
 he that instructs the farmer to plough and sow, 
 may convey his notions without the words 
 which he would find necessary in explaining 
 to philosophers the process of vegetation ; 
 and if he who has nothing to do but to be ho- 
 nest by the shortest way, will perplex his mind 
 with subtile speculations ; or if he, whose task 
 is to reap and thresh, will not be contented 
 without examining the evolution of the seed, 
 and circulation of the sap, the writers whom 
 either shall consult are very little to be blamed, 
 though it should sometimes happen that they 
 are read in vain. 
 
 No. 71.] SATURDAY, AUG. 25, 1759. 
 
 DICK SHIFTER was born in Cheapside, and 
 having passed reputably through all the class- 
 es of St. Paul's school, has been for some 
 years a student in the Temple. He is of 
 opinion, that intense application dulls the fa- 
 culties, and thinks it necessary to temper the 
 severity of the law by books that engage the 
 mind, but do not fatigue it. He has therefore 
 made a copious collection of plays, poems, 
 and romances, to which he has recourse when 
 he fancies himself tired with statutes and re- 
 ports ; and he seldom inquires very nicely 
 whether he is weary or idle. 
 
 Dick has received from his favourite authors 
 very strong impressions of a country life ; and 
 though his furthest excursions have been to 
 Greenwich on one side, and Chelsea on the 
 other, he has talked for several years with 
 great pomp of language and elevation of sen- 
 
 timents, about a state too high for contempt 
 and too low for envy, about homely quiet, and 
 blameless simplicity, pastoral delights, and 
 rural innocence. 
 
 His friends who had estates in the country, 
 often invited him to pass the summer among 
 them, but something or other had always hin 
 dered him ; and he considered that to reside 
 in the house of another man was to incur a 
 kind of dependence inconsistent with that 
 laxity of life which he had imagined as the 
 chief good. 
 
 This summer he resolved to be happy, and 
 procured a lodging to be taken for him at a soli- 
 tary house, situated about thirty miles from 
 London on the banks of a small river, wilh 
 corn-fields before it and a hill on each -side co- 
 vered with wood. He concealed the place of 
 his retirement, that none might violate his ob- 
 scurity, and promised himself many a happy 
 day when he should hide himself among the 
 trees, and contemplate the tumults and vexa- 
 tions of the town. 
 
 He stepped into the post-chaise with his 
 heart beating and his eyes sparkling, was 
 conveyed through many varieties of delight- 
 ful prospects, saw hills and meadows, corn- 
 fields and pasture, succeed each other, and for 
 four hours charged none of his poets with fic- 
 tion or exaggeration. He was now within six 
 miles of happiness, when, having never felt so 
 much agitation before, he began to wish his 
 journey at an end, and the last hour was pass- 
 ed in changing his posture and quarrelling 
 with his driver. 
 
 An hour may be tedious but cannot be long. 
 He at length alighted at his new dwelling, and 
 was received as he expected ; he looked round 
 upon the hills and rivulets, but his joints were 
 stiff and his muscles sore, and his first request 
 was to see his bed-chamber. 
 
 He rested well, and ascribed the soundness 
 of his sleep to the stillness of the country. He 
 expected from that time nothing but nights ot 
 quiet and days of rapture, and, as soon as he 
 had risen wrote an account of his new state to 
 one of his friends in the Temple. 
 
 " Dear Frank. 
 
 " I never pitied thee before. I am now as I 
 could wish every man of wisdom and virtue to 
 be, in the regions of calm content and placid 
 meditation ; with all the beauties of nature so- 
 liciting my notice, and all the diversities ot 
 pleasure courting my acceptance ; the birds are 
 chirping in the hedges, and the flowers bloom- 
 ing in the mead ; the breeze is whistling in the 
 wood, and the sun dancing on the water. I 
 can now say with truth, that a man, capable ol 
 enjoying the purity of happiness, is never more 
 busy than in his hours of leisure, nor ever less 
 solitary than in a place of solitude. 
 
 " I am, dear Frank, &c." 
 
 When he had sent away his letter, he walked 
 into the wood, with some inconvenience, from 
 the furze that pricked his legs, and the briers 
 that scratched his face. He at last sat down 
 under a tree, and heard with great delight a 
 shower, by which he was not wet, rattling
 
 No. 72.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 among the branches : this, said he, is the true 
 .image of obscurity ; we hear of troubles and 
 commotions, but never feel them. 
 
 fiis amusement did not overpower the calls 
 of nature, and he therefore went back to order 
 hirf dinner. He knew that the country pro- 
 ducelWhatever is eaten or drunk, and imagin- 
 ing that he was now at the source of luxury, 
 lesplved to indulge himself with dainties 
 which he supposed might be procured at a price 
 next to nothing, if any price at all was ex- 
 pected; and intended to amaze the rustics with 
 his generosity, by paying more than they would 
 ask. Of twenty dishes which he named, he 
 was amazed to find that scarcely one was to be 
 had ; and heard, with astonishment and indig- 
 nation, that all the fruits of the earth were 
 sold at a higher price than in the streets of 
 London. 
 
 His meal was short and sullen ; and he re- 
 tired again to his tree, to inquire how dear- 
 ness could be consistant with abundance, or 
 how fraud should be practised by simplicity. 
 He was not satisfied withhisown speculations, 
 and returning home early in the evening, went 
 a while from window to window, and found 
 that he wanted something to do. 
 
 He inquired for a newspaper, and was told 
 that farmers never minded news, but that they 
 could send for it from the ale-house. A mes- 
 senger was despatched, who ran away full 
 speed, but loitered an hour behind the hedges, 
 and at last coming back with his feet pur- 
 posely bemired, instead of expressing the grati- 
 tude which Mr. Shifter expected for the bounty 
 of a shilling, said that the night was wet, and 
 the way dirty, and he hoped that his wor- 
 ship would not think it much to give him half- 
 a-crown. 
 
 Dick now went to bed with some abatement 
 of his expectations ; but sleep, I know not 
 how, revives our hopes, and rekindles our de- 
 sires. He rose early in the morning, sur- 
 veyed the landscape, and was pleased. He 
 walked out, and passed from field to field, 
 without observing any beaten path, and won- 
 dered that he had not seen the shepherdesses 
 dancing, nor heard the swains piping to their 
 flocks. 
 
 At last he saw some reapers and harvest- 
 women at dinner. Here, said he, are the true 
 Arcadians, and advanced courteously towards 
 them, as afraid of confusing them by the dig- 
 nity of his presence. They acknowledged 
 his superiority by no other token than that o! 
 asking him for something to drink. He ima- 
 gined that he had now purchased the privilege 
 of discourse, and began to descend to familiar 
 questions, endeavouring to accommodate his 
 discourse to the grossness of rustic under 
 standings. The clowns soon found that h< 
 did not know wheat from rye, and began t 
 despise him ; one of the boys, by pretending 
 to show him a bird's nest, decoyed him int 
 a ditch ; and one of the wenches sold him 
 bargain. 
 
 This walk had given him no great pleasure 
 but he hoped to find other rustics less coarse 
 manners, and less mischievous of disposition 
 Next morning he was accosted by an attornej 
 3D 
 
 .vho told him, that, unless he made fariner 
 )obson satisfaction for trampling his grass, he 
 ad orders to indict him. Shifter was offended 
 ut not terrified ; and, telling the attorney that 
 e was himself a lawyer, talked so volubly of 
 ettifoggers and barrators, that he drove him 
 way. 
 
 Finding his walks thus interrupted, he was 
 
 nclined to ride, and being pleased with tho ap- 
 
 earance of a horse that was grazing in a 
 
 eighbouring meadow, inquired the owner, 
 
 fho warranted him sound, and would not sell 
 
 im, but that he was too fine for a plain man, 
 
 )ick paid down the price, and, riding out to 
 
 njoy the evening, fell with his new horse into 
 
 ditch ; they got out with difficulty, and as he 
 
 pas going to mount again, a countryman 
 
 ooked at the horse, and perceived him to be 
 
 lind. Dick went to the seller, and demanded 
 
 ack his money ; but was told that a man who 
 
 :nted his ground must do the best for himself, 
 
 tat his landlord had his rent though the year 
 
 as barren, and that, whether horses had eyes 
 r no, he should sell them to the highest 
 idder. 
 
 Shifter now began to be tired with rustic 
 implicity, and on the fifth day took posses- 
 ion again of his chambers, and bade farewell 
 o the regions of calm content and placid 
 meditation. 
 
 fo. 72.] SATURDAY, SEPT. 1, 1759. 
 
 V!EN complain of nothing more frequently 
 tian of deficient memory ; and, indeed, every 
 ne finds that many of the ideas which he 
 esired to retain have slipped irretrievably 
 away ; that the acquisitions of the mind are 
 ometimes equally fugitive with the gifts of 
 brtune ; and that a short intermission of at- 
 ention more certainly lessens knowledge than 
 mpairs an estate. 
 
 To assist this weakness of our nature, 
 many methods have been proposed, all of 
 which may be justly suspected of being inef- 
 fectual ; for no art of memory, however its 
 iffect have been boasted or admired, has been 
 ever adopted into general use, nor have those 
 who possessed it appeared to excel others in 
 readiness of recollection or multiplicity of at- 
 :ainments. 
 
 There is another art of which all have felt 
 ;he want, though Themistocles only confessed 
 ,t. -We suffer equal pain from the pertina- 
 cious adhesion of unwelcome images, as from 
 the evanescence of those which are pleasing 
 and useful , and it may be doubted whether we 
 should be more benefited by the art of memory 
 or the art of forgetfulness. 
 
 Forgetfulness is necessary to remembrance. 
 Ideas are retained by renovation of that im- 
 pression which time is always wearing away, 
 and which new images are striving to oblite 
 rate. If useless thoughts could be expelled 
 from the mind, all the valuable parts of our 
 knowledge would more frequently recur, and 
 every recurrence would reinstate them in theh 
 former place. 
 
 It is impossible to consider without some
 
 426 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 73 
 
 regret how much might have been learned, 
 or how much might have been invented by a 
 rational and vigorous application of time, use- 
 lessly or painfully passed in the revocation of 
 events which have left neither good nor evil 
 behind them, in grief for misfortunes either re- 
 paired or irreparable, in resentment of injuries 
 known only to ourselves, of which death has 
 put the authors beyond our power. 
 
 Philosophy has accumulated precept upon 
 precept, to warn us against the anticipation of 
 future calamities. All useless misery is cer- 
 tainly folly, and he that feels evils before they 
 come may be deservedly censured ; yet surely 
 to dread the future is more reasonable than to 
 lament the past. The business of life is to go 
 forwards : he who sees evil in prospect meets 
 it in his way ; but he who catches it by retrospec- 
 tion turns back to find it. That which is feared 
 may sometimes be avoided, but that which is 
 regretted to-day, may be regretted again to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Regret is indeed useful and virtuous, and 
 not only allowable but necessary, when it 
 tends to the amendment of life, or to admoni- 
 tion of error which we may be again in danger 
 of committing. But a very small part of the 
 moments spent in meditation on the past, pro- 
 duce any reasonable caution or salutary sor- 
 row. Most of the mortification that we have 
 suffered, arose from the concurrence of local 
 and temporary circumstances, which can never 
 meet again ; and most of our disappointments 
 have succeeded those expectations, which life 
 allows not be formed a second time. 
 
 It would add much to human happiness, if 
 an art could be taught of forgetting all of 
 which the remembrance is at once useless and 
 afflictive, if that pain which never can end in 
 pleasure could be driven totally away, that the 
 mind might perform its functions without in- 
 curnbrance, and the past might no longer en- 
 croach upon the present. 
 
 Little can be done well to which the whole 
 mind i? not applied ; the business of every day 
 tails for the day to which it is assigned ; and 
 he will have no leisure to regret yesterday's 
 vexations who resolves not to have anew sub- 
 ject of regret to-morrow. 
 
 But to forget or to remember at pleasure, 
 are equally beyond 'the power of man. Yet 
 as memory may be assisted by method, and the 
 decays of knowledge repaired by stated times 
 of recollection, so the power of forgetting is 
 capable of improvement. Reason will, by a 
 resolute contest, prevail over imagination, and 
 the power may be obtained of transferring the 
 attention as judgment shall direct 
 
 The incursions of troublesome thoughts are 
 often violent and importunate ; and it is not 
 easy to a mind accustomed to their inroads to 
 expel them immediately by putting better im- 
 ages into motion ; but this enemy of quiet is 
 above all others weakened by every defeat ; 
 the reflection which has been once overpowered 
 and ejected, seldom returns with any formi- 
 dable vehemence. 
 
 Employment is the great instrument of intel- 
 lectual dominion. The mind cannot retire 
 from its enemy into total vacancy, or turn 
 
 aside from one object but by passing to an- 
 other. The gloomy and the resentful are al- 
 ways found among those who have nothing to 
 do, or who do nothing. We must be busy 
 about good or evil, and he to whom the present 
 offers nothing will often be looking backward 
 on the past. 
 
 No. 73.] SATURDAY, SEPT. 8, 1759. 
 
 THAT every man would be rich if a wish could 
 obtain riches, is a position which I believe few 
 will contest, at least in a nation like ours, in 
 which commerce has kindled a universal emu- 
 lation of wealth, and in which money receives 
 all the honours which are the proper right of 
 knowledge and of virtue. 
 
 Yet though we are all labouring for gold, as 
 for the chief good, and, by the natural effort of 
 unwearied diligence, have found many expedi- 
 tious methods of obtaining it, we have not been 
 able to improve the art of using it, or to make 
 it produce more happiness than it afforded in 
 former times, when every declaimer expatiated 
 on its mischiefs, and every philosopher taught 
 his followers to despise it. 
 
 Many of the dangers imputed of old to ex- 
 orbitant wealth are now at an end. The rich 
 are neither way-laid by robbers nor watched 
 by informers ; there is nothing to be dreaded 
 from proscriptions, or seizures. The neces- 
 sity of concealing treasure has long ceased ; 
 no man now needs counterfeit mediocrity, and 
 condemn his plate and jewels to caverns and 
 darkness, or feast his mind with the conscious- 
 ness of clouded splendour, of finery which is 
 useless till it is shown, and which he dares not 
 show. 
 
 In our time the poor are strongly tempted to 
 assume the appearance of wealth, but the 
 wealthy very rarely desire to be thought poor ; 
 for we are at full liberty to display riches by 
 every mode of ostentation. We fill our houses 
 with useless ornaments, only to show that we 
 can buy them ; we cover our coaches with gold, 
 and employ artists in the discovery of new fash- 
 ions of expense ; and yet it cannot be found that 
 riches produce happiness. 
 
 Of riches, as of every thing else, the hope 
 is more than the enjoyment ; while we consi- 
 der them as the means to be used, at some fu- 
 ture time, for the attainment of felicity, we 
 press on our pursuit ardently and vigorously, 
 and that ardour secures us from weariness 
 of ourselves ; but no sooner do we sit clown 
 to enjoy our acquisitions, than we find than in 
 sufficient to fill up the vacuities of life. 
 
 Onecausewhich is not always observed of the 
 insufficiency of riches is, that they very seldom 
 make their owner rich. To be rich is to hare 
 more than is desired, and more than is wanted ; 
 to have something which may be spent without 
 reluctance, and scattered without care, with 
 which the sudden demands of desire may be 
 gratified, the casual freaks of fancy indulged, 
 or the unexpected opportunities of benevolence 
 improved. 
 
 Avarice is always poor, but poor by her own 
 fault. There is another poverty to which the
 
 No. 74.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 427 
 
 rich are exposed with less guilt by the officious- 
 ness of others. Every man, eminent for exu- 
 berance of fortune, is surrounded from morning 
 to evening, and from evening to midnight, by 
 flatterers, whose art of adulation consists in ex- 
 citing artificial wants, and in forming new 
 chemes of profusion. 
 
 Tom Tranquil, when he came to age, found 
 
 mself in possession of a fortune of which the 
 ventieth part might, perhaps, have made him 
 rich. His temper is easy, and his affections 
 soft ; he receives every man with kindness, and 
 hears him with credulity. His friends took 
 care to settle him by giving him a wife, whom, 
 having no particular inclination, he rather ac- 
 cepted than chose, because he was told that she 
 was proper for him. 
 
 He was now to live with dignity proportion- 
 ate to his fortune. What his fortune requires 
 or admits Tom does not know, for he has little 
 skill in computation, and none of his friends 
 think it their interest to improve it. If he was 
 suffered to live by his own choice, he would 
 leave every thing as he finds it, and pass 
 through the world distinguished only by inof- 
 fensive gentleness. But the ministers of luxu- 
 ry have marked him out as one at whose ex- 
 pense they may exercise their arts. A com- 
 panion, who had just learned the names of the 
 Italian masters, runs from sale to sale, and 
 buys pictures, for which Mr. Tranquil pays, 
 without inquiring where they shall be hung. 
 Another fills his garden with statues, which 
 Tranquil wishes away but dares not remove. 
 One of his friends is learning architecture, by 
 building him a house, which he passed by and 
 inquired to whom it belonged ; another has 
 been for three years digging canals, and raising 
 mounts ; cutting trees down in one place, and 
 planting them in another, on which Tranquil 
 looks a with serene indifference, without asking 
 what will be the cost. Another projector tells 
 him that a waterwork , like that of Versailles, 
 will complete the beauties of his seat, and lays 
 his draughts before him ; Tranquil turns his eyes 
 upon them, and the artist begins his explana- 
 tions ; Tranquil raises no objections but orders 
 him to begin the work, that he may escape from 
 talk which he does not understand. 
 
 Thus a thousand hands are busy at his ex- 
 pense without adding to his pleasures. He 
 pays and receives visits, and has loitered in 
 public or in solitude, talking in summer of 
 the town, and in winter of the country, without 
 knowing that his fortune is impaired, till his 
 steward told him this morning that he could 
 pay the workmen no longer but by mortgag- 
 ing a manor. 
 
 No. 74.] SATURDAY, SEPT. 15, 1759. 
 
 IN the mythological pedigree of learning, me- 
 mory is made the mother of the muses, by which 
 the masters of ancient wisdom, perhaps, meant 
 to show the necessity of storing the mind copi- 
 ously with true notions, before the imagination 
 should be suffered to form fictions or collect em- 
 belliehments ; for the works of an ignorant poet 
 
 can afford nothing higher than pleasing sound, 
 and fiction is of no other use than to display 
 the treasures of memory. 
 
 The necessity of memory to the acquisition 
 of knowledge is inevitably felt and universal- 
 ly allowed, so that scarcely any other of the 
 mental faculties are commonly considered as 
 necessary to a student : he that admires the 
 proficiency of another, always attributes it to 
 the happiness of this memory ; and he that 
 laments his own defects, concludes with a wish 
 fhat his memory was better. 
 
 It is evident that when the power of retention 
 is weak, all the attempts at eminence of know- 
 ledge must be vain ; and as few are willing to 
 be doomed to perpetual ignorance, I may, per- 
 haps, afford consolation to some that have fall- 
 en too easily into despondence, by observing 
 that such weakness, is in my opinion, very 
 rare, and that few have reason to complain of 
 nature as unkindly sparing of the gifts of 
 memory. 
 
 In the common business of life, we find the 
 memory of one like that of another, and ho- 
 nestly impute omissions not to involuntary 
 forgetfulncss, but culpable inattention ; but in 
 literary inquiries, failure is imputed rather to 
 want of memory than of diligence. 
 
 We consider ourselves as defective in me- 
 mory, either because we remember less than 
 we desire, or less than we suppose others to 
 remember. 
 
 Memory is like all other human 'powers, 
 with which no man can be satisfied who mea- 
 sures them by what he can conceive, or by 
 what he can desire. He whose mind is most 
 capacious, finds it much too narrow for his 
 wishes ; he that remembers most, remembers 
 little compared with what he forgets. He, 
 therefore, that, after the perusal of a book, 
 finds few ideas remaining in his mind, is 
 not to consider the disappointment as pecu- 
 liar to himself, or to resign all hopes of 
 improvement, because he does not retain 
 what even the author has, perhaps, forgotten. 
 
 He who compares his memory with that of 
 others, is often too hasty to lament the inequa- 
 lity. Nature has sometimes, indeed, afforded 
 examples of enormous, wonderful, and gigan- 
 tic memory. Scaliger reports of himseif, that, 
 in his youth, he could repeat above a hundred 
 verses having once read them ; and Barthicus 
 declares that he wrote his " Comment upon 
 Cladian " without consulting the text. But 
 not to have such degrees of memory is no 
 more to be lamented than not to have the 
 strength of Hercules, or the swiftness of 
 Achilles. He that, in the distribution of good, 
 has an equal share with common men, may 
 justly be contented. Where there is no strik- 
 ing disparity, it is difficult to know of two 
 which remembers most, and still more difficult 
 to discover which reads with greater attention, 
 which has renewed the first impression by 
 more frequent repetitions, or by what acci- 
 dental combination of ideas either mind might 
 have united any particular narrative or argu 
 ment to its former stock. 
 
 But memory, however impartially distribut- 
 ed so often deceives our trust, that almost
 
 425 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 75 
 
 every man attempts, by some artifice or other, 
 to secure its fidelity. 
 
 It is the practice of many readers to note, in 
 the margin of their books, the most important 
 passages, the strongest arguments, or the 
 brightest sentiments. Thus they load their 
 minds with superfluous attention, repress the 
 vehemence of curiosity by useless deliberation, 
 and by frequent interruption break the current, 
 of narration or the chain of reasoning, and at 
 last close the volume, and forget the passages 
 and marks together. 
 
 Others I have found unalterably persuaded 
 that nothing is certainly remembered but what 
 is transcribed ; and they have, therefore, passed 
 weeks and months in transferring large quota- 
 tions to a common-place book. Yet why any 
 part of a book, which can be consulted at plea- 
 sure, should be copied, I was never able to dis- 
 cover. The hand has no closer correspondence 
 with the memory than the eye. The act of 
 writing itself distracts the thoughts, and what 
 is read twice, is commonly better remember- 
 ed than what is transcribed. The method, 
 therefore, consumes time without assisting 
 memory. 
 
 The true art of memory is the art of atten- 
 tion. No man will read with much advantage 
 who is not able, at pleasure, to evacuate his 
 mind, or who brings not to his author, an 
 intellect defecated and pure, neither turbid 
 with care, nor agitated by pleasure. If the 
 repositories of thought are already full, what 
 can they receive ; if the mind is employed on 
 the past or future, the book will be held before 
 the eyes in vain. What is read with delight is 
 commonly retained, because pleasure always 
 secures attention ; but the books which are con- 
 sulted by occasional necessity, and perused with 
 impatience, seldom leave any traces on the 
 mind. 
 
 No. 75.] SATURDAY, SEPT. 22, 1759. 
 
 IN the time when Bassora was considered as 
 the school of Asia, and flourished by the repu- 
 tation of its professors, and the confluence of its 
 students, among the pupils that listened round 
 the chair of Albamazar was Gelaleddin, a na- 
 tive of Tauris, in Persia, a young man, amia- 
 ble in his manners and beautiful in his form, 
 of boundless curiosity, incessant diligence, and 
 irresistible genius, of quick apprehension, and 
 tenacious memory, accurate without narrow- 
 ness, and eager for novelty without incon- 
 stancy. 
 
 No sooner did Gelaleddin appear at Bassora, 
 than his virtues and abilities raised him to dis- 
 tinction. He passed from class to class rather 
 admired than envied by those whom the rapidi- 
 ty of his progress left behind : he was consult- 
 ed by his fellow-students as anoraculous guide, 
 and admitted as a competent auditor to the con- 
 ferences of the sages. 
 
 After a few years, having passed through all 
 the exercises of probation, Gelaleddin was in- 
 vited to a professor's seat, and intreated to in- 
 crease the splendour of Bassora. Gelaleddin 
 affected to deliberate on the proposal, with 
 
 which, before he considered it, he resolved to 
 comply ; and next morning retired to a gauden 
 planted for the recreation of the students, and 
 entering a solitary walk began to meditate up- 
 on his future life. 
 
 " If I am thus eminent," said he, " in the 
 regions of literature, I shall be yet more con- 
 spicuous in any other place ; if I should now 
 devote myself to study and retirement, I must 
 pass my life in silence, unacquainted with the 
 delights of wealth, the influence of power, the 
 pomp of greatness and the charms of elegance, 
 with all that man envies and desires, with all 
 that keeps the world in motion, by the hope 
 of gaining or the fear of losing it. I will 
 therefore, depart to Tauris, where the Per- 
 sian monarch resides in all the splendour of 
 absolute dominion : my reputation will fly be 
 fore me, my arrival will be congratulated by 
 my kinsmen and friends ; I shall see the eyes 
 of those who predicted my greatness, sparkling 
 with exultation, and the faces of those that 
 once despised me clouded with envy, or coun- 
 terfeiting kindness by artificial smiles. I will 
 show my wisdom by my discourse, and my 
 moderation by my silence ; I will instruct the 
 modest with easy gentleness, and repress the 
 ostentatious by seasonable superciliousness. 
 My apartments will be crowded by the inqui- 
 sitive, and the vain, by those that honour and 
 those that rival me ; my name will soon reach 
 the court ; I shall stand before the throne of 
 the emperor ; the judges of the law will con- 
 fess my wisdom, and the nobles will contend 
 to heap gifts upon me. If I shall find that my 
 merit, like that of others, excites malignity, 
 or feel myself tottering on the seat of eleva- 
 tion, I may at last retire to academical obscuri- 
 ty, and become, in my lowest state, a profes- 
 sor of Bassora." 
 
 Having thus settled his determination, he 
 declared to his friends his design of visiting 
 Tauris, and saw with more pleasure than he 
 ventured to express, the regret with which he 
 was dismissed. He could not bear to delay 
 the honours to which he was designed, and 
 therefore hastened away, and in a short time 
 entered the capital of Persia. He was imme- 
 diately immersed in the crowd, and passed un- 
 observed to his father's house. He entered, 
 and was received, though not unkindly, yet 
 without any excess of fondness, or exclama- 
 tions of rapture. His father had, in his ab- 
 sence, suffered many losses, and Gelaleddin 
 was considered as an additional burden to a 
 falling family. 
 
 When he recovered from his surprise, he be- 
 gan to display his acquisitions and practised all 
 the arts of narration and disposition : but the 
 poor have no leisure to be pleased with elo- 
 quence ; they heard his arguments without re- 
 flection, and his pleasantries without a smile. 
 He then applied himself singly to his brothers 
 and sisters, but found them all chained down 
 by invariable attention to their own fortunes, 
 and insensible of any other excellence than 
 that which could bring some remedy for indi- 
 gence. 
 
 It was now known in the neighbourhood that 
 Gelaleddin was returned, and he sat for some
 
 No. 76.] 
 
 days i-.i expectation that the learned wouh 
 visit him for consultation, or the great for en- 
 tertainment. But who would be pleased or 
 instructed in the mansions of poverty ? He 
 then frequented places of public resort, anc 
 endeavoured to attract notice by the copious- 
 ness of his talk. The sprightly were silenced 
 and went away to censure in some other place, 
 his arrogance and his pedantry ; and the dul 
 listened quietly for a while, and then wonder- 
 ed why any man should take pains to obtain 
 so much knowledge which would never do 
 him good. 
 
 He next solicited the viziers for employ- 
 ment, not doubting but his service would be 
 eagerly accepted. He was told by one that 
 there was no vacancy in his office ; by ano- 
 ther, that his merit was above any patronage 
 but that of the emperor ; by a third that he 
 would not forget him ; and by the chief vizier, 
 that he did not think literature of any great 
 use in public business. He was sometimes ad- 
 mitted to their tables, where he exerted his wit 
 and diffused his knowledge ; but he observed, 
 that where, by endeavour or accident, he had 
 remarkably excelled, he was seldom invited a 
 second time. 
 
 He now returned to Bassora, wearied and 
 disgusted, but confident of resuming his former 
 rank, and revelling again in satiety of praise. 
 But he who had been neglected at Tauris, was 
 not much regarded at Bassora ; he was con- 
 sidered as a fugitive, who returned only be- 
 cause he could live in no other place ; his com- 
 panions found that they had formerly over-rat- 
 ed his abilities, and he lived long without no- 
 tice or esteem. 
 
 No. 76.] SATURDAY, SEPT. 29, 1759. 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I WAS much pleased with your ridicule of 
 those shallow critics, whose judgment, though 
 often right as far as it goes, yet reaches only 
 to inferior beauties, and who unable to compre- 
 hend the \yjfiole, judge only by parts, and from 
 thence determine the merit of extensive works. 
 But there is another kind of critic still worse, 
 who judges by narrow rules, and those too 
 often false, and which, though they should be 
 true, and founded on nature, will lead but a 
 very little way toward the just estimation of 
 the sublime beauties in works of genius ; for 
 whatever part of an art can be executed or 
 criticised by rules, that part is no longer the 
 work of genius, which implies excellence out 
 of the reach of rules. For my own part I pro- 
 fess myself an Idler, and love to give my judg- 
 ment, such as it is, from my immediate per- 
 ceptions without much fatigue of thinking : 
 and I am of opinion, that if a man has not 
 those perceptions right, it will be in vain for I 
 him to endeavour to supply their place by ' 
 rules, which may enable him to talk more 
 learnedly but not to distinguish more acutely. 
 Another reason which has lessened my affec- 
 
 423 
 
 tion for the study of criticism is, that critics, 
 so far as I have observed, debar themselves 
 from receiving any pleasure from the polite 
 arts, at the same time that they profess to love 
 and admire them : for these rules being always 
 uppermost, give them such a propensity "to 
 criticise, that instead of giving up the reii.s of 
 their imagination into their Author's hands, 
 their frigid minds are employed in examining 
 whether the performance be according to the 
 rules of art 
 
 To those who are resolved to be critics in 
 spite of nature and at the same time have no 
 great disposition to much reading and study, I 
 would recommend to them to assume the cha- 
 racter of connoisseur, which may be purchased 
 at a much cheaper rate than that of a critic 
 in poetry. The remembrance of a few names 
 of painters, with their general characters, with 
 a few rules of the academy, which they 
 may pick up among the painters, will go a 
 great way towards making a very notable 
 connoisseur. 
 
 With a gentleman of this cast, I visited last 
 week the Cartoons at Hampton-court ; he was 
 just returned from Italy, a connoisseur of 
 course, and of course his mouth full of nothing, 
 but the grace of Raffaelle, the purity of Domi- 
 nichino, the learning of Poussin, and the air of 
 Guido, the greatness of taste of the Carrachis, 
 and the sublimity and grand contorno of Mi- 
 chael Angelo ; with all the rest of the cant of 
 criticism, which he emitted with that volubili- 
 ty which generally those orators have who an- 
 nex no ideas to their words. 
 
 As we were passing through the rooms, in 
 our way to the gallery, I made him observe a 
 whole length of Charles the First, by Vandyke, 
 as a perfect representation of the character as 
 well as the figure of the man. He agreed it 
 was very fine, but it wanted spirit and contrast, 
 and had not the flowing line, without which a 
 figure could not possibly be graceful. When 
 we entered the gallery, I thought I could per- 
 ceive him recollecting his rules by which he 
 was to criticise Raffaelle. I shall pass over his 
 observation of the boots being too little, and 
 other criticisms of that kind, till we arrived at 
 St. Paul preaching. " This," says he, " is 
 steemed the most excellent of all the cartoons ; 
 what nobleness, what dignity there is in that 
 igure of St. Paul ! and yet what an addition 
 :o that nobleness could Raffaelle have given, 
 lad the art of contrast been known in his time ! 
 nit, above all, the flowing line, which consti- 
 utes grace and beauty ! You would not have 
 .hen seen an upright figure standing equally on 
 >oth legs, and both hands stretched forward in 
 he same direction, and his drapery, to all ap- 
 >earance, without the least art of disposition." 
 The following picture is the Charge to Peter. 
 'Here," says he, "are twelve upright figures ; 
 what a pity it is that Raffaelle was not ac- 
 quainted with the pyramidal principle ! He 
 would then have contrived the figures in the 
 middle to have been on higher ground, or the 
 fio-ures at the extremities stooping or lying, 
 which would not only have formed the group 
 into the shape of a pyramid, but likewise con- 
 trasted the standing figures. Indeed," added
 
 430 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 77. 
 
 he, " 1 have often lamented that so great a 
 genius as Raffaelle had not lived in this enlight- 
 ened age, since the art has been reduced to prin- 
 ciples, and had had his education in one of the 
 modern academies ; what glorious works might 
 we then have expected from his divine pencil!" 
 
 I shall trouble you no longer with my 
 friend's observation, which, I suppose, you are 
 now able to continue by yourself. It is cu- 
 rious to observe, that, at the same time that 
 great admiration is pretended for a name of 
 lixed reputation, objections are raised against 
 those very qualities by which that great name 
 was acquired. 
 
 Those critics are continually lamenting that 
 Raffaelle had not the colouring and harmony 
 of Rubens, or the light and shadow of Rem- 
 brant, without considering how much the gay 
 harmony of the former, and affectation of the lat- 
 ter, would take from the dignity of Raffaelle ; 
 and yet Rubens had great harmony, and Rem- 
 brant understood light and shadow ; but what 
 may be an excellence in a lower class of paint- 
 ing, becomes a blemish in a higher ; as the 
 quick, sprightly turn, which is the life and 
 beauty of epigrammatic compositions, would 
 but ill suit with the majesty of heroic poetry. 
 
 To conclude ; I would not be thought to in- 
 fer from any thing that has been said, that rules 
 are absolutely unnecessary ; but to censure 
 scrupulosity, a servile attention to minute ex- 
 actness, which is sometimes inconsistent with 
 higher excellency, and is lost in the blaze of 
 expanded genius. 
 
 I do not know whether you will think paint- 
 ing a general subject. By inserting this letter, 
 perhaps, you will incur the censure a man 
 would deserve, whose business being to enter- 
 tain a whole room, should turn his back to the 
 company, and talk to a particular person. 
 
 I am, Sir, &c. 
 
 No 77.] SATURDAY, OCT. 6, 1759. 
 
 EAST poetry is universally admired ; but I 
 know not whether any rule has yet been fixed, 
 by which it may be decided when poetry can 
 be properly called easy. Horace has told us, 
 that it is such as "every reader hopes to equal, 
 but after long labour finds unattainable." This 
 is a very loose description, in which only the 
 effect is noted ; the qualities which produce 
 this effect remain to be investigated. 
 
 Easy poetry is that in which natural thoughts 
 are expressed without violence to the lan- 
 guage. The discriminating character of ease 
 consists principally in the diction ; for all true 
 poetry requires that the sentiments be natural. 
 Language suffers violence by harsh or by dar- 
 ing figures, by transposition, by unusual accep- 
 tations of words, and by any license which 
 would be avoided by a writer of prose. Where 
 ad)' artifice appears in the construction of the 
 verse, that verse is no longer easy. Any epi- 
 thet which can be ejected without diminution 
 of the sense, any curious iteration of the same 
 word, and all unusual, though not ungram- 
 matical structure of speech, destroy the grace 
 of fttny poetry. 
 
 The first lines of Pope's Iliad afford exam- 
 ples of many licenses which an easy writer 
 must decline : 
 
 Achilles' wrath to Greece the direful spring 
 Of woes unmimber'd heavenly goddess sing, 
 The wrath which hurl'd to Pluto's gloomy reign 
 The souls of mighty chiefs untimely slain. 
 
 In the first couplet the language is distorted 
 by inversions, clogged with superfluities, and 
 clouded by a harsh metaphor ; and in the 
 second there are two words used in an un- 
 common sense, two epithets inserted only to 
 lengthen the line ; all these practises may in 
 a long work easily be pardoned, but they al- 
 ways produce some degree of obscurity and 
 ruggedness. 
 
 Easy poetry has been so long excluded by 
 ambition of ornament, and luxuriance of image- 
 ry, that its nature seems now to be forgotten. 
 Affectation, however opposite to ease, is some- 
 times mistaken for it : and those who aspire to 
 gentle elegance, collect female phrases and 
 fashionable barbarisms, and imagine that style 
 to be easy which custom has made familiar. 
 Such was the idea of the poet who wrote the 
 following verses to a countess cutting pa- 
 per : 
 
 Pallas grew vap'rish once and odd, 
 
 She would not do the least right thing 
 Either for goddess or for god, 
 
 Nor work, nor play, nor paint, nor sing 
 
 Jove frowned, and " Use," he cried, " those eye* 
 
 So skilful, and those hands so taper ; 
 Do something exquisite and wise." 
 
 She bow'd, obey'd him, and cut paper 
 
 This vexing him who gave her birth. 
 
 Thought by all heaven a burning shame. 
 What does she next, but bids of earth 
 
 Her Burlington do just the same j 
 
 Pallas, you give yourself strange airs , 
 
 But sure you'll find it hard to spoil 
 The sense and taste of one that bears 
 
 The name of Saville and of Boyla 
 
 Alas ! one bad example shown, 
 
 How quickly all the sex pursue ! 
 See, Madam ! see the arts o'erthrown 
 
 Between John Overtoil and you. 
 
 Itis the prerogative of easy poet^g to be un- 
 derstood as long as the language lasts ; but 
 modes of speech, which owe their prevalence 
 only to modish folly, or to the eminence of those 
 that use them, die away with their inventors, 
 and their meaning, in a few years, is no longer 
 known. 
 
 Easy poetry is commonly sought in petty 
 compositions upon minute subjects ; but ease, 
 though it excludes pomp, will admit greatness. 
 Many lines in Cato's soliloquy are at once easy 
 and sublime: 
 
 The divinity that stirs within us ; 
 
 'Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter, 
 
 And intimates eternity to man. 
 
 If there is a power above us, 
 
 And that there is all nature cries aloud 
 
 Thro' all her works, he must delight in virtue, 
 
 And that which he delights in must be happy. 
 
 Nor is ease more contrary to wit than to sub- 
 limity: the celebrated stanza of Cowley, on a
 
 No. 7?.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 lady elaborately dressed, loses nothing of its 
 freedom by the spirit of the sentiment : 
 
 Th' adorning thec with so much art 
 
 Ii but a barbarous skill, 
 'Tis like the pois'ning- of a dart, 
 
 Too apt before to kill. 
 
 Cowley seems to have possessed the power 
 of writing easily beyond any other of our 
 poets ; yet his pursuit of remote thoughts lee 
 him often into harshness of expression. Wal- 
 ler often attempted, but seldom attained it; for 
 he is too frequently driven into transpositions. 
 The poets, from the time of Dryden, have gra- 
 dually advanced in embellishment, and conse- 
 quently departed from simplicity and ease. 
 
 To require from any author many pieces o( 
 easy poetry, would be, indeed, to oppress hirn 
 with too hard a task. It is less difficult to write 
 a volume of lines swelled with epithets, bright 
 ened by figures, and stiffened by transpositions, 
 than to produce a few couplets graced only by 
 naked elegance and simple purity, which re- 
 quires so much care and skill, that I doubt whe- 
 ther any of our authors have yet been able, 
 for twenty lines together, nicely to observe the 
 true definition of easy poetry. 
 
 No. 78.] SATURDAY, OCT. 13, 1759. 
 
 I HAVE passed the summer in one of those 
 places to which a mineral spring gives the idle 
 and luxurious an annual reason for resorting, 
 whenever they fancy themselves offended by 
 the heat of London. What is the true motive 
 of this periodical assembly I have never yet 
 been able to discover. The greater part of 
 the visitants neither feel diseases nor fear them. 
 What pleasure can be expected, more than the 
 variety of the journey, I know not, for the num- 
 bers are too great for privacy, and too small for 
 diversion. As each is known to be a spy upon 
 the rest, they all live in continual restraint ; 
 and having but a narrow range for censure, 
 they gratify its cravings by preying on one an- 
 other. 
 
 But every condition has some advantages. 
 In this confinement a smaller circle affords op- 
 portunities for more exact observation. The 
 glass that magnifies its object contracts the 
 sight to a point ; and the mind must be fixed 
 upon a single character to remark its minute 
 peculiarities. The quality or habit which 
 passes unobserved in the tumult of successive 
 multitudes, becomes conspicuous when it is of- 
 fered to the notice day after day ; and perhaps 
 I have, without any distinct notice, seen thou- 
 sands, like my late companions ; for when the 
 scene can be varied at pleasure, a slight dis- 
 gust turns us aside before a deep impression 
 can be made upon the mind. 
 
 There was a select set, supposed to be dis- 
 tinguished by superiority of intellects, who al- 
 ways passed the evening together. To be ad- 
 mitted to their conversation was the highest 
 honour of the place ; many youths aspired to 
 distinction, by pretending to occasional invita- 
 tions ; and the ladies were often wishing to be 
 men, that they might partake the pleasures of 
 learned society. 
 
 I know not whf 'tier by merit or destiny, I 
 was soon after m -rival, admitted to this en- 
 vied party, which 1'frequented till I had learn- 
 ed the art by which each endeavoured to 
 support- his character. 
 
 Tom Steady was a vehement assertor of un- 
 controverted truth; and by keeping himself 
 out of the reach of contradiction had acquired 
 all the confidence which the consciousness of 
 irresistible abilities could have given. I was 
 once mentioning a man of eminence, and after 
 having recounted his virtues, endeavoured to 
 represent him fully, by mentioning his faults. 
 " Sir," said Mr. Steady, " that he has faults I 
 can easily believe, for who is without them 1 
 No man, Sir, is now alive, among the innume- 
 rable multitudes that swarm upon the earth, 
 however wise, or however good, who has not, 
 in some degree, his failings and his faults. If 
 there be any man faultless, bring him forth in- 
 to public view, show him openly, and let him 
 be known ; but I will venture to affirm, and, 
 till the contrary be plainly shown, shall always 
 maintain, that no such man is to be found. 
 Tell not me, Sir, of impeccability and perfec- 
 tion ; such talk is for those that are strangers 
 in the world ; I have seen several nations, and 
 conversed with all ranks of people ; I have 
 known the great and the mean, the learned 
 and the ignorant, the old and the young, the 
 clerical and the lay ; but I have never found a 
 man without a fault ; and I suppose shall die in 
 *,he opinion, that to be human is to be frail." 
 
 To all this nothing could be opposed. I lis 
 tened with a hanging head : Mr. Steady looked 
 round on the hearers with triumph, and saw 
 very eye congratulating his victory ; he de- 
 >arted, and spent the next morning in follow- 
 ng those who retired from the company, and 
 ;elling them, with injunctions of secrecy, how 
 >oor Sprightly began to take liberties with men 
 wiser than himself, but that he suppressed him 
 >y a decisive argument, which put him totally 
 o silence. 
 
 Dick Snug is a man of sly remark and pithy 
 sententiousness ; he never immerges himself 
 n the stream of conversation, but lies to catch 
 lis companions in the eddy : he is often very 
 successful in breaking narratives, and con- 
 "ounding eloquence. A gentleman, giving the 
 istory of one of his acquaintance, made men- 
 ion of a lady that had many lovers : " Then," 
 aid Dick, " she was either handsome or rich." 
 This observation being well received, Dick 
 vatched the progress of the tale ; and hear- 
 ng of a man lost in a shipwreck, remarked, 
 hat " no man was ever drowned upon dry 
 and." 
 
 Will Startle is a man of exquisite sensioi- 
 ity, whose delicacy of frame, and quickness 
 f discernment, subject him to impressions 
 rom the slightest causes ; and who, therefore, 
 asses his life between rapture and horror, in 
 [iiiverings of delight, or convulsions of dis- 
 ust. His emotions are too violent for many 
 vords ; his thoughts are always discovered 
 iy exclamations. " Vile, odious, horrid, de- 
 estable," and " sweet, charming, delightful, 
 astonishing," compose almost his whole voca- 
 ulary, which he utters with various conxor-
 
 432 
 
 THE ID7.ER. 
 
 [No. 7!\ 
 
 tions and gesticulations, not easily related or 
 described. 
 
 Jack Solid is a man of much reading, who 
 utters nothing but quotations ; but having 
 been, I suppose, too confident of his memory, 
 lie has for some time neglected his books, and 
 his stock grows every day more scanty. Mr. 
 Solid has found an opportunity every night to 
 repeat, from Hudibras. 
 
 Doubtless the pleasure is as great 
 Of being cheated, as to cheat; 
 
 and from "Waller. 
 
 Poets lose half the praise they would have got, 
 Were it but known what they discretely blot. 
 
 Dick Misty is a man of deep research, and 
 forcible penetration. Others are content with 
 superficial appearances : but Dick holds, that 
 there is no effect without a cause, and values 
 himself upon his power of explaining the diffi- 
 culty, and displaying the abstruse. Upon a dis- 
 pute among us, which of two young strangers 
 was more beautiful, " You," says Mr. Misty, 
 turning to me, " like Amaranthia better than 
 Chloris. I do not wonder at the preference, 
 for the cause is evident ; there is in man a per- 
 ception of harmony, and a sensibility of per- 
 fection, which touches the finer fibres of the 
 mental texture ; and before reason can de- 
 scend from her throne, to pass her sentence 
 upon the things compared, drives us towards 
 the object proportioned to our faculties, by an 
 impulse gentle, yet irresistible ; for the har- 
 monic system of the universe, and the recipro- 
 cal magnetism of similar natures, are always 
 operating towards conformity and union ; nor 
 can the powers of the soul cease from agita- 
 tion, till they find something on which they 
 can repose." To this nothing was opposed ; 
 and Amaranthia was acknowledged to excel 
 Chloris. 
 
 Of the rest you may expect an account from, 
 Sir, yours, 
 
 ROBIN SPRITELT. 
 
 No. 79.] SATURDAY, OCT. 20, 1759. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 YOUR acceptance of a former letter on paint- 
 ing, gives me encouragement to offer a few 
 more sketches on the same subject. 
 
 Amongst the painters and the writers on 
 painting, there is one maxim universally ad- 
 mitted, and continually inculcated. Imitate 
 nature is the invariable rule ; but I know none 
 who have explained in what manner this rule 
 is to be understood ; the consequence of which 
 is, that every one takes it in the most obvious 
 sense, that objects are represented naturally 
 when they have such relief that they seem real. 
 It may appear strange, perhaps, to hear this 
 nense of the rule disputed ; but it must be con- 
 sidered, that, if the excellence of a painter 
 consisted only in this kind of imitation, paint- 
 ing must lose its rank, and be no longer con- 
 sidered as a liberal art, and sister to poetry, 
 
 this imitation being merely mechanical, in 
 which the slowest intellect is always sure to 
 succeed best ; for the painter of genius cannot 
 stoop to drudgery, in which the understanding 
 has no part ; and what pretence has the art 
 to claim kindred with poetry, but by its pow- 
 ers over the imagination ? To this power the 
 painter of genius directs his aim ; in this sense 
 he studies nature, and often arrives at his end, 
 even by being unnatural in the confined sense 
 of the word. 
 
 The grand style of painting requires this 
 minute attention to be carefully avoided, and 
 must be kept as separate from it as the style of 
 poetry from that of history. Poetical orna- 
 ments destroy that air of truth and plainness 
 which ought to characterise history; but the 
 very being of poetry consists in departing 
 from this plain narration, Jirtd adopting every 
 ornament that will warm the imagination. To 
 desire to see the excellencies of each style 
 united, to mingle the Dutch with the Italian 
 school, is to join contrarieties which cannot 
 subsist together, and which destroy the effica- 
 cy of each other. The Italian attends only 
 to the invariable, the great and general ideas 
 which are fixed and inherent in universal na- 
 ture ; the Dutch, on the contrary, to literal 
 truth, and a minute exactness in the detail, as 
 I may say of nature modified by accident. 
 The attention to these petty peculiarities is 
 is the very cause of this naturalness, so much 
 admired in the Dutch pictures, which, if we 
 suppose it to be a beauty, is certainly of a 
 lower order, which ought to give place to a 
 beauty of a superior kind, since one cannot 
 be obtained but by departing from the other. 
 
 If my opinion was asked concerning the 
 works of Michael Angelo, whether they would 
 receive any advantage from possessing this 
 mechanical merit, I should not scruple to say 
 they would not only receive no advantage, but 
 would lose, in a great measure, the effect 
 which they now have on every mind suscepti- 
 ble of great and noble ideas. His works may 
 be said to be all genius and soul ; and why 
 should they be loaded with heavy matter, 
 which can only counteract his purpose by re- 
 tarding the progress of the imagination. 
 
 If this opinion should be thought one of the 
 wild extravagancies of enthusiasm, I shall only 
 say, that those who censure it are not conver- 
 sant in the works of the great masters. It is 
 very difficult to determine the exact degree of 
 enthusiasm that the arts of painting and poe- 
 try may admit. There may perhaps be too 
 great an indulgence, as well as too great a re- 
 straint of imagination ; and if the one pro- 
 duces incoherent monsters, the other produ- 
 ces what is full as bad, lifeless insipidity. 
 An intimate knowledge of the passions, and 
 good sense, but not common sense, must at 
 last determine its limits. It has been thought, 
 and I believe with reason, that Michael Angelo 
 sometimes transgressed those limits, and I 
 think I have seen figures of him of which it 
 was very difficult to determine whether they 
 were in the highest degree sublime or ex- 
 tremely ridiculous. Such faults may be said 
 to be the ebullitions of genius ; but at least
 
 [No. 80. 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 4H3 
 
 he had this merit, that he never was insipid 
 and whatever passion his works may excite 
 they will always escape contempt. 
 
 What I have had undr consideration is the 
 sublimest style, particularly that of Michae 
 Angela, the Homer of painting. Other kind; 
 may admit of this naturalness, which of the 
 lowest kind is the chief merit ; but in painting 
 as in poetry, the highest style has the least o 
 common nature. 
 
 One may very safely recommend a little 
 more enthusiasm to the modern painters ; too 
 much is certainly not the vice of the present 
 age. The Italians seem to have been conti- 
 nually declining in this respect from the time 
 of Michael Angelo to that of Carlo Maratti, 
 and from thence to the very bathos of insipidi- 
 ty to which they are now sunk ; so that there 
 is no need of remarking, that where I men- 
 tioned the Italian painters in opposition to the 
 Dutch, I mean not the moderns, but the heads 
 of the old Roman and Bolognian schools ; nor 
 did I mean to include in my idea of an Italian 
 painter, the Venetian school, which may be 
 said to be the Dutch part of the Italian genius. 
 I have only to add a word of advice to the 
 painters, that however excellent they may be 
 in painting naturally, they would not flatter 
 themselves very much upon it ; and to the 
 connoisseurs, that when they see a cat or rid- 
 dle painted so finely, that as the phrase is, 
 " It looks as if you could take it up," they 
 would not for that reason immediately com- 
 pare the painter to Raffaelie and Michael 
 Angelo. 
 
 No. 80.] SATURDAY, OCT. 27, 1759. 
 
 THAT every day has its pains and sorrows is 
 universally experienced, and almost univer- 
 sally confessed ; but let us not attend only to 
 mournful truths ; if we look impartially about 
 us, we shall find that every day has likewise 
 its pleasures and its joys. 
 
 The time is now come when the town is 
 again beginning to be full, and the rusticated 
 beauty sees an end of her banishment. Those 
 whom the tyranny of fashion had condemned 
 to pass the summer among shades and brooks, 
 are now preparing to return to plays, balls, 
 and assemblies, with health restored by retire- 
 ment, and spirits kindled by expectation. 
 
 Many a mind, which has languished some 
 months without emotion or desire, now feels 
 a sudden renovation of its faculties. It was 
 long ago observed by Pythagoras, that ability 
 and necessity dwell near each other. She 
 that wandered in the garden without sense of 
 its fragrance, and lay day after day stretched 
 upon a couch behind a green curtain, unwill- 
 ing to wake and unable to sleep, now sum- 
 mons her thoughts to consider which of her 
 last year's clothes shall be seen again, and to 
 anticipate the raptures of a new suit ; the day 
 and the night are now filled with occupation ; 
 the laces, which were too fine to be worn 
 among rustics, are taken from the boxes, and 
 reviewed, and the eye is no sooner closed after , 
 3E 
 
 its labours, than whole shops of silk busy the 
 fancy. 
 
 But happiness is nothing if it is not known, 
 and very little if it is not envied. Before the day 
 of departure a week is always appropriated to 
 the payment and reception of ceremonial vi- 
 sits, at which nothing can be mentioned but 
 the delights of London. The lady who is 
 hastening to the scene of action, flutters her 
 wings, displays her prospect of felicity, tells 
 how she grudges every moment of delay, and, 
 in the presence of those whom she knows 
 condemned to stay at home, is sure to won- 
 der by what arts life can be made supportable 
 through a winter in the country, and to tell 
 how often, amidst the ecstacies of an opera, 
 she shall pity those friends whom she has left 
 behind. Her hope of giving pain is seldom 
 disappointed: the affected indifference of one, 
 the faint congratulations of another, the wish- 
 es of some openly confessed, and the silent 
 dejection of the rest, all exalt her opinion of 
 her own superiority. 
 
 But, however we may labour for our own 
 deception, truth, though unwelcome, will some- 
 times intrude upon the mind. They who have 
 already enjoyed the crowds and noise of the 
 great city, know that their desire to return is 
 little more than the restlessness of a vacant 
 mind, that they are not so much led by hope 
 as driven by disgust, and wisk rather to leave 
 the country than to see the town. There is 
 commonly in every coach a passenger en- 
 wrapped in silent expectation, whose joy is 
 more sincere, and whose hopes are more ex 
 alted. The virgin whom the last summei 
 released from her governess, and who is now 
 going between her mother and her aunt to try 
 the fortune of her wit and beauty, suspects 
 no fallacy in the gay representation. She be- 
 lieves herself passing into another world, and 
 images London as an Elysian region, where 
 every hour has its proper pleasure, where no- 
 thing is seen but the blaze of wealth, and 
 nothing heard but merriment and flattery; 
 where the morning always rises on a show, 
 and the evening closes on a ball ; where tho 
 eyes are used only to sparkle, and the feet 
 only to dance. 
 
 Her aunt and her mother amuse themselves 
 on the road, with telling her of dangers to bo 
 dreaded, and cautions to be observed. She 
 icars them as they heard their predecessors, 
 with incredulity or contempt She sees that 
 ,hey have ventured and escaped ; and one of 
 the pleasures which she promises herself is, 
 to detect their falsehoods, and be freed from 
 their admonitions. 
 
 We are inclined to believe those whom we 
 do not know, because they have never deceiv- 
 ed us. The fair adventurer may perhaps lis- 
 ;en to the Idler, whom she cannot suspect of 
 rivalry or malice ; yet he scarcely expects to 
 ye credited when he tells her, that her expecta- 
 ions will likewise end in disappointment. 
 
 The uniform necessities of human nature 
 >roduce in a great measure uniformity of life, 
 tnd for part of the day make one place like 
 tnother; to dress and undress, to eat and to 
 ;leep, are the same in London as in the coun-
 
 434 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 31 
 
 try. The supernumerary hours have indeed a 
 greater variety both of pleasure and of pain. 
 The stranger gazed on by multitudes at her 
 first appearance in the Park, is perhaps on the 
 highest summit of female happiness: but how 
 great is the anguish when the novelty of 
 another face draws her worshippers away ! 
 The heart may leap for a time under a fine 
 gown ; but the sight of a gown yet finer puts 
 an end to rapture. In the first row at an opera, 
 two hours may be happily passed in listening 
 to the music on the stage, and watching the 
 glances of the company; but how will the 
 night end in despondency when she that 
 imagined herself the sovereign of the plftce, 
 sees lords contending to lead Iris to her chair ! 
 There is little pleasure in conversation to her 
 whose wit is regarded but in the second place ; 
 and who can dance with ease or spirit that sees 
 Amaryllis led out before her ? She that fancied 
 nothing but a succession of pleasures, will 
 find herself engaged without design in num- 
 berless competitions, and mortified without 
 provocation with numberless afflictions. 
 
 But I do not mean to extinguish that ardour 
 which I wish to moderate, or to discourage 
 those whom I am endeavouring to restrain. 
 To know the world is necessary, since we are 
 born for the help of one another ; and to know 
 it early is convenient, if it be only that we may 
 learn early to despise it. She that brings to 
 London a mind well prepared for improve- 
 ment, though she misses her hope of uninter- 
 rupted happiness, will gain in return an oppor- 
 tunity of adding knowledge to vivacity, and 
 enlarging innocence to virtue. 
 
 No. 81.] SATURDAY, Nov. 3, 1759. 
 
 As the English army was passing towards 
 duebec, along a soft savanna between a moun- 
 tain and a lake, one of the petty chiefs of the 
 inland regions stood upon a rock surrounded 
 by his clan, and from behind the shelter of the 
 bushes contemplated the art and regularity of 
 European war. It was evening, the tents 
 were pitched : he observed the security with 
 which the troops rested in the night, and the 
 order with which the march was renewed in 
 the morning. He continued to pursue them 
 with his eye till they could be seen no longer, 
 and then stood for some time silent and 
 pensive. 
 
 Then turning to his followers, " My chil- 
 dren," said he, " I have often heard from men 
 hoary with long life, that there was a time 
 when our ancestors were absolute lords of the 
 woods, the meadows, and the lakes, wherever 
 the eye can reach, or the foot can pass. They 
 fished and hunted, feasted and danced, and, 
 when they were weary lay down under the 
 first thicket, without danger, and without fear. 
 They changed their habitations as the seasons 
 required, convenience prompted, or curiosity 
 allured them ; and sometimes gathered the 
 fruits of the mountain, and sometimes sported 
 in canoes along the coast. 
 
 "Many years and ages are supposed to have 
 been thus passed in plenty and security; when, 
 at last, a new race of men entered our country 
 from the great ocean. They inclosed them- 
 selves in habitations of stcnc, which our an- 
 cestors could neither enter by violence, nor 
 destroy by fire. They issued from those fast- 
 nesses, sometimes, covered like the armadillo 
 with shells, from which the lance rebounded 
 on the striker, and sometimes carried by migh- 
 ty beasts which had never been seen in our 
 vales or forests, of such strength and swift 
 ness, that flight and opposition were vain 
 alike. Those invaders ranged over the conti- 
 nent, slaughtering in their rage those that re- 
 sisted, and those that submitted, in their mirth. 
 Of those that remained, some were buried in 
 caverns, and condemned to dig metals fortheir 
 masters ; some were employed in tilling the 
 ground, of which foreign tyrants devour .the 
 produce ; and, when the sword and the mines 
 have destroyed the natives, they supply their 
 place by human beings of another colour, 
 brought from some distant country to perish 
 here under toil and torture. 
 
 " Some there are who boast their humanity, 
 and content themselves to seize our chases and 
 fisheries, who drive us from every track oi 
 ground where fertility and pleasantness invite 
 them to settle, and make no war upon us, ex 
 cept when we intrude upon our own lands. 
 
 "Others pretend to have purchased aright of 
 residence and tyranny ; but surely the insolence 
 of such bargains is more offensive than the 
 avowed and open dominion of force. What 
 reward can induce the possessor of a country 
 to admit a stranger more powerful than him- 
 self? Fraud or terror must operaVe in such 
 contracts ; either they promised protection 
 which they never have afforded, or instruction 
 which they never imparted. We hoped to be 
 secured by their favour from some other evil, 
 or to learn the arts of Europe, by which we 
 might be able to secure ourselves. Their 
 power they never have exerted in our defence, 
 and their arts they have studiously concealed 
 from us. Their treaties are only to deceive, and 
 their traffic only to defraud us. They have a 
 written law among them, of which they boast 
 as derived from Him who made the earth and 
 sea, and by which they profess to believe that 
 man will be made happy when life shall forsake 
 him. Why is not this law communicated to 
 us? It is concealed because it is violated. 
 For how can they preach it to an Indian na- 
 tion, when I am told that one of its first pre- 
 cepts forbids them to do to others what they 
 would not that other should do to them ? 
 
 "But the time perhaps is now approaching 
 when the pride of usurpation shall be crushed, 
 and the cruelties of invasion shall be revenged. 
 The sons of rapacity have now drawn their 
 swords upon each other, and referred their 
 claims to the decision of war; let us look un- 
 concerned upon the slaughter and remember 
 that the death of every European delivers the 
 country from a tyrant and a robber ; for what 
 is the claim of either nation, but the claim of 
 the vulture to the leveret, of the tiger to the 
 fawn? Let them then continue to dispute
 
 No. 82.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 435 
 
 their title to regions which they cannot people, 
 to purchase by danger and blood the empty 
 dignity of dominion over mountains which 
 they will never climb, and rivers which they 
 will never pass. Let us endeavour in the 
 mean time, to learn their discipline, and to 
 forge their weapons ; and, when they shall 
 be weakened with mutual slaughter, let us 
 rush down upon them, force their remains to 
 take shelter in their ships, and reign once 
 more in our native country." 
 
 No. 82.] SATURDAY, Nov. 10, 1759. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 DISCOURSING in my last letter on the different 
 practice of the Italian and Dutch painters, I 
 observed, that "the Italian painter attends 
 only to the invariable, the great and general 
 ideas which are fixed and inherent in universal 
 nature." 
 
 I was led into the subject of this letter by 
 endeavouring to fix the original cause of this 
 conduct of the Italian masters. If it can be 
 proved that by this choice they selected the 
 most beautiful part of the creation, it will show 
 how much their principles are founded on rea- 
 son, and, at the same time, discover the origin 
 of our ideas of beauty. 
 
 I suppose it will be easily granted, that no 
 man can judge whether any animal be beauti- 
 ful in its kind, or deformed, who has seen only 
 one of that species ; that is as conclusive in 
 regard to the human figure ; so that if a man, 
 born blind, was to recover his sight, and the 
 most beautiful woman was brought before him, 
 he could not determine whether she was hand- 
 some or not; nor, if the most beautiful and 
 most deformed were produced, could he any 
 better determine to which he should give the 
 preference, having seen only those two. To 
 distinguish beauty, then, implies the having 
 seen many individuals of that species. If it is 
 asked, how is more skill acquired by the ob- 
 servation of greater numbers ? I answer, that, 
 in consequence of having seen many, the 
 power is acquired, even without seeking after 
 it, of distinguishing between accidental blem- 
 ishes and excrescences which are continually 
 varying the surface of Nature's works, and the 
 invariable general form which nature most 
 frequently produces, and always seems to in- 
 tend in her productions. 
 
 Thus amongst the blades of grass or leaves 
 of the same tree, though no two can be found 
 exactly alike, yet the general form is invaria- 
 ble : a naturalist, before he chose one as a 
 sample, would examine many, since if he took 
 the first that occurred, it might have by acci- 
 dent, or otherwise, such a form as that it 
 would scarcely be known to belong to that 
 species ; he selects as the painter does, the 
 most beautiful, that is, the most general form 
 of nature. 
 
 Every species of the animal as well as the 
 vegetable creation may be said to have a fixed 
 or determinate form towards which nature is 
 
 continually inclining, like various lines termi- 
 nating in the centre ; or it may be compared to 
 pendulums vibrating in different directions over 
 one central point, and as they all cross the 
 centre, though only one passes through any 
 other point, so it will be found that perfect beau- 
 ty is oftener produced by nature than deformity ; 
 I do not mean than deformity in "general, but 
 than any one kind of deformity. To instance 
 in a particular part of a feature : the line that 
 forms the ridge of the nose is beautiful when 
 it is straight ; this then is the central form, 
 which is oftener found than either concave, 
 convex, or any other irregular form, that shall 
 be proposed. As we are then more accustom- 
 ed to beauty than deformity, we may con- 
 clude that to be the reason why we approve 
 and admire it as we approve and admire 
 customs, and fashions of dress for no other 
 reason than that we are used to them, so 
 that though habit and custom cannot be said 
 to be the causa of beauty, it is certainly the 
 cause of our liking it ; and I have no doubt 
 but that, if we were more used to deformity 
 than beauty, deformity would then lose the 
 idea now annexed it, and take that of beauty : 
 as, if the whole world should agree that yes 
 and no should change their meanings, yea 
 would then deny, and no would affirm. 
 
 Whoever undertakes to proceed farther in 
 this argument, and endeavours to fix a general 
 criterion of beauty respecting different spe- 
 cies, or to show why one species is more beau- 
 tiful than another, it will be required from him 
 first to prove that one species is more beautiful 
 than another. That we prefer one to the other, 
 and with very good reason, will be readily 
 granted ; but it does not follow from thence 
 that we think it a more beautiful form ; for we 
 have no criterion of form- by which to deter 
 mine our judgment. He who says a swan is 
 more beautiful than a dove, means little more 
 than he has more pleasure in seeing a swan than 
 a dove, either from the stateliness of its motions, 
 or its being a more rare bird ; and he who 
 gives the preference to the dove, does it from 
 some association of ideas of innocence that he 
 always annexes to the dove ; but if he pretendj 
 to defend the preference he gives to one or the 
 other by endeavouring to prove that this more 
 beautiful form proceeds from a particular gra- 
 dation of magnitude, undulation of a curve, or 
 direction of a line, or whatever other conceit 
 of his imagination he shall fix on as a criterion 
 of form, he will be continually contradicting 
 himself, and find at last that the great mother 
 of nature will not be subjected to such narrow 
 rules. Among the various reasons why we pre 
 fer one part of her works to another, the most 
 general, I believe, is habit and custom ; cus- 
 tom makes, in a certain sense, white black, and 
 black white ! it is custom alone determines our 
 preference of the colour of the Europeans to 
 the Ethiopians ; and they, for the same reason, 
 prefer their own colour to ours. I suppose no- 
 body will doubt, if one of their painters were 
 to paint the goddess of beauty, but that he 
 would represent her black, with thick lips, flat 
 nose, and woolly hair ; and, it seems to me, he 
 would act very unnaturally if he did not ; for
 
 436 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 83. 
 
 by what criterion will any one dispute the pro- 
 priety of his idea ? We, indeed, say, that the 
 form and colour of the European is preferable 
 to that of the ^Ethiopian ; but I know of no 
 reaso/i we have for it, but that we are more ac- 
 customed to it. It is absurd to say that beauty 
 is possessed of attractive powers, which irre- 
 sistibly seize 'the corresponding mind with love 
 and admiration, since that argument is equally 
 conclusive in the favour of the white and the 
 black philosopher. 
 
 The black and white nations must, in respect 
 of beauty, be considered as of different kinds, 
 at least a different species of the same kind ; 
 from one of which to the other, as I observed, 
 no inference can be drawn. 
 
 Novelty is said to be one of the causes of 
 beauty : that novelty is a very sufficient reason 
 why we should admire, is not denied ; but be- 
 cause it is uncommon is it therefore beautiful ? 
 The beauty that is produced by colour, as when 
 we prefer one bird to another, though of the 
 same form, on account of its colour, has no- 
 thing to do with this argument, which reaches 
 only to form. I have here considered the word 
 beauty as being properly applied to form alone. 
 There is a necessity of fixing this confined 
 sense ; for there can be no argument if the 
 sense of the word is extended to every thing 
 that is approved. A rose may as well be said 
 to be beautiful because it has a fine smell, as 
 a bird because of its colour. When we apply 
 the word beauty, we do not mean always by 
 it a more beautiful form, but something valu- 
 able on account of its rarity, usefulness, colour, 
 or any other property. A horse is said to be a 
 beautiful animal ; but, had a horse as few good 
 qualities as a tortoise, I do not imagine that he 
 would be then esteemed beautiful. 
 
 A fitness to the end proposed, is said to be 
 another cause of beauty ; but supposing we 
 were proper judges of what form is the most 
 proper in an animal to constitute strength or 
 swiftness, we always determine concerning 
 its beauty, before we exert our understanding 
 to judge of its fitness. 
 
 From what has been said, it may be inferred, 
 that the works of nature, if we compare one 
 species with another, are all equally beautiful ; 
 and that preference is given from custom, or 
 some association of ideas; and that, in crea- 
 tures of the same species, beauty is the me- 
 dium or centre of all various forms. 
 
 To conclude, then, by way of corollary ; if 
 it has been proved, that the painter, by attend- 
 ing to the invariable and general ideas of na- 
 ture, produces beauty, he must, by regarding 
 minute particularities and accidental discrimi- 
 nations, deviate from the universal rule, and 
 pollute his canvass with deformity. 
 
 No. 83.] SATURDAY, Nov. 17, 1759. 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I SUPPOSE you have forgotten that many weeks 
 ago I promised to send you a account of my 
 companions at the Wells. You would not 
 
 deny me a place among tne most faithful vota- 
 ries of idleness, if you knew how often I have 
 recollected my engagement, and contented my- 
 self to delay the performance for some reason 
 which I durst not examine because I knew it 
 to be false ; how often I have sat down to write 
 and rejoiced at interruption ; and how often I 
 have praised the dignity of resolution, deter- 
 mined at night to write in the morning, and 
 deferred it in the morning to the quiet hours of 
 night. 
 
 I have at last begun what I have long wished 
 at an end, and find it more easy than I expect- 
 ed to continue my narration. 
 
 Our assembly could boast no such constella- 
 tion of intellects as Clarendon's band of associ- 
 ates. We had among us no Selden, Falkland, 
 or Waller ; but we had men not less important 
 in their own eyes, though less distinguished by 
 the public ; and many a time have we lamented 
 the partiality of mankind, and agreed that men 
 of the deepest inquiry sometimes let their dis- 
 coveries die away in silence, that the most com- 
 prehensive observers have seldom opportunities 
 of imparting their remarks, and that modest 
 merit passes in the crowd unknown and un- 
 heeded. 
 
 One of the greatest men of the society was 
 Sim Scruple, who lives in a continual equipoise 
 of doubt, and is a constant enemy to confidence 
 and dogmatism. Sim's favourite topic of con- 
 versation is, the narrowness of the human 
 mind, the fallaciousness of our senses, the pre- 
 valence of early prejudice, and the uncertainty 
 of appearances. Sim has many doubts about 
 the nature of death, and is sometimes inclined 
 to believe that sensation may survive motion, 
 and that a dead man may feel though he can- 
 not stir. He has sometimes hinted that man 
 might perhaps have been naturally a quadru- 
 ped ; and thinks it would be very proper, that 
 at the Foundling Hospital some children should 
 be inclosed in an apartment in which the 
 nurses should be obliged to walk half upon 
 four and half upon two, that the younglings, 
 being bred without the prejudice of example, 
 might have no other guide than nature, and 
 might at last come forth into the world as ge- 
 nius should direct, erect or prone, on two legs 
 or on four. 
 
 The next in dignity of mien and fluency 
 of talk was Dick Wormwood, whose sole de- 
 light is, to find every thing wrong. Dick never 
 enters a room but he shows that the door and 
 the chimney are ill-placed. He never walks 
 into the fields but he finds ground ploughed 
 which is fitter for pasture. He is always an 
 enemy to the present fashion. He holds that 
 all the beauty and virtue of women will soon 
 be destroyed by the use of tea. He triumphs 
 when he talks on the present system of educa- 
 tion, and tells us with great vehemence, that 
 we are learning words when we should learn 
 things. He is of opinion that we suck in er 
 rors at the nurse's breast and thinks it extreme- 
 ly ridiculous that children should be taught to 
 use the right hand rather than the left. 
 
 Bob Sturdy considers it as a point of honour 
 to say again what he has once said, and won- 
 ders how any man that has been known to al-
 
 No. 84.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 ter his opinion, can look his neighbours in the 
 facs. Bob is the most formidable disputant of 
 the whole company ; for, without troubling 
 himself to search for reasons, he tires his anta- 
 
 onist with repeated affirmations. When Bob 
 as been attacked for an hour with all the 
 powers of eloquence and reason, and his posi- 
 tion appears to all but himself utterly untenable, 
 he always closes the debate with his first de- 
 claration, introduced by a stout preface of con- 
 temptuous civility, " All this is very judi- 
 cious ; you may talk, Sir, as you please ; but 
 I will still say what I said at first. " Bob deals 
 much in universals, which he has now obliged 
 us to the let pass without exceptions. He lives 
 on an annuity, and holds that " there are as 
 many thieves as traders ;" he is of loyalty un- 
 shaken, and always maintains; that " he who 
 sees a Jacobite sees a rascal." 
 
 Phil Gentle is an enemy to the rudeness of 
 contradiction and the turbulance of debate. 
 Phil has no notions of his own, and therefore 
 willingly catches from the last speaker such as 
 he shall drop. This inflexibility of ignorance 
 is easily accommodated to any tenet ; his only 
 difficulty is, when the disputants grow zealous, 
 how to be of two contrary opinions at once. 
 If no appeal is made to his judgment, he has 
 the art of distributing his attention and his 
 smiles in such a manner, that each thinks him 
 of his own party ; but if he is obliged to 
 speak, he then observes that the question is 
 difficult ; that he never received so much plea- 
 sure from a debate before ; that neither of the 
 contravertists could have found his match in 
 any other company ; that Mr. Wormwood's 
 assertion is very well supported, and yet there 
 is great force in what Mr. Scruple advanced 
 against it. By this indefinite declaration both 
 are commonly satisfied ; for he that has pre- 
 vailed is in good humour ; and he that has felt 
 his own weakness is very glad to have escaped 
 so well. 
 
 I am, Sir, yours, &c. 
 
 ROBIN SPRITELT. 
 
 No 84.] SATURDAY, Nov. 24, 1759. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY is, of the various kind of narra- 
 tive writing, that which is most eagerly read, 
 and most easily applied to the purposes of 
 life. 
 
 In romances, when the wide field of possi- 
 bility lies open to invention, the incidents 
 may easily be made more numerous, the vicis- 
 situdes more sudden, and the events more won- 
 derful ; but from the time of life when fancy 
 begins to be over-ruled by reason and corrected 
 by experience, the most artful tale raises little 
 curiosity when it is known to be false ; though 
 it may, perhaps, be sometimes read as a model 
 of a neat or elegant style, not for the sake of 
 knowing what is contains, but how it is written ; 
 or those that are weary of themselves, may 
 have recourse to it as a pleasing dream, of 
 which, when they awake, they voluntarily dis- 
 miss the images from their minds. 
 
 The examples and events of history, press, 
 indeed, upon the mind with the weight of truth ; 
 
 but when they are reposited in the memory, 
 they are oflener employed for show than use, 
 and rather diversify conversation than regulate 
 life. Few are engaged in such scenes as give 
 them opportunities of growing wiser by the 
 downfal of statesmen or the defeat of generals. 
 The stratagems of war, and the intrigues of 
 courts, are read by far the greater part of man- 
 kind with the same indifference as the adven- 
 tures of fabled heroes, or the revolutions of a 
 fairy region. Between falsehood and useless 
 truth there is little difference. As gold which 
 he cannot spend will make no man rich, so 
 knowledge which he cannot apply will make 
 no man wise. 
 
 The mischievous consequences of vice and 
 folly, of irregular desires and predominant 
 passions, are best discovered by those rela- 
 tions which are levelled with the general sur- 
 face of life, which tell not how any man be- 
 came great, but how he was made happy ; 
 not how he lost the favour of his prince, but 
 how he became discontented with himself. 
 
 Those relations are therefore commonly ot 
 most value in which the writer tells his own 
 story. He that recounts the life of another 
 commonly dwells most upon conspicuous 
 events, lessens the familiarity of his tale to 
 increase its dignity, shows his favourite at a. 
 distance decorated and magnified like the an 
 cient actors in their tragic dress, and endea- 
 vours to hide the man that he may produce a 
 hero. 
 
 But if it be true, which was said by a French 
 prince, " That no man was a hero to the ser- 
 vants of his chamber," it is equally true that 
 every man is yet less a hero to himself. He 
 that is most elevated above the crowd by the 
 importance of his employments, or the repu- 
 tation of his genius, feels himself affected by 
 fame or business but as they influence his do- 
 mestic life. The high and low, as they have 
 the same faculties and the same senses, have 
 no less similitudes in their pains and pleasures. 
 The sensations are the same in all, though 
 produced by very different occasions. The 
 prince feels the same pain when an invader 
 seizes a province, as the farmer when a thief 
 drives away his cow. Men thus equal in them- 
 selves will appear equal in honest and impar- 
 tial biography ; and those whom fortune or 
 nature place at the greatest distance, may af- 
 ford instruction to each other. 
 
 The writer of his own life has at least the 
 first qualification of an historian, the know- 
 ledge of the truth ; and though it may be plau- 
 sibly objected that his temptations to disguise 
 it are equal to his opportunities of knowing it, 
 yet I cannot but think that impartiality may 
 be expected with equal confidence from him 
 that relates the passages of his own life, as 
 from him that delivers the transactions of an- 
 other. 
 
 Certainty of knowledge not only exclude* 
 mistake, but fortifies veracity. What we col- 
 lect by conjecture, and by conjecture only can 
 one man judge of another's motives or senti- 
 ments, is easily modified by fancy or by desire ; 
 as objects imperfectly discerned take forms 
 from the hope or fear of the beholder. But
 
 438 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 85 
 
 that which is fully known cannot be falsified 
 but with reluctance of understanding, and 
 alarm of conscience : of understanding, the 
 lover of truth; of conscience, the sentinel of 
 virtue. 
 
 He that writes the life of another is either 
 his friend or his enemy, and wishes either to 
 exalt his praise or aggravate his infamy ; many 
 temptations to falsehood will occur in the dis- 
 guise of passions, too specious to fear much 
 resistance. Love of virtue will animate pane- 
 gyric, and hatred of wickedness imbitter cen- 
 sure. The zeal of gratitude, the ardour of 
 patriotism, fondness for an opinion, or fidelity 
 to a party, may easily overpower the vigilance 
 of a mind habitually well disposed, and pre- 
 vail over unassisted and unfriended veracity. 
 
 But he that speaks of himself has no motive 
 to falsehood or partiality except self-love, by 
 which all have so often been betrayed, that all 
 are on the watch against its artifices. He that 
 writes an apology for a single action, to con- 
 fute an accusation, to recommend himself to 
 favour, is indeed always to be suspected of 
 favouring his own cause ; but he that aits 
 down calm and voluntarily to review his life 
 for the admonition of posterity, or to amuse 
 himself, and leaves this account unpublished, 
 may be commonly presumed to tell truth, since 
 falsehood cannot appease his own mind, and 
 fam.e will not be heard beneath the tomb. 
 
 No. 85.] SATURDAY, DEC. 1, 1759. 
 
 ONE of the peculiarities which distinguish the 
 present age is the multiplication of books. 
 Every day brings new advertisements of lite- 
 rary undertakings, and we are flattered with 
 repeated promises of growing wise on easier 
 terms than our progenitors. 
 
 How much either happiness or knowledge 
 is advanced by this multitude of authors, it is 
 not very easy to decide. 
 
 He that teaches us any thing which we 
 knew not before, is undoubtedly to be reve- 
 renced as a master. 
 
 He that conveys knowledge by more pleas- 
 ing ways, may very properly be loved as a 
 benefactor ; and he that supplies life with in- 
 nocent amusement, will be certainly caressed 
 as a pleasing companion. 
 
 But few of those who fill the world with 
 books have any pretensions to the hope either 
 of pleasing or instructing. They have often 
 no other task than to lay two books before 
 them, out of which they compile a third, with- 
 out any new materials of their own, and with 
 very little application of judgment to those 
 which former authors have supplied. 
 
 That all compilations are useless I do not 
 assert. Particles of science are often very 
 widely scattered. Writers of extensive com- 
 prehension have incidental remarks upon to- 
 pics very remote from the principal subject, 
 which arc often more valuable than formal 
 treatises, and which yet are not known because 
 they are not promised in the title. He that 
 collects tVnse under proper heads is very lau- 
 
 dably employed, for though he exerts no great 
 abilities in the work, he facilitates the progress 
 of others, and by making that easy of attain- 
 ment which is already written, may give some 
 mind, more vigorous or more adventurous than 
 his own, leisure for new thoughts and original 
 designs. 
 
 But the collections poured lately from the 
 press have been seldom made at any great ex- 
 pense of time or inquiry, and therefore only 
 serve to distract choice without supplying any 
 real want. 
 
 It is observed that " a corrupt society has 
 many laws :" I know not whether it is not 
 equally true, that " an ignorant age has many 
 books." When the treasures of ancient know- 
 ledg lie unexamined, and original authors are 
 neglected and forgotten, compilers and plagi- 
 aries are encouraged, who give us again what 
 we had before, and grow great by setting be- 
 fore us what our own sloth had hidden from 
 our view. 
 
 Yet are not even these writers to be indis- 
 criminately censured and rejected. Truth, like 
 beauty, varies its fashions, and is best recom- 
 mended by different dresses to different minds; 
 and he that recalls the attention of mankind 
 to any part of learning which time has left 
 behind it, may be truly said to advance the 
 literature of his own age. As the manners of 
 nations vary, new topics of persuasion become 
 necessary, and new combinations of imagery 
 are produced ; and he that can accommodate 
 himself to the reigning taste, may always have 
 readers who perhaps would not have looked 
 upon better performances. 
 
 To exact of every man who writes, that he 
 should say something new, would be to reduce 
 authors to a small number ; to oblige the most 
 fertile genius to say only what is new would 
 be to contract his volumes to a few pages. 
 Yet, surely, there ought to be some bounds to 
 repetition ; libraries ought no more to be heap- 
 ed for ever with the same thoughts differently 
 expressed, than wuh the same books differ 
 ently decorated. 
 
 The good or evil which these secondary 
 writers produce, is seldom of any long dura- 
 tion. As they owe their existence to change 
 of fashion, they commonly disappear when a 
 new fashion becomes prevalent. The authors 
 that in any nation last from age to age are very 
 few, because there are very few that have any 
 other claim to notice than that they catch holu 
 on present curiosity, and giatify some acci- 
 dental desire, or produce some temporary 
 conveniency. 
 
 But however the writers of the day may 
 despair of future fame, they ought at least to 
 forbear any present mischief. Though they 
 cannot arrive at eminent heights of excel- 
 lence, they might keep themselves harmless. 
 They might take care to inform themselves 
 before they attempt to inform others, and exert 
 the little influence which they have for honest 
 purposes. 
 
 But such is the present state of our litera- 
 ture, that the ancient sage, who thought "a 
 great book a great evil," would now think the 
 multitude of books a multitude of evils. He
 
 JSo. 86.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 439 
 
 would consider a bulky writer who engrosse 
 c. year, and a swarm of pamphleteers who stol 
 each an hour, as equal wasters of human life 
 and would make no other difference betwee 
 them, than between a beast of prey and 
 flight of locusts. 
 
 No. 86.] SATURDAY, DEC. 8, 1759. 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 i AM a young lady newly married to a young 
 gentleman. Our fortune is large, our mind; 
 are vacant, our dispositions gay, our acquaint 
 ances numerous, and our relations splendid 
 We considered that marriage, like life, has its 
 youth; that the first year is the year of gaiety 
 and revel, and resolved to see the shows anc 
 feel the joys of London before the increase o 
 our family should confine us to domestic carei 
 and domestic pleasures. 
 
 Little time was spent in preparation ; the 
 coach was harnessed, and a few days brought 
 us to London, and we alighted at a lodging 
 provided for us by Miss Biddy Trifle, a maiden 
 niece of my husband's father, where we found 
 apartments on a second floor, which my cou- 
 sin told us would serve us till we could please 
 ourselves with a more commodious and ele- 
 gant habitation, and which she had taken at a 
 very high price, because it was not worth the 
 while to make a hard bargain for so short a 
 time. 
 
 Here I intended to lie concealed till my new 
 clothes were made, and my new lodging hired ; 
 Out Miss Trifle had so industriously given no- 
 tice of our arrival to all our acquaintance, 
 that I had the mortification next day of seein 
 the door thronged with painted coaches and 
 chairs with coronets, and was obliged to re- 
 ceive all my husband's relations on a second 
 floor. 
 
 Inconveniences are often balanced by some 
 advantage : the elevation of my apartments 
 furnished a subject for conversation, which, 
 without some such help, we should have been 
 in danger of wanting. Lady Stately told us 
 how many years had passed since she climbed 
 so many steps. Miss Airy ran to the window, 
 and thought it charming to see the walkers so 
 little in the street ; and Miss Gentle went to 
 try the same experiment, and screamed to find 
 herself so far above the ground. 
 
 They all knew that we^intended to remove, 
 and, therefore, all gave me advice about a 
 proper choice. One street was recommended 
 for the purity of its air, another for its freedom 
 from noise, another for its nearness to the park, 
 another because there was but a step from it 
 to all places of diversion, and another, be- 
 cause its inhabitants enjoyed at once the town 
 and country. 
 
 I had civility enough to hear every recom- 
 mendation with a look of curiosity while it 
 was made, and of acquiescence when it was 
 concluded, out in my heart felt no other desire 
 than to be free from the disgrace of a second 
 
 floor, and cared little where I should fix if the 
 apartments were spacious and splendid. 
 
 Next day a chariot was hired, and Miss 
 Trifle was despatched to find a lodging. She 
 returned in the afternoon, with an account of 
 a charming place, to which my husband went 
 in the morning to make the contract. Being 
 young and unexperienced, he took with him 
 his friend Ned duick, a gentleman of great 
 skill in rooms and furniture, who sees, at a 
 single glance, whatever there is to be com- 
 mended or censured. Mr. duick, at the first 
 view of the house, declared that it could not 
 be inhabited, for the sun in the afternoon shone 
 with full glare on the windows of the dining- 
 room. 
 
 Miss Trifle went out again and soon disco- 
 vered another lodging, which Mr. duick went 
 to survey, and found, that, whenever the wind 
 should blow from the east, all the smoke of 
 the city would be driven upon it. 
 
 A magnificent set of rooms was then found 
 in one of the streets near Westminster-Bridge, 
 which Miss Trifle preferred to any which she 
 had yet seen ; but Mr. duick having mused 
 upon it for a time, concluded that it would be 
 too much exposed in the morning to the fogg 
 that rise from the river. Thus Mr. duick 
 proceeded to give us every day new testimo- 
 nies of his taste and circumspection ; some- 
 imes the street was too nairow for a double 
 range of coaches; sometimes it was an ob- 
 scure place, not inhabited by persons of quali- 
 v Some places were dirty, and somecrowd- 
 d ; in some houses the furniture was ill-suit- 
 ed, and in others the stairs were too narrow. 
 ie had such fertility of objections that Miss 
 Trifle was at last tired, and desisted from all 
 attempts for our accommodation. 
 
 In the meantime I have still continued to 
 ee my company on a second floor, and am 
 asked twenty times a day when I am to leave 
 hose odious lodgings, in which I live tumul- 
 uously without pleasure, and expensively 
 without honour. My husband thinks so highly 
 >f Mr. duick, that he cannot be persuaded 
 o remove without his approbation ; and Mr. 
 duick thinks his reputation raised by the 
 multiplication of difficulties. 
 In this distress, to whom can I have recourse ? 
 find my temper vitiated by daily disappoint- 
 nent, by the sight of pleasure which I cannot 
 artake, and the possession of riches which I 
 annot enjoy. Dear Mr. Idler, inform my hus- 
 and that he is trifling away, in superfluous 
 exation, the few months which custom has 
 ppropriatcd to delight ; that matrimonial 
 uarrels are not easily reconciled between 
 lose that have no children ; that wherever we 
 ettle he must always find some inconveni 
 nee ; but nothing is so much to be avoided 
 s a perpetual state of inquiry and suspense. 
 I am, Sir, your humble servant, 
 
 PEGGY HEARTLESS. 
 
 S T o. 87.] SATURDAY, DEC. 15, 1759. 
 
 OF what we know not, we can only judge by 
 hat we know. Every novelty appears more
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 88 
 
 wonderfu" as it is more remote from any thin 
 with which experience or testimony have h: 
 therto acquainted us ; and if it passes farthe 
 beyond the notions that we have been accus 
 tomed to form, it becomes at last incredibl 
 We seldom consider that human knowledg 
 is very narrow, that national manners ar 
 formed by chance, that uncommon conjunc 
 tures of causes produce rare effects, or tha 
 what is impossible at one time or place ma 
 yet happen in another. It is always easier t 
 deny than to inquire. To refuse credit con 
 fers for a moment an appearance of superior 
 ity, which every little mind is tempted to as 
 sume when it may be gained so cheaply as b; 
 withdrawing attention from evidence, and de 
 clining the fatigue of comparing probabilities 
 The most pertinacious and vehement demon 
 strator may be wearied in time by continua 
 negation ; and incredulity, which an old poet 
 in his address to Raleigh, calls " the wit o 
 fools," obtunds the argument which it canno 
 answer, as woolsacks deaden arrows though 
 they cannot repel them. 
 
 Many relations of travellers have been slight- 
 ed as fabulous, till more frequent voyages have 
 confirmed their veracity; and it may reasona- 
 bly be imagined, that many ancient historians 
 are unjustly suspected of falsehood, because 
 our own times afford nothing that resembles 
 what they tell. 
 
 Had only the writers of antiquity informed 
 us that there was once a nation in which the 
 wife lay down upon the burning pile, only to 
 mix her ashes with those of her husband, we 
 should have thought it a tale to be told with 
 that of Endymion's commerce with the Moon. 
 Had only a single traveller related that many 
 nations of the earth were black, we should 
 have thought the accounts of the Negroes and 
 of the Phoenix equally credible. But of black 
 men the numbers are too great who are now 
 repining under English cruelty, and the cus- 
 tom of voluntary cremation is not yet lost 
 among the ladies of India. 
 
 Few narratives will either to men or women 
 appear more incredible than the histories of 
 the Amazons ; of female nations of whose 
 constitution it was the essential and funda- 
 mental law, to exclude men from all participa- 
 tion either of public affairs or domestic busi- 
 ness ; where female armies marched under fe- 
 male captains, female farmers gathered the 
 harvest, female partners danced together, and 
 female wits diverted one another. 
 
 Yet several sages of antiquity have trans- 
 mitted accounts of the Amazons of Caucasus ; 
 and of the Amazons of America, who have 
 given their name to the greatest river in the 
 world. Condamine lately found such memo- 
 rials, as can be expected among erratic and 
 unlettered nations, where events are recorded 
 only by tradition, and new swarms settling in 
 the country from time to time, confuse and ef- 
 face all traces of former times. 
 
 To die with husbands, or to live without 
 them, are the two extremes which the prudence 
 and moderation of European ladies have, in all 
 ages, equally declined ; they have never been 
 nmired to death by the kindness or civility of 
 
 the politest nations, nor has the roughness and 
 brutality of more savage countries ever pro 
 voked them to doom their male associates to 
 irrevocable banishment. The Bohemian ma- 
 trons are said to have made one short struggle 
 for superiority, but instead of banishing the 
 men, they contented themselves with condemn- 
 ing them to servile offices ; and their consti- 
 tution thus left imperfect, was quickly over- 
 thrown. 
 
 There is, I think, no class of English women 
 from whom we are in any danger of Amazo- 
 nian usurpation. The old maids seem nearest 
 to independence, and most likely to be animat- 
 ed by revenge against masculine authoiity ; 
 they often speak of men with acrimonious ve- 
 hemence, but it is seldom found that they have 
 any settled hatred against them, and it is yet 
 more rarely observed that they have any kind- 
 ness for each other. They will not easily com- 
 bine in any plot ; and if they should ever agree 
 to retire and fortify themselves in castles or in 
 mountains, the sentinel will betray the passes 
 in spite, and the garrison will capitulate upon 
 easy terms, if the besiegers have handsome 
 sword knots, and are well supplied with fringe 
 and lace. 
 
 The gamesters, if they were united, would 
 make a formidable body ; and since they con- 
 sider men only as beings that are to lose their 
 money, they might live together without any 
 wish for the officiousness of gallantry, or the 
 delights of diversified conversation. But as 
 nothing would hold them together but the hope 
 of plundering one another, their government 
 would fail from the defect of its principles, the 
 men would need only to neglect them, and 
 .hey would perish in a few weeks by a civi, 
 war. 
 
 I do not mean to censure the ladies of Eng- 
 and as defective in knowledge or in spirit, 
 vhen I suppose them unlikely to revive the 
 nilitary honours of their sex. The character 
 f the ancient Amazons was rather terrible 
 han lovely ; the hand could not be very deli- 
 ate that was only employed in drawing the 
 ow and brandishing the battle-axe ; their 
 >ower was maintained by cruelty, their cou- 
 age was deformed by ferocity, and their ex- 
 mple only shows that men and women live 
 est together. 
 
 S T o. 88.] SATURDAY, DEC. 22, 1759. 
 
 WHEN the philosophers of the last age were 
 rst congregated irrto the Royal Society, great 
 xpectations were raised of the sudden pro- 
 ress of useful arts ; the time was supposed to 
 e near, when engines should turn by a perpe- 
 ual motion, and health be secured by the uni- 
 ersal medicine ; when learning should be fa- 
 ilitated by a real character, and commerce 
 xtended by ships which could reach their 
 orts in defiance of the tempest. 
 But improvement is naturally slow. The 
 octety met and parted without any visible di- 
 linution of the miseries of life. The gout 
 nd stone were still painful, the ground that
 
 Wo. 89.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 441 
 
 vas not ploughed brought no harvest, and 
 leither oranges nor grapes would grow upon 
 the hawthorn. At last, those who were disap- 
 pointed began to be angry ; those, likewise, 
 who hated innovation were glad to gain an op- 
 portunity of ridiculing men who had depre- 
 ciated, perhaps, with too much arrogance, the 
 knowledge of antiquity. And it appears from 
 some of their earliest apologies, that the phi- 
 losophers felt with great sensibility the unwel- 
 come importunities of those, who were daily 
 asking, " What have ye done ?" 
 
 The truth is, that little had been done com- 
 pared with what fame had been suffered to 
 promise ; and the question could only be an- 
 swered by general apologies and by new 
 hopes, which, when they were frustrated, gave 
 a new occasion to the same vexatious inquiry. 
 
 This fatal question has disturbed the quiet 
 of many other minds. He that in the latter 
 part of his life too strictly inquires what he has 
 done, can very seldom receive from his own 
 heart such an account as will give him satis- 
 faction. 
 
 We do not, indeed, so often disappoint 
 others as ourselves. We not only think more 
 highly than others of our own abilities, but 
 allow ourselves to form hopes which we never 
 communicate, and please our thoughts with 
 employments which none ever will allot us, and 
 with elevations to which we are never expect- 
 ed to rise ; and when our days and years are 
 passed away in common business or common 
 amusements, and we find, at last, that we have 
 suffered our purposes to sleep till the time of 
 action is past, we are reproached only by our 
 own reflections ; neither our friends nor our 
 enemies wonder that we live and die like the 
 rest of mankind ; that we live without notice, 
 and die without memorial; they know not 
 what task we had proposed, and, therefore, 
 cannot discern whether it is finished. 
 
 He that compares what he has done with 
 what he has left undone, will feel the effect 
 which must always follow the comparison of 
 imagination with reality; he will look with 
 contempt on his own unimportance, and won- 
 der to what purpose he came into the world ; 
 he will repine that he shall leave behind him 
 no evidence of his having been, that he has 
 added nothing to the system of life, but has 
 glided from youth to age among the crowd, 
 without any effort for distinction. 
 
 Man is seldom willing to let fall the opinion 
 of his own dignity, or to believe that he does 
 little only because every individual is a very 
 little being. He is better content to want dili- 
 
 fence then power, and sooner confesses the 
 epravity of his will than the imbecility of his 
 nature. 
 
 From this mistaken notion of human great- 
 ness it proceeds, that many who pretend to 
 have made great advances in wisdom so loudly 
 declare that they despise themselves. If I had 
 ever found any of the self-contemners much 
 irritated or pained by the consciousness of 
 their meanness, I should have given them 
 consolation by observing, that a little more 
 than nothing is as much as can be expected 
 from a being who, with respect to the multi- 
 3P 
 
 tudes about him is himself little more than 
 nothing. Every man is obliged by the Su- 
 preme Master of the universe to improve all 
 the opportunities of good which are afforded 
 him, and to keep in continual activity such 
 abilities as are bestowed upon him. But he 
 has no reason to repine, though his abilities 
 are small and his opportunities few. He that 
 has improved the virtue, or advanced the 
 happiness of one fellow-creature, he that has 
 ascertained a single moral proposition, or add- 
 ed one useful experiment to natural knowl- 
 edge, may be contented with his own perform- 
 ance, and, with respect to mortals like him- 
 self, may demand, like Augustus, to be dis- 
 missed at his departure with applause. 
 
 No. 89.] SATURDAY, DEC. 29, 1759. 
 
 How evil came into the world for what rea 
 son it is that life is overspread with such 
 boundless varieties of misery why the only 
 thinking being of this globe is doomed to 
 think, merely to be wretched, and to pass his 
 time from youth to age in fearing or in suffer- 
 ing calamities, is a question which philoso- 
 phers have long asked, and which philosophy 
 could never answer. 
 
 Religion informs us that misery and sin 
 were produced together. The depravation of 
 human will was followed by a disorder of the 
 harmony of nature ; and by that Providence 
 which often places antidotes in the neighbour 
 hood of poisons, vice was checked by misery, 
 lest it should swell to universal and unlimited 
 dominion. 
 
 A state of innocence and happiness is so re- 
 mote from all that we have ever seen, that 
 though we can easily conceive it possible, and 
 may, therefore, hope to attain it, yet our specu- 
 lations upon it must be general and confused. 
 We can discover that where there is univer- 
 sal innocence, there will probably be universal 
 happiness ; for why should afflictions be per- 
 mitted to infest beings who are not in dangej 
 of corruption from blessings, and where there 
 is no use of terror nor cause of punishment? 
 But in a world like ours, where our senses 
 assault us, and our hearts betray us, we should 
 pass on from crime to crime, heedless and 
 remorseless, if misery did not stand in our 
 way, and our own pains admonish us of our 
 folly. 
 
 Almost all the moral good which is left 
 among us, is the apparent effect of physical 
 evil. 
 
 Goodness is divided by divines into sober- 
 ness, righteousness, and godliness. Let it be 
 examined how each of these duties would be 
 practised if there were no physical evil to en- 
 force it. 
 
 Sobriety, or temperance, is nothing but the 
 forbearance of pleasure ; and if pleasure was 
 not followed by pain, who would forbear it? 
 We see every hour those in whom the desire of
 
 442 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 | No. 90. 
 
 present indulgence overpowers all sense of 
 past and all foresight of future misery. In a 
 remission of the gout, the drunkard returns to 
 his wine, and the glutton to his feast ; and if 
 neither disease nor poverty were felt or dread- 
 ed, every one would sink down in idle sensu- 
 ality, without any care of others, or of himself. 
 To eat and drink; and lie down to sleep, would 
 be the whole business of mankind. 
 
 Righteousness, or the system of social duty, 
 may be subdivided into justice and charity. Of 
 justice one of the heathen sages has shown, 
 with great acuteness, that it was impressed 
 upon mankind only by the inconveniencies 
 which injustice had produced. "In the first 
 ages," says he, " men acted without any rule 
 but the impulse of desire ; they practised in- 
 justice upon others, and suffered it from others 
 n their turn ; but in time it was discoveed, that 
 ihe pain of suffering wrong was greater than 
 Ihe pleasure of doing it ; and mankind, by a 
 
 general compact submitted to the restraint of 
 LWS, and resigned the pleasure to escape the 
 pain." 
 
 Of charity it is superfluous to observe, that 
 it could have no place if there were no want ; 
 for of a virtue which could not be practised, 
 the omission could not be culpable. Evil is not 
 only the occasional but the efficient cause of 
 charity; we are incited to the relief of misery 
 oy the consciousness that we have the same 
 nature with the sufferer, that we are in danger 
 of the same distresses, and may sometimes 
 implore the same assistance. 
 
 Godliness, or piety, is elevation of the mind 
 towards the Supreme Being, and extension of 
 the thoughts to another life. The other life is 
 future, and the Supreme Being is invisible. 
 None would have recourse to an invisible 
 power, but that all other subjects had eluded 
 their hopes. None would fix their attention 
 upon the future, but that they are discontented 
 with the present. If the senses were feasted 
 with perpetual pleasure, they would always 
 keep the mind in subjection. Reason has no 
 authority over us, but by its power to warn us 
 against evil. 
 
 In childhood, while our minds are yet unoc- 
 cupied, religion is impressed upon them, and 
 the first years of almost all who have been 
 well educated are passed in a regular discharge 
 of the duties of piety. But as we advance 
 forward into the crowds of life, innumerable 
 delights solicit our inclinations, and innumera- 
 ble cares distract our attention ; the time of 
 youth is passed in noisy frolics ; manhood is 
 led on from hope to hope, and from project to 
 project; the dissoluteness of pleasure, the 
 inebriation of success, the ardour of expecta- 
 tion, and the vehemence of competition chain 
 down the mind alike to the present scene, nor 
 is it remembered how soon this mist of trifles 
 must be scattered, and the bubbles that float 
 upon the rivulet of life be lost for ever in the 
 gulf of eternity. To this consideration 
 scarcely any man is awakened but by some 
 pressing and resistless evil. The death of 
 those from w.iom he derived his pleasures, or 
 to whom he destined his possessions ; some 
 disease whic \ shows him the vanity of all ex- 
 
 ternal acquisitions, or the gloom of age, which 
 intercepts his prospects of long enjoyment, 
 forces him to fix his hopes upon another state, 
 and when he has contended with the tempests 
 of life till his strength fails him, he flies, at last 
 to the shelter of religion. 
 
 That misery does not make all virtuous, ex- 
 perience too clearly informs us ; but it is no 
 less certain that of what virtue there is, misery 
 produces far the greater part. Physical evil 
 may be, therefore, endured with patience, 
 since it is the cause of moral good ; and pa- 
 tience itself is one virtue by which we are pre- 
 pared for that state in which evil shall be no 
 more. 
 
 No. 90.] SATURDAY, JAN. 5, 1760. 
 
 IT is a complaint which has been made from 
 time to time, and which seems to have lately 
 become more frequent, that English oratory, 
 however forcible in argument, or elegant in 
 expression, is deficient and inefficacious, be- 
 cause our speakers want the grace and energy 
 of action. 
 
 Among the numerous projectors who are de- 
 sirous to refine our manners, and improve our 
 faculties, some are willing to supply the defi- 
 ciency of our speakers. We have had more 
 than one extortion to study the neglected art 
 of moving the passions, and have been en- 
 couraged to believe that our tongues, however 
 feeble in themselves, may, by the help of our 
 hands and legs, obtain an uncontrollable do- 
 minion over the most stubborn audience, ani- 
 mate the insensible, engage the careless, force 
 tears from the obdurate, and money from the 
 avaricious. 
 
 If by sleight of hand or nimbleness of foot, 
 all these wonders can be performed, he that 
 shall neglect to attain the free use of his limbs 
 may be justly censured as criminally lazy. 
 But I am afraid that no specimen of such 
 effects will easily be shown. If I could once 
 find a speaker in 'Change Alley raising the 
 price of stocks by the power of persuasive 
 gestures, I should very zealously recommend 
 the study of his art ; but having never seen 
 any action by which language was much 
 assisted, I have been hitherto inclined to 
 doubt whether my countrymen are not blamed 
 too hastily for their calm and motionless utter- 
 ance. 
 
 Foreigners of many nations accompany their 
 speech with action : but why should their ex- 
 ample have more influence upon us than ours 
 upon them ? Customs are not to be changed 
 but for better. Let those who desire to re- 
 form us show the benefits of the change pro- 
 posed. When the Frenchman waves his 
 hands, and writhes his body, in recounting the 
 revolutions of a game of cards, or the Neapoli- 
 tan, who tells the hour of the day, shows upon 
 his fingers the number which he mentions, I 
 do not perceive that their manual exercise ia 
 of much use, or that, they leave any image 
 more deeply impressed by their bustle anc 
 vehemence of communication.
 
 [No. 91. 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 443 
 
 Upon the English stage there is no want of 
 action, but the difficulty of making it at once 
 various and proper, and its perpetual tendency 
 to become ridiculous, notwithstanding all the 
 advantages which art and show, and custom 
 and prejudice can give it, may prove how little 
 it can be admitted into any other place, where 
 it can have no recommendation but from truth 
 and nature. 
 
 The use of English oratory is only at the bar, 
 in the parliament, and in the church. Neither 
 the judges of our laws, nor the representatives 
 of our people, would be much affected by la- 
 boured gesticulation, or believe any man the 
 more because he rolled his eyes, or puffed his 
 cheeks, or spread abroad his arms, or stamped 
 the ground, or thumped his breast, or turned 
 his eyes sometimes to the ceiling, and some- 
 times to the floor. Upon men intent only upon 
 truth, the arm of an orator has little power ; a 
 credible testimony, or a cogent argument, will 
 overcome all the art of modulation, and all 
 the violence of contortion. 
 
 It is well known that, in the city which may 
 be called the parent of oratory, all the arts of 
 mechanical persuasion were banished from the 
 court of supreme judicature. The judges of 
 the Areopagus considered action and vocife- 
 ration as a foolish appeal to the external senses, 
 and unworthy to be practised before those who 
 had no desire of idle amusement, and whose 
 only pleasure was to discover right. 
 
 Whether action may not be yet of use in 
 churches, where the preacher addresses a min- 
 gled audience, may deserve inquiry. It is cer- 
 tain that the senses are more powerful as the 
 reason is weaker: and that he whose ears con- 
 vey little to his mind, may sometimes listen 
 with his eyes till truth may gradually take pos- 
 session of his heart. If there be any use of 
 gesticulation, it must be applied to the igno- 
 rant and rude, who will be more affected by 
 vehemence than delighted by propriety. In 
 the pulpit little action can be proper, for action 
 cajyllustrate nothing but that to which it may 
 be referred by nature or by custom. He that 
 imitates by his hand a motion which he de- 
 scribes, explains it by a natural similitude ; he 
 that lays his hand on his breast, when he ex- 
 presses pity, enforces his words by a custom- 
 ary allusion. But theology has few topics to 
 which action can be appropriated ; that action 
 which is vague and indeterminate will at last 
 settle into habit, and habitual peculiarities are 
 quickly ridiculous. 
 
 It is, perhaps, the character of the English, 
 to despise trifles ; and that art may surely be 
 accounted a trifle which is at once useless and 
 ostentatious, which can seldom be practised 
 with propriety, and which, as the mind is 
 more cultivated, is less powerful. Yet as all 
 innocent means are to be used for the propaga- 
 tion of truth, I would not deter those who are 
 employed in preaching to common congrega- 
 tions from any practice which they may find 
 persuasive ; for, compared with the conversion 
 of sinners, propriety and elegance are less 
 than nothing. 
 
 No. 91.] SATURDAY, JAK. 12, 1760. 
 
 IT is common to overlook what is near, by 
 keeping the eye fixed upon something remote. 
 In the same manner present opportunities are 
 neglected, and attainable good is slighted, by 
 minds busied in extensive ranges, and intent 
 upon future advantages. Life, however short, 
 is made still shorter by waste of time, and its 
 progress towards happiness, though naturally 
 slow, is yet retarded by unnecessary labour. 
 
 The difficulty of obtaining knowledge is uni- 
 versally confessed. To fix deeply in the mind 
 the principles of science, to settle their limita- 
 tions, and deduce the long succession of their 
 consequences ; to comprehend the whole com- 
 pass of complicated systems, with all the argu- 
 ments, objections, and solutions, and to reposite 
 in the intellectual treasury the numberless facts, 
 experiments, apophthegms, and positions, 
 which must stand single in the memory, and of 
 which none has only perceptible connection 
 with the rest, is a task which, though under- 
 taken with ardour, and pursued with diligence, 
 must at last be left unfinished by the frailty of 
 our nature. 
 
 To make the way to learning either less 
 short or less smooth, is certainly absurd ; yet 
 this is the apparent effect of the prejudice 
 which seems to prevail among us in favour of 
 foreign authors, and of the contempt of our 
 native literature, which this excursive curiosity 
 must necessarily produce. Every man is more 
 speedily instructed by his own language, than 
 by any other; before we search the rest of 
 the world for teachers, let us try whether we 
 may not spare our trouble by finding them at 
 home. 
 
 The riches of the English language are 
 much greater than they are commonly sup- 
 posed. Many useful and valuable books lie 
 buried in shops and libraries, unknown and un- 
 examined, unless some lucky compiler opens 
 them by chance, and finds an easy spoil of wit 
 and learning. I am far from intending to in- 
 sinuate that other languages are not necessary 
 to him who aspires to eminence, and whose 
 whole life is devoted to study ; but to him who 
 reads only for amusement, or whose purpose is 
 not to deck himself with the honour of litera- 
 ture, but to be qualified for domestic useful- 
 ness, and sit down content with subordinate 
 reputation, we have authors sufficient to fill up 
 all the vacancies of his time, and gratify most 
 of his wishes for information. 
 
 Of our poets I need say little, because they 
 are, perhaps, the only authors to whom their 
 country has done justice. We consider the 
 whole succession from Spencer to Pope, as 
 superior to any names which the continent can 
 boast ; and therefore the poets of other nations, 
 however familiarly they may be sometimes 
 mentioned, are very little read, except by those 
 who design to borrow their beauties. 
 
 There is I think, not one of the liberal arts 
 which may not be competently learned in the 
 Enelish language. He that searches after 
 mathematical knowledge may busy himself 
 among his own countrymen, and will find #e^ 
 or other able to instruct him in every part of
 
 444 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 92. 
 
 tiose abstruse sciences. He that is delighted 
 with experiments, and wishes to know the na- 
 ture of bodies from certain and visible effects, 
 is happily placed where the mechanical philo- 
 sophy was first established by a public institu- 
 tion, and from which it was spread to all other 
 countries. 
 
 The more airy and elegant studies of philo- 
 logy and criticism have little need of any fo- 
 reign help. Though our language, not being 
 very analogical, gives few opportunities for 
 grammatical researches, yet we have not 
 wanted authors who have considered the prin- 
 ciples of speech ; and with critical writings we 
 abound sufficiently to enable pedantry to im- 
 pose rules which can seldom be observed, and 
 vanity to talk or books which are seldom read. 
 
 But our own language has, from the Refor- 
 mation to the present time, been chiefly digni- 
 fied and adorned by the works of our divines, 
 who, considered as commentators, controvert- 
 ists, or preachers, have undoubtedly left all 
 other nations far behind them. No vulgar lan- 
 
 fuage can boast such treasures of theological 
 nowledge, or such multitudes of authors at 
 once learned, elegant, and pious. Other coun- 
 tries, and other communions, have authors per- 
 haps equal in abilities and diligence to ours ; 
 but if we unite number with excellence, there 
 is certainly no nation which must not allow us 
 to be superior. Of morality little is necessary 
 to be said, because it is comprehended in prac- 
 tical divinity, and is, perhaps, better taught in 
 English sermons than in any other books an- 
 cient and modern. Nor shall I dwell on our 
 excellence in metaphysical speculations, be- 
 cause he that reads the works of our divines 
 will easily discover how far human subtility 
 has been able to penetrate. 
 
 Political knowledge is forced upon us by the 
 form of our constitution ; and all the myste- 
 ries of government are discovered in the attack 
 or defence of every minister. The original. law 
 of society, the rights of subjects, and the pre- 
 rogatives of kings, have been considered with 
 the utmost nicety, sometimes profoundly in- 
 vestigated, and sometimes familiarly explained. 
 
 Thus copiously instructive is the English 
 language; and thus needless is all recourse to 
 foreign writers. Let us not, therefore, make 
 our neighbours proud by soliciting help which 
 we do not want, nor discourage our own indus- 
 try by difficulties which we need not suffer. 
 
 No. 92.] SATURDAY, JAN. 13, 1760. 
 
 WHATEVER is useful or honourable will be de- 
 sired by many who never can obtain it ; and 
 that which cannot be obtained when it is de- 
 sired, artifice or folly will be diligent to coun- 
 terfeit. Those to whom fortune has denied 
 gold and diamonds, decorate themselves with 
 stones and metals, which have something of 
 the show, but little of the value ; and every 
 moral excellence, or intellectual faculty, has 
 some vice or folly which imitates its appear- 
 ance. 
 
 Every man wishes to be wise, and they who 
 cannot be wise arc almost always cunning. 
 
 The less is the real discernment of those whom 
 business or conversation brings together, the 
 more illusions are practised, nor is caution ever 
 so necessary as with associates or opponento 
 of feeble minds. 
 
 Cunning differs from wisdom as twilight 
 from open day. He that walks in the sunshine 
 goes boldly forward by the nearest way ; he 
 sees that where the path is straight and even 
 he may proceed in security, and where it is 
 rough and crooked he easily complies with the 
 turns, and avoids the obstructions. But the 
 traveller in the dusk fears more as he sees less ; 
 he knows there may be danger, and therefore 
 suspects that he is never safe, tries every step 
 before he fixes his foot, and shrinks at every 
 noise, lest violence should approach him. Wis- 
 dom comprehends at once the end and the 
 means, estimates easiness or difficulty, and is 
 cautions or confident in due proportion. Cun- 
 ning discovers little at a time, and has no other 
 means of certainty than multiplication of stra- 
 tagems and superfluity of suspicion. The 
 man of cunning always considers that he can 
 never be too safe, and therefore always keeps 
 himself enveloped in a mist, impenetrable, as 
 he hopes, to the eye of rivalry or curiosity. 
 
 Upon this principle Tom Double has formed 
 a habit of eluding the most harmless question. 
 What he has no inclination to answer, he pre- 
 tends sometimes not to hear, and endeavours to 
 divert the inquirer's attention by some other 
 subject ; but if he be pressed hard by repeated 
 interrogation, he always evades a direct reply. 
 Ask him whom he likes best on the stage ; he 
 is ready to tell that there are several excellent 
 performers. Inquire when he was last at the 
 coffee-house ; he replies, that the weather has 
 been bad lately. Desire him to tell the age of 
 any of his acquaintance; he immediately men 
 tions another who is older or younger. 
 
 Will Puzzle values himself upon a long 
 reach. He foresees every thing before it will 
 happen, though he never relates his prognos- 
 tications till the event is passed. Nothin^has 
 come to pass for these twenty years of wnich 
 Mr. Puzzle had not given broad hints, and told 
 at least that it was not proper to tell. Of those 
 predictions, which every conclusion will equal- 
 ly verify, he always claims the credit, and 
 wonders that his friends did not understand 
 them. He supposes very truly, that much 
 may be known which he knows not, and there- 
 fore pretends to know much of which he and 
 all mankind are equally ignorant. I desired 
 his opinion, yesterday, of the German war, 
 and was told, that if the Prussians were well 
 supported, something great may be expected ; 
 but that they have very powerful enemies to 
 encounter ; that the Austrian general has long 
 experience, and the Russians are hardy and 
 resolute ; but that no human power is invinci- 
 ble. I then drew the conversation to our own 
 affairs, and invited him to balance the proba- 
 bilities of war and peace. He told me that 
 war requires courage, and negotiation judg- 
 ment, and that the time will come when it will 
 be seen whether our skill in treaty is equal to 
 our bravery in battle. To this general prattle 
 he will appeal hereafter, and will demand to
 
 No. 93.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 445 
 
 have his foresight applauded, whoever shall at 
 last be conquered or victorious. 
 
 With Ned Smuggle all is a secret. He be- 
 lieves himself watched by observation and ma- 
 lignity on every side, and rejoices in the dex- 
 terity by which he has escaped snares that 
 never were laid. Ned holds that a man is ne- 
 ver deceived if he never trusts, and therefore 
 will not tell the name of his tailor or his hatter. 
 He rides out every morning for the air, and 
 pleases himself with thinking that nobody 
 knows where he has been. When he dines 
 with a friend, he never goes to his house the 
 nearest way, but walks up a bye street to per- 
 plex the scent. W hen he has a coach called, 
 he never tells him at the door the true place to 
 which he is going, but stops him in the way, 
 that he may give him directions where nobody 
 can hear him. The price of what he buys or 
 sells is always concealed. He often takes 
 lodgings in the country by a wrong name, and 
 thinks that the world is wondering where he 
 can be hid. All these transactions he regis- 
 ters in a book, which, he says, will some time 
 or other amaze posterity. 
 
 It is remarked by Bacon, that many men try 
 to procure reputation only by objections, of 
 which, if they are once admitted, the nullity 
 never appears, because the design is laid aside. 
 " This false feint of wisdom," says he, " is 
 the ruin of business." The whole power of 
 cunning is privative ; to say nothing, and to 
 do nothing, is the utmost of its reach. Yet 
 men thus narrow by nature, and mean by art, 
 are sometimes able to rise by the miscarriages 
 of bravery and the openness of integrity ; and 
 by watching failures, and snatching opportu- 
 nities obtain advantages which belong proper- 
 ly to higher characters. 
 
 No. 93.] SATURDAY, JAN. 26, 1760, 
 
 SAM SOFTLY was bred a sugar-baker; but 
 succeeding to a considerable estate on the 
 death of his elder brother, he retired early 
 from business, married a fortune, and settled 
 in a country-house near Kentish-town. Sam, 
 who formerly was a sportsman, and in his ap- 
 prenticeship used to frequent Barnet races, 
 keeps a high chaise, with a brace of seasoned 
 geldings. During the summer months, the 
 principal passion and employment of Sam's 
 life is to visit, in this vehicle, the most eminent 
 seats of the nobility and gentry in different 
 parts of the kingdom, with his wife and some 
 select friends. By these periodical excursions 
 Sam gratifies many important purposes. He 
 assists the several pregnancies of his wife ; 
 he shows his chaise to the best advantage ; he 
 indulges his insatiable curiosity for finery, 
 which, since he has turned gentleman, has 
 grown upon him to an extraordinary degree ; 
 he discovers taste and spirit; and, what is 
 above all, he finds frequent opportunities of 
 displaying to the party, at every house he sees, 
 his knowledge of family connections. At first 
 Sam was contented with driving a friend be- 
 tween London and his villa. Here he prided 
 
 himself in pointing out the boxes o the citi 
 zens on each side of the road, with an accu- 
 rate detail of their respective failures or suc- 
 cesses in trade ; and harangued on the seve- 
 ral equipages that were accidentally passing. 
 Here, too, the seats interspersed on the sur- 
 rounding hills, afforded ample matter for Sam's 
 curious discoveries. For one, he told his com- 
 panion, a rich Jew had offered money ; and 
 that a retired widow was courted at another, 
 by an eminent dry-salter. At the same time 
 he discussed the utility, and enumerated the 
 expenses, of the Islington turnpike. But Sam's 
 ambition is at present raised to nobler under- 
 takings. 
 
 When the happy hour of the annual expe- 
 dition arrives, the seat of the chaise is furnish- 
 ed with " Ogilvy's Book of Roads," and a 
 choice quantity of cold tongues. The most 
 alarming disaster which can happen to our 
 hero, who thinks he " throws a whip" admira- 
 bly well, is to be overtaken in a road which 
 affords no "quarter" for wheels. Indeed, few 
 men possess more skill or discernment for con- 
 certing and conducting a "party of pleasure." 
 When a seat is to be surveyed, he has a pe- 
 culiar talent in selecting some shady bench ir 
 the park, where the company may most com- 
 modiously refresh themselves with cold tongue, 
 chicken, and French rolls ; and is very saga- 
 cious in discovering what cool temple in the 
 garden will be best adapted for drinking tea, 
 brought for this purpose, in the afternoon, and 
 from which the chaise may be resumed with 
 the greatest convenience. In viewing the 
 house itself, he is principally attracted by the 
 chairs and beds, concerning the cost of which 
 his minute inquiries generally gain the clearest 
 information. An agate table easily diverts his 
 eyes from the most capital strokes of Rubens, 
 and a Turkey carpet has more charms than a 
 Titian. Sam, however, dwells with some at- 
 tention on the family portraits, particularly the 
 most modern ones ; and as this is a topic on 
 which the housekeeper usually harangues in 
 a more copious manner, he takes this opportu- 
 nity of improving his knowledge of intermar- 
 riages. Yet, notwithstanding this appearance 
 of satisfaction, Sam has some objection to all 
 he sees. One house has too much gilding ; 
 at another, the chimney-pieces are all monu- 
 ments ; at a third, he conjectures that the beau- 
 tiful canal must certainly be dried up in a hot 
 summer. He despises the statues at Wilton, 
 because he thinks he can see much better carv- 
 ing at Westminster Abbey. But there is one 
 general objection which he is sure to make at 
 almost every house, particularly at those which 
 are most distinguished. He allows that all 
 the apartments are extremely fine, but adds, 
 with a sneer, that they are too fine to be inha- 
 bited. 
 
 Misapplied genius most commonly proven 
 ridiculous. Had Sam, as nature intended, 
 contentedly continued in the calmer and less 
 conspicuous pursuits of sugar-baking, he 
 might have been a respectable and useful cha- 
 racter. At present he dissipates his life in a 
 specious idleness, which neither improves him- 
 self nor his friends. Those talents which
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 94. 
 
 might have benefitted society, he exposes to 
 contempt by false pretensions. He affects 
 pleasures which he cannot enjoy, and is ac- 
 quainted only with those subjects on which he 
 has no right to talk, and which it is no merit to 
 understand. 
 
 No. 94.] SATURDAY, FEB. 2, 1760. 
 
 IT is common to find young men ardent and 
 diligent in the pursuit of knowledge ; but the 
 progress of life very often produces laxity and 
 indifference ; and not only those who are at 
 liberty to choose their business and amuse- 
 ments, but those likewise whose professions 
 engage them in literary inquiries, pass the lat- 
 ter part of their time without improvement, 
 and spend the day rather in any other enter- 
 tainment than that which they might find 
 among their books. 
 
 This abatement of the vigour of curiosity is 
 sometimes imputed to the insufficiency of 
 learning. Men are supposed to remit their 
 labours, because they find their labours to 
 have been vain ; and to search no longer after 
 truth and wisdom, because they at last de- 
 spair of finding them. 
 
 But this reason is for the most part very 
 falsely assigned. Of learning, as of virtue, 
 it may be affirmed, that it is at once honoured 
 and neglected. Whoever forsakes it will for 
 ever look after it with longing, lament the loss 
 which he does not endeavour to repair, and de- 
 sire the good which he wants resolution to 
 seize and keep. The Idler never applauds his 
 own idleness, nor does any man repent of the 
 diligence of his youth. 
 
 So many hindrances may obstruct the ac- 
 quieition of knowledge, that there is little rea- 
 son for wondering that it is in a few hands. 
 To the greater part of mankind the duties of 
 life are inconsistent with much study ; and the 
 hours which they would spend upon letters 
 must be stolen from their occupations and their 
 families. Many suffer themselves to be lured 
 by more sprightly and luxurious pleasures from 
 the shades of contemplation, where they find 
 seldom more than a calm delight, such as 
 though greater than all others, its certainty 
 and its duration being reckoned with its pow- 
 er of gratification, is yet easily quitted for 
 some extemporary joy, which the present mo- 
 ment offers, and another, perhaps, will put out 
 of reach. 
 
 It is the great excellence of learning, that 
 it borrows very little from time or place ; it is 
 not confined to season or to climate, to cities, 
 or to the country, but may be cultivated and 
 enjoyed where no other pleasure can be ob- 
 tained. But this quality, which constitutes 
 much of its value, is one occasion of neglect; 
 what may be done at all times with equal pro- 
 priety is deferred from day to day, till the mind 
 is gradually reconciled to the omission, and 
 the attention is turned to other objects. Thus 
 habitual idleness gains too much power to be 
 conquered, and the soul shrinks from the idea 
 
 of intellectual labour and intenseness of me- 
 ditation. 
 
 That those who profess to advance learning 
 sometimes obstruct it, cannot be denied ; the 
 continual multiplication of books not only dis- 
 tracts choice, but disappoints inquiry. To 
 him that has moderately stored his mind with 
 images, few writers afford any novelty; or 
 what little they have to add to the common 
 stock of learning, is so buried in the mass of 
 general notions, that like silver mingled with 
 the ore of lead, it is too little to pay for the la- 
 bour of separation ; and he that has often been 
 deceived by the promise of a title, at last 
 grows weary of examining, and is tempted to 
 consider all as equally fallacious. 
 
 There are, indeed, some repetitions always 
 lawful, because they never deceive. He that 
 writes the history of past times, undertakes 
 only to decorate known facts by new beauties 
 of method or style, or at most to illustrate 
 them by his own reflections. The author of a 
 system, whether moral or physical, is obliged 
 to nothing beyond care of selection and regu 
 larity of disposition. But there are others who 
 claim the name of authors merely to disgrace 
 it, and fill the world with volumes only to bury 
 letters in their own rubbish. The traveller 
 who tells, in a pompous folio, that he saw the 
 Pantheon at Rome, and the Medicean Venus 
 at Florence: the natural historian, who, de- 
 scribing the productions of a narrow island, 
 recounts all that it has in common with every 
 other part of the world ; the collector of anti- 
 quities, that accounts every thing a curiosity 
 which the ruins of Herculaneum happen to 
 emit, though an instrument already shown in 
 a thousand repositories, or a cup common to 
 Lhe ancients, the moderns, and all mankind, 
 may be justly censured as the persecutors of 
 students, and the thieves of that time which 
 never can be restored. 
 
 No. 95.] SATURDAY, FEB. 9, 1760. 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 MR. IDLER, 
 
 'T is, I think, universally agreed, that seldom 
 any good is gotten by complaint ; yet we find 
 that few forbear to complain but those who are 
 afraid of being reproached at the authors of 
 ;heir own miseries. I hope, therefore, for the 
 common permission to lay my case before you 
 and your readers, by which I shall disburden 
 my heart, though I cannot hope to receive 
 >ither assistance or consolation. 
 
 I am a trader, and owe my fortune to frugali- 
 .y and industry. I began with little ; but by 
 the easy and obvious method of spending less 
 han I gain, I have every year added something 
 o my stock, and expect to have a seat in the 
 common-council, at the next election. 
 
 My wife, who was as prudent as myself, died 
 six years ago, and left me one son and one 
 laughter, for whose sake I resolved never to 
 marry again, and rejected the overtuies of Mrs. 
 Squeeze, the broker's widow, who had ten 
 housand pounds at her own disposal.
 
 No. 96.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 447 
 
 I bred my sonata school near Islington ; and 
 when he had learned arithmetic, and wrote a 
 good hand, I took him into the shop, designing, 
 in about ten years, to retire to Stratford or 
 Hackney, and leave him established in the 
 business. 
 
 For four years he was diligent and sedate, 
 entered the shop before it was opened, and 
 when it was shut always examined the pins of 
 the window. In any intermission of business 
 it was his constant practise to peruse the led- 
 ger. I had always great hopes of him, when 
 I observed how sorrowfully he would shake 
 his head over a bad debt, and how eagerly he 
 would listen to me when I told him that he 
 might at one time or other become an alder- 
 man. 
 
 We lived together with mutual confidence, till 
 unluckily a visit was paid him by two of his 
 school-fellows who were placed, 1 suppose, in 
 the army, because they were fit for nothing bet- 
 ter : they came glittering in their military dress, 
 accosted their old acquaintance, and invited him 
 to a tavern, where, as I have been since inform- 
 ed, they ridiculed the meanness of commerce, 
 and wondered how a youth of spirit could 
 spend the prime of his life behind a counter. 
 
 I did not suspect any mischief. I knew my 
 son was never without money in his pocket, 
 and was better able to pay his reckoning than 
 his companions ; and expected to see him re- 
 turn triumphing in his own advantages, and 
 congratulating himself that he was not one of 
 those who expose their heads to a musket bul- 
 let for three shillings a day. 
 
 He returned sullen and thoughtful ; I sup- 
 posed him sorry for the hard fortune of his 
 friends ; and tried to comfort him by saying 
 that the war would soon be at an end, and 
 that, if they had any honest occupation, half- 
 pay would be a pretty help. He looked at me 
 with indignation ; and snatching up his can- 
 dle, told me, as he went up stairs, that " he 
 hoped to see a battle yet." 
 
 Why lie should hope to see a battle I could 
 not conceive, but let him go quietly to sleep 
 away his folly. Next day he made two mis- 
 takes in the first bill, disobliged a customer by 
 surly answers and dated all his entries in the 
 journal in a wrong month. At night he met 
 his military companions again, came home 
 late, and quarrelled with the maid. 
 
 From this fatal interview he has gradual- 
 ly lost all his laudable passions and desires. 
 He soon grew useless in the shop, where, in- 
 deed, I did not willingly trust him any longer ; 
 for he often mistook the price of goods to his 
 own loss, and once gave a promissory note in- 
 stead of a receipt. 
 
 I did not know to what degree he was cor- 
 rupted, till an honest tailor gave me notice 
 that he had bespoke a laced suit, which was 
 to be left for him at a house kept by the sister 
 of one of my journeymen. I went to this clan- 
 destine lodging, and found to my amazement, 
 all the ornaments of a fine gentleman, which 
 he has taken upon credit, or purchased with 
 money subducted from the shop. 
 
 This detection has made him desperate. He 
 now openly declares his resolution to be a gen- 
 
 tleman ; says that his soul is too great for a 
 counting-house ; ridicules the conversation of 
 city taverns; talks of new plays, and boxes, and 
 ladies ; gives dutchesses for his toasts ; carries 
 silver, for readiness, in his waistcoat pocket ; 
 and comes home at night in a chair, with such 
 thunders at the door as have more than once 
 brought the watchmen from their stands. 
 
 Little expenses will not hurt us : and I could 
 forgive a few juvenile frolics, if he would be 
 careful of the main : but his favourite topic is 
 contempt of money, which he says is of no 
 use but to be spent. Riches, without honour, 
 he holds empty things ; and once told me to 
 my face, that wealthy plodders were only pur- 
 veyors to men of spirit. 
 
 He is always impatient in the company of 
 his old friends, and seldom speaks till he is 
 warmed with wine ; he then entertains us with 
 accounts that we do not desire to hear, of in- 
 trigues among lords and ladies, and quarrel? 
 between officers of the guards ; shows a mini- 
 ature on his snuff-box, and wonders that any 
 man can look upon the new dancer without 
 rapture. 
 
 All this is very provoking ; and yet all this 
 might be borne, if the boy could support his 
 pretensions. But, whatever he may think, he 
 is yet far from the accomplishments which he 
 has endeavoured to purchase at so dear a rate. 
 I have watched him in public places. He 
 sneaks in like a man that knows he is where 
 he should not be ; he is proud to catch the 
 slightest salutation, and often claims it when 
 it is not intended. Other men receive dignity 
 from dress, but my booby looks always more 
 meanly for his finery. Dear Mr. Idler, tell him 
 what must at last become of a fop, whom pride 
 will not suffer to be a trader, and whom long 
 habits in a shop forbid to be a gentleman. 
 I am, Sir, &c. 
 
 TIM WAINSCOT. 
 
 No. 96.] SATCRDAT, FEB. 16, 1760. 
 
 HACHO, a king of Lapland, was in his youth 
 the most renowned of the Northern warriors. 
 His martial achievements remain engraved on 
 a pillar of flint in the rocks of Hanga, and are 
 to this day solemnly carolled to the harp by 
 the Laplanders, at the fires with which they 
 celebrate their nightly festivities. Such was 
 his intrepid spirit, that he ventured to pass the 
 lake Vether to the isle of Wizards, where he 
 descended alone into the dreary vault in which 
 a magician had been kept bound for six ages, 
 and read the Gothic characters inscribed on 
 his brazen mace. His eye was so piercing, 
 that as ancient chronicles report, he could 
 blunt the weapons of his enemies only by look- 
 ing at them. At twelve years of age he car- 
 ried an iron vessel of a prodigious weight, for 
 the length of five furlongs, in the presence of 
 all the chiefs of his father's castle. 
 
 Nor was he less celebrated for his prudence 
 and wisdom. Two of his proverbs are yet re- 
 membered and repeated among Laplanders. 
 To express the vigilance of the Supreme Be- 
 ing, he was wont to say, " Odin's belt is al-
 
 448 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 91. 
 
 ways buckled." To show that the most pros- 
 perous condition of life is often hazardous, his 
 lesson was, " When you slide on the smooth- 
 est ice, beware of pits beneath." He consolec 
 his countrymen, when they were once prepar- 
 ing to leave the frozen deserts of Lapland, 
 and resolved to seek some warmer climate, by 
 telling them, that the Eastern nations, notwith- 
 standing their boasted fertility, passed every 
 night amidst the horrors of anxious apprehen- 
 sion, and were inexpressibly affrighted, and 
 almost stunned, every morning, with the noise 
 of the sun while he was rising. 
 
 His temperance and severity of manner were 
 his chief praise. In his early years he never 
 tasted wine ; nor would he drink out of 
 painted cup. He constantly slept in his ar- 
 mour, with his spear in his hand ; nor would 
 he use a battle-axe whose handle was inlaid 
 with brass. He did not, however persevere 
 in this contempt of luxury j nor did he close 
 his days with honour. 
 
 One evening, after hunting the gulos, or wild 
 dog, being bewildered in a solitary forest, and 
 having passed the fatigues of the day without 
 any interval of refreshment, he discovered a 
 large store of honey in the hollow of a pine. 
 This was a dainty which he had never tasted 
 before; and being at once faint and hungry, he 
 fed greedily upon it. From this unusual and 
 delicious repast he received so much satisfac- 
 tion, that, at his return home, he commanded 
 honey to be served up at his table every day. 
 His palate, by degrees, became refined and vi- 
 tiated ; he began to lose his native relish for 
 simple fare, and contracted a habit of indulg- 
 ing himself in delicacies ; he ordered the de- 
 lightful gardens of his castle to be thrown open, 
 in which the most luscious fruits had been suf- 
 fered to ripen and decay, unobserved and un- 
 touched, for many revolving autumns, and 
 gratified his appetite with luxurious desserts. 
 At length he found it expedient to introduce 
 wine, as an agreeable improvement ; or a 
 necessary ingredient to his new way of living ; 
 and having once tasted it, he was tempted by 
 littln and little, to give a loose to the excesses 
 of intoxication. His general simplicity of life 
 was changed ; he perfumed his apartments by 
 burning the wood of the most aromatic fir, and 
 commanded his helmet to be ornamented with 
 beautiful rows of the teeth of the rein-deer. 
 Indolence and effeminacy stole upon him by 
 pleasing and imperceptible gradations, relaxed 
 the sinews of his resolution, and extinguished 
 his thirst of military glory. 
 
 While Hacho was thus immersed in pleasure 
 and in repose, it was reported to him one morn- 
 ing, that the preceding night a disastrous 
 omen had been discovered, and that bats and 
 hideous birds had drank up the oil which 
 nourished the perpetual lamp in the temple of 
 Odin. About the same time, a messenger 
 arrived to tell him, that the king of Norway 
 had invaded his kingdom with a formidable 
 army. Hacho, terrified as he was with the 
 omen of the night, and enervated with indul- 
 gence, roused himself from his voluptuous 
 lethargy, and recollecting some faint and few 
 s arks of veteran valour, marched forward to 
 
 meet him. Both armies joined battle in the 
 forest where Hacho had been lost after hunt- 
 ing ; and it so happened, that the king of 
 Norway challenged him to single combat, near 
 the place where he had tasted the honey. The 
 Lapland chief, languid and long disused to 
 arms, was soon overpowered ; he fell to the 
 ground ; and before his insulting adversary 
 struck his head from his body, uttered this ex- 
 clamation, which the Laplanders still use as 
 an early lesson to their children : " The vicious 
 man should date his destruction from the first 
 temptation. How justly do I fall a sacrifice to 
 sloth and luxury, in the place where I first 
 yielded to those allurements which seduced me 
 to deviate from temperance and innocence! 
 the honey which I tasted in this forest, and not 
 the hand of the king of Norway, conquers 
 Hacho." 
 
 No. 97.] SATURDAY, FEB. 23, 1760. 
 
 IT may, I think, be justly observed, that few 
 books disappoint their readers more than the 
 narrations of travellers. One part of mankind 
 is naturally curious to learn the sentiments, 
 manners, and condition of the rest : and every 
 mind that has leisure or power to extend its 
 views must be desirous of knowing in what 
 proportion Providence has distributed the 
 blessings of nature, or the advantages of art, 
 among the several nations of tiie earth. 
 
 This general desire easily procures readers 
 to every book from which it can expect gratifi- 
 cation. The adventurer upon unknown coasts, 
 and the describer of distant regions, is always 
 welcomed as a man who has laboured for the 
 pleasure of others, and who is able to enlarge 
 our knowledge and rectify our opinions ; but 
 when the volume is opened, nothing is found 
 but such general accounts as leave no distinct 
 idea behind them, or such minute enumera- 
 tions as few can read with either profit or de- 
 light. 
 
 Every writer of travels should consider, that, 
 like all other authors, he undertakes either to 
 instruct or please, or to mingle pleasure with 
 instruction. He that instructs, must offer to 
 the mind something to be imitated, or some- 
 thing to be avoided ; he that pleases must offer 
 new images to his reader, and enable him to 
 form a tacit comparison of his own state with 
 that of others. 
 
 The greater part of travellers tell nothing, 
 because their method of travelling supplies 
 them with nothing to be told. He that enters 
 a town at night and surveys it in the morning, 
 and then hastens away to another place, and 
 guesses at the manners of the inhabitants by 
 the entertainment which his inn afforded him, 
 may please himself for a time with a hasty 
 change of scenes, and a confused remem- 
 brance of palaces and churches ; he may 
 gratify his eye with a variety of landscapes, 
 and regale his palate with a succession of 
 vintages : but let him be contented to please 
 limself without endeavouring to disturb others. 
 Why should he recowl excursions by which
 
 No. 97.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 449 
 
 nothing could be learned, or wish to make a 
 show of knowledge, which, without some 
 power of intuition, unknown to other mortals, 
 he never could attain ? 
 
 Of those who crowd the world with their 
 itineraries, some have no other purpose than 
 to describe the face of the country ; those who 
 sit idle at home, and are curious to know what 
 is done or suffered in distant countries, may be 
 informed by one of these wanderers, that on a 
 certain day he set out early with the caravan, 
 and in the first hour's march saw, towards the 
 south, a hill covered with trees, then passed 
 over a stream, which ran northward with a 
 swift course, but which is probably dry in the 
 summer months ; that an hour after he saw 
 something to the right which looked at a dis- 
 tance like a castle with towers, but which he 
 discovered afterward to be a craggy rock ; that 
 he then entered a valley, in which he saw 
 several trees tall and flourishing, watered by a 
 rivulet not marked in the maps, of which he 
 was not able to learn the name ; that the road 
 afterward grew stony, and the country une- 
 ven, where he observed among the hills many 
 hollows worn by torrents, and was told that the 
 road was passable only part of the year, that 
 going on they found the remains of a building, 
 once perhaps a fortress to secure the pass, or to 
 restrain the robbers, of which the present in- 
 habitants can give no other account than that 
 it is haunted by fairies ; that they went to dine 
 at the foot of a rock, and travelled the rest of 
 the day along the banks of a river, from which 
 the road turned aside towards evening, and 
 brought them within sight of a village, which 
 was once a considerable town, but which af- 
 forded them neither good victuals nor commo- 
 dious lodging. 
 
 Thus he conducts his reader through wet and 
 dry, over rough and smooth, without incidents, 
 without reflection : and, if he obtains his 
 company for another day, will dismiss him 
 again at night, equally fatigued with a like 
 succession of rocks and streams, mountains 
 and ruins. 
 
 This is the common style of those sons of 
 enterprise, who visit savage countries, and 
 range through solitude and desolation ; who 
 pass a desert, and tell that it is sandy ; who 
 cross a valley, and find that it is green. There 
 are others of more delicate sensibility, that 
 visit only the realms of elegance and softness; 
 that wander through Italian palaces, and 
 amuse the gentle reader with catalogues of 
 pictures ; that hear masses in magnificent 
 churches, and recount the number of the pil- 
 lars or variegations of the pavement. And 
 there are yet others, who, in disdain of trifles, 
 copy inscriptions elegant and rude, ancient and 
 modern ; and transcribe into their book the 
 walls of every edifice, sacred or civil. He that 
 reads these books must consider his labour as 
 its own reward ; for he will find nothing on 
 which attention can fix, or which memory can 
 retain. 
 
 He float would travel for the entertainment 
 of others, should remember that the great ob- 
 ject of remark is human life. Every nation 
 has something particular in its manufactures 
 3G 
 
 its works of genius, its medicines, its agri- 
 culture, its customs, and its policy. He only 
 is a useful traveller, who brings home some- 
 thing by which his country may be benefitted , 
 who procures some supply of want, or somo 
 mitigation of evil, which may enable his rea- 
 ders to compare their condition with that of 
 others, to improve it whenever it is worse, and 
 whenever it is better to enjoy it. 
 
 No. 98.] SATURDAY, MARCH 1, 1760. 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I AM the daughter of a gentleman, who during 
 his life-time enjoyed a small income which 
 arose from a pension from the court, by which 
 he was enabled to live in a genteel and com- 
 fortable manner. 
 
 By the situation of life in which he was 
 placed, he was frequently introduced into the 
 company of those of much greater fortunes 
 than his own, among whom he was always 
 received with complaisance, and treated with 
 civility. 
 
 At six years of age I was sent to a board- 
 ing-school in the country, at which I continued 
 till my father's death. This melancholy event 
 happened at a time when I was by no means of 
 a sufficient age to manage for myself, while the 
 passions of youth continued unsubdued, and 
 before experience could guide my sentiments 
 or my actions. 
 
 I was then taken from school by an uncle, to 
 the care of whom my father had committed me 
 on his dying bed. With him I lived several 
 years ; and as he was unmarried, the manage- 
 ment of his family was committed to me. In 
 this character I always endeavoured to acquit 
 myself, if not with applause, at least without 
 censure. 
 
 At the age of twenty-one, a young gentle- 
 man of some fortune paid his addresses to me, 
 and offered me terms of marriage. This pro- 
 posal I should readily have accepted, because 
 from vicinity of residence, and from many 
 opportunities of observing his behaviour, I had 
 in some sort contracted an affection for him. 
 My uncle, for what reason I do not know, re- 
 fused his consent to this alliance, though it 
 would have been complied with by the father 
 of the young gentleman ; and, as the future 
 condition of my life was wholly dependant on 
 him, I was not willing to disoblige him, and 
 therefore, though unwillingly, declined the 
 offer. 
 
 My uncle, who possessed a plentiful fortune, 
 frequently hinted to me in conversation, that at 
 his death I should be provided for in such a 
 manner that I should be able to make my fu- 
 ture life comfortable and happy. As this pro- 
 mise was often repeated, I was the less anxious 
 about any provision for myself. In a short 
 time my uncle was taken ill, and though all 
 possible means were made use of for his re 
 covery, in a few davs he died.
 
 450 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 'J9 
 
 The sorrow arising from the loss of a rela- 
 tion, by whom I had been always treated with 
 the greatest kindness, however grievous, was 
 not the worst of my misfortunes. As he en- 
 joyed an almost uninterrupted state of health, 
 he was the less mindful of his dissolution, and 
 died intestate ; by which means his whole 
 fortune devolved to a nearer relation, the heir 
 at law. 
 
 Thus excluded from all hopes of living in 
 the manner with which I have so long flattered 
 myself, I am doubtful what method I shall 
 take to procure a decent maintenance. I have 
 been educated in a manner that has set me 
 above a state of servitude, and my situation 
 renders me unfit for the comp*any of those with 
 whom I have hitherto conversed. But, though 
 disappointed in my expectations, I do not 
 despair. I will hope that assistance may still 
 be obtained for innocent distress, and that 
 friendship, though rare, is yet not impossible 
 to be found. 
 
 I am, Sir, 
 
 Your humble servant, 
 
 SOPHIA HEEDFUL. 
 
 No. 99.] SATURDAY, MARCH 8, 1760. 
 
 As Ortogrul of Basra was one day wandering 
 along the streets of Bagdat, musing on the 
 varieties of merchandise which the shops of- 
 fered to his view, and observing the different 
 occupations which busied the multitudes on 
 every side, he was awakened from the tran- 
 quillity of meditation by a crowd that obstruct- 
 ed his passage. He raised his eyes, and saw 
 the chief vizier, who having returned from the 
 divan, was entering his palace. 
 
 Ortogrul mingled with the attendants, and 
 being supposed to have some petition for the 
 vizier, was permitted to enter. He surveyed 
 the spaciousness of the apartments, admired 
 the walls hung with golden tapestry, and the 
 floors covered with silken carpets, and despis- 
 ed the simple neatness of his own little habi- 
 tation. 
 
 Surely, said he to himself, this palace is the 
 seat of happiness, where pleasure succeeds to 
 pleasure, and discontent and sorrow can have 
 no admission. Whatever nature has provided 
 for the delight of sense, is here spread forth 
 to be enjoyed. What can mortals hope or ima- 
 gine, which the master of this palace has not 
 obtained ? The dishes of luxury cover his table, 
 the voice of harmony lulls him in his bowers ; 
 he breathes the fragrance of the groves of 
 Java, and sleeps upon the down of the cygnets 
 of Ganges. He speaks, and his mandate is 
 obeyed ; he wishes, and .his wish is gratified ; 
 all whom he sees obey him, and all whom he 
 hears flatter him. How different, Ortogrul, is 
 thy condition, who art doomed to the perpe- 
 tual torments of unsatisfied desire, and who 
 has no amusement in thy power that can with- 
 hold thee from thy own reflections ! They tell 
 thee that thou art wise ; but what does wisdom 
 avail with poverty ? None will flatter the poor, 
 and the wise hare Yery little power of flatter- 
 
 ing themselves. That man is surely the most 
 wretched of the sons of wretchedness, who 
 lives with his own faults and follies always be- 
 fore him, who has none to reconcile him to 
 himself by praise and veneration. I have long 
 sought content, and have not found it ; I will 
 from this moment endeavour to be rich. 
 
 Full of his new resolution, he shuts himself 
 in his chamber for six months, to deliberate 
 how he should grow rich : he sometimes pro- 
 posed to offer himself as a counsellor to one of 
 the kings of India, and sometimes resolved to 
 dig for diamonds in the mines of Golconda. 
 One day, after some hours passed in violent 
 fluctuation of opinion, sleep insensibly seized 
 him in his chair ; he dreamed that he was 
 ranging a desert country in search of some 
 one that might teach him to grow rich ; and 
 as he stood on the top of a hill shaded with 
 cypress, in doubt whether to direct his steps, 
 his father appeared on a sudden standing be- 
 fore him. Ortogrul, said the old man, I know 
 thy perplexity ; listen to thy father ; turn thine 
 eye on the opposite mountain. Ortogrul look- 
 ed, and saw a torrent tumbling down the rocks, 
 roaring with the noise of thunder, and scat- 
 tering its foam on the impending woods. Now, 
 said his father, behold the valley that lies be- 
 tween the hills. Ortogrul looked, and espied 
 a little well out of which issued a small rivu- 
 let. Tell me now, said his father, dost thou 
 wish for sudden affluence, that may pour upon 
 thee like the mountain torrent, or for a slow 
 and gradual increase, resembling the rill glid- 
 ing from the well ? Let me be quickly rich, 
 said Ortogrul ; let the golden stream be quick 
 and violent. Look round thee, said his father, 
 once again. Ortogrul looked, and perceived 
 the channel of the torrent dry and dusty ; but 
 following the rivulet from the well, he traced 
 it to a wide lake, which the supply, slow and 
 constant, kept always full. He waked and 
 determined to grow rich by silent profit and 
 persevering industry. 
 
 Having sold his patrimony, he engaged in 
 merchandise, and in twenty years purchased 
 lands, on which he raised a house, equal in 
 sumptuousness to that of the vizier, to which 
 he invited all the ministers of pleasure, expect- 
 ing to enjoy all the felicity which he had ima- 
 gined riches able to afford. Leisure soon made 
 him weary of himself, and he longed to be per- 
 suaded that he was great and happy. He was 
 courteous and liberal ; he gave all that ap- 
 proached him hopes of pleasing him, and all 
 who should please him hopes of being reward- 
 ed. Every art of praise was tried, and every 
 source of adulatory fiction was exhausted. Or- 
 togrul heard his flatterers without delight, be- 
 cause he found himself unable to believe them. 
 His own heart told him its frailties, his own 
 understanding reproached him with his faults. 
 How long, said he, with a deep sigh, have I 
 been labouring in vain to amass wealth which 
 at last is useless ! Let no man hereafter wish 
 to be rich, who is already too wise to be flat- 
 tered.
 
 No. 100.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 451 
 
 No. 100.] SATURDAY, MARCH 15, 1760. 
 
 TO THE IDLER. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 THE uncertainty and defects of language have 
 produced very frequent complaints among the 
 learned ; yet there still remain many words 
 among us undefined, which are very necessa- 
 ry to be rightly understood, and which produce 
 very mischievous mistakes when they are er- 
 roneously interpreted. 
 
 I lived in a state of celibacy beyond the usual 
 time. In the hurry first of pleasure, and af- 
 terwards of business, I felt no want of a 
 domestic companion ; but becoming weary of 
 labour, I soon grew more weary of idleness, 
 and thought it reasonable to follow the custom 
 of life, and to seek some solace of my cares 
 in female tenderness, and some amusement of 
 my leisure in female cheerfulness. 
 
 The choice which has been long delayed is 
 commonly made at last with great caution. 
 My resolution was, to keep my passions neu- 
 tral, and to marry only in compliance with my 
 reason. I drew upon a page of my pocket- 
 book a scheme of all female virtues and vices, 
 with the vices which border upon every virtue, 
 and the virtues which are allied to every vice. 
 I considered that wit was sarcastic, and mag- 
 nanimity imperious ; that avarice was econo- 
 mical, and ignorance obsequious ; and having 
 estimated the good and evil of every quality, 
 employed my own diligence, and that of my 
 friends, to find the lady in whom nature and 
 reason had reached that happy mediocrity 
 which is equally remote from exuberance and 
 deficience. 
 
 Every woman had her admirers and hercen- 
 surers ; and the expectations which one raised 
 were by another quickly depressed ; yet there 
 was one in whose favour almost all suffrages 
 concurred. Miss Gentle was universally al- 
 lowed to be a good sort of woman. Her for- 
 tune was not large, but so prudently managed, 
 that she wore finer clothes, and saw more 
 company, than many who were known to be 
 twice as rich. Miss Gentle's visits were every 
 where welcome ; and whatever family she fa- 
 voured with her company, she always left 
 behind her such a degree of kindness as 
 recommended her to others. Every day ex- 
 tended her acquaintance ; and all who knew 
 her declared that they never met with a better 
 sort of woman. 
 
 To Miss Gentle I made my addresses, and 
 was received with great equality of temper. 
 She did not in the days of courtship assume 
 the privilege of imposing rigorous commands, 
 or resenting slight offences. If I forgot any 
 of her injunctions, I was gently reminded ; if 
 I missed the minute of appointment, I was 
 easily forgiven. I foresaw nothing in mar- 
 riage but a halcyon calm, and longed for the 
 happiness which was to be found in the inse- 
 parable society of a good sort of woman. 
 
 The jointure was soon settled by the inter- 
 vention of friends, and the day came in which 
 Miss Gentle was made mine for ever. The 
 first month was passed easily enough in re- 
 ceiving and repaying the civilities of our 
 
 friends. The bride practised with great exact- 
 ness all the niceties of ceremony, and distri- 
 buted her notice in the most punctilious pro- 
 portions to the friends who surrounded us with 
 their happy auguries. 
 
 But the time soon came when we were left 
 to ourselves, and were to receive our pleasures 
 from each other, and I then began to perceive 
 that I was not formed to be much delighted by 
 a good sort of woman. Her great principle 
 is, that the orders of a family must not be 
 broken. Every hour of the day has its em- 
 ployment inviolably appropriated ; nor will 
 any importunity persuade her to walk in the 
 
 farden at the time which she has devoted to 
 er needlework, or to sit up stairs in that part 
 of the forenoon which she has accustomed 
 herself to spend in the back parlour. She al- 
 lows herself to sit half an hour after breakfast, 
 and an hour after dinner; while I am talking 
 or reading to her, she keeps her eye upon her 
 watch, and when the minute of departure 
 comes, will leave an argument unfinished, or 
 the intrigue of a play unravelled. She once 
 called me to supper when I was watching an 
 eclipse, and summoned me at another time to 
 bed when I was going to give directions at a 
 fire. 
 
 Her conversation is so habitually cautious, 
 that she never talks to me but in general terms, 
 as to one whom it is dangerous to trust. For 
 discriminations of character she has no names : 
 all whom she mentions are honest men and 
 agreeable women. She smiles not by sensa- 
 tion, but by practice. Her laughter is never 
 excited but by a joke, and her notion of a joke 
 is not very delicate. The repetition of a good 
 joke does not weaken its effect; if she has 
 laughed once, she will laugh again. 
 
 She is an enemy to nothing but ill-nature 
 and pride ; but she has frequent reason to la- 
 ment that they are so frequent in the world. 
 All who are not equally pleased with the good 
 and the bad, with the elegant and gross, with 
 the witty and the dull, all who distinguish excel- 
 lence from defect, she considers as ill-natured ; 
 and she condemns as proud all who repress 
 impertinence or quell presumption, or expect 
 respect from any other eminence than that of 
 fortune, to which she is always willing to pay 
 homage. 
 
 There are none whom she openly hates, fof 
 if once she suffers, or believes herself to suf 
 fer, any contempt or insult, she never dismiss- 
 es it from her mind, but takes all opportuni- 
 ties to tell how easily she can forgive. There 
 are none whom she loves much better than 
 others ; for when any of her acquaintance 
 decline in the opinion of the world, she always 
 finds it inconvenient to visit them ; her affec- 
 tion continues unaltered, but it is impossible 
 to be intimate with the whole town. 
 
 She daily exercises her benevolence by pity- 
 ing every misfortune that happens to every fa- 
 mily within her circle of notice; she is in 
 hourly terrors lest one should catch cold in the 
 rain, and another be frighted by the high wind. 
 Her charity she shows by lamenting that so 
 many poor wretches should languish in the 
 streets, and by wondering what the great can
 
 452 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 [No. 101 
 
 think on that they do so little good with such 
 large estates. 
 
 Her house is elegant and her table dainty, 
 though she has little taste of elegance, and is 
 wholly free from vicious luxury ; but she com- 
 forts herself that nobody can say that her house 
 is dirty, or that her dishes are not well dress- 
 ed. 
 
 This, Mr. Idler, I have found by long expe- 
 rience to be the character of a good sort of wo- 
 man, which I have sent you for the information 
 of those by whom a "good sort of a woman," 
 and a " good woman," may happen to be used 
 as equivalent terms, and who may suffer by 
 the mistake, like 
 
 Your humble servant, 
 
 TIM WARNER. 
 
 No. 101.] SATURDAY, MARCH 22, 1760. 
 
 OMAR, the son of Hassan, had passed seventy- 
 five years in honour and prosperity. The fa- 
 vour of three successive califs had filled his 
 house with gold and silver ; and whenever he 
 appeared, the benedictions of the people pro- 
 claimed his passage. 
 
 Terrestrial happiness is of short continuance. 
 The brightness of the flame is wasting its fuel ; 
 the fragrant flower is passing away in its own 
 odours. The vigour of Omar began to fail, 
 the curls of beauty fell from his head, strength 
 departed from his hands, and agility from his 
 feet. He gave back to the calif the keys of 
 trust, and the seals of secrecy ; and sought no 
 other pleasure for the remains of life than the 
 converse of the wise, and the gratitude of the 
 good. 
 
 The powers of his mind were jet unimpair- 
 ed. His chamber was filled by visitants, eager 
 to catch the dictates of experience, and offi- 
 cious to pay the tribute of admiration. Caled, 
 the son of the viceroy of Egypt, entered every 
 day early, and retired late. He was beautiful 
 and eloquent ; Omar admired his wit and loved 
 his docility. Tell me, said Caled, thou to 
 whose voice nations have listened, and whose 
 wisdom is known to the extremities of Asia, 
 tell me how I may resemble Omar the prudent. 
 The arts by which you have gained power and 
 preserved it, are to you no longer necessary or 
 useful ; impart to me the secret of your con- 
 duct, and teach me the plan upon which your 
 wisdom has built your fortune. 
 
 Young man, said Omar, it is of little use to 
 form plans of life. When I took my first sur- 
 vey of the world, in my twentieth year, having 
 considered the various conditions of mankind, 
 in the hour of solitude I said thus to myself, 
 leaning against a cedar which spread its 
 branches over my head : Seventy years are 
 allowed to man ; I have yet fifty remaining : 
 ten years I will allot to the attainment of 
 knowledge, and ten I will pass in foreign 
 countries; I shall be learned, and therefore 
 shall be honoured ; every city will shout at my 
 arrival, and every student will solicit my 
 friendship. Twenty years thus passed will 
 etore my mind with images which I shall be 
 
 busy through the rest of my life in combining 
 and comparing. I shall revel in inexhaustible 
 accumulations of intellectual riches ; I shall 
 find new pleasures for every moment, and shall 
 never more be weary of myself. I will, how- 
 ever, not deviate too far from the beaten track 
 of life, but will try what can be found in fe- 
 male delicacy. I will marry a wife beautiful 
 as the Houries, and wise as Zobeide ; with her 
 I will live twenty years within the suburbs of 
 Eagdat, in every pleasure that wealth can pur- 
 chase, and fancy can invent. I will then re- 
 tire to a rural dwelling, pass my last days in 
 obscurity and contemplation, and lie silently 
 down on the bed of death. Through my life 
 it shall be my settled resolution, that I will 
 never depend upon the smile of princes ; that 
 I will never stand exposed to the artifices of 
 courts ; I will never pant for public honours, 
 nor disturb my quiet with the affairs of state. 
 Such was my scheme of life, which I impress 
 ed indelibly upon my memory. 
 
 The first part of my ensuing time was to be 
 spent in search of knowledge ; and I know 
 not how I was diverted from my design. I had 
 no visible impediments without, nor any un- 
 governable passions within. I regarded know- 
 ledge as the highest honour and the most en- 
 gaging pleasure ; yet day stole upon day, and 
 month glided after month, till I found that 
 seven years of the first ten had vanished, and 
 left nothing behind them. I now postponed 
 my purpose of travelling ; for why should I go 
 abroad while so much remained to be learned 
 at home? I immured myself for four years, 
 and studied the laws of the empire. The fame 
 of my skill reached the judges ; I was found 
 able to speak upon doubtful questions, and 
 was commanded to stand at the footstool of 
 the calif. I was heard with attention, I was 
 consulted with confidence, and the love of 
 praise fastened on my heart. 
 
 I still wished to see distant countries, listen- 
 ed with rapture to the relations of travellers, 
 and resolved some time to ask my dismission, 
 that I might feast my soul with novelty ; but 
 my presence was always necessary, and the 
 stream of business hurried me along. Some- 
 times I was afraid lest I should be charged 
 with ingratitude ; but I still proposed to travel, 
 and therefore would not confine myself by 
 marriage. 
 
 In my fiftieth year I began to suspect that 
 the time of travelling was past, and thought it 
 best to lay hold on the felicity yet in my power, 
 and indulge myself in domestic pleasures. 
 But at fifty no man easily finds a woman beau- 
 tiful as the Houries, and wise as Zobeide. 1 
 inquired and rejected, consulted and deliberat- 
 ed, till the sixty-second year made me ashamcu 
 of gazing upon girls. I had now nothing left 
 but retirement, and for retirement I never 
 found a time, till disease forced me from public 
 employment. 
 
 Such was my scheme, and such has been its 
 consequence. With an insatiable thirst for 
 knowledge, I trifled away the years of improve- 
 ment; with a restless desire of seeing different 
 countries, I have always resided in the same 
 city; with the highest expectation of connubial
 
 No. 102 & 103.] 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 453 
 
 felicity, I have lived unmarried ; and with un- 
 alterable resolutions of contemplative retire- 
 ment, I am going to die within the walls of 
 Baofdat. 
 
 No. 102.] SATURDAY, MARCH 29, 1760. 
 
 IT very seldom happens to man that his busi- 
 ness is his pleasure. What is done from ne- 
 cessity is so often to be done when against the 
 present inclination, and so often fills the mind 
 with anxiety, that an habitual dislike steals 
 upon us, and we shrink involuntarily from the 
 remembrance of our task. This is the reason 
 why almost every one wishes to quit his em- 
 ployment ; he does not like another state, but 
 is disgusted with his own. 
 
 From this unwillingness to perform more 
 than is required of that which is commonly 
 performed with reluctance, it proceeds that 
 few authors write their own lives. Statesmen, 
 courtiers, ladies, generals, and seamen, have 
 given to the world their own stories, and the 
 events with which their different stations have 
 made them acquainted. They retired to the 
 closet as to a place of quiet and amusement, 
 and pleased themselves with writing, because 
 they could lay down the pen whenever they 
 were weary. But the author however con- 
 spicuous, or however important, either in the 
 public eye or in his own, leaves his life to be 
 related by his successors, for he cannot gratify 
 his vanity but by sacrificing his ease. 
 
 It is commonly supposed, that the uniformity 
 of a studious life affords no matter for narra- 
 tion : but the truth is, that of the most studious 
 life a great part passes without study. An au- 
 thor partakes of the common condition of hu.- 
 manity ; he is born and married like another 
 man ; he has hopes and fears, expectations 
 and disappointments, griefs and joys, and 
 friends and enemies, like a courtier or a states- 
 man ; nor can I conceive why his affairs 
 should not excite curiosity as much as the 
 whisper of a drawing-room, or the factions of 
 a camp. 
 
 Nothing detains the reader's attention more 
 powerfully than deep involutions of distress, 
 or sudden vicissitudes of fortune ; and these 
 might be abundantly afforded by memoirs of 
 the sons of literature. They are entangled by 
 contracts which they know not how to fulfil, 
 and obliged to write on subjects which they do 
 not understand. Every publication is a new 
 period of time, from which some increase or 
 declension of fame is to be reckoned. The 
 
 fradations of a hero's life are from battle to 
 attle, and of an author's from book to book. 
 Success and miscarriage have the same ef- 
 fects in all conditions. The prosperous are 
 feared, hated, and flattered ; and the unfortu- 
 nate avoided, pitied, and despised. No sooner 
 is a book published than the writer may judge 
 of the opinion of the world. If his acquain- 
 tance press round him in public places or sa- 
 lute him from the other side of the street ; if 
 invitations to dinner come thick upon him, and 
 those with whom he dines keep him to supper; 
 
 if the ladies turn to him when his coat is 
 plain, and the footmen serve him with atten- 
 tion and alacrity; he may be sure that his 
 work has been praised by some leader of lite- 
 rary fashions. 
 
 Of declining reputation the symptoms are 
 not less easily observed. If the author enters 
 a coffee-house, he has a box to himself; if he 
 calls at a bookseller's, the boy turns his back ; 
 and, what is the most fatal of all prognostics, 
 authors will visit him in a morning, and talk 
 to him, hour after hour, of the malevolence of 
 critics, the neglect of merit, the bad taste of 
 the age, and the candour of posterity. 
 
 All this, modified and varied by accident 
 and custom, would form very amusing scenes 
 of biography, and might recreate many a 
 mind which is very little delighted with con- 
 spiracies or battles, intrigues of a court, or 
 debates of a parliament; to this might be 
 added all the changes of the countenance of 
 a patron, traced from the first glow which 
 flattery raises in his cheek, through ardour of 
 fondness, vehemence of promise, magnificence 
 of praise, excuse of delay, and lamentation of 
 inability, to the last chill look of final dismission, 
 when the one grows weary of soliciting, and 
 the other of hearing solicitation. 
 
 Thus copious are the materials which have 
 been hitherto suffered to lie neglected, while 
 the repositories of every family that has pro- 
 duced a soldier or a minister are ransacked, 
 and libraries are crowded with useless folios 
 of state papers which will never be read, and 
 which contribute nothing to valuable know- 
 ledge. 
 
 I hope the learned will be taught to know 
 their own strength and their value, and, in- 
 stead of devoting their lives to the honour of 
 those who seldom thank them for their labours, 
 resolve at last to do justice to themselves. 
 
 No. 103.] SATURDAY, APRIL 5, 1760. 
 
 Respicere ad longcejussit spatia ultima vita. 
 
 JT7V. 
 
 MUCH of the pain and pleasure of mankind 
 arises from the conjectures which every one 
 makes of the thoughts of others ; we all en- 
 joy praise which we do not hear, and resent 
 contempt which we do not see. The Idler 
 may therefore be forgiven, if he suffers his 
 imagination to represent to him what his read- 
 ers will say or think when they are informed 
 that they have now his last paper in their 
 hands. 
 
 Value is more frequently raised by scarcity 
 than by use. That which lay neglected when 
 it was common, rises in estimation as its quan- 
 tity becomes less. We seldom learn the true 
 want of what we have, till it is discovered that 
 we can have no more. 
 
 This essay will, perhaps, be read with care 
 even by those who have not yet attended to 
 any other ; and he that finds this late attention 
 recompensed, will not forbear to wish that he 
 had bestowed it sooner.
 
 454 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 . XXII. 
 
 Though the Idler and his readers have con- 
 tracted no close friendship, they are perhaps 
 both unwilling to part. There are few things 
 not purely evil, of which we can say, without 
 some emotion of uneasiness, " this is the last." 
 Those who never could agree together, shed 
 tears when mutual discontent has determined 
 them to final separation ; of a place which 
 has been frequently visited, though without 
 pleasure, the last look is taken with heaviness 
 of heart ; and the Idler with all his chillness 
 of tranquillity, is not wholly unaffected by the 
 thought that his last essay is now before him. 
 
 This secret horror of the last is inseparable 
 from a thinking being, whose life is limited, 
 and to whom death is dreadful. We always 
 make a secret comparison between a part and 
 the whole : the termination of any period of 
 life reminds us that life itself has likewise its 
 termination ; when we have done any thing 
 for the last time, we involuntarily reflect that 
 a part of the days allotted us is past, and that 
 as more are past there are less remaining. 
 
 It is very happily and kindly provided, that 
 in every life there are certain pauses and in- 
 terruptions which force consideration upon 
 the careless, and seriousness upon the light ; 
 points of time where one course of action 
 ends, and another begins ; and by vicissitudes 
 of fortune, or alteration of employment, by 
 change of place or loss of friendship, we are 
 forced to say of something, "this is the last." 
 
 An even and unvaried tenour of life always 
 hides from our apprehension the approach of its 
 end. Succession is not perceived but by varia- 
 tion ; he that lives to day as he lived yesterday, 
 and expects that as the present day is, such will 
 be the morrow, easily conceives time as run- 
 ning in a circle and returning to itself. The 
 uncertainty of our duration is impressed com- 
 monly by dissimilitude of condition ; it is only 
 by finding life changeable that we are remind- 
 ed of its shortness. 
 
 This conviction, however forcible at every 
 new impression, is every moment fading from 
 the mind ; and partly by the inevitable incur- 
 sion of new images, and partly by voluntary ex- 
 clusion of unwelcome thoughts, we are again 
 exposed to the universal fallacy ; and we must 
 do another thing for the last time, before we 
 consider that the time is nigh when we shall 
 do no more. 
 
 As the last Idler is published in that solemn 
 week which the Christian world has always 
 set apart for the examination of the conscience, 
 the review of life, the extinction of earthly de- 
 sires, and the renovation of holy purposes ; I 
 hope that my readers are already disposed to 
 view every incident with seriousness, and im- 
 prove it by meditation ; and that when they 
 ee this series of trifles brought to a conclu- 
 sion, they will consider that, by outliving the 
 Idler, they have passed weeks, months, and 
 years, which are now no longer in their power; 
 that an end must in time be put to every thing 
 great, as to every thing little ; that to life must 
 come its last hour, and to this system of being 
 its last day, the hour at which probation ceases 
 and repentance will be vain ; the day in which 
 every work of the hand, and imagination of 
 
 the heart, shall be brought to judgment, and 
 an everlasting futurity shall be determined by 
 the past. 
 
 No. XXII.* 
 
 MANY naturalists are of opinion, that the ani- 
 mals which we commonly consider as mute, 
 have the power of imparting their thoughts to 
 one another. That they can express general 
 sensations is very certain : every being that can 
 utter sounds, has a different voice for pleasure 
 and for pain. The hound informs his fellows 
 when he scents his game ; the hen calls her 
 chickens to their food by her cluck, and drives 
 them from danger by her scream. 
 
 Birds have the greatest variety of notes , 
 they have indeed a variety, which seems almost 
 sufficient to make a speech adequate to the 
 purposes of a life which is regulated by in- 
 stinct, and can admit little change or improve- 
 ment. To the cries of birds curiosity or su- 
 perstition has been always attentive ; many 
 have studied the languag'e of the feathered 
 tribes, and some have boasted that they under- 
 stood it. 
 
 The most skilful or most confident interpre- 
 ters of the sylvan dialogues, have been com- 
 monly found among the philosophers of the 
 east, in a country where the calmness of the 
 air, and the mildness of the seasons, allow the 
 student to pass a great part of the year in 
 groves and bowers. But what may be done in 
 one place by peculiar opportunities, may be 
 performed in another by peculiar diligence. 
 A shepherd of Bohemia has, by long abode in 
 the forests, enabled himself to understand the 
 voice of birds ; at least he relates with great 
 confidence a story, of which the credibility ia 
 left to be considered by the learned. 
 
 As I was sitting (said he) within a hollow 
 rock, and watching my sheep that fed in the 
 valley, I heard two vultures interchangeably 
 crying on the summit of a clifF. Both voices 
 were earnest and deliberate. My curiosity 
 prevailed over the care of the flock ; I climbed 
 slowly and silently from crag to crag, conceal- 
 ed among the shrubs, till I found a cavity where 
 I might sit and listen without suffering or giv- 
 ing disturbance. 
 
 I soon perceived that my labour would be 
 well repaid, for an old vulture was sitting on a 
 naked prominence, with her young about her, 
 whom she was instructing in the arts of a vul- 
 ture's life, and preparing by the last lecture, 
 for their final dismission to the mountains and 
 the skies. 
 
 My children, said the old vulture, you will 
 the less want my instructions, because you 
 have had my practice before your eyes ; you 
 have seen me snatch from the farm tnc house- 
 hold fowl, you have seen me seize the leveret 
 in the bush, and the kid in the pasturage ; you 
 know how to fix your talons, and how to 
 balance your flight when you are laden with 
 
 * This was the original No. 22, but or. the republica 
 tion of the work in volumes, Dr. Johnson substituted 
 what now stands under that heaJ.
 
 No. 
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 455 
 
 your prey. But you remember the taste of 
 more delicious food. I have often regaled you 
 with the flesh of man. Tell us, said the young 
 Vultures, where man may be found, and how 
 he may be known : his flesh is surelv the 
 natural food of a vulture. Why have" you 
 never brought a man in your talons to the 
 nest ? He is too bulky, said the mother ; when 
 we find a man we can only tear away his flesh, 
 and leave his bones upon the ground. Since 
 man is so big, said the young ones, how do you 
 kill him ? You are afraid of the wolf and of 
 the bear, by what power are vultures superior 
 to man? Is man more defenceless than a 
 sheep? We have not the strength of man, 
 returned the mother, and I am sometimes hi 
 doubt whether we have the subtilty ; and the 
 vultures would seldom feast upon his flesh, 
 had not nature, that devoted him to our uses, 
 infused into him a strange ferocity, which I 
 have never observed in any other being that 
 feeds upon the earth. Two herds of men will 
 often meet and shake the earth with noise, and 
 fill the earth with fire. When you hear noise, 
 and see fire, with flashes along the ground, 
 hasten to the place with your swiftest wing, 
 for men are surely destroying one another; 
 you will then find the ground smoking with 
 blood and covered with carcases, of which 
 many are dismembered, and mangled for the 
 convenience of the vulture. But when men 
 have killed their prey, said the pupil, why do 
 they not eat it ? When the wolf has killed a 
 sheep, he suffers not the vulture to touch it till 
 he has satisfied himself. Is not man another 
 kind of wolf? Man, said the mother, is the 
 only beast who kills that which he does not 
 devour, and this quality makes him so much a 
 benefactor to our species. If men kill our 
 prey, and lay it in our way, said the young 
 one what need shall we have of labouring for 
 
 ourselves ? Because man will sometimes, 
 replied the mother, remain for a long time 
 quiet in his den. The old vultures will tell 
 you when you are to watch his motions. 
 When you see men in great numbers moving 
 close together, like a flight of storks, you may 
 conclude that they are hunting, and that you 
 will soon revel in human blood. But still, said 
 the young one, I would gladly know the rea- 
 son of this mutual slaughter. I could never 
 kill what I could not eat. My child, said the 
 mother, this is a question which I cannot an- 
 swer, though I am reckoned the most subtile 
 bird of the mountain. When I was young, I 
 used frequently to visit the ayry of an old vul 
 ture, who dwelt upon the Carpathian rocks ; 
 he had made many observations ; he knew the 
 places that afforded prey round his habitation, 
 as far in every direction as the strongest wing 
 can fly between the rising and setting of tho 
 summer sun ; he had fed year after year on the 
 entrails of men. His opinion was, that men 
 had only the appearance of animal life, being 
 really vegetables, with a power of motion; and 
 that as the boughs of an oak are dashed togeth- 
 er by the storm, that swine may fatten upon the 
 falling acorns, so men are by some unaccounta- 
 ble power driven one against another, till they 
 lose their motion, that vultures may be fed. 
 Others think they have observed something of 
 contnvance and policy among these mischiev- 
 ous beings ; and those that hover more closely 
 round them, pretend, that there is in every 
 herd, one that gives directions to the rest, and 
 seems to be more eminently delighted with a 
 wide carnage. What it is that entitles him to 
 such pre-eminence we know not ; he is seldom 
 the biggest or the swiftest, but he shews by his 
 eagerness and diligence that he is, more than 
 any of the others, a friend to vultures.
 
 . 
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF A PALACE IN A VALLEY. 
 
 YE who listen with credulity to the whispers of 
 fancy, and pursue with eagerness the phantoms 
 of hope ; who expect that age will perform the 
 promises of youth, and that the deficiencies of the 
 present day will be supplied by the morrow ; at- 
 tend to the history of Rasselas prince of Abis- 
 sinia. 
 
 Rasselas was the fourth son of the mighty em- 
 peror, in whose dominions the father of waters 
 begins his course ; whose bounty pours down the 
 streams of plenty, and scatters over the world 
 the harvests of Egypt. 
 
 According to the custom which has descend- 
 ed from age to age among the monarchs of the 
 torrid zone, Rasselas was confined in a private 
 palace, with the other sons and daughters of 
 Abissinian royalty, till the order of succession 
 should call him to the throne. 
 
 The place, which the wisdom or policy of anti- 
 quity had destined for the residence of the Abissi- 
 nian princes, was a spacious valley in the kingdom 
 of Amhara, surrounded on every side by moun- 
 tains, of which the summits overhang the middle 
 part. The only passage by which it could be en- 
 tered was a cavern that passed under a rock, of 
 which it had long been disputed whether it was 
 the work of nature or of human industry. The 
 outlet of the cavern was concealed by a thick 
 wood, and the mouth which opened into the 
 valley was closed with gates of iron, forged by 
 the artificers of ancient days, so massy, that no 
 man, without the help of engines, could open or 
 shut them. 
 
 From the mountains on every side rivulets de- 
 scended, that filled all the valley with verdure and 
 fertility, and formed a lake in the middle, inhabit- 
 ed by fish of every species, and frequented by 
 every fowl whom nature has taught to dip the 
 wing in water. This lake discharged its super- 
 fluities by a stream, which entered a dark cleft of 
 the mountain on the northern side, and fell with 
 dreadful noise from precipice to precipice, till it 
 was heard no more. 
 
 The sides of the mountains were covered with 
 trees, the banks of the brooks were diversified 
 with flowers ; every blast shook spices from the 
 rocks, and every month dropped fruits upon the 
 ground. All animals that bite the grass, or 
 browse the shrubs, whether wild or tame, wan- 
 dered in this extensive circuit, sacured from beasts 
 
 of prey by the mountains which confined them. 
 On one part were flocks and herds feeding in the 
 pastures, on another all the beasts of chase frisk- 
 ing in the lawns : the sprightly kid was bounding 
 on the rocks, the subtle monkey frolicking in 
 the trees, and the solemn elephant reposing in 
 the shade. All the diversities of the world were 
 brought together. The blessings of nature were 
 collected, and its evils extracted and excluded. 
 
 The valley, wide and fruitful, supplied its inha- 
 bitants with the necessaries of life ; and all de- 
 lights and superfluities were added at the annual 
 visit which the emperor paid his children, when 
 the iron gate was opened to the sound of music ; 
 and during eight days, every one that resided in 
 the valley was required to propose whatever 
 might contribute to make seclusion pleasant, to 
 fill up the vacancies of attention, and lessen the 
 tediousness of time. Every desire was immedi- 
 ately granted. All the artificers of pleasure were 
 called to gladden the festivity; the musicians ex- 
 erted the power of harmony, and the dancers 
 showed their activity before the princes, in hopes 
 that they should pass their lives in blissful capti- 
 vity, to which those only were admitted whose 
 performance was thought able to add novelty to 
 luxury. Such was the appearance of security and 
 delight which this retirement afforded, that they 
 to whom it was new always desired that it rnigh't 
 be perpetual ; and as those on whom the iron gate 
 had once closed were never suffered to return, the 
 effect of longer experience could not be known. 
 Thus every year produced new scenes of delight, 
 and new competitors for imprisonment 
 
 The palace stood on an eminence, raised about 
 thirty paces above the surface of the lake. It was 
 divided into many squares, or courts, built with 
 greater or less magnificence, according to the 
 rank of those for whom they were designed. Tho 
 roofs were turned into arches of massy stone, 
 joined by a cement that grew harder by time ; 
 and the building stood from century to century, 
 deriding the solstitial rains and equinoctial hurri- 
 canes, without need of reparation. 
 
 This house, which was so large as to be fully 
 known to none but some ancient officers, who 
 successively inherited the secrets of the place, 
 was built as if Suspicion herself had dictated the 
 plan. To every room there was an open and 
 secret passage ; every square had a communica- 
 tion with the rest, either from the upper stories 
 by private galleries, or by subterraneous passages 
 from the lower apartments. Many of the columns
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 457 
 
 had unsuspected cavities, in which a long race of 
 monarchs had reposited their treasures. They 
 then closed up the opening with marble, which 
 was never to be removed but in the utmost exi- 
 gencies of the kingdom; and recorded their accu- 
 mulations in a book, which was itself concealed in 
 a tower, not entered but by the emperor, attended 
 by the prince who stood next in succession. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE DISCONTENT OF RASSELAS IN THE HAPFI 
 VALLEY. 
 
 HERE the sons and daughters of Abissinia lived 
 only to know the soft vicissitudes of pleasure and 
 repose, attended by all that were skilful to delight, 
 and gratified with whatever the senses can enjoy. 
 They wandered in gardens of fragrance, and slept 
 in the fortresses of security. Every art was prac- 
 tised to make them pleased with their own condi- 
 tion. The sages who instructed them told them 
 of nothing but the miseries of public life, and 
 described all beyond the mountains as regions of 
 calamity, where discord was always raging, and 
 where man preyed upon man. To heighten their 
 opinion of their own felicity, they were daily en- 
 tertained with songs, the subject of which was 
 the happy valley. Their appetites were excited 
 by frequent enumerations of different enjoyments, 
 and revelry and merriment were the business of 
 every hour, from the dawn of morning to the 
 close of the evening. 
 
 These methods were generally successful: few 
 of the princes had ever wished to enlarge their 
 bounds, but passed their lives in full conviction 
 that they had all within their reach that art or 
 nature could bestow, and pitied those whom na- 
 ture had excluded from this seat of tranquillity, 
 as the sport of chance and the slaves of misery. 
 
 Thus they rose in the morning and lay down at 
 night, pleased with each other and with them- 
 selves, all but Rasselas, who, in the twenty-sixth 
 year of his age, began to withdraw himself from 
 the pastimes and assemblies, and to deught in 
 solitary walks and silent meditation. He often 
 sat before tables covered with luxury, and forgot 
 to taste the dainties that were placed before him : 
 he rose abruptly in the midst of the sons, and 
 hastily retired beyond the sound of music. His 
 attendants observed the change, and endeavoured 
 to renew his love of pleasure : he neglected their 
 officiousness, repulsed their invitations, and spent 
 day after day on the banks of rivulets sheltered 
 with trees, where he sometimes listened to the 
 birds in the branches, sometimes observed the 
 fish playing in the stream, and anon cast his eyes 
 upon the pastures and mountains filled with ani- 
 mals, of which some were biting the herbage, and 
 some sleeping among the bushes. The singu- 
 larity of his humour made him much observed. 
 One of the sages, in whose conversation he had 
 formerly delighted, followed him secretly, in hope 
 of discovering the cause of his disquiet. Rasselas, 
 who knew not that any one was near him, having 
 for some lime fixed his eyes upon the goats that 
 were browsing among the rocks, began to com- 
 pare their condition with his own. 
 
 "What," said he, "makes the difference be- 
 
 tw een man and all the rest of the animal creation ? 
 
 Every beast that strays beside me has the same 
 
 corporal necessities with myself: he is hungry, 
 
 3H 
 
 and crops the grass ; he is thirsty, and drinks 
 the stream ; his thirst and hunger are appeased ; 
 he is satisfied, and sleeps ; he rises agai j and is 
 hungry ; he is again fed, and is at rest I am Hun- 
 gry and thirsty, like him, but when thirst and hun- 
 ger cease, I am not at rest ; I am, like him, pained 
 with want, but am not, like him, satisfied with 
 fulness. The intermediate hours are tedious and 
 gloomy : I long again to be hunerv, that I may 
 again quicken the attention. The"birds peck the 
 berries of the corn, and fly away to the groves, 
 where they sit in seeming happiness on the 
 branches, and waste their lives in tuning one un- 
 varied series of sounds. I likewise can call the 
 lutanist and the singer ; but the sounds that pleas- 
 ed me yesterday weary me to-day, and will grow 
 yet more wearisome to-morrow. I can discover 
 in me no power of perception which is not glutted 
 with its proper pleasure, yet I do not feel myself 
 delighted. Man surely has some latent sense, 
 for which this place affords no gratification ; or 
 he has some desires distinct from sense, which 
 must be satisfied before he can be happy." 
 
 After this he lifted up his head, ana seeing the 
 moon rising, walked towards the palace. As he 
 passed through the fields, and saw the animals 
 around him, " Ye," said he, " are happy, and 
 need not envy me, that walk thus among you, 
 burdened with myself ; nor do I, ye gentle beings, 
 envy your felicity ; for it is not the felicity of man. 
 I have many distresses from which ye are free ; 
 I fear pain when I do not feel it ; I sometimes 
 shrink at evils recollected, and sometimes start 
 at evils anticipated : surely the equity of Provi- 
 dence has balanced peculiar sufferings with pecu- 
 liar enjoyments." 
 
 With observations like these the prince amused 
 himself as he returned, uttering them with a plain- 
 tive voice, yet with a look that discovered him to 
 feel some complacence in his own perspicacity, and 
 to receive some solace of the miseries of life, from 
 consciousness of the delicacy with which he felt, 
 and the eloquence with which he bewailed them. 
 He mingled cheerfully in the diversions of the 
 evening, and all rejoiced to find that his heart was 
 lightened. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE WANTS OF HIM THAT WANTS NOTHING. 
 
 ON the next day, his old instructor, imagining 
 that he had now made himself acquainted with 
 his disease of mind, was in hope of curing it by 
 counsel, and officiously sought an opportunity of 
 conference, which the prince, having long con- 
 sidered him as one whose intellects were exhaust- 
 ed, was not very willing to afford. " Why," said 
 he, " does this man thus intrude upon me ? shall 
 I never be suffered to forget these lectures, which 
 pleased only while they were new, and to become 
 new again, must be forgotten ?" He then walked 
 into the wood, and composed himself to his usual 
 meditations ; when, before his thoughts had taken 
 any settled form, he perceived his pursuer at his 
 side, and was at first prompted by his impatience 
 to go hastily away ; but being unwilling to offend 
 a man whom he had once reverenced, and still 
 loved, he invited him to sit down with him on the 
 bank. 
 
 The old man, thus encouraged, began to lament 
 the change which had been lately observed in the 
 prince, and to inquire why he so often retired
 
 458 
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 from the pleasures of the palace, to loneliness and 
 silence. ''I fly from pleasure," said the prince, 
 "because pleasure has ceased to please; I am 
 lonely because I am miserable, and am unwilling 
 to cloud with my presence the happiness of 
 others." " You, sir," said the sage, " are the 
 first who has complained of misery in the happy 
 valley. I hope to convince you tnat your com- 
 plaints have no real cause. You -are here in full 
 possession of all the emperor of Abissinia can 
 bestow ; here is neither labour to be endured nor 
 danger to be dreaded, yet here is all that labour 
 or danger can procure or purchase. Look round 
 and tell me which of your wants is without sup- 
 ply : if you want nothing, how are you unhappy '/" 
 " That I want nothing," said the prince, " or 
 that 1 know not what I want, is the cause of my 
 complaint : if 1 had any known want, I should have 
 a certain wish ; that wish would excite endeavour, 
 and I should not then repine to see the sun move 
 so slowly towards the western mountains, or to 
 lament when the day breaks, and sleep will no 
 longer hide me from myself. When I see the 
 kids and the lambs chasing one another, I fancy 
 that I should be happy if I had something to pur- 
 sue. But, possessing all that I can want, I find 
 one day and one hour exactly like another, except 
 that the latter is still more tedious than the former. 
 Let your experience inform me how the day may 
 now seem as short as in my childhood, while na- 
 ture was yet fresh, and every moment showed me 
 what I never had observed before. I have already 
 enjoyed too much : give me something to desire." 
 The old man was surprised at this new species of 
 affliction, and knew not what to reply, yet was 
 unwilling to be silent. " Sir," said he, " if you 
 had seen the miseries of the world you would 
 know how to value your present state." "Now," 
 said the prince, " you have given me something 
 to desire : I shall long to see the miseries of the 
 world, since the sight of them is necessary to hap- 
 piness." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE PRINCE CONTINUES TO GRIEVE AND MUSE. 
 
 AT this time the sound of music proclaimed the 
 hour of repast, and the conversation was con- 
 cluded. The old man went away sufficiently dis- 
 contented to find that his reasonings had produced 
 the only conclusion which they were intended to 
 prevent. But in the decline of life, shame and 
 grief are of short duration : whether it be that we 
 bear easily what we have borne long ; or that, 
 finding ourselves in age less regarded, we less re- 
 gard others ; or that we look with slight regard 
 upon afflictions, to which we know that the hand 
 of death is about to put an end. 
 
 The prince, whose views were extended to a 
 wider space, could not speedily quiet his emo- 
 tions. He had been before terrified at the length 
 of life which nature promised him, because he 
 considered that in a long time much must be en- 
 dured : he now rejoiced in his youth, because in 
 many years much might be 'done. This first 
 beam of hope that had been ever darted into his 
 mind, rekindled youth in his cheeks, and doubled 
 the lustre of his eyes. He was fired with the 
 desire of doing something, though he knew not 
 yet, with distinctness, either end or means. He 
 was now no longer gloomy and unsocial ; but, 
 
 considering himself as master of a secret stock of 
 happiness, which lie could only enjoy by conceal- 
 ing it, he afiecied to be busy in all the schemes of 
 diversion, and endeavoured to make others pleased 
 with the state of which he himself was weary. 
 But pleasures can never be so multiplied or con- 
 tinued as not to leave much of life unemployed ; 
 there were many hours, both of tne night and day, 
 which he could spend without suspicion in solitary 
 thought The load of life was much lightened ; 
 he went eagerly into the assemblies, because he 
 supposed the frequency of his presence necessary 
 to the success of his purposes ; he retired gladly 
 to privacy, because he had now a subject 01 
 thought. His chief amusement was to picture 
 to himself that world which he had never seen, to 
 place himself in various conditions, to be entan- 
 gled in imaginary difficulties, and to be engaged in 
 wild adventures ; but his benevolence always ter- 
 minated his projects in the relief of distress, the 
 detection of fraud, the defeat of oppression, and 
 the diffusion of happiness. 
 
 Thus passed twenty months of the life p, 
 Rasselas. He busied himself so intensely in 
 visionary bustle that he forgot his real solitude ; 
 and, amidst hourly preparations for the various 
 incidents of human affairs, neglected to consider 
 by what means he should mingle with mankind. 
 
 One day, as he was sitting on a bank, he feign- 
 ed to himself an orphan virgin robbed of her little 
 Gjrtion by a treacherous lover, and crying after 
 m for restitution. So strongly was the image 
 impressed upon his mind, that he started up in the 
 maid's defence, and ran forward to seize the plun- 
 derer with all the eagerness of real pursuit. Fear 
 naturally quickens the flight of guilt Rasselas 
 could not catch the fugitive with his utmost ef- 
 forts: but, resolving to weary by perseverance 
 him whom he could not surpass in speed, he 
 pressed on till the foot of the mountain stopped hia 
 course. 
 
 Here he recollected himself, and smiled at his 
 own useless impetuosity. Then raising his eyes 
 to the mountain, " This," said he, " is the fata! 
 obstacle that hinders at once the enjoyment oi 
 pleasure and the exercise of virtue. How long is 
 it that my hopes and wishes have flown beyond 
 this boundary of my life, which yet I never have 
 attempted to surmount !" Struck with this re- 
 flection, he sat down to muse, and remembered, 
 that since he first resolved to escape from his con- 
 finement, the sun had passed twice over him in 
 his annual course. He now felt a degree of re- 
 gret with which he had never been before ac- 
 quainted. He considered how much might have 
 t>een done in the time which had passed, and left 
 nothing real behind it. He compared twenty 
 months with the life of man. " In life," said he, 
 " is not to be counted the ignorance of infancy or 
 mbecility of age. We are long before we are 
 able to think, and we soon cease from the power 
 of acting. The true period of human existence 
 may be reasonably estimated at forty years, of 
 which I have mused away the four-and-twentieth 
 part What I have lost was certain, for I have 
 certainly possessed it ; but of twenty months to 
 come who can assure me ?" 
 
 The consciousness of his own folly pierced 
 him deeply, and he was long before he could be 
 reconciled to himself. " The rest of my time,^ 
 said he, " has been lost by the crime or folly of 
 my ancestors, and the absurd institutions of my 
 count rv ; I remember it with disgust, yet without
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 459 
 
 remorse ; but the months that have passed since 
 new light darted into my soul, since I formed a 
 scheme of reasonable felicity, have been squan- 
 dered by my own fault I have lost that which 
 can never be restored ; I have seen the sun rise 
 and set for twenty months, an idle gazer on the 
 light of heaven : in this time the birds have left 
 the nest of their mother, and committed them- 
 selves to the woods and to the skies ; the kid has 
 forsaken the teat, and learned by degrees to climb 
 the rocks in quest of independent sustenance. I 
 only have made no advances, but am still help- 
 less and ignorant The moon, by more than 
 twenty changes, admonished me of the flux of 
 life ; the stream that rolled before my feet upbraid- 
 ed my inactivity. I sat feasting on intellectual 
 luxury, regardless alike of the examples of the 
 earth and the instructions of the planets. Twenty 
 months are passed, who shall restore them ?" 
 
 These sorrowful meditations fastened upon 
 his mind : he passed four months in resolving to 
 lose no more time in idle resolves, and was awak- 
 ened to more vigorous exertion, by hearing a 
 maid who had broken a porcelain cup, remark, 
 that what cannot be repaired is not to be re- 
 gretted. 
 
 This was obvious ; and Rasselas reproached 
 himself that he had not discovered it ; having not 
 known, or not considered, how many useful hints 
 are obtained by chance, and how often the mind, 
 hurried by her own ardour to distant views, ne- 
 glects the truths that lie opened before her. He, 
 for a few hours, regretted his regret, and from 
 that time bent his whole mind upon the means of 
 escaping from the valley of happiness. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE PRINCE MEDITATES HIS ESCAPE. 
 
 HE now found that it would be very difficult to 
 effect that which it was very easy to suppose 
 effected. When he looked round about him, he 
 saw himself confined by the bars of nature, which 
 had never yet been broken, and by the gate, 
 through which none that once had passed it were 
 ever able to return. He was now impatient as an 
 eagle in a grate. He passed week after week 
 in "clambering the mountains, to see if there was 
 any aperture which the bushes might conceal, 
 but found all the summits inaccessible by their 
 prominence. The iron gate he despaired to open ; 
 for it was not only secured with all the power of 
 art, but was always watched by successive sen- 
 tinels, and was by its position exposed to the per- 
 petual observation of all the inhabitants. 
 
 He then examined the cavern through which 
 the waters of the lake were discharged ; and, 
 looking down at a time when the sun shone 
 strongly upon its mouth, he discovered it to be 
 full of broken rocks, which, though they permitted 
 the stream to flow through many narrow pas- 
 sages, would stop any body of solid bulk. He re- 
 turned discouraged and dejected; but, having 
 now known theljlessing of hope, resolved never 
 to despair. 
 
 In these fruitless researches he spent ten 
 months. The time, however, passed cheerfully 
 away ; in the morning he rose with new hope, in 
 the evening applauded his own diligence, and in 
 the night slept sound after his fatigue. He met a 
 thousand amusements, which beguiled his labour 
 
 and diversified his thoughts. He discerned the 
 various instincts of animals, and properties of 
 plants, and found the place replete with wonders, 
 of which he proposed to solace himself with the 
 contemplation, if he should never be able to ac- 
 complish his flight ; rejoicing that his endeavours, 
 though yet unsuccessful, had supplied him with a 
 source of inexhaustible inquiry. 
 
 But his original curiosity was not yet abated : 
 he resolved to obtain some knowledge of the 
 ways of men. His wish still continued, but his 
 hope grew less. He ceased to survey any longer 
 the walls of his prison, and spared to search by 
 new toils for interstices which he knew could 
 not be found, yet determined to keep his design 
 always in view, and lay hold on any expedient 
 that time should offer. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A DISSERTATION ON THE ART OP FLYING. 
 
 AMONG the artists that had been allured into the 
 happy valley, to labour for the accommodation 
 and pleasure of its inhabitants, was a man emi- 
 nent for his knowledge of the mechanic powers, 
 who had contrived many engines both of use and 
 recreation. By a wheel which the stream turned, 
 he forced the water into a tower, whence it was 
 distributed to all the apartments of the palace. 
 He erected a pavilion in the garden, around which 
 he kept the air always cool by artificial showers. 
 One of the groves, appropriated to the ladies, was 
 ventilated by fans, to which the rivulets that ran 
 through it gave a constant motion ; and instru- 
 ments of soft music were played at proper dis- 
 tances, of which some played by the impulse of 
 the wind, and some by the power of the stream. 
 
 This artist was sometimes visited by Rasselas, 
 who was pleased with every kind of knowledge, 
 imagining that the time would come when all his 
 acquisitions should be of use to him in the open 
 world. He came one day to amuse himself in 
 his usual manner, and found the master busy in 
 building a sailing chariot: he saw that the design 
 was practicable upon a level surface, and with ex 
 pressions of great esteem solicited its completion. 
 The workman was pleased to find himself so 
 much regarded by the prince, and resolved to gain 
 yet higher honours. " Sir," said he, " you have 
 seen but a small part of what the mechanic sci- 
 ence can perform. I have been long of opinion, 
 that instead of the tardy conveyance of ships and 
 chariots, man might use the swifter migration of 
 wings ; that the fields of air are open to know- 
 ledge, and that only ignorance and idleness need 
 crawl upon the ground." 
 
 This hint rekindled the prince's desire of pass- 
 ing the mountains. Having seen what the me- 
 chanist had already performed, he was willing to 
 fancy that he could do more ; yet resolved to in- 
 quire farther before he suffered hope to afflict him 
 by disappointment " I am afraid," said he to 
 the artist, " that your imagination prevails over 
 your skill, and that you now tell me rather what 
 you wish than what you know. Every animal 
 has his element assigned him ; the birds have the 
 air and man and beast the earth." " So," replied 
 the mechanist, " fishes have the water, m which 
 vet beasts can swim by nature, and man by art. 
 He that can swim needs not despair to fly : to 
 swim is to fly in a grosser fluid, and to fly to
 
 460 
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 swim in a subtler. We are only to proportion 
 our power of resistance to the different density of 
 matter through which we are to pass. You will 
 be necessarily upborne by the air, if you can re- 
 new any impulse upon it faster than the air can 
 recede from the pressure." 
 
 "But the exercise of swimming," said the 
 prince, " is very laborious ; the strongest limbs 
 are soon wearied : I am afraid the act of flying 
 will be yet more violent ; and wings will be of 
 no great use, unless we can fly further than we 
 can swim." 
 
 " The labour of rising from the ground," said 
 the artist, "will be great, as we see it in the 
 heavier domestic fowls ; but, as we mount higher, 
 the earth's attraction, and the body's gravity, will 
 be gradually diminished, till we shall arrive at a 
 region where the man shall float in the air with- 
 out any tendency to fall ; no care will then be ne- 
 cessary but to move forward, which the gentlest 
 impulse will effect You, sir, whose curiosity is 
 so extensive, will easily conceive with what plea- 
 sure a philosopher, furnished with wings, and 
 hovering in the sky, would see the earth, and all 
 its inhabitants, rolling beneath him, and present- 
 ing to him successively, by its diurnal motion, all 
 the countries within the same parallel. How must 
 it amuse the pendent spectator to see the moving 
 scene of land and ocean, cities and deserts ! to 
 survey with equal security the marts of trade, and 
 the fields of battle; mountains infested by barba- 
 rians, and fruitful regions gladdened by plenty 
 and lulled by peace ! How easily shall we then 
 trace the Nile through all his passages, pass over 
 to distant regions, and examine the face of nature 
 from one extremity of the earth to the other." 
 
 " All this," said the prince, " is much to be de- 
 sired, but I am afraid that no man will be able to 
 breathe in these regions of speculation and tran- 
 quillity. I have been told that respiration is 
 difficult upon lofty mountains; yet from these 
 precipices, though so high as to produce great 
 tenuity of air, it is very easy to fall ; therefore I 
 suspect, that from any height, where life can be 
 supported, there may be danger of too quick 
 descent" 
 
 " Nothing," replied the artist, " will ever be 
 attempted, if all possible objections must be first 
 overcome. If you will favour my project, I will 
 try the first flight at my own hazard. 1 have con- 
 sidered the structure of all volant animals, and 
 find th-3 folding continuity of the bats' wings most 
 easily accommodated to the human form. Upon 
 this model I shall begin my task to-morrow; and, 
 in a year, expect to tower into the air beyond the 
 malice and pursuit of man. But I will work only 
 on this condition, that the art shall not be divulg- 
 ed, and that you shall not require me to make 
 wings for any but ourselves." 
 
 " Why," said Rasselas, " should you envy 
 others so great an advantage ? All skill ought to 
 be exerted for universal good; every man has 
 owed much to others, and ought to repay the 
 kindness that he has received." 
 
 " If men were all virtuous," returned the ar- 
 tist, " I should with great alacrity teach them to 
 fly. But what would be the security of the good 
 if the bad could at pleasure invade them from the 
 sky ? Against an army sailing through the clouds, 
 neither walls, mountains, nor seas, could afford 
 security. A flight of northern savages might 
 hover in the wind, and light with irresistible vio- 
 lence upon the capital of a fruitful region. Even 
 
 this valley, the retreat of princes, the abode ot 
 happiness, might be violated by the sudden de- 
 scent of some of the naked nations that swarm on 
 the coast of the southern sea !" 
 
 The prince promised secrecy, and waited for 
 the performance, not wholly hopeless of success. 
 He visited the work from time to time, observed 
 its progress, and remarked many ingenious con- 
 trivances to facilitate motion, and unite levity 
 with strength. The artist was every day more 
 certain that he should leave vultures and eagles 
 behind him, and the contagion of his confidence 
 seized upon the prince. In a year the wings were 
 finished ; and, on a morning appointed, the maker 
 appeared furnished for flight on a little promon 
 tory: he waved his pinions a while to gather air, 
 then leaped from his stand, and in an instant 
 dropped into the lake. His wings, which were 
 of no use in the air, sustained him in the water ; 
 and the prince drew him to land half dead with 
 terror and vexation. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE PRINCE FINDS A MAN OP LEARNING. 
 
 THE prince was not much afflicted by this dis 
 aster, having suffered himself to hope for a hap- 
 pier event only because he had no other means 
 of escape in view. He still persisted in his de- 
 sign to leave the happy valley by the first oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 His imagination was now at a stand ; he had 
 no prospect of entering into the world ; and, not- 
 withstanding all his endeavours to support him- 
 self, discontent, by degrees, preyed upon him; 
 and he began again to lose his thoughts in sad- 
 ness, when the rainy season, which in these coun- 
 tries is periodical, made it inconvenient to wander 
 in the woods. 
 
 The rain continued longer and with more vio- 
 lence than had ever been known: the clouds 
 broke on the surrounding mountains, and the tor- 
 rents streamed into the plain on every side, till the 
 cavern was too narrow to discharge the water. 
 The lake overflowed its banks, and all the level 
 of the valley was covered with the inundation. 
 The eminence on which the palace was built, and 
 some other spots of rising around, were all that 
 the eye could now discover. The herds and flocks 
 left the pasture, and both the wild beasts and 
 the tame retreated to the mountains. 
 
 This inundation confined all the princes to do- 
 mestic amusements; and the attention of Rasselas 
 was particularly seized by a poem, which Imlac 
 rehearsed, upon the various conditions of hu- 
 manity. He commanded the poet to attend him 
 in his apartment, and recite his verses a second 
 time; then, entering into familiar talk, he thought 
 himself happy in having found a man who knew 
 the world so well, and could so skilfully paint the 
 scenes of life. He asked a thousand questions 
 about things, to which, though common to all 
 other mortals, his confinement from childhood 
 had kept him a stranger. The poet pitied his 
 ignorance, and loved his curiosity, and entertained 
 him from day to day with novelty and instruction, 
 so that the prince regretted the necessity of sleep, 
 and longed till the morning should renew his 
 pleasure. 
 
 As they were sitting together, the prince com- 
 manded Imlac to relate his history, and to tell by
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 461 
 
 what accident he was forced, or by what motive 
 induced, to close his life in the happy valley. As 
 he was going to begin his narrative, Rasselas was 
 called to a concert, and obliged to restrain his 
 curiosity till the evening. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF IMLAC. 
 
 THE close of the day is, in the regions of the 
 torrid zone, the only season of diversion and en- 
 tertainment, and it was therefore midnight before 
 the music ceased and the princesses retired. Ras- 
 selas then called for his companion, and required 
 him to begin the story of his life, 
 
 "Sir," said Imlac, "my history will not be 
 long: the life that is devoted to knowledge passes 
 silently away, and is very little diversified by 
 events. To talk in public, to think in solitude, to 
 read and to hear, to inquire and answer inquiries, 
 is the business of a scnolar. He wanders about 
 the world without pomp or terror, and is neither 
 known nor valued but by men like himself. 
 
 " I was born in the kingdom of Goiama, at no 
 great distance from the fountain of the Nile. My 
 father was a wealthy merchant, who traded be- 
 tween the inland countries of Africa and the ports 
 of the Red Sea. He was honest, frugal, and dili- 
 gent, but of mean sentiments and narrow com- 
 prehension ; he desired only to be rich, and to 
 conceal his riches, lest he should be spoiled by the 
 governors of the province." 
 
 " Surely," said the prince, " my father must be 
 negligent of his charge, if any man in his domi- 
 nions dares take that which belongs to another. 
 Does he not know that kings are accountable for 
 injustice permitted as well as done? If I were 
 emperor, not the meanest of my subjects should 
 be oppressed with impunity. My blood boils when 
 I am told that a merchant durst not enjoy his 
 honest gains for fear of losing them by the rapa- 
 city of power. Name the governor who robbed 
 the people, that I may declare his crimes to the 
 emperor !" 
 
 " Sir," said Imlac, "your ardour is the natural 
 effect of virtue animated by youth : the time will 
 come when you will acquit your father, and per- 
 haps hear with less impatience of the governor. 
 Oppression is, in the Abissinian dominions, nei- 
 ther frequent nor tolerated ; but no form of go- 
 vernment has been yet discovered, by which 
 cruelty can be wholly prevented. Subordination 
 supposes power on one part and subjection on the 
 other ; and if power be in the hands of men, it 
 will sometimes be abused. The vigilance of the 
 supreme magistrate may do much, but much will 
 still remain undone. He can never know all the 
 crimes that are committed, and can seldom punish 
 all that he knows." 
 
 " This," eaid the prince, " I do not understand ; 
 but 1 had rather hear thee than dispute. Continue 
 thy narration." 
 
 " My father," proceeded Imlac, " originally in- 
 tended that I should have no other education 
 than such as might qualify me for commerce ; and 
 discovering in me great strength of memory and 
 quickness of apprehension, often declared his 
 hope that I should be some time the richest man 
 in Abissinia." 
 
 "Why," said the prince, " did thy father desire 
 the increase of his wealth, when it was already 
 greater than he durst discover or enjoy ? I am 
 unwilling to doubt thy veracity, yet inconsisten- 
 cies cannot both be true." 
 
 "Inconsistencies," answered Imlac, "cannot 
 both be right ; but, imputed to man, they may both 
 be true. Yet diversity is not inconsistency. My 
 father might expect a time of greater security. 
 However, some desire is necessary to keep life in 
 motion ; and he, whose real wants are supplied, 
 must admit those of fancy." 
 
 " This," said the prince, " I can in some mea- 
 sure conceive. I repent that I interrupted thee." 
 
 "With this hope," proceeded Imlac, "he sent 
 me to school : but when I had once found the de- 
 light of knowledge, and felt the pleasure of intel- 
 ligence and the pride of invention, 1 began silently 
 to despise riches, and determined to disappoint 
 the purposes of my father, whose grossness of 
 conception raised my pity. I was twenty years 
 old before his tenderness would expose me to the 
 fatigue of travel ; in which time 1 had been in- 
 structed, by successive masters, in all the litera- 
 ture of my native country. As every hour taught 
 me something new, I lived in a continual course 
 of gratifications; but, as I advanced towards man- 
 hood, I lost much of the reverence with which 1 
 had been used to look on my instructors ; because , 
 when the lessons were ended, I did not find them 
 wiser or better than common men. 
 
 " At length my father resolved to initiate me 
 in commerce ; and, opening one of his subterra- 
 nean treasuries, counted out ten thousand pieces 
 of gold. This, young man, said he, is the stock 
 with which 1 you must negotiate. I began with less 
 than a fifth part, and you see how diligence and 
 parsimony have increased it. This is your own, to 
 waste or to improve. If you squander it by negli- 
 gence or caprice, you must wait for my death be- 
 fore you will be rich ; if in four years you double 
 your stock, we will thenceforward let subordina- 
 tion cease, and live together as friends and part- 
 ners: for he shall be always equal with me, who 
 is equally skilled in the art of growing rich. 
 
 "We laid our money upon camels, concealed 
 in bales of cheap goods, and travelled to the shore 
 of the Red Sea. When I cast my eye on the ex- 
 panse of waters, my heart bounded like that of 
 a prisoner escaped. I felt an unextinguislmble 
 curiosity kindle in my mind, and resolved to 
 snatch this opportunity of seeing the manners of 
 other nations, and of learning sciences unknown 
 in Abissinia. 
 
 " I remembered that my father had obliged me 
 to the improvement of my stock, not by a promise, 
 which! ought not to violate, but by a penalty, which 
 I was at liberty to incur ; and therefore determined 
 to gratify my predominant desire, and, by drink- 
 ing at the fountain of knowledge, to quench the 
 thirst of curiosity. 
 
 "As I was supposed to trade without connex- 
 ion with my father, it was easy for me to become 
 acquainted wkh the master of a ship, and procure 
 a passage to some other country. I had no mo- 
 tives of choice to regulate my voyage. It was 
 sufficient for me, that, wherever I wandered, I 
 should see a country which I had not seen before. 
 I therefore entered a ship bound for Surat, hav- 
 ing left a letter for my father declaring my in 
 tention."
 
 462 
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF IMLAC CONTINUED. 
 
 "WHEN 1 first entered upon the world of wa- 
 ters, and lost sight ofland, I looked round about 
 me in pleasing terror, and thinking my soul en- 
 larged by the boundless prospect, imagined that I 
 could gaze around for ever without satiety ; but, 
 in a short time, I grew weary of looking on barren 
 uniformity, where I could only see again what I 
 had already seen. I then descended into the ship, 
 and doubted for a while whether all my future 
 pleasures would not end, like this, in disgust and 
 disappointment. Yet surely, said I, the ocean 
 and the land are very different ; the only variety 
 of water is rest and motion, but the earth has 
 mountains and valleys, deserts and cities: it is 
 inhabited by men of different customs, and con- 
 trary opinions ; and I may hope to find variety in 
 life, though I should miss it in nature. 
 
 " With this thought I quieted my mind ; and 
 amused myself during the voyage, sometimes by 
 learning from the sailors the art of navigation, 
 which I have never practised, and sometimes by 
 forming schemes for my conduct in different situa- 
 tions, in not one of which I have been ever placed. 
 
 "I was almost weary of my naval amusements, 
 when we safely landed at Surat I secured my 
 money, and, purchasing some commodities for 
 show, joined myself to a caravan that was passing 
 into the inland country. My companions, for some 
 reason or other, conjecturing that I was rich, and, 
 by my inquiries and admiration, finding that I was 
 ignorant, considered me as a novice whom they 
 had a right to cheat, and who was to learn, at the 
 usual expense, the art of fraud. They exposed 
 me to the theft of servants and the exaction of 
 officers, and saw me plundered upon false pre- 
 tences, without any advantage to themselves, but 
 that of rejoicing in the superiority of their own 
 knowledge." 
 
 " Stop a moment," said the prince : " is there 
 such depravity in man, as that he should injure 
 another without benefit to himself? I can easily 
 conceive that all are pleased with superiority ; 
 but your ignorance was merely accidental, which, 
 being neither your crime nor your folly, could 
 afford them no reason to applaud themselves; 
 and the knowledge which they had, and which 
 you wanted, they might as effectually have shown 
 by warning, as betraying you." 
 
 " Pride," said Imlac, " is seldom delicate ; it 
 will please itself with very mean advantages ; 
 and envy feels not its own happiness but when 
 it may be compared with the misery of others. 
 They v/ere my enemies because they grieved to 
 think me rich, and my oppressors because they 
 delighted to find me weak." 
 
 " Proceed," said the prince : " I doubt not of 
 Ihe facts which you relate, but imagine that you 
 anpute them to mistaken motives.'.' 
 
 ' : In this company," said Imlac, " I arrived at 
 Agra, the capital of Indostan, the city in which 
 Ihe Great Mosul commonly resides. I applied 
 myself to the language of the countrv, and in a 
 few months was able to converse with the learned 
 mon ; some of whom I found morose and re- 
 ssrv.-.'d : and others easy and communicative ; 
 some were unwilling to teach another what they 
 iidd with difficulty learned themselves ; and some 
 showed that the end of their studies was to gain 
 trn dignity of instructing. 
 
 "To the tutor of the young princes I recom- 
 
 mended myself BO much, that I was presented to 
 the emperor as a man of uncommon knowledge. 
 The emperor asked me many questions concern- 
 ing my country and my travels ; and though I 
 cannot now recollect any thing that he uttered 
 above the power of a common man, he dismissed 
 me astonished at his wisdom, and enamoured of 
 his goodness. 
 
 " My credit was now so high, that the mer- 
 chants with whom I had travelled applied to me 
 for recommendations to the ladies ol the court. I 
 was surprised at their confidence of solicitation, 
 and gently reproached them with their practices 
 on the road. They heard me with cold indiffer- 
 ence, and showed no tokens of shame or sorrow. 
 
 " They then urged their request with the offer 
 of a bribe ; but what I would not do for kindness 
 I would not do for money, and refused them ; 
 not because they had injured me ; but because I 
 would not enable them to injure others; for I 
 knew they would have made use of my credit to 
 cheat those who should buy their wares. 
 
 " Having resided at Agra till there was no 
 more to be learned, I travelled into Persia, where 
 I saw many remains of ancient magnificence, and 
 observed many new accommodations of life. The 
 Persians are a nation eminently social, and their 
 assemblies afforded me daily opportunities of re- 
 marking characters and manners, and of tracing 
 human nature through all its variations. 
 
 " From Persia I passed into Arabia, where I 
 saw a nation pastoral and warlike; who lived 
 without any settled habitation, whose wealth is 
 their flocks and herds, and who have carried on, 
 through ages, an hereditary war with mankind, 
 though they neither covet nor envy their posses- 
 sions." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 IMLAC'S HISTORY CONTINUED. A DISSERTATION 
 UPON POETRY. 
 
 " WHEREVER I went, I found that poetry was 
 considered as the highest learning, and regarded 
 with a veneration somewhat approaching to that 
 which man would pay to angelic nature. And 
 yet it fills me with wonder, that, in almost all 
 countries, the most ancient poets are considered 
 as the best: whether it be that every other kind 
 of knowledge is an acquisition gradually attained, 
 and poetry is a gift conferred at once ; or that the 
 first poetry of every nation surprised them as a 
 novelty, and retained the credit by consent which 
 it received by accident at first ; or whether, as the 
 province of poetry is to describe nature and pas- 
 sion, which are always the same, the first writers 
 took possession of the most striking objects for 
 description and the most probable occurrences 
 for fiction, and left nothing to those that followed 
 them but transcription of the same events, and 
 new combinations of the same images. What- 
 ever be the reason, it is commonly observed that 
 the early writers are in possession of nature, and 
 their followers of art; that the first excel in 
 strength and invention, and the latter in elegance 
 and refinement. 
 
 " I was desirous to add my name to this illus- 
 trious fraternity. I read all the poets of Persia 
 and Arabia, and was able to repeat by memory 
 the volumes that are suspended in the mosque 
 of Mecca. But I soon found that no man waa
 
 KASSELAS. 
 
 463 
 
 ever great by imitation. My desire of excellence 
 impelled me to transfer my attention to nature 
 and to life. Nature was to be my subject, and 
 men to be my auditors. I could never describe 
 what I had not seen ; I could not hope to move 
 those with delight or terror, whose interests and 
 opinions I did not understand. 
 
 " Being now resolved to be a poet, I saw every 
 thing with a new purpose ; my sphere of atten- 
 tion was suddenly magnih'ed ; no kind of know- 
 ledge was to be overlooked. I ranged mountains 
 and deserts for images and resemblances, and 
 pictured upon my mind every tree of the forest 
 and flower of the valley. I observed with equal 
 care the crags of the rock and the pinnacles of the 
 palace. Sometimes I wandered along the mazes 
 of the rivulet, and sometimes watched the changes 
 of the summer clouds. To a poet nothing can 
 be useless. Whatever is beautiful, and whatever 
 is dreadful, must be familiar to his imagination ; 
 he must be conversant with all that is awfully 
 vast or elegantly little. The clants of the gar- 
 den, the animals of the wood, the minerals of the 
 earth, and meteors of the sky, must all concur to 
 store his mind with inexhaustible variety ; for 
 every idea is useful for the enforcement or deco- 
 ration of moral or religious truth ; and he who 
 knows most will have most power of diversifying 
 his scenes, and of gratifying his reader with re- 
 mote allusions and unexpected instruction. 
 
 " All the appearances of nature I was there- 
 fore careful to study ; and every country which 
 I have surveyed has contributed something to my 
 poetical powers." 
 
 " In so wide a survey," said the prince, " you 
 must surely have left much unobserved. I have 
 lived till now within the circuit of the mountains, 
 and yet cannot walk abroad without the sight of 
 something which I had never beheld before, or 
 never heeded." 
 
 " The business of a poet," said Imlac, " is to 
 examine, not the individual, but the species ; to 
 remark general properties and large appearances ; 
 he does not number the streaks of the tulip, or 
 describe the different shades of the verdure of 
 the forest. He is to exhibit in his portraits of na- 
 ture such prominent and striking features as recall 
 the original to every mind ; and must neglect the 
 minuter discriminations, which one may have re- 
 marked, and another have neglected, for those 
 characteristics which are alike obvious to vigi- 
 lance and carelessness. 
 
 " But the knowledge of nature is only half the 
 task of a poet ; he must be acquainted likewise 
 with all the modes of life. His character requires 
 that he estimate the happiness and misery of 
 every condition ; observe the power of all the 
 passions in all their combinations ; and trace the 
 changes of the human rnind, as they are modi- 
 fied by various institutions and accidental influ- 
 ences of climate or custom, from the sprightliness 
 of infancy to the despondence of decrepitude. He 
 must divest himself of the prejudices of his age 
 and country ; he must consider right and wrong 
 in their abstracted and invariable state ; he must 
 disregard present laws and opinions, and rise to 
 general and transcendental truths, which will 
 always be the same : he must, therefore, content 
 himself with the slow progress of his name, 
 contemn the piaise of his own time, and com- 
 mit his claims to the justice of posterity. He 
 must write as the interpreter of nature, and the 
 legislator of mankind, and consider himself as 
 
 presiding over the thoughts and manners of fu- 
 ture generations, as a being superior to time and 
 place. 
 
 " His labour is not yet at an end ; he must 
 know many languages and many sciences ; and, 
 that his style may be worthy of his thoughts, 
 must, by incessant practice, familiarize to him- 
 self every delicacy of speech and grace of har 
 mony." 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 IMLAC'S NARRATIVE CONTINUED. A HINT ON 
 PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 IMLAC now felt the enthusiastic fit, and was 
 proceeding to aggrandize his own profession, 
 when the prince cried out, " Enough ! thou hast 
 convinced me that no human being can ever be 
 a poet Proceed with thy narration." 
 
 " To be a poet," said Imlac, " is indeed very 
 difficult." " So difficult," returned the prince 
 " that I will at present hear no more of his la- 
 bours. Tell me whither you went when you had 
 seen Persia." 
 
 " From Persia," said the poet, " I travelled 
 through Syria, and for three years resided in 
 Palestine, where I conversed with great numbers 
 of the northern and western nations of Europe ; 
 the nations which are now in possession of all 
 power and all knowledge; whose aimies arc ir- 
 resistible, and whose fleets command the remotes" 
 parts of the globe. When I compared these me?, 
 with the natives of our own kingdom and those 
 that surround us, they appeared almost another 
 order of beings. In their countries it is difficult 
 to wish for any thing that may not be obtained : 
 a thousand arts, of which we never heard, are 
 continually labouring for their convenience and 
 pleasure ; and whatever their own climate has 
 denied them is supplied by their commerce." 
 
 " By what means," said the prince, " are the 
 Europeans thus powerful? or why, since they 
 can so easily visit Asia and Africa for trade or con- 
 quest, cannot the Asiatics and Africans invade 
 tneir coasts, plant colonies in their ports, and 
 give laws to their natural princes ? The same 
 wind that carries them back would bring us thi- 
 ther." 
 
 " They are more powerful, sir, than we," an- 
 swered Imlac, " because they are wiser ; know- 
 ledge will always predominate over ignorance a.^i 
 man governs the other animals. But why tneir 
 knowledge is more than ours, I know not what 
 reason can be given but the unsearchable will of 
 the Supreme Being." 
 
 " When," said the prince with a sigh, " shall 
 I be able to visit Palestine, and mingle with this 
 mighty confluence of nations? Till that happy 
 moment shall arrive, let me fill up the time with 
 such representations as thou canst give me. I 
 am not ignorant of the motive that assembles such 
 numbers in that place, and cannot but consider 
 it as the centre of wisdom and piety, to which the 
 best and wisest men of every land must be con- 
 tinually resorting." 
 
 " There are some nations," said Imlac, that 
 send few visitants to Palestine ; for many nume- 
 rous and learned sects in Europe concur to cen- 
 sure pilgrimage as superstitious, or deride ;t as 
 ridiculous." 
 
 " You know," said the prince, " how httle my
 
 464 
 
 BASSEI,AS. 
 
 life has made me acquainted with diversity of 
 opinions : it will he too long to hear the argu- 
 ments on 'both sides ; you, that have con'sidered 
 them, tell me the result." 
 
 " Pilgrimage," said Imlac, " like many other 
 acts of piety, may be reasonable or superstitious, 
 according to the principles upon which it is per- 
 formed. Long journeys in search of truth are 
 not commanded. Truth, such as is necessary to 
 the regulation of life, is always found where it 
 is honestly sought. Change of place is no natu- 
 ral cause of the increase of piety, for it inevitably 
 produces dissipation of mind. Yet, since men 
 
 fo every day to view the fields where great actions 
 ave been performed, and return with stronger 
 impressions of the event, curiosity of the same 
 kind may naturally dispose us to view that coun- 
 try whence our religion had its beginning ; and I 
 believe no man surveys those awful scenes with- 
 out some confirmation of holy resolutions. That 
 the Supreme Being may be more easily propitiated 
 in one place than in another, is the dream of idle 
 superstition ; but that some places may operate 
 upon our own minds in an uncommon manner, is 
 an opinion which hourly experience will justify. 
 He who supposes that his vices may be more 
 successfully combated in Palestine will, perhaps, 
 find himself mistaken ; yet he may go thither 
 without folly : he who thinks they will be more 
 freely pardoned, dishonours at once his reason 
 and religion." 
 
 " These," said the prince, " are European dis- 
 tinctions. I will consider them another time. 
 What have you found to be the effect of know- 
 ledge ? Are those nations happier than we ?" 
 
 " There is so much infelicity," said the poet, 
 "in the world, that scarce any man has leisure 
 from his own distresses to estimate the compara- 
 tive happiness of others. Knowledge is certainly 
 one of the means of pleasure, as is confessed 
 by the natural desire which every mind feels of 
 increasing its ideas. Ignorance is mere priva- 
 tion, by which nothing can be produced ; it is a 
 vacuity in which the soul sits motionless and tor- 
 pid for want of attraction ; and, without knowing 
 why, we always rejoice when we learn, and grieve 
 when we forget. I am therefore inclined to con- 
 clude, that if nothing counteracts the natural con- 
 sequence of learning, we grow more happy as 
 our minds take a wider range. 
 
 "In enumerating the particular comforts of life, 
 we shall find many advantages on the side of the 
 Europeans. They cure wounds and diseases with 
 which we languish and perish. We suffer incle- 
 mencies of weather which they can obviate. They 
 have engines for the despatch of many laborious 
 works, which we must perform by manual indus- 
 try. There is such communication between dis- 
 tant places, that one friend can hardly be said to 
 be abssnt from another. Their policy removes 
 all public inconveniencies : they have roads cut 
 through the mountains ; and bridges laid upon 
 their rivers. And, if we descend to the privacies 
 of life, their habitations are more commodious, 
 and their possessions are more secure." 
 
 "They are surely happy," said the prince, 
 "who have all these conveniences, of which 1 
 envy none so much as the facility with which 
 separated friends interchange their thoughts." 
 
 " The Europeans," answered Imlac, " are less 
 unhappy than we, but they are not happy. Hu- 
 man life is every where a state in which much is 
 to be endured, and little to be enjoyed." 
 
 CHAPTER Xtl. 
 
 THE STOHY OF JMLAC CONTINUED. 
 
 " I AM not willing," said the prince, " to suppose 
 that happiness is so parsimoniously distributed to 
 mortals ; nor can I believe but that, if I had the 
 choice of life, I should be able to fill every day 
 with pleasure. I would injure no man, and should 
 provoke no resentments : I would relieve every 
 distress, and should enjoy the benedictions of 
 gratitude. I would choose my friends among the 
 wise, and my wife among the virtuous ; and 
 therefore should be in no danger from treachery 
 or unkindness. My children should, by my care, 
 be learned and pious, and would repay to my age 
 what their childhood had received. What would 
 dare to molest him who might call on every side 
 to thousands enriched by his bounty, or assisted 
 by his power? And why should not life glide 
 away in the soft reciprocation of protection and 
 reverence ? All this may be done without the help 
 of European refinements, which appear by their 
 effects to be rather specious than useful. Let us 
 leave them, and pursue our journey." 
 
 "From Palestine," said Imlac, "I passed through 
 many regions of Asia ; in the more civilized king- 
 doms as a trader, and among the barbarians of 
 the mountains as a pilgrim. At last I began to 
 long for my native country, that I might repose 
 after my travels and fatigues, in the places where 
 I had spent my earliest years, and gladden my old 
 companions with the recital of my adventures. 
 Often did I figure to myself those with whom I 
 had sported away the gay hours of dawning life, 
 sitting round me in its evening, wondering at my 
 tales, and listening to my counsels. 
 
 " When this thought had taken possession of 
 my mind, I considered every moment as wasted 
 which did not bring me nearer to Abissinia. I 
 hastened into Egypt, and, notwithstanding my 
 impatience, was detained ten months in the con- 
 templation of its ancient magnificence, and in in- 
 quiries after the remains of its ancient learning. I 
 found in Cairo a mixture of all nations ; some 
 brought thither by the love of knowledge, some 
 by the hope of gain, many by the desire of living 
 after their own manner without observation, and 
 of lying hid in the obscurity of multitudes : for in a 
 city populous as Cairo, it is possible to obtain at 
 the same time the gratifications of society, and the 
 secrecy of solitude. 
 
 "From Cairo I travelled to Suez, and em- 
 barked on the Red Sea, passing along the coast, 
 till I arrived at the port from which I had departed 
 twenty years before. Here I joined myself to a 
 caravan, and re-entered my native country. 
 
 "1 now expected the caresses of my kinsmen, 
 and the congratulations of my friends ; and was 
 not without hope that my father, whatever value 
 he had set upon riches, would own with gladness 
 and pride a son who was able to add to the feli- 
 city and honour of the nation. But I was soon 
 convinced that my thoughts were vain. My father 
 had been dead fourteen years, having divided his 
 wealth among my brothers, who were removed 
 to some other provinces. Of my companions, 
 the greater part were in the grave ; of the rest, 
 some could with difficulty remember me, and 
 some considered me as one corrupted by foreign 
 manners. 
 
 "A man used to vicissitudes is not easily de- 
 jected. I forgot, after a time, my disappointment, 
 and endeavoured to recommend myself to the
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 465 
 
 nobles of the kingdom : they admitted me to 
 their tables, heard my story, and dismissed me. 
 I opened a school, and was prohibited to teach. I 
 then resolved to sit down in the quiet of domestic 
 life, and addressed a lady that was fond of my 
 conversation, but rejected my suit because my 
 father was a merchant 
 
 " Wearied at last with solicitation and repulses, 
 I resolved to hide myself for ever from the world, 
 and depend no longer on the opinion or caprice 
 of others. I waited Tor the time when the gate of 
 the happy valley should open, that I might bid 
 farewell to hope and fear : the day came ; my 
 performance was distinguished with favour, and 
 I resigned myself with joy to perpetual confine- 
 ment." 
 
 "Hast thou here found happiness at last?" 
 said Rasselas. "Tell me without reserve; art 
 thou content with thy condition? or dost thou 
 wish to be again wandering and inquiring? All 
 the inhabitants of this valley celebrate their lot, 
 and, at the annual visit of the emperor, invite 
 others to partake of their felicity." 
 
 "Great prince," said Imlac, "I shall speak 
 the truth : I know not one of all your attendants 
 who docs not lament the hour when he entered 
 this retreat. I asa less unhappy than the rest, be- 
 cause I have a mind replete with images, which I 
 can vary and combine at pleasure. 1 can amuse 
 my solitude by the renovation of the knowledge 
 which begins to fade from my memory, and by 
 recollection of the accidents of my past life. Yet 
 all this ends in the sorrowful consideration that 
 my acquirements are now useless, and that none 
 of my pleasures can be again enjoyed. The rest, 
 whose minds have no impression but of the pre-. 
 sent moment, are either corroded by malignant 
 passions, or sit stupid in the gloom of perpetual 
 vacancy." 
 
 " What passions can infest those," said the 
 prince, " who have no rivals ? We are in a 
 place where impotence precludes malice, and 
 where all envy is repressed by community of en- 
 joyments." 
 
 " There may be community," said Imlac, " of 
 material possessions, but there can never be com- 
 munity of love or of esteem. It must happen that 
 one will please more than another : he that knows 
 himself despised will always be envious : and still 
 more envious and malevolent if he is condemned 
 to live in the presence of those who despise him. 
 The invitations by which they allure others to a 
 state which they feel to be wretched, proceed from 
 the natural malignity of hopeless misery. They 
 are weary of themselves, and of each other, and 
 expect to find relief in new companions. They 
 envy the liberty which their folly has forfeited, 
 and would gladly see all mankind imprisoned like 
 themselves. 
 
 "From this crime, however, I am wholly free. 
 'No man can say that he is wretched by my per- 
 suasion. I look with pity on the crowds who are 
 annually soliciting admission to captivity, and 
 wish that it were lawful for me to warn them of 
 their danger." 
 
 "My dear Imlac," said the prince, "1 will open 
 to thee my whole heart. I have long meditated an 
 escape from the happy valley. I have examined 
 the mountain on every side, but find myself insu- 
 perably barred : teach me the way to break my 
 prison ; thou shalt be the companion of my flight, 
 the guide of my rambles, the partner of my for- 
 tune, and my sole director in the choice of life,.'''' 
 
 v 1 
 
 " Sir," answered the poet, " your escape will be 
 difficult, and, perhaps, you may soon repent your 
 curiosity. The world, which you figure to your- 
 self smooth and quiet as the lake in the valley, 
 you will find a sea foaming with tempests, and 
 boiling with whirlpools ; you will be sometimes 
 overwhelmed by the waves of violence, and some- 
 times dashed against the rocks of treachery. 
 Amidst wrongs and frauds, competitions and anx- 
 ieties, you will wish a thousand times for these 
 seats of quiet, and willingly quit hope to be free 
 from fear." 
 
 " Do not seek to deter me from my purpose," 
 said the prince : " I am impatient to see what 
 thou hast seen ; and since thou art thyself weary 
 of the valley, it is evident, that thy former state 
 was better than this. Whatever be the conse- 
 quence of my experiment, I am resolved to judge 
 with mine own eyes of the various conditions of 
 men, and then to make deliberately my choice of 
 life:' 
 
 " I am afraid," said Imlac, " you are hindered 
 by stronger restraints than my persuasions ; yet, 
 if your determination is fixed, I do not counsel 
 you to despair. Few things are impossible to 
 diligence and skill." 
 
 CHAPTER XI11. 
 
 HASSELAS DISCOVERS THE MEANS OF ESCAPE. 
 
 THE prince now dismissed his favourite to rest, 
 but the narrative of wonders and novelties filled 
 his mind with perturbation. He revolved all that 
 he had heard, and prepared innumerable ques- 
 tions for the morning. 
 
 Much of his uneasiness was now removed. 
 He had a friend to whom he could impart hia 
 thoughts, and whose experience could assist him 
 in his designs. His heart was no longer con- 
 demned to swell with silent vexation. He thought 
 that even the happy valley might be endured with 
 such a companion, and that, if they could range 
 the world together, he should have nothing fur- 
 ther to desire. 
 
 In a few days the water was discharged, and 
 the ground dried. The prince and Imlac then 
 walked out together, to converse without the 
 notice of the rest. The prince, whose thoughts 
 were always on the wing, as he passed by the 
 gate, said, with a countenance of sorrow, "Why 
 art thou so strong, and why is man so weak ?" 
 
 " Man is not weak," answered his companion; 
 " knowledge is more than equivalent to force. 
 The master of mechanics laughs at strength. I 
 can burst the gate, but cannot do it secretly. 
 Some other expedient must be tried." 
 
 As they were walking on the side of the moun- 
 tain, they observed that the conies, which the 
 rain had driven from their burrows, had taken 
 shelter among the bushes, and formed holes be- 
 hind them, tending upwards in an oblique line. 
 
 " It has been the opinion of antiquity," said 
 Imlac, " that human reason borrowed many arts 
 from the instinct of animals ; let us, therefore, 
 not think ourselves degraded by learning from 
 the cony. We may escape by piercing the moun- 
 tain in the same direction. We will begin where 
 the summit hangs over the middle part, and 
 labour upward till we shall issue out beyond the 
 piominence." 
 
 The eyes of the prince, when he heard uii
 
 466 
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 proposal, sparkled with joy. The execution was 
 easy, and the success certain. 
 
 No time was now lost. They hastened early 
 in the morning to choose a place proper for their 
 mine. They clambered with great fatigue among 
 crags and brambles, and returned without having 
 discovered any part that favoured their design. 
 The second and the third day were spent in the 
 same manner, and with the same frustration. 
 But on the fourth they found a small cavern, con- 
 cealed by a thicket, where they resolved to make 
 their experiment 
 
 Imlac procured instruments proper to hew 
 stone and remove earth, and they fell to their 
 work on the next day with more eagerness than 
 vigour. They were presently exhausted by their 
 efforts, and sat down to pant upon the grass. 
 The prince, for a moment, appeared to be dis- 
 couraged. " Sir," said his companion, " prac- 
 tice will enable us to continue our labour for a 
 longer time : mark, however, how far we have 
 advanced, and ye will find that our toil will some 
 lime have an end. Great works are performed 
 not by strength, but perseverance : yonder palace 
 was raised by single stones, yet you see its 
 height and spaciousness. He that shall walk 
 with vigour three hours a day, will pass in seven 
 years a space equal to the circumference of the 
 globe." 
 
 They returned to their work day after day, 
 and, in a short time, found a fissure in the rock, 
 which enabled them to pass far with very little 
 obstruction. This Rasselas considered as a 
 good omen. " Do not disturb your mind, " said 
 Imlac, " with other hopes or fears than reason 
 may suggest: if you are pleased with prognos- 
 tics of good, you will be terrified likewise with 
 tokens of evil, and your whole life will be a prey 
 to superstition. Whatever facilitates our work 
 is more than an omen ; it is a cause of success. 
 This is one of those pleasing surprises which 
 often happen to active resolution. Many things 
 difficult to design prove easy to performance." 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 RASSELAS AND IMLAC RECEIVE AN UNEXPECTED 
 VISIT. 
 
 THEY had now wrought their way to the mid- 
 dle, and solaced their toil with the approach of 
 liberty, when the prince, coming down to refresh 
 himself with air, found his sister Nekayah stand- 
 ing at the mouth of the cavity. He started, and 
 stood confused, afraid to tell his design, and yet 
 hopeless to conceal it. A few moments deter- 
 mined him to repose on her fidelity, and secure 
 her secrecy by a declaration without reserve. 
 
 " Do not imagine," said the princess, " that I 
 came hither as a spy : I had long observed from 
 my window that you and Imlac directed your 
 walk every day towards the same point, but I did 
 not suppose you had any better reason for the 
 preference than a cooler shade, or more fragrant 
 bank; nor followed you with any other design 
 than to partake of your conversation. Since, 
 then, not suspicion but fondness has detected 
 you, let me not lose the advantage of my disco- 
 very. I am equally weary of confinement with 
 yourself, and not less desirous of knowing what 
 is done or suffered in the world. Permit me to 
 fly with you from this tasteless tranquillity, which 
 
 will yet grow more loathsome when you have 
 left me. You may deny me to accompany you, 
 but cannot hinder me from following." 
 
 The prince, who loved Nekayah above his 
 other sisters, had no inclination to refuse her re- 
 quest, and grieved that he had lost an opportu- 
 nity of showing his confidence by a voluntary 
 communication. It was therefore agreed, that 
 she should leave the valley with them ; and that, 
 in the mean time, she should watch lest any 
 other straggler should, by chance or curiosity, 
 follow them to the mountain. 
 
 At length their labour was at an end: they 
 saw light beyond the prominence, and, issuing to 
 the top of the mountain, beheld the Nile, yet a 
 narrow current, wandering beneath them. 
 
 The prince looked round with rapture, antici- 
 pated all the pleasures of travel, and in thought 
 was already transported beyond his father's do- 
 minions. Imlac, though very joyful at his es- 
 cape, had less expectation of pleasure in the 
 world, which he had before tried, and of which 
 he had been weary. 
 
 Rasselas was so much delighted with a wider 
 horizon, that he could not soon be persuaded to 
 return into the valley. He informed his sister 
 that the way was now open, and t!;;it nothing 
 now remained but to prepare for their departure. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE PRINCE AND PRINCESS LEAVE THE VALLEY, 
 AND SEE MANY WONDERS. 
 
 THE prince and princess had jewels sufficient 
 to make them rich whenever they came into a 
 place of commerce, which, by Imlac's direction, 
 they hid in their clothes, and, on the night of 
 the next full moon, all left the valley. The 
 princess was followed only by a single favourite, 
 who did not know whither she was going. 
 
 They clambered through the cavity, and be- 
 gan to go down on the other side. The princess 
 and her maid turned their eyes toward every 
 part, and seeing nothing to bound their pros- 
 pect, considered themselves in danger of b(j;;i< 
 lost in a dreary vacuity. They stopped an3 
 trembled. " I am almost afraid," said the pri.-i- 
 cess, " to begin a journey, of which I cannct 
 perceive an end, and to venture into this im- 
 mense plain, where I may be approached on 
 every side by men whom I never saw." The 
 prince felt nearly the same emotions, though he 
 thought it more manly to conceal them. 
 
 Imlac smiled at their terrors, and encouraged 
 them to proceed; but the princess continued irre- 
 solute till she had been imperceptibly drawn for- 
 ward too far to return. 
 
 In the morning they found some shepherds in 
 the field, who set some milk and fruit before- 
 before them. The princess wondered that she 
 did not see a palace ready for her reception, and 
 a table spread with delicacies; but being faint 
 and hungry, she drank the milk and ate the 
 fruits, and thought them of a higher flavour than 
 the products of the valley. 
 
 They travelled forward by easy journeys, being 
 all unaccustomed to toil and difficulty, and know- 
 ing that, though they might be missed, they 
 could not be pursued. In a few days they came 
 into a more populous region, where Imlac was 
 diverted with the admiration which his compa-
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 457 
 
 mons expressed at the diversity of manners, sta- 
 tions, and employments. Their dress was such 
 as might not bring upon them the suspicion of 
 having any thing to conceal; yet the prince, 
 wherever he came, expected to be obeyed, and 
 the princess was frighted, because those who came 
 into her presence did not prostrate themselves. 
 Imlac was forced to observe them with great vigi- 
 lance, lest they should betray their rank by their 
 unusual behaviour, and detained them several 
 weeks in the first village, to accustom them to the 
 sight of common mortals. 
 
 By degrees the royal wanderers were taught to 
 understand that they had for a time laid aside 
 their dignity, and were to expect only such regard 
 as liberality and courtesy could procure. And 
 Imlac, having, by many admonitions, prepared 
 them to endure the tumults of a port, and the 
 ruggedness of the commercial race, brought them 
 down to the seacoast. 
 
 The prince and his sister, to whom every thing 
 was new, were gratified equally at all places, and 
 therefore remained for some months at the port 
 without any inclination to pass further. Imlac 
 was content with their stay, because he did not 
 think it safe to expose them, unpractised in the 
 world, to the hazards of a foreign country. 
 
 At last he began to fear lest they should be 
 discovered, and proposed to fix a day for their 
 departure. They had no pretensions to judge 
 for themselves, a'nd referred the whole scheme to 
 his direction. He therefore took passage in a 
 ship to Suez, and when the time came, with great 
 difficulty prevailed on the princess to enter the 
 vessel. They had a quick and prosperous voyage ; 
 and from Suez travelled by land to Cairo. 
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 
 THEY ENTER CAIRO, AND FIND EVERT MAN 
 HAPPY. 
 
 As they approached the city, which filled the 
 strangers with astonishment, " This," said Imlac 
 to the prince, " is the place where travellers and 
 merchants assemble from all corners of the earth. 
 You will here find men of every character, and 
 every occupation. Commerce is here honourable : 
 I will act as a merchant, and you shall live as 
 strangers, who have no other end of travel than 
 curiosity; it will soon be observed that we are 
 rich : our reputation will procure us access to all 
 whom we shall desire to know ; you shall see all 
 the conditions of humanity, and enable your- 
 selves at leisure to make your choice of life. 
 
 They now entered the town, stunned by the 
 noise, and offended by the crowds. Instruction 
 had not yet so prevailed over habit, but that 
 they wondered to see themselves pass undis- 
 tinguished along the streets, and met by the 
 lowest of the people without reverence or notice. 
 The princess could not at first bear the thought 
 of being levelled with the vulgar, and for some 
 time continued in her chamber, where she was 
 served by her favourite, Pekuah, as in the pa- 
 lace of the valley. 
 
 Imlac, who understood traffic, sold part of the 
 jewels the next day, and hired a house, which he 
 adorned with such magnificence, that he was 
 immediately considered as a merchant of great 
 wealth. His politeness attracted many acquaint- 
 ance, and his generosity made him courted by 
 
 many dependants. His companions, not being 
 able to mix in the conversation, could make no 
 discovery of their ignorance or surprise, and were 
 gradually initiated in the world, as they gained 
 knowledge of the language. 
 
 The prince had, by frequent lectures, been 
 taught the use and nature of money ; but the 
 ladies could not, for a long time, comprehend 
 what the merchants did with small pieces of gold 
 and silver, or why things of so little use should be 
 received as an equivalent to the necessaries of 
 life. 
 
 They studied the language two years, while 
 Imlac was preparing to set before them the vari- 
 ous ranks and conditions of mankind. He grew 
 acquainted with all who had any thing uncommon 
 in their fortune or conduct. He frequented the 
 voluptuous and the frugal, the idle and the busy, 
 the merchants and the men of learning. 
 
 The prince now being able to converse with 
 fluency, and having learned the caution necessary 
 to be observed in his intercourse with strangers, 
 began to accompany Imlac to places of resort, 
 and to enter into all assemblies, that he might 
 make his choice of life. 
 
 For some time he thought choice needless, be- 
 cause all appeared to him really happy. Wher- 
 ever he went he met gayety and kindness, and 
 heard the song of joy or the laugh of carelessness. 
 He began to believe that the world overflowed 
 with universal plenty, and that nothing was with- 
 held either from want or merit ; that every hand 
 showered liberality, and every heart melted with 
 benevolence : " and who then," says he, " will be 
 suffered to be wretched ?" 
 
 Imlac permitted the pleasing delusion, and was 
 unwilling to crush the hope of inexperience : till 
 one day, having sat a while silent, "1 know not," 
 said the prince, " what can be the reason that I 
 am more unhappy than any of our friends, I see 
 them perpetually and unalterably cheerful, but 
 feel my own mind restless and uneasy. I am 
 unsatisfied with those pleasures which I seem 
 most to court. I live in the crowds of jollity, not 
 so much to enjoy company as to shun myself, 
 and am only loud and merry to conceal my sad- 
 ness." 
 
 " Every man," said Imlac, " may, by examin- 
 ing his own mind, guess what passes in the 
 minds of others : when you feel that your own 
 gayety is counterfeit, it may justly lead you to 
 suspect that of your companions not to be sin- 
 cere. Envy is commonly reciprocal. We are long 
 before we are convinced that happiness, is never 
 to be found, and each believes it possessed by 
 others, to keep alive the hope of obtaining it for 
 himself. In the assembly, where you passed the 
 last night, there appeared such sprightliness of 
 air, and volatility of fancy, as might have suited 
 beings of a higher order, formed to inhabit serener 
 regions, inaccessible to care or sorrow : yet, be- 
 lieve me, prince, there was not one who did not 
 dread the moment when solitude should deliver 
 him to the tyranny of reflection." 
 
 " This," said the prince, " may be true of others 
 since it is true of me ; yet, whatever be the general 
 infelicity of man, one condition is more happy 
 than another, and wisdom surely directs us to 
 take the least evil in the choice of life." 
 
 " The causes of good and evil," answered Im- 
 lac "are so various and uncertain, so often en- 
 tangled with each other, so diversified by various 
 relations, and so much subject to accidents which
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 cannot be foreseen, that he who would fix his 
 condition upon incontestable reasons of prefer- 
 ence, must live and die inquiring and deliberating." 
 
 " But surely," said Rasselas, " the wise men, 
 to whom we fisten with reverence and wonder, 
 chose that mode of life for themselves which they 
 thought most likely to make them happy." 
 
 " Very few," said the poet, " live by choice. 
 Every man is placed in the present condition by 
 causes which acted without his foresight, and with 
 which he did not always willingly co-operate ; 
 and therefore you will rarely meet one who does 
 not think the lot of his neighbour better than his 
 own." 
 
 " I am pleased to think," said the prince, " that 
 my birth has given me at least one advantage 
 over others, by enabling me to determine for my- 
 self. I have here the world before me; I will re- 
 view it at leisure : surely happiness is somewhere 
 to be found." 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE PRINCE ASSOCIATES WITH YOUNG MEN OF 
 SPIRIT AND GATETT. 
 
 RASSELAS rose next day, and resolved to begin 
 his experiments upon life. " Youth," cried he, " is 
 the time of gladness : I will join myself to the 
 young men, whose only business is to gratify 
 their desires, and whose time is all spent in a suc- 
 cession of enjoyments." 
 
 To such societies he was readily admitted ; 
 but a few days brought him back weary and dis- 
 gusted. Their mirth was without images, their 
 laughter without motive ; their pleasures were 
 gross and sensual, in which the mind had no part ; 
 their conduct was at once wild and mean ; they 
 laughed at order and at law, but the frown of 
 power dejected, and the eye of wisdom abashed 
 them. 
 
 The prince soon concluded that he should 
 never be happy in a course of life of which he was 
 ashamed. He thought it unsuitable to a reason- 
 ble being to act without a plan, and to be sad or 
 cheerful only by chance. " Happiness," said he, 
 " must be something solid and permanent, with- 
 out fear and without uncertainty." 
 
 warning a 
 
 monstrance. "My friends," said he, " I have 
 seriously considered our manners and our pros- 
 pects, and find that we have mistaken our own 
 interest; the first years of man must make provi- 
 sion for the last. He that never thinks, never can 
 be wise. Perpetual levity must end in ignorance ; 
 and intemperance, though it may fire the spirits 
 for an hour, will make life short or miserable. 
 Let us consider that youth is of no long duration, 
 and that, in mature age, when the enchantments 
 of fancy shall cease, and phantoms of delight 
 dance no more about us, we shall have no com- 
 forts but the esteem of wise men, and the means 
 of doing good. Let us, therefore, stop, while to 
 stop is in our power : let us live as men who are 
 some time to grow old, and to whom it will be 
 the most dreadful of all evils to count their past 
 years by follies, and to be reminded of their for- 
 mer luxuriance of health only by the maladies 
 which riot has produced." 
 
 They stared awhile in silence one upon ano- 
 
 ther, and, at last, drove him away by a general 
 chorus of continued laughter. 
 
 The consciousness that liis sentiments were 
 just, and his intention kind, was scarcely suffi- 
 cient to support him against the horror of derision. 
 But he recovered his tranquillity, and pursued his 
 search. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE PRINCE FINDS A WISE AND HAPPY MAN. 
 
 As he was one day walking in the street, he 
 saw a spacious building, which all were, by the 
 open doors, invited to enter ; he followed the 
 stream of people, and found it a hall or school of 
 declamation, in which professors read lectures to 
 their auditory. He fixed his eye upon a sage 
 raised above the rest, who discoursed with great 
 energy on the government of the passions. His 
 look was venerable, his action graceful, his pro- 
 nunciation clear, and his diction elegant. He 
 showed, with great strength of sentiment, and 
 variety of illustration, that human nature is do- 
 graded and debased, when the lower farultirs 
 predominate over the higher ; that when fancy, 
 the parent of passion, usurps the dominion of the 
 mind, nothing ensues but the natural effect of 
 unlawful government, perturbation, and confu- 
 sion ; that she betrays the fortresses of the intel- 
 lect to rebels, and excites her children to sedition 
 against their lawful sovereign. He compared rea- 
 son to the sun, of which the light is constant, urii 
 form, and lasting; and fancy to a meteor, of 
 bright, but transitory lustre, irregular in its mo- 
 tion and delusive in its direction. 
 
 He then communicated the various precepts 
 given from time to time for the conquest of pas- 
 sion, and displayed the happiness of those who 
 had obtained the important victory, after which 
 man is no longer the slave of fear, nor the fool of 
 hope ; is no more emaciated by envy, inflamed 
 by anger, emasculated by tenderness, or depressed 
 by grief ; but walks on calmly through the tumults 
 or privacies of life, as the sun pursues alike his 
 course through the calm or the stormy sky. 
 
 He enumerated many examples of heroes im- 
 moveable by pain or pleasure, who looked witli 
 indifference on those modes or accidents to which 
 the vulgar give the names of cood and evil. He 
 exhorted his hearers to lay aside their prejudices, 
 and arm themselves against the shafts of malice 
 or misfortune, by invulnerable patience : con- 
 cluding, that this state only was happiness, and 
 that this happiness was in every one's power." 
 
 Rasselas listened to him with the veneration, 
 due to the instructions of a superior being, and, 
 waiting for him at the door, humbly implored the 
 liberty of visiting so great a master of true wisdom. 
 The lecturer hesitated a moment, when Rasselas 
 put a purse of gold into liis hand, which he re- 
 ceived with a mixture of joy and wonder. 
 
 " I have found," said the prince, at his return 
 to Imlac, "a man who can teach all that is ne- 
 cessary to be known ; who, from the unshaken 
 throne of rational fortitude, looks down on the 
 scenes of life changing beneath him. He speaks, 
 and attention watches his lips. He reasons, and 
 conviction closes his periods. This man shall be 
 my future guide : I will learn his doctrines, and 
 imitate his life." 
 "Be not too hasty," said Imlac, " to trust, or to
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 469 
 
 admire, the teachers of morality : they discourse 
 like angels, but they live like men." 
 
 Rasselas, who could not conceive how any man 
 could reason so forcibly without feeling the co- 
 gency of his own arguments, paid his visit in a 
 few days, and was denied admission. He had 
 now learned the power of money, and made his 
 way by a piece of gold to the inner apartment, 
 where he found the philosopher in a room half 
 darkened, with his eyes misty, and his face pale. 
 " Sir," said he, " you are come at a time when 
 all human friendship is useless: what I suffer 
 cannot be remedied, what I have lost cannot be 
 supplied. My daughter, my only daughter, from 
 whose tenderness I expected all the comforts of 
 my age, died last night of a fever. My views, my 
 purposes, my hopes are at an end : I am now a 
 lonely being, disunited from society." 
 
 " Sir," said the prince, " mortality is an event 
 by which a wise man can never be surprised : we 
 know that death is always near, and it should 
 therefore always be expected." " Young man," 
 answered the philosopher, " you speak like one 
 that has never felt the pangs of separation." 
 " Have you then forgot the precepts," said Rasse- 
 las, " which you so powerfully enforced ? Has 
 wisdom no strength to arm the heart against cala- 
 mity? Consider that external things are natu- 
 rally variable, but truth and reason are always 
 the same." " What comfort," said the mourner, 
 " can truth and reason afford me? of what effect 
 are they now, but to te'.l me, that my daughter 
 will not be restored ?" 
 
 The prince, whose humanity would not suffer 
 him to insult misery with reproof, went away, 
 convinced of the emptiness 01 rhetorical sounds, 
 and the inefficacy of polished periods and studied 
 sentences. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A GLIMPSE OF PASTORAL LIFE. 
 
 HE was still eager upon the same inquiry ; and 
 having heard of a hermit, that lived near the 
 lowest cataract of the Nile, and filled the whole 
 country with the fame of his sanctity, resolved 
 to visit his retreat, and inquire whether that fe- 
 lirity, which public life could not afford, was to 
 be found in solitude ; and whether a man, whose 
 age and virtue made him venerable, could teach 
 any peculiar art of shunning evils, or enduring 
 them. 
 
 Imlac and the princess agreed to accompany 
 him ; and, after the necessary preparations, they 
 began their journey. Their way lay through 
 the fields, where shepherds tended th'eir flocks, 
 and the lambs were playing upon the pasture. 
 " This," said the poet, " is the life which has 
 been often celebrated for its innocence and quiet ; 
 let us pass the heat of the day among the shep- 
 herds' tents, and know whether all our searches 
 are not to terminate in pastoral simplicity." 
 
 The proposal pleased them, and, they induced 
 the shepherds, by small presents and familiar 
 questions, to tell the opinion of their own state : 
 they were so rude and ignorant, so little able to 
 compare the good with the evil of the occupa- 
 tion, and so indistinct in their narratives and 
 descriptions, that very little could be learned 
 from them. But it was evident that their hearts 
 were cankered with discontent; that they con- 
 
 sidered themselves as condemned to labour for 
 the luxury of the rich, and looked up with stupid 
 malevolence towards those that were placed 
 above them. 
 
 The princess pronounced with vehemence, that 
 she would never suffer these envious savages to 
 be her companions, and that she should not soon 
 be desirous of seeing any more specimens of rus- 
 tic happiness ; but could not believe that all the 
 accounts of primeval pleasures were fabulous, 
 and was in doubt whether life had any thing 
 that could be justly preferred to the placid gra- 
 tifications of fields and woods. She hoped that 
 the time would come, when, with a few virtu- 
 ous and elegant companions, she should gather 
 flowers planted by her own hands, fondle the 
 lambs of her own ewe, and listen without care, 
 among brooks and breezes, to one of her maidens 
 reading in the shade. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE DANGER OF PROSPERITY. 
 
 ON the next day they continued their journey, 
 till the heat compelled them to look round for 
 shelter. At a small distance they saw a thick 
 wood, which they no sooner entered than they 
 perceived that they were approaching the habi- 
 tations of men. The shrubs were diligently cut 
 away to open walks where the shades were 
 darkest; the boughs of opposite trees were arti- 
 ficially interwoven, seats of flowery turf were 
 raised in vacant spaces, and a rivulet, that wan- 
 toned along the side of a winding path, had it? 
 banks sometimes opened into small basins, and 
 its streams sometimes obstructed by little mound? 
 of stone heaped together to increase its mur 
 murs. 
 
 They passed slowly through the wood, de 
 lighted with such unexpected accommodations, 
 and entertained each other with conjecturing 
 what, or who, he could be, that in those rude 
 and unfrequented regions had leisure and art foi 
 such harmless luxury. 
 
 As they advanced they heard the sound ol 
 music, and saw youths and virgins dancing in 
 the grove; and, going still farther, beheld a 
 stately palace built upon a hill, surrounded with 
 woods. The laws of eastern hospitality allowed 
 them to enter, and the master welcomed them 
 like a man liberal and wealthy. 
 
 He was skilful enough in appearances soon to 
 discern that they were no common guests, and 
 spread his table with magnificence. The elo- 
 quence of Imlac caught his attention, and the 
 lofty courtesy of the princess excited his respect 
 When they offered to depart, he entreated their 
 stay, and was the next day more unwilling to 
 dismiss them than before. They were easily 
 persuaded to stop, and civility grew up in time 
 to freedom and confidence. 
 
 The prince now saw all the domestics cheer- 
 ful, and all the face of nature smiling round the 
 place, and could not forbear to hope that he 
 should find here what he was seeking: but 
 when he was congratulating the master upon 
 his possessions, he answered with a sigh, "My 
 condition has indeed the appearance of happi- 
 ness, but appearances are delusive. My pros- 
 perity puts my life in danger; the Bassa of 
 Egypt is my enemy, incensed only by my
 
 470 
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 wealth and popularity. I have been liitherto 
 protected against him by the princess of the 
 country: but, as the favour of the great is un- 
 certain, I know not how soon my defenders 
 may be persuaded to share the plunder with the 
 Bassa. I have sent my treasures into a distant 
 country, and, upon the first alarm, am prepared 
 to follow them. Then will my enemies not in 
 my mansion, and enjoy the gardens which I 
 have planted." 
 
 They all joined in lamenting his danger, and 
 deprecating his exile ; and the princess was so 
 much disturbed with the tumult of grief and 
 indignation, that she retired to her apartment. 
 They continued with their kind inviter a few 
 days longer, and then went to find the hermit 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF SOLITUDE. THE HERMIT'S 
 HISTORY. 
 
 THEY came, on the third day, by the direction 
 ol the peasants, to the hermit's cell : it was a 
 cavern m the side of a mountain, overshadowed 
 with palm trees; at such a distance from the 
 cataract, that nothing more was heard than a 
 gentle uniform murmur, such 'as composed the 
 mind to pensive meditation, especially when it 
 was assisted by the wind wliistling among the 
 branches. The first rude essay of nature had 
 been so much improved by human labour, that the 
 cave contained several apartments appropriated 
 to different uses, and often afforded lodging to 
 travellers, whom darkness or tempests happened 
 to overtake. 
 
 The hermit sat on a bench at the door, to en- 
 joy the coolness of the evening. On one side 
 lay a book with pens and paper, on the other 
 mechanical instruments of various kinds. As 
 they approached him unregarded, the princess 
 observed that he had not the countenance of a 
 man that had found or could teach the way to 
 happiness. 
 
 They saluted him with great respect, which 
 he repaid like a man not unaccustomed to the 
 forms of courts. " My children," said he, " if 
 you have lost your way, you shall be willingly 
 supplied with such conveniences for the night 
 as this cavern will afford. I have all that na- 
 ture requires, and you will not expect delicacies 
 in a hermit's cell." 
 
 They thanked him ; and, entering, were 
 pleased with the neatness and regularity of the 
 place. The hermit set flesh and wine before 
 them, though he fed only upon fruits and wa- 
 ter. His discourse was cheerful without levity, 
 and pious without enthusiasm. He soon gained 
 the esteem of his guests, and the princess re- 
 pented her hasty censure. 
 
 At last Imlac began thus: "I do not now 
 wonder that your reputation is so far extended : 
 we have heard at Cairo of your wisdom, and 
 came hither to implore your direction for this 
 young man and maiden in the choice of life." 
 
 " To him 'that lives well," answered the her- 
 mit, " every form of life is good ; nor can I 
 <-ive any other rule for choice, than to remove 
 from all apparent evil." 
 
 " He will most certainly remove from evil," 
 !aid the prince, " who shall devote himself to 
 I hat solitude which you have recommended by 
 )our example." 
 
 " I have indeed lived fifteen years in soli- 
 tude," said the hermit, " but have no desire that 
 my example should gain any imitators. In my 
 youth I professed arms, and was raised by de- 
 grees to the highest military rank. I have tra- 
 versed wide countries at the head of my troops, 
 and seen many battles and sieges. At last, 
 being disgusted by the preferments of a younger 
 officer, and feeling that my vigour was begin- 
 ning to decay, I resolved to close my life in 
 peace, having found the world full of snares, dis- 
 cord, and misery. I had once escaped from the 
 pursuit of the enemy by the shelter of this ca- 
 vern, and therefore chose it for my final residence. 
 I employed artificers to form it into chambers, 
 and stored it with all that I was likely to want. 
 
 " For some time after my retreat, I rejoiced 
 like a tempest-beaten sailor at his entrance into 
 the harbour, being delighted with the sudden 
 change of the noise and hurry of war to stillness 
 and repose. When the pleasure of novelty 
 went away, I employed my hours in examining 
 the plants which grow in the valley, and the 
 minerals which I collected from the rocks. But 
 that inquiry is now grown tasteless and irksome. 
 I have been for some time unsettled and dis- 
 tracted: my mind is disturbed with a thousand 
 perplexities of doubt, and vanities of imagina- 
 tion, which hourly prevail upon me, because I 
 have no opportunities of relaxation or diversion. 
 I am sometimes ashamed to think that I could 
 not secure myself from vice but by retiring from 
 the exercise of virtue, and begin to suspect that 
 I was rather impelled by resentment than led by 
 devotion into solitude. My fancy riots in scenes 
 of folly ; and I lament that I have lost so much, 
 and have gained so little. In solitude, if I es- 
 cape the example of bad men, I want likewise 
 the counsel and conversation of the good. I 
 have been long comparing the evils with the ad- 
 vantages of society, and resolve to return into 
 the world to-morrow. The life of a solitary man 
 will be certainly miserable, but not certainly de- 
 vout." 
 
 They heard his resolution with surprise, but, 
 after a short pause, offered to conduct him to 
 Cairo. He dug up a considerable treasure which 
 he had hid among the rocks, and accompanied 
 them to the city, on which, as he approached it, 
 he gazed with rapture. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF A LIFE LED ACCORDING TO 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 RASSELAS went often to an assembly of learned 
 men, who met at stated times to unbend their 
 minds and compare their opinions. Their man- 
 ners were somewhat coarse, but their conversa- 
 tion was instructive, and their disputations acute, 
 though sometimes too violent, and often con- 
 tinued till neither controvertist remembered upon 
 what question they began. Some faults were 
 almost general among them: every one was 
 desirous to dictate to the rest, and every one was 
 pleased to hear the genius or knowledge of ano- 
 ther depreciated. 
 
 In this assembly Rasselas was relating his in 
 tcrview with the hermit, and the wonder with 
 which he heard him censure a course of life which 
 he had so deliberately chosen, and so laudably
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 471 
 
 followed. The sentiments of the hearers were 
 various. Some were of opinion, that the folly of 
 his choice had been justly punished by condem- 
 nation to perpetual perseverance. One of the 
 youngest among them, with great vehemence, 
 pronounced him a hypocrite. Some talked of the 
 right of society to the labour of individuals, and 
 considered retirement as a desertion of duty. 
 Others readily allowed, that there was a time 
 w r hen the claims of the public were satisfied, and 
 when a man might properly sequester himself to 
 review his life, and purify his heart 
 
 One, who appeared more affected with the nar- 
 rative than the rest, thought it likely, that the 
 hermit would, in a few years, go back to his re- 
 treat, and, perhaps, if shame did not restrain, or 
 death intercept him, return once more from his 
 retreat into the world. " For the hope of happi- 
 ness," said he, " is so strongly impressed, that 
 the longest experience is not able to efface it. Of 
 the present state, whatever it be, we feel, and are 
 forced to confess, the misery ; yet, when the same 
 state is again at a distance, imagination paints it 
 as desirable. But the time will surely come, when 
 desire will no longer be our torment, and no man 
 shall be wretched but by his own fault." 
 
 " This," said a philosopher, who had heard him 
 with tokens of great impatience, " is the present 
 condition of a wise man. The time is already 
 come, when none are wretched but by their own 
 fault. Nothing is more idle than to inquire after 
 happiness, which nature has kindly placed within 
 our reach. The way to be happy, is to live ac- 
 cording to nature, in obedience to that universal 
 and unalterable law with which every heart is ori- 
 ghally impressed ; which is not written on it by 
 precept, but engraven by destiny ; not instilled by 
 education, but infused at our nativity. He that 
 lives according to nature will suffer nothing from 
 the delusions of hope or importunities of desire ; 
 he will receive and reject with equability of tem- 
 per; and act or suffer as the reason of tilings shall 
 alternately prescribe. Other men may amuse 
 themselves with subtle definitions, or intricate ra- 
 tiocination. Let them learn to be wise by easier 
 means : let them observe the hind of the forest, 
 and the linnet of the grove : let them consider the 
 life of animals, whose motions are regulated by 
 instinct ; they obey their guide, and are happy. 
 Let us, therefore, at length, cease to dispute, and 
 learn to live : throw away the incumbrance of 
 precepts, which they who utter them with so 
 much pride and pomp, do not understand, 'and 
 carry with us this, simple and intelligible maxim, 
 That deviation from nature, is deviation from 
 happiness." 
 
 When he had spoken, he looked round him 
 with a placid air, and enjoyed the consciousness 
 )f his own beneficence. " Sir," said the prince, 
 with great modesty, " as I, like all the rest of 
 mankind, am desirous of felicity, my closest at- 
 tention has been fixed upon your discourse : I 
 doubt not the truth of a position which a man so 
 learned has so confidently advanced. Let me 
 only know what it is to live according to nature." 
 
 " When I find young men so humble and so 
 docile," said the philosopher, " I can deny them 
 no information which my studies have enabled 
 me to afford. To live according to nature, is to 
 act always witn due regard to the fitness arising 
 from the relations and qualities of causes and ef- 
 fects ; to concur with the great and unchangeable 
 scheme of universal felicity; to co-operate with 
 
 the general disposition and tendency of the pre- 
 sent system of things." 
 
 The prince soon found that this was one of th 
 sages whom he should understand less as ht> 
 heard him longer. He therefore bowed and was 
 silent ; and the philosopher, supposing him satis- 
 fied, and the rest vanquished, rose up and de- 
 parted with the ah- of a man that had co-operated 
 with the present system. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE PRINCE AND HIS SISTER DIVIDE BETWEEN 
 THEM THE WORK OF OBSERVATION. 
 
 RASSELAS returned home full of reflections, 
 doubting how to direct his future steps. Of the 
 way to happiness he found the learned and sim- 
 ple equally ignorant ; but, as he was yet young, 
 he flattered himself that he had time remaining 
 for more experiments, and farther inquiries. He 
 communicated to Imlac his observations and his 
 doubts, but was answered by him with new 
 doubts, and remarks that gave him no comfort. 
 He therefore discoursed more frequently and 
 freely with his sister, who had yet the same hope 
 with himself, and always assisted him to give 
 some reason why, though he had been hitherto 
 frustrated, he might succeed at last 
 
 "We have hitherto," said she, "known but 
 little of the world ; we have never yet been either 
 great or mean. In our own country, though we 
 had royalty, we had no power ; and in tliis we 
 have not yet seen the private recesses of domestic 
 peace. Imlac favours not our search, lest we 
 should in time find him mistaken. We will di- 
 vide the task between us : you shall try what is to 
 be found in the splendour of courts, and I will 
 range the shades of humbler life. Perhaps com- 
 mand and authority may be the supreme bless- 
 ings, as they afford the most opportunities of 
 doing good : or, perhaps, what this world can give 
 may be found in the modest habitations of middle 
 fortune : too low for great designs, and too high 
 for penury and distress. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE PRINCE EXAMINES THE HAPPINESS Ol HIGH 
 STATIONS 
 
 RASSELAS applauded the design, and appeared 
 next day with a splendid retinue at the court of 
 the Bassa. He was soon distinguished for his 
 magnificence, and admitted, as a prince whose 
 curiosity had brought him from distant countries, 
 to an intimacy with the great officers, and fre- 
 quent conversation with the Bassa himself. 
 
 He was at first inclined to believe, that the man 
 must be pleased with his own condition, whom aL 
 approached with reverence, and heard with obe- 
 dience, and who had the power to extend his 
 edicts to a whole kingdom. " There can be no 
 pleasure," said he, "equal to that of feeling at 
 once the joy of thousands all made happy by wise 
 administration. Yet, since, by the law of subor 
 dination, this sublime delight can be in one na 
 tion but the lot of one, it is surely reasonable to 
 think that there is some satisfaction more popular 
 and accessible, and that millions can hardly be 
 subjected to the will of a single man. unlv to nil
 
 472 
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 his particular breast with incommunicable con- 
 tent" 
 
 These thoughts were often in his mind, and he 
 found no solution of the difficulty. But as pre- 
 sents and civilities gained him more familiarity, he 
 found that almost every man who stood high in 
 employment hated all the rest, and was hated by 
 them, and that their lives were a continual suc- 
 cession of plots and detections, stratagems and 
 escapes, faction and treachery. Many of those 
 who surrounded the Bassa were sent only to 
 watch and report his conduct : every tongue was 
 muttering censure, and every eye was searching 
 for a fault 
 
 At last the letters of revocation arrived, the 
 Bassa was carried in chains to Constantinople, 
 and his name was mentioned no more. 
 
 " What are we now to think of the preroga- 
 tives of power ?" said Rasselas to his sister : ' 
 it without any efficacy to good ? or, is the subor- 
 dinate degree only dangerous, and the supreme 
 safe and glorious? Is the Sultan the only nappy 
 man in his dominions? or is the Sultan himself 
 subject to the torments of suspicion, and the dread 
 of enemies ?" 
 
 In a short time the second Bassa was deposed. 
 The Sultan that had advanced him was murdered 
 by the Janizaries, and his successor had other 
 views and different favourites. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE PRINCESS PURSUES HER INQUIRY WITH 
 MORE DILIGENCE THAN SUCCESS. 
 
 THE princess, in the mean time, insinuated her- 
 self into many families : for there are few doors 
 through which liberality, joined with good hu- 
 mour, cannot find its way. The daughters of 
 many houses were airy and cheerful ; but Neka- 
 yah had been too long accustomed to the conver- 
 sation of Imlac and her brother, to be much 
 pleased with childish levity and prattle which had 
 no meaning. She found their thoughts narrow, 
 their wishes low, and their merriment often artifi- 
 cial. Their pleasures, poor as they were, could 
 not be preserved pure, but were imbittered by 
 petty competitions and worthless emulation. They 
 were always jealous of the beauty of each other; 
 of a quality to which solicitude can add nothing, 
 and from which detraction can take nothing away. 
 Many were in love with triflers like themselves, 
 and many fancied that they were in love when in 
 truth they were only idle. Their affection was 
 not fixed on sense or virtue, and therefore seldom 
 ended but in vexation. Their grief, however, like 
 their joy, was transient; everything floated in 
 their mind unconnected with the past or future, 
 so that one desire easily gave way to another, as 
 a second stone cast into the water effaces and 
 confounds the circles of the first. 
 
 With these girls she played as with inoffensive 
 animals, and found them proud of her counte- 
 nance, and weary of her company. 
 
 But her purpose was to examine more deeply, 
 and her affability easily persuaded the hearts 
 that were swelling with sorrow to discharge their 
 secrets in her ear; and those whom hope flat- 
 tered, or prosperity delighted, often courted her 
 to partake their pleasures. 
 
 The princess and her brother commonly met 
 in the evening in a private summer-house on the 
 
 banks of the Nile, and related to each other the 
 occurrences of the day. As they were sitting 
 together, the princess cast her eyes upon the river 
 that flowed before her. " Answer," said she, 
 " great father of waters, thou that rollest thy 
 floods through eighty nations, to the invocations 
 of the daughter of thy native king : tell me if 
 thou waterest, through all thy course, a single 
 habitation from which thou dost not hear the 
 murmurs of complaint?" 
 
 " You are then," said Rasselas, " not more 
 successful in private houses than I have been in 
 courts." " I have, since the last partition of 
 our provinces," said the princess, " enabled my- 
 self to enter familiarly into many families, where 
 there was the fairest show of prosperity and 
 peace, and know not one house that is not haunt- 
 ed by some fury that destroys their quiet 
 
 " I did not seek ease among the poor, because 
 I concluded that there it could not be found. 
 But I saw many poor whom I had supposed to 
 live in affluence. Poverty has, in large cities, 
 very different appearances ; it is often concealed 
 in splendour, and often in extravagance. It is 
 the care of a very great part of mankind to con- 
 ceal their indigence from the rest : they support 
 themselves by temporary expedients, and every 
 day is lost in contriving for the morrow. 
 
 " This, however, was an evil, which, though 
 frequent, I saw with less pain, because I could 
 relieve it. Yet some have refused my bounties ; 
 more offended with my quickness to detect their 
 wants, than pleased with my readiness to suc- 
 cour them: and others, whose exigences com- 
 pelled them to admit my kindness, have never 
 been able to forgive their benefactress. Many, 
 however, have been sincerely grateful without 
 the ostentation of gratitude, or the hope of other 
 favours." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE PRINCESS CONTINUES HER REMARKS tJPu.N 
 PRIVATE LIFE. 
 
 NEKAYAH, perceiving her brother's attention 
 fixed, proceeded in her narrative. 
 
 " In families, where there is or is not povertv, 
 there is commonly discord: if a kingdom be, as 
 Imlac tells us, a great family, a family likewise 
 is a little kingdom, torn with factions and ex- 
 posed to revolutions. An unpractised observer 
 expects the love of parents and children to be 
 constant and equal: but this kindness seldom 
 continues beyond the years of infancy : in a 
 short time the children become rivals to their 
 parents. Benefits are allayed by reproaches, 
 and gratitude debased by envv. 
 
 " Parents and children seldom act in concert ; 
 each child endeavours to appropriate the esteem 
 or fondness of the parents; and the parent?, 
 with yet less temptation, betray each other to 
 their children ; thus some place their confidence 
 in the father, and some in the mother, and by 
 degrees the house is filled with artifices and 
 feuds. 
 
 " The opinions of children and parents, of the 
 young and the old, are naturally opposite, by 
 the contrary effects of hope and despondence, of 
 expectation and experience, without crime or 
 folly on either side. The colours of life in youth 
 and age appear different, as the face of nature in
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 473 
 
 spring and winter. And how can children credi 
 the assertions of parents, which their own eyes 
 show them to be false ? 
 
 " Few parents act in such a manner as much 
 to enforce their maxims by the credit of their 
 lives. The old man trusts wholly to slow con- 
 trivance and gradual progression ; the youth ex- 
 pects to force his way by genius, vigour, am 
 precipitance. The old man pays regard to riches 
 and the youth reverences virtue. The old man 
 deifies prudence : the youth commits himself to 
 magnanimity and chance. The young man. who 
 intends no ill, believes that none is intended, ant 
 therefore acts with openness and candour: bui 
 his father, having suffered the injuries of fraud 
 is impelled to suspect, and too often allured to 
 practise it. Age looks with anger on the teme- 
 rity of youth, and youth with contempt on the 
 scrupulosity of age." Thus parents and children 
 for the greatest part, live on, to love less anc 
 less : and, if those whom nature has thus closelj 
 united are the torments of each other, where 
 shall we look for tenderness and consolation ?" 
 
 " Surely," said the prince, " you must have 
 been unfortunate in vour choice of acquaintance : 
 I am unwilling to believe that the most tender of 
 all relations is thus impeded in its effects by 
 natural necessity." 
 
 " Domestic discord," answered she, " is not 
 inevitably and fatally necessary; but yet it is 
 not easily avoided. We seldom see that a whole 
 family is virtuous : the good and the evil cannot 
 well agree ; and the evil can yet less agree with 
 one another: even the virtuous fall sometimes to 
 variance, when their virtues are of different kinds, 
 and tending to extremes. In general, those 
 parents have most reverence who most deserve 
 it ; for he that lives well cannot be despised. 
 
 " Many other evils infest private life. Some 
 are the slaves of servants whom they have 
 trusted with their affairs. Some are kept in con- 
 tinual anxiety by the caprice of rich relations, 
 whom they cannot please, and dare not offend. 
 Some husbands are imperious, and some wives 
 perverse ; and. as it is always more easy to do 
 evil than good, though the wisdom or virtue of 
 one can very rarely make many happy, the folly 
 or vice of one may often make many miserable." 
 " If such be the general effect of marriage," 
 said the prince, " I shall for the future think it 
 dangerous to connect my interest with that of 
 another, lest I should be unhappy by my part- 
 ner's fault." 
 
 " I have met," said the princess, " with many 
 who live single for that reason ; but I never found 
 that their prudence ought to raise envy. They 
 dream away their time without friendship, with- 
 out fondness, and are driven to rid themselves of 
 the day, for which they hav no use, by childish 
 amusements or vicious delights. They act as 
 beings under the constant sense of some known 
 inferiority, that fills their minds with rancour, 
 and their tongues with censure. They are peev- 
 ish at home, and malevolent abroad ; and, as the 
 outlaws of human nature, make it their business 
 and their pleasure to disturb that society which 
 debars them from its privileges. To live with- 
 out feeling or exciting sympathy, to be fortunate 
 without adding to the felicity of "others, or afflicted 
 without tasting the balm of pity, i? a state more 
 gloomy than solitude : it is not retreat, but ex- 
 clusion from mankind. Marriage has many 
 pains, but celibacy has no pleasures." 
 3 K 
 
 "What then is to be done?" said Rasselas; 
 " the more we inquire the less we can resolve. 
 Surely he is most likely to please himself that 
 has no other inclination to regard." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIL 
 
 DISQUISITION UPON GREATNESS. 
 
 THE conversation had a short pause. Th 
 prince, having considered his sister's observations, 
 told her, that she had surveyed life with prejudice, 
 and supposed misery where she did not find 
 it " Your narrative," sa}-s he, " throws yet a 
 darker gloom upon the prospects of futurity : the 
 predictions of Imlac were but faint sketches of 
 the evils painted by Nekayah. I have been lately 
 convinced that quiet is not the daughter of gran- 
 deur, or of power : that her presence is not to be 
 bought by wealth, or enforced by conquest. It 
 is evident, that as any man acts in a wider coin- 
 pass, he must be more exposed to opposition 
 from enmity, or miscarriage from chance : who- 
 ever has many to please or to govern must use 
 the ministry of many agents, some of whom will 
 be wicked, and some ignorant ; by some he will 
 be misled, and by others betrayed. If he grati- 
 fies one, he will offend another; those that are 
 not favoured will think themselves injured ; and, 
 since favours can be conferred but upon few, the 
 greater number will be always discontented." 
 
 " The discontent," said the princess, " which 
 is thus unreasonable, I hope that I shall always 
 have spirit to despise, and you power to repress." 
 
 " Discontent," answered Rasselas, " will not 
 always be without reason under the most just and 
 vigilant administration of public affairs. None, 
 however attentive, can always discover that merit 
 which indigence or faction may happen to ob- 
 scure ; and none, however powerful, can always 
 reward it Vet, he that sees inferior desert ad- 
 vanced above him will naturally impute that pre- 
 ference to partiality or caprice; and, indeed, it 
 can scarcely be hoped that any man, bowevet 
 magnanimous by nature, or exalted by condition, 
 will be able to persist for ever in fixed and inex- 
 orable justice of distribution : he will sometimes 
 indulge his own affections, and sometimes those 
 of his favourites : he will permit some to please 
 tim who can never serve him : he will discover 
 n those whom he loves qualities which in reality 
 hey do not possess ; and to those from whom he 
 receives pleasure, he will in his turn endeavour to 
 *ive it. Thus will recommendations sometimes 
 jrevail which were purchased by money, or by 
 he more destructive bribery of flattery and ser- 
 vility. 
 
 " He that hath much to do will do something 
 wrong, and of that wrong must suffer the con- 
 sequences ; and if it were possible that he should 
 always act rightly, yet when such numbers are 
 to judge of his conduct, the bad will censure and 
 obstruct him by malevolence, and the good, some- 
 imes, by mistake. 
 
 "The" highest stations cannot therefore hope 
 to be the abodes of happiness, which I would 
 willingly believe to have fled from thrones and 
 palaces^ to seats of humble privacy and placid 
 obscurity. For what can binder the satisfaction, 
 or intercept the expectations, of him whose abfli- 
 ies are adequate to his employments, who sees 
 with his own eyes the whole cucwit of his inflw-
 
 474 
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 ence, who chooses by his own knowledge all 
 whom he trusts, and whom none are tempted to 
 deceive by hope or fear ? Surely he has nothing 
 to do but to love and to be loved, to be virtuous 
 and to be happy." 
 
 " Whether perfect happiness would be pro- 
 cured by perfect goodness," said Nekayah, " this 
 world will never afford an opportunity of deciding. 
 But this, at least, may be maintained, that we do 
 not always find visible happiness in proportion to 
 visible virtue. All natural, and almost all political 
 evils, are incident alike to the bad and good: 
 they are confounded in the misery of a famine, 
 and not much distinguished in the fury of a fac- 
 tion ; they sink together in a tempest, and are 
 driven together from their country by invaders. 
 All that virtue can afford is quietness of con- 
 science, and a steady prospect of a happier state : 
 this may enable us to endure calamity with pa- 
 tience ; but remember that patience must suppose 
 pain." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 RASSELAS AND NEKAYAH CONTINUE THEIR 
 CONVERSATION. 
 
 " DEAR princess," said Rasselas, "you fall into 
 the common errors of exaggeratory declamation, 
 by producing in a familiar disquisition, examples 
 of national calamities, and scenes of extensive 
 misery, which are found in books rather than in 
 the world, and which, as they are horrid, are or- 
 dained to be rare. Let us not imagine evils which 
 we do not feel, nor injure life by misrepresenta- 
 tions. I cannot bear that querulous eloquence 
 which threatens every city with a siege like that 
 of Jerusalem, that makes famine attend on every 
 flight of locusts, and suspends pestilence on the 
 whig of every blast that issues from the south. 
 
 " On necessary and inevitable evils which over- 
 whelm kingdoms at once, all disputation is vain : 
 when they happen, they must be endured. But it 
 is evident, that these bursts of universal distress 
 are more dreaded than felt ; thousands and ten 
 thousands flourish in youth, and wither in age, 
 without the knowledge of any other than domes- 
 tic evils, and share the same pleasures and vexa- 
 tions, whether their Rings are mild or cruel, 
 whether the armies of their country pursue their 
 enemies, or retreat before them. While courts are 
 disturbed with intestine competitions, and ambas- 
 sadors are negotiating in foreign countries, the 
 smith still plies his anvil, and Ihe husbandman 
 drives his plough forward; the necessaries of life 
 are required and obtained, and the successive 
 business of the seasons continues to make its 
 wonted revolutions. 
 
 " Let us cease to consider what, perhaps, may 
 never happen, and what, when it shall happen, 
 will laugn at human speculation. We will not 
 endeavour to modify the motions of the elements, 
 or to fix the destiny of kingdoms. It is our busi- 
 ness to consider what beings like us may perform ; 
 each labouring for his own happiness, by pro- 
 moting within his circle, however narrow, the 
 happiness of others. 
 
 " Marriage is evidently the dictate of nature ; 
 men and women were made to be the companions 
 of each other ; and, therefore, I cannot be per- 
 suaded but that marriage is one of the means oi 
 happiness." 
 
 "I know not," said the princess, "whether 
 marriage be more than one of the innumerable 
 modes of human misery. When I see and reckon 
 the various forms of connubial infelicity, the unex- 
 pected causes of lasting discord, the diversities of 
 temper, the oppositions of opinion, the rude colli- 
 sions of contrary desire where both are urged by 
 violent impulses, the obstinate contest of disagree- 
 ing virtues where both are supported by con- 
 sciousness of good intention, I am sometimes dis- 
 posed to think, with the severer casuists of most 
 nations, that marriage is rather permitted than 
 approved, and that none, but by the instigation of 
 a passion too much indulged, entangle themselves 
 with indissoluble compacts." 
 
 "You seem to forget," replied Rasselas, "that 
 you have, even now, represented celibacy as less 
 happy than marriage. Both conditions may be 
 bad, but they cannot both be worst. Thus it hap- 
 pens when wrong opinions arc entertained, lhat 
 they mutually destroy each other, and leave the 
 mind open to truth." 
 
 " I did not expect," answered the princess, 
 " to hear that imputed to falsehood, which is the 
 consequence only of frailty. To the mind, as to 
 the eye, it is dillicult to compare with exactness 
 objects vast in their extent, and various in their 
 parts. Where we see or conceive the whole at 
 once, we readily note the discriminations, and de- 
 cide the preference : but of two systems, of which 
 neither can be surveyed by any human being in 
 its full compass and magnitude, and multiplicity of 
 complication, where is the wonder, that, judging 
 of the whole by parts, I am alternately affected by 
 one and the other, as either presses on my me- 
 mory or fancy? We differ from ourselves just 
 as we differ from each other, when we see 
 only part of the question, as in the multifarious 
 relations of politics and morality ; but when we 
 perceive the whole at once, as in numerical com- 
 putations, all agree in one judgment, and none 
 ever varies in his opinion." 
 
 "Let us not add," said the prince, "to the 
 other evils of life the bitterness of controversy, 
 nor endeavour to vie with each other in subtleties 
 of argument We are employed in a search of 
 which both are equally to enjoy the success, or 
 suffer by the miscarriage. It is therefore fit that 
 we assist each other. You surely conclude too 
 hastily from the infelicity of marriage against its 
 institution ; will not the misery of life prove 
 equally that life cannot be the gift of heaven ? 
 The world must be peopled by marriage, or peo- 
 pled without it." 
 
 " How the world is to be peopled," returned 
 Nekayah, "is not my care, and needs not be 
 yours. I see no danger that the present genera- 
 tion should omit to leave successors behind them : 
 we are not now inquiring for the world, but for 
 ourselves." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE DEBATE ON MARRIAGE CONTINUED. 
 
 " THE good of the whole," said Rasselas, " is 
 the same with the good of all its parts. If mar- 
 riage be best for mankind, it must be evidently 
 best for individuals ; or a permanent and neces- 
 sary duty must be the cause of evil, and some 
 must be inevitably sacrificed to the convenience 
 of others. In the estimate which you have made
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 475 
 
 of the two states, it appears that the incommodt 
 ties of a single life are, in a great measure, neces- 
 sary and certain, but those of the conjugal state 
 accidental and avoidable. I cannot forbear to 
 flatter myself that prudence and benevolence wil 
 make marriage happy. The general folly of man- 
 kind is the cause of general complaint. Whal 
 can be expected but disappointment and repent- 
 ance from a choice made in the immaturity ol 
 youth, in the ardour of desire, without judgment, 
 without foresight, without inquiry after conformity 
 of opinions, similarity of manners, rectitude ol 
 judgment, or purity of sentiment ? 
 
 " Such is the common process of marriage. A 
 youth and maiden meeting by chance, or brought 
 together by artifice, exchange glances, reciprocate 
 civilities, go home and dream of one another. 
 Having little to divert attention, or diversify 
 thought, they find themselves uneasy when they 
 are apart, and therefore conclude that they shall 
 be happy together. They marry, and discover 
 what nothing but voluntary blindness before had 
 concealed ; they wear out life in altercations, and 
 charge nature with cruelty. 
 
 " From those early marriages proceeds like- 
 wise the rivalry of parents and children : the son 
 is eager to enjoy the world before the father is 
 willing to forsake it, and there is hardly room at 
 once for two generations. The daughter begins 
 to bloom before the mother can be content to 
 fade, and neither can forbear to wish for the ab- 
 sence of the other. 
 
 "Surely, all these evils may be avoided by that 
 deliberation and delay which prudence prescribes 
 to irrevocable choice. In the variety and jollity of 
 youthful pleasures, life may be well enough sup- 
 ported without the help of a partner. Longer time 
 will increase experience, and wider views will allow 
 better opportunities of inquiry and selection : one 
 advantage at least will be certain ; the parents 
 will be visibly older than their children." 
 
 " What reason cannot collect," said Nekayah, 
 " and what experiment has not yet taught, can be 
 known only from the report of others. I have been 
 told that late marriages are not eminently happy. 
 This is a question too important to be neglected ; 
 and I have often proposed it to those, whose ac- 
 curacy of remark and comprehensiveness of know- 
 ledge made their suffrages worthy of regard. 
 They have generally determined, that it is dan- 
 gerous fora man and woman to suspend their fate 
 upon each other at a time when opinions are fixed 
 and habits are established, when friendships have 
 been contracted on both sides, when life has been 
 planned into method, and the mind has long en- 
 joyed the contemplation of its own prospects. 
 
 "It is scarcely possible, that two travelling 
 through the world under the conduct of chance 
 should have been both directed to the same path, 
 and it will not often happen that either will quit 
 the track which custom has made pleasing. When 
 the desultory levity of youth has settled in to regu- 
 larity, it is soon succeeded by pride ashamed to 
 yield, or obstinacy delighting to contend. And 
 even though mutual esteem produces mutual de- 
 sire to please, time itself, as it modifies unchange- 
 ably the external mien, determines likewise the 
 direction of the passions, and gives an inflexible 
 rigidity to the manners. Long customs are not 
 easily broken; he that attempts to change the 
 course of his own life very often labours in vain, 
 and how shall we do that for others which we are 
 seldorr able to do for ourselves ?" 
 
 " But surely," interposed the prince, "you sup- 
 pose the chief motive of choice forgotten or ne- 
 glected. Whenever I shall seek a wife, it shall be 
 my first question, whether she be willing to be led 
 by reason ?" 
 
 "Thus it is," said Nekayah, "that philosophers 
 are deceived. There are a thousand familiar dis- 
 putes which reason can never decide ; questions 
 that elude investigation, and make logic ridicu- 
 lous ; cases where something must be done, and 
 where little can be said. Consider the state of 
 mankind, and inquire how few can be supposed 
 to act upon any occasions, whether small or great, 
 with all the reasons of action present to their 
 minds. Wretched would be the pair, above all 
 names of wretchedness, who should be doomed 
 to adjust by reason, every morning, all the minute 
 details of a domestic day. 
 
 " Thope who marry at an advanced age will 
 probably escape the encroachments of their chil- 
 dren ; but in the diminution of this advantage, 
 they will be likely to leave them, ignorant and 
 helpless, to a guardian's mercy : or if that should 
 not happen, they must at least go out of the 
 world before they see those whom they love best 
 either wise or great 
 
 " From their children, if they have less to fear, 
 they have less also to hope; and they lose, with- 
 out an equivalent, the joys of early love, and the 
 convenience of uniting with manners pliant, and 
 minds susceptible of new impressions, which 
 might wear away their dissimilitudes by long co- 
 habitation, as soft bodies, by continual attrition, 
 conform their surfaces to each other. 
 
 ' I believe it will be found that those who 
 marry late are best pleased with their childre^i, 
 and those who marry early with their partners." 
 
 " The union of these two affections," said Ras- 
 sclas, " would produce all that could be wished. 
 Perhaps there is a time when marriage might 
 unite them ; a time neither too early for the fa- 
 ther nor too late for the husband." 
 
 " Every hour," answered the princess, " con- 
 firms my prejudice in favour of the position so of- 
 ten uttered by the mouth of Imlac, ' That Nature 
 sets her gifts on the right hand and on the left' 
 Those conditions which flatter hope and attract de- 
 sire are so constituted, that as we approach one we 
 recede from another. There are goods so opposed 
 that we cannot seize both, but, by too much pru- 
 dence, may pass between them at too great a 
 distance to reach cither. This is often the fate of 
 ong consideration : he does nothing who endea- 
 vours to do more than is allowed to humanity. 
 Flatter not yourself with contrarieties of plea- 
 sure. Of the blessings set before'you make your 
 choice, and be content. No man can taste the 
 ruits of autumn, while he is delighting his scent, 
 with the flowers of the spring : no man can at 
 ;he same time till liis cup from the source and 
 torn the mouth of the Nile." 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 IMLAC ENTERS, AND CHANGES THE 
 CONVERSATION. 
 
 HERE Imlac entered, and interrupted them. 
 : ' Imlac," said Rasselas, " I have been taking from 
 .he princess the dismal history of private life, 
 and am almost discouraged from further sear*k." 
 
 " It seems to me," said Imlac, " that wliilf *-ty
 
 476 
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 are making the choice of life, you neglect to live. 
 You wander about a single city, which, however 
 large and diversified, can now afford few novel- 
 ties, and forget that you are in a country famous 
 among the earliest monarchies for the power and 
 wisdom of its inhabitants ; a country where the 
 sciences first dawned that illuminate the world, 
 and beyond which the arts cannot be traced of 
 civil society or domestic life. 
 
 " The old Egyptians have left behind them 
 monuments of industry and power before which 
 all European magnificence is confessed to fade 
 away. The ruins of their architecture are the 
 schools of modern builders, and from the won- 
 ders which time has spared, we may conjecture, 
 though uncertainly, what it has destroyed." 
 
 " My curiosity," said Rasselas, " does not very 
 strongly lead me to survey piles of stone, or 
 mounds of earth; my business is with man. I came 
 hither not to measure fragments of temples, or 
 trace choked aqueducts, but to look upon the 
 various scenes of the present world." 
 
 " The things that are now before us," said the 
 princess, " require attention, and deserve it What 
 have I to do with the heroes or the monuments of 
 ancient times with times which never can re- 
 turn, and heroes, whose form of life was different 
 from all that the present condition of mankind 
 requires or allows ?" 
 
 " To know any thing," returned the poet, " we 
 must know its effects; to see men, we must see 
 their works, that we may learn what reason has 
 dictated, or passion has incited, and find what are 
 the most powerful motives of action. To judge 
 rightly of the present, we must oppose it to the 
 psfet ; for all judgment is comparative, and of the 
 future nothing can be known. The truth is, that 
 no mind is much employed upon the present: re- 
 collection and anticipation fill up almost all our 
 moments. Our passions are joy and grief, love 
 and hatred, hope and fear. Of joy and grief, the 
 past is the object ; and the future, of hope and 
 fear : even love and hatred respect the past, for 
 the cause must have been before the effect. 
 
 " The present state of things is the conse- 
 quence of the former; and it is natural to inquire 
 what were the sources of the good that we en- 
 joy, or the evils that we suffer. If we act only 
 for ourselves, to neglect the study of history is 
 not prudent: if we are intrusted with the care of 
 others, it is not just. Ignorance, when it is vo- 
 luntary, is criminal : and he may properly be 
 charged with evil who refused to learn how he 
 might prevent it. 
 
 " There is no part of history so generally use- 
 ful as that which relates to the progress of the 
 human mind, the gradual improvement of reason, 
 the successive advances of science, the vicissi- 
 tudes of learning and ignorance, which are the 
 light and darkness of thinking beings, the extinc- 
 tion and resuscitation of arts, and the revolu- 
 lutions of the intellectual world. If accounts of 
 battles and invasions are peculiarly the business 
 of princes, the useful and elegant arts are not 
 to be neglected ; those who have kingdoms to 
 govern, have understandings to cultivate. 
 
 " Example is always more efficacious than pre- 
 cept. A soldier is formed in war, and a painter 
 must copy pictures. In this, contemplative life 
 has the advantage : great actions are seldom seen, 
 but the labours of art are always at hand for 
 those who desire to know what art has been 
 a We to nerform 
 
 " When the eye, or the imagination, is struck 
 with any uncommon work, the next transiticn of 
 an active mind is to the means by whijh it was 
 performed. Here begins the true use of such 
 contemplation ; we enlarge our comprehension 
 by new ideas, and perhaps recover some art lost 
 to mankind, or learn what is less perfectly known 
 in our own country. At least we compare our 
 own with former times, and either rejoice at our 
 improvements, or, what is the first motion towards 
 good, discover our defects." 
 
 " I am willing," said the prince, " to see all 
 that can deserve my search." " And I," said 
 the princess, " shall rejoice to learn something of 
 the manners of antiquity." 
 
 " The most pompous monument of Egyptian 
 greatness, and one of the most bulky works of 
 manual industry," said Imlac, " are the pyra- 
 mids: fabrics raised before the time of history, 
 and of which the earliest narratives afford us 
 only uncertain traditions. Of these the greatest 
 is still standing, very little injured by time." 
 
 " Let us visit them to-morrow," said Nekayah : 
 " I have often heard of the pyramids, and shall 
 not rest till I have seen them, within and without, 
 with my own eyes." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THEY VISIT THE PYRAMIDS. 
 
 THE resolution being thus taken, they set out 
 the next day. They laid tents upon their camels, 
 being resolved to stay among the pyramids till 
 their curiosity was fully satisfied. They travel- 
 led gently, turned aside to every thing remark- 
 able, stopped from time to time and conversed 
 with the inhabitants, and observed the various 
 appearances of towns ruined and inhabited, of 
 wild and cultivated nature. 
 
 When they came to the great pyramid, they 
 were astonished at the extent of the base, and 
 the height of the top. Imlac explained to them 
 the principles upon which the pyramidal form 
 was chosen for a fabric intended to co-extend its 
 duration with that of the world : he showed that 
 its gradual diminution gave it such stability, as 
 defeated all the common attacks of the elements, 
 and could scarcely be overthrown by earthquakes 
 themselves, the least resistible of natural violence. 
 A concussion that should shatter the pyramid 
 would threaten the dissolution of the continent. 
 
 They measured all its dimensions, and pitched 
 their tents at its foot. Next day they prepared 
 to enter its interior apartments, and having hired 
 the common guides, climbed up to the first pas- 
 sage ; when the favourite of the princess, looking 
 into the cavity, stepped back and trembled. " Pekn- 
 ah," said the princess, " of what art thou afraid ?" 
 " Of the narrow entrance," .answered the lady, 
 " and of the dreadful gloom. I dare not enter a 
 place which must surely be inhabited by unquiet 
 souls. The original possessors of these dreadful 
 vaults will start up before us, and perhaps shut 
 us in for ever." She spoke, and threw her arms 
 round the neck of her mistress. 
 
 " If all your fear be of apparitions," said the 
 prince, "I will promise you safetv: there is no 
 danger from the dead ; he that is once buried will 
 be seen no more." 
 
 " That the dead are seen no more," said I in-
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 477 
 
 lac, " I will not undertake to maintain against 
 the concurrent and unvaried testimony of all ages 
 and of all nations. There is no people, rude or 
 learned, among whom apparitions of the dead 
 are not related and believed. This opinion, which, 
 perhaps, prevails as far as human nature is dif- 
 fused, could become universal only by its truth: 
 those that never heard of one another would not 
 have agreed in a tale which nothing but experience 
 can make credible. That it is doubted by single 
 cavillers can very little weaken the general evi- 
 dence ; and some who deny it with their tongues 
 confess it by their fears. 
 
 " Yet I do not mean to add new terrors to 
 those which have already seized upon Pekuah. 
 There can be no reason why spectres should 
 haunt the pyramid more than other places, or 
 why they should have power or will to hurt inno- 
 cence and purity. Our entrance is no violation 
 of their privileges; we can take nothing from 
 them; how then can we offend them?" 
 
 " My dear Pekuah," said the princess, " I will 
 always go before you, and Imlac shall follow you. 
 Remember that you are the companion of the 
 princess of Abissinia." 
 
 " If the princess is pleased that her servant 
 should die," returned the lady, " let her command 
 some death less dreadful than inclosure in this 
 horrid cavern. You know I dare not disobey you ; 
 I must go if you command me ; but, if I once 
 enter, I never shall come back." 
 
 The princess saw that her fear was too strong 
 for expostulation or reproof, and, embracing her, 
 told her that she should stay in the tent till their 
 return. Pekuah was not yet satisfied, but en- 
 treated the princess not to pursue so dreadful a 
 purpose as that of entering the recesses of the 
 pyramids. " Though I cannot teach courage," 
 said Nekayah, " I must not learn cowardice; nor 
 leave- at last undone what I came hither only to 
 do." 
 
 CHAPTER xxxii. 
 
 THEY ENTER THE PYRAMID. 
 
 PEKUAH descended to the tents, and the rest 
 entered the pyramid; they passed through the 
 galleries, surveyed the vaults of marble, and exa- 
 mined the chest in which the body of the founder 
 is supposed to have been reposited. They then 
 sat down in one of the most spacious chambers to 
 rest awhile, before they attempted to return. 
 
 "We have now," said Imlac, "gratified our 
 minds with an exact view of the greatest work of 
 man, except the wall of China. 
 
 " Of the wall, it is very easy to assign the mo- 
 tive. It secured a wealthy and timorous nation 
 from the, incursions of barbarians, whose unskil- 
 fulness in the arts made it easier for them to sup- 
 ply their wants by rapine than by industry, and 
 who from time to time poured in upon the inha- 
 bitants of peaceful commerce, as vultures descend 
 upon domestic fowl. Their celerity and fierceness 
 made the wall necessary, and their ignorance 
 made it efficacious. 
 
 " But for the pyramids, no reason has ever been 
 given, adequate to the cost and labour of the 
 work. The narrowness of the chambers proves 
 that it could afford no retreat from enemies, and 
 Treasures might have been reposited at far less 
 expense with equal security. It seems to have 
 
 been erected only in compliance with that hunger 
 of imagination which preys incessantly upon life, 
 and must be always appeased by some employ- 
 ment. Those who have already all that they can 
 enjoy, must enlarge their desires. He that has 
 built for use till use is supplied, must begin to 
 build for vanity, and extend his plan to the utmost 
 power of human performance, that he may not be 
 soon reduced to form another wish. 
 
 "I consider this mighty structure as a monu- 
 ment of the insufficiency of human enjoyments. 
 A king, whose power is unlimited, and whose 
 treasures surmount all real and imaginary wants, 
 is compelled to solace, by the erection of a pyra- 
 mid, the satiety of dominion and tastelessness of 
 pleasures, and to amuse the tediousness of declin- 
 ing life, by seeing thousands labouring without 
 end, and one stone, for no purpose, laid upon 
 another. Whoever thou art, that, not content 
 with a moderate condition, imagines! happiness 
 in royal magnificence, and dreamest that command 
 or riches can feed the appetite of novelty with 
 perpetual gratifications, survey the pyramids, and 
 confess thy folly !" 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 THE PRINCESS MEETS WITH AN UNEXPECTED 
 MISFORTUNE. 
 
 THEY rose up, and returned through the cavity 
 at which they had entered ; and the princess pre- 
 pared for her favourite a long narrative of dark 
 labyrinths and costly rooms, and of the different 
 impressions which the varieties of the way had 
 made upon her. But when they came to their 
 train, they found every one silent and dejected : 
 the men discovered shame and fear in their coun- 
 tenances, and the women "were weeping in their 
 tents. 
 
 What had happened they did not try to con- 
 jecture, but immediately inquired. "You had 
 scarcely entered into the pyramid," said one of 
 the attendants, " when a troop of Arabs rushed 
 upon us : we were too few to resist them, and too 
 slow to escape. They were about to search the 
 tents, set us on our camels, and drive us along 
 before them, when the approach of some Turkish 
 horsemen put them to flight : but they seized the 
 lady Pekuah with her two maids, and carried them 
 away : the Turks are now pursuing them by our 
 instigation, but I fear they will not be able to 
 overtake them." 
 
 The princess was overpowered with surprise 
 and grief. Rasselas, in the first heat of his re- 
 sentment, ordered his servants to follow him, and 
 Erepared to pursue the robbers with his sabre in 
 is hand. " Sir," said Imlac, "what can you hope 
 from violence or valour ? the Arabs are mounted 
 on horses trained to battle and retreat ; we have 
 only beasts of burden. By leaving our present 
 station we may lose the princess, but cannot hope 
 to regain Pekuah." 
 
 In a short time the Turks returned, having not 
 been able to reach the enemy. The princess burst 
 out into new lamentations, and Rasselas could 
 scarcely forbear to reproach them with coward ice ; 
 but Imlac was of opinion, that the escape of the 
 Arabs was no addition to their misfortune, for, 
 perhaps, they would have killed their captives ra 
 thor than have resigned them.
 
 478 
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 CHAPTER. XXXIV. 
 
 THEI RETURN TO CAIRO WITHOUT PEKUAH. 
 
 THERE was nothing to be hoped from longer 
 stay. They returned to Cairo, repenting of their 
 curiosity, censuring th,e negligence of the govern- 
 ment, lamenting their own rashness, which had 
 neglected to procure a guard, imagining many ex- 
 pedients by which the loss of Pekuah might have 
 been prevented, and resolving to do something 
 for her recovery, though none could find any thing 
 proper to be done. 
 
 NeKayah retired to her chamber, where her 
 women attempted to comfort her, by telling her 
 that all had their troubles, and that lady Pekuah 
 had enjoyed much happiness in the world for a 
 long time, and might reasonably expect a change 
 of fortune. They hoped that some good would 
 befall her wheresoever she was, and that their 
 mistress would find another friend, who might 
 supply her place. 
 
 The princess made them no answer ; and they 
 continued the form of condolence, not much 
 grieved in their hearts that the favourite was lost. 
 
 Next day the prince presented to the Bassa a 
 memorial of the wrong which he had suffered, and 
 a petition for redress. The Bassa threatened to 
 punish the robbers, but did not attempt to catch 
 them ; nor indeed could any account or descrip- 
 tion bt given by which he might direct the pursuit. 
 
 It soon appeared that nothing would be done 
 by authority. Governors being accustomed to 
 hear of more crimes than they can punish, and 
 more wrongs than they can redress, set them- 
 selves at ease by indiscriminate negligence, and 
 presently forget the request when they lose sight 
 of the petitioner. 
 
 Imlac then endeavoured to gain some intelli- 
 gence by private agents. He found many who 
 pretended to an exact knowledge of all the haunts 
 of the Arabs, and to regular correspondence with 
 their chiefs, and who readily undertook the reco- 
 very of Pekuah. Of these, some were furnished 
 with money for their journey, and came back no 
 more ; some were liberally paid for accounts 
 which a few days discovered to be false. But the 
 princess would not suffer any means, however 
 improbable, to be left untried. While she was 
 doing something, she kept her hope alive. As one 
 expedient failed, another was suggested ; when 
 one messenger returned unsuccessful, another 
 was despatched to a different quarter. 
 
 Two months had now passed, and of Pekuah 
 nothing had been heard ; the hopes which they 
 had endeavoured to raise in each other grew more 
 languid ; and the princess, when she saw nothing 
 more to be tried, sunk down inconsolable in hope- 
 less dejection. A thousand times she reproached 
 herself with the easy compliance by which she 
 permitted her favourite to stay behind her. " Had 
 not my fondness," said she, "lessened my au- 
 thority, Pekuali had not dared to talk of her ter- 
 rors. She ought to have feared me more than 
 spectres. A severe look would have overpowered 
 her ; a peremptory command would have com- 
 pelled obedience. Why did foolish indulgence 
 prevail upon me ? why did I not speak, and refuse 
 to hear ?" 
 
 " Great princess," said Imlac, " do not re- 
 proach yourself for your virtue, or consider that 
 as blameable by which evil has accidentally been 
 caused. Your tenderness for the timidity of Pc- 
 knah was generous and kind. When we act ac- 
 
 cording to our duty, we commit the event to Him 
 by whose laws our actions are governed, and who 
 will suffer none to be finally punished for obedi- 
 ence. When, in prospect of some good, whether 
 natural or moral, we break the rules prescribed 
 us, we withdraw from the direction of superior 
 wisdom, and take all consequences upon our- 
 selves. Man cannot so far know the connexion 
 of causes and events, as that he may venture to 
 do wrong in order to do right. When we pursue 
 our end by lawful means, we may always con- 
 sole our miscarriage by the hope of future recom- 
 pense. When we consult only our own policy, 
 and attempt to find a nearer way to good, by 
 overleaping the settled boundaries of right and 
 wrong, we cannot be happy even by success, be- 
 cause we cannot escape the consciousness of our 
 fault ; but if we miscarry, the disappointment is 
 irremediably imbittered. How comfortless is the 
 sorrow of him who feels at once the pangs of 
 guilt, and the vexation of calamity which guilt 
 has brought upon him ! 
 
 "Consider, princess, what would have been 
 your condition, if the lady Pekuah had entreated 
 to accompany you, and, being compelled to stay 
 in the tents, had been carried away ; or how 
 would you have borne the thought if you had 
 forced her into the pyramid, and she had died be- 
 fore you in agonies of terror." 
 
 " Had either happened," said Nekayah, " I 
 could not have endured life till now ; I should 
 have been tortured to madness by the remem- 
 brance of such cruelty, or must have pined away 
 in abhorrence of myself." 
 
 " This, at least," said Imlac, "is the present 
 reward of virtuous conduct, that no unlucky con- 
 sequence can oblige us to repent it." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THE PRINCESS LANGUISHES FOR WANT OF 
 PEKUAH. 
 
 NEKAYAH, being thus reconciled to herself, 
 found that no evil is insupportable but that which 
 is accompanied with consciousness of wrong. She 
 was, from that time, delivered from the violence 
 of tempestuous sorrow, and sunk into silent pen- 
 siveness and gloomy tranquillity. She sat from 
 morning to evening recollecting all that had been 
 done or said by her Pekuah, treasured up with 
 care every trifle on which Pekuah had sat an ac- 
 cidental value, and which might recall to mind 
 any little incident or careless conversation. The 
 sentiments of her whom she now expected to see 
 no more, were treasured in her memory as rules 
 of life, and she deliberated to no other end than 
 to conjecture on any occasion what would have 
 been the opinion and counsel of Pekuah. 
 
 The women by whom she was attended knew 
 nothing of her real condition, and therefore she 
 could not talk to them but with caution and re- 
 serve. She began to remit her curiosity, having 
 no great desire to collect notions which she had 
 no convenience of uttering. Rasselas endea- 
 voured first to comfort and afterwards to divert 
 her ; he hired musicians, to whom she seemed to 
 listen, but did not hear them ; and procured mas- 
 ters to instruct her in various arts, whose lectures, 
 when they visited her again, were again to be 
 repeated. She had lost her taste of pleasure, 
 and her ambition of excellence. And her mind.
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 479 
 
 though forced into short excursions, always re- 
 curred to the image of her friend. 
 
 Imlac was every morning earnestly enjoined to 
 renew his inquiries, and was asked every night 
 whether he had yet heard of Pekuah ; till, not 
 being able to return the princess the answer that 
 she elesired, he was less and less willing to come 
 into her presence. She observed his backward- 
 ness, and commanded him to attend her. "You 
 are not," said she, " to confound impatience with 
 resentment, or to suppose that I charge you with 
 negligence, because I repine at your unsuccess- 
 fulness. I do not much wonder at your absence. 
 I know that the unhappy are never pleasing, and 
 that all naturally avoid the contagion of misery. 
 To hear complaints is wearisome, alike to the 
 wretched and the happy ; for who would cloud, 
 by adventitious grief, the short gleams of gayety 
 which life allows us? or who, that is struggling 
 under his own evils, will add to them the miseries 
 of another ? / 
 
 " The time is at hand, when none shall be dis- 
 turbed any longer by the sighs of Nekayah : my 
 search after happiness is now at an end. I am 
 resolved to retire from the world with all its flat- 
 teries and deceits, and will hide myself in solitude, 
 without any other care than to compose my 
 thoughts, and regulate my hours by a constant 
 succession of innocent occupations, till, with a 
 mind purified from earthly desires, I shall enter 
 into that state, to which all are hastening, and 
 in which I hope acain to enjoy the friendship of 
 Pekuah." 
 
 "Do not entangle your mind," said Imlac, "by 
 irrevocable determinations, nor increase the bur- 
 den of life by a voluntary accumulation of misery ; 
 the weariness of retirement will continue or in- 
 crease when the loss of Pekuah is forgotten. That 
 you have been deprived of one pleasure is no 
 very good reason for rejection of the rest." 
 
 " Since Pekuah was taken from me," said the 
 princess, " I have no pleasure to reject or to retain. 
 She that has no one to love or trust, has little to 
 hope. She wants the radical principle of happi- 
 ness. We may, perhaps, allow that what satis- 
 faction this world can afford must arise from the 
 conjunction of wealth, knowledge, and goodness: 
 wealth is nothing but as it is bestowed, and know- 
 ledge nothing but as it is communicated : they 
 must therefore be imparted to others, and to whom 
 could I now delight to impart them ? Goodness 
 affords the only comfort which can be enjoyed 
 without a partner, and goodness may be practised 
 in retirement." 
 
 " How far solitude may admit goodness, or 
 advance it, I shall not," replied Imlac, "dispute 
 at present Remember the confession of the pious 
 hermit. You will wish to return into the world 
 when the image of your companion has left your 
 thoughts." " That' time," said Nekayah, " will 
 never come. The generous frankness, the 
 modest obsequiousness, and the faithful secrecy 
 of my dear Pekuah, will always be more missed, 
 as I shall live longer to see vice and folly." 
 
 " The state of a mind oppressed with a sudden 
 calamity," said Imlac, '' is like that of the fabu- 
 lous inhabitants of the new-created earth, who, 
 when the first night came upon them, supposed 
 that day would never return. When the clouds 
 of sorrow gather over us, we see notliing beyond 
 them, nor can imagine how they will be dispelled : 
 yet a r.ev/ day succeeded to the night, and sorrow 
 18 never long without a dawn of ease. But they 
 
 who restrain themselves from receiving comfort 
 do as the savages would have done, had they put 
 out their eyes when it was dark. Our minds, 
 like our bodies, are in continual flux : something 
 is hourly lost, and something acquired. To lose 
 much at once is inconvenient to either, but while 
 the vital powers remain uninjured, nature will find 
 the means of reparation. Distance has the same 
 effect on the mind as on the eye ; and wliile we 
 glide along the stream of time, whatever we leave 
 behind us is always lessening, and that which we 
 approach increasing in magnitude. Do not suffer 
 life to stagnate ; it will grow muddy for want of 
 motion ; commit yourseff again to the current of 
 the world ; Pekuah will vanish by degrees ; you 
 will meet in your way some other favourite, or 
 learn to diffuse yourself in general conversation." 
 
 " At least," said the prince, " do not despair 
 before all remedies have been tried : the inquiry 
 after the unfortunate lady is still continued, and 
 shall be carried on with yet greater diligence, on 
 condition that you will promise to wait a year for 
 the event, without any unalterable resolution." 
 
 Nekayah thought this a reasonable demand, 
 and made the promise to her brother, who had 
 been advised by Imlac to require it. Imlac had, 
 indeed, no great hope of regaining Pekuah ; but 
 he supposed, that if he could secure the interval 
 of a year, the princess would be then in no dan- 
 ger of a cloister. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 PEKUAH IS STILL REMEMBERED. THE PROGRESS 
 OF SORROW. 
 
 NEKAYAH, seeing that nothing was omitted for 
 the recovery of her favourite, and having, by her 
 promise, set her intention of retirement at a dis- 
 tance, began imperceptibly to return to common 
 cares and common pleasures. She rejoiced with- 
 out her own consent at the suspension of her 
 sorrows, and sometimes caught herself with in- 
 dignation in the act of turning away her mind 
 from the remembrance of her whom yet she 
 resolved never to forget. 
 
 She then appointed a certain hour of the day 
 for meditation on the merits and fondness of 
 Pekuah, and for some weeks retired constantly at 
 the time fixed, and returned with her eyes swollen 
 and her countenance clouded. By degrees she 
 grew less scrupulous, and suffered any important 
 and pressing avocation to delay the tribute of 
 daily tears. She then yielded to less occasions ; 
 sometimes forgot what she was indeed afraid 
 to remember ; and, at last, wholly released her- 
 self from the duty of periodical affliction. 
 
 Her real love of Pekuah was not yet diminish- 
 ed. A thousand occurrences brought her back 
 to memory, and a thousand wants, which nothing 
 but the confidence of friendship can supply, made 
 her frequently regretted. She, therefore, solicited 
 Imlac never to desist from inquiry, and to leave 
 no art of intelligence untried, that at least she 
 might have the comfort of knowing that she did 
 not suffer by negligence or sluggishness. " Yet. 
 what," said she, " is to be expected from our pur- 
 suit of happiness, when we find the state of life 
 to be such that happiness itself is the cause of 
 misery? Why should we endeavour to attain 
 that of which the possession cannot be secured ? 
 I shall henceforward fear to yield my heart to cv-
 
 480 
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 cellence, however bright, or to fondness, however 
 tender, lest I should lose again what I have lost 
 in Pekuah." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 THE PRINCESS HEARS NEWS OF PEKUAH. 
 
 IN seven months, one of the messengers, who 
 had been sent away upon the day when the pro- 
 mise was drawn from the princess, returned, after 
 many unsuccessful rambles, from the borders of 
 Nubia, with an account that Pekuah was in the 
 hands of an Arab chief, who possessed a castle or 
 fortress on the extremity of Egypt The Arab, 
 whose revenue was plunder, was willing to restore 
 her, with her two attendants, for two hundred 
 ounces of gold. 
 
 The price was no subject of debate. The prin- 
 cess was in ecstasies when she heard that her 
 favourite was alive, and might so cheaply be ran- 
 somed. She could not think of delaying for a 
 moment Pekuah's happiness or her own, but 
 entreated her brother to send back the messenger 
 with the sum required. Imlac, being consulted, 
 was not very confident of the veracity of the 
 relater, and was still more doubtful of the Arab's 
 faith, who might, if he were too liberally trusted, 
 detain at once the money and the captives. He 
 thought it dangerous to put themselves in the 
 power of the Arab, by going into his district ; 
 and could not expect that the rover would so much 
 expose himself as to come into the lower coun- 
 try, where he might be seized by the forces of the 
 Bassa. 
 
 It is difficult to negotiate where neither will 
 trust. But Imlac, after some deliberation, directed 
 the messenger to propose that Pekuah should be 
 conducted by ten horsemen to the monastery of 
 St. Anthony, which is situated in the deserts of 
 Upper Egypt, where she should be met by the 
 same number, and her ransom should be paid. 
 
 That no time might be lost, as they expected 
 that the proposal would not be refused, they im- 
 mediately began their journey to the monastery; 
 and when they arrived, Imlac went forward with 
 the former messenger to the Arab's fortress. Ras- 
 selas was desirous to go with them ; but neither 
 his sister nor Imlac would consent. The Arab, 
 according to the custom of his nation, observed 
 the laws of hospitality with great exactness to 
 those who put themselves into his power, and, in 
 a few days, brought Pekuah with her maids, by 
 easy journeys, to the place appointed, where, re- 
 ceiving the stipulated price, he restored her, with 
 great respect, to liberty and her friends, and un- 
 dertook to conduct them back towards Cairo 
 beyond all danger of robbery or violence. 
 
 The princess and her favourite embraced each 
 other with transport too violent to be expressed, 
 and went out together to pour the tears of tender- 
 ness in secret, and exchange professions of kind- 
 ness and gratitude. After a few hours they re- 
 turned into the refectory of the convent, where, 
 in the presence of the prior and his brethren, 
 the prince required of Pekuah the* history of her 
 adventures. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OP THE LADY PEKUAH. 
 
 " AT whattime, and in what manner I was forced 
 
 away," said Pekuah, "your servants have told you. 
 The suddenness of the event struck me with sur- 
 prise, and 1 was at first rather stupificd than agi- 
 tated with any passion of cither fear or sorrow. 
 My confusion was increased by the speed and tu- 
 mult of our flight, while we were followed by the 
 Turks, who, as it seemed, soon despaired to over- 
 take us, or were afraid of those whom they made 
 a show of menacing. 
 
 " When the Arabs saw themselves out of dan- 
 ger, they slackened their course; and as I was 
 less harassed by external violence. I began to feel 
 more uneasiness in my mind. After some time, 
 we stopped near a spring shaded with trees, in a 
 pleasant meadow, where we sat upon the ground, 
 and offered such refreshments as our masters 
 were partaking. I was suffered to sit with my 
 maids apart from the rest, and none attempted to 
 comfort or insult us. Here I first began to feel the 
 full weight of my misery. The girls sat weeping 
 in silence, and from time -to time looked on me 
 for succour. I knew not to what condition we 
 were doomed, nor could conjecture where would 
 be the place of our captivity, or whence to draw 
 any hope of deliverance. I was in the hands of 
 robbers and savages, and had no reason to sup- 
 pose that their pity was more than their justice, 
 or that they would forbear the gratification of any 
 ardour of desire, or caprice of cruelty. I, how- 
 ever, kissed my maids, and endeavoured to pacifv 
 them by remarking, lhat we were yet treated witn 
 decency, and that since we were now carried be- 
 yond pursuit, there was no danger of violence to 
 our lives. 
 
 " When we were to be set again on horseback, 
 my maids clung round me, and refused to be part- 
 ed ; but I commanded them not to irritate those 
 who had us in their power. We travelled the re- 
 maining part of the day through an unfrequented 
 and pathless country, and came by moonlight to 
 the side of the hill where the rest of the troop 
 was stationed. Their tents were pitched, and 
 their fires kindled, and our chief was welcomed 
 as a man much beloved by his dependants. 
 
 " We were received into a large tent, where we 
 found women who had attended their husbands in 
 the expedition. They set before us the supper which 
 they had provided, and I ate it rather to encourage 
 my maids than to comply with any appetite of my 
 own. When the meat was taken away, they 
 spread the carpets for repose. I was weary, and 
 hoped to find in sleep that remission of distress 
 which nature seldom denies. Ordering myself, 
 therefore, to be undressed, I observed that the 
 women looked very earnestly upon me, not ex- 
 pecting, I suppose, to see me so submissively at- 
 tended. When my upper vest was taken off, 
 they were apparently struck with the splendour 
 of my clothes, and one of them timorously laid 
 her hand upon the embroidery. She then went 
 out, and, in a short time, came back with another 
 woman, who seemed to be of higher rank and 
 greater authority. She did, at her entrance, the 
 usual act of reverence, and, taking me by the 
 hand, placed me in a smaller tent, spread with 
 finer carpets, where I spent the night quietly with 
 my maids. 
 
 " In the morning, as I was sitting on the grass, 
 the chief of the troop came towards me. I rose 
 up to receive him, and he bowed with great re- 
 spect. ' Illustrious lady,' said he, ' my fortune 
 is better than I had presumed to hope ; I am told, 
 by my women, that I have a princess in my camp.'
 
 KASSELAS. 
 
 481 
 
 Sir, answered I, your women have deceived them- 
 selves and you ; I am not a princess, but an un- 
 happy stranger, who intended soon to have left 
 this country, in which I am now to be imprisoned 
 for ever. ' Whoever, or whencesoever, you are,' 
 returned the Arab, 'your dress, and that of your 
 servants, show your rank to be high, and your 
 wealth to be great Why should you, who can 
 so easily procure your ransom, think yourself in 
 danger of perpetual captivity ? The purpose of 
 my incursions is to increase my riches, or more 
 properly to gather tribute. The sons of Ishmael 
 are the natural and hereditary lords of this part 
 of the continent, which is usurped by late invaders 
 and low-born tyrants, from whom we are compelled 
 to take by the sword what is denied to justice. The 
 violence of war admits no distinction ; the lance 
 that is lifted at guilt and power will sometimes 
 fall on innocence and gentleness.' 
 
 "How little, said I, did I expect that yesterday 
 it should have fallen upon me. 
 
 " ' Misfortunes,' answered the Arab, ' should 
 always be expected. If the eye of hostility could 
 learn reverence or pity, excellence like yours had 
 been exempt from injury. But the angels of af- 
 fliction spread their toils alike for the virtuous and 
 the wicked, for the mighty and the mean. Do 
 not be disconsolate ; I am not one of the lawless 
 and cruel rovers of the desert ; I know the rules 
 of civil life ; I will fix your ransom, give a pass- 
 port to your messenger, and perform my stipula- 
 tion with nice punctuality.' 
 
 " You will easily believe that I was pleased 
 with his courtesy ; and finding that his predomi- 
 nant passion was desire of money, I began now 
 to think my danger less ; for I knew that no sum 
 would be thought too great for the release of Pe- 
 kuah. I told him that he should have no reason 
 to charge me with ingratitude, if I was used with 
 kindness ; and that any ransom which could be 
 expected for a maid of common rank would be 
 paid, but that he must not persist to rate me as a 
 princess. He said he would consider what he 
 should demand, and then, smiling, bowed and 
 retired. 
 
 " Soon after, the women came about me, each 
 contending to be more officious than the other, 
 and my maids themselves were served with reve- 
 rence. We travelled onward by short journeys. 
 On the fourth day, the chief told me that my ran- 
 som must be two hundred ounces of gold ; which 
 I not only promised him, but told him that I would 
 add fifty more, if I and my maids were honour- 
 ably treated. 
 
 " I never knew the power of gold before. From 
 that time I was the leader of the troop. The 
 march of every day was longer or shorter as I 
 commanded, and the tents were pitched where I 
 chose to rest. We now had camels and other 
 conveniencies for travel : my own women were 
 always at my side, and I amused myself with ob- 
 serving the manners of the vagrant nations, and 
 with viewing remains of ancient edifices with 
 which these deserted countries appear to have 
 been, in some distant age, lavishly embellished. 
 
 " The chief of the band was a man far from 
 illiterate : he was able to travel by the stars or the 
 compass, and had marked in his erratic expedi- 
 tions such places as are most worthy the notice 
 of a passenger. He observed to me, that build- 
 ings are always best preserved in places little fre- 
 quented, and difficult of access ; for when once 
 a country declines from its primitive splendour, 
 3 L 
 
 the more inhabitants are left, the quicker ruin will 
 be made. Walls supply stones more easily than 
 quarries ; and palaces and temples will be dc 
 molished, to make stables of granite and cot 
 tages of porphyry.'' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OP PEKUAH CONTINUED. 
 
 " WE wandered about irx this manner for some 
 weeks, either, as our chief pretended, for my gra- 
 tification, or, as I rather suspected, for some con- 
 venience of his own. I endeavoured to appear 
 contented where sullenness and resentment would 
 have been of no use, and that endeavour conduced 
 much to the calmness of my mind ; but my heart 
 was always with Nekayah, and the troubles of 
 the night much overbalanced the amusements ot 
 the day. My women, who threw all their cares 
 upon their mistress, set their minds at ease from 
 the time when they saw me treated with respect, 
 and gave themselves up to the incidental allevia- 
 tions of our fatigue without solicitude or sorrow. 
 I was pleased with their pleasure, and animated 
 with their confidence. My condition had lost 
 much of its terror, since I found that the Arab 
 ranged the country merely to get riches. Avarice 
 is a uniform and tractable vice : other intellectual 
 distempers are different in different constitutions 
 of mind ; that which sooths the pride of one 
 will offend the pride of another ; but to the favour 
 of the covetous there is a ready way bring mo- 
 ney, and nothing is denied. 
 
 " At last we came to the dwelling of our chief; 
 a strong and spacious house, built with stone in 
 an island of the Nile, which lies, as I was told, 
 under the tropic, 'Lady,' said the^Arab, 'you shall 
 rest after your journey a few weeks in this place, 
 where you are to consider yourself as sovereign. 
 My occupation is war : I have therefore chosen 
 this obscure residence, from which I can issue 
 unexpected, and to which I can retire unpursued. 
 You may now repose in security: here are few 
 pleasures, but here is no danger.' He then led me 
 into the inner apartments, and, seating me on the 
 richest couch, bowed to the ground. 
 
 " His women, who considered me as a rivai, 
 looked on me with malignity; but being soon 
 informed that I was a great lady detained only for 
 my ransom, they began to vie with each other in 
 obsequiousness and reverence. 
 
 " Being again comforted with new assurances 
 of speedy liberty, I was for some days diverted 
 from impatience by the novelty of the place. The 
 turrets overlooked the country to a great distance, 
 and afforded a view of many windings of the 
 stream. In the day I wandered from one place 
 to another, as the course of the sun varied the 
 splendour of the prospect, and saw many things 
 which I had never seen before. The crocodiles 
 and river horses are common in this unpeopled 
 region ; and I often looked upon them with ter- 
 ror, though I knew that they could not hurt me. 
 For some time I expected to see mermaids and 
 tritons, which, as Irnlac has told me, the European 
 travellers have stationed in the Nile ; but no such 
 beings ever appeared, and the Arab, when I in- 
 quired after them, laughed at my credulity. 
 
 " At night the Arab always attended me to a 
 tower set apart for celestial observations, where 
 he endeavoured to teach me the names and
 
 482 
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 courses of the stars. I had no great inclination 
 to this study ; but an appearance of attention was 
 necessary to please my instructor, who valued 
 himself for his skill, and, in a little while, I found 
 some employment requisite to beguile the tedious- 
 ness of time, wliich was to be passed always 
 amidst the same objects. I was weary of Jook- 
 xig in the morning on things from which I had 
 tu/ned away weary in the evening : I therefore 
 waa at last willing to observe the stars rather than 
 do nothing, but could not always compose my 
 thoughts, and was very often thinking on Nekayah 
 when others imagined me contemplating the sky. 
 Soon after the Arab went upon another expedi- 
 tion, and then my only pleasure was to talk with 
 my maids about the accident by which we were 
 carried away, and the happiness that we should 
 all enjoy at the end of our captivity." 
 
 " There were women in your Arab's fortress," 
 said the princess ; "why did you not make them 
 your companions, enjoy their conversation, and 
 partake their diversions ? In a place where they 
 found business or amusement, why should you 
 sit corroded with idle melancholy? or why could 
 not you bear for a few months that condition to 
 which they were condemned for life ?" 
 
 "The diversions of the women," answered Pe- 
 kuah, " were only childish play, by which the 
 mind, accustomed to stronger operations, could 
 not be kept busy. I could do all which they de- 
 lighted in doing by powers merely sensitive, while 
 my intellectual faculties were flown to Cairo. 
 They ran from room to room, as a bird hops from 
 wire to wire in his cage. They danced for the 
 sake of motion, as lambs frisk in a meadow. One 
 sometimes pretended to be hurt that the rest 
 might be alarmed, or hid herself that another 
 might seek her. Part of their time passed in 
 watcliing the progress of light bodies that floated 
 on the river, and part in marking the various 
 forms into which clouds broke in the sky. 
 
 " Their business was only needlework, in 
 which I and my maids sometimes helped them ; 
 but you know that the mind will easily straggle 
 from the fingers, nor will you suspect that capti- 
 vity and absence from Nekayah could receive so- 
 lace from silken flowers. 
 
 "Nor was much satisfaction to be hoped from 
 their conversation : for of what could they be ex- 
 pected to talk ? They had seen nothing, for they 
 had lived from early youth in that narrow spot : 
 of what they had not seen they could have no 
 knowledge, for they could not read. They had 
 no idea but of the few things that were within 
 their view, and had hardly names for any thing 
 but their clothes and their food. As I bore a su- 
 perior character, I was often called to terminate 
 their quarrels, which I decided as equitably as I 
 could. If it could have amused me to hear the 
 complaints of each against the rest, I might have 
 been often detained by long stories ; but the mo- 
 tives of their animosity were so small that I could 
 not listen without interrupting the tale." 
 
 "How," said Rasselas, "can the Arab, whom 
 you represented as a man of more than common 
 accomplishments, take any pleasure in his serag- 
 lio when it is filled only with women like these ? 
 Are they exquisitely beautiful?" 
 
 " They do not," said Pekuah, "want that un- 
 affecting and ignoble beauty which may subsist 
 without sprightliness or sublimity, without energy 
 of thought or dignity o r- !irtue. But to a man like 
 the Arab, such beauty vas only a flower casually 
 
 plucked and carelessly thrown away. Whatever 
 pleasures he might find among them, they were 
 not those of friendship or society. When they 
 were playing about him, he looked on them with 
 inattentive superiority: when they vied for his 
 regard, he sometimes turned awciy disgusted. As 
 they had no knowledge, their talk could take no- 
 thing from the tediousness of life: as they had no 
 choice, their fondness, or appearance of fondness, 
 excited in him neither pride nor gratitude : he was 
 not exalted in his own esteem by the smiles of a 
 woman who saw no other man, nor was much 
 obliged by that regard of which he could nevei 
 know the sincerity, and which he might often 
 perceive to be exerted not so much to delight him 
 as to pain a rival. That which he gave, and they 
 received, as love, was only a careless distribution 
 of superfluous time; such love as man can bestow 
 upon that which he despises, such as has neither 
 hope nor fear, neither joy nor sorrow." 
 
 "You have reason, lady, to think yourself hap- 
 py," said Imlac, " that you have been thus easily 
 dismissed. How could a mind, hungry for know- 
 ledge, be willing, in an intellectual famine, to lose 
 such a banquet as Pekuah's conversation?" 
 
 " I am inclined to believe," answered Pekuah, 
 "that he was for some time in suspense ; for not- 
 withstanding his promise, whenever I proposed 
 to despatch a messenger to Cairo, he found some 
 excuse for delay. While I was detained in his 
 house, he made many incursions into the neigh- 
 bouring countries, and, perhaps, he would have 
 refused to discharge me, had his plunder been 
 equal to his wishes. He returned always courte- 
 ous, related his adventures, delighted to hear my 
 observations, and endeavoured to advance my 
 acquaintance with the stars. When I importuned 
 him to send away my letters, he soothed me with 
 professions of honour and sincerity ; and when I 
 could be no longer decently denied, put his troop 
 again in motion, and left me to govern ''n his ab- 
 sence. I was much afflicted by this studied pro- 
 crastination, and was sometimes afraid that I 
 should be forgotten ; that you would leave Cairo, 
 and I must end my days in an island of the Nile. 
 
 "I grew at last hopeless and dejected, and 
 cared so little to entertain him, that he for a while 
 more frequently talked with my maids. That he 
 should fall in love with them, or with me, might 
 have been equally fatal ; and I was not much 
 pleased with the growing friendship. My anxiety 
 was not long ; for, as I recovered some degree of 
 cheerfulness, he returned to me, and I could not 
 forbear to despise my former uneasiness. 
 
 "He still delayed to send for my ransom, and 
 would, perhaps, never have determined, had not 
 your agentfound his way to him. The gold, which 
 he would not fetch, he could not reject when it 
 was offered. He hastened to prepare for our jour- 
 ney hither, like a man delivered from the pain of 
 an intestine conflict. I took leave of my com- 
 panions in the house, who dismissed me with cold 
 indifference." 
 
 Nek ayah, having heard her favourite's relation, 
 rose and embraced her : and Rasselas gave her a 
 hundred ounces of gold, wliich she presented to 
 the Arab for the fifty that were promised. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF A MAN OF LEARNING. 
 
 THEY returned to Cairo, and were so weB 
 pleased at finding themselves together, that none
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 483 
 
 of them went much abroad. The prince began 
 to love learning, and one day declared to Irnlac 
 that he intended to devote himself to science, and 
 pass the rest of his days in literary solitude. 
 
 "Before you make your final choice," answered 
 Imlac, " you ought to examine its hazards, and 
 converse with some of those who are grown old 
 in the company of themselves. I have just left 
 (he observatory of one of the most learned astro- 
 nomers in the world, who has spent forty years in 
 unwearied attention to the motions and appear- 
 ances of the celestial bodies, and has drawn out 
 his soul in endless calculations. He admits a few 
 friends once a month to hear his deductions and 
 enjoy his discoveries. I was introduced as a man 
 of knowledge worthy of his notice. Men of va- 
 rious ideas and fluent conversation are commonly 
 welcome to those whose thoughts have been long 
 fixed upon a single point, and who find the images 
 of other things stealing away. I delighted him 
 with my remarks : he smiled at the narrative of 
 my travels, and was glad to forget the constella- 
 tions, and descend for a moment into the lower 
 world. 
 
 " On the next day of vacation I renewed my 
 visit, and was so fortunate as to please him again. 
 He relaxed from that time the severity of his rule, 
 and permitted me to enter at my own choice. I 
 found him always busy, and always glad to be 
 relieved. As each knew much which the other 
 was desirous o_f learning, we exchanged our no- 
 tions with great delight. I perceived that I had 
 every day more of his confidence, and always 
 found new cause of admiration in the profundity of 
 his mind. His comprehension is vast, his memory 
 capacious and retentive ; his discourse is metho- 
 dical, and his expression clear. 
 
 " His integrity and benevolence are equal to his 
 learning. His deepest researches and most fa- 
 vourite studies are willingly interrupted for any 
 opportunity of doing good by his counsel or his 
 riches. To his closest retreat, at his most busy 
 momenta, all are admitted that want his assist- 
 ance. For though I exclude idleness and plea- 
 sure, I will never, says he, bar my doors against 
 charity. To man is permitted the contemplation 
 of the skies, but the practice of virtue is com- 
 manded." 
 
 " Surely," said the princess, " this man is 
 happy." 
 
 " I visited him," said Imlac, " with more and 
 more frequency, and was every time more ena- 
 moured of his conversation : he was sublime 
 without haughtiness, courteous without formality, 
 and communicative without ostentation. I was 
 at first, great princess, of your opinion, thought 
 him the happiest of mankind, and often congratu- 
 lated him on the blessing that he enjoyed. He 
 seemed to hear nothing with indifference but the 
 praises of his condition, to which he always re- 
 turned a general answer, and diverted the conver- 
 sation to some other topic. 
 
 "Amidst this willingness to be pleased, and 
 labour to please, I had quickly reason to imagine 
 that some painful sentiment pressed upon his 
 mind. He often looked up earnestly towards the 
 sun, and let his voice fall in the midst of his dis- 
 course. He would sometimes, when we were 
 alone, gaze upon me in silence with the air of a 
 man who longed to speak what he was yet re- 
 solved to Suppress. He would often send for me 
 with vehement injunctions of haste, though, when 
 I came to him, he had nothing extraordinary to 
 
 say. And sometimes, when I was leaving him, 
 would call me back, pause a few moments, and 
 then dismiss me." 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 THE ASTRONOMER DISCOVERS THE CAUSE OF HIS 
 UNEASINESS. 
 
 "AT last, the time came when the secret burst 
 his reserve. We were sitting together last night 
 in the turret of his house, watching the emersion 
 of a satellite of Jupiter. A sudden tempest 
 clouded the sky, and disappointed our observa- 
 tion. We sat a while silent in the dark, and then 
 he addressed Himself to me in these words : Im- 
 lac, I have long considered thy friendship as the 
 greatest blessing of my life. Integrity without 
 knowledge is weak and useless, and knowledge 
 without integrity ;s dangerous and dreadful. 1 
 have found in thee all the qualities requisite for 
 trust ; benevolence, experience, and fortitude. 1 
 have long discharged an office which I must soon 
 quit at the call of nature, and shall rejoice in the 
 hour of imbecility and pain' to devolve it upon 
 thee. 
 
 " I thought myself honoured by this testimony, 
 and protested that whatever could conduce to his 
 happiness would add likewise to mine. 
 
 " Hear, Imlac, what thou wilt not without dif- 
 ficulty credit. I have possessed for five^ears the 
 regulation of the weather, and the distribution of 
 the seasons : the sun has listened to my dictates, 
 and passed from tropic to tropic by my direction : 
 the clouds, at my call, have poured their waters, 
 and the Nile has overflowed at my command : I 
 have restrained the rage of the dog-star, and 
 mitigated the fervours of the crab. The winds 
 alone, of all the elemental powers, have hitherto 
 refused my authority, and multitudes have perished 
 by equinoctial tempests, which I found myself un- 
 able to prohibit or restrain. I have administered 
 this great office with exact justice, and made to 
 the different nations of the earth an impartial 
 dividend of rain and sunshine. What must have 
 been the misery of half the globe, if I had limited 
 the clouds to particular regions, or confined the 
 sun to either side of the equator ?" 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 THE OPINION OF THE ASTRONOMER IS EXPLAINED 
 AND JUSTIFIED. 
 
 " I SUPPOSE he discovered in me, through the 
 obscurity of the room, some tokens of amaze- 
 ment and doubt ; for, after a short pause, he pro- 
 ceeded thus : 
 
 " Not to be easily credited will neither surprise 
 nor offend me ; for I am probably the first ol 
 human beings to whom this trust has been im 
 parted. Nor do I know whether to deem this 
 distinction a reward or punishment ; since I have 
 possessed it, I have been far less happy than 
 before, and nothing but the consciousness of good 
 intention could have enabled me to support the 
 weariness of unremitted vigilance. 
 
 "How long, sir, said I, has this great office 
 been in your hands ? 
 
 " About ten years ago, said he, my daily ob- 
 servations of the changes of the sky led me to 
 consider, whether, if I had the power of the
 
 4b4 
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 seasons, I could confer greater plenty upon the 
 inhabitants of the earth. This contemplation 
 fastened on my mind, and I sat days and nights in 
 imaginary dominion, pouring upon this country 
 and that the showers of fertility, and seconding 
 every fall of rain with a due proportion of sun- 
 shine. I had yet only the will to do good, and 
 did not imagine that I should ever have the power. 
 
 " One day as I was looking on the fields with- 
 ering with heat, I felt in my mind a sudden wish 
 that I could send rain on the southern mountains, 
 and raise the Nile to an inundation. In the hurry 
 of my imagination, I commanded rain to fall ; and 
 by comparing the time of my command with that 
 of the inundation, I found that the clouds had 
 listened to my lips. 
 
 " Might not some other cause, said I, produce 
 this concurrence? The Nile does not always 
 rise on the same day. 
 
 " Do not believe, said he, with impatience, that 
 such objections could escape me : I reasoned long 
 against my own conviction, and laboured against 
 truth with the utmost obstinacy. I sometimes 
 suspected myself of madness, and should not 
 have dared to impart this secret but to a man like 
 you, capable of distinguishing the wonderful 
 from the impossible, and the incredible from the 
 false. 
 
 " Why, sir, said I, do you call that incredible 
 which you know, or think you know, to be true ? 
 
 " Because, said he, I cannot prove it by any 
 external evidence : and I know too well the laws 
 of demonstration, to think that my conviction 
 ought to influence another, who cannot, like me, 
 be conscious of its force. I, therefore, shall not 
 attempt to gain credit by disputation. It is suffi- 
 cient that 1 feel this power, that I have long pos- 
 sessed, and every day exerted it. But the life of 
 man is short : the infirmities of age increase upon 
 me, and the time will soon come when the regu- 
 lator of the year must mingle with the dust The 
 care of appointing a successor has long disturbed 
 me : the nigbt and the day have been spent in 
 comparisons of all the characters which have 
 come to my knowledge, and I have yet found 
 none so worthy as thyself." 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 THE ASTRONOMER LEAVES IMLAC HIS DIRECTIONS. 
 
 "HEAR, therefore, what I shall impart with 
 attention, such as the welfare of a worm requires. 
 If the task of a king be considered as difficult, 
 who lias the care only of a few millions, to whom 
 he cannot do much good or harm, what must be 
 the anxiety of him, on whom depends the action 
 of the elements, and the great gifts of light and 
 neat ? Hear me, therefore, with attention. 
 
 " I have diligently considered the position of the 
 earth and sun, and formed innumerable schemes, 
 m which I changed their situation. I have some- 
 times turned aside the axis of the earth, and some- 
 times varied the ecliptic of the sun : but I have 
 found it impossible to make a disposition by which 
 the world may be advantaged ; what one region 
 gains, another loses by an imaginable alteration, 
 even without considering the distant parts of the 
 solar system with which we are unacquainted. Do 
 not, therefore, in thy administration of the year, 
 indulge thy pride by innovation ; do not please 
 thyself with thinking that thou canst make thy- 
 
 self renowned to all future ages, by disordering 
 the seasons. The memory of mischief is no de- 
 sirable fame. Much less will it become thee to 
 let kindness or interest prevail Never rob other 
 countries of rain to pour it on thine own. For 
 us the Nile is sufficient. 
 
 " I promised that when I possessed the power 
 I would use it with inflexible integrity ; and he 
 dismissed me, pressing my hand. My heart, said 
 he, will be now at rest, and my benevolence will 
 no more destroy my quiet : I have found a man 
 of wisdom and virtue, to whom I can cheerfully 
 bequeath the inheritance of the sun." 
 
 The prince heard this narration with very se- 
 rious regard ; but the princess smiled, and Pckuah 
 convulsed herself with laughter. " Ladies," said 
 Imlac, " to mock the heaviest of human afflictions 
 is neither charitable nor wise. Few can attain 
 this man's knowledge, and few practise his virtues ; 
 but all may suffer his calamity. Of the uncer- 
 tainties of our present state, the most dreadful 
 and alarming is the uncertain continuance of 
 reason." 
 
 The princess was recollected, and the favour- 
 ite was abashed. Rasselas, more deeply affected, 
 inquired of Imlac, whether he thought such mala- 
 dies of the mind frequent, and how they were 
 contracted. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 THE DANGERO^" PREVALENCE OF IMAGINATION, 
 
 " DISORDEK of intellect," answered Imlac, 
 "happen much more often than superficial ob- 
 servers will easily believe. Perhaps if we speak 
 \yith rigorous exactness, no human mind is in its 
 right state. There is no man whose imagination 
 does not sometimes predominate over his reason, 
 who can regulate his attention wholly by his will, 
 and whose ideas will come and go at his com- 
 mand. No man will be found in whose mind 
 airy notions do not sometimes tyrannize, and force 
 him to hope or fear beyond the limits of sober 
 probability. All power of fancy over reason is a 
 degree of insanity ; but while this power is such 
 as we can control and repress, it is not visible to 
 others, nor considered as any depravation of the 
 mental faculties : it is not pronounced madness 
 but when it becomes ungovernable, and appa 
 rently influences speech or action. 
 
 " To indulge the power of fiction, and send 
 imagination out upon the wing, is often the sport 
 of those who delight too much in silent specula- 
 tion. When we are alone we are not always 
 busy ; the labour of excogitation is too violent to 
 last long ; the ardour of inquiry will sometimes 
 give way to idleness or satiety. He who has 
 nothing external that can divert him must find 
 
 E'easure in his own thoughts, and must conceive 
 mself what he is not ; for who is pleased with 
 what he is ? He then expatiates in boundless 
 futurity, and culls from all imaginable conditions 
 that which for the present moment he should 
 most desire, amuses his desires with impossible 
 enjoyments, and confers upon his pride unattain- 
 able dominion. The mind dances from scene to 
 scene, unites all pleasures in all combinations, and 
 riots in delights which nature and fortune, with 
 all their bounty, cannot bestow. 
 
 " In time, some particular train of^ideas fixes 
 the attention : all other intellectual gratifications 
 are rejected ; the mind, in weariness or leisure,
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 485 
 
 recurs constantly to the favourite conception, and 
 feasts on the luscious falsehood whenever she is 
 offended with the bitterness of truth. By degrees, 
 the reign of fancy is confirmed ; she grows first 
 imperious, and in time despotic. Then fictions 
 begin to operate as realities, false opinions fasten 
 upon the mind, and life passes in dreams of rap- 
 ture or of anguish. 
 
 " This, sir, is one of the dangers of solitude ; 
 which the hermit has confessed not always 
 promotes goodness, and the astronomer's misery 
 has proved to be not always propitious to wis- 
 dom." 
 
 " I will no more," said the favourite, " imagine 
 myself the queen of Abissinia. I have often 
 spent the hours, which the princess gave to my 
 own disposal, in adjusting ceremonies, and regu- 
 lating the court ; I have repressed the pride of 
 the powerful, and granted the petitions of the 
 poor ; I have built new palaces in more happy 
 situations, planted groves upon the tops of moun- 
 tains, and have exulted in the beneficence of roy- 
 alty, till, when the princess entered, I had almost 
 forgotten to bow down before her." 
 
 " And I," said the princess, " will not allow 
 myself any more to play the shepherdess in my 
 waking dreams. I have often soothed my thoughts 
 with the quiet and innocence of pastoral employ- 
 ments, till 1 have in my chamber heard the winds 
 whistle, and the sheep bleat ; sometimes freed 
 the lamb entangled in the thicket, and sometimes 
 with my crook encountered the wolf. I have a 
 dress like that of the village maids, which I put 
 on to help my imagination, and a pipe on which I 
 play softly, and suppose myself followed by my 
 flocks." 
 
 " I will confess," said the prince, " an indul- 
 gence of fantastic delight more dangerous than 
 yours. I have frequently endeavoured to imagine 
 the possibility of a perfect government, bv which 
 all wrong should be restrained, all vice reformed, 
 and all the subjects preserved in tranquillity and 
 innocence. This thought produced innumerable 
 schemes of reformation, and dictated many useful 
 regulations and salutary edicts. This has been 
 the sport, and sometimes the labour, of my soli- 
 tude: and I start, when I think with how little 
 anguish I once supposed the death of my father 
 and my brothers." 
 
 " Such," said Imlac, " are the effects of visionary 
 schemes: when we first form them, we know 
 them to be absurd, but familiarize them by degrees, 
 and in time lose sight of their folly." 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 THET DISCOURSE WITH AN OLD MAN. 
 
 THE evening was now far past, and they rose 
 to return home. As they walked along the bank 
 of the Nile, delighted with the beams of the moon 
 quivering on the water, they saw, at a small dis- 
 tance, an old man whom the prince had often 
 heard in the assembly of the sages. " Yonder," 
 said he, " is one whose years have calmed his 
 passions, but not clouded his reason : let us close 
 the disquisitions of the night, by inquiring what 
 are his sentiinents of his own state, that we may 
 know whether youth alone is to struggle with 
 vexation, and whether any bott?r hope remains for 
 the latter part of life." 
 
 Here the sage approached and saluted them. 
 They invited him to join their walk, ind pratttad 
 a while as acquaintance that had unexpectedly 
 met one another. The old man was cheerful and 
 talkative, and the way seemed short in his com- 
 pany. He was pleased to find himself not disre- 
 garded, accompanied them to their house, and, at 
 the prince's request, entered with them. They 
 placed him in the seat of honour, and set wine 
 and conserves before him. 
 
 " Sir," said the princess, " an evening walk 
 must give to a man of learning like you pleasures 
 which ignorance and youth can hardly conceive. 
 You know the qualities and the causes of all 
 that you behold, the laws by which the river 
 flows, the periods in which the planets perform 
 their revolutions. Every thing must supply you 
 with contemplation, and renew the consciousness 
 of your own dignity." 
 
 " Lady," answered he, " let the gay and the 
 vigorous expect pleasure in their excursions: it 
 is enough that age can attain ease. To me the 
 world has lost its novelty : I look round, and see 
 what I remember to have seen in happier days. I 
 rest against a tree, and consider, that in the same 
 shade I once disputed upon the annual overflow of 
 the Nile with a friend who is now silent in the 
 grave. I cast my eyes upwards, fix them on 
 the changing moon, and think with pain on the 
 vicissitudes of life. I have ceased to take much 
 delight in physical truth ; for what have I to do 
 with those things which I am soon to leave ?" 
 
 " You may at least recreate yourself," said Im- 
 lac, " with the recollection of an honourable and 
 useful life, and enjoy the praise which all agree t\> 
 give you." 
 
 " Praise," said the sage, with a sigh, " is to an 
 old man an empty sound. I have neither mother 
 to be delighted with the reputation of her son, 
 nor wife to partake the honours of her husband. 
 I have outlived my friends and my rivals. Nothing 
 is now of much importance ; for I cannot extend 
 my interest beyond myself. Youth is delighted 
 with applause, because it is considered as the ear- 
 nest of some future good, and because the pros- 
 pect of life is far extended : but to me, who am 
 now declining to decrepitude, there is httle to be 
 feared from the malevolence of men, and yet less 
 to be hoped from their affection or esteem. Some- 
 thing they may yet take away, but they can give 
 me nothing. Riches would now be useless, and 
 high employment would be pain. My retrospect 
 of life recalls to my view many opportunities of 
 good neglected, much tune squandered upon trifles, 
 and more lost in idleness and vacancy. I leave 
 many great designs unattempted, and many great 
 attempts unfinished. My mind is burdened with 
 no heavy crime, and therefore I compose my- 
 self to tranquillity; endeavour to abstract my 
 thoughts from hopes and cares, which, though 
 reason knows them to be vain, still try to keep 
 their old possession of the heart; expect, with 
 serene humility, that hour which nature cannot 
 long delay, and hope to possess, in a better state, 
 that happiness which here I could not find, and 
 that virtue which here I have not attained." 
 
 He arose and went away, leaving his audience 
 not much elated with the hope of long life. The 
 prince consoled himself with remarking, that it 
 was not reasonable to be disappointe'd by this ac- 
 count; for age had never been considered as the 
 season of felicity, and, if it was possible to be 
 easy in decline and weakness, it was likely that
 
 486 
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 the dajs of vigour and alacrity might be happy : 
 that the noon of life might be bright, if the even- 
 ing could be calm. 
 
 The princess suspected that age was querulous 
 and malignant, and delighted to repress the ex- 
 pectations of those who had newly entered the 
 world. She had seen the possessors of estates 
 look with envy on their heirs, and known many 
 who enjoyed pleasure no longer than they could 
 confine it to themselves. 
 
 Pekuah conjectured that the man was older 
 than he appeared, and was willing to impute his 
 complaints to delirious dejection ; or else supposed 
 that he had been unfortunate, and was therefore 
 discontented : " For nothing," said she, " is more 
 common than to call our own condition the con- 
 dition of life." 
 
 Imlac, who had no desire to see them de- 
 pressed, smiled at the comforts which they could 
 so readily procure to themselves; and remem- 
 bered, that at the same age he was equally confi- 
 dent of unmingled prosperity, and equally fertile 
 of consolatory expedients. He forbore to force 
 upon them unwelcome knowledge, which time 
 itself would too soon impress. The princess and 
 her lady retired ; the madness of the astronomer 
 hv _ng upon their minds ; and they desired Imlac 
 to enter upon his office, and delay next morning 
 the ris> "g of the sun. 
 
 CHAPTER XL VI. 
 
 THE PRINCESS AND PEKUAH VISIT THE 
 ASTRONOMER. 
 
 THE princess and Pekuah having talked in pri- 
 vate of Imlac's astronomer, thought his character 
 at once so amiable and so strange, that they could 
 not be satisfied without a nearer knowledge ; and 
 Imlac was requested to find the means of bring- 
 ing them together. 
 
 This was somewhat difficult ; the philosopher 
 had never received any visits from women, though 
 he lived in a city that had in it many Europeans, 
 who followed the manners of their own countries, 
 and many from other parts of the world, that 
 lived there with European liberty. The ladies 
 would not be refused, and several schemes were 
 proposed for the accomplishment of their design. 
 It was proposed to introduce them as strangers 
 in distress, to whom the sage was always accessi- 
 ble ; but, after some deliberation, it appeared, that 
 by this artifice, no acquaintance could be formed, 
 for their conversation would be short, and they 
 could not decently importune him often. " This," 
 said Rasselas, " is true : but I have yet a stronger 
 objection against the misrepresentation of your 
 state. I have always considered it as treason 
 against the great republic of human nature, to 
 make any man's virtues the means of deceiving 
 him, whether on great or little occasions. All 
 imposture weakens confidence, and chills benevo- 
 lence. When the sage finds that you are not 
 what you seemed, he will feel the resentment na- 
 tural to a man who, conscious of great abilities, 
 discovers that he has been tricked by understand- 
 ings meaner than his own, and, perhaps, the dis- 
 trust which he can never afterwards wholly lay 
 aside may sfop the voice of counsel, and close the 
 hand of chanty; and where will you find the 
 power of resu>'-in;r hi--, benefaction! to mankind, 
 or his p >aec to hhnsdf" 
 
 To this no reply was attempted, and Imlac bt>> 
 gan to hope that their curiosity would subside ; 
 but, next day, Pekuah told him, she had now 
 found an honest pretence for a visit to the astro- 
 nomer, for she would solicit permission to con- 
 tinue under him the studies m which she had 
 been initiated by the Arab, and the princess might 
 go with her, either as a fellow-student, or because 
 a woman could not decently come alone. "I am 
 afraid," said Imlac, " that he will soon be weary 
 of your company ; men advanced far in know- 
 ledge do not love to repeat the elements of their 
 art; and I am not certain that even of the ele- 
 ments, as he will deliver them connected with 
 inferences and mingled with reflections, you arc a 
 very capable auditress?' " That," said Pekuah 
 " must be my care: I ask of you only to take me 
 thither. My knowledge is, perhaps, more than 
 you imagine it; and by concurring always with 
 his opinions, I shall make him think it greater than 
 it is." 
 
 The astronomer, in pursuance of this resolu- 
 tion, was told that a foreign lady, travelling in 
 search of knowledge, had heard of his reputation, 
 and was desirous to become his scholar. The 
 uncommonness of the proposal raised at once his 
 surprise and curiosity, and when, after a short de- 
 liberation, he consented to admit her, he could 
 not stay without impatience till the next day. 
 
 The ladies dressed themselves magnificently, 
 and were attended by Imlac to the astronomer, 
 who was pleased to see himself approached with 
 respect by persons of so splendid an appearance. 
 In the exchange of the first civilities, he was 
 timorous and bashful ; but when the talk became 
 regular, he recollected his powers, and justified 
 the character which Imlac had given. Inquiring 
 of Pekuah what could have turned her inclination 
 towards astronomy, he received from her a history 
 of her adventure at the pyramid, and of the time 
 passed in the Arab's island. She told her tale 
 with ease and elegance, and her conversation 
 took possession of his heart. The discourse was 
 then turned to astronomy: Pekuah displayed 
 what she knew : he looked upon her as a prodigy 
 of genius, and entreated her not to desist from a 
 study which she had so happily begun. 
 
 They came again and again, and were every 
 time more welcome than before. The sage en- 
 deavoured to amuse them, that they might pro- 
 long their visits, for he found his thoughts grow 
 brighter in their company ; the clouds of solici- 
 tude vanished by degrees, as he forced himself 
 to entertain them, and he grieved when he was 
 left, at their departure, to his old employment of 
 regulating the seasons. 
 
 The princess and her favourite had now watch- 
 ed his lips for several months, and could not 
 catch a single word from which they could judge 
 whether he continued, or not, in the opinion ot 
 his preternatural commission. They often con- 
 trived to bring him to an open declaration ; but 
 he easily eluded all their attacks, and, on which 
 side soever they pressed him, escaped from them 
 to some other topic. 
 
 As their familiarity increased, they invited him 
 often to the house of Imlac, where they distin- 
 guished him by extraordinary respect. He began 
 gradually to delight in sublunary pleasures. H 
 came early, and departed late; laboured to re- 
 commend himself by assiduity and compliance, 
 excited their curiosity after nr-w art?, that they 
 might st.ill want his assistance; and vvhun they
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 4S7 
 
 made any excursion of pleasure or inquiry, en- 
 treated to attend them. 
 
 By long experience of his integrity and wisdom, 
 the prince and his sister were convinced that he 
 might be trusted without danger: and, lest he 
 should draw any false hopes from the civilities 
 which he received, discovered to him their condi- 
 tion, with the motives of their journey, and re- 
 quired his opinion on the choice of life. 
 
 " Of the various conditions which the world 
 spreads before you, which you shall prefer," said 
 the sage, " I am not able to instruct you. I can 
 only tell that I have chosen wrong. I have 
 passed my time in study without experience : in 
 the attainment of sciences which can, for the 
 most part, be but remotely useful to mankind. I 
 have purchased knowledge at the expense of all 
 the common comforts of life: I have missed the 
 endearing elegance of female friendship, and the 
 happy commerce of domestic tenderness. If I 
 have obtained any prerogatives above other stu- 
 dents, they have been accompanied with fear, dis- 
 quiet, and scrupulosity; but even of these prero- 
 gatives, whatever they were, I have, since my 
 thoughts have been diversified by more inter- 
 course with the world, begun to question the re- 
 ality. When I have been for a few days lost in 
 pleasing dissipation, I am alwavs tempted to think 
 that my inquiries have ended in error, and that I 
 have suffered much, and suffered it in vain." 
 
 Imlac was delighted to find that the sage's un- 
 derstanding was breaking through its mists, and 
 resolved to detain him from the planets till he 
 should forget his task of ruling them, and reason 
 should recover its original influence. 
 
 From this time the astronomer was received 
 into familiar friendship, and partook of all their 
 projects and pleasures : his respect kept him atten- 
 tive, and the activity of Rasselas did not leave 
 much time unengaged. Something was always 
 to be done: the day was spent in making obser- 
 vations, which furnished talk for the evening, and 
 the evening was closed with a scheme for the 
 morrow. 
 
 The sage confessed to Imlac, that since he had 
 mingled in the gay tumults of life, and divided his 
 hours by a succession of amusements, he found 
 the conviction of his authority over the skies fade 
 gradually from his mind, and began to trust less 
 to an opinion which he never could prove to 
 others, and which he now found subject to varia- 
 tion, from causes in which reason had no part 
 " If I am accidently left alone for a few hours," 
 said he, " my inveterate persuasion rushes upon 
 my soul, and my thoughts are chained down by 
 some irresistible violence ; but they are soon dis- 
 entangled by the prince's conversation, and in- 
 stantaneously released at the entrance of Pekuah. 
 I am like a man habitually afraid of spectres, who 
 is sot at ease by a lamp, and wonders at the dread 
 which harassed him in the dark, yet, if his lamp 
 be extinguished, feels again the terrors which he 
 knows that when it is light he shall feel no more. 
 But I am sometimes afraid, lest I indulge my 
 quiet by criminal negligence, and voluntarily for- 
 get the great charge with which'I am intrusted. 
 If I favour myself in a known error, or am deter- 
 mined by my own ease in a doubtful question of 
 this importance, how dreadful is my crime!" 
 
 " No disease of the imagination," answered 
 Imlac, " is so difficult of cure, as that which is 
 complicated with the dread of guilt ; fancy and 
 conscience then act interchangeably upon us, and 
 
 so often shift their places, that the illusions of one 
 are not distinguished from the dictates of the 
 other. If fancy presents images not moral or 
 religious, the mind drives them away when they 
 give it pain ; but when melancholy notions take 
 the form of duty, they lay hold on the faculties 
 without opposition, because we are afraid to ex- 
 clude or banish them. For this reason the super- 
 stitious are often melancholy, and the melancholy 
 almost always superstitious. 
 
 " But do not let the suggestions of timidity 
 overpower your better reason : the danger of ne- 
 glect can be but as the probability of the obliga- 
 tion, which, when you consider it with freedom, 
 you find very little, and that little growing every 
 day less. Open your heart to the influence of 
 the light, which, from time to time, breaks in 
 upon you : when scruples importune you, which 
 you in your lucid moments know to be vain, do 
 not stand to parley, but fly to business, or to Pe- 
 kuah ; and keep this thought always prevalent, 
 that you are only one atom of the mass of hu- 
 manity, and have neither such virtue nor vice as 
 that you should be singled out for supernatural 
 favours or afflictions." 
 
 CHAPTER XL VII. 
 
 THE PRINCE ENTERS AND BRINGS A NEW 
 TOPIC. 
 
 " ALL this," said the astronomer, " I have often 
 thought; but my reason has been so long subju- 
 gated by an uncontrollable and overwhelming 
 idea, that it durst not confide in its own decisions. 
 I now see how fatally I betrayed my quiet, by 
 suffering chimeras to prey upon me in secret ; but 
 melancholy shrinks from communication, and I 
 never found a man before to whom I could impart 
 my troubles, though I had been certain of relief. 
 I rejoice to find my own sentiments confirmed by 
 yours, who are not easily deceived, and can have 
 no motive or purpose to deceive. I hope that 
 time and variety will dissipate the gloom that has 
 so long surrounded me, and the latter part of my 
 days will be spent in peace." 
 
 " Your learning and virtue," said Imlac, " may 
 justly give you hopes." 
 
 Rasselas then entered, with the princess and 
 Pekuah, and inquired whether they had contrived 
 any new diversion for the next day. " Such," 
 said Nekayah, " is the state of life, that none are 
 happy but by the anticipation of change : the 
 change itself is nothing; when we have made it, 
 the next wish is to change again. The world is 
 not yet exhausted ; let me see something to-mor- 
 row which I never saw before." 
 
 " Variety," said Rasselas, " is so necessary to 
 content, that even the happy valley disgusted mo 
 by the recurrence of its luxuries ; yet I could not 
 forbear to reproach myself with impatience, when 
 I saw the monks of St. Anthony support, without 
 complaint, a life, not of uniform delight, but uni- 
 form hardship." 
 
 " Those men," answered Imlac, " are less 
 wretched in their silent convent than the Abis- 
 sinian princes in their prison of pleasure. What- 
 ever is done by the monks is incited by an ade 
 quate and reasonable motive. Their labour sup 
 plies them with necessaries ; it therefore cannot 
 be omitted, and is certainly rewarded. Their de- 
 votion prepares them for another state, and re-
 
 488 
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 minds them of its approach, while it fits them 
 for it Their time is regularly distributed ; one 
 duty succeeds another; so that they are not left 
 open to the distraction of unguided choice, nor 
 lost in the shades of listless inactivity. There is 
 a certain task to be performed at an appropriated 
 hour ; and their toils are cheerful, because they 
 consider them as acts of piety, by which they are 
 always advancing towards endless felicity." 
 
 " Do you think," said Nekayah, " that the mo- 
 nastic rule is a more holy and less imperfect state 
 than any other ? May not he equally hope for 
 future happiness who converses openly with man- 
 kind, who succours the distressed by his charity, 
 instructs the ignorant by his learning, and contri- 
 butes by his industry to the general system of life ; 
 even though he should omit some of the mortifi- 
 cations which are practised in the cloister, and 
 allow himself such harmless delights, as his con- 
 dition may place within his reach?" 
 
 " This," said Imlac, " is a question which has 
 long divided the wise, and perplexed the good. I 
 am afraid to decide on either part He that lives 
 well in the world is better than he that lives well 
 in a monastery. But, perhaps, every one is not 
 able to stem the temptations of public life ; and, 
 if he cannot conquer, he may properly retreat. 
 Some have little power to do good, and have 
 likewise little strength to resist evil. Many 
 are weary of their conflicts with adversity, and 
 are willing to eject those passions which have 
 long busied them in vain. And many are dis- 
 missed by age and diseases from the more labo- 
 rious duties of society. In monasteries the weak 
 and timorous may be" happily sheltered, the weary 
 may repose, and the penitent may meditate. 
 Those retreats of prayer and contemplation have 
 something so congenial to the mind of man, that, 
 perhaps, there is scarcely one that does not pur- 
 pose to close his life in pious abstraction, with a 
 Few associates serious as himself." 
 
 "Such," said Pekuah, "has often been my 
 wish ; and I have heard the princess declare, that 
 she should not willingly die in a crowd." 
 
 " The liberty of using harmless pleasures," pro- 
 ceeded Imlac, " will not be disputed ; but it is 
 still to be examined what pleasures are harmless. 
 The evil of any pleasure that Nek ayah can image 
 is not in the act itself, but in its consequences. 
 Pleasure, in itself harmless, may become mis- 
 cliievous, by endearing to us a state which we 
 know to be transient and probatory, and with- 
 drawing our thoughts from that, of which every 
 hour brings us nearer to the beginning, and of 
 which no length of time will bring us to the end. 
 Mortification is not virtuous in itself, nor has any 
 other use, but that it disengages us from the al- 
 lurements of sense. In the state of future perfec- 
 tun, to which we all aspire, there will be plea- 
 sure without danger, and security without re- 
 s' raint." 
 
 Tha princes? was silent, and Rasselas, turning 
 to the astronomer, asked him whether he could 
 not delay her retreat, by showing her something 
 which she had not seen before. 
 
 " Your curiosity," said the sage, " has been so 
 general, and your pursuit of knowledge so vigor- 
 ous, that novelties are not now very easily to be 
 found : but what you can no longer procure from 
 the living may be given by the dead. Among the 
 wonders of this country are the catacombs, or the 
 ancient repositories, in which ths bodies of the 
 earliest generations ware lodged, and wh^ra, by 
 
 the virtue of the gums which embalmed them, 
 they yet remain without corruption." 
 
 " I know not," said Rasselas, " what pleasure 
 the sight of the catacombs can afford ; but, since 
 nothing else is offered, I am resolved to view them, 
 and shall place this with many other things which I 
 have done, because I would do something." 
 
 They hired a guard of horsemen, and the next 
 day visited the catacombs. When they were 
 about to descend into the sepulchral caves, " Pe- 
 kuah," said the princess, " we are now again 
 invading the habitations of the dead, I know that 
 you will stay behind ; let me find you safe when 
 I return." " No, I will not be left," answered 
 Pekuah : " I will go down between you and the 
 prince." 
 
 They then all descended, and roved with won- 
 der through the labyrinth of subterraneous pas- 
 sages, where the bodies were laid in rows on either 
 side. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 IMLAC DISCOURSES ON THE NATURE OF THE SOUL. 
 
 ""WHAT reason," said the prince, "can be 
 given, why the Egyptians should thus expensively 
 preserve those carcasses which some nations con- 
 sume with fire, others lay to mingle with the 
 earth, and all agree to remove from their sight as 
 soon as decent rites can be performed ?" 
 
 " The original of ancient customs," said Imlac, 
 " is commonly unknown ; for the practice often 
 continues when the cause has ceased : and con- 
 cerning superstitious ceremonies, it is vain to 
 conjecture ; for what reason did not dictate, rea- 
 son cannot explain. I have long believed that 
 the practice of embalming arose only from tender- 
 ness to the remains of relations or friends ; and 
 to this opinion I am more inclined, because it 
 seems impossible that this care should have been 
 general ; had all the dead been embalmed, their 
 repositories must in time have been more spacious 
 than the dwellings of the living. I suppose only 
 the rich or honourable were secured from corrup- 
 tion, and the rest left to the course of nature. 
 
 " But it is commonly supposed that the Egyp- 
 tians believed the soul to live as long as the body 
 continued undissolved, and therefore tried this 
 method of eluding death." 
 
 " Could the wise Egyptians," said Nekayah. 
 " think so grossly of the soul ? If the soul could 
 once survive its separation, what could it after- 
 wards receive or suffer from the body ?" 
 
 " The Egyptians would doubtless think erro- 
 neously," said the astronomer, " in the darkness 
 of heathenism, and the first dawn of philosophy. 
 The nature of the soul is still disputed, amidst all 
 our opportunities of clearer knowledge : some 
 yet say, that it may be material, who, neverthe 
 less, believe it to be immortal." 
 
 " Some," answered Imlac, " have indeed said 
 that the soul is material, but I can scarcely be- 
 lieve that any man has thought it who knew how 
 to think ; for all the conclusions of reason enforce 
 the immateriality of mind, and all the notices of 
 sense and investigations of science concur to 
 prove the unconsciousness of matter. 
 
 " It was never supposed that cogitation is in- 
 herent in matter, or that every particle is a think- 
 ing being. Yet if any part of matter be devoid 
 of thought, what part can we suppose to think ? 
 Matter can differ from matter on!v in form, dun-
 
 RASSELAS. 
 
 489 
 
 sit} 1 , bulk, motion, and direction of motion. To 
 which of these, however varied or combined, can 
 consciousness be annexed ? To be round or 
 square, to be solid or fluid, to be great or little, to 
 be moved slowly or swiftly, one way or another, 
 are modes of material existence, all equally alien 
 from the nature of cogitation. If matter be once 
 without thought, it can only be made to think by 
 some new modification ; but all the modifications 
 which it can admit are equally unconnected with 
 cogitative powers." 
 
 ".But the materialists," said the astronomer, 
 " urge that matter may have qualities with which 
 we are unacquainted." 
 
 " He who will determine," returned Imlac, 
 " against that which he knows, because there 
 may be something which he knows not ; he that 
 can set hypothetical possibility against acknow- 
 ledged certainty, is not to be admitted among 
 reasonable beings. All that we know of matter 
 is, that matter is inert, senseless, and lifeless ; and 
 if this conviction cannot be opposed but by refer- 
 ring us to something that we know not, we have 
 all the evidence that human intellect can admit. 
 Tf that which is known may be overruled by that 
 which is unknown, no being, not omniscient, can 
 arrive at certainty." 
 
 "Yet let us not," said the astronomer, "too 
 arrogantly limit the Creator's power." 
 
 " It is no limitation of Omnipotence," replied 
 the poet, " to suppose that one thing is not con- 
 sistent with another, that the same proposition 
 cannot be at once true and false, that the same 
 number cannot be even and odd, that cogitation 
 cannot be conferred on that which is created in- 
 capable of cogitation." 
 
 " I know not," said Nekayah, " any great use 
 of tliis question. Does that immateriality, which, 
 in ray opinion, you have sufficiently proved, ne- 
 cessarily include eternal duration ?" 
 
 " Of immateriality," said Imlac, " our ideas are 
 negative, and therefore obscure. Immateriality 
 seems to imply a natural power of perpetual 
 duration as a consequence of exemption from all 
 causes of decay : whatever perishes is destroyed 
 by the solution of its contexture, and separation 
 of its parts ; nor can we conceive how that which 
 has no parts, and therefore admits no solution, 
 can be naturally corrupted or impaired." 
 
 " 1 know not," said Rasselas, " how to con- 
 ceive any thing without extension : what is ex- 
 tended must have parts, and you allow that 
 whatever has parts may be destroyed." 
 
 " Consider your own conceptions," replied Iin- 
 lac, " and the difficulty will be less. You will 
 find substance without extension. An ideal form 
 is no less real than material bulk ; yet an ideal 
 form has no extension. It is no less certain, when 
 you think on a pyramid, that your mind possesses 
 the idea of a pyramid, than that the pyramid 
 itself is standing. What space does the idea of 
 a pyramid occupy more than the idea of a grain 
 of corn ? or how can either idea suffer laceration ? 
 As is the effect, such is the cause ; as thought, 
 such is the power that thinks, a power impassive 
 and indiscerptible." 
 
 " But the Being," said Nekayah, " whom I 
 fear to name, the Being which made the soul, can 
 destroy it." 
 
 " He surely can destroy it," answered Imlac, 
 '* since, however unperishable, it receives from a 
 3 M 
 
 superior nature its power of duration. That it 
 will not perish by any inherent cause of decay, or 
 principle of corruption, may be shown by philoso- 
 phy ; but philosophy can tell no more. That it 
 will not be annihilated, bv Him that made it, we 
 must humbly learn from nigher authority." 
 
 The whole assembly stood a while silent, and 
 collected. " Let us return," said Rasselas, " from 
 this scene of mortality. How gloomy would be 
 these mansions of the dead to him who did not 
 know that he should never die ; that what now 
 acts shall continue its agency, and what now 
 thinks shall think on for ever. Those that lie 
 here stretched before us, the wise and the power- 
 ful of ancient times, warn us to remember the 
 shortness of our present state : they were, per- 
 haps, snatched away while they were busy, like 
 us, in the choice of life." 
 
 " To me," said the princess, " the choice of life 
 is become less important ; I hope hereafter to 
 think only on the choice of eternity." 
 
 They then hastened out of the caverns, and, 
 under the protection of their guard, returned to 
 Cairo. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 THE CONCLUSION, IN WHICH NOTHING IS 
 CONCLUDED. 
 
 IT was now the time of the inundation of the 
 Nile : a few days after their visit to the catacomba 
 the river began to rise. 
 
 They were confined to their house. The whole 
 region being under water, gave them no invita- 
 tion to any excursions ; and being well supplied 
 with materials for talk, they diverted themselves 
 with comparisons of the different forms of life 
 which they had observed, and with various 
 schemes of happiness which each of them had 
 formed. 
 
 Pekuah was never so much charmed with any 
 place as the convent of St Anthony, where the 
 Arab restored her to the princess, and wished 
 only to fill it with pious maidens, and to be made 
 prioress of the order : she was weary of expecta- 
 tion and disgust, and would gladly be fixed in 
 some unvariable state. 
 
 The princess thought, that, of all sublunary 
 Jungs, knowledge was the best She desired 
 irst to learn all sciences, and then purposed to 
 'ound a college of learned women, in which she 
 would preside, that, by conversing with the old, 
 and educating the young, she might divide her 
 time between the acquisition and communication 
 of wisdom, and raise up for the next age models 
 of prudence and patterns of piety. 
 
 The prince desired a little kingdom, in which 
 tie might administer justice in his own person, 
 and see all the parts of government with his own 
 eyes ; but he could never fix the limits of his 
 dominion, and was always adding to the number 
 of his subjects. 
 
 Imlac and the astronomer were contented to 
 be driven along the stream of life, without direct- 
 ing their course to any particular port 
 
 Of these wishes that they had formed, they 
 well knew that none could be obtained. They 
 deliberated a while what was to be done, and 
 resolved, when the inundation should cease, to 
 return to Abissinia.
 
 
 TALfiS OF IMAGINATION. 
 
 THE VISION OF THEODORE, THE 
 HERMIT OF TENERIFFE, 
 
 FOUND IN HIS CELL. 1748. 
 
 FROM THE PRECEPTOR. 
 
 SON of Perseverance, whoever thou art, whose 
 curiosity has led thee hither, read and be wise. 
 He that now calls upon thee is Theodore, the 
 Hermit of TenerirTe, who in the fifty-seventh year 
 of his retreat, left this instruction to mankind, lest 
 his solitary hours should be spent in vain. 
 
 I was once what thou art now, a groveller on 
 the earth, and a gazer at the sky ; I trafficked and 
 heaped wealth together, I loved and was favoured, 
 1 wore the robe of honour, and heard the music of 
 adulation : I was ambitious, and rose to greatness : 
 I was unhappy, and retired. I sought for some 
 time what I at length found here, a place where 
 all real wants might be easily supplied, and where 
 I might not be under the necessity of purchasing 
 the assistance of men by the toleration of their 
 follies. Here I saw fruits and herbs and water, 
 and here determined to wait the hand of death, 
 which I hope, when at last it comes, will fall 
 lightly upon me. 
 
 Forty-eight years had I now passed in forget- 
 fulness of all mortal cares, and without any incli- 
 nation to wander farther than the necessity of pro- 
 curing sustenance required ; but as I stood one 
 day beholding the rock that overhangs my cell, I 
 found in myself a desire to clknb it ; and when I 
 was on its top, was in the same manner deter- 
 mined to scale the next, till by degrees I conceived 
 a wish to view the summit of the mountain, at the 
 foot of which I had so long resided. This motion 
 of my thoughts I endeavoured to suppress, not 
 because it appeared criminal, but because it was 
 new ; and all change not evidently for the bet- 
 ter, alarms a mind taught by experience to dis- 
 trust itself. I was often afraid that my heart was 
 deceiving me, that my impatience of confinement 
 arose from some earthly passion, and that my ar- 
 dour to survey the works of nature was only a 
 hidden longing to mingle once again in the scenes 
 of life. I therefore endeavoured to settle my 
 thoughts into their former state, but found their 
 distraction every day greater. I was always re- 
 proaching myself with the want of happiness 
 within my reach, and at last began to question 
 whether it was not laziness rather than caution 
 that restrained me from climbing to the summit 
 of Teneriffe. 
 
 I rose therefore before the day. and began my 
 journey up the steep of the mountain ; but I had 
 not advanced far, old as I was and burdened 
 with provisions, when the day began to shine 
 upon me, the declivities grew more precipitous, 
 and the sand slided from beneath my feet : at last, 
 
 fainting with labour, I arrived at a small plain 
 almost enclosed by rocks, and open only to the 
 east. I sat down to rest awliile, in full persuasion 
 that when I had recovered my strength I should 
 proceed on my design ; but when once I had 
 tasted ease, I found many reasons against dis- 
 turbing it. The branches spread a shade over my 
 head, and the gales of spring wafted odours to 
 my bosom. 
 
 As I sat thus, forming alternately excuses for 
 delay, and resolutions to go forward", an irresisti- 
 ble heaviness suddenly surprised me ; I laid my 
 head upon the bank, and resigned myself to sleep: 
 when methought I heard the sound as of the flight 
 of eagles, and a being of more than human dig- 
 nity stood before me. While I was deliberating 
 how to address him, he took me by the hand with 
 an air of kindness, and asked me solemnly, but 
 without severity, "Theodore, whither art thou 
 going?" "I am climbing," answered I, "to the 
 top of the mountain, to enjoy a more extensive 
 prospect of the works of nature." " Attend first," 
 says he, " to the prospect which this place affords, 
 and what thou dost not understand I will explain. 
 I am one of the benevolent beings who watch 
 over the children of the dust, to preserve them 
 from those evils which will not ultimately termi- 
 nate in good, and which they do not, by their own 
 faults, bring upon themselves. Look round there 
 fore without fear : observe, contemplate, and be 
 instructed." 
 
 Encouraged by this assurance, I looked and 
 beheld a mountain higher than TenerifFe. to the 
 summit of which the human eye could never 
 reach : when I had tired myself with gazing upon 
 its height, I turned my eyes towards its foot, 
 which I could easily discover, but was amazed to 
 find it without foundation, and placed inconceiva 
 bly in emptiness and darkness. Thus I stood 
 terrified and confused ; above were tracks inscru- 
 table and below was total vacuity. But my pre- 
 ceptor, with a voice of admonition, . cried out, 
 " Theodore, be not affrighted, but raise thy eyes 
 again; the Mountain of Existence is before thee, 
 survey it and be wise." 
 
 I then looked with more deliberate attention, 
 and observed the bottom of the mountain to be 
 of gentle rise, and overspread with flowers ; the 
 middle to be more steep, embarrassed with crags, 
 and interrupted by precipices, over which hung 
 branches loaded with fruits, and among which 
 were scattered palaces and bowers. The tracts 
 which my eyecould reach nearest the top were 
 generally barren ; but there were among the 
 clefts of the rocks a few hardy evergreens, which 
 though they did not give much pleasure to the 
 sight or smell, yet seemed to cheer the labour and 
 facilitate the steps of those who were clambering 
 among them.
 
 THE VISION OF THEODORE, 
 
 491 
 
 Then, beginning to examine more minutely the 
 different parts, I observed at a great distance a 
 multitude of both sexes issuing into view from the 
 bottom of the mountain. Their first actions I 
 could not accurately discern ; but, as they every 
 moment approached nearer, I found that they 
 amused themselves with gathering flowers under 
 the superintendence of a modest virgin in a white 
 robe, who seemed not over solicitous to confine 
 them to any settled pace or certain track : for she 
 knew that the whole ground was smooth and 
 solid, and that they could not easily be hurt or 
 bewildered. When, as it often happened, they 
 plucked a thistle for a flower, Innocence, so she 
 was called, would smile at the mistake. Happy, 
 said I, are they who are under so gentle a govern- 
 ment, and yet are safe. But I had no opportunity 
 to dwell long on the consideration of their felicity ; 
 for I found that Innocence continued her attend- 
 ance but a little way, and seemed to consider only 
 the flowery bottom of the mountain as her pro- 
 per province. Those whom she abandoned 
 scarcely knew that they were left, before they per- 
 ceived themselves in the hands of Education, a 
 nymph more severe in her aspect, and imperious 
 in her commands, who confined them to certain 
 paths, in their opinion too narrow and too rough. 
 These they were continually solicited to leave by 
 Appetite, whom Education could never fright 
 away, though she sometimes awed her to such 
 timidity, that the effects of her presence were 
 scarcely perceptible. Some went back to the first 
 part of the mountain, and seemed desirous of 
 continuing busied in plucking flowers, but were 
 no longer guarded by Innocence; and such as 
 Education could not force back, proceeded up the 
 mountain by some miry road, in which they were 
 seldom seen, and scarcely ever regarded. 
 
 As Education led her troop up the mountain, 
 nothing was more observable than that she was 
 frequently giving them cautions to beware of Ha- 
 bits ; and was calling out to one or another at 
 every step, that a Habit was ensnaring them ; that 
 they would be under the dominion of Habit before 
 they perceived their danger ; and that those whom 
 Habit should once subdue, had little hope of re- 
 gaining their liberty. 
 
 Of this caution, so frequently repeated, 1 was 
 very solicitous to know the reason, when my pro- 
 tector directed my regard to a troop of pigmies, 
 which appeared to walk silently before those that 
 were climbing the mountain, and each to smooth 
 the way before her follower. I found that I had 
 missed the notice of them before, both because 
 thev were so minute as not easily to be discerned, 
 and because they grew every moment nearer in 
 their colour to the objects with which they were 
 surrounded. As the followers of Education 
 did not appear to be sensible of the presence of 
 these dangerous associates, or, ridiculing their 
 diminutive size, did not think it possible that hu- 
 man beings should ever be brought into subjection 
 by such feeble enemies, they generally heard her 
 precepts of vigilance with wonder: and when 
 they thought her eye withdrawn, treated them 
 with contempt. Nor could I myself think her 
 cautions so necessary as her frequent inculcations 
 seemed to suppose, till I observed that each of 
 these petty beings held secretly a chain in her 
 hand, with which she prepared to bind those 
 whom she found within her power. Yet these 
 Habits, under the eye of Education, went quietly 
 forward, and seeined very little to increase in 
 
 bulk or strength ; for though they were always 
 willing to join with Appetite, yet when Education 
 kept them apart from her, they would very punc- 
 tually obey command, and make the narrow roads 
 in which they were confined easier and smoother 
 
 It was observable, that their stature was never 
 at a stand, but continually growing or decreasing, 
 yet not always in the same proportions : nor could 
 1 forbear to express my admiration, when I saw 
 in how much less time they generally gained than 
 lost bulk. Though they grew slowly in the road 
 of Education, it might however be perceived that 
 they grew ; but if they once deviated at the call 
 of Appetite, their stature soon became gigantic; 
 and their strength was such that Education 
 pointed out to her tribe many that were led in 
 chains by them, whom she could never more 
 rescue from their slavery. She pointed them out, 
 but with little effect ; for all her pupils appeared 
 confident of their own superiority to the strongest 
 Habit, and some seemed in secret to regret that 
 they were hindered from following the triumph of 
 Appetite. 
 
 It was the peculiar artifice of Habit not to suf- 
 fer her power to be felt at first. Those whom she 
 led, she had the address of appearing only to at- 
 tend, but was continually doubling her chains 
 upon her companions; which were so slender in 
 themselves, and so silently fastened, that while 
 the attention was engaged by other objects, they 
 were not easily perceived. Each link grew tighter 
 as it had been longer worn ; and when by con- 
 tinual additions they became so heavy as to be 
 felt, they were very frequently too strong to be 
 broken. 
 
 When Education had proceeded in this manner 
 to the part of the mountain where the declivity 
 began to grow craggy, she resigned her charge to 
 two powers of superior aspect The meaner of 
 them appeared capable of presiding in senates, or 
 governing nations, and yet watched the steps of 
 the other with the most anxious attention, and 
 was visibly confounded and perplexed if ever she 
 suffered her regard to be drawn away. The other 
 seemed to approve her submission as pleasing, 
 but with such a condescension as plainly showed 
 that she claimed it as due ; and indeed so great 
 was her dignity and sweetness,- that he who would 
 not reverence, must not beholfl her. 
 
 " Theodore," said my protector, " be fearless, 
 and be wise ; approach these powers, whose do- 
 minion extends to all the remaining part of the 
 Mountain of Existence." I trembled, and ven- 
 tured to address the inferior nymph, whose eyes, 
 though piercing and awful, I was not able to sus- 
 tain. " Bright Power," said I, " by whatever name 
 it is lawful to address thee, tell me, thou who pre- 
 sidest here, on what condition thy protection will 
 be granted?" "It will be granted," said she y 
 " only to obedience. I am Reason, of all subordi- 
 nate beings the noblest and the greatest ; who, if 
 thou wilt receive my laws, will reward thee like 
 the rest of my votaries, by conducting thee to Re- 
 ligion." Charmed by her voice and aspect, I pro- 
 fessed my readiness to follow her. She then pre- 
 sented me to her mistress, who looked upon me 
 with tenderness. I bowed before her, and she 
 smiled. 
 
 When Education delivered up those for whose 
 happiness she had been so long solicitous, she 
 seemed to expect that they should express some 
 gratitude for her care, or some regret at the loss 
 of that protection which she had hitherto afforded
 
 492 
 
 THE HERMIT OF TENERIFFK 
 
 them. But it was easy to discover, by the alacrity 
 which broke out at her departure, that her pre- 
 sence had been long displeasing, and that she had 
 been teaching those who felt in themselves no 
 want of instruction. They all agreed in rejoicing 
 that they should no longer be subject to her ca- 
 prices, or disturbed by her documents, but should 
 be now under the direction only of Reason, to 
 whom they made no doubt of being able to re- 
 commend themselves by a steady adherence to 
 all her precepts. Reason counselled them, at 
 their first entrance upon her province, to enlist 
 themselves among the votaries of Religion ; and 
 informed them, that if they trusted to her alone, 
 they would find the same fate with her other ad- 
 mirers, whom she had not been able to secure 
 against Appetites and Passions, and who, having 
 been seized by Habits in the regions of Desire, 
 had been dragged away to the caverns of De- 
 spair. Her admonition was vain ; the greater 
 number declared against any other direction, and 
 doubted not but by her superintendency they 
 should climb with safety up the Mountain of Ex- 
 istence. "My power," said Reason, " is to ad- 
 vise, not to compel ; I have already told you the 
 danger of your choice. The path seems now 
 plain and even, but there are asperities and pit- 
 falls, over which Religion only can conduct you. 
 Look upwards, and you perceive a mist before 
 you, settled upon the highest visible part of the 
 mountain ; a mist by which my prospect is termi- 
 nated, and which is pierced only by the eyes of 
 Religion. Beyond it are the temples of Happi- 
 ness, in which those who climb the precipice by 
 her direction, after the toil of their pilgrimage, re- 
 pose for ever. I know not the way, and therefore 
 can only conduct you to a better guide. Pride 
 has sometimes reproached me with the narrow- 
 ness of my view, but when she endeavoured to 
 extend it, could only show me, below the mist, 
 the bowers of Content; even they vanished as I 
 fixed my eyes upon them ; and those whom she 
 persuaded to travel towards them were enchained 
 by Habits, and ingulfed by Despair, a cruel ty- 
 rant, whose caverns are beyond the darkness on 
 the right side and on the left, from whose prisons 
 none can escape, and whom I cannot teach you 
 to avoid." 
 
 Such was the declaration of Reason to those 
 who demanded her protection. Some that recol- 
 lected the dictates of Education, finding them now 
 seconded by another authority, submitted with 
 reluctance to the strict decree, and engaged them- 
 selves among the followers of Religion, who were 
 distinguished by the uniformity of their march, 
 though many of them were women, and by their 
 continual endeavours to move upwards, without 
 appearing to regard the prospects which at every 
 step courted their attention. 
 
 All those who determined to follow either Rea- 
 son or Religion, were continually importuned to 
 forsake the road, sometimes by Passions, and 
 sometimes by Appetites, of whom both had rea- 
 son to boast the success of their artifices ; for 
 so many were drawn into by-paths, that any way 
 was more populous than the right The attacks 
 of the Appetites were more impetuous, those of 
 the Passions longer continued. The Appetites 
 turned their followers directly from the true way ; 
 but the Passions marched at first in a path nearly 
 in the same direction with that of Reason and Re- 
 ligion, but deviated by slow degrees, till at last 
 they entirely changed their course. Appetite 
 
 drew aside the dull, and Passion the sprightly. 
 Of the Appetites, Lust was the strongest; and of 
 the Passions, Vanity. The most powerful assault 
 was to be feared, when a Passion and an Appe- 
 tite joined their enticements; and the path of 
 Reason was best followed, when a Passion called 
 to one side, and an Appetite to the other. 
 
 These seducers had the greatest success upon 
 the followers of Reason, over whom they scarcely 
 ever failed to prevail, except when they counter- 
 acted one another. They had not the same tri- 
 umphs over the votaries of Religion ; for though 
 they were often led aside for a time, Religion 
 commonly recalled them by her emissary Con- 
 science, before Habit had time to enchain them. 
 But they that professed to obey Reason, if once 
 they forsook her, seldom returned ; for she had 
 no messenger to summon them but Pride, who 
 generally betrayed her confidence, and employed 
 all her skill to support Passion ; and if ever she 
 did her duty, was found unable to prevail, if Ha- 
 bit had interposed. 
 
 I soon found that the great danger to the fol- 
 lowers of Religion was only from Habit ; every 
 other power was easily resisted, nor did they find 
 any difficulty, when they inadvertently quitted 
 her, to find her again by the direction of Con- 
 science, unless they had given time to Habit to 
 draw her chain behind them, and bar up the way 
 by which they had wandered. Of some of those 
 the condition was justly to be pitied, who turned 
 at every call of Conscience, and tried, but with- 
 out effect, to burst the chains of Habit ; saw Reli- 
 gion walking forwards at a distance, saw her 
 with reverence, and longed to join her ; but were, 
 whenever they approached her, withheld by Ha- 
 bit, and languished in sordid bondage, which 
 they could not escape, though they scorned and 
 hated it 
 
 It was evident that the Habits were so far from 
 growing weaker by these repeated contests, that 
 if they were not totally overcome, every struggle 
 enlarged their bulk and increased their strength ; 
 and a Habit opposed and victorious was more 
 than twice as strong as before the contest. The 
 manner in which those who were weary of their 
 tyranny endeavoured to escape from them, ap- 
 peared by the event to be generally wrong ; they 
 tried to loose their chains one by one, and lo re- 
 treat by the same degrees as they advanced ; but 
 before the deliverance was completed, Habit al- 
 ways threw new chains upon her fugitive ; nor did 
 any escape her but those who, by an effort sud- 
 den and violent, burst their shackles at once and 
 left her at a distance ; and even of these many 
 rushing too precipitately forward, and liinder- 
 ed by their terrors from stopping where they 
 were safe, were fatigued with their own vehe- 
 mence, and resigned themselves again to that 
 power from whom an escape must be so dearly 
 bought, and whose tyranny was little felt, except 
 when it was resisted. 
 
 Some however there always were, who when 
 they found Habit prevailing over them, called 
 upon Reason or Religion for assistance ; each of 
 them willingly came to the succour of her suppli- 
 ant, but neither with the same strength nor the 
 same success. Habit, insolent with her power, 
 would often presume to parley with Reason, 
 and offer to loose some of her chains if the rest 
 might remain. To this Reason, who was never 
 certain of victory, frequently consented, but al- 
 ways found her concession destructive, and saw
 
 THE VISION OF THEODORE, 
 
 493 
 
 the captive led away by Habit to his former sla- 
 very. Religion never submitted to treaty, but held 
 out her hand with certainty of conquest ; and if 
 the captive to whom she gave it did not quit his 
 hold, always led him away in triumph, and placed 
 him in the direct path to the Temple of Happi- 
 ness, where Reason neverfailed to congratulate his 
 deliverance, and encourage his adherence to that 
 power to whose timely succour he was indebted 
 for it. 
 
 When the traveller was again placed in the 
 road of Happiness, I saw Habit again gliding 
 before him, but reduced to the stature of a dwarf, 
 without strength and without activity ; but when 
 the Passions or Appetites, which had before se- 
 duced him, made their approach, Habit would on 
 a sudden start into size, and with unexpected 
 violence push him towards them. The wretch, 
 thus impelled on one side, and allured on the 
 other, too frequently quitted the road of Happi- 
 ness, to which after his second deviation from it, 
 he rarely returned: but by a timely call upon Re- 
 ligion, the force of Habit was eluded, her attacks 
 grew fainter, and at last her correspondence with 
 the enemy was entirely destroyed. She then 
 began to employ those restless faculties in com- 
 pliance with the power which she could not over- 
 come ; and as she grew again in stature and in 
 strength, cleared away the asperities of the road 
 to Happiness. 
 
 From this road I could not easily withdraw my 
 attention, because all who travelled it appeared 
 cheerful and satisfied ; and the farther they pro- 
 ceeded, the greater appeared their alacrity, and 
 the stronger their conviction of the wisdom of 
 their guide. Some, who had never deviated but 
 by short excursions, had Habit in the middle of 
 their passage vigorously supporting them, and 
 driving off their Appetites and Passions which 
 attempted to interrupt their progress. Others, 
 who had entered this road late, or had long for- 
 saken it, were toiling on without her help at least, 
 and commonly against her endeavours. But I 
 observed, when they approached to the barren 
 top, that few were able to proceed without some 
 support from Habit : and that they whose Habits 
 were strong, advanced towards the mists with 
 little emotion, and entered them at last with calm- 
 ness and confidence ; after which, they were seen 
 only by the eye of Religion : and though Reason 
 looked after them with the most earnest curiosity, 
 she could only obtain a faint glimpse, when her 
 mistress to enlarge her prospect raised her from 
 the ground. Reason, however, discerned that 
 they were safe, but Religion saw that they were 
 happy. 
 
 "Now, Theodore," said my protector, " with- 
 draw thy view from the regions of obscurity, and 
 see the fate of those who, when they were dis- 
 missed by Education, would admit no direction 
 but that of Reason. Survey their wanderings, and 
 be wise." 
 
 I looked then upon the Road of Reason, which 
 was indeed, so far as it reached, the same with 
 that of Religion, nor had reason discovered it but 
 by her instruction. Yet when she had once been 
 taught it, she clearly saw that it was right ; and 
 Pride had sometimes incited her to declare that 
 she discovered it herself, and persuaded her to 
 offer herself as a guide to Religion: whom after 
 many vain experiments she found it her highest 
 privilege to follow. Reason was however at last 
 M ell instructed in part of the way, and appeared 
 
 to teach it with some success when her precepts 
 were not misrepresented by Passion, or her influ- 
 ence overborne by Appetite. But neither of these 
 enemies was she" able to resist. When Passion 
 seized upon her votaries, she seldom attempted 
 opposition ; she seemed indeed to contend with 
 more vigour against Appetite, but was generally 
 over-wearied in the contest ; and if either of her 
 opponents had confederated with Habit, her au- 
 thority was wholly at an end. When Habit en- 
 deavoured to captivate the votaries of Religion, 
 she grew by slow degrees, and gave time to 
 escape ; but in seizing the unhappy followers of 
 Reason, she proceeded as one that had nothing 
 to fear, and enlarged her size, and doubled her 
 chains without intermission, and without reserve. 
 
 Of those who forsook the directions of Reason, 
 some were led aside by the whispers of Ambition, 
 who was perpetually pointing to stately palaces, 
 situated on eminences on either side, recounting 
 the delights of affluence, and boasting the secu- 
 rity of power. They were easily persuaded to 
 follow her, and Habit quickly threw her chains 
 upon them ; they were soon convinced of the folly 
 of their choice, but few of them attempted to re- 
 turn. Ambition led them forward from precipice 
 to precipice, where many fell, and were seen no 
 more. Those that escaped were, after a long 
 series of hazards, generally delivered over to Ava- 
 rice, and enlisted by her in the service of Ty- 
 ranny, where they continued to heap up gold till 
 their patrons or their heirs pushed them headlong 
 at last into the cavern of Despair. 
 
 Others were enticed by Intemperance to ram- 
 ble in search of those fruits that hung over the 
 rocks, and filled the air with their fragrance. I 
 observed, that the Habits which hovered about 
 these soon grew to an enormous size, nor were 
 there any who less attempted to return to Rea- 
 son, or sooner sunk into the gulfs that lay before 
 them. When these first quitted the road, Reason 
 looked after them with a frown of contempt, but 
 had little expectations of being able to reclaim 
 them ; for the bowl of intoxication was of such 
 qualities as to make them lose all regard but for 
 the present moment ; neither Hope nor Fear 
 could enter their retreats : and Habit had so abso- 
 lute a power, that even Conscience, if Religion 
 had employed her in their favour, would not have 
 been able to force an entrance. 
 
 There were others whose crime it was rather to 
 neglect Reason than to disobey her : and who 
 retreated from the heat and tumult of the way, 
 not to the bowers of Intemperance, but to the 
 maze of Indolence. They had this peculiarity in 
 their condition, that they were always in sight of 
 the Road of Reason, always wishing for her pre- 
 sence, and always resolving to return to-morrow. 
 In these was most eminently conspicuous the sub- 
 tlety of Habit, who hung imperceptible shackles 
 upon them, and was every moment leading them 
 farther from the road, which they always imagined 
 that they had the power of reaching. They wan- 
 dered on from one double of the labyrinth to ano- 
 ther, with the chains of Habit hanging secretly 
 upon them, till, as they advanced, the flowers 
 grew paler, and the scents fainter ; they proceeded 
 in their dreary march without pleasure in their 
 progress, yet without power to return ; and had 
 this aggravation above all others, that they were 
 criminal but not delighted. The drunkard for a 
 time laughed over his wine ; the ambitious man 
 triumphed in the miscarriage of his rival ; but the
 
 494 
 
 THE FOUNTAINS. 
 
 captives of Indolence had neither superiority no: 
 merriment Discontent lowered in their looks 
 and Sadness hovered round their shades ; ye 
 they crawled on reluctant and gloomy, till thei 
 arrived at the depth of the recess, varied onli 
 with poppies and nightshade, where the domi- 
 nion of Indolence terminates, and the hopeless 
 wanderer is delivered up to Melancholy ; the 
 chains of Habit are riveted for ever, and Melan 
 choly, having tortured her prisoner for a time 
 consigns him at last to the cruelty of Despair. 
 
 While I was musing on this miserable scene 
 my protector called out to me, " Remember 
 Theodore, and be wise, and let not Habit prevai 
 against thee." I started, and beheld myself sur- 
 rounded by the rocks of Teneriffe : the birds ol 
 light were singing in the trees, and the glances o 
 the morning darted upon me. 
 
 THE FOUNTAINS : 
 
 A FAIRY TALE.* 
 
 Felix (|iii potuit boni 
 
 Fontem visere lucidum. Soethius. 
 
 As Floretta was wandering in a meadow at the 
 foot of Plinlimmon, she heard a little bird cry in 
 such a note as she had never observed before, anc 
 looking round her, saw a lovely goldfinch entan- 
 gled by a lime-twig, and a hawk hovering over 
 him, as at the point of seizing him in his talons. 
 
 Floretta longed to rescue the little bird, but was 
 afraid to encounter the hawk, who looked fiercely 
 upon her without any apparent dread of her ap- 
 proach, and as she advanced seemed to increase 
 in bulk, and clapped his wings in token of de- 
 fiance. Floretta stood deliberating a few mo- 
 ments, but, seeing her mother at no great distance, 
 took courage, and snatched the twig with the 
 little bird upon it. When she had disengaged 
 him, she put him in her bosom, and the hawk flew 
 away. 
 
 Floretta, showing her bird to her mother, told 
 her from what danger she had rescued him : her 
 mother, after admiring its beauty, said, that he 
 would be a very proper inhabitant of the little 
 gilded cage, which had hung empty since the star- 
 ling died for want of water, and that he should be 
 placed at the chamber window, for it would be 
 wonderfully pleasant to hear him in the morning. 
 
 Floretta, with tears in her eyes, replied, that he 
 had better have been devoured by the hawk than 
 die for want of water, and that she would not 
 save him from a less evil to put him in danger of 
 a greater : she therefore took him into her hand, 
 cleaned his feathers from the bird-lime, looked 
 upon him with great tenderness, and, having put 
 his bill to her lips, dismissed him into the air. 
 
 He flew in circles round her as she went home, 
 and, perching on a tree before the door, delighted 
 them a while with such sweetness of song, that 
 her mother reproved her for not putting him in 
 the cage. Floretta endeavoured to look grave, 
 but silently approved her own act, and wished 
 her mother more generosity. Her mother guess- 
 ed her thoughts, and told her, that when she was 
 older she would be wiser. 
 
 Floretta, however, did not repent, but hoped to 
 hear her little bird the next morning singing at 
 
 * From Micell.ii.i<>5 in Pros* and Verse. By Anna 
 Williai-,.. I ?->;, .;[.. 
 
 liberty. She awaked early and listened, but nn 
 goldfinch could she hear. She rose, and walking 
 again in the same meadow, went to view the 
 bush where she had seen the lime-twig the day 
 before. 
 
 When she entered the thicket, and was neai 
 the place for which she was looking, from behind 
 a blossoming hawthorn advanced a female form 
 of very low stature, but of elegant proportion and 
 majestic air, arrayed in all the colours of the 
 meadow, and sparkling as she moved like a dew- 
 drop in die sun. 
 
 Floretta was too much disordered to speak or 
 fly, and stood motionless between fear and plea- 
 sure, when the little lady took her by the hand. 
 
 " I am," says she, " one of that order of beings 
 which some call Fairies, and some Piskies : we 
 have always been known to inhabit the crags 
 and caverns of Plinlimmon. The maids and 
 shepherds when they wander by moonlight, have 
 often heard our music, and sometimes seen our 
 dances. 
 
 " I am the chief of the fairies of this region, 
 and am known among them by the name of Lady 
 Lilinet of the Blue Rock. As I lived always in 
 my own mountain, I had very little knowledge of 
 human manners, and thought better of mankind 
 than other fairies found them to deserve ; I there- 
 fore often opposed the mischievous practices of 
 my sisters, without always inquiring whether 
 they were just. I extinguished the light that 
 was kindled to lead a traveller into a marsh, and 
 found afterwards that he was hastening to cor- 
 rupt a virgin ; I dissipated a mist which assumed 
 the form of a town, and was raised to decoy a 
 monopolizer of corn from his way to the next 
 market ; I removed a thorn artfully planted to 
 prick the foot of a churl that was going to hinder 
 the poor from following his reapers ; and defeat- 
 ed so many schemes of obstruction and punish- 
 ment, that I was cited before the queen as one 
 who favoured wickedness, and opposed the exe- 
 cution of fairy justice. 
 
 " Having never been accustomed to suffer con- 
 trol, and thinking myself disgraced by the neces 
 sity of defence, I so much irritated the dueen by 
 my sullenness and petulance, that in her anger 
 she transformed me into a goldfinch. 'In this 
 'orm,' says she, 'I doom thee to remain till some 
 luman being shall show thee kindness without 
 any prospect of interest.' 
 
 " I flew out of her presence not much dejected ; 
 "or I did not doubt but every reasonable being 
 must love that which, having never offended, could 
 not be hated, and having no power to hurt, could 
 not be feared. 
 
 " I therefore fluttered about the villages, and 
 endeavoured to force myself into notice. 
 
 "Having heard that nature was least corrupted 
 among those who had no acquaintance with ele- 
 gance and splendour, I employed myself for five 
 'ears in hopping before the doors of cottages, 
 and often sat singing on the thatched roof: my 
 motions were seldom seen, or my notes heard ; 
 no kindness was ever excited, and all the reward 
 of my ofncioiisness was to be aimed at with a 
 stone when I stood within a throw. 
 
 " The stones never hurt me for I had still the 
 >ower of a fairy. 
 
 "I then betook myself to spacious and maff- 
 lificent habitations, and sung in bowers by tfie 
 walks or on the banks of fountains. 
 
 In these places, where novelty was recom-
 
 THE FOUNTAINS: 
 
 495 
 
 mended by satiety, and curiosity excited by lei- 
 sure, my form and my voice were soon distin- 
 guished, and I was known by the name of the 
 pretty goldfinch ; the inhabitants would walk out 
 to listen to my music, and at last it was their prac- 
 tice to court my visits by scattering meat in my 
 common haunts. 
 
 " This was repeated till I went about pecking 
 in full security, and expected to regain my original 
 form, when I observed two of my most liberal 
 benefactors silently advancing with a net behind 
 me. I flew off, and fluttering beside them pricked 
 the leg of each, and left them halting and groan- 
 ing with the cramp. 
 
 "I then went to another house, where for two 
 springs and summers I entertained a splendid 
 family with such melody as they had never heard 
 in the woods before. The winter that followed 
 the second summer was remarkably cold, and 
 many little birds perished in the field. I laid 
 myself in the way of one of the ladies as be- 
 numbed with cold and faint with hunger ; she 
 picked me up with great joy, telling her com- 
 panions that she had found' the goldfinch that 
 sung so finely all summer in the myrtle hedge, 
 that she would lay him where he should die, for 
 she could not bear to kill him, and would then 
 pick his fine feathers very carefully, and stick 
 them in her muff! 
 
 " Finding that her fondness and her gratitude 
 could give way to so slight an interest, I chilled 
 licr fingers that she could not hold me, then flew 
 at her face, and with my beak gave her nose four 
 pecks that left four black spots indelible behind 
 Ihem, and broke a match by which she would 
 have obtained the finest equipage in the county. 
 
 " At length the queen repented of her sentence, 
 and being unable to revoke it, assisted me to try 
 experiments upon man, to excite his tenderness, 
 end attract his regard. 
 
 " We made many attempts, in which we were 
 always disappointed. At last she placed me in 
 your way held by a lime-twig, and herself in the 
 shape of a hawk, made the sliow of devouring me. 
 You, my dear, have rescued me from the seeming 
 danger, without desiring to detain me in captivity, 
 or seeking any other recompense than the plea- 
 sure of benefiting a feeling creature. 
 
 " The queen is so much pleased with your 
 kindness, that I am come, by her permission, to 
 reward you with a greater favour, than ever fairy 
 bestowed before. 
 
 " The former gifts of fairies, though bounties 
 in design, have proved commonly mischiefs in the 
 event. We have granted mortals to wish accord- 
 ing to their own discretion, and their discretion 
 being small, and their wishes irreversible, they 
 havf rashly petitioned for their own destruction. 
 But you, my dearest Floretta, shall have, what 
 none have ever before obtained from us, the 
 power of indulging your wish and the liberty of 
 retracting it. Be bold, and follow me." 
 
 Floretta was easily persuaded to accompany 
 the fairy, who led her through a labyrinth of crags 
 and shrubs, to a cavern covered by a thicket on 
 the side of the mountain. 
 
 " This cavern," said she, " is the court of Lili- 
 net, your friend ; in this place you shall find a 
 certain remedy for all real evil?.'" Lilinet then 
 went before her through a long subterraneous pas- 
 lage, where she saw many beautiful fairies, who 
 lame to gaze at the stranger, but who, from re- 
 verence to their mistress, gave her no disturbance. 
 
 She heard from remp'.e corners of the gloomy 
 cavern, the roar of winds and the fall of waters, 
 and more than once entreated to return ; but Li- 
 linet, assuring her that she was safe, persuaded 
 her to proceed, till they came to an arch, into 
 which the light found its way through a fissure 
 of the rock. 
 
 There Lilinet seated herself and her guest upon 
 a bench of agate, and pointing to two fountains 
 that bubbled before them, said, "Now attend, my 
 dear Floretta, and enjoy the gratitude of a fairy. 
 Observe the two fountains that spring up in the 
 middle of the vault, one into a bason of alabaster, 
 and the other into a bason of dark flint The 
 one is called the Spring of Joy, the other of Sor- 
 row ; they rise from distant veins in the rock, and 
 burst out in two places, but after a short course 
 unite their streams, and run ever after in one min- 
 gled current. 
 
 "By drinking of these fountains, which, though 
 shut up from all other human beings, shall be 
 always accessible to you, it will be in your power 
 to regulate your future life. 
 
 " When you are drinking the water of joy frt>m 
 the alabaster fountain, you may form your wish, 
 and it shall be granted. As you raise your wish 
 higher, the water will be sweeter and sweeter to 
 the taste ; but beware that you are not tempted by 
 its increasing sweetness to repeat your draughts, 
 for the ill effects of your wish can only be removed 
 by drinking of the spring of sorrow from the hason 
 of flint, which will be bitter in the same propor- 
 tion as the water of joy was sweet. Now, my 
 Floretta, make the experiment, and give me the 
 first proof of moderate desires. Take the golden 
 cup that stands on the margin of the spring of 
 joy, form your wish, and drink." 
 
 Floretta wanted no time to deliberate on the 
 subject of her wish ; her first desire was the in- 
 crease of her beauty. She had some dispropor- 
 tion of features. She took the cup, and wished 
 to be agreeable ; the water was sweet, and she 
 drank copiously ; and in the fountain, which was 
 clearer than crystal, she saw that her face was 
 completely regular. 
 
 She then filled the cup again, and wished for 
 a rosy bloom upon her cheeks : the water was 
 sweeter than before, and the colour of her cheeks 
 was heightened. 
 
 She next wished for a sparkling eye : the water 
 grew yet more pleasant, and her glances were like 
 the beams of the sun. 
 
 She could not yet stop ; she drank again, de- 
 sired to be made a perfect beauty, and a perfect 
 beauty she became. 
 
 She had now whatever her heart could wish ; 
 and making an humble reverence to Lilinet, re- 
 quested to be restored to her own habitation. 
 They went back, and the fairies in the way won- 
 dered at the change of Floretta's form. She came 
 home delighted to her mother, who, on seeing 
 the improvement, was yet more delighted than 
 herself. 
 
 Her mother from that time pushed her forw ard 
 into public view : Floretta was at all the resorts 
 of idleness and assemblies of pleasure ; she was 
 fatigued with balls, she was cloyed with treats, 
 she was exhausted by the necessity of returning 
 compliments. This life delighted her a while, but 
 custom soon destroyed its pleasure. She found 
 that the men who courted her to-day, resigned 
 her on the morrow to other flatterers, and that 
 the women attacked her reputation by whispers
 
 496 
 
 A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 and calumnies, till, without knowing how she had 
 offended, she was shunned as infamous. 
 
 She knew that her reputation was destroyed by 
 the envy of her beauty, and resolved to degrade 
 herself from the dangerous pre-eminence. She 
 went to the bush where she rescued the bird, and 
 called for Lady Lilinet. Immediately Lilinet ap- 
 peared, and discovered by Floretta's dejected look 
 that she had drank too much from the alabaster 
 fountain. 
 
 " Follow me," she cried, " my Floretta, and be 
 wiser for the future." 
 
 They went to the fountains, and Floretta be- 
 gan to taste the waters of sorrow, which were so 
 bitter that she withdrew more than once the cup 
 from her mouth : at last she resolutely drank 
 away the perfection of beauty, the sparkling eye 
 and rosy bloom, and left herself only agreeable. 
 
 She lived for some time with great, content ; but 
 content is seldom lasting. She had a desire in a 
 short time again to taste the waters of joy ; she 
 called for the conduct of Lilinet, and was led to 
 the alabaster fountain, where she drank, and 
 wished for a faithful lover. 
 
 After her return she was soon addressed by a 
 young man, whom she thought worthy of her af- 
 fection. He courted, and flattered, and promised ; 
 till at last she yielded up her heart. He then 
 applied to her parents ; and, finding her fortune 
 less than he expected, contrived a quarrel, and 
 deserted her. 
 
 Exasperated by her disappointment, she went 
 in quest of Lilinet, and expostulated with her for 
 the deceit which she had practised. Lilinet asked 
 her with a smile, for what she had been wishing ; 
 and being told, made her this reply, " You are 
 not, my dear, to wonder or complain : you may 
 wish for yourself, but your wishes can have no 
 effect upon another. You may become lovely by 
 the efficacy of the fountain, but that you shall be 
 loved is by no means a certain consequence ; for 
 you cannot confer upon another either discern- 
 ment or fidelity ; that happiness which you must 
 derive from others, it is not in my power to regu- 
 late or bestow." 
 
 Floretta was for some time so dejected by this 
 limitation of the fountain's power, that she thought 
 it unworthy of another visit ; but, being on some 
 occasion thwarted by her mother's authority, she 
 went to Lilinet, and drank at the alabaster foun- 
 tain for a spirit to do her own way. 
 
 Lilinet saw that she drank immoderately, and 
 admonished her of her danger ; but spirit and her 
 own waif gave such sweetness to the water, that 
 she could not prevail upon herself to forbear, till 
 Lilinet, in pure compassion, snatched the cup out 
 of her hand. 
 
 When she came home every thought was con- 
 tempt, and every action was rebellion : she had 
 drunk into herself a spirit to resist, but could not 
 give her mother a disposition to yield ; the old 
 lady asserted her right to govern ; and, though 
 she was often foiled by the impetuosity of her 
 daughter, she Supplied by pertinacity what she 
 wanted in violence : so that the house was in con- 
 tinual tumult by the pranks of the daughter and 
 opposition of the mother. 
 
 In time, Floretta was convinced that spirit had 
 only made her a capricious termagant, and that 
 her own ways ended in error, perplexity, and dis- 
 grace ; she perceived that the vehemence of mind, 
 which to a man may sometimes procure awe and 
 obedience, produce to a woman nothing but de- 
 
 testation ; she therefore went back, and by a 
 large draught from the flinty fountain, though the 
 water was very bitter, replaced herself under her 
 mother's care, and quitted her spirit, and her 
 own way. 
 
 Floretta's fortune was moderate, and her de- 
 sires were not larger, till her mother took her 
 to spend a summer at one of the places which 
 wealth and idleness frequent, under pretence of 
 drinking the waters. Sne was now no longer a 
 perfect beauty, and therefore conversation in her 
 presence took its course as in other company, 
 opinions were freely told and observations made 
 without reserve. Here Floretta first learned the 
 importance of money. When she saw a wo- 
 man of mean air and empty talk draw the atten- 
 tion of the place, she always discovered upon in- 
 quiry that she had so many thousands to her for- 
 tune. 
 
 She soon perceived that where these golden 
 goddesses appeared, neither birth, nor elegance, 
 nor civility, had any power of attraction, and 
 every art of entertainment was devoted to them, 
 and that the great and the wise courted their re- 
 gard. 
 
 The desire after wealth was raised yet higher 
 by her mother, who was always telling her how 
 much neglect she suffered for want of fortune, 
 and what distinctions, if she had but a fortune, 
 her good qualities would obtain. Her narrative 
 of the day was always, that Floretta walked in 
 the morning, but was not spoken to because she 
 had a smalt fortune, and that Floretta danced at 
 the ball better than any of them, but nobody 
 minded her for want of a fortune. 
 
 This want, in which all other wants appeared 
 to be included, Floretta was resolved to endure 
 no longer, and came home flattering her imagina- 
 tion in secret with the riches which she was now 
 about to obtain. 
 
 On the day after her return she walked out 
 alone to meet Lady Lilinet, and went with her to 
 the fountain : riches did not taste so sweet as 
 either beauty or spirit, and therefore she was not 
 immoderate in her draught 
 
 When they returned from the cavern, Lilinet 
 gave her wand to a fairy that attended her, with 
 an order to conduct Floretta to the Black Rock. 
 
 The way was not long, and they soon came to 
 the mouth of a mine in which there was a hidden 
 treasure, guarded by an earthly fairy deformed and 
 shaggy, who opposed the entrance of Floretta till 
 he recognised the wand of the lady of the Moun- 
 tain. Here Floretta saw vast heaps of gold and 
 silver and gems, gathered and reposited in former 
 ages, and intrusted to the guard of the fairies of 
 the earth. The little fairy delivered the orders of 
 her mistress, and the surly sentinel promised to 
 obey them. 
 
 Floretta, wearied with her walk, and pleased 
 with her success, went home to rest, and when 
 she waked in the morning, first opened her eyes 
 upon a cabinet of jewels, and looking into her 
 drawers and boxes, found them filled with gold. 
 
 Floretta was now as fine as the finest. She 
 was the first to adopt any expensive fashion, to 
 subscribe to any pompous entertainment, to en- 
 courage any foreign artist, or engage in any frolic 
 of which the cost was to make the pleasure. 
 
 She was on a sudden the favourite of every 
 place. Report made her wealth thrice greater 
 than it really was, and wherever she came, all 
 was attention, reverence, and obedience. The
 
 THE FOUNTAINS : 
 
 497 
 
 ladies who had formerly slighted her, or by whom 
 she had been formerly caressed, gratified her 
 pride by open flattery and private murmurs. She 
 sometimes overheard them railing at upstarts, and 
 wondering whence some people came, or how 
 their expenses were supplied. This incited her 
 to heighten the splendour of her dress, to in- 
 crease the number of her retinue, and to make 
 such propositions of costly schemes, that her ri- 
 vals were forced to desist from contest 
 
 But she now began to find that the tricks 
 which can be played with money will seldom bear 
 to be repeated, that admiration is a short-lived 
 passion, and that the pleasure of expense is gone 
 when wonder and envy are no more excited. She 
 found that respect was an empty form, and that 
 all those who crowded round her were drawn to 
 her by vanity or interest. 
 
 It was, however, pleasant to be able on any 
 terms to elevate and to mortify, to raise hopes 
 and fears : and she would still have continued 
 to be rich, had not the ambition of her mother 
 contrived to marry her to a lord, whom she de- 
 epised as ignorant, and abhorred as profligate. 
 Her mother persisted in her importunity ; and 
 Floretta having now lost the spirit of resistance, 
 had no other refuge than to divest herself of her 
 fairy fortune. 
 
 She implored the assistance of Lilinet, who 
 praised her resolution. She drank cheerfully 
 from the flinty fountain, and found the waters not 
 extremely bitter. When she returned she went 
 to bed, and in the morning perceived that all her 
 riches had been conveyed away she knew not 
 how, except a few ornamental jewels, which 
 Lilinet had ordered to be carried back as a re- 
 ward for her dignity of mind. 
 
 She was now almost weary of visiting the 
 fountain, and solaced herself with such amuse- 
 ments as every day happened to produce : at last 
 there arose in her imagination a strong desire to 
 become a Wit 
 
 The pleasures with which this new character 
 appeared to teem were so numerous and so great, 
 that she was impatient to enjoy them, and, rising 
 before the sun, hastened to the place where she 
 knew that her fairy patroness was alwavs to be 
 found. Lilinet was willing to conduct her, but 
 could now scarcely restrain her from leading the 
 way but by telling her, that, if she went first, the 
 fairies of the cavern would refuse her passage. 
 
 They came in time to the fountain, and Floretta 
 took the golden cup into her hand ; she filled it 
 and drank, and again she filled it, for wit was 
 sweeter than riches, spirit, or beauty. 
 
 As she returned she felt new successions of 
 imagery rise in her mind, and whatever her memory 
 offered to her imagination, assumed a new form, 
 and connected itself with things to which it seem- 
 ed before to have no relation. All the appear- 
 ances about her were changed, but the novelties 
 exhibited were commonly defects. She now saw 
 that almost every thing was wrong, without often 
 seeing how it could be better ; and frequently im- 
 puted to the imperfection of art those failures 
 which were caused by the limitation of nature. 
 
 Wherever she went, she breathed nothing but 
 censure and reformation. If she visited her 
 friends, she quarrelled with the situation of their 
 houses, the disposition of their gardens, the di- 
 rection of their walks, and the termination of 
 their views. It was vain to show her fine furni- 
 ture, for she was alwavs readv to tell how it 
 3N 
 
 might be finer, or to conduct her through spacious 
 apartments, for her thoughts were full of nobler 
 fabrics of airy palaces, and Hesperian gardens. 
 She admired nothing, and praised but little. 
 
 Her conversation was generally thought un- 
 civil. If she received flatteries, she seldom re- 
 paid them ; for she set no value upon vulgar 
 praise. She could not hear a long story without 
 hurrying the speaker on to the conclusion ; and 
 obstructed the mirth of her companions, for she 
 rarely took notice of a good jest, and never 
 laughed except when she was delighted. 
 
 This behaviour made her unwelcome wherever 
 she went ; nor did her speculation upon human 
 manners much contribute to forward her recep- 
 tion. She now saw the disproportions between 
 language and sentiment, between passion and ex- 
 clamation ; she discovered the defects of every 
 action, and the uncertainty of every conclusion ; 
 she knew the malignity of friendship, the avarice 
 of liberality, the anxiety of content, and the 
 cowardice of temerity. 
 
 To see all this was pleasant, but the greatest 
 of all pleasures was to show it To laugh was 
 something, but it was much more to make others 
 laugh. As every deformity of character made a 
 strong impression upon her, she could not always 
 forbear to transmit it to others : as she hated 
 false appearances, she thought it her duty to de- 
 tect them, till between wantonness and virtue, 
 scarce any that she knew escaped without some 
 wounds by the shafts of ridicule ; not that her 
 merriment was always the consequence of total 
 contempt, for she often honoured virtue where 
 she laughed at affectation. 
 
 For these practices, and who can wonder, the 
 cry was raised against her from every quarter, and 
 to hunt her down was generally determined. 
 Every eye was watching for a fault, and every 
 tongue was busy to supply its share of defama- 
 tion. With the most unpolluted purity of mind, 
 she was censured as too free of favours, because 
 she was not afraid to talk with men : with gene- 
 rous sensibility of every human excellence, she 
 was thought cold or envious, because she could 
 not scatter praise with undistinguished profusion : 
 with tenderness that agonized at real misery, she 
 was charged with delight in the pain of others, 
 when she would not condole with, those whom 
 she knew to counterfeit affliction. She derided 
 false appearances of kindness and of pity, and 
 was therefore avoided as an enemy to society. 
 As she seldom commended or censured but with 
 some limitations and exceptions, the world con- 
 demned her as indifferent to the good and bad ; 
 and because she was often doubtful where others 
 were confident, she was charged with laxity of 
 principles, while her days were distracted and her 
 rest broken by niceties of honour and scruples of 
 morality. 
 
 Report had now made her so formidable that all 
 flattered and all shunned her. If a lover gave a 
 ball to his mistress and her friends, it was stipu- 
 lated that Floretta should not be invited. If she 
 entered a public room, the ladies courtsied, and 
 shrunk away, for there was no such thing as 
 speaking, but Floretta would find something to 
 criticise. If a girl was more sprightly than her 
 aunt, she was threatened that in a little time she 
 would be like Floretta. Visits were very dili- 
 gently paid when Floretta was known not to be 
 at home ; and no mother trusted her daughter to 
 herself without a caution, if she should meet
 
 498 
 
 A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 Floretta, to leave the company as soon as she 
 could. 
 
 With all this Floretta made sport at first, but 
 in time grew weary of general hostility. She 
 would have been content with a few friends, but 
 no friendship was durable : it was the fashion to 
 desert her, and with the fashion what fidelity will 
 contend ? She could have easily amused herself 
 in solitude, but that she thought it mean to quit 
 the field to treachery and folly. 
 
 Persecution at length tired her constancy, and 
 she implored Lilinet to rid her of her wit : Lili- 
 net complied, and walked up the mountain, but 
 was often forced to stop and wait for her follower. 
 When they came to the flinty fountain, Floretta 
 filled a small cup and slowly brought it to her 
 lips, but the water was insupportably bitter. 
 She just tasted it, and dashed it to the ground, 
 diluted the bitterness at the fountain of alabaster, 
 and resolved to keep her wit with all its conse- 
 quences. 
 
 Being now a wit for life, she surveyed the va- 
 rious conditions of mankind with such superiority 
 of sentiment, that she found few distinctions to 
 be envied or desired, and therefore did not very 
 soon make another visit to the fountain. At 
 length being alarmed by sickness, she resolved to 
 drink length of life from the golden cup. She 
 returned elated and secure, for though the lon- 
 gevity acquired was indeterminate, she considered 
 death as far distant, and therefore suffered it not 
 to intrude upon her pleasures. 
 
 But length of life included not perpetual health. 
 She felt herself continually decaying, and saw tho 
 world fading about her. The delights of her 
 early days would delight no longer, and however 
 widely she extended her view, no new pleasure 
 could be found ; her friends, her enemies, her ad- 
 mirers, her rivals, dropped one by one into the 
 frave, and with these who succeeded them she 
 ad neither community of joys nor strife of com 
 petition. 
 
 By this time she began to doubt whether old 
 age were not dangerous to virtue ; whether pain 
 would not produce peevishness, and peevishness 
 impair benevolence. She thought that the spec- 
 tacle of life might be too long continued, and the 
 vices which were often seen might raise less ab- 
 horrence ; that resolution might be sapped by 
 time, and let that virtue sink, which in its firmest 
 state it had not without difficulty supported ; and 
 that it was vain to delay me hour which must 
 come at last, and might come at a time of less 
 preparation and greater imbecility. 
 
 These thoughts led her to Lilinet, whom she 
 accompanied to the flinty fountain ; where, after 
 a short combat with herself, she drank the bitter 
 water. They walked back to the favourite bush 
 pensive and silent ; " And now," said she, " ac- 
 cept my thanks for the last benefit that Floretta 
 can receive." Lady Lilinet dropped a tear, im- 
 pressed upon her lips the final kiss, and resigned 
 her, as she resigned herself, to the course of na 
 tuie.
 
 LETTERS 
 
 BY 
 
 SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D 
 
 SELECTED FROM 
 
 THE COLLECTION OF MRS. PIOZZI, AND OTHERS. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 To MR. JAMES ELPHINSTOV. 
 
 Sept. 25th, 1750. 
 DEAR SIR, 
 
 You have, as I find by every kind of evidence, 
 lost an excellent mother; and I hope you wil 
 not think me incapable of partaking of your 
 grief. I have a mother, now eighty-two years 
 of age, whom therefore I must soon lose, un- 
 less it please God that she rather should mourn 
 for me. I read the letters in which you relate 
 your mother's death to Mrs. Strahan, and think 
 I do myself honour, when I tell you, that 1 
 read them with tears ; but tears are neither to 
 you, nor to me, of any farther use, when once 
 the tribute of nature has been paid. The busi- 
 ness of life summons us away from useless grief, 
 and calls us to the exercise of those virtues, of 
 which we are lamenting our deprivation. 
 
 The greatest benefit which one friend can 
 confer upon another, is to guard, and excite, and 
 elevate his virtues. This your mother will still 
 perform, if you diligently preserve the memory 
 of her life, and of her death : a life, so far as I 
 can learn, useful, wise, and innocent; and a 
 death, resigned, peaceful, and holy. I cannot 
 forbear to mention, that neither reason nor reve- 
 lation denies you to hope that you may increase 
 her happiness by obeying her precepts ; and that 
 she may, in her present state, look with pleasure 
 upon every act of virtue to which her instructions 
 or example have contributed. Whether this be 
 more than a pleasing dream, or a just opinion of 
 separate spirits, is, indeed, of no great import- 
 ance to us, when we consider ourselves as act- 
 ing under the eye of God: yet, surely, there is 
 something pleasing in the belief, that our separa* 
 tion from those, whom we love, is merely cor- 
 poreal ; and it may be a great incitement to 
 virtuous friendship, if it can be made probable, 
 that that union, which has received the divine 
 approbation, shall continue to eternity. 
 
 There is one expedient, by which you may, 
 in some degree, continue her presence. If you 
 write down minutely what you remember of her 
 from your earliest years, you will read it with, 
 great pleasure, and receive from it many hints of 
 soothing recollection, when time shall remove 
 her yet farther from you, and your grief shall be 
 matured to veneration. To this, however pain- 
 ful for the present, I cannot but advise you, as to 
 a source of comfort and satisfaction in the time 
 to come ; for all comfort and all satisfaction is 
 sincerely wished you by, 
 Dear Sir, 
 Your most obliged, most obedient, 
 
 And most humble servant, 
 SAM. JOHNSON. 
 
 LETTER II. To MRS. THKALE. 
 
 London, Aug. 13tA, 1765. 
 
 MADAM, 
 
 IF you have really so good an opinion of me as 
 you express, it will not be necessary to inform 
 you how unwillingly I miss the opportunity of 
 coming to Brighthelmstone in Mr.Thrale's com- 
 pany ; or, since I cannot do what I wish first, 
 how eagerly I shall catch the second degree of 
 pleasure, by coming to you and him, as soon as 
 1 can dismiss my work from my hands. 
 
 I am afraid to make promises even to myself; 
 but I hope that the week after the next will be 
 the end of my present business. When busi- 
 ness is done, what remains but pleasure? and 
 where should pleasure be sought, but under 
 Mrs. Thrale's influence ? 
 
 Do not blame me for a delay by which I must 
 suffer so much, and by which I suffer alone. If 
 you cannot think I am good, pray think I am 
 mending, and that in time I may deserve to be, 
 dear Madam, your, &c. 
 
 LETTER HI. To THE SAME. 
 
 Lilchfield, July 20th, 1767. 
 
 MADAM, 
 
 THOUGH I have been away so much longer than 
 I purposed or expected, I have found nothing 
 that withdraws my affections from the friends 
 whom I left behind, or which makes me less 
 desirous of reposing at that place which your 
 kindness and Mr. Thrale's allows me to call my 
 home. 
 
 Miss Lucy* is more kind and civil than I 
 expected, and has raised my esteem by many 
 excellences very noble and resplendent, though 
 a little discoloured by hoary virginity. Every 
 thing else recalls to my remembrance years, in 
 which I proposed what, I am afraid, I have not 
 ione, and promised myself pleasure which I 
 have not found. But complaint can be of no 
 use ; and why then should I depress your hopes 
 jy my lamentations ? I suppose it is the condi- 
 :ion of humanity to design what never will be 
 done, and to hope what never will be obtained. 
 But among the vain hopes, let me not number 
 :he hope which I have, of being long, dear 
 Madam, your, &c. 
 
 LETTER IV. To THE SAME. 
 
 Lilchfield, Jlugust Uth, 1769. 
 MADAM, 
 
 '. SET out oti Thursday morning, and found my 
 companion, to whom I was very much a stranger, 
 
 * Miss Lucy Porter, daughter to Dr. Johnson's wife 
 by a former husband.
 
 500 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 more agreeable than I expected. We went 
 cheerfully forward, and passed the night at 
 Coventry. We came in late, and went out early ; 
 and therefore I did not send for my cousin Tom; 
 but I des : gn to make him some amends for the 
 omission. 
 
 Next day we came early to Lucy, who was. I 
 believe, glad to see us. She had saved her best 
 gooseberries upon the tree for me ; and, as 
 Steele says, " I was neither too proud nor too 
 wise" to gather them. I have rambled a very 
 little inter fontes et fiumina no/a, but I am not 
 yet well. They have cut down the trees in 
 George-Lane. Evelyn, in his book of Forest 
 Trees, tells us of wicked men that cut down 
 trees, and never prospered afterwards ; yet 
 nothing has deterred these audacious aldermen 
 from violating the Hamadryads of George-Lane. 
 As an impartial traveller, I must however tell, 
 that, in Stow-Street, where I left a draw-well, 
 I have found a pump, but the lading-well in this 
 ill-fated George-Lane lies shamefully neglected. 
 
 I am going to-day, or to-morrow, to Ash- 
 bourne ; but I am at a loss how I shall get back 
 in time to London. Here are only chance 
 coaches, so that there is no certainty of a place. 
 If I do not come, let it not hinder your jour- 
 ney. I can be but a few days behind you ; and 
 I will follow in the Brighthelmstone coach. But 
 I hope to come. 
 
 I took care to tell Miss Porter, that I have 
 
 fot another Lucy. I hope she is well. Tell 
 Irs. Salusbury, that I beg her stay at Strea- 
 tham, for little Lucy's sake. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER V. To THE SAME. 
 
 Litchfield, July nth, 1770. 
 
 MADAM, 
 
 SINCE my last letter, nothing extraordinary has 
 happened. Rheumatism, which has been very 
 troublesome, is grown better. I have not yet 
 seen Dr. Taylor, and July runs fast away. I 
 shall not have much time for him, if he delays 
 much longer to come or send. Mr. Green, the 
 apothecary, has found a book, which tells who 
 paid levies in our parish, and how much they 
 paid, above a hundred years ago. Do you not 
 think we study this book hard ? Nothing is 
 like going to the bottom of things. Many fami- 
 lies that paid the parish-rates are now extinct, 
 like the race of Hercules. Pulvis et umbra su- 
 mus. What is nearest us touches us most. The 
 passions rise higher at domestic than at imperial 
 tragedies. I am not wholly unaffected by the 
 revolutions of Sadler-Street ; nor can forbear to 
 mourn a little when old names vanish away, and 
 new come into their place. 
 
 Do not imagine, Madam, that I wrote this let- 
 ter for the sake of these philosophical medita- 
 tions ; for when I began it, I had neither Mr. 
 Green, nor his book, in my thoughts ; but was 
 resolved to write, and did not know what I had 
 to send, but my respects to Mrs. Salusbury, and 
 Mr. Thrale, and Harry, and the Misses. I am, 
 dearest Madam, your, &c. 
 
 LETTER VI. To THE SAME. 
 
 Ashbourne, July 23d, 1770. 
 DEAREST MADAM, 
 
 THERE had not been so long an interval between 
 my two last letters, but that when I came hither 
 
 I did not at first understand the hours of the 
 post. 
 
 I have seen the great bull ; and very great he 
 is. I have seen likewise his heir apparent, who 
 promises to inherit all the bulk and all the vir- 
 tues of his sire. I have seen the man who offered 
 a hundred guineas for the young bull, while he 
 was yet little better than a calf. Matlock, I am 
 afraid, I shall not see, but I purpose to see Dove- 
 dale , and, after all this seeing, I hope to see 
 you. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER VII. To THE SAME. 
 
 Jlshbourne, July 3d, 1771 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 LAST Saturday I came to Ashbourne; the dan- 
 gers or the pleasures of the journey I have at 
 present no disposition to recount ; else might I 
 paint the beauties of my native plains ; might I 
 tell of the "smiles of nature and the charms of 
 art;" else might I relate how I crossed the 
 Staffordshire canal, one of the great efforts of 
 human labour, and human contrivance ; which, 
 from the bridge on which I viewed it, passed 
 away on either side, and loses itself in distant 
 regions, uniting waters that nature had divided, 
 and dividing lands which nature had united. 1 
 might tell how these reflections fermented in 
 my mind till the chaise stopped at Ashbourne, 
 at Ashbourne in the Peak. Let not the barren 
 name of the Peak terrify you ; I have never 
 wanted strawberries and cream. The great 
 bull has no disease but age. I hope in time to 
 be like the great bull : and hope you will be like 
 him too hundred years hence. 
 
 I am, &.c 
 
 LETTER VIII. To THE SAME. 
 
 Ashbourne, July Wth, 1771 
 
 DEAREST MADAM, 
 
 I AM obliged to my friend Harry for his remem- 
 brance ; but think it a little hard that I hear 
 nothing from Miss. 
 
 There has been a man here to-day to take a 
 farm. After some talk he went to see the bull, 
 and said that he had seen a bigger. Do you. 
 think he is likely to get the farm ? 
 
 Toujours strawberries and cream. 
 
 Dr. Taylor is much better, and my rheuma- 
 tism is less painful. Let me hear in return as 
 much good of you and Mrs. Salusbury. You 
 despise the Dog and Duck ; things that are at 
 hand are always slighted. I remember that Dr. 
 Grevil, of Gloucester, sent for that water when 
 his wife was in the same danger ; but he lived 
 near Malvern, and you live near the Dog and 
 Duck. Thus, in difficult cases, we naturally 
 trust most what we least know. 
 
 Why Bormefield, supposing that a lotion can 
 do good, should despise laurel-water in compa- 
 rison with his own receipt, I do not see ; and see 
 still less why he should laugh at that which 
 Wall thinks efficacious. I am afraid philosophy 
 will not warrant much hope in a lotion. 
 
 Be pleased to make my compliments from 
 Mrs. Salusbury to Susy. 
 
 I am, &c.
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 601 
 
 LETTER IX. To THE SAME. 
 
 October 3lst, 1772. 
 
 MADAM, 
 
 THOUGH I am just informed, that, by some acci- 
 dental negligence, the letter which I wrote on 
 Thursday was not given to the post, yet I can- 
 not refuse myself the gratification of writing 
 again to my mistress ; not that I have any thing 
 to tell, but that by showing how much I r 01 
 employed upon you, I hope to keep you from 
 forgetting me. 
 
 Doctor Taylor asked me this morning on 
 what 1 was thinking? and I was thinking on 
 Lucy. I hope Lucy is a good girl. But she 
 cannot yet be so good as dueeney. I have got 
 nothing yet for dueeney's cabinet 
 
 I hope dear Mrs. Salusbury grows no worse. 
 .( wish any thing could be found that would 
 make her better. You must remember her 
 admonition, and bustle in the brewhouse. When 
 I come, you may expect to have your hands full 
 with all of us. 
 
 Our bulls and cows are all well ; but we yet 
 hate the man that had seen a bigger bull. Our 
 deer have died ; but many are left. Our water- 
 fall at the garden makes a great roaring this wet 
 weather. 
 
 And so no more at present from, Madam, 
 your, &c. 
 
 LETTER X. To THE SAME. 
 
 Nov. 23d, 1772. 
 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 I AM sorry that none of your letters bring better 
 ne\vs of the poor dear lady. I hope her pain is 
 not great To have a disease confessedly incur- 
 able and apparently mortal, is a very heavy 
 affliction ; and it is still more grievous when 
 pain is added to despair. 
 
 Every thing else in your letter pleased me 
 very well, except that when I come I entreat I 
 may not be flattered, as your letters flatter me. 
 You have read of heroes and princes ruined by 
 flattery, and I question if any of them had a 
 flatterer so dangerous as you. Pray keep strictly 
 to your character of governess. 
 
 I cannot yet get well ; my nights are flatulent 
 and unquiet, but my days are tolerably easy, 
 and Taylor says that I look much better than 
 when I came hither. You will see when I come, 
 and I can take your word. 
 
 Our house affords no revolutions. The great 
 bull is well. But I write not merely to think 
 on you, for I do that without writing, but to 
 keep you a little thinking on me. I perceive 
 that I have taken a broken piece of paper, but 
 that is not the greatest fault that you must for- 
 give in, Madam, your, &c. 
 
 LETTER XL To THE SAME. 
 
 Nov. yilh, 1772. 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 IF you are so kind as to write to me on Satur- 
 day, the day on which you will receive this, I 
 shall have it before I leave Ashbourne. I am 
 to go to Litchfield on Wednesday, and purpose 
 to find my way to London through Birmingham 
 and Oxford. 
 
 I was yesterday at Chatsworth. It is a verj 
 fine house. I wish you had been with me to 
 see it ; for then, as we are apt to want matter of 
 talk, we should have gained something new to 
 talk on. They complimented me with playing 
 the fountain, and opening the cascade. But I 
 am of my friend's opinion, that when one has 
 seen the ocean, cascades a e but little things. 
 
 I am in hope of a letter to-day from you or 
 Glueeney, but the post has made some blunder, 
 and the packet is not yet distributed. I wish 
 it may bring me a little good of you all. I 
 am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XII. To THE SAME. 
 
 Tuesday, Jan. 26rA, 1773 
 MADAM, 
 
 THE inequalities of human life have always 
 employed the meditation of deep thinkers, and 1 
 cannot forbear to reflect on the difference be- 
 tween your condition and my own. You liva 
 upon mock-turtle, and stewed rumps of beef; 
 I dined yesterday upon crumpets. You sit 
 with parish officers, caressing and caressed, the 
 idol of the table, and the wonder of the day. I 
 pine in the solitude of sickness, not bad enough 
 to be pitied, and not well enough to be endured. 
 You sleep away the night, and laugh or scold 
 away the day. I cough and grumble, and 
 grumble and cough. Last night was very 
 tedious, and this day makes no promises of much 
 ease. However, I have this day put on my 
 shoe, and hope that gout is gone. I shall have 
 only the cough to contend with, and I doubt 
 whether I shall get rid of that without change 
 of place. I caught cold in the coach as I went 
 away, and am disordered by very little things. 
 Is it accident or age ? I am, dearest Madam, &c. 
 
 LETTER XIII. To THE SAME. 
 
 March nth, 1773. 
 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 To tell you that 1 am sorry both for the poor 
 lady and for you is useless. I cannot help either 
 of you. The weakness of mind is perhaps only 
 a casual interruption or intermission of the atten- 
 tion, such as we all suffer when some weighty 
 care or urgent calamity has possession of the 
 mind. She will compose herself. She is unwil- 
 ling to die, and the first conviction of approach- 
 ing death raised great perturbation. I think she 
 has but very lately thought death close at hand 
 She will compose herself to do that as well aa 
 she can, which must at last be done. May she 
 not want the divine assistance ! 
 
 You, Madam, will have a great loss ; a greater 
 than is common in the loss of a parent. Fill 
 your mind with hope of her happiness, and 
 turn your thoughts first to Him who gives and 
 takes away, in whose presence the living and 
 dead are standing together. Then remember, 
 that when this mournful duty is paid, others 
 yet remain of equal obligation, and, we may 
 hope, of less painful performance. Grief is a 
 species of idleness, and the necessity of atten- 
 tion to the present preserves us, by the merciful 
 disposition of Providence, from being lacerated
 
 602 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 and devoured by sorrow for the past. You 
 must think on your husband and your children, 
 and do what this dear lady has done for you. 
 
 Not to corne to town while the great struggle 
 continues is undoubtedly well resolved. But do 
 not harass yourself into danger; you owe the 
 care of your health to all that love you, at least 
 to all whom it is your duty to love. You 
 cannot give such a mother too much, if you do 
 not give her what belongs to another. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XIV. To THE SAME. 
 
 April ytlh, 1773. 
 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 HOPE is more pleasing than fear, but not less 
 fallacious ; you know, when you do not try to 
 deceive yourself, that the disease which at last is 
 to destroy, must be gradually growing worse, 
 and that it is vain to wish for more than that 
 the descent to death may be slow and easy. In 
 this wish I join with you, and hope it will be 
 granted. Dear, dear lady! whenever she is lost 
 she will be missed, and whenever she is remem- 
 bered she will be lamented. Is it a good or an 
 evil to me that she now loves me ? It is surely 
 a good ; for you will love me better, and we shall 
 have a new principle of concord ; and I shall be 
 happier with honest sorrow, than with sullen 
 indifference : and far happier still than counter- 
 feited sympathy. 
 
 I am reasoning upon a principle very far from 
 certain, a confidence of survivance. You or I, 
 or both, may be called into the presence of the 
 Supreme Judge be ore her. I have lived a life 
 of which I do not like the review. Surely I shall 
 in time live better. 
 
 I sat down with an intention to write high 
 compliments ; but my thoughts have taken 
 another course, and some other time must now 
 serve to tell you with what other emotions, bene- 
 volence, and fidelity, I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XV. To THE SAME. 
 
 May Vlth, 1773. 
 MADAM, 
 
 NEVER imagine that your letters are long ; they 
 are always too short for my curiosity. I do not 
 know that I was ever content with a single 
 perusal. 
 
 Of dear Mrs. Salusbury I never expect much 
 better news than you send me; tie pis en pis is 
 the natural and certain course of her dreadful 
 malady. I am content when it leaves her ease 
 enough foi the exercise of her mind. 
 
 Why should Mr. ***** suppose that what 
 I took the liberty of suggesting was concerted 
 with you? He does not know how much I 
 revolve his affairs, and how honestly I desire his 
 prosperity. I hope he has let the hint take some 
 hold of his mind. 
 
 Your declaration to Miss ***** js more 
 general than my opinions allow. I think an 
 unlimited promise of acting by the opinion of 
 another so wrong, that nothing, or hardly any 
 thing, can make it right. All unnecessary vows 
 are folly, because they suppose a prescience of 
 the future which has not been given us. They 
 arc, I think, a crime, because they resign that 
 
 life to chance which God has given us to be 
 regulated by reason ; and superinduce a kind of 
 fatality, from which it is the great privilege of 
 our nature to be free. Unlimited obedience is 
 due only to the universal Father of Heaven and 
 Earth. My parents may be mad and foolish ; 
 may be wicked and malicious, may be erro- 
 neously religious, or absurdly scrupulous. I am 
 not bound to compliance with mandates either 
 positive or negative, which either religion con- 
 demns, or reason rejects. There wanders about 
 the world a wild notion, which extends over 
 marriage more than over any other transaction. 
 If Miss * * * * followed a tra'de, would it be said 
 that she was bound in conscience to give or refuse 
 credit at her father's choice ? And is not mar- 
 riage a thing in which she is more interested, and 
 has therefore more right of choice? When I may 
 suffer for my own crimes, when I may be sued 
 for my own debts, I may judge by parity of rea- 
 son for my own happiness. The parent's moral 
 right can arise only from his kindness, and his 
 civil right only from his money. 
 
 Conscience cannot dictate obedience to the 
 wicked, or compliance with the foolish ; and of 
 interest mere prudence is the judge. 
 
 If the daughter is bound without a promise, 
 she promises nothing ; and if she is not bound, 
 she promises too much. 
 
 What is meant by tying up money in trade I 
 do not understand. No money is so little tied 
 as that which is employed in trade. Mr. * * * * 
 perhaps only means, that in consideration of 
 money to be advanced, he will oblige his son to 
 be a trader. This is reasonable enough. Upon 
 ten thousand pounds diligently occupied, they 
 may live in great plenty and splendour, without 
 the mischiefs of idleness. 
 
 I can write a long letter as well as my mis- 
 tress; and shall be glad that my long letters 
 may be as welcome as hers. 
 
 My nights are grown again very uneasy and 
 troublesome. I know not that the country will 
 mend them; but I hope your company will 
 mend my days. Though I cannot now expect 
 much attention, and would not wish for more 
 than can be spared from the poor dear lady, yet 
 I shall see you and hear you every now and 
 then; and to see and hear you, is always to hear 
 wit, and to see virtue. 
 
 I shall, I hope, see you to-morrow, and a 
 little on the two next days ; and with that little 
 I must for the present try to be contented. I 
 am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XVI. To THE SAME. 
 
 August I2tfi, 1773. 
 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 WE left London on Friday the 6th, not very 
 early, and travelled without any memorable acci- 
 dent through a country which I had seen before. 
 In the evening I was not well, and was forced to 
 stop at Stilton, one stage short of Stamford, 
 where we intended to have lodged. 
 
 On the 7th we passed through Stamford and 
 Grantham, and dined at Newark, where I had 
 only time toob serve that the market-place was 
 uncommonly spacious and neat. In London 
 we should call it a square, though the sides wero 
 neither straight nor parallel. We came, at night,
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 503 
 
 to Doncaster, and went to church in the morn- 
 ing, where Chambers found the monument of 
 Robrrt of Doncaster, who says on his stone 
 something like this ; What I gave, that I have ; 
 what I spent, that I had ; what I left, that I lost. 
 So saith Robert of Doncaster, who reigned in the 
 world sixty-seven years, and all that time lived 
 not one. Here we were invited to dinner, and 
 therefore made no great haste away. 
 
 We reached York, however, that night ; I 
 was much disordered with old complaints. Next 
 morning we saw the Minster, an edifice of lofti- 
 ness and elegance equal to the highest hopes of 
 architecture. I remember nothing but the dome 
 of St. Paul's that can be compared with the 
 middle walk. The Chapter-house is a circular 
 building, very stately, but I think excelled by the 
 Chapter-house of Lincoln. 
 
 I then went to see the ruins of the Abbey, 
 which are almost vanished, and I remember 
 nothing of them distinct. 
 
 The next visit was to the jail, which they call 
 the castle ; a fabric built lately, such is terres- 
 trial mutability, out of the materials of the ruined 
 abbey. The under jailer was very officious to 
 show his fetters, in which there was no con- 
 trivance. The head jailer came in, and seeing 
 me look, I suppose, fatigued, offered me wine, 
 and when I went away, would not suffer his 
 servant to take money. The jail is accounted 
 the best in the kingdom, and you find the jailer 
 deserving of his dignity. 
 
 We dined at York, and went on to Northal- 
 lerton, a place of which I know nothing, but 
 that it afforded us a lodging on Monday night, 
 and about two hundred and seventy years ago 
 gave birth to Roger Ascham. 
 
 Xext morning we changed our horses at 
 Darlington, where Mr. Cornelius Harrison, a 
 cousin-german of mine, was perpetual curate. 
 He was the only one of my relations who ever 
 rose in fortune above penury, or in character 
 above neglect. 
 
 The church is built crosswise, with a fine 
 spire, and might invite a traveller to survey it ; 
 but I perhaps wanted vigour, and thought I 
 wanted time. 
 
 The next stage brought us to Durham, a place 
 of which Mr. Thrale bade me take particular 
 notice. The bishop's palace has the appearance 
 of an old feudal castle, built upon an eminence, 
 and looking down upon the river, upon which 
 was formerly thrown a drawbridge, as 1 suppose, 
 to be raised at night lest the Scots should pass it 
 
 The cathedral has a massiness and solidity 
 such as I have seen in no other place ; it rather 
 awes than pleases, as it strikes with a kind of 
 gigantic dignity, and aspires to no other praise 
 than that of rocky solidity and indeterminate 
 duration. I had none of my friends resident, 
 and therefore saw but little. The library is 
 mean and scanty. 
 
 At Durham, beside all expectation, I met an 
 old friend : Miss Fordyce is married there to a 
 physician. We met, I think, with honest kind- 
 ness on both sides. I thought her much decayed, 
 and having since heard that the banker had 
 involved her husband in his extensive ruin, I 
 cannot forbear to think that I saw in her with- 
 ered features more impression of sorrow than of 
 time- 
 
 Qua terra patet, sera regnat Erinnys. 
 
 He that wanders about the world sees new 
 forms of human misery, and if he chances to 
 meet an old friend, meets a face darkened with 
 troubles. 
 
 On Tuesday night we came hither ; yesterday 
 I tok some care of myself, and to-day I am 
 quite polite. I have been taking a view of all 
 that could be shown me, and find that all very 
 near to nothing. You have often heard me 
 complain of finding myself disappointed by 
 books of travels ; I am afraid travel itself will 
 end likewise in disappointment. One town, 
 one country, is very like another: civilized 
 nations have the same customs, and barbarous 
 nations have the same nature : there are indeed 
 minute discriminations both of places and of 
 manners, which perhaps are not wanting of 
 curiosity, but which a traveller seldom stayslong 
 enough to investigate and compare. The dull 
 utterly neglect them ; the acute see a little, and 
 supply the rest with fancy and conjecture. 
 
 I shall set out again to-morrow; but I shall 
 not, I am afraid, see Alnwick, for Dr. Percy is 
 not there. I hope to lodge to-morrow night at 
 Berwick, and the next at Edinburgh, where I 
 shall direct Mr. Drummond, bookseller, at 
 Ossian's head, to take care of my letters. 
 
 I hope the little dears are all well, and that 
 my dear master and mistress may go some- 
 whither; but wherever you go do not forget, 
 Madam, your most humble servant 
 
 I am pretty well. 
 
 August lath. 
 
 Thus far I had written at Newcastle. I forgot 
 to send it. I am now at Edinburgh ; and have 
 been this day running about I run pretty well. 
 
 LETTER XVII. To THE SAME. 
 
 Edinburgh, Aug. nth, 1773. 
 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 ON the 13th I left Newcastle, and in the after- 
 noon came to Alnwick, where we were treated 
 with great civility by the Duke: I went through 
 the apartments, walked on the wall, and climbed 
 the towers. That night we lay at Belford, and 
 on the next night came to Edinburgh. On 
 Sunday ( 1 5th) I went to the English chapel. 
 After dinner Dr. Robertson came in, and pro- 
 mised to show me the place. On Monday I 
 saw their public buildings : the cathedral, which 
 I told Robertson I wished to see because it had 
 once been a church, the courts of justice, the 
 parliament house, the advocates' library, the 
 repository of records, the college and its library, 
 and the palace, particularly the old tower where 
 the king of Scotland seized David Rizzio in 
 the queen's presence. Most of their buildings 
 are very mean ; and the whole town bears some 
 resemblance to the old part of Birmingham. 
 
 Boswell has very handsome and spacious 
 rooms ; level with the ground on one side of the 
 house, and on the other four stories high. 
 
 At dinner on Monday were the Dutchess of 
 Douglas, an old lady, who talks broad Scotch 
 with a paralytic voice, and is scarcely under- 
 stood by her own countrymen ; the Lord Chief 
 Baron, Sir Adolphus Oughton, and many more. 
 At supper there was such a conflux of company 
 that I could scarcely support the tumult. I have
 
 504 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 never been well in the whole journey, and am 
 very easily disordered. 
 
 This morning I saw at breakfast Dr. Black- 
 lock, the blind poet, who does not remember to 
 have seen light, and is read to, by a poor scholar, 
 in Latin, Greek, and French. He was originally 
 a poor scholar himself. I looked on him with 
 reverence. To-morrow our journey begins; I 
 know not when I shall write again. I am but 
 poorly. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XVIII. To THE SAME. 
 
 Bamff, Jiug. 25 th, 1773. 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 IT has so happened that though I am perpetually 
 thinking on you, I could seldom find opportu- 
 nity to write ; I have in fourteen days sent only 
 one letter ; you must consider the fatigues of 
 travel, and the difficulties encountered in a 
 strange country. 
 
 August 18th, I passed, with Boswell, the Frith 
 of Forth, and began our journey ; in the passage 
 we observed an island, which I persuaded my 
 companions to survey. We found it a rock 
 somewhat troublesome to climb, about a mile 
 long, and half a mile broad ; in the middle were 
 the ruins of an old fort, which had on one of the 
 stones Maria Re. 1564. It had been only a 
 blockhouse, one story high. I measured two 
 ap'artments, of which the walls were entire, and 
 found them twenty-seven feet long, and twenty- 
 three broad. The rock had some grass and 
 many thistles; both cows and sheep were grazing. 
 There was a spring of water. The name is 
 Inchkeith. Look on your maps. This visit 
 took about an hour. We pleased ourselves with 
 being in a country all our own, and then went 
 back to the boat, and landed at Kinghorn, a 
 mean town ; and travelling through Kirkaldie, a 
 very long town meanly built, and Cowpar, which 
 I could not see because it was night, we came 
 late to St. Andrew's, the most ancient of the 
 Scotch universities, and once the see of the 
 Primate of Scotland. The inn was full ; but 
 lodgings were provided for us at the house of 
 the professor of rhetoric, a man of elegant man- 
 ners, who showed us, in the morning, the poor 
 remains of a stately cathedral, demolished in 
 Knox's reformation, and now only to be ima- 
 gined by tracing its foundation, and contemplat- 
 ing the little ruins that are l<?ft. Here was once 
 a religious house. Two of the vaults or cellars 
 of the subprior are even yet entire. In one oi 
 them lives an old woman, who claims an here- 
 ditary residence in it, boasting that her husbanc 
 was the sixth tenant of this gloomy mansion, in 
 a lineal descent, and claims by her marriage 
 with this lord of the cavern an alliance with the 
 Bruces. Mr. Boswell stayed a while to interro- 
 gate her, because he understood her language 
 ehe told him, that she and her cat lived together 
 that she had two sons somewhere, who migh 
 perhaps be dead ; that when there were qualitj 
 in the town notice was taken of her, and tha" 
 now she was neglected, but did not trouble them 
 Her habitation contained all that she had ; he 
 t'irf for fire was laid in one place, and her ball 
 of coal-dust in another, but her bed seemed t 
 be clean. Boswell asked her, if she never hearc 
 any noises ; but she could tell him of nothin 
 supernatural, though she often wandered in th 
 
 light among the graves and ruins, only she had 
 ometimes notice by dreams of the death of her 
 Delations. We then viewed the remains of a 
 astle on the margin of the sea, in which the 
 rchbishops resided, and in which Cardinal 
 Jcatoun was killed. 
 
 The professors who happened to be resident 
 i the vacation made a public dinner, and treated 
 s very kindly and respectfully. They showed 
 s their colleges, in one of which there is a libra- 
 y that, for luminousness and elegance, may vie 
 t least with the new edifice at Streatham. But 
 earning seems not to prosper among them ; one 
 >f their colleges has been lately alienated, and 
 me of their churches lately deserted. An ex- 
 eriment was made of planting a shrubbery in 
 he church, but it did not thrive. 
 
 Why the place should thus fall to decay, I 
 
 tnow not; for education, such as is here to be 
 
 had, is sufficiently cheap. The term, or, as they 
 
 all it, their session, lasts seven months in the 
 
 ear, which the students of the highest rank and 
 
 ;reatest expense may pass here for twenty 
 
 tounds, in which are included board, lodging, 
 
 looks, and the continual instruction of three 
 
 professors. 
 
 20th. We left St. Andrew's, well satisfied with 
 
 our reception, and crossing the Frith of Tay, 
 
 ame to Dundee, a dirty, despicable town. V> e 
 
 lassed afterwards through Aberbrothic, famous 
 
 once for an abbey, of which there are only a few 
 
 Vagments left ; but those fragments testify that 
 
 he fabric was once of great extent, and of stu- 
 
 -endous magnificence. Two of the towers aro 
 
 _/et standing, though shattered ; into one of them 
 
 ioswell climbed, but found the stairs broken : 
 
 .he way into the other we did not see, and had 
 
 not time to search ; I believe it might be ascend- 
 
 :d, but the top, I think, is open. 
 
 We lay at Montrosc, a neat place, with a spa- 
 cious area for the market, and an elegant town- 
 louse. 
 
 21st. We travelled towards Aberdeen, another 
 university, and in the way dined at Lord i\J on- 
 boddo's, the Scotch Judge, who has lately writ.- 
 ;en a strange book about the origin of language, 
 ,n which he 3 traces monkeys up to men, and says 
 that in some countries the human species have 
 tails like other beasts. He inquired for these 
 long-tailed men of Banks, and was not well 
 pleased that they had not been found in all his 
 peregrination. He talked nothing of this to 
 me, "and I hope we parted friends ; for we 
 agreed pretty well, only we disputed in adjust- 
 ing the claims of merit between a shopkeeper of 
 London and a savage of the American wilder- 
 nesses. Our opinions were, I think, maintained 
 on both sides without full conviction: Mon- 
 boddo declared boldly for the savage, and I, per- 
 haps for that reason, sided with the citizen. 
 
 We came late to Aberdeen, where I found 
 my dear mistress's letter, and learned that all 
 our little people were happily recovered of the 
 measles. Every part of your letter was pleas- 
 ing. 
 
 There are two cities of the name of Aberdeen 
 the old town, built about a mile inland, once tin 
 see of a bishop, which contains the King's Col 
 lege, and the remains of the cathedral, and th< 
 new town, which stands, for the sake of trade 
 upon a frith or arm of the sea, so that ships res' 
 against the quay. 
 The two cities bavo their separate magistrates^
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 605 
 
 and the two colleges are in effect two universi- 
 ties, which confer degrees independently of each 
 other. 
 
 New Aberdeen is a large town, built almost 
 wholly of that granite which is used for the new 
 pavement in London, which, hard as it is, they 
 square with very little difficulty. Here I first 
 saw the women in plaids. The plaid makes at 
 once a hood and cloak, without cutting or sew- 
 ing, merely by the manner of drawing the oppo- 
 site sides over the shoulders. The maids at the 
 inns run over the house barefoot; and children, 
 not dressed in rags, go without shoes or stock- 
 ings. Shoes are indeed not yet in universal use ; 
 they came late into this country. One of the 
 professors told us, as we were mentioning a fort 
 built by Cromwell, that the country owed much 
 of its present industry to Cromwell's soldiers. 
 They taught us, said he, to raise cabbage and 
 make shoes. How they lived without shoes may 
 yet be seen ; but in the passage through villages, 
 it seems to him that surveys their gardens, that 
 when they had not cabbage they had nothing. 
 
 Education is here of the same price as at St. 
 Andrew's, only the session is but from the 1st 
 of November to the 1st of April. The acade- 
 mical buildings seem rather to advance than 
 decline. They showed their libraries, which 
 were not very splendid, but some manuscripts 
 were so exquisitely penned that I wished my 
 dear mistress to have seen them. I had an unex- 
 pected pleasure by finding an old acquaintance 
 now professor of physic in the King's College : 
 we were on both sides glad of the interview, 
 having not seen nor perhaps thought on one 
 another for many years ; but we had no emula- 
 tion, nor had either of us risen to the other's 
 envy, and our old kindness was easily renewed. 
 I hope we shall never try the effect of so long 
 an absence, and that I shall always be, Madam, 
 your, &c. 
 
 LETTER XIX. To THE SAME. 
 
 Inverness, Jlug. 2Sth, 1773. 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 AUGUST 23d, I had the honour of attending the 
 Lord Provost of Aberdeen, and was presented 
 with the freedom of the city, not in a gold box, 
 but in good Latin. Let me pay Scotland one 
 just praise ! there was no officer gaping for a 
 fee ; this could have been said of no city on the 
 English side of the Tweed. I wore my patent of 
 freedom pro more in my hat, from the new town 
 to the old, about a mile. I then dined with my 
 friend, the professor of physic, at his house, and 
 saw the King's College. Boswell was very 
 angry that the Aberdeen professors would not 
 talk. When I was at the English church in 
 Aberdeen, I happened to be espied by Lady Di. 
 Middleton, whom I had some time seen in Lon- 
 don ; she told what she had seen to Mr. Boyd, 
 Lord Errol's brother, who wrote us an invita- 
 tion to Lord Errol's house, called Slane's Castle. 
 We went thither on the next day, (24th of 
 August,) and found a house, not old, except but 
 one tower, built upon the margin of the sea 
 upon a rock, scarce accessible from the sea ; at 
 one corner a tower makes a perpendicular con- 
 tinuation of the lateral surface of the rock, so 
 that it is impracticable to walk round : the house 
 
 inclosed a square court, and on all sides within 
 the court is a piazza or gallery two stories high. 
 We came in as we were invited to dinner, and 
 after dinner offered to go; but Lady Errol sent 
 us word by Mr. Boyd, that if we went before 
 Lord Errol came home we must never be for- 
 given, and ordered out the coach to show us two 
 curiosities. We were first conducted by Mr. 
 Boyd to Dun buys, or the yellow rock. Dun- 
 buys is a rock consisting of two protuberances, 
 each perhaps one hundred yards round, joined 
 together by a narrow neck, and separated from 
 the land by a very narrow channel or gully. 
 These rocks are the haunts of sea-fowl, whose 
 clang, though this is not their season, we heard 
 at a distance. The eggs and the young are 
 gathered here in great numbers at the time of 
 breeding. There is a bird here called a coote, 
 which, though not much bigger than a duck, lays 
 a larger egg than a goose. We went then to see 
 the Buller or Boulloir of Buchan: Buchan is 
 the name of the district, and the Buller is a 
 small creek or gulf into which the sea flows 
 through an arch of the rock. We walked round 
 it, and saw it black at a great depth. It has its 
 name from the violent ebullition of the water, 
 when high winds or high tides drive it up the 
 arch into the basin. Walking a little farther I 
 spied some boats, and told my companions that 
 we would go into the Buller and examine it 
 There was no danger; all was calm; we went 
 through the arch, and found ourselves in a nar- 
 row gulf surrounded by craggy rocks, of height 
 not stupendous, but to a Mediterranean visiter 
 uncommon. On each side was a cave, of which 
 the fishermen knew not the extent, in which 
 smugglers hide their goods, and sometimes par- 
 ties of pleasure take a dinner. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XX. To THE SAME. 
 
 Skie, Sept. 6lh, 177S 
 
 DEAREST MADAM, 
 
 I AM now looking on the sea from a house of 
 Sir Alexander Macdonald, in the Isle of Skie. 
 Little did I once think of seeing this region of 
 obscurity, and little did you once expect a salu- 
 tation from this verge of European life. I have 
 now the pleasure of going where nobody goes, 
 and seeing what nobody sees. Our design is to 
 visit several of the smaller islands, and then pass 
 over to the south-west of Scotland. 
 
 I returned from the sight of Buller's Buchan 
 to Lord Errol's, and, having seen his library, had 
 for a time only to look upon the sea, which rolled 
 between us and Norway. Next morning, 
 August 25th, we continued our journey through 
 a country not uncultivated, but so denuded of 
 its woods, that in all this journey I had not 
 travelled a hundred yards between hedges, or 
 seen five trees fit for the carpenter. A few small 
 plantations may be found, but I believe scarcely 
 any thirty years old ; at least, they are all poste- 
 rior to the Union. This day we dined with a 
 country gentleman, who has in his grounds the 
 remains of a Druid's temple, which, when it i? 
 complete, is nothing more than a circle or double 
 circle of stones, placed at equal distances, with 
 a flat stone, perhaps an altar, at a certain point, 
 and a stone taller than the rest at the opposite
 
 506 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 point. The tall stone is erected, I think, at the 
 south. Of these circles there are many in all the 
 unfrequented parts of the island. The inhabi- 
 tants of these parts respect them as memorials 
 of the sepulture of some illustrious person. Here 
 I saw a few trees. We lay at Bamff 
 
 August 26th. We dined at Elgin, where we 
 saw the ruins of a noble cathedral ; the chapter- 
 house is yet standing. A great part of Elgin is 
 built with small piazzas to the lower story. We 
 went on to Foris, over the heath where Macbeth 
 met the witches, but had no adventure ; only in 
 the way we saw for the first time some houses 
 with fruit-trees about them. The improvements 
 of the Scotch are for immediate profit ; they do 
 not yet think it quite worth their while to plant 
 what will not produce something to be eaten or 
 sold in a very little time. We rested at Foris. 
 
 A very great proportion of the people are bare- 
 foot ; shoes are not yet considered as necessaries 
 of life. It is still the custom to send out the sons 
 of gentlemen without them into the streets and 
 ways. There are more beggars than I have ever 
 seen in England : they beg, if not silently, yet 
 very modestly. 
 
 Next day we came to Nairn, a miserable 
 town, but a royal burgh, of which the chief 
 annual magistrate is styled Lord Provost. In 
 the neighbourhood we saw the castle of the old 
 Thane of Cawdor. There is one ancient tower 
 with its battlements and winding stairs yet 
 remaining ; the rest of the house is, though not 
 modern, of later erection. 
 
 On the 28th we went to Fort George, which is 
 accounted the most regular fortification in the 
 island. The major of artillery walked with us 
 round the walls, and showed us the principles 
 upon which every part was constructed, and the 
 way in which it could be defended. We dined 
 with' the governor, Sir Eyre Coote, and his 
 officers. It was a very pleasant and instructive 
 day, but nothing puts my honoured mistress out 
 of my mind. 
 
 At night we came to Inverness, the last con- 
 siderable town in the North, where we stayed all 
 the next day, for it was Sunday, and saw the 
 ruins of what is called Macbeth's castle. It 
 never was a large house, but was strongly situ- 
 ated. From Inverness we were to travel on 
 horseback. 
 
 August 30th. We set out with four horses. 
 We had two Highlanders to run by us, who 
 were active, officious, civil, and hardy. Our 
 journey was for many miles along a military 
 way made upon the banks of Lough Ness, a 
 water about eighteen miles long, but not, I 
 think, half a mile broad. Our horses were not 
 bad, and the way was very pleasant ; the rock 
 out of which the road was cut was covered with 
 birch-trees, fern, and heath. The lake below 
 was beating its bank by a gentle wind, and the 
 rocks beyond the water on the right stood some- 
 times horrid and wild, and sometimes opened 
 into a kind of bay, in which there was a spot of 
 cultivated ground, yellow with corn. In one part 
 of the way we had trees on both sides for perhaps 
 half a mile. Such a length of shade perhaps 
 Scotland cannot show in any other place. 
 
 You are not to suppose that here are to be any 
 more towns or inns. We came to a cottage 
 which they call the General's Hut, where we 
 alighted to dine, and had eggs and bacon, and 
 
 mutton, with wine, rum, and whiskey. 1 had 
 water. 
 
 At a bridge over the river, which runs into the 
 Ness, the rocks rise on three sides, with a direc 
 tion almost perpendicular, to a great height ; they 
 are in part covered with trees, and exhibit a kind 
 of dreadful magnificence ; standing like the 
 barriers of nature placed to keep different orders 
 of being in perpetual separation. Near this 
 bridge is the Fall of Fiers, a famous cataract, of 
 which, by clambering over the rocks, we obtained 
 a view. The water was low, and therefore wo 
 had only the pleasure of knowing that rain would 
 make it at once pleasing and formidable ; there 
 will then be a mighty flood, foaming along a 
 rocky channel, frequently obstructed by protu- 
 berances, and exasperated by reverberation, at 
 last precipitated with a sudden descent, and lost 
 in the depth of a gloomy chasm. 
 
 We came somewhat late to Fort Augustus, 
 where the lieutenant-governor met us beyond 
 the gates, and apologized that at that hour he 
 could not, by the rules of a garrison, admit us 
 otherwise than at a narrow door which only one 
 can enter at a time. We were well entertained 
 and well lodged, and next morning, after having 
 viewed the fort, we pursued our journey. 
 
 Our way now lay over the mountains, which 
 are not to be passed by climbing them directly, 
 but by traversing ; so that as we went forward 
 we saw our baggage following us below in a 
 direction exactly contrary. There is in these 
 ways much labour but little danger, and perhaps 
 other places, of which very terrific representa- 
 tions are made, are not in themselves more for 
 midable. These roads have all been made by 
 hewing the rock away with pickaxes, or bursting 
 it with gunpowder. The stones so separated 
 are often piled loose as a wall by the way-side. 
 We saw an inscription importing the year in 
 which one of the regiments made two thousand 
 yards of the road eastward. 
 
 After tedious travel of some hours we came 
 to what I believe we must call a village, a place 
 where there were three huts built of turf; at one 
 of which we were to have our dinner and our 
 bed, for we could not reach any better place that 
 night. This place is called Enoch in Glenmor- 
 rison. The house in which we lodged was 
 distinguished by a chimney, the rest had only a 
 hole for .the smoke. Here we had eggs, and 
 mutton, and a chicken and a sausage, and rum. 
 In the afternoon tea was made by a very decent 
 girl in a printed linen : she engaged me so much, 
 that I made her a present of Cocker's arithmetic. 
 I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXL To THE SAME. 
 
 Skie, Sept. 14M, 177.S 
 DEAREST MADAM, 
 
 THE post which comes but once a week into 
 these parts is so soon to go that I have not time 
 to go on where IleftofFin my last letter. I have 
 been several days in the island of Raarsa, and 
 am now again in the Isle of Skie, but at the other 
 end of it. 
 
 Skie is almost equally divided between the 
 two great families of Macdonald and Macleod, 
 other proprietors having only small districts.
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 507 
 
 The two great lords do not know within twenty 
 square miles the contents of their own territories. 
 
 kept up but ill the reputation of High- 
 land hospitality ; we are now with Macleod, 
 quite at the other end of the island, where there 
 is a fine young gentleman and fine ladies. The 
 ladies are studying Erse. I have a cold and am 
 miserably deaf, and am troublesome to Lady 
 Macleod ; I force her to speak loud, but she will 
 seldom speak loud enough. 
 
 Raarsa is an island about fifteen miles long 
 and two broad, under the dominion of "one gen- 
 tleman, who has three sons and ten daughters ; 
 the eldest is the beauty of this part of the world, 
 and has been polished at Edinburgh: they sing 
 and dance, and, without expense, have upon 
 their table most of what sea, air, or earth can 
 afford. I intended to have written about Raarsa, 
 but the post will not wait longer than while I 
 send my compliments to my dear master and 
 little mistresses. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXII. To THE SAME. 
 
 Stie, Sept. 21st, 1773. 
 DEAREST MADAM, 
 
 I AM so vexed at the necessity of sending yester- 
 day so short a letter, that I purpose to get a long 
 letter beforehand by writing something every 
 day, which I may the more easily do, as a cold 
 makes me now too deaf to take the usual plea- 
 sure in conversation. Lady Macleod is very 
 good to me; and the place at which we now are 
 is equal, in strength of situation, in the wildness 
 of the adjacent country, and in the plenty and 
 elegance of the domestic entertainment, to a 
 castle in Gothic romances. The sea, with a 
 little island, is before us; cascades play within 
 view. Close to the house is the formidable 
 skeleton of an old castle, probably Danish, and 
 the whole mass of building stands upon a protu- 
 berance of rock, inaccessible till of late but by a 
 pair of stairs on the sea-side, and secure in 
 ancient times against any enemy that was likely 
 to invade the kingdom of Skie. 
 
 Macleod has offered me an island ; if it were 
 not too far off, I should hardly refuse it: my 
 island would be pleasanter than Brighthelmstone, 
 if you and my master could come to it; but I 
 cannot think it pleasant to live quite alone, 
 Oblitusque meorutn, obliviscendus et illis. 
 
 That I should be elated by the dominion of an 
 island to forgetfulness of my friends at Strea- 
 tham, I cannot believe, and I hope never to 
 deserve that they should be willing to forget me. 
 
 It has happened that I have been often recog- 
 nised in my journey where I did not expect it. 
 At Aberdeen I found one of my acquaintance 
 professor of physic ; turning aside to dine with 
 a country gentleman, I was owned at table by 
 one who had seen me at a philosophical lecture ; 
 at Macdonald's I was claimed by a naturalist, 
 who wanders about the islands to pick up curio- 
 sities ; and I had once in London attracted the 
 notice of Lady Macleod. I will now go on with 
 nfy account. 
 
 The Highland girl made tea, and looked and 
 talked not inelegantly ; her father was by no 
 means an ignorant or a weak man ; there were 
 
 books in the cottage, among which were some 
 volumes of Prideaux's Connection; this man's 
 conversation we were glad of while we staid. 
 He had been out, as they call it, in forty-five, and 
 still retained his old opinions. He was goin to 
 America, because his rent was raised beyond 
 what he thought himself able to pay. 
 
 At night our beds were made, but we had 
 some difficulty in persuading ourselves to lie 
 down in them, though we had put on our own 
 sheets; at last we ventured, and I slept very 
 soundly in the vale of Glenmorrison, amidst the 
 rocks and mountains. Next morning our land- 
 lord liked us so well, that he walked some miles 
 with us for our company, through a country so 
 wild and barren, that the proprietor does not, 
 with all his pressure upon his tenants, raise 
 more than four hundred pounds a-year for near 
 one hundred square miles, or sixty thousand 
 acres. He let us know that he had forty head 
 of black cattle, a hundred goats, and a hundred 
 sheep, upon a farm that he remembered let at 
 five pounds a year, but for which he now paid 
 twenty. He told us some stories of their march 
 into England. At last he left us, and we went 
 forward, winding among mountains, sometimes 
 green and sometimes naked, commonly so steep 
 as not easily to be climbed by the greatest vigour 
 and activity: our way was often crossed^ by 
 little rivulets, and we were entertained with 
 small streams trickling from the rocks, which 
 after heavy rains must be tremendous torrents. 
 
 About noon we came to a small glen, so they 
 call a valley, which, compared with other places, 
 appeared rich and fertile; here our guides 
 desired us to stop, that the horses might graze, 
 for the journey was very laborious, and no more 
 grass would be found. We made no difficulty 
 of compliance, and I sat down to take notes on 
 a green bank, with a small stream running at 
 my feet, in the midst of savage solitude, with 
 mountains before me, and on either hand, covered 
 with heath. I looked around me, and wondered 
 that I was not more affected, but the mind is 
 not at all times equally ready to be put in 
 motion ; if my mistress and master and dueeney 
 had been there, we should have produced some 
 reflections among us, either poetical or philoso- 
 phical, for though solitude be the nurse of wo, 
 conversation is often the parent of remarks and 
 discoveries. 
 
 In about an hour we remounted, and pursued 
 our journey. The lake by which we had tra- 
 velled for some time ended in a river, which we 
 passed by a bridge, and came to another glen, 
 with a collection of huts, called Auknashealds ; 
 the huts were generally built of clods of earth, 
 held together by the intertexture of vegetable 
 fibres, of which earth there are great levels in 
 Scotland, which they call mosses. Moss in 
 Scotland is bog in Ireland, and moss-trooper ia 
 bog-trotter; there was, however, one hut built 
 of loose stones, piled up with great thickness 
 into a stronf though not solid wall. From this 
 house we obtained some great pails of milk, and 
 having brous- it bread with us, we were liberally 
 regaled. T) -e inhabitants, a very coarse tribe, 
 ignorant of -ny language but Erse, gathered so 
 fast about u^, that if we hsul not had High- 
 landers with \a, they might have caused more 
 alarm than p)sure ; they are called the Clan of 
 Macrae.
 
 508 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 We had been told that nothing gratified the 
 Highlanders so much as snuff and tobacco, and 
 had accordingly stored ourselves with both a) 
 Fort Augustus. Boswell opened his treasure, 
 and gave them each a piece of tobacco roll. 
 We had more bread than we could eat for the 
 present, and were more liberal than provident. 
 Boswell cut it in slices, and gave them an oppor- 
 tunity of tasting wheaten bread for the first 
 time. I then got some halfpence for a shilling, 
 and made up the deficiencies of Boswell's dis- 
 tribution, who had given some money among 
 the children. We then directed that the mis- 
 tress of the stone-house should be asked what 
 we must pay her : she, who perhaps had never 
 before sold any thing but cattle, knew not, I 
 believe, well what to ask, and referred herself to 
 us : we obliged her to make some demand, and 
 one of the Highlanders settled the account with 
 ner at a shilling. One of the men advised her, 
 with the cunning that clowns never can be with- 
 out, to ask more ; but she said that a shilling 
 was enough. We gave her half-a-crown, and 
 she offered part of it again. The Macraes were 
 so well pleased with our behaviour, that they 
 declared it the best day they had seen since the 
 time of the old Laird of Macleod, who, I sup- 
 pose, like us, stopped in their valley, as he was 
 travelling to Skie. 
 
 We were mentioning this view of the High- 
 lander's life at Macdonald's, and mentioning 
 the Macraes with some degree of pity, when a 
 Highland lady informed us that we might spare 
 our tenderness, for she doubted not but the 
 woman who supplied us with milk was mistress 
 of thirteen or fourteen milch cows. 
 
 I cannot forbear to interrupt my narative. 
 Boswell, with some of his troublesome kindness, 
 has informed this family, and reminded me, that 
 the 18th of September is my birth-day. The 
 return of my birth-day, if I remember it, fills me 
 with thoughts which it seems to be the general 
 care of humanity to escape. I can now look 
 back upon three score and four years, in which 
 little has been done, and little has been enjoyed ; 
 a life diversified by misery, spent part in the 
 sluggishness of penury, and part under the vio- 
 lence of pain, in gloomy discontent or importu- 
 nate distress. But perhaps I am better than I 
 should have been if I had been less afflicted. 
 With this I will try to be content 
 
 In proportion as there is less pleasure in retro- 
 spective considerations, the mind is more disposed 
 to wander forward into futurity ; but at sixty- 
 four what promises, however liberal, of imaginary 
 good can futurity venture to make? yet some"- 
 thing will be always promised, and some promises 
 will be always credited. I am hoping and I am 
 praying that I may live better in the time to 
 come, whether long or short, than I have yet 
 ived, and in the solace of that hope endeavour 
 to repose. Dear Qlueeney's day is next : I hope 
 she at sixty-four will have less to regret. 
 
 I will now complain no more, but tell my 
 mistress of my travels. 
 
 After we left the Macraes, we travelled on 
 through a country like that which we passed in 
 the morning. The Highlands are very uniform, 
 for there is little variety in universal barrenness ; 
 the rocks, nowever, are not all naked, for some 
 have grass on their sides, and birches and alders 
 on their tops, and in the valleys are often broad 
 
 and clear streams, which have little depth, and 
 commonly run very quick; the channels are 
 made by the violence of the wintry floods ; the 
 quickness of the stream is in proportion to the 
 declivity of the descent, and the breadth of the 
 channel makes the water shallow in a dry 
 season. 
 
 There are red deer and roebucks in the moun- 
 tains, but we found oa'y goats in the road, and 
 had very little entertainment as we travelled 
 either for the eye or ear. There are, I fancy, no 
 singing Birds in the Highlands. 
 
 Towards night we came to a very formidable 
 hill, called Rattiken, which we climbed with 
 more difficulty than we had yet experienced, 
 and at last came to Glanelg, a place on the sea- 
 side opposite to Skie. We were by this time 
 weary and disgusted, nor was our humour much 
 mended by our inn, which, though it was built 
 of lime and slate, the Highlander's description 
 of a house which he thinks magnificent, had 
 neither wine, bread, eggs, nor any thing, that we 
 could eat or drink. When we were taken up 
 stairs, a dirty fellow bounced out of the bed 
 where one of us was to lie. Boswell blustered, 
 but nothing could be got. At last a gentleman 
 in the neighbourhood, who heard of our arrival, 
 sent us rum and white sugar. Boswell was 
 now provided for in part, and the landlord pre- 
 pared some mutton chops, which we could not 
 eat, and killed two hens, of which Boswell 
 made his servant broil a limb, with what effect 
 I know not. We had a lemon and a piece of 
 bread, which supplied me with my supper. 
 When the repast was ended, we began to delibe- 
 rate upon bed ; Mrs. Boswell had warned us 
 that we should catch something, and had given 
 
 us sheets for our security, for and , 
 
 she said, came back from Skie, so scratching 
 themselves. I thought sheets a slender defence 
 against the confederacy with which we were 
 threatened, and by this time our Highlanders 
 had found a place where they could get some 
 hay : I ordered hay to be laid thick upon the 
 bed, and slept upon it in my great coat : Boswell 
 laid sheets upon his bed, and reposed in linen 
 like a gentleman. The horses were turned out 
 to grass, with a man to watch them. The hill 
 Rattiken and the inn at Glanelg were the only 
 things of which we. or travellers yet more deli- 
 cate, could find any pretensions to complain. 
 
 Sept. 2d. I rose rustling from the hay, and 
 went to tea, which I forget whether we found 
 or brought. We saw the isle of Skie before us, 
 darkening the horizon with its rocky coast. A 
 joat was procured, and we launched into one ot 
 the straits of the Atlantic ocean. We had a 
 passage of about twelve miles to the point 
 
 where resided, having come from his seat 
 
 in the middle of the island, to a small house on 
 the shore, as we believe, that he might with less 
 reproach entertain us meanly. If he aspired to 
 meanness, his retrograde ambition was com- 
 pletely gratified, but he did not succeed equally 
 :n escaping reproach. He had no cook, nor \ 
 suppose much provision, nor had the lady the 
 common decencies of her tea-table ; we picked 
 up our sugar with our fingers. Boswell was 
 very angry, and reproached him with his impro- 
 per parsimony ; I did not much reflect upon the 
 conduct of a man with whom I was not likely to 
 :onverse as long at any other time.
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 509 
 
 You will now expect that I should give you 
 account of the isle of Skie, of which, 
 though I have been twelve days upon it, I have 
 little to say. It is an island perhaps fifty miles 
 long, so much indented by inlets of the sea, that 
 there is no part of it removed from the water 
 more than six miles. No part that I have seen 
 is plain ; you are always climbing or descending, 
 and every step is upon rock or mire. A walk 
 upon ploughed ground in England is a dance 
 upon carpets compared to the toilsome drudgery 
 of wandering in Skie. There is neither town 
 nor village in the island, nor have I seen any 
 house but Macleod's, that is not much below 
 your habitation at Brighthelmstone. In the 
 mountains there are stags and roebucks, but no 
 hares, and few rabbits ; nor have I seen any 
 thing that interested me as a zoologist, except an 
 otter, bigger than I thought an otter could have 
 been. 
 
 You are perhaps imagining that I am with- 
 drawing from the gay and the busy world into 
 regions of peace and pastoral felicity, and am 
 enjoying the reliques of the golden age ; that I am 
 surveying nature's magnificence from a moun- 
 tain, or remarking her minuter beauties on the 
 flowery bank of a winding rivulet ; that I am 
 invigorating myself in the sunshine, or delight- 
 ing my imagination with being hidden from the 
 invasion of human evils and human passions, in 
 the darkness of a thicket ; that I am busy in 
 gathering shells and pebbles on the shore, or 
 contemplative on a rock, from which I look upon 
 the water, and consider how many waves are 
 rolling between me and Streatham. 
 
 The use of travelling is to regulate imagina- 
 tion by reality, and instead of thinking how 
 things may be, to see them as they are. Here 
 are mountains which I should once have climbed ; 
 but to climb steeps is now very laborious, and to 
 descend them dangerous ; and I am now content 
 with knowing, that by scrambling up a rock, 
 I shall only see other rocks, and a wider circuit 
 of barren desolation. Of streams, we have here 
 a sufficient number; but they murmur not upon 
 pebbles, but upon rocks. Of flowers, if Chloris 
 herself were here, I could present her only with 
 the bloom of heath. Of lawns and thickets, he 
 must read that would know them, for here is 
 little sun and no shade. On the sea I look from 
 my window, but am not much tempted to the 
 shore ; for since I came to this island, almost 
 every breath of air has been a storm, and what 
 is worse, a storm with all its severity, but. with- 
 out its magnificence, for the sea is here so 
 broken into channels that there is not a sufficient 
 volume of water either for lofty surges or a loud 
 roar. 
 
 On Sept. 6th, we left to visit Raarsa, 
 
 the island which I have already mentioned. We 
 were to cross part of Skie on horseback ; a mode 
 of travelling very uncomfortable, for the road 
 is so narrow, where any road can be found, that 
 only one can go, and so craggy, that the atten- 
 tion can never be remitted ; it allows, therefore, 
 neither the gayety of conversation, nor the laxity 
 of solitude : nor has it in itself the amusement 
 of much variety, as it affords only all the possible 
 transpositions of bog, rock, and rivulet. Twelve 
 miles, by computation, make a reasonable jour- 
 ney for a day. 
 
 At night we came to a tenant's house, of the 
 
 first rank of tenants, where we were entertained 
 better than at the landlord's. There were books 
 both English and Latin. Company gathered 
 about us, and we heard some talk of the second 
 sight, and some talk of the events of forty- five ; 
 a year which will not soon be forgotten among 
 the islanders. The next day we were confined 
 by a storm. The company, I think, increased, 
 and our entertainment was not only hospitable, 
 but elegant At night a minister's sister, in very 
 fine brocade, sung Erse songs ; I wished to know 
 the meaning; but the Highlanders are not much 
 used to scholastic questions, and no translations 
 could be obtained. 
 
 Next day, Sept. 8th, the weather allowed us 
 to depart ; a good boat was provided us, and we 
 went to Raarsa under the conduct of Mr. Mal- 
 colm Macleod, a gentleman who conducted 
 Prince Charles through the mountains in his 
 distresses. The Prince, he says, was more 
 active than himself; they were, at least, one 
 night without any shelter. 
 
 The wind blew enough to give the boat a kind 
 of dancing agitation, and in aboat three or four 
 hours we arrived at Raarsa, where we were met 
 by the laird and his friends upon the shore. 
 Raarsa, for such is his title, is master of two 
 islands: upon the smaller of which, called Rona, 
 he has only flocks and herds. Rona gives title 
 to his eldest son. The money which he raises 
 annually by rent from all his dominions, which 
 contain at least fifty thousand acres, is not 
 believed to exceed two hundred and fifty pounds : 
 but as he keeps a large farm in his own hands, 
 he sells every year great numbers of cattle, 
 which adds to his revenue, and his table is fur- 
 nished from the farm and from the sea with very 
 little expense, except for those things this coun- 
 try does not produce, and of those he is very 
 liberal. The wine circulates vigorously ; and 
 the tea, chocolate, and coffee, however they are 
 got, are always at hand. I am, &c. 
 
 We are this morning trying to get out of Skie. 
 
 LETTER XXin. To THE SAME. 
 
 Skie, Sept. 24M, 1773. 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 I AM still in Skie. Do you remember the song? 
 
 Every island is a prison, 
 Strongly guarded by the sea. 
 
 We have at one time no boat, and at another 
 may have too much wind ; but of our reception 
 here we have no reason to complain. We are 
 now with Colonel Macleod, in a more pleasant 
 place than I thought Skie could afford. Now to 
 the narrative. 
 
 We were received at Raarsa on the sea-side, 
 and after clambering with some difficulty over 
 the rocks, a labour which the traveller, wherever 
 he reposes himself on land, must in these islands 
 be contented to endure ; we were introduced 
 into the house which one of the company called 
 the Court of Raarsa, with politeness which not 
 the Court of Versailles could have thought 
 defective. The house is not large, though we 
 were told in our passage that it had eleven fine 
 rooms, nor magnificently furnished, but our 
 utensils were most commonly of silver. We 
 went up into a dining room, about as large as
 
 510 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 your blue room, where we had something given 
 us to eat, and tea and coffee. 
 
 Raarsa himself is a man of no inelegant 
 appearance, and of manners uncommonly refined. 
 Lady Raarsa makes no very sublime appearance 
 for a sovereign, but is a good housewife, and a 
 very prudent and diligent conductress of her 
 family. Miss Flora Macleod is a celebrated 
 beauty ; has been admired at Edinburgh ; dresses 
 her head very high ; and has manners so lady- 
 like, that I wish her head-dress was lower. 
 The rest of the nine girls are all pretty ; the 
 youngest is between Glueeney and Lucy. The 
 youngest boy, of four years old, runs barefoot, 
 and wandered with us over the rocks to see a 
 mill: I believe he would walk on that rough 
 ground, without shoes, ten miles in a day. 
 
 The Laird of Raarsa has sometimes disputed 
 the chieftainry of the clan with Macleod of 
 Skie, but being much inferior in extent of pos- 
 sessions, has, 1 suppose, been forced to desist 
 Raarsa and its provinces have descended to its 
 present possessor through a succession of four 
 hundred years, without any increase or diminu- 
 tion. It was indeed lately in danger of forfeiture, 
 but the old laird joined some prudence with his 
 zeal, and, when Prince Charles landed in Scot- 
 land, made over his estate to his son, the present 
 laird, and led one hundred men of Raarsa into 
 the field, with officers of his own family. Eighty- 
 six only came back after the last battle. The 
 prince was hidden, in his distress, two nights at 
 Raarsa, and the king's troops burnt the whole 
 country, and kil.ed some of the cattle. 
 
 You may guess at the opinions that prevail 
 in this country ; they are, however, content 
 with fighting for their king ; they do not drink 
 for him. We had no foolish healths. At night, 
 unexpectedly to us who were strangers, the car- 
 pet was taken up ; the fiddler of the family came 
 up, and a very vigorous and general dance was 
 begun. As I told you, we were two- and- thirty 
 at supper; there were full as many dancers ; for, 
 though all who supped did not dance, some 
 danced of the young people who did not sup. 
 Raarsa himself danced with his children, and old 
 Malcolm, in his philibeg, was as nimble as when 
 he led the Prince over the mountains. When 
 they had danced themselves weary, two tables 
 were spread, and I suppose at least twenty dishes 
 were upon them. In this country some prepa- 
 rations of milk are always served up at supper, 
 and sometimes in the place of tarts at dinner. 
 The table was not coarsely heaped, but at once 
 plentiful and elegant They do not pretend to 
 make a loaf; there are only cakes, commonly of 
 oats or barley, but they made me very nice cakes 
 of wheat flour. I always sat at the left hand of 
 Lady Raarsa ; and young Macleod of Skie, the 
 chieftain of the clan, sat on the right. 
 
 After supper a young lady, who was visiting, 
 sung Erse songs, in which Lady Raarsa joined 
 prettily enough, but not gracefully ; the' young 
 ladies sustained the chorus better. They are 
 very little used to be asked questions, and not 
 well prepared with answers. When one of the 
 songs was over, 1 asked the princess that sat 
 next to me, What is that about ? I question if 
 she conceived that I did not understand it. For 
 the entertainment of the company, said she. 
 But. Madam, what is the meaning of it ? It is 
 a love song. This was all the intelligence that 
 
 I could obtain ; nor have I been able to procure 
 the translation of a single line of Erse. 
 
 At twelve it was bed-time. I had a chamber 
 to myself, which, in eleven rooms to forty people, 
 was more than my share. How the company 
 and the family were distributed is not easy to 
 tell. Macleod the chieftain, and Boswell, and I, 
 had all single chambers on the first floor. There 
 remained eight rooms only for at least seven and 
 thirty lodgers. I suppose they put up temporary 
 beds in the dining room, where they stowed all 
 the young ladies. There was a room above 
 stairs with six beds, in which they put ten men. 
 The rest in my next. 
 
 LETTER XXIV. To THE SAME. 
 
 Ostieh in Skie, Sept 30th, 1773. 
 DEAREST MADAM, 
 
 I AM still confined in Skie. We were unskilful 
 travellers, and imagined that the sea was an 
 open road, which we could pass at pleasure ; but 
 we have now learned, with some pain, that we 
 may still wait for a long time the caprices of the 
 equinoctial winds, and sit reading or writing, as 
 I now do, while the tempest is rolling the sea, or 
 roaring in the mountains. I am now no longer 
 pleased with the delay ; you can hear from me 
 but seldom, and I cannot at all hear from you. 
 It comes into my mind that some evil may hap- 
 pen, or that I might be of use while I am away. 
 But these thoughts are vain ; the wind is violent 
 and adverse, and our boat cannot yet come. I 
 must content myself with writing to you, and 
 hoping that you will some time receive my letter. 
 Now to my narrative. 
 
 Sept 9th. Having passed the night as is 
 usual, I rose, and found the dining-room full of 
 company ; we feasted and talked, and when the 
 evening came it brought music and dancing. 
 Young Macleod, the great proprietor of Skie 
 and head of his clan, was very distinguishable; 
 a young man of nineteen ; bred awhile at St. 
 Andrew's and afterwards at Oxford, a pupil of 
 G. Strahan. He is a young man of a mind as 
 much advanced as I have ever known ; very 
 elegant of manners, and very graceful in his per- 
 son. He has the full spirit of a feudal chief; 
 and I was very ready to accept his invitation to 
 Dunvegan. All Raarsa's children are beautiful. 
 The ladies all, except the eldest, are in the 
 morning dressed in their hair. The true High- 
 lander never wears rnor than a ribband on her 
 head till she is married. 
 
 On the third day, Boswell went out with old 
 Malcolm to see a ruined castle, which he found 
 less entire than was promised, but he saw the 
 country. I did not go, for the castle was perhaps 
 ten miles off, and there is no riding at Raarsa, 
 the whole island being rock or mountain, from 
 which the cattle often fall and are destroyed. It 
 is very barren, and maintains, as near as I could 
 collect, about seven hundred inhabitants, per- 
 haps ten to a square mile. In these countries 
 you are not to suppose that you shall find villages 
 or inclosures. The traveller wanders through a 
 naked desert, gratified sometimes, but rarely, 
 with the sight of cows, and now and then finds 
 a heap of loose stones and turf in a cavity 
 between rocks, where a being born with all those
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 511 
 
 powers which education expands, and all those 
 sensations which culture refines, is condemned 
 to shelter itself from the wind and rain. Philoso- 
 phers there are, who try to make themselves 
 believe that this life is happy, but they believe it 
 only while they are saying it, and never yet 
 produced conviction in a single mind ; he, whom 
 want of words or images sunk into silence, still 
 thought, as he thought before, that privation of 
 pleasure can never please, and that content is 
 not to be much envied, when it has no other 
 principle than ignorance of good. 
 
 This gloomy tranquillity, which some may 
 call fortitude, and others wisdom, was, I belu e, 
 for a long time to be very frequently found in 
 these dens of poverty : every man was content 
 to live like his neighbours, and never wandering 
 from home, saw no mode of life preferable to his 
 own, except at the house of the laird, or the 
 laird's nearest relations, whom he considered as 
 a superior order of beings, to whose luxuries or 
 honours he had no pretensions. But the end 
 of this reverence and submission seems now 
 approaching ; the Highlanders have learned that 
 there are countries less bleak and barren than 
 their own, where, instead of working for the 
 laird, every man will till his own ground, and 
 eat the produce of his own labour. Great num- 
 bers have been induced by this discovery to go 
 every year, for some time past, to America. 
 Macdonald and Macleod of Skie have lost many 
 tenatits and many labourers, but Raarsa has not 
 yet Lien forsaken by a single inhabitant. 
 
 Rona is yet more rocky and barren than 
 Raarsa, and though it contains perhaps four 
 thousand acres, is possessed only by a herd of 
 cattle and the keepers. 
 
 I find myself not very able to walk upon the 
 mountains, but one day I went out to see the 
 walls yet standing of an ancient chapel. In 
 almost every island the superstitious votaries of 
 the Romish church erected places of worship, 
 in which the drones of convents or cathedrals 
 performed the holy offices ; but by the active 
 :eal of Protestant devotion, almost all of them 
 jiave sunk into ruin. The chapel at Raarsa is 
 now only considered as theburying-place of the 
 family, and I suppose of the whole island. 
 
 We would now have gone away and left room 
 for others to enjoy the pleasures of this little 
 court; but the wind detained us till the 12th, 
 when, though it Was Sunday, we thought it 
 proper to snatch the opportunity of a calm day. 
 Raarsa accompanied us in a six-oared boat, 
 which he said was his coach and six. It is 
 indeed the vehicle in which the ladies take the 
 air and pay their visits, but they have taken very 
 little care for accommodations. There is no 
 way in or out of the boat for a woman, but by 
 being carried ; and in the boat thus dignified with 
 a pompous name, there is no seat but an occa- 
 sional bundle of straw. Thus we left Raarsa; 
 the seat of plenty, civility, and cheerfulness. 
 
 We dined at a public house at Port Re ; so 
 called because one of the Scottish kings landed 
 there in a progress through the Western isles. 
 Raarsa paid the reckoning privately. We then 
 got on horseback, and by a short but very tedious 
 journey came to Kingsburgh, at which the same 
 king lodged after he landed. Here I had the 
 honour of saluting the far-famed Miss Flora 
 Macdonald, who conducted th^ Prince dressed 
 
 as her maid, through the English forces from the 
 island of Lewes ; and, when she came to Skie, 
 dined with the English officers, and left her maid 
 below. She must then have been a very young 
 lady ; she is now not old : of a pleasing person 
 and elegant behaviour. She told me that she 
 thought herself honoured by my visit ; and I am 
 sure that whatever regard she bestowed on 
 me was liberally repaid. "If thou likest her 
 opinions, thou wilt praise her virtue." She was 
 carried to London, but dismissed without a trial, 
 and came down with Malcolm Macleod, against 
 whom sufficient evidence could n5t be procured. 
 She and her husband are poor, and are going to 
 try their fortune in America. 
 
 Sic rerum volvkur orbis. 
 
 At Kingsbnrgh we were very liberally feasted, 
 and I slept in the bed in which the Prince 
 reposed in his distress ; the sheets which he used 
 were never put to any meaner offices, but were 
 wrapped up by the lady of the house, and at last, 
 according to her desire, were laid round her in 
 her grave. These are not Whigs. 
 
 On the 1 3th, travelling partly on horseback 
 where we could not row, and partly on foot 
 where we could not ride, we came to Dunvegan, 
 which I have described already. Here, though 
 poor Macleod had been left by his grandfather 
 overwhelmed with debts, we had another exhibi- 
 tion of feudal hospitality. There were two stags 
 in the house, and venison came to the table 
 every day in its various forms. Macleod, besides 
 his estate in Skie, larger I suppose than some 
 English counties, is proprietor of nine inhabited 
 isles : and of his islands uninhabited I doubt it' 
 he very exactly knows the number. I told him 
 that he was a mighty monarch. Such dominions 
 fill an Englishman with envious wonder; but 
 when he surveys the naked mountains, and 
 treads the quaking moor, and wanders over the 
 wild regions of gloomy barrenness, his wonder 
 may continue, but his envy ceases. The unpro- 
 fitableness of these vast domains can be conceived 
 only by the means of positive instances. The 
 heir of Col, an island not far distant, has lately 
 told me how wealthy he should be if he could let 
 Rum, another of his islands, for two-pence half- 
 penny an acre; and Macleod has an estate, 
 which the surveyor reports to contain eighty 
 thousand acres, rented at six hundred pounds 
 a-year. 
 
 While we were at Dunvegan, the wind was 
 high, and the rain violent, so that we were not 
 able to put forth a boat to fish in the sea, or to 
 visit the adjacent islands, which may be seen 
 from the house ; but we filled up the time as we 
 could, sometimes by talk, sometimes by reading. 
 I have never wanted books in the Isle of Skie. 
 
 We were invited one day by the Laird and 
 Lady of Muck, one of the Western islands, two 
 miles long and three quarters of a mile high. 
 He has half his island in his own culture, and 
 upon the other half live one hundred and fifty 
 dependants, who not only live upon the product, 
 but export corn sufficient for the payment of 
 their rent. 
 
 Lady Macleod has a son and four daughters ; 
 they have lived long in England, and have the 
 language and manners of English ladies. We 
 lived with them very easily. The hospitality ot 
 this remote region is like that of the golden age.
 
 5i2 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 We have found ourselves treated at every house 
 as if we came to confer a benefit. 
 
 We won- eight days at Dunvegan, but we 
 took the first opportunity which the weather 
 afforded, after the first days, of going away, and, 
 on the 21st, went to Ulinish, where we were 
 well entertained, and wandered a little after 
 curiosities. In the afternoon an interval of calm 
 sunshine courted us out to see a cave on the 
 shore famous for its echo. When we went into 
 the boat, one of our companions was asked in 
 Erse, by the boatmen, who they were that came 
 with him? fle gave us characters, I suppose, 
 to our advantage, and was asked, in the spirit of 
 the Highlands, whether I could recite a loag 
 series of ancestors? The boatmen said, as I 
 perceived afterwards, that they heard the cry of 
 an English ghost. This, Boswell says, disturbed 
 him. We came to the cave, and clambering up 
 the rocks, came to an arch, open at one end, one 
 hundred and eighty feet long, thirty broad in the 
 broadest part, and about thirty high. There was 
 no echo : such is the fidelity of report ; but I saw 
 what 1 never saw before, muscles and whilks in 
 their natural state. There was another arch in 
 the rock open at both ends. 
 
 Sept. 23d. We removed to Talisker, a house 
 occupied by Mr. Macleod a lieutenant-colonel 
 in the Dutch service. Talisker has been long 
 in the possession of gentlemen, and therefore has 
 a garden well cultivated : and, what is here very 
 rare, is shaded by trees : a place where the 
 imagination is more amused cannot easily be 
 found. The mountains about it are of great 
 height, with waterfalls succeeding one another 
 so fast, that as one ceases to be heard another 
 begins. Between the mountains there is a small 
 valley extending to the sea, which is not far oflT, 
 beating upon a coast very difficult of access. 
 
 Two nights before our arrival two boats were 
 driven upon this coast by the tempest, one of 
 them had a pilot that knew the passage, the 
 second followed but a third missed the true 
 course, and was driven forward with great 
 danger of being forced into the vast ocean, but 
 however gained at last some other island. The 
 crews crept to Talisker, almost lifeless with wet, 
 cold, fatigue, and terror, but the lady took care 
 of them. She is a woman of more than common 
 qualifications ; having travelled with her hus- 
 band, she speaks four languages. 
 
 You find that all the islanders, even in these 
 recesses of life, are not barbarous. One of the 
 ministers who has adhered to us almost all the 
 time is an excellent scholar. We have now with 
 us the young laird of Col, who is heir, perhaps, 
 to two hundred square miles of land. He has 
 first studied at Aberdeen, and afterwards gone 
 to Hertfordshire to learn agriculture, being much 
 impressed with desire of improvement : he like- 
 wise has the notions of a chief, and keeps a 
 piper. At Macleod's the bagpipe always played 
 while we were dining. 
 
 Col has undertaken, by permission of the 
 waves and wind, to carry us about several of the 
 islands, with which he is acquainted enough to 
 show us whatever curious is given by nature or 
 left by antiquity; but we grew afraid of deviating 
 from our way home, lest we should be shut up 
 for months upon some little protuberance of rock, 
 that just appears above the sea, and perhaps is 
 scarcelv marked upon a map. 
 
 You remember the Doge of Genoa, who being 
 asked what struck him most at the French court? 
 answered, "Myself." I cannot think many 
 things here more likely to affect the fancy than 
 to see Johnson ending his sixty-fourth year in 
 the wilderness of the Hebrides. But now I am 
 here, it will gratify me very little to return with- 
 out seeing, or doing my best to see what those 
 places afford. I have a desire to instruct myseli 
 in the whole system of pastoral life ; but I know 
 not whether I shall be able to perfect t'he idea. 
 However, I have many pictures in my mind, 
 which I could not have had without this journey, 
 and should have passed it with great pleasure 
 had you, and Master, and dueeney, been in the 
 party. We should have excited the attention 
 and enlarged the observation of each other, and 
 obtained many pleasing topics of future conver- 
 sation. As it is, I travel with my mind too much 
 at home, and perhaps miss many things worthy 
 of observation, or pass them with transient 
 notice ; so that the images, for want of that re-im- 
 pression which discussion and comparison pro- 
 duce, easily fade away ; but I keep a book ot 
 remarks, and Boswell writes a regular journal of 
 our travels, which, I think, contains as much of 
 what I say and do, as of all other occurrences 
 together ; " for such a faithful chronicler as 
 Griffith." 
 
 I hope, dearest Madam, you are equally care- 
 ful to reposit proper memorials of all that hap- 
 pens to you and your family, and then when we 
 meet we shall tell our stones. I wish you had 
 gone this summer in your usual splendour to 
 Brighthelmstone. 
 
 Mr. Thrale probably wonders how I live all 
 this time without sending to him for money. 
 Travelling in Scotland is dear enough, dearer m 
 proportion to what the country affords than in 
 England, but residence in the isles is unexpen 
 sive. Company is, I think, considered as a sup 
 ply of pleasure, and a relief of that tedioueness 
 of life which is felt in every place, elegant or 
 rude. Of wine and punch they are very liberal, 
 for they, get them cheap ; but as there is no cus- 
 tom-house on the island, they can hardly be 
 considered as smugglers. Their punch is made 
 without lemons or any substitute. 
 
 Their tables are very plentiful ; but a very nice 
 man would not be pampered. As they have no 
 meat, but as they kill it, they are obliged to live 
 while it lasts upon the same flesh. They kill a 
 sheep, and set mutton boiled and roast on the 
 table together. They have fish both of the sea 
 and of the brooks : but they can hardly conceive 
 that it. requires any sauce. To sauce m general 
 they are strangers : now and then butter is 
 melted, but I dare not always take lest I should 
 offend by disliking it. Barley-broth is a constant 
 dish, and is made well in every house. A 
 stranger, if he is prudent, will secure his share, 
 for it is not certain that he will be able to eat any 
 thing else. 
 
 Their meat, being often newly killed, is very 
 tough, and, as nothing is sufficiently subdued by 
 the fire, is not easily to be eaten. Carving is 
 here a very laborious employment, for the kmves 
 are never whetted. Table-knives are not of long 
 subsistence in the Highlands ; every man, while 
 arms were a regular part of dress, had his knife 
 and fork appendant to his dirk. Knives they 
 now lay upon the table, but the handles are apt
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 513 
 
 to show that they have been in other hands, and 
 the bU.des have never brightness nor edge. 
 
 Of silver there is no want, and it will last long, 
 for it is never cleaned. They are a nation just 
 rising from barbarity: long contented with neces- 
 saries, now somewhat studious of convenience, 
 but not yet arrived at delicate discriminations. 
 Their linen is, however, both clean and fine. 
 Bread, such as we mean by that name, I have 
 never seen in the Isle of Skie. They have ovens, 
 for they bake their pies ; but they never ferment 
 their meal, nor mould a loaf. Cakes of oats and 
 barley are brought to the table, but I believe 
 wheat is reserved for strangers. They are com- 
 monly too hard for me, and therefore I take pota- 
 toes to my meat, and am sure to find them on 
 almost every table. 
 
 They retain so much of the pastoral life, that 
 sonic preparation of milk is commonly one of 
 the dishes both at dinner and supper. Tea is 
 always drank at the usual times ; but in the 
 morning the table is polluted with a plate of 
 slices of strong cheese. This is peculiar to the 
 Highlands ; at Edinburgh there are always honey 
 and sweetmeats on the morning tea-table. 
 
 Strong liquors they seem to love. Every man, 
 perhaps woman, begins the day with a dram ; and 
 the punch is made both at dinner and supper. 
 
 They have neither wood nor coal for fuel, but 
 burn peat or turf in their chimneys. It is dug 
 out of the moors or mosses, and makes a strong 
 and lasting fire, not always very sweet, and 
 somewhat apt to smoke the pot. 
 
 The houses of inferior gentlemen are very 
 small, and every room serves many purposes. 
 In the bed-rooms, perhaps, are laid up stores of 
 different kinds ; and the parlour of the day is a 
 bed-room at night. In the room which I inhabited 
 last, about fourteen feet square, there were three 
 chests of drawers, a long chest for larger clothes, 
 two closet cupboards, and the bed. Their rooms 
 are commonly dirty, of which they seem to have 
 little sensibility, and if they had more, clean 
 floors would be difficultly kept, where the first 
 step from the door is into the dirt. They are 
 very much inclined to carpets, and seldom fail to 
 lay down something under their feet, better or 
 worse, as they happen to be furnished. 
 
 The Highland dress, being forbidden by law, 
 is very little used ; sometimes it may be seen, but 
 the English traveller is struck with nothing so 
 much as the nudite des pieds of the common 
 peo.pl e. 
 
 Skie is the greatest island, or the greatest but 
 one, among the Hebrides. Of the soil I have 
 already given some account: it is generally bar- 
 ren, but some spots are not wholly unfruitful. 
 The gardens have apples and pears, cherries, 
 strawberries, raspberries, currants, and goose- 
 berries, but all the fruit that I have seen is 
 small. They attempt to sow nothing but oats 
 and barley. Oats constitute the bread corn of 
 the place. Their harvest is about the beginning 
 of October ; and being so late, is very much 
 subject to disappointments from the rains that 
 follow the equinox. This year has been particu- 
 larly disastrous. Their rainy season lasts from 
 Autumn to Spring. They have seldom very 
 hard frosts ; nor was it ever known that a lake 
 was covered with ice strong enough to bear a 
 skaiter. The sea round them is always open. 
 The snow falls but soon melts; only m 1771, 
 3 P 
 
 they had a cold spring, in which the island was 
 so long covered with it, that many beasts, both 
 wild and domestic, perished, and the whole 
 country was reduced to distress, from which I 
 know not if it is even yet recovered. 
 
 The animals here are not remarkably small ; 
 perhaps they recruit their breed from the main 
 land. The cows are sometimes without horns. 
 The horned and unhorned cattle are not acci- 
 dental variations, but different species : they will, 
 however, breed together. 
 
 October 3d. The wind is now changed, and 
 if we snatch the moment of opportunity, an 
 escape from this island is become practicable ; 1 
 have no reason to complain of my reception, yet 
 I long to be again at home. 
 
 You and my master may perhaps expect, after 
 this description of Skie, some account of myself. 
 My eye is, I am afraid, not fully recovered ; my 
 ears are not mended ; my nerves seem to grow 
 weaker, and I have been otherwise not as well 
 as I sometimes am, but think myself lately bet- 
 ter. This climate, perhaps, is not within my 
 degree of healthy latitude. 
 
 Thus I have given my most honoured mistress 
 the story of me and my little ramble. We are 
 now going to some other isle, to what we know 
 not ; the wind will tells us. I am, &c." 
 
 LETTER XXV. To THE SAME. 
 
 Mull, Oct. 15th, 1773 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 THOUGH I have written to Mr. Thrale, yet 
 having a little more time than was promised me, 
 I would not suffer the messenger to go without 
 some token of my duty to my mistress, who, I 
 suppose, expects the usual tribute of intelligence, 
 a tribute which I am not now very able to pay. 
 
 October 3d. After having been detained by 
 storms many days in Skie, we left it, as we 
 thought, with a fair wind ; but a violent gust, 
 which Bos. had a great mind to call a tempest, 
 forced us into Col, an obscure island ; on which 
 
 nulla campis 
 
 Arbor cestiva recreatur aura. 
 There is literally no tree upon the island, part 
 of it is a sandy waste, over which it would be 
 really dangerous to travel in dry weather and 
 with a high wind. It seems to be little more 
 than one continued rock, covered from space to 
 space with a thin layer of earth. It is, however, 
 according to the Highland notion, very popu- 
 lous, and life is improved beyond the manners of 
 Skie; for the huts are collected into little vil- 
 lages, and every one has a small garden of roots 
 and cabbage. The laird has a new house built 
 by his uncle, and an old castle inhabited by his 
 ancestors. The young laird entertained us very 
 liberally ; he is heir, perhaps, to three hundred 
 square miles of land, which at ten shillings an 
 acre, would bring him ninety-six thousand 
 pounds a year. He is desirous of improving the 
 agriculture of his country ; and in imitation of 
 the Czar, travelled for improvement, and worked 
 with his own hands upon a farm in Hertfordshire 
 in the neighbourhood of your uncle Sir Thomas 
 Salusbury. He talks of doing useful things, and 
 has introduced turnips for winter fodder. He 
 has made a small essay towards a road.
 
 514 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 Col is but a barren place. Description has 
 here few opportunities of spreading her colours. 
 The difference of day and night is the only vicis- 
 situde. The succession of sunshine to rain, or 
 of calms to tempests, we have not known ; wind 
 and rain have been our only weather. 
 
 At last, after about nine days, we hired a 
 sloop ; and having lain in it all night, with such 
 accommodations as these miserable vessels can 
 afford, were landed yesterday on the Isle of 
 Mull ; from which we expect an easy passage 
 into Scotland. I am sick in a ship, but recover 
 by lying down. 
 
 I have not good health ; I do not find that 
 travelling much helps me. My nights are flatu- 
 lent, though not in the utmost degree, and I have 
 a weakness in my knees, which makes me very 
 unable to walk. 
 
 Pray, dear Madam, let me have a long letter. 
 I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXVI. To THE SAME. 
 
 Inverary, Oct. 21th, 1773. 
 
 HONOURED MISTRESS, 
 
 MT last letters to you and my dear master were 
 written from Mull, the third island of the 
 Hebrides in extent. There is no post, and I 
 took the opportunity of a gentleman's passage to 
 the main land. 
 
 In Mull we were confined two days by the 
 weather ; on the third we got on horseback, and 
 after a journey difficult and tedious, over rocks 
 naked and valleys untracked, through a country 
 of barrenness and solitude, we came, almost in 
 the dark, to the sea-side, weary and dejected, 
 having met with nothing but water falling from 
 the mountains that could raise any image of 
 delight. Our company was the young Laird of 
 Col and his servant. Col made every Maclean 
 open his house where he came, and supply us 
 with horses when we departed ; but the horses of 
 this country are small, and I was not mounted 
 to my wish. 
 
 At the sea-side we found the ferry-boat 
 departed ; if it had been where it was expected, 
 the wind was against us, and the hour was late, 
 nor was it very desirable to cross the sea in 
 darkness with a small boat. The captain of a 
 sloop that had been driven thither by the storm, 
 saw our distress, and as we were hesitating and 
 deliberating, sent his boat, which, by Col's 
 order, transported us to the Isle of Ulva. We 
 were introduced to Mr. Macquarry, the head of 
 a small clan, whose ancestors have reigned in 
 Ulva beyond memory, but who has reduced him- 
 self by his negligence and folly, to the necessity 
 of selling this venerable patrimony. 
 
 On the next morning we passed the strait of 
 Inch Kenneth, an island about a mile in length, 
 and less than half a mile broad ; in which Ken- 
 neth, a Scottish saint, established a small clerical 
 college, of which the chapel walls are still stand- 
 ing. At this place I beheld a scene which I 
 wish you and my master and dueeney had 
 partaken. 
 
 The only family on the island is that of Sir 
 Allan, the chief of the ancient and numerous 
 clan of Maclean ; the clan which claims the 
 second place, yielding only to Macdonald in the 
 line of battle. Sir Allan, a chieftain, a haronet,. 
 
 and a soldier, inhabits in this insulated desert a 
 thatched hut with no chambers. Young Col, 
 who owns him as his chief, and whose cousin 
 was his lady, had, I believe, given him some 
 notice of our visit ; he received us with a soldier's 
 frankness and the gentleman's elegance, and 
 introduced us to his daughters, two young ladies 
 who have not wanted education suitable to their 
 birth, and who, in their cottage, neither forgot 
 their dignity, nor affected to remember it. Do 
 not you wish to have been with us ? 
 
 Sir Allan's affairs are in disorder by the fault 
 of his ancestors : and while he forms some 
 scheme for retrieving them, he has retreated 
 hither. 
 
 When our salutations were over, he showed 
 us the island. We walked uncovered into the 
 chapel, and saw in the reverend ruin the effects 
 of precipitate reformation. The floor is covered 
 with ancient grave-stones of which the inscrip- 
 tions are not now legible ; and without, some 
 of the chief families still continue the right of 
 sepulture. The altar is not yet quite demolished ; 
 beside it, on the right side, is a bas-relief of the 
 Virgin with her child, and an angel hovering 
 over her. On the other side still stands a hand- 
 bell, which, though it has no clapper, neither 
 Presbyterian bigotry, nor barbarian wantonness 
 has yet taken away. The chapel is thirty-eight 
 feet long, and eighteen broad. Boswell, who is 
 very pious, went into it at night, to perform his 
 devotions, but came back in haste for fear of 
 spectres. Near the chapel is a fountain, to 
 which the water, remarkably pure, is conveyed 
 from a distant hill, through pipes laid by the 
 Romish clergy, which still perform the office of 
 conveyance, though they have never been repaired 
 since Popery was suppressed. 
 
 We soon after went in to dinner, and wanted 
 neither the comforts nor the elegancies of life. 
 There were several dishes, and variety of liquors. 
 The servants live in another cottage, in which, I 
 suppose, the meat is dressed. 
 
 Towards evening, Sir Allan told us, that 
 Sunday never passed over him like another day. 
 One of the ladies read, and read very well, the 
 evening service ; and Paradise was opened in 
 the wild. 
 
 Next day, 18th, we went and wandered among 
 the rocks on the shore, while the boat was busy 
 in catching oysters, of which there is a great becl. 
 Oysters lie upon the sand, one, I think, sticking 
 to another, and cockles are found a few inches 
 under the sand. 
 
 We then went in the boat to Spndiland, a lit- 
 tle island very near. We found it a wild rock, 
 of about ten acres ; part naked, part covered 
 with sand, out of which we picked shells ; and 
 part clothed with a thin layer of mould, on the 
 grass of which a few sheep are sometimes fed. 
 We then came back and dined. I passed part 
 of the afternoon in reading, and in the evening 
 one of the ladies played on her harpsichord, and 
 Boswell and Col danced a reel with the other. 
 
 On the 19th, we persuaded Sir Allan to launch 
 his boat again, and go with us to Icolmkill, 
 where the first great preacher of Christianity to 
 the Scots built a church and settled a monastery. 
 In our way we stopped to examine a very uncom- 
 mon cave on the coast of Mull. We had some 
 difficulty to make our way over the vast masses 
 of broken rocks that lie before the entrance,
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 515 
 
 and at the mouth were embarrassed with stones, 
 which the sea had accumulated, as at Bright- 
 helmstone ; but as we advanced, we reached a 
 floor of soft sand, and as we left the light behind 
 us, walked along a very spacious cavity, vaulted 
 over head with an arch almost regular, by which 
 a mountain was sustained, at least a very lofty 
 rock. From this magnificent cavern went a 
 narrow passage to the right hand, which we 
 entered with a candle, and though it was 
 obstructed with great stones, clambered over 
 them to a second expansion of the cave, in which 
 there lies a great square stone, which might 
 serve as a table. The air here was very warm, 
 but not oppressive, and the flame of the candle 
 continued pyramidal. The cave goes onward 
 to an unknown extent, but we were now one 
 hundred and sixty yards under ground ; we had 
 but one candle, and had never heard of any that 
 went farther and came back ; we therefore 
 thought it prudent to return. 
 
 Going forward in our boat, we came to a 
 cluster of rocks, black and horrid, which Sir 
 Allan chose for the place where he would eat 
 his dinner. We climbed till we got seats. The 
 stores were opened, and the repast taken. 
 
 We then entered the boat again ; the night 
 came upon us ; the wind rose ; the sea swelled ; 
 and Boswell desired to be set on dry ground : 
 we, however, pursued our navigation, and passed 
 by several little islands in the silent solemnity of 
 faint moonshine, seeing little, and hearing only 
 the wind and the water. At last we reached 
 the island, the venerable seat of ancient sanctity ; 
 where secret piety reposed, and where fallen 
 greatness was reposited. The island has no 
 house of entertainment, and we manfully made 
 our bed in a farmer's barn. The description I 
 hope to give you another time. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXVII. To THE SAME. 
 
 Edinburgh, Nov. 12tt, 1773. 
 DEAREST MADAM, 
 
 AMONG the possibilities of evil which my imagi- 
 nation suggested at this distance, I missed that 
 which has really happened. I never had much 
 hope of a will in your favour, but was willing 
 to believe that no will would have been made. 
 The event is now irrevocable : it remains only 
 to bear it. Not to wish it had been different is 
 impossible ; but as the wish is painful without 
 use, it is not prudent, perhaps not lawful to 
 indulge it. As life, and vigour of mind, and 
 sprightliness of imagination, and flexibility of 
 attention are given us for valuable and useful 
 purposes, we must not think ourselves at liberty 
 to squander life, to enervate intellectual strength, 
 to cloud our thoughts, or fix our attention, when 
 by all this expense we know that no good can 
 be produced. Be alone as little as you can ; 
 when you are alone, do not suffer your thoughts 
 to dwell on what you might have done to pre- 
 vent this disappointment. You perhaps could 
 not have done what you imagine, or might have 
 done it without effect. But even to think in 
 the most reasonable manner, is for the present 
 not so useful as not to think. Remit yourself 
 solemnly into the hands of God, and th'en turn 
 your mind upon the business and amusements 
 
 which lie before you. "All is best," says 
 Chene, "as it has been, excepting the errors 
 of our own free will." Burton concludes his 
 long book upon Melancholy with this important 
 precept : " Be not solitary ; be not idle." Re- 
 member Chene's position, and observe Burton's 
 precept. 
 
 We came hither on the 9th of this month. I 
 long to come under your care, but for some days 
 cannot decently get away. They congratulate 
 our return as if we had been with Phipps or 
 Banks ; I am ashamed of their salutations. 
 
 I have been able to collect very little for 
 Q.ueeney's cabinet ; but she will not want toys 
 now, she is so well employed. I wish her suc- 
 cess ; and am not without some thought of 
 becoming her schoolfellow. I have got an 
 Italian Rasselas. 
 
 Surely my dear Lucy will recover ; I wish 1 
 could do her good. I love her very much ; and 
 should love another godchild, if I might have 
 the honour of standing to the next baby. I am, 
 &c. 
 
 LETTER XXVIII. To THE SAME. 
 
 Edinburgh, Nov. IS/A, 1773. 
 
 MY DEAREST MISTRESS, 
 
 THIS is the last letter that I shall write ; while 
 you are reading it, I shall be coming home. 
 
 I congratulate you upon your boy ; but you 
 must not think that I will love him all at once as 
 well as I love Harry, for Harry you know is so 
 rational. I shall love him by degrees. 
 
 Poor, pretty, dear Lucy! Can nothing do her 
 good ? I am sorry to lose her. But if she must 
 be taken from us, let us resign her with confi- 
 dence into the hands of Him who knows, and 
 who only knows, what is best both for us and 
 her. 
 
 Do not suffer yourself to be dejected. Reso 
 lution and diligence will supply all that is 
 wanting, and all that is lost But if your 
 health should be impaired, I know not where to 
 find a substitute. I shall have no mistress ; Mr. 
 Thrale will have no wife , and the little flock 
 will have no mother. 
 
 I long to be home, and have taken a place in 
 the coach for Monday ; I hope, therefore, to be 
 in London on Friday the 26th, in the evening. 
 Please to let Mrs. Williams know. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXIX. To THE SAME. 
 
 Litchfield, June 2Sd, 1775. 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 Now I hope you are thinking, shall I have a 
 letter to-day from Litchfield ? Something of a 
 letter you will have ; how else can I expect that 
 you should write ? and the morning on which I 
 should miss a letter would be a morning of unea- 
 siness, notwithstanding all that would be said 
 or done by the sisters of Stowhill, who do and 
 say whatever good they can. They give me 
 good words, and cherries, and strawberries. 
 Lady * * * * and her mother and sister were 
 visiting there yesterday, and Lady * * * * took 
 her tea before her mother.
 
 516 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 Mrs. Cobb is to come to Miss Porter's this 
 
 afternoon. Miss A comes little near me. 
 
 Mr. Langley, of Ashbourne, was here to-day, in 
 his way to Birmingham, and every body talks of 
 you. 
 
 The ladies of the Amicable Society are to 
 walk in a few days, from the town-hall to the 
 cathedral in procession, to hear a sermon. They 
 walk in linen gowns, and each has a stick with 
 an acorn, but for the acorn they could give no 
 reason, till I told them of the civic crown. 
 
 I have just had your sweet letter, and am 
 glad that you are to be at the Regatta. You 
 know how little I love to have you left out of 
 any shining part of life. You have every right 
 to distinction, and should therefore be distin- 
 guished. You will see a show with philosophic 
 superiority, and therefore may see it safely. It 
 is easy to talk of sitting at home contented when 
 others are seeing or making shows. But not to 
 have been where it is supposed, and seldom sup- 
 posed falsely, that all would go if they could ; to 
 be able to say nothing when every one is talk- 
 ing; to have no opinion when every one is 
 judging ; to hear exclamations of rapture, with- 
 out power to depress; to listen to falsehoods 
 without right to contradict, is, after all, a state 
 of temporary inferiority, in which the mind is 
 rather hardened by stubbornness, than supported 
 by fortitude. If the world be worth winning, 
 let us enjoy it; if it is to be despised, let us 
 despise it by conviction. But the world is not 
 to be despised, but as it is compared with some- 
 thing better. Company is in itself better than 
 solitude, and pleasure better than indolence. 
 Ex nlhilo nihilfit, says the moral as well as the 
 natural philosopher. By doing nothing, and by 
 knowing nothing, no power of doing good can 
 be obtained. He must mingle with the world 
 that desires to be useful. Every new scene 
 impresses new ideas, enriches the imagination, 
 and enlarges the power of reason, by new topics 
 of comparison. You that have seen the Regatta 
 will have images which we who miss it must 
 want, and no intellectual images are without 
 use. But when you are in this scene of splen- 
 dour and gayety, do not let one of your fits of 
 negligence steal upon you. Hoc age, is the great 
 rule, whether you are serious or merry : whether 
 you are stating the expenses of your family, 
 learning science or duty from a folio, or floating 
 on the Thames in a fancied dress, Of the whole 
 entertainment let me not hear so copious nor so 
 true an account from any body as from you. I 
 am, dearest Madam, your, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXX. To THE SAME. 
 
 Jlshbourne. 
 DEAREST MADAM, 
 
 1 AM sure I write and write, and every letter that 
 comes from you charges me with not writing. 
 Since I wrote to dueeney I have written twice 
 to you, on the 6th and the 9th: be pleased to let 
 me know whether you have them or have them 
 not. That of the 6th you should regularly have 
 had on the 8th, yet your letter of the 9th seems 
 not to mention it ; all this puzzles me. 
 
 Poor dear * * * * ! He only grows dull because 
 he is sickly ; age has not yet begun to impair 
 him; nor is he such a chameleon as to take 
 
 immediately the colour of his company. When 
 you see him again, you will find him reanimated. 
 Most men have their bright and their cloudy 
 days ; at least they have days when they put 
 their powers into action, and days when they 
 suffer them to repose. 
 
 Fourteen thousand pounds make a sum suffi- 
 cient for the establishment of a family, and 
 which, in whatever flow of riches or confidence 
 of prosperity, deserves to be very seriously con- 
 sidered. I hope a great part of it has paid debts, 
 and no small part bought land. As for gravel- 
 ling and walling and digging, though I am not 
 much delighted with them, yet something, indeed 
 much, must be allowed to every man's taste. 
 He that is growing rich has a right to enjoy part 
 of the growth his own way. I hope to range in 
 the walk, and row upon the water, and devour 
 fruit from the wall. 
 
 Dr. Taylor wants to be gardening. He means 
 to buy a piece of ground in the neighbourhood, 
 and surround it with a wall, and build a garden- 
 er's house upon it, and have fruit, and be happy. 
 Much happiness it will not bring him ; but what 
 can he do better? If I had money enough, what 
 would I do ? Perhaps, if you and master did not 
 hold me, I might go to Cairo, and down the 
 Red Sea to Bengal, and take a ramble in India. 
 Would this be better than building and plant- 
 ing? It would surely give more variety to the 
 eye, and more amplitude to the mind. Half 
 fourteen thousand would send me out to see 
 other forms of existence, and bring me back to 
 describe them. 
 
 I answer this the day on which I had yours ot 
 the 9th, that is on the lith. Let me know when 
 it comes. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXXI. To THE SAME. 
 
 Litchjield, Aug. 2d, 1775 
 MADAM, 
 
 I DINED to-day at Stowhill, and am come away 
 to write my letter. Never surely was I such a 
 writer before. Do you keep my letters ? I am 
 not of your opinion that I shall not like to read 
 them hereafter ; for though there is in them not 
 much history of mind, or any thing else, they 
 will, I hope, always be in some degree the records 
 of a pure and blameless friendship, and, in some 
 hours of languor and sadness, may revive the 
 memory of more cheerful times. 
 
 Why you should suppose yourself not desirous 
 hereafter to read the history of your own mind, 
 I do not see. Twelve years, on which you now 
 look as on a vast expanse of life, will probably 
 be passed over uniformly and smoothly, with 
 very little perception of your progress, and with 
 very few remarks upon the way. The accumu- 
 lation of knowledge which you promise to your- 
 self, by which the future is to look back upon 
 the present, with the superiority of manhood to 
 infancy, will perhaps never be attempted, or 
 never will be made ; and you will find, as mil- 
 lions have found before you, that forty-five has 
 made little sensible addition to thirty-three. 
 
 As the body after a certain time gains no 
 increase of height, and little of strength, there is 
 likewise a period, though more variable by exter 
 nal causes, when the mind commonly attains 
 its stationary point, and very little advances its
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 517 
 
 powers of reflection, judgment, and ratiocina- 
 tion. The body may acquire new modes of 
 motion, or new dexterities of mechanic opera- 
 tions, but its original strength receives not 
 improvement: the mind may be stored with new 
 languages, or new sciences, but its power of 
 thinking remains nearly the same, and unless it 
 attains new subjects of meditation, it commonly 
 produces thoughts of the same force and the 
 same extent, at very distant intervals of life ; as 
 the tree, unless a foreign fruit be ingrafted, gives 
 year after year productions of the same form and 
 the same flavour. 
 
 By intellectual force or strength of thought is 
 meant the degree of power which the mind pos- 
 sesses of surveying the subject of meditation, 
 with its circuit of concomitants, and its train of 
 dependence. 
 
 Of this power, which all observe to be very 
 different in different minds, part seems the gift 
 of nature, and part the acquisition of experience. 
 When the powers of nature have attained their 
 intended energy, they can be no more advanced. 
 The shrub can never become a tree. And it is 
 not unreasonable to suppose that they are before 
 the middle of life in their full vigour. 
 
 Nothing then remains but practice and expe- 
 rience ; and perhaps why they do so little, may 
 be worth inquiry. 
 
 But I have just now looked, and find it so 
 late, that 1 will inquire against the next post- 
 night. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXXII. To THE SAME. 
 
 Litchfield, Aug. 5th, 1775. 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 INSTEAD of forty reasons for my return, one is 
 sufficient, that you wish for my company. I 
 
 Eurpose to write no more till you see me. The 
 idies at Stowhill and Greenhill are unanimously 
 of opinion, that it will be best to take a post- 
 chaise, and not to be troubled with the vexations 
 of a common carriage. I will venture to suppose 
 the ladies at Streatham to be of the same mind. 
 
 You will now expect to be told why you will 
 not be so much wiser as you expect, when you 
 have lived twelve years longer. 
 
 It is said, and said truly, that experience is the 
 best teacher ; and it is supposed, that as life is 
 lengthened experience is increased. But a closer 
 inspection of human life will discover that time 
 often passes without any incident which can 
 much enlarge knowledge or ratify judgment. 
 When we are young we learn much, because we 
 are universally ignorant ; we observe everything, 
 because every thing is new. But after some 
 years, the occurrences of daily life are exhausted ; 
 one day passes like another, in the same scene 
 of appearances, in the same course of transac- 
 tions ; we have to do what we have often done, 
 and what we do not try, because we do not wish 
 to do much better ; we are told what we already 
 know, and therefore what repetition cannot make 
 us know with greater certainty. 
 
 He that has early learned much perhaps sel- 
 dom makes, with regard to life and manners, 
 much addition to his knowledge : not only 
 because as more is known there is less to learn, 
 but because a mind stored with images and prin- 
 
 ciples turns inwards for its own entertainment, 
 and is employed in settling those ideas which run 
 into confusion, and in recollecting those which 
 are stealing away ; practices by which wisdom 
 may be kept, but not gained. The merchant 
 who was at first busy in acquiring money, ceases 
 to grow richer, from the time when he makes it 
 his business only to count it. 
 
 Those who have families or employments are 
 engaged in business of little difficulty, but ot 
 great importance, requiring rather assiduity of 
 practice than subtilty of speculation, occupying 
 the attention with images too bulky for refine- 
 ment, and too obvious for research. The right 
 is already known : what remains is only to fol- 
 low it. Daily business adds no more to wisdom, 
 than daily lesson to the learning of the teacher. 
 But of how few lives does not stated duty claim 
 the greater part ? 
 
 Far the greater part of human minds never 
 endeavour their own improvement Opinions 
 once received from instruction, or settled by 
 whatever accident, are seldom recalled to exa- 
 mination ; having been once supposed to be right, 
 they are never discovered to be erroneous, for no 
 application is made of any thing that time may 
 present, either to shake or to confirm them. 
 From this acquiescence in preconceptions none 
 are wholly free ; between fear of uncertainty, and 
 dislike of labour, everyone rests while he might 
 yet go forward ; and they that were wise at 
 thirty-three, are very little wiser at forty-five. 
 
 Of this speculation you are perhaps tired, and 
 would rather hear of Sophy. I hope before this 
 comes, that her head will be easier, and your 
 head less filled with fears and troubles, which 
 you know are to be indulged only to prevent 
 evil, not to increase it. 
 
 Your uneasiness about Sophy is probably 
 unnecessary, and at worst your own children are 
 healthful, and your affairs prosperous. Unmin- 
 gled good cannot be expected ; but as we may 
 lawfully gather all the good within our reach, 
 we may be allowed to lament after that which 
 we lose. I hope your losses are at an end, and 
 that as far as the condition of our present exist- 
 ence permits, your remaining life will be happy. 
 I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXXIII. To THE SAME. 
 
 Lilchfield, March 2oth, 1778. 
 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 THIS letter will not, I hope, reach you many 
 days before me ; in a distress which can be so 
 little relieved, nothing remains for a friend but 
 to come and partake it. 
 
 Poor dear sweet little boy ! When I read the 
 letter this day to Mre. Aston, she said, "Such 
 a death is the next to translation." Yet how- 
 ever I may convince myself of this, the tears are 
 in my eyes, and yet I could not loye him as you 
 loved him, nor reckon upon him for a future con> 
 fort as you and his father reckoned upon him. 
 
 He is gone, and we are going! We could 
 not have enjoyed him long, and shall not long be 
 separated from him. He has probably escaped, 
 many such pangs as you are now feeling. 
 
 Nothing remains, but that with humble con 
 fidence we resign ourselves to Almighty Good
 
 518 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 ness, and fall down, without irreverent mur- 
 murs, before the Sovereign Distributor of good 
 and evil, with hope that though sorrow endureth 
 for a night, yet joy may come in the morning. 
 
 1 have known you, Madam, too long to think 
 that you want any arguments for submission to 
 the Supreme Will ; nor can my consolation have 
 any effect but that of showing that I wish to 
 comfort you. What can be done you must do 
 for yourself. Remember first, that your child is 
 happy ; and then, that he is safe, not only from 
 the ills of this world, but from those more formi- 
 dable dangers which extend their mischief to 
 eternity. You have brought into the world a 
 rational being ; have seen him happy during the 
 little life that has been granted him; ana can 
 have no doubt but that his happiness is now per- 
 manent and immutable. 
 
 When you have obtained by prayer such tran- 
 quillity as nature will admit, force your attention, 
 as you can, upon your accustomed duties and 
 accustomed entertainments. You can do no 
 more for our dear boy, but you must not there- 
 fore think less on those whom your attention 
 may make fitter for the place to which he is gone. 
 I am, dearest, dearest Madam, your most affec- 
 tionate humble servant. 
 
 LETTER XXXIV. To THE SAME. 
 
 Sept. 6lh, 1777. 
 
 DEAREST LADY, 
 
 IT is true that I have loitered, and what is 
 worse, loitered with very little pleasure. The 
 time has run away, as most time runs, without 
 account, without use, and without memorial. 
 But to say this of a few weeks, though not 
 pleasing, might be borne, but what ought to be 
 the regret of him who, in a few days, will have 
 so nearly the same to say o( sixty-eight years ? 
 But complaint is vain. 
 
 If you have nothing to say from the neighbour- 
 hood of the metropolis, what can occur to me in 
 little cities and petty towns ; in places which we 
 have both seen, and of which no description is 
 wanted ? I have left part of the company with 
 which you dined here, to come and write this 
 letter ; in which I have nothing to tell, but that 
 my nights are very tedious. I cannot persuade 
 myself to forbear trying something. 
 
 As you have now little to do, I suppose you 
 are pretty diligent at the Thraliana ; and a very 
 curious collection posterity will find it. Do not 
 remit the practice of writing down occurrences 
 as they arise, of whatever kind, and be very 
 punctual in annexing the dates. Chronology, 
 you know, is the eye of history ; and every man's 
 life is of importance to himself. Do not omit 
 painful casualties, or unpleasing passages ; they 
 make the variegation of existence; and there are 
 many transactions, of which I will not promise 
 with ./Eneas, et hcec olim memininse juvabit. Yet 
 that remembrance which is not pleasant may 
 be useful. There is however an intemperate 
 attention to slight circumstances which is to 
 be avoided, lest a great part of life be spent in 
 writing the history of the rest Every day per- 
 haps has something to be noted, but in a settled 
 and uniform course few days can have much. 
 
 Whv do I write all this, which I had no 
 
 thought of when I began ? The Thraliana drove 
 it all into my head. It deserves however an 
 hour's reflection, to consider how, with the least 
 loss of time, the loss of what we wish to retain 
 may be prevented. 
 
 Do not neglect to write to me, for when a post 
 comes empty, I am really disappointed. 
 
 Boswell, I believe, will meet me here. I am, 
 dearest lady, your, &.c. 
 
 LETTER XXXV. To THE SAME. 
 
 Litchfield, Oct. 3d, 1777 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 THIS is the last time that I shall write, in this 
 excursion, from this place. To-morrow I shall 
 be, I hope, at Birmingham ; from which place 
 I shall do my best to find the nearest way home. 
 I come home, I think, worse than I went ; and 
 do not like the state of my health. But, vive 
 hodie, make the most of life. I hope to get bet- 
 ter, and sweep the cobwebs. But I have sad 
 nights. Mrs. Aston has sent me to Mr. Greene 
 to be cured. 
 
 Did you see Foote at Brighthelmstone ? Did 
 you think he would so soon be gone? Life, 
 says FalstafT, is a shuttle. He was a fine fellow 
 in his way ; and the world is really impoverished 
 by his sinking glories. Murphy ought to write 
 his life, at least to give the world a Footeana. 
 Now, will any of his contemporaries bewail him? 
 Will genius change his sex to weep? I would 
 really have his life written with diligence. 
 
 It will be proper for me to work pretty dili- 
 gently now for some time. I hope to get through, 
 though so many weeks have passed. Little lives 
 and little criticisms may serve. 
 
 Having been in the country so long, with very 
 little to detain me, I am rather glad to look homo 
 wards. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXXVI. To THE SAME. 
 
 Oct. 13lh, 1777 
 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 YET I do love to hear from you. Such pretty 
 kind letters as you send. But it gives me great 
 delight to find that my master misses me. I begin 
 to wish myself with you more than I should do, 
 if I were wanted less. It is a good thing to stay 
 away till one's company is desired, but not so 
 good to stay after it is desired. 
 
 You know I have some work to do. I did 
 not set to it very soon ; and if I should go up to 
 London with nothing done, what would be said, 
 
 but that I was who can tell what? I 
 
 therefore stay till I can bring up something to 
 stop their mouths, and then 
 
 Though I am still at Ashboiirne, I receive 
 your dear letters that come to Lichfield, and you 
 may continue that direction, for I think to get 
 thither as soon as I can. 
 
 One of the does died yesterday, and I am 
 afraid her fawn will be starved; I wish Miss 
 Thrale had it to nurse ; but the doctor is now all 
 for cattle, and minds very little either does 01 
 hens. 
 
 How did you and your aunt part? Did you 
 turn her out of doors to begin your journey? 01
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 519 
 
 did she leave you by her usual shortness of visits. 
 I love to know how you go on. 
 
 I cannot but think on your kindness and my 
 master's. Life has, upon the whole, fallen short, 
 very short, of my early expectation ; but the 
 acquisition of such a friendship, at an age when 
 new friendships are seldom required, is some- 
 thing better than the general course of things 
 gives man a right to expect. I think on it with 
 great delight ; I am not very apt to be delighted. 
 I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXXVII. To THE SAME. 
 
 Litchfield, Oct. Tlth, 1777. 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 You talk of writing and writing, as if you had 
 all the writing to yourself. If our correspond- 
 once were printed, I am sure posterity, for pos- 
 terity is always the author's favourite, would say 
 that I am a good writer too. Jlnch? io sono 
 piltore. To sit down so often with nothing to 
 say ; to say something so often, almost without 
 consciousness of saying, and without any remem- 
 brance of having said, is a power of which I will 
 not violate my modesty by boasting, but I do not 
 believe that every body has it. 
 
 Some, when they write to their friends, are all 
 affection ; some are wise and sententious ; some 
 strain their powers for efforts of gayety ; some 
 write news, and some write secrets ; but to make 
 a letter without affection, without wisdom, with- 
 out gayety, without news, and without a secret, 
 is, doubtless, the great epistolic art. 
 
 In a man's letters, you know, Madam, his 
 soul lies naked, his letters are only the mirror of 
 his breast ; whatever passes within him is shown 
 undisguised in its natural process ; nothing is 
 inverted, nothing distorted : you see systems in 
 their elements ; you discover actions in their 
 motives. 
 
 Of this great truth, sounded by the knowing 
 to the ignorant, and so echoed by the ignorant 
 to the knowing, what evidence have you now 
 before you ? Is not my soul laid open in these 
 veracious pages ? Do not you see me reduced 
 to my first principles ? This is the pleasure of 
 corresponding with a friend, where doubt and 
 distrust have no place, and every thing is said as 
 it is thought. The original idea is laid down in 
 its simple purity, and all the supervenient con- 
 ceptions are spread over it, stratum super stratum, 
 as they happen to be formed. These are the 
 letters by which souls are united, and by which 
 minds naturally in unison move each other as 
 they are moved themselves. I know, dearest 
 lady, that in the perusal of this, such is the con- 
 sanguinity of our intellects, you will be touched 
 as I am touched. I have indeed concealed 
 nothing from you, nor do I expect ever to repent 
 of having th'is opened my heart. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXXVIII. To THE SAME. 
 
 Nov. 10th, 1777. 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 AND so, supposing that I might come to town 
 and neglect to give you notice, or thinking some 
 other strange thought, but certainly thinking 
 
 wrong, you fall to writing about me to Tom 
 Davies, as if he could tell you any thing that I 
 would not have you know. As soon as I came 
 hither, I let you know of my arrival ; and the 
 consequence is, that I am summoned to Bright- 
 helmstone through storms, and cold, and dirt, 
 and all the hardships of wintry journeys. You 
 know my natural dread of all those evils ; yet 
 to show my master an example of compliance, 
 and to let you know how much I long to see you, 
 and to boast how little I give way to disease, my 
 purpose is to be with you on Friday. 
 
 I am sorry for poor Nezzy, and hope she will 
 in time be better ; I hope the same for myself. 
 The rejuvenescency of Mr. Scrase gives us both 
 reason to hope, and therefore both of us rejoice 
 in his recovery. I wish him well besides as a 
 friend to my master. 
 
 I am just come home from not seeing my Lord 
 Mayor's show, but I might have seen at least 
 part of it. But I saw Miss Wesley and her 
 brothers ; she sends her compliments. Mrs. 
 Williams is come home I think a very little 
 better. 
 
 Every body was an enemy to that wig. We 
 will burn it, and get drunk ; for what is joy with- 
 out drink ? Wagers are laid in the city about 
 our success, which is yet, as the French call it, 
 problematical. Well, but seriously, I think 1 
 shall be glad to see you in your own hair ; but do 
 not take too much time in combing, and twist- 
 ing, and papering, and unpapering, and curling, 
 and frizzing, and powdering, and getting out the 
 powder, with all the other operations required in 
 the cultivation of a head of hair ; yet let it be 
 combed at least once in three months, on the 
 quarter-day I could wish it might be combed 
 once at least in six weeks ; if I were to indulge 
 my wishes, but what are wishes without hopes, 
 I should fancy the operation performed one 
 knows not when one lias enough perhaps 
 every morning. I am, dearest lady, your, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXXIX. To THE SAME. 
 
 Jlshboume, June 14M, 1779 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 YOUR account of Mr. Thrale's illness is very 
 terrible ; but when I remember that he seems to 
 have it peculiar to his constitution, that what- 
 ever distemper he has, he always has his head 
 affected, I am less frighted. The seizure was, 1 
 think, not apoplectical, but hysterical, and there- 
 fore not dangerous to life. I would have you 
 however consult such physicians as you think 
 you can best trust. Bromfield seems to have 
 done well, and by his practice appears not to 
 suspect any apoplexy. This is a solid and fun- 
 damental comfort. I remember Dr. Marsigli, an 
 Italian physician, whose secure was more vio- 
 lent than Mr. Thrale's, for he fell down helpless, 
 but his case was not considered as of much 
 danger, and he went 6afe home, and is now a 
 professor at Padua. His fit was considered as 
 only hysterical. 
 
 I hope Sir Philip, who franked your letter, 
 comforts you as well as Mr. Seward. If I can 
 comfort you, I will come to you ; but I hope you 
 are now no longer in want of and help to be 
 happy. I am, &c. 
 
 The Doctor sends his compliments ; he is one 
 of the people that are growing old.
 
 520 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 LETTER XL. To THE SAME. 
 
 Ashbourne, June Hth, 1779. 
 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 How near we are all to extreme danger. We 
 are merry or sad, or busy or idle, and forget that 
 death is hovering over us. You are a dear lady 
 for writing again. The case, as you now describe 
 it, is worse than I conceived it when I read your 
 first letter. It is still however not apoplectic, but 
 seems to have something worse than hysterical, 
 a tendency to a palsy, which I hope however is 
 now over. I am glad that you have Heberden, 
 and hope we are all safer. I am the more alarmed 
 by this violent seizure, as I can impute it to no 
 wrong practices, or intemperance of any kind, 
 and therefore know not how any defence or pre- 
 servative can be obtained. Mr. Thrale has cer- 
 tainly less exercise than when he followed the 
 foxes ; but he is very far from unwieldiness or 
 inactivity, and further still from any vicious or 
 dangerous excess. I fancy, however, he will do 
 well to ride more. 
 
 Do, dear Madam, let me know every post how 
 he goes on. Such sudden violence is very dread- 
 ful ; we know not by what it is let loose upon us, 
 nor by what its effects are limited. 
 
 If my coming can either assist or divert, or be 
 useful to any purpose, let me but know. I will 
 soon be with you. 
 
 Mrs. Kennedy, dueeney's Baucis, ended last 
 week a long life of disease and poverty. She 
 had been married about fifty years. 
 
 Dr. Taylor is not much amiss, but always 
 complaining. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XLL To MR. THRALE. 
 
 Litchfield, June 23d, 1779. 
 DEAR SIR, 
 
 To show you how well I think of your health, 
 I have sent you a hundred pounds to keep for 
 me. It will come within one day of quarter-day, 
 and that day you must give me. I came by it in 
 a very uncommon manner, and would not con- 
 found it with the rest. 
 
 My wicked mistress talks as if she thought it 
 possible for me to be indifferent or negligent 
 about your health or hers. If I could have done 
 any good, I had not delayed an hour to come to 
 you ; and I will come very soon to try if my 
 advice can be of any use, or my company of any 
 entertainment. 
 
 What can be done you must do for yourself; 
 do not let any uneasy thought settle in your 
 mind. Cheerfulness and exercise are your great 
 remedies. Nothing is for the present worth 
 your anxiety. Vivite lati is one of the great 
 rules of health. I believe it will be good to ride 
 often, but never to weariness, for weariness is 
 itself a temporary resolution of the nerves, and 
 is therefore to be avoided. Labour is exercise 
 continued to fatigue exercise is labour used 
 only while it produces pleasure. 
 
 Above all, keep your mind quiet: do not 
 think with earnestness even of your health ; but 
 think on such things as may please without too 
 much agitation ; among which I hope is, dear 
 Sir, yonr, &c. 
 
 LETTER XLII. To MRS. THRALE. 
 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 ON Sunday I dined with poor Lawrence, who 
 is deafer than ever. When he was told that 
 Dr. Moisy visited Mr. Thrale, he inquired for 
 what? and said there was nothing to be done, 
 which Nature would not do for herself. On 
 Sunday evening I was at Mrs. Vesey's, and 
 there was inquiry about my master, but I told 
 them all good. There was Dr. Bernard of Eton, 
 and we made a noise all the evening ; and there 
 was Pepys, and Wraxal till I drove him away. 
 And I have no loss of my mistress, who laughs, 
 and frisks, and frolicks it all the long day, and 
 never thinks of poor Colin. 
 
 If Mr. Thrale will but continue to mend, we 
 shall, I hope, come together again, and do as 
 good things as ever we did ; but perhaps you 
 will be made too proud to heed me, and yet as 1 
 have often told you, it will not be easy for you to 
 find such another. 
 
 CLueeney has been a good girl, and wrote me 
 a letter ; if Burney said she would write, she 
 told you a fib. She writes nothing to me. She 
 can write home fast enough. I have a good 
 mind not to let her know that Dr. Bernard, to 
 whom I had recommended her novel, speaks of 
 it with great commendation, and that the copy 
 which she lent me, has been read by Dr. Law- 
 rence three times over. And yet what a gipsy 
 it is. She no more minds me than if I were a 
 Brangton. Pray speak to dueeney to write 
 again. 
 
 I have had a cold and a cough, and taken 
 opium, and think I am better. We have had 
 very cold weather ; bad riding weather for my 
 master, but he will surmount it all. Did Mrs. 
 Browne make any reply to your comparison of 
 business with solitude, or did you quite down 
 her ? I am much pleased to think that Mrs. 
 Cotton thinks me worth a frame, and a place 
 upon her wall ; her kindness was hardly within 
 my hope, but time does wonderful things. All 
 my fear is, that if I should come again, my print 
 would be taken down. I fear I shall never 
 hold it. 
 
 Who dines with you? Do you seek Dr. 
 Woodward or Dr. Harrington ? Do you go to 
 the house where they write for the myrtle ? You 
 are at all places of high resort, and bring home 
 hearts by dozens ; while I am seeking for some- 
 thing to say about men of whom I know nothing 
 but their verses, and sometimes very little of 
 them. Now I have begun, however, I do not 
 despair of making an end. Mr. Nichols holds 
 that Addison is the most taking of all that I have 
 done. I doubt they will not be done before you 
 come away. 
 
 Now you think yourself the first writer in the 
 world for a letter about nothing. Can you write 
 such a letter as this? So miscellaneous, with 
 such noble disdain of regularity, like Shak- 
 speare's works ; such graceful negligence of 
 transition, like the ancient enthusiasts ? The 
 pure voice of nature and of friendship. Now of 
 whom shall I proceed to speak? Of whom but 
 Mrs. Montague? Having mentioned Shakspeare 
 and Nature, does not the name of Montague 
 force itself upon me ? Such were the transitions 
 of the ancients, which now seem abrupt, because 
 the intermediate idea is lost to modem under- 
 standings. I wish her name had connected
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 521 
 
 itself with friendship ; but, all Colin, thy hopes 
 are in vain ! One thing however is left me, ] 
 have still to complain ; but I hope I shall noi 
 complain much while you have any .kindness 
 for me. I am, dearest and dearest Madam, 
 pur, Sec. London, April lllh, 17SO. 
 
 LETTER XLIII. To THE SAME. 
 DEAREST MADAM, 
 MR. Thrale never will live abstinently, till he 
 can persuade himself to abstain by rule. I lived 
 on potatoes on Friday, and on spinach to-day ; 
 but I have had, I am afraid, too many dinners oi 
 late, I took physic too both days, and hope to 
 fast to-morrow. When he comes home, we will 
 shame him, and Jebb shall scold him into regu- 
 larity. I am glad, however, that he is alway 
 one of the company, and that my dear dueeney 
 is again another. Encourage, as you can, the 
 musical girl. 
 
 Nothing is more common than mutual dislike 
 where mutual approbation is particularly ex- 
 pected. There is often on both sides a vigilance, 
 not over benevolent ; and as attention is strongly 
 excited, so that nothing drops unheeded, any 
 difference in taste or opinion, and some difference 
 where there is no restraint will commonly appear, 
 immediately generates dislike. 
 
 Never let criticisms operate upon your face or 
 your mind ; it is very rarely that an author is 
 hurt by his critics. The blaze of reputation 
 cannot be blown out, but it often dies in the 
 socket ; a very few names may be considered as 
 perpetual lamps that shine unconsumed. From 
 the author of Fitzosborrie's Letters I cannot 
 think myself in much danger. I met him only 
 once about thirty years ago, and in some small 
 dispute reduced him to whistle ; having not seen 
 him since, that is the last impression. Poor 
 Moore the Fabulist was one of the company. 
 
 Mrs. Montague's long stay against her own 
 inclination, is very convenient. You would, by 
 your own confession, want a companion ; and 
 she is par pluribus, conversing with her you may 
 find variety in one. 
 
 At Airs. Ord's I met one Mrs. B , a 
 
 travelled lady, of great spirit, and some con- 
 sciousness of her own abilities. We had a con- 
 test of gallantry, an hour long, so much to the 
 diversion of the company, that at Ramsay's last 
 night, in a crowded room, they would have 
 pitted us again. There were Smelt, and the 
 Bishop of St. Asaph, who comes to every place ; 
 and Lord Monboddo, and Sir Joshua, and ladies 
 out of tale. 
 
 The Exhibition, how will you do either to 
 see or not to see ! The Exhibition is eminently 
 splendid. There is contour, and keeping, and 
 grace, and expression, and all the varieties of 
 artificial excellence. The apartments were truly 
 very noble. The pictures, for the sake of a. sky- 
 light, are at the top of the house ; there we dined, 
 and I sat over against the Archbishop of York. 
 See how I live when I am not under petticoat 
 government. I am, &c. 
 London, May 1, 1780. 
 
 LETTER XLIV. To THE SAME. 
 
 London, June 9, 1780. 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 To the question, Who was impressed with con- 
 sternation ? it may with great truth be answered 
 3Q 
 
 that every body was impressed, for nobody wan 
 sure of his safety. 
 
 On Friday the good Protestants met in St. 
 George's Fields, at the summons of Lord 
 George Gordon, and marching to Westminster, 
 insulted the Lords and Commons, who all bore 
 it with great lameness. At night the outrages 
 began by the demolition of the mass-house by 
 Lincoln's Inn. 
 
 An exact journal of a week's defiance ot 
 government I cannot give you. On Monday, Mr. 
 Strahan, who had been insulted, spoke to Lord 
 Mansfield, who had, I think, been insulted, too, 
 of the licentiousness of the populace ; and his 
 Lordship treated it as a very slight irregularity. 
 On Tuesday night they pulled down Fielding's 
 house, and burnt his goods in the street. They 
 had gutted on Monday Sir George Savile's 
 house, but the building was saved. On Tuesday 
 evening, leaving Fielding's ruins, they went to 
 Newgate to demand their companions who had 
 been seized demolishing the chapel. The keeper 
 could not release them but by the Mayor's per- 
 mission, which he went to ask ; at his return he 
 found all the prisoners released, and Newgate in 
 a blaze. They then went to Bloomsbury, and 
 fastened upon Lord Mansfield's house, which 
 they pulled down ; and as for his goods, they 
 totally burnt them. They have since gone to 
 Cane-wood, but a guard was there before them. 
 They plundered some Papists, I think, and burnt 
 a mass-house in Moorfields the same night. 
 
 On Wednesday I walked with Dr. Scott to 
 look at Newgate, and found it in ruins, with 
 the fire yet glowing. As I went by, the Pro- 
 testants were plundering the Session-house at 
 the Old Bailey. There were not, I believe, a 
 hundred ; but they did their work at leisure, in 
 full security, without sentinels, without trepida 
 tion, as men lawfully employed, in full day. 
 Such is the cowardice of a commercial place. 
 On Wednesday they broke open the Fleet, and 
 the King's Bench, and the Marshalsea, and 
 Wood -street Counter, and Clerkenwell Bridewell, 
 and released all the prisoners. 
 
 At night they set fire to the Fleet and to the 
 King's Bench, and I know not how many other 
 places ; and one might see the glare of confla- 
 ration fill the sky from many parts. The sight 
 was dreadful. Some people were threatened ; 
 Mr. Strahan advised me to take care of myself. 
 Such a time of terror you have been happy in not 
 seeing. 
 
 The King said in council, that the magistrates 
 bad not done their duty, but that he would do 
 his own ; and a proclamation was published, 
 directing us to keep our servants within doors, 
 as the peace was now to be preserved by force. 
 The soldiers were sent out to different parts, and 
 ;he town is now quiet. 
 
 What has happened at your house you will 
 tnow, the harm is only a few butts of beer ; 
 and I think you may be sure that the danger is 
 over. There is a body of soldiers at St. Marga- 
 ret's Hill. 
 
 Of Mr. Tyson I know nothing, nor can guess 
 to what he can allude ; but I know that a young 
 ellow, of little more than seventy, is naturally 
 an unresisted conqueror of hearts. 
 
 Pray tell Mr. Thrale that I live here and have 
 no fruit, and, if he does not interpose, am noi 
 ikely to have much ; but I think he might
 
 522 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 as well gire me a little as give all to the gar- 
 dener. 
 
 Pray make my compliments to dueeney and 
 Burney. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XLV. To THE SAME. 
 
 June 10th, 1790. 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 Yoo have ere now heard and read enough to 
 convince you that we have had something to 
 fluffer, and something to fear, and therefore I 
 think it necessary to quiet the solicitude which 
 you undoubtedly feel, by telling you that our 
 calamities and terrors are now at an end. The 
 Soldiers are stationed so as to be every where 
 within call; there is no longer any body of 
 rioters, and the individuals are hunted to their 
 holes, and led to prison ; the streets are safe and 
 quiet : Lord George was last night sent to the 
 Tower. Mr. John Wilkes was this day with a 
 party of soldiers in my neighbourhood, to seize 
 the publisher of a seditious paper. Every body 
 walks, and eats, and sleeps in security. But the 
 history of the last week would fill you with 
 amazement : it is without any modern example. 
 
 Several chapels have been destroyed, and 
 several inoffensive Papists have been plundered, 
 but the high sport was to burn the jails. This 
 was a good rabble trick. The debtors and the 
 criminals were all set at liberty ; but of the cri- 
 minals, as has always happened, many are 
 already retaken, and two pirates have surren- 
 dered themselves, and it is expected that they 
 will be pardoned. 
 
 Government now acts again with its proper 
 force ; and we are all again under the protection 
 of the king and the law. I thought that it 
 would be agreeable to you and my master to 
 have my testimony to the public security ; and 
 that you would sleep more quietly when I told 
 you that you are safe. I am, dearest lady, 
 your, &.C. 
 
 LETTER XL VI. To THE SAME. 
 
 London, April 5th, 1781 
 DEAREST MADAM, 
 OF your injunctions, to pray for you, and write 
 to you, I hope to leave neither unobserved ; and 
 I hope to find you willing in a short time to alle- 
 viate your trouble by some other exercise of the 
 mind. I am not without my part of the cala- 
 mity. No death since that of my wife has ever 
 oppressed me like this. But let us remember, 
 that we are in the hands of Him who knows 
 when to give and when to take away ; who wil 
 look upon us with mercy through all our varia- 
 tions of existence, and who invites us to call on 
 him in the day of trouble. Call upon him in 
 this great revolution of life, and call with confi- 
 dence. You will then find comfort for the past 
 and support for the future. He that has given 
 you happiness in marriage, to a degree of which 
 without personal knowledge, I should havi 
 thought trie description fabulous, can give you 
 another mode of happiness as a mother ; and a 
 last the happiness of losing all temporal cares in 
 the thoughts of an eternity in Heaven 
 
 I do not exhort you to reason yourself into 
 ranquillity. We must first pray, and then 
 abour ; first implore the blessing of God, and 
 
 se those means which he puts into our hands. 
 Cultivated ground has few weeds; a mind occu- 
 
 ied by lawful business, has little room for use- 
 ess regret 
 We read the will to-day ; but I will not fill 
 
 iy first letter with any other account than that, 
 vith all my zeal for your advantage, I am sutis- 
 
 :ed ; that the other executors, more used to con- 
 
 ider property than I, commended it for wisdom 
 
 nd equity. Yet why should I not tell you that 
 ou have five hundred pounds for your immediate 
 
 xpenses, and two thousand pounds a year, with 
 )oth the houses, and all the goods. 
 Let us pray for one another, that the time, 
 
 whether long or short, that shall yet be granted 
 us, may be well spent ; and that when this life, 
 vhich at the longest is very short, shall come to 
 an end, a better may begin which shall never 
 
 nd. I am, dearest Madam, your, &c. 
 
 LETTER XLVIL To THE SAME. 
 
 April 1th, 1781. 
 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 HOPE you begin to find your mind grow clearer. 
 My part of the loss hangs upon me. I have lost 
 
 friend of boundless kindness, at an age when it 
 s very unlikely that I should find another. 
 
 If you think change of place likely to relieve 
 TOM, there is no reason why you should not go 
 ,o Bath ; the distances are unequal, but with 
 egard to practice and business they are the 
 same. It is a day's journey from either place ; 
 and the post is more expeditious and certain to 
 Bath. Consult only your inclination, for there 
 s really no other principle of choice. God direct 
 ind bless you. 
 
 Mr. C has offered Mr. P money, 
 
 jut it was not wanted. I hope we shall all do 
 all we can to make you less unhappy, and you 
 must do all you can for yourself. What we, or 
 what you can do, will for a time be but little ; 
 yet certainly that calamity, which may be consi 
 dered as doomed to fall inevitably on half man 
 kind, is not finally without alleviation. 
 
 It is something for me, that, as I have not the 
 decrepitude, I have not the callousness of old 
 age. I hope in time to be less afflicted. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XLVTIL To THE SAME. 
 
 London, April 9th, 178J. 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 THAT you are gradually recovering your tran 
 quillity is the effect to be humbly expected from 
 trust in God. Do not represent life as darker 
 than it is. Your loss has been very great, but 
 you retain more than almost any other can hope 
 to possess. You are high in the opinion of man- 
 kind ; you have children from whom much 
 pleasure may be expected ; and that you will 
 find many friends, you have no reason to doubt. 
 Of my friendship, be it worth more or less, I 
 hope you think yourself certain, without much 
 art or care. It will not be easy for me to repay 
 the benefits that I have received : but I hope to 
 be always ready at your call. Our sorrow has
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 528 
 
 different effects; you are withdrawn into soli- 
 tude, and I am driven into company. I am 
 afraid of thinking what I have lost. I never had 
 such a friend before. Let me have your prayers 
 and those of my dear Glueeney. 
 
 The prudence and resolution of your design 
 to return so soon to your business and your duty 
 deserves great praise ; I shall communicate it on 
 Wednesday to the other executors. Be pleased 
 to let me know whether you would have me come 
 to Streatham to receive you, or stay here till the 
 next day. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XLIX. To THE SAME. 
 
 Bolt-court, Fleet-street, June 19th, 1783. 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 I AM sitting down in no cheerful solitude to write 
 a narrative which would once have affected you 
 with tenderness and sorrow, but which you will 
 perhaps pass over now with a careless glance of 
 frigid indifference. For this diminution of regard, 
 however, I know not whether I ought to blame 
 you, who may have reasons which I cannot know; 
 and I do not blame myself, who have for a great 
 part of human life done you what good I could, 
 and have never done you evil. 
 
 I have been disordered in the usual way, and 
 have been relieved by the usual methods, by 
 opium and cathartics, but had rather lessened my 
 dose of opium. 
 
 On Monday the 16th I sat for my picture, and 
 walked a considerable way with little inconve- 
 nience. In the afternoon and evening I felt 
 myself light and easy, and began to plan schemes 
 of life. Thus I went to bed, and in a short time 
 waked and sat up, as has been long my custom, 
 when I felt a confusion and indistinctness in my 
 head, which lasted I suppose about half a minute ; 
 I was alarmed, and prayed God, that however he 
 might afflict my body, he would spare my under- 
 standing. This prayer, that I might try the 
 integrity of my faculties, I made in Latin verse. 
 The lines were not very good, but I knew them 
 not to be very good : I made them easily, and 
 concluded myself to be unimpaired in my facul- 
 ties. 
 
 Soon after I perceived that I had suffered a 
 paralytic stroke, and that my speech was taken 
 from me. I had no pain, and so little dejection 
 in this dreadful state, that I wondered at my 
 own apathy, and considered that perhaps death 
 itself, when it should come, would excite less 
 horror than seems now to attend it. 
 
 In order to rouse the vocal organs, I took two 
 drams. Wine has been celebrated for the pro- 
 duction of eloquence. I put myself into violent 
 motion, and I think repeated it ; but all was vain. 
 I then went to bed, and, strange as it may seem, 
 I think, slept. When 1 saw light, it was time to 
 contrive what I should do. Though God stopped 
 my speech, he left me my hand: I enjoyed a 
 mercy which was not granted to my dear friend 
 Lawrence, who now perhaps overlooks me as I 
 am writing, and rejoices that I have what he 
 wanted. My first note was necessarily to my 
 servant, who came in talking, and could not 
 immediately comprehend why he should read 
 wh.it I put into his hands. 
 
 I then wrote a card to Mr. Allen, that I might 
 
 have a discreet friend at hand to act as occasion 
 should require. In penning this note I had some 
 difficulty; my hand, I knew not how nor why, 
 made wrong letters. I then wrote to Dr. Taylor 
 to come to me, and bring Dr. Heberden, and I 
 sent to Dr. Brocklesby, who is my neighbour. 
 My physicians are very friendly and very disin- 
 terested, and give me great hopes, but you may 
 imagine my situation. I have so far recovered 
 my vocal powers, as to repeat the Lord's prayer 
 with no very imperfect articulation. My memory, 
 I hope, yet remains as it was ; but such an 
 attack produces solicitude for the safety of every 
 faculty. 
 
 How this will be received by you I know not. 
 I hope you will sympathise with me ; but per- 
 haps 
 
 My mistress, gracious, mild, and good, 
 Cries, Is he dumb ? 'Tig time he should. 
 
 But can this be possible ? I hope it cannot. I 
 hope that what, when I could speak, I spoke of 
 you, and to you, will be in a sober and serious 
 hour remembered by you ; and surely it cannot 
 be remembered but with some degree of kind* 
 ness. I have loved you with virtuous affection ; 
 I have honoured you with sincere esteem. Let 
 not all our endearments be forgotten, but let me 
 have in this great distress your pity and your 
 prayers. You see I yet turn to you with my 
 complaints, as a settled and unalienable friend ; 
 do not, do not drive me from you, for I have not 
 deserved either neglect or hatred. 
 
 To the girls, who do not write often, for Susy 
 has written only once, and Miss Thrale owes 
 me a letter, 1 earnestly recommend, as their 
 guardian and friend, that they remember their 
 Creator in the days of their youth. 
 
 I suppose you may wish to know how my 
 disease is treated by the physicians. They put 
 a blister upon my back, and two from my ear 
 to my throat, one on a side. The blister on the 
 back has done little, and those on the throat 
 have not risen. I bullied and bounced, (it sticks 
 to our last sand,) and compelled the apothecary 
 to make his salve according to the Edinburgh 
 Dispensatory, that it might adhere better. I 
 have two on now of my own prescription. They 
 likewise give me salt of hartshorn, which I take 
 with no great confidence, but I arn satisfied that 
 what can be done is done for me. 
 
 God ! give me comfort and confidence in 
 Thee ; forgive my sins ; and if it be thy good 
 pleasure, relieve my diseases for Jesus Christ's 
 sake. Amen. 
 
 1 am almost ashamed of this querulous letter ; 
 but now it is written, let it go. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER L. To THE SAME. 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 AMONG those that have inquired after me, Sir 
 Philip is one ; and Dr. Bumey was one of those 
 who came to see me. I have had no reason to 
 complain of indifference or neglect Dick Bur 
 ney is come home five inches taller. 
 
 Yesterday, in the evening, I went to church, 
 and have been to-day to see the great burning- 
 glass, which does more than was ever done before 
 by the transmission of the rays, but is not equal
 
 524 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 iu power to those which reflect them. It wastes 
 a diamond placed in the focus, but causes no 
 diminution of pure gold. Of the rubies exposed 
 to its action, one was made more vivid, the other 
 paler. To see the glass, I climbed up stairs to 
 the garret, and then up a ladder to the leads, and 
 talked to the artist rather too long ; for my voice, 
 though clear and distinct for a little while, soon 
 tires and falters. The organs of speech are yet 
 very feeble, but will, I hope, be by the mercy of 
 God finally restored : at present, like any other 
 weak limb, they can endure but little labour at 
 once. Would you not have been very sorry for 
 me when I could scarcely speak ? 
 
 Fresh cantharides were this morning applied 
 to my head, and are to be continued some time 
 longer. If they play me no treacherous tricks, 
 they give me very little pain. 
 
 Let me have your kindness and your prayers ; 
 and think on me as on a man, who, for a very 
 great portion of your life, has done you all the 
 good he could, and desires still to be considered, 
 Madam, your, &c. 
 
 LETTER LI. To THE SAME. 
 
 London, July, 1, 1783. 
 
 DEAREST MADAM, 
 
 THIS morning I took the air by a ride to Hamp- 
 stead, and this afternoon I dined with the club. 
 But fresh cantharides were this day applied to 
 my head. 
 
 Mr. Cator called on me to-day, and told me 
 that he had invited you back to Streatham. I 
 showed the unfitness of your return thither, till 
 the neighbourhood should have lost its habits of 
 depredation, and he seemed to be satisfied. He 
 invited me very kindly and cordially to try the 
 air of Beckenham, and pleased me very much by 
 his affectionate attention to Miss Vezy. There 
 is much good in his character, and much useful- 
 ness in his knowledge. 
 
 dueeney seems now to have forgotten me. Of 
 the different appearance of the hills and valleys 
 an account may perhaps be given, without the 
 supposition of any prodigy. If she had been out 
 and the evening was breezy, the exhalations 
 would rise from the low grounds very copiously ; 
 and the wind that swept and cleared the hills, 
 would only by its cold condense the vapours of 
 the sheltered valleys. 
 
 Murphy is just gone from me ; he visits me 
 very kindly, and I have no unkindness to com- 
 plain of. 
 
 I am sorry that Sir Philip's request was not 
 treated with more respect, nor can I imagine 
 what has put them so much out of humour ; I 
 hope their business is prosperous. 
 
 I hope that I recover by degrees, but my nights 
 are restless ; and you will suppose the nervous 
 system to be somewhat enfeebled. I am, Madam, 
 your, &c. 
 
 LETTER LII. To THE SAME. 
 
 London, Oct. 9th, 1783. 
 
 Two nights ago Mr. Burke sat with me a long 
 time ; he seems much pleased with his journey. 
 We had both seen Stonehenge this summer for 
 the first time. I told him ~that the view had 
 
 enabled me to confute two opinions which have 
 been advanced about it. One that the materials 
 are not natural stones, but an artificial composi- 
 tion hardened by time. This notion is as old as 
 Camden's time ; and has this strong argument to 
 support it, that stone of that species is no where 
 to be found. The other opinion, advanced by 
 Dr. Charlton, is, that it was erected by the Danes. 
 
 Mr. Bowles made me observe, that the trans- 
 verse stones were fixed on the perpendicular 
 supporters by a knob formed on the top of the 
 upright stone, which entered into a hollow cut in 
 the crossing stone. This is a proof that the 
 enormous edifice was raised by a people who had 
 not yet the knowledge of mortar ; which cannot 
 be supposed of the Danes, who came hither in 
 ships, and were not ignorant certainly of the arts 
 of life. This proves likewise the stones not to 
 be factitious ; for they that could mould such 
 durable masses could do much more than make 
 mortar, and could have continued the transverse 
 from the upright part with the same paste. 
 
 You have doubtless seen Stonehenge ; and if 
 you have not, I should think it a hard task to 
 make an adequate description. 
 
 It is, in my opinion, to be referred to the earliest 
 habitation of the island, as adruidical monument 
 of at least two thousand years ; probably the 
 most ancient work of man upon the island. 
 Salisbury cathedral and its neighbour Stone- 
 henge, are two eminent monuments of art and 
 rudeness, and may show the first essay, and the 
 last perfection in architecture. 
 
 I have not yet settled rny thoughts about the 
 generation of light air, which I indeed once saw 
 produced, but I was at the height of my great 
 complaint I have made inquiry, and shall soon 
 be able to tell you how to fill a balloon. I am, 
 Madam, your, &c. 
 
 LETTER LI1L To THE SAME. 
 
 London, Dec. 21th, 1783. 
 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 THE wearisome solitude of the long evenings 
 did indeed suggest to me the convenience of a 
 club in my neighbourhood, but I have been hin- 
 dered from attending it by want of breath. If 
 I can complete the scheme, you shall have the 
 names and the regulations. 
 
 The time of the year, for I hope the fault is 
 rather in the weather than in me, has been very 
 hard upon me. The muscles of my breast are 
 much convulsed. Dr. Heberden recommends 
 opiates, of which I have such horror that I do 
 not think of them but in extremis. I was, how- 
 ever, driven to them last night for refuge, and 
 having taken the usual quantity, durst not go to 
 bed, for fear of that uneasiness to which a supine 
 posture exposes me, but rested all night in a 
 chair with much relief, and have been to-day 
 more warm, active, and cheerful. 
 
 You have more than once wondered at my 
 complaint of solitude when you hear that I am 
 crowded with visits. Inopein me copia fecit. 
 Visiters are no proper companions in the cham- 
 ber of sickness. They come when I could sleep 
 or read, they stay till I am weary, they force me 
 to attend when my mind calls for relaxation, and 
 to speak when my powers will hardly actualo 
 my tongue. The amusements and consolations
 
 IRENE: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 525 
 
 of languor and depression are conferred by fami- 
 liar and domestic companions, which can be 
 visited or called at will, and can occasionally be 
 quieted or dismissed, who do not obstruct accom- 
 modation by ceremony, or destroy indolence by 
 awakening effort. 
 
 Such society I had with Level and Williams ; 
 such I had where I am never likely to have it 
 more. 
 
 I wish, dear lady, to you and my dear girls, 
 many a cheerful and pious Christmas. I am, 
 your, &c. 
 
 LETTER LIV. To MRS. PIOZZI. 
 
 London, July 8lh, 1784. 
 
 DEAK MADAM, 
 
 WHAT you have done, however I may lament 
 it, 1 have no pretence to resent, as it has not 
 been injurious to me; I therefore breathe out 
 one sigh mo^e of tenderness, perhaps useless, 
 but at least sincere. 
 
 I wish that God may grant you every blessing, 
 that you may be happy in this world for its short 
 continuance, and eternally happy in a better 
 state ; and whatever I can contribute to your 
 happiness I am very ready to repay, for that 
 
 kindness which soothed twenty years of a life 
 radically wretched. 
 
 Do not think slightly of the advice which I 
 now presume to offer. Prevail upon Mr. Piozzi 
 to settle in England : you may live here with 
 more dignity than in Italy, and with more secu- 
 rity ; your rank will be higher, and your fortune 
 more under your own eye. I desire not to detail 
 all my reasons ; but every argument of prudence 
 and interest is for England, and only some phan- 
 toms of imagination seduce you to Italy. 
 
 I am afraid, however, that my counsel is vain, 
 yet I have eased my heart by giving it. 
 
 When Glueen Mary took the resolution of 
 sheltering herself in England, the Archbishop 
 of St. Andrews, attempting to dissuade her, 
 attended on her journey ; and when they came 
 to the irremeable stream that separated the two 
 kingdoms, walked by her side into the water, in 
 the middle of which he seized her brible, and 
 with earnestness proportioned to her danger and 
 his own affection pressed her to return. The 
 queen went forward. If the parallel reaches 
 thus far, may it go no farther. The tears stand 
 in my eyes. 
 
 I am going into Derbyshire, and hope to be 
 followed by your good wishes, for I am, with 
 great affection, your, &c. 
 
 IRENE: 
 
 A TRAGEDY, 
 
 IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 MAHOMBT, Emperor of the Turks, 
 CALI BASSA, First Vizier, . . . 
 Mustapha, a Turkish Aga, . . 
 ABDALLA, an Officer, . . . . 
 
 Turkish Captains, . 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 . Mr. Barry. DEMETRIUS, > r-..=v ivrni>imn 5 Mr - Garrick. 
 
 . Mr. Berry. LEONTIUS, \ Greek Noblemen ' [ Mr. Blakes. 
 
 . Mr. Sotcden. MURZA, an Eunuch, Mr. King. 
 
 . Mr. Havard. ASPASIA, ) p rppk Ladies $ Mrs ' Cibber - 
 
 ( Mr. Usher. IRENE, $ Greek Ladle8) ' ' -' I Mrs. Pritchard. 
 ' I Mr. Burton. Attendants on IRENE. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 YE glittering train, whom lace and velvet bless, 
 Suspend the soft solicitudes of dress! 
 From grovelling business and superfluous care, 
 Ye sons of Avarice, a moment spare! 
 Votaries of Fame, and worshippers of Power, 
 Dismiss the pleasing phantoms for an hour! 
 Our daring bard, with spirit unconfined, 
 Spreads wide the mighty moral for mankind. 
 Learn here how Heaven supports the virtuous 
 
 mind, 
 Daring, though calm, and vigorous, though re- 
 
 sign'd. 
 
 Learn here what anguish racks the guilty breast, 
 In power dependent, in success deprest. 
 Learn here that Peace fromlnnocence mustflow; 
 All else is empty sound, and idle show. 
 If truths like these with pleasing language join; 
 
 Ennobled, yet unchanged, if Nature shine; 
 If no wild draught depart from Reason's rules, 
 Nor gods his heroes, nor his lovers fools ; 
 Intriguing Wits ! his artless plot forgive ; 
 And spare him, Beauties, though his lovers live. 
 
 Be this at least his praise, be this his pride; 
 To force applause no modern arts are try'd. 
 Should partial catcalls all his hopes confound, 
 He bids no trumpet quell the fatal sound. 
 Should welcome sleep relieve the weary wit, 
 He rolls no thunders o'er the drowsy pit. 
 No snares to captivate the judgment spreads, 
 Nor bribes your eyes to prejudice your heads. 
 Unmoved though Witlings sneer and Rivals rail, 
 Studious to please, yet not ashamed to fail. 
 He scorns the meek address, the suppliant strain 
 With merit needless, and without it vain. 
 In Reason, Nature, Truth, he dares to trust : 
 Ye Fops, be silent : and ye Wits, be just
 
 IRENE: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 [Acr. I. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. DEMETRIUS and LEONTIUS, in 
 Turkish Habits. 
 
 Leon. And is it thus Demetrius meets his friend, 
 Hid in the mean disguise of Turkish robes, 
 With servile secrecy to lurk in shades, 
 And vent our sufferings in clandestine groans? 
 Dem. Till breathless fury rested from destruc- 
 tion, 
 
 These groans were fatal, these disguises vain ; 
 But now our Turkish conquerors have quench'd 
 Their rage, and pall'd their appetite of murder; 
 No more the glutted sabre thirsts for blood, 
 And weary cruelty remits her tortures. 
 
 Leon. Yet Greece enjoys no gleam of transient 
 
 hope, 
 
 No soothing interval of peaceful sorrow ; 
 The lust of gold succeeds the rage of conquest, 
 The lust of gold, unfeeling and remorseless, 
 The last corruption of degenerate man! 
 Urged by the imperious soldier's fierce command, 
 The groaning Greeks break up their golden 
 
 caverns 
 Pregnant with stores that India's mines might 
 
 envy, 
 Th' accumulated wealth of toiling ages. 
 
 Dem. That wealth too sacred for their coun- 
 try's use ! 
 
 That wealth, too pleasing to be lost for freedom ! 
 That wealth, which, granted to their weeping 
 
 prince, 
 
 Had ranged embattled nations at our gates! 
 But, thus reserved to lure the wolves of Turkey, 
 Adds shame to grief, and infamy to ruin. 
 Lamenting Avarice now too late discovers 
 Her own neglected in the public safety. 
 Leon. Reproach not misery. The sons of 
 
 Greece, 
 
 Ill-fated race ! so oft besieged in vain, 
 With false security beheld invasion. 
 Why should they fear ? That power that kindly 
 
 spreads 
 
 The clouds, a signal of impending showers, 
 To warn the wandering linnet to the shade, 
 Beheld without concern expiring Greece, 
 And not one prodigy foretold our fate. 
 
 Dem, A thousand horrid prodigies foretold it. 
 A feeble government, eluded laws, 
 A factious populous, luxurious nobles, 
 And all the maladies of sinking states. 
 When public Villainy, too strong for justice, 
 Shows his bold front, the harbinger of ruin, 
 Can brave Leontius call for airy wonders, 
 Which cheats interpret, and which fools regard? 
 When some neglected fabric nods beneath 
 The weight of years, and totters to the tempest, 
 Must Heaven despatch the messengers of light, 
 Or wake the dead, to warn us of its fall ? 
 
 Leon. Well might the weakness of our empire 
 
 sink 
 
 Before such foes of more than human force 
 Some power invisible, from heaven or hell, 
 Conducts their armies, and asserts their cause. 
 Dem. And yet, my friend, what miracles 
 
 were wrought 
 
 Beyond the power of constancy and courage ? 
 Did unresisted lightning aid their cannon? 
 Dili roaring whirlwinds sweep us from the ram- 
 parts 
 
 'Twas vice that shook our nerves, 'twas vice, 
 Leontius, 
 
 That froze our veins, and wither'd all our 
 
 powers. 
 Leon. Whate'er our crimes, our woes demand 
 
 compassion. 
 
 Each night, protected by the friendly darkness, 
 duitting my close retreat, I range the city, 
 And, weeping, kiss the venerable ruins : 
 With silent pangs I view the towering domes, 
 Sacred to prayer, and wander through the streets, 
 Where commerce lavish'd unexhausted plenty, 
 And jollity maintain'd eternal revels. 
 Dem. How changed, alas ! Now ghastly 
 
 Desolation 
 
 In triumph sits upon our shatter'd spires ; 
 Now superstition, ignorance, and error, 
 Usurp our temples, and profane our altars. 
 Leon. From every palace bursts a mingled 
 
 clamour, 
 
 The dreadful dissonance of barbarous triumph, 
 Shrieks of affright and wailings of distress. 
 Oft when the cries of violated beauty 
 Arose to Heaven, and pierced my bleeding breast, 
 I felt thy pains, and trembled for Aspasia. 
 Dem. Aspasia ! spare that loved, that mourn- 
 ful name : 
 
 Dear, hapless maid tempestuous grief o'erbears 
 My reasoning powers Dear, hapless, lost As- 
 pasia ! 
 
 Leon. Suspend the thought. 
 Dem. All thought on her is madness ; 
 Yet let me think I see the helpless maid, 
 Behold the monsters gaze with savage rapture, 
 Behold how lust and rapine struggle round her : 
 Leon. Awake, Demetrius, from this dismal 
 Sink not beneath imaginary sorrows ; [dream, 
 Call to your age, your courage and your wisdom; 
 Think on the sudden change of human scenes ; 
 Think on the various accidents of war ; 
 Think on the mighty power of awful virtue ; 
 Think on that Providence that guards the good. 
 
 Dem. O Providence ! extend thy care to me, 
 For Courage droops unequal to the combat, 
 And weak Philosophy denies her succours. 
 Sure some kind sabre in the heat of battle, 
 Ere yet the foe found leisure to be cruel, 
 Dismissed her to the sky. 
 
 Leon. Some virgin martyr, 
 Perhaps, enamour'd of resembling virtue, 
 With gentle hand restrain'd the streams of life, 
 And snatch'd her timely from her country's fate. 
 Dem. From those bright regions of eternal 
 day, [saints, 
 
 Where now thou shin'st among thy fellow 
 Array'd in purer light, look down on me: 
 In pleasing visions and assuasive dreams, 
 
 ! soothe my soul, and teach me how to lose 
 
 thee. 
 Leon. Enough of unavailing tears, Demetrius: 
 
 1 come obedient to thy friendly summons, 
 
 And hoped to share thy councils, not thy sor- 
 rows : 
 
 While thus we mourn the fortune of Aspasia, 
 To what are we reserved ? 
 
 Dem. To what I know not : 
 But hope, yet hope, to happiness and honour; 
 If happiness can be without Aspasia. 
 
 Leon. But whence this new-sprung hope ? 
 
 Dem. From Cali Bassa, [counsels. 
 
 The chief, whose wisdom guides the Turkish 
 He, tired of slavery, though the highest slave, 
 Projects at once our freedom and his own ; 
 And bids us thus disguised await him here.
 
 SCENE II.] 
 
 IRENE: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 52T 
 
 Leon. Can he restore the state he could not 
 
 save ? 
 
 In vain, when Turkey's troops assail'd our walls, 
 His kind intelligence betray'd their measures; 
 Their arms prevailed, though Cali was our friend. 
 
 Dem. When the tenth sun had set upon our 
 
 sorrows, 
 
 At midnight's private hour, a voice unknown 
 Sounds in my sleeping ear, "Awake, Demetrius, 
 Awake, and follow me to better fortune." 
 Surprised I start, and bless the happy dream ; 
 Then, rousing, know the fiery chief Abdalla, 
 Whose quick impatience seized my doubtful 
 
 hand, 
 
 And led me to the shore where Cali stood, 
 Pensive and list'ning to the beating surge. 
 There, in soft hints and in ambiguous phrase, 
 With all the diffidence of long experience, 
 That oft had practised fraud, and oft detected, 
 The veteran courtier half revealed his project. 
 By his command, equipp'd for speedy flight, 
 Deep in a winding creek a galley lies, 
 Mann'd with the bravest of our fellow-captives, 
 Selected by my care, a hardy band, 
 That long to hail thee chief. 
 
 Leon. But what avails 
 So small a force? or why should Cali fly? 
 Or how can Call's flight restore our country? 
 
 Dem. Reserve these questions for a safer hour ; 
 Or hear himself, for see the Bassa comes. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 ~ DEMETRIUS, LEONTIUS, and CALI BASSA. 
 
 Cali. Now summon all thy soul, illustrious 
 
 Christian ! 
 
 Awake each faculty that sleeps within thee, 
 The courtier's policy, the sage's firmness, 
 The warrior's ardour, and the patriot's zeal: 
 If, chasing past events with vain pursuit, 
 'Or wandering in the wilds of future being, 
 \ single thought now rove, recall it home. 
 Jut can thy friend sustain the glorious cause, 
 The cause of liberty, the cause of nations? 
 
 Dem. Observe him closely with a statesman's 
 
 eye, [Nature, 
 
 Thou that hast long perused the draughts of 
 
 And knows't the characters of Vice and Virtue, 
 
 Left by the hand of Heaven on human clay. 
 
 Cali. His mien is lofty, his demeanour great, 
 Nor sprightly folly wantons in his air, 
 Nor dull serenity becalms his eyes. 
 Such had I trusted once as soon as seen, 
 But cautious age suspects the flattering form, 
 And only credits what experience tells. 
 Has silence press'd her seal upon his lips ? 
 Does adamantine faith invest his heart? 
 Will he not bend beneath a tyrant's frown ? 
 Will he not melt before ambition's fire ? 
 Will he not soften in a friend's embrace? 
 Or flow dissolving in a woman's tears? 
 
 Dem. Sooner the trembling leaves shall find 
 
 a voice, 
 
 And tell the secrets of their conscious walks ; 
 Sooner the breeze shall catch the flying sounds, 
 And shock the tyrant with a tale of treason. 
 Your slaughter'd multitudes that swell the shore 
 With monuments of death, proclaim his courage ; 
 Virtue and liberty engross his soul, 
 And leave no place for perfidy or fear. 
 
 Leon. I scorn a trust unwillingly reposed ; 
 Demetrius will not lead m?to dishonour ; 
 
 Consult in private, call me when your sr'neme 
 Is ripe for action, and demands the sword. 
 
 [Got'nf 
 
 Dem. Leontius, stay. 
 Cali., Forgive an old man's weakness 
 And share the deepest secrets of my soul, 
 My wrongs, my fears, my motives, my designs. 
 When unsuccessful wars and civil factions, 
 Embroil'd the Turkish state, our Sultan's father 
 Great Amurath, at my request forsook, 
 The cloister's ease, resumed the tottering throne, 
 And snatch'd the reins of abdicated power, 
 From giddy Mahomet's unskilful hand. 
 This fired the youthful king's ambitious breast , 
 He murmurs vengeance at the name of Cali, 
 And dooms my rash fidelity to ruin. 
 
 Dem. Unhappy lot of all that shine in courts, 
 For forced compliance, or for zealous virtue, 
 Still odious to the monarch or the people. 
 
 Cali. Such are the woes when arbitrary power, 
 And lawless passion hold the sword of justice. 
 If there be any land, as fame reports, 
 Where common laws restrain the prince and 
 
 subject, 
 
 A happy land, where circulating power 
 Flows through each member of th' embodied 
 
 state ; 
 
 Sure, not unconscious of the mighty blessing, 
 Her grateful sons shine bright with every virtue; 
 Untainted with the lust of innovation, 
 Sure all unite to hold her league of rule 
 Unbroken as the sacred chain of nature, 
 That links the jarring elements in peace. 
 
 Leon. But say, great Bassa, why the Sultan's 
 
 anger, 
 
 Burning in vain, delays the stroke of death? 
 Cali. Young and unsettled in his father's king- 
 doms, 
 
 Fierce as he was, he dreaded to destroy 
 The empire's darling and the soldier's boast; 
 But now confirm'd, and swelling with his con- 
 quests, 
 
 Secure he tramples my declining fame, [eyes. 
 Frowns unrestrain'd, and dooms me with his 
 Dem. What can reverse thy doom ? 
 Cali. The tyrant's death. 
 Dem, But Greece is still forgot. 
 Cali. On Asia's coast, 
 
 Which lately bless'd my gentle government, 
 Soon as the Sultan's unexpected fate 
 Pills all th' astonish'd empire with confusion, 
 My policy shall raise an easy throne ; 
 The Turkish powers from Europe shall i etreat, 
 And harass Greece no more with wasteful war. 
 A galley mann'd with Greeks, thy charge, Leon 
 
 tius, 
 Attends to waft us to repose and safety. 
 
 Dem. That vessel, if observed, alarms tho 
 
 court, 
 
 And gives a thousand fatal questions birth : 
 Why stored for flight? and why prepared by 
 
 Cali? 
 
 Cali. This hour I'll beg, with unsuspecting face, 
 Leave to perform my pilgrimage to Mecca : 
 Which granted, hides my purpose from the 
 
 world, 
 And, though refused, conceals it from tin. Sultan. 
 
 Leon. How can a single hand attempt a life 
 Which armies guard, and citadels enclose? 
 Cali. Forgetful of command, with captive 
 
 beauties, 
 Far from his troopi, he toys his hours avv ay.
 
 528 
 
 IRENE: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 [Act I 
 
 A rovi",g soldier seized, in Sophia's temple, 
 A virgin shining with distinguished charms, 
 And brought his beauteous plunder to the Sul- 
 tan. 
 
 Df.m. In Sophia's temple ! what alarm ! 
 Proceed. [loved : 
 
 Call. The Sultan gazed, he wonder'd and he 
 In passion lost, he bade the conquering fair 
 Renounce her faith, and be the dueen of Turkey. 
 The pious maid, with modest indignation, 
 Threw back the glittering bribe. 
 
 Dem. Celestial goodness! 
 It must, it must be she ! her name ? 
 
 Call. Aspasia. [soul ! 
 
 Dem. What hopes, what terrors rush upon my 
 lead me quickly to the scene of fate ; 
 Break through the politician's tedious forms, 
 Aspasia calls me, let me fly to save her. 
 
 Leon. Did Mahomet reproach or praise her 
 virtue? 
 
 Cali. His offers oft repeated, still refused, 
 At length rekindled his accustom'd fury, 
 And changed th' endearing smile and am'rous 
 
 whisper 
 To threats of torture, death, and violation. 
 
 Dem. These tedious narratives of frozen age 
 Distract my soul ; despatch thy lingering tale ; 
 Say, did a voice from heaven restrain the tyrant? 
 Did interposing angels guard her from him? 
 
 Call. Just in the moment of impending fate, 
 Another plunderer brought the bright Irene ; 
 Of equal beauty, but of softer mien, 
 Fear in her eye, submission on her tongue, 
 Her mournful charms attracted his regards, 
 Disarm'd his rage, and in repeated visits 
 Gain'd all his heart ; at length his eager love 
 To her transferr'd the offer of a crown. 
 
 Leon. Nor found again the bright temptation 
 fail? 
 
 Cali. Trembling to grant, nor daring to refuse, 
 While Heaven and Mahomet divide her fears, 
 With coy caresses and with pleasing wiles 
 She feeds his hopes, and soothes him to delay. 
 For her, repose is banish'd from the night, 
 And business from the day. In her apartments 
 He lives 
 
 Leon. And there must fall. 
 
 Cali. But yet th' attempt 
 Is hazardous. 
 
 Leon. Forbear to speak of hazards ; 
 What has the wretch that has survived his 
 His friends, his liberty, to hazard ? [country, 
 
 Cali. Life. 
 
 Dem. Th' inestimable privilege of breathing ! 
 Important hazard ! What's that airy bubble, 
 When weigh'd with Greece, with virtue, with 
 
 Aspasia ? 
 
 A floating atom, dust that falls unheeded 
 Into the adverse scale, nor shakes the balance. 
 
 Cali. At least this day be calm If we succeed, 
 Aspasia's thine, and all thy life is rapture. 
 See! Mustapha, the tyrant's minion comes; 
 Invest Leontius with his new command ; 
 And wait Abdalla's unsuspected visits ; 
 Remember Freedom, Glory, Greece, and Love. 
 [Exeunt DEM. and LEON. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 CALI, and MUSTAPHA. 
 Jtfiw. By what enchantment does this lovely 
 
 Greek 
 Hold in her chains the captivated Sultan? 
 
 He tires his favourites with Irene's praise, 
 And seeks the shades to muse upon Irene ; 
 Irene steals unheeded from his tongue, 
 And mingles unperceived with every thought. 
 
 Cali. Why should the Sultan shun the joys of 
 
 beauty, 
 
 Or arm his breast against the force of love ? 
 Love, that with sweet vicissitude relieves 
 The warrior's labours, and the monarch's cares. 
 But will she yet receive the faith of Mecca? 
 
 Mus. Those powerful tyrants of the female 
 
 breast, 
 
 Fear and Ambition, urge her to compliance ; 
 Dress'd in each charm of gay magnificence, 
 Alluring grandeur courts her to his arms, 
 Religion calls her from the wish'd embrace, 
 Paints future joys, and points to distant glories. 
 
 Call. Soon will th' unequal contest be decided; 
 Prospects, obscured by distance, faintly strike ; 
 Each pleasure brightens at its near approach, 
 And every danger shocks with double horror. 
 
 Mus. How shall I scorn the beautiful apostate, 
 How will the bright Aspasia shine above her! 
 
 Cali. Should she, for proselytes are always 
 
 zealous, 
 With pious warmth receive our prophet's law 
 
 Mus. Heaven will contemn the mercenary 
 
 fervour, 
 Which love of greatness, not of truth, inflames. 
 
 Cali. Cease, cease thy censures ; for the Sultau 
 
 comes 
 Alone, with amorous haste to seek his love. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 MAHOMET, CALI BASSA, and MUSTAPHA. 
 
 Cali. Hail! terror of the monarchs of the 
 
 world, 
 
 Unshaken be thy throne as earth's firm base, 
 Live till the sun forgets to dart his beams, 
 And weary planets loiter in their courses ! 
 
 Mah. But, Cali, let Irene share thy prayers ; 
 For what is length of days without Irene? 
 I come from empty noise, and tasteless pomp, 
 From crowds that hide a monarch from himseli, 
 To prove the sweets of privacy and friendship, 
 And dwell upon the beauties of Irene. 
 
 Cali. O may her beauties last unchanged by 
 
 time, 
 As those that bless the mansions of the good ! 
 
 Mah. Each realm where beauty turns the 
 
 graceful shape, 
 
 Swells the fair breast, or animates the glance, 
 Adorns my palace with its brightest virgins ; 
 Yet, unacquainted with these soft emotions, 
 I walk'd superior through the blaze of charms, 
 Praised without rapture, left without regret. 
 Why rove I now, when absent from my fair, 
 From solitude to crowds, from crowds to solitude, 
 Still restless, till I clasp the lovely maid, 
 And ease my loaded soul upon her bosom? 
 
 Mus. Forgive, great Sultan, that intrusive duty, 
 Inquires the final doom of Menodorus, 
 The Grecian counsellor. 
 
 Mah. Go see him die ; 
 
 His martial rhetoric taught the Greeks resistance; 
 Had they prevail'd, I ne'er had known Irene. 
 
 [Exit MUSTAPHA. 
 SCENE V. 
 MAHOMET, and CALL 
 
 Mah. Remote from tumult, in th' adjoining 
 
 palace, 
 Thy care shall guaru this treasure of my soul :
 
 SCENB II.] 
 
 IRENE: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 529 
 
 There let Aspasia, since my fair entreats it, 
 With converse chase the melancholy moments. 
 Sure, chill'd with sixty winter camps, thy blood 
 At sight of female charms will glow no more. 
 
 Call. These years, unconquer'd Mahomet, 
 
 demand 
 
 Desires more pure, and other cares than love. 
 Long have I vvish'd, before our prophet's tomb, 
 To pour my prayers for thy successful reign, 
 To quit the tumults of the noisy camp, 
 And sink into the silent grave in peace. 
 
 Mah. What! think of peace while haughty 
 
 Scanderbeg, 
 
 Elate with conquest, in his native mountains, 
 Prowls o'er the wealthy spoils of bleeding Tur- 
 key ! 
 
 While fair Huna;aria's unexhausted valleys 
 Pour forth their legions, and the roaring Danube 
 Rolls half his floods unheard through shouting 
 
 camps ! 
 
 Nor couldst thou more support a life of sloth 
 Than Amurath 
 
 Cali. Still full of Amurath. [Aside. 
 
 Mah. Than Amurath, accustom'd to command, 
 Could bear his son upon the Turkish throne. 
 
 Call. This pilgrimage our lawgiver ordain'd 
 
 Mah. For those who could not please by nobler 
 
 service. 
 
 Our warlike Prophet loves an active faith. 
 The holy flame of enterprizing virjtue 
 Mocks the dull vows of solitude and penance, 
 And scorns the lazy hermit's cheap devotion. 
 Shine thou, distinguish'd by superior merit, 
 With wonted zeal pursue the task of war, 
 Till every nation reverence the Koran, 
 And every suppliant lift his eyes to Mecca. 
 
 Cali. This regal confidence, this pious ardour, 
 Let prudence moderate, though not suppress. 
 Is not each realm that smiles with kinder suns, 
 Or boasts a happier soil, already thine? 
 Extended empire, like expanded gold, 
 Exchanges solid strength for feeble splendour. 
 
 Mah. Preach thy dull politics to vulgar kings, 
 Thou know'st not yet thy master's future great- 
 ness, 
 
 His vast designs, his plans of boundless power. 
 When every storm in my domain shall roar, 
 When every wave shall beat a Turkish shore ; 
 Then, Cali, shall the toils of battle cease, 
 Then dream of prayer, and pilgrimage, and 
 neace. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 ASPASIA and IRENE. 
 
 Irene. Aspasia, yet pursue the sacred theme; 
 Exhaust the stores of pious eloquence, 
 And teach me to repel the Sultan's passion. 
 Still at Aspasia's voice a sudden rapture 
 Exalts my soul, and fortifies my heart. 
 The glittering vanities of empty greatness, 
 The hopes and fears, the joys and pains of life, 
 Dissolve in air, and vanish into nothing. 
 
 Jlsp. Let nobler hopes and juster fears succeed, 
 And bar the passes of Irene's mind 
 Against returning guilt. 
 
 Irene. When thou art absent, 
 Death rises to my view, with all his terrors : 
 Then visions, horrid as a murderer's dreams, 
 3R 
 
 Chill my resolves, and blast my blooming virtue : 
 Stern Torture shakes his bloody scourge before 
 
 me, 
 And Anguish gnashes on the fatal wheel. 
 
 Jlsp. Since fear predominates in every thought, 
 And sways thy breast with absolute dominion, 
 Think on the insulting scorn, the conscious 
 
 pangs, 
 
 The future miseries that wait the apostate ; 
 So shall Timidity assist thy reason, 
 And Wisdom into virtue turn thy frailty. 
 Irene. Will not that Power that form'd the 
 
 heart of woman, 
 
 And wove the feeble texture of her nerves, 
 Forgive those fears that shake the tender frame? 
 Jlsp. The weakness we lament, ourselves 
 
 create ; 
 
 Instructed from our infant years to court, 
 With counterfeited fears, the aid of man, 
 We learn to shudder at the rustling breeze,* 
 Start at the light, and tremble in the dark ; 
 Till, affectation ripening to belief, 
 And Folly frighted at her own phimeras, 
 Habitual cowardice usurps the soul. 
 
 Irene. Not all like thee can brave the shocks 
 
 of fate, [ledge, 
 
 Thy soul, by nature great, enlarged by know- 
 Soars unencumber'd with our idle cares, 
 And all Aspasia, but her beauty's man. 
 Jlsp. Each generous sentiment is thine, Do- 
 
 metrius, 
 
 Whose soul, perhaps, yet mindful of Aspasia, 
 Now hovers o'er this melancholy shade, 
 Well pleased to find thy precepts not forgotten. 
 O ! could the grave restore the pious hero, 
 Soon would his art or valour set us free, 
 And bear us far from servitude and crimes. 
 Irene. He yet may live. 
 Jlsp. Alas ! delusive dream ! 
 Too well I know him ; his immoderate courage, 
 The impetuous sallies of excessive virtue, 
 Too strong for love, have hurried him on death. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 ASPASIA, IRENE. CALI, and ABDALLA. 
 
 Cali. [To ABD. as they advance.] Behold our 
 
 future Sultaness, Abdalla ; 
 Let artful flattery now, to lull suspicion, 
 Glide through Irene to the Sultan's ear. 
 Would'st thou subdue the obdurate cannibal 
 To tender friendship, praise him to his mistress. 
 
 [To IRENE. 
 Well may those eyes that view these heavenly 
 
 charms 
 
 Reject the daughters of contending kings ; 
 For what are pompous titles, proud alliance, 
 Empire or wealth, Jo excellence like thine ? 
 
 Jlbd. Receive the'impatient Sultan to thy arms ; 
 And may a long posterity of monarchs, 
 The pride and terror of succeeding days, 
 Rise from the happy bed ; and future queens 
 Diffuse Irene's beauty through the world ! 
 
 Irene. Can Mahomet's imperial hand descend 
 To clasp a slave ? or can a soul like mine, 
 Unused to power, and form'd for humbler scenes, 
 Support the splendid miseries of greatness? 
 
 Cali. No regal pageant, decked with casual 
 
 honours, 
 
 Scorn'd by his subjects, trampelled by his foes, 
 No feeble tyrant of a petty state, 
 Courts thee to shake on a dependant throne ;
 
 530 
 
 IRENE: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 [Acr II. 
 
 Born to command, as thou to charm mankind, 
 The Sultan from himself derives his greatness. 
 Observe bright maid, as his resistless voice 
 Drives on the tempest of destructive war, 
 How nation after nation falls before him. 
 
 Jlbd. At his dread name the distant mountains 
 
 shake [ness, 
 
 Their cloudy summits, and the sons of fierce- 
 That range uncivilized from rock to rock, 
 Distrust the eternal fortresses of Nature, 
 And wish their gloomy caverns more obscure. 
 Jlsp. Forbear this laviuh pomp of dreadful 
 
 praise ; 
 
 The horrid images of war and slaughter 
 Renew our sorrows and awake our fears. 
 
 Jlbd. Cali, methinks yon waving trees afford 
 A doubtful glimpse of our approaching friends ; 
 Just as I mark'd them, they forsook the shore, 
 And turn'd their hasty steps towards the garden. 
 Cali. Conduct these queens, Abdalla, to the. 
 
 palace : 
 
 Such heavenly beauty, form'd for adoration, 
 The pride of monarchs, the reward of conquests! 
 Such beauty must not shine to vulgar eyes. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 CaR. [Solus.] How Heaven, in scorn of hu- 
 man arrogance, 
 
 Commits to trivial chance the fate of nations ! 
 While with incessant thought laborious man 
 Extends his mighty schemes of wealth and 
 
 power, 
 
 And towers and triumphs in ideal greatness ; 
 Some accidental gust of opposition 
 Blasts all the beauties of his new creation. 
 O'erturns the fabric of presumptuous reason, 
 And whelms the swelling architect beneath it. 
 Had not the breeze untwined the meeting boughs, 
 And through the parted shade disclosed the 
 
 Greeks, 
 
 Th' important hour had pass'd unheeded by, 
 In all the sweet oblivion of delight, 
 In all the fopperies of meeting lovers : 
 In sighs and tears, in transports and embraces, 
 In soft complaints, and idle protestations. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 CALI, DEMETRIUS, and LEONTIUS. 
 
 Cali. Could omens fright the resolute and wise, 
 Well might we fear impending disappointments. 
 
 Leon. Your artful suit, your monarch's fierce 
 
 denial, 
 The cruel doom of hapless Menodorus. 
 
 Dem. And your new charge, that dear that 
 heavenly maid. 
 
 Leon. All this we know already from Abdalla. 
 
 Dem. Such slight defeats but animate the brave 
 To stronger efforts and maturer counsels. 
 
 Cali. My doom confirmed establishes my pur- 
 pose. 
 
 Calmly he heard, till Amurath's resumption 
 Rose to his thought, and set his soul on fire : 
 When from his lips the fatal name burst out, 
 A sudden pause th' imperfect sense suspended, 
 Like the dread stillness of condensing storms. 
 
 Dem. The loudest cries of Nature urge us 
 
 forward ; 
 
 Despotic rage pursues the life of Cali ; 
 His groaning country claims Leontius' aid ; 
 And yet another voice, forgive me, Greece, 
 
 The powerful voice of Love inflames Demetrius, 
 Each lingering hour alarms me for Aspasia. 
 
 Cali. What passions reign among thy crew, 
 
 Leontius ? 
 
 Does cheerless diffidence oppress their hearts? 
 Or sprightly hope exalt their kindling spirits? 
 Do they with pain repress the struggling shout, 
 And listen eager to the rising wind ? 
 
 Leon. All there is hope, and gayety and 
 
 courage, 
 
 No cloudy doubts, or languishing delays, 
 Ere I could range them on the crowded deck, 
 At once a hundred voices thunder'd round me, 
 And every voice was Liberty and Greece. 
 
 Dem. Swift let us rush upon the careless tyrant, 
 Nor give him leisure for another crime. 
 
 Leon. Then let us now resolve, nor idly waste 
 Another hour in dull deliberation. 
 
 Cali. But see, where, destined to protract our 
 
 counsels, 
 Comes Mustapha. Your Turkish robes con 
 
 ceal you. 
 
 Retire with speed, while I prepare to meet him 
 With artificial smiles and seeming friendship. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 CALI and MUSTAPHA. 
 
 Cali. I see the gloom that low'rs upon thy 
 brow : [thee ; 
 
 These days of love and pleasure charm not 
 Too slow these gentle constellations roll; 
 Thou long'st for stars that frown on human kind, 
 And scatter discord from their baleful beams. 
 Jtftw. How blest art thou, still jocund and 
 
 serene, 
 
 Beneath the load of business, and of years ! 
 Cali. Sure by some wondrous sympathy of 
 
 souls, 
 
 My heart still beats responsive to the Sultan's ; 
 I share, by secret instinct, all his joys, 
 And feel no sorrow while my sovereign smiles. 
 Mus. The Sultan comes, impatient for his 
 
 love ; 
 
 Conduct her hither: let no rude intrusion 
 Molest these private walks, or care invade 
 These hours assign'd to pleasure and Irene. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 MAHOMET and MUSTAPHA. 
 
 Mah. Now, Mustapha, pursue thy tale of 
 
 horror. 
 
 Has- treason's dire infection reach'd my palace? 
 Can Cali dare the stroke of heavenly justice 
 In the dark precincts of a gaping grave, 
 And load with perjuries his parting soul ? 
 Was it for this that sickening in Epirus, 
 My father call'd me to his couch of death, 
 Jom'd Call's hand to mine, and faltering cried, 
 Restrain the fervour of impetuous youth 
 With venerable Call's faithful counsels? 
 Are these the counsels, this the faith of Cali ? 
 Were all our favours lavish'd on a villain? 
 Confest ? 
 
 Mus. Confest by dying Menodorus. 
 In his last agonies the gasping coward, 
 Amidst the tortures of the burning steel, 
 Still fond of life, groan'd out the dreadful secret, 
 Held forth this fatal scroll, then sunk to nothing. 
 
 Mah. [Examining the Paper.] His correspond- 
 ence with our foes of Greece !
 
 SCENE VII.] 
 
 IRENE: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 531 
 
 His hand ! his seal ! The secrets of my soul 
 Conceal'd from all but him ! All, all conspire 
 To banish doubt, and brand him for a villain ! 
 Our schemes for ever cross'd, our mines dis- 
 
 cover'd, 
 
 Betray'd some traitor lurking near my bosom. 
 Oft have I raged, when their wide wasting can- 
 non 
 
 Lay pointed at our batteries yet unforrn'd, 
 And broke the meditated lines of war. 
 Detested Cali, too, with artful wonder, 
 Would shake his wily head, and closely whisper, 
 Beware of Mustapha, beware of treason. 
 
 Mus. The faith of Mustapha disdains suspi- 
 cion; 
 
 But yet, great emperor, beware of treason ; 
 Th' insidious Bassa, fired by disappointment 
 
 Mah. Shall feel the vengeance of an injured 
 
 king. 
 
 Go, seize him, load him with reproachful chains, 
 Before th' assembled troops proclaim his crimes ; 
 Then leave him stretch'd upon the lingering rack, 
 Amidst the camp to howl his life away. 
 
 Mus. Should we before the troops proclaim 
 
 his crimes ; 
 
 I dread his arts of seeming innocence, 
 His bland address, and sorcery of tongue ; 
 And, should he fall unheard by sudden justice, 
 Th' adoring soldiers would revenge their idol. 
 
 Mah. Cali, this day, with hypocritic zeal, 
 Implored my leave to visit Mecca's temple ; 
 Struck with the wonder of a statesman's good- 
 ness, 
 
 I raised his thoughts to more sublime devotion. 
 Now let him go, pursued by silent wrath, 
 Meet unexpected daggers in his way, 
 And in some distant land obscurely die. 
 
 Mus. There will his boundless wealth, the 
 spoil of Asia, [him, 
 
 Heap'd by your father's ill-placed bounties on 
 Disperse rebellion through the Eastern world ; 
 Bribe to his cause, and list beneath his banners, 
 Arabia's roving troops, the sons of swiftness, 
 And arm the Persian heretic against tliee ; 
 There shall he waste thy frontiers, check thy 
 conquests, [geance. 
 
 And, though at length subdued, elude thy ven- 
 
 Mah. Elude my vengeance! No my troops 
 
 shall range 
 
 Th' eternal snows that freeze beyond Moeotis, 
 And Afric's torrid sands, in search of Cali. 
 Should the fierce North upon his frozen wings 
 Bear him aloft above the wondering clouds, 
 And seat him in the Pleiads' golden chariots, 
 Thence shall my fury drag him down to tortures ; 
 iVherever guilt can fly, revenge can follow. 
 
 JUus. Wilt thou dismiss the savage from the 
 
 toils, 
 Only to hunt him round the ravaged world ? 
 
 Mah. Suspend his sentence Empire and Irene 
 Claim my divided soul. This wretch, unworthy 
 To mix with nobler cares, I'll throw aside 
 For idle hours, and crush him at my leisure. 
 
 Mus. Let not th' unbounded greatness of his 
 
 mind 
 
 Betray my king to negligenee of danger. 
 Perhaps the clouds of dark conspiracy [head. 
 Now roll full fraught with thunder o'er your 
 Twice since the morning rose I saw the Bassa, 
 Like a fell adder swelling in a brake, 
 Beneath the covert of this verdant arch 
 In private conference; beside him stood 
 
 Two men unknown, the partners of his bosom ; 
 I mark'd them well, and traced in either face 
 The gloomy resolution, horrid greatness, 
 And stern composure, of despairing heroes ; 
 And, to confirm my thoughts, at sight of me, 
 As blasted by my presence, they withdrew 
 With all the speed of terror and of guilt. 
 
 Mah. The strong emotions of my troubled aoul 
 Allow no pause for art or for contrivance; 
 And dark perplexity distracts my counsels. 
 Do thou resolve : for see Irene comes ! 
 At her approach each ruder gust of tnought 
 Sinks like the sighing of a tempest spent, 
 And gales of softer passion fan my bosom. 
 
 [CALI enters with IRENE, and exit with 
 MUSTAPHA. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 MAHOMET *nd IRENE. 
 
 Mah. Wilt thou descend, fair daughter of per- 
 fection, 
 
 To hear my vows, and give mankind a queen ? 
 Ah ! cease, Irene, cease those flowing sorrows, 
 That melt a heart impregnable till now, 
 And turn thy thoughts henceforth to love and 
 
 empire. 
 
 How will the matchless beauties of Irene, 
 Thus bright in tears, thus amiable in ruin, 
 With all the graceful pride of greatness height- 
 ened, 
 
 Amidst the blaze of jewels and of gold, 
 Adorn a throne, and dignify dominion ! 
 
 Irene. Why all this glare of splendid eloquence, 
 To paint the pageantries of guilty state ? 
 Must I for these renounce the hope of heaven, 
 Immortal crowns, and fulness of enjoyment? 
 
 Mah. Vain raptures all For your inferior 
 
 natures, 
 
 Form'd to delight, and happy by delighting, 
 Heaven has reserved no future paradise, 
 But bids you rove the paths of bliss, secure 
 Of total death, and careless of hereafter ; 
 While Heaven's high minister, whose awful 
 volume [man, 
 
 Records each act, each thought of sovereign 
 Surveys your plays with inattentive glance, 
 And leaves the lovely trifler unregarded. 
 
 Irene. Why then has Nature's vain munificence 
 Profusely pour'd her bounties upon woman ? 
 Whence then those charms thy tongue has 
 
 deign'd to flatter, 
 
 That air resistless, and enchanting blush, 
 Unless the beauteous fabric was design'd 
 A habitation for a fairer soul ? 
 
 Mah. Too high, bright maid, thou rat'st exte- 
 rior grace : 
 
 Not always do the fairest flowers diffuse 
 The richest odours, nor the speckled shells 
 Conceal the gem ; let female arrogance 
 Observe the feather'd wanderers of the sky ; 
 With purple varied and bedropp'd with gold, 
 They prune the wing, and spread the glossy 
 
 plumes, 
 
 Ordain'd, like you, to flutter and to shine, 
 And cheer the weary passenger with music. 
 
 Irene. Mean as we are, this tyrant of the 
 
 world 
 
 Implores our smiles, and trembles at our feet 
 Whence flow the hopes and fears, despair and 
 
 rapture, 
 Whence all the bliss and agonies of love?
 
 IRENE: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Mah. Why, when the balm of sleep descends 
 
 on man, 
 
 Do gay delusions, wandering o'er the brain, 
 Soothe the delighted soul with empty bliss? 
 To want give affluence ? and to slavery freedom ? 
 Such are love's joys, the lenitives of life, 
 A fancy'd treasure, and a waking dream. 
 
 Irene. Then let me once, in honour of our sex, 
 Assume the boastful arrogance of man. 
 The attractive softness, and the endearing smile, 
 And powerful glance, 'tis granted are our own ; 
 Nor has impartial Nature's frugal hand 
 Exhausted all her nobler gifts on you. 
 Do not we share the comprehensive thought, 
 The enlivening wit, the penetrating reason ? 
 Beats not the female breast with generous pas- 
 sions 
 The thirst of empire, and the love of glory ? 
 
 Mah. Illustrious maid, new wonders fix me 
 
 thine, 
 
 Thy soul completes the triumphs of thy face. 
 I thought (forgive, my fair,) the noblest aim, 
 The strongest effort of a female soul, 
 Was but to choose the graces of the day, 
 To tune the tongue, to teach the eyes to roll, 
 Dispose the colour of the flowing robe, 
 And add new roses to the faded cheek. 
 Will it not charm a mind like thine exalted, 
 To shine the goddess of applauding nations, 
 To scatter happiness and plenty round thee, 
 To bid the prostrate captive rise and live, 
 To see new cities tower at thy command, 
 And blasted kingdoms flourish at thy smile ? 
 
 Irene. Charm'd with the thought of blessing 
 
 human kind, 
 Too calm I listen to the flattering sounds. 
 
 Mah. O seize the power to bless Irene's nod 
 Shall break the fetters of the groaning Christian ; 
 Greece, in her lovely patroness secure. 
 Shall mourn no more her plunder'd palaces. 
 
 Irene. Forbear O do not urge me to my ruin ! 
 
 Mah. To state and power I court tbee, not to 
 
 ruin: 
 
 Smile on my wishes, and command the globe. 
 Security shall spread her shield before thee, 
 And Love enfold thee with her downy wings. 
 
 If greatness please thee, mount the imperial 
 seat; 
 
 If pleasure charm thee, view this soft retreat ; 
 
 Here every warbler of the sky shall sing ; 
 
 Here every fragrance breathe of every spring : 
 
 To deck these bowers each region shall com- 
 bine, 
 
 And e'en our Prophet's gardens envy thine : 
 
 Empire and love shall share the blissful day, 
 
 And varied life steal unperceived away. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 SCENE I. 
 
 CALI and ABDALLA. CALI enters with a discon- 
 tented air; to him enters ABDALLA. 
 Call, la this the fierce conspirator, Abdalla ? 
 Is this the restless diligence of treason ? 
 Where hast thou linger'd while the encumber'd 
 
 hours 
 
 Fly labouring with the fate of future nations, 
 And hungry slaughter scents imperial blood ? 
 Jlbd. Important cares detain'd me from your 
 counsels. 
 
 Coli. Some petty passion . some domestic 
 
 trifle ! 
 
 Some vain amusement of a vacant soul ! 
 A weeping wife, perhaps, or dying friend, 
 Hung on your neck, and hinder'd your depar- 
 ture. 
 
 Is this a time for softness or for sorrow 
 Unprofitable, peaceful, female virtues ! 
 When eager vengeance shows a naked foe, 
 And kind ambition points the way to greatness. 
 
 Jlbd. Must then ambition's votaries infringe 
 The law of kindness, break the bonds of nature, 
 And quit the names of brother, friend, and father? 
 
 Call. This sovereign passion, scornful of re- 
 straint, 
 
 E'en from the birth affects supreme command, 
 Swells in the breast, and with resistless force 
 O'erbears each gentler motion of the mind. 
 As when a deluge overspreads the plains, 
 The wandering rivulet and silver lake, 
 Mix undistinguished with the general roar. 
 
 Jlbd. Yet can ambition in Abdalla's breast 
 Claim but the second place : there mighty Love 
 Has fix'd his hopes, inquietudes, and fears, 
 His glowing wishes and his jealous pangs. 
 
 Cali. Love is indeed the privilege of youth: 
 Yet on a day like this, when expectation 
 Pants for the dread event But let us reason 
 
 Jlbd. Hast thou grown old amidst the crowd 
 
 of courts, 
 
 And turn'd th' instructive page of human life. 
 To cant at last, of reason to a lover? 
 Such ill-timed gravity, such serious folly, 
 Might well befit the solitary student, 
 Th' unpractised dervise, or sequester'd faquu. 
 Know'st thou not yet, when Love invades the 
 
 soul, 
 
 That all her faculties receive his chains ? 
 That Reason gives her sceptre to his hand, 
 Or only struggles to be more enslaved ? 
 Aspasia, who can look upon thy beauties? 
 Who hear thee speak, and not abandon reason? 
 Reason ! the hoary dotard's dull directress, 
 That loses all because she hazards nothing ' 
 Reason ! the tim'rous pilot, that, to shun 
 The rocks of life, for ever flies the port ! 
 
 Coli. But why this sudden warmth? 
 
 Jlbd. Because I love : 
 
 Because my slighted passion burns in vain ! 
 Why roars the lioness distress'd by hunger? 
 Why foam the swelling waves when tempests 
 
 rise? 
 Why shakes the ground when subterraneous 
 
 fires 
 
 Fierce through the bursting caverns rend their 
 way ? 
 
 Cali. Not till this day thou saw'st this fatal fair 
 Did ever passion make so swift a progress ? 
 Once more reflect, suppress this infant folly. 
 
 Jlbd. Gross fires, enkindled by a mortal hand, 
 Spread by degrees, and dread th' oppressing 
 
 stream ; 
 
 The subtler flames emitted from the sky 
 Flash out at once, with strength above resistance, 
 
 Cali. How did Aspasia welcome your address ? 
 Did you proclaim this unexpected conquest ? 
 Or pay with speaking eyes a lover's homage ? 
 
 Jlbd. Confounded, awed, and lost in admira- 
 tion, 
 
 I gazed, I trembled ; but I could not speak ; 
 When e'en as love was breaking off" from wonder 
 And tender accents quivering on my lips,
 
 SCENE V.] 
 
 IRENE: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 533 
 
 Sho mark'd my sparkling eyes, and heaving 
 
 breast, 
 
 And smiling, conscious of her charms, with- 
 drew. [Enter DEM. and LEON. 
 Call. Now be some moments master of thyself; 
 Nor let Demetrius know thee for a rival. 
 Hence ! or be calm To disagree is ruin. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 CALI, DEMETRIUS, LEONTIUS, and ABDALLA. 
 
 Dem. When will occasion smile upon our 
 
 wishes, 
 
 And give the tortures of suspense a period? 
 Still must we linger in uncertain hope? 
 Still languish in our chains, and dream of free- 
 dom, 
 
 Like thirsty sailors gazing oil the clouds, 
 Till burning death shoots through their wither'd 
 
 limbs ? 
 Call. Deliverance is at hand ; for Turkey's 
 
 tyrant, 
 
 Sunk in his pleasures, confident and gay, 
 With all the hero's dull security, 
 Trusts to my care his mistress and his life, 
 And laughs and wantons in the jaws of death. 
 Leon. So weak is man when destined to de- 
 struction ! 
 The watchful slumber, and the crafty trust. 
 
 Cali. At my command yon iron gates unfold ; 
 At my command the sentinels retire ; 
 With all the license of authority, [rooms, 
 
 Through bowing slaves, I range the private 
 And of to-morrow's action fix the scene. 
 
 Dem. To-morrow's action! Can that hoary 
 wisdom, [morrow ! 
 
 Borne down with years, still doat upon to- 
 That fatal mistress of the young, the lazy, 
 The coward, and the fool, condemn'd to lose 
 A useless life in waiting for to-morrow, 
 To gaze with longing eyes upon to-morrow, 
 Till interposing death destroys the prospect. 
 Strange ! that this general fraud from day to day 
 Should fill the world with wretches undetected. 
 The soldier, labouring through a winter's march, 
 Still sees to-morrow drest in robes of triumph; 
 Still to the lover's long-expecting arms 
 To-morrow brings the visionary bride. 
 But thou, too old to bear another cheat, 
 Learn, that the present hour alone is man's. 
 Leon. The present hour with open arms in- 
 vites ; 
 
 Seize the kind fair, and press her to thy bosom. 
 Dem. Who knows, ere this important morrow 
 
 rise, 
 
 But fear or mutiny may taint the Greeks ? 
 "SVho knows, if Mahomet's awaking anger 
 May spare the fatal bowstring till to-morrow ! 
 Jlbd. Had our first Asian foes but known this 
 
 ardour, 
 
 We still had wander'd on Tartarian hills. 
 Rouse, Cali ; shall the aons of conquerM Greece 
 Lead us to danger, and abash their victors? 
 This night with all her conscious stars be wit- 
 ness, 
 Who merits most, Demetrius or Abdalla. 
 
 Dem. Who merits most! I knew not we 
 
 were rivals. 
 
 Cali. Young man, forbear the heat of youth, 
 no more [fate. 
 
 Well, -'tis decreed This night shall fix our 
 Soon as the veil of even-ng clouds the sky, 
 
 With cautious secrecy, Leontius, steer 
 Th' appointed vessel to yon shaded bay, 
 Form'd by tuis garden jutting on the deep ; 
 There, with your soldiers arm'd, and sails ej 
 
 panded, 
 
 Await our coming, equally prepared 
 For speedy flight, or obstinate defence. 
 
 [Exit LEONTITT 
 
 SCENE III. 
 CALI, ABDALLA, and DEMETRIUS. 
 
 Dem. Now pause, great Bassa, from the 
 
 thoughts of blood, 
 
 And kindly grant an ear to gentler sounds. 
 If e'er thy youth has known the pangs of absence, 
 Or felt th' impatience of obstructed love, 
 Give me, before the approaching hour of fate, 
 Once to behold the charms of bright Aspasia, 
 And draw new virtue from her heavenly tongue. 
 Cali. Let prudence, ere the suit be farther 
 
 urged, 
 
 Impartial weigh the pleasure with the danger. 
 A little longer, and she's thine for ever. 
 
 Dem. Prudence and love conspire in this re 
 
 quest, 
 
 Lest, unacquainted with our bold attempt, 
 Surprise o'erwhelm her, and retard our flight. 
 Cali. What I can grant, you cannot ask in 
 
 vain 
 
 Dem. I go to wait thy call ; this kind consent 
 Completes the gift of freedom and of life. 
 
 [Exit DEMETRIUS 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 CALI and ABDALLA. 
 
 Jlbd. And this is my reward to burn, to lan- 
 guish, 
 
 To rave unheeded ; while the happy Greek, 
 The refuse of our swords, the dross of conquest. 
 Throws his fond arms about Aspasia's neck, 
 Dwells on her lips, and sighs upon her breast 
 Is't not enough he lives by our indulgence, 
 But he must live to make his masters wretched ? 
 
 Cali. What claim hast thou to plead ? 
 
 Jlbd. The claim of power, 
 The unquestion'd claim of conquerors and kings! 
 
 Cali. Yet in the use of power remember justice. 
 
 Jlbd. Can then th' assassin lift his treacherous 
 
 hand 
 
 Against his king, and cry, remember justice ? 
 Justice demands the forfeit life of Cali ; 
 Justice demands that I reveal your crimes ; 
 Justice demands but see th' approaching Sul 
 
 tan! 
 Oppose my wishes, and remember justice. 
 
 Cali. Disorder sits upon thy face retire. 
 
 [Exit ABDALLA, enter MAHOMET 
 
 SCENE V. 
 CALI and MAHOMET. 
 
 Call. Long be the Sultan blese'd with happy 
 
 love ! 
 
 My zeal marks gladnedb dawning on thy cheek, 
 With raptures such as fire the Pagan crowds, 
 When, pale and anxious for their years to come, 
 They see the sun surmount the dark eclipse, 
 And hail unanimous their conquering god. 
 
 JV/oA. My vows, 'tis true, she hears with less 
 
 aversion ; 
 She sighs, she blushes, but she still denies.
 
 534 
 
 IRENE : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 [ACT. Ill 
 
 Call. With warmer courtship press the yield- 
 ing fair; 
 
 Call to your aid, with boundless promises, 
 Each rebel wish, each traitor inclination, 
 That raises tumults in the female breast, 
 The love of power, of pleasure, and of show. 
 Mith. These arts I tried, and, to inflame her 
 
 more, 
 
 By hateful business hurried from her sight, 
 I bade a hundred virgins wait around her, 
 Sooth her with all the pleasures of command, 
 Applaud her charms, and court her to be great. 
 [Exit MAHOMET. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 Call [Solus.] He's gone Here rest, my soul, 
 thy fainting wing, 
 
 Here recollect thy dissipated powers. 
 
 Our distant interests, and our different passions, 
 Now haste to mingle in one common centre, 
 And fate lies crowded in a narrow space. 
 Yet in that narrow space what dangers rise ! 
 Far more 1 dread Abdalla's fiery folly, 
 Than all the wisdom of the grave divan. 
 Reason with reason fights on equal terms^ 
 The raging madman's unconnected schemes 
 We cannot obviate, for we cannot guess. 
 Deep in my breast be treasured this resolve, 
 When Cali mounts the throne, Abdalla dies, 
 Too fierce, too faithless, for neglect or trust. 
 
 [Enter IRENE with Attendants. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 CALI, IRENE, ASPASIA, &c. 
 
 Cali. Amidst the splendour of encircling beauty, 
 Superior majesty proclaims thee queen, 
 And nature justifies our monarch's choice. 
 
 Irene. Reserve this homage for some.other fair; 
 Urge me not on to glittering guilt, nor pour 
 In my weak ear the intoxicating sounds. 
 
 Call Make haste, bright maid, to rule the 
 
 willing world ; 
 
 Awed by the rigour of the Sultan's justice, 
 We court thy gentleness. 
 
 Asp. Can Cali's voice 
 Concur to press a hapless captive's ruin ? 
 
 Cali. Long would my zeal for Mahomet and 
 
 thee 
 
 Detain me here. But nations call upon me, 
 And duty bids me choose a distant walk, 
 Nor taint with care the privacies of love. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 IRENE, ASPASIA, and Attendants. 
 
 Asp. If yet this shining pomp, these sudden 
 
 honours, 
 
 Swell not thy soul beyond advice or friendship, 
 Nor yet inspire the follies of a queen, 
 Or tune thine ear to soothing adulation, 
 Suspend awhile the privilege of power, 
 To hear the voice of Truth; dismiss thy train, 
 Shake off the incumbrances of state a moment, 
 And lay the towering sq^.aness aside, 
 
 [IRENE signs to her Attendants to retire. 
 While I foretell thy fate ; that office done, 
 No more I boast the ambitious name of friend, 
 But sink among thy slaves without a murmur. 
 
 Irene. Did regal diadems invest my brow, 
 Yet should my soul still faithful to her choice 
 Esteem Aspasia's breast the noblest kingdom. 
 
 Asp. The soul, once tainted with so foul a 
 crime, [asdour: 
 
 No more shall glow with friendship's hallow'd 
 These holy beings, whose superior care 
 Guides erring mortals to the paths of virtue, 
 Affrighted at impiety like thine, 
 Resign their charge to baseness and to ruin. 
 
 Irene. Upbraid me not with fancied wicked- 
 I am not yet a queen or an apostate. [ness ; 
 
 But should I sin beyond the hope of mercy, 
 If, when religion prompts me to refuse, 
 The dread of instant death restrains my tongue? 
 
 Asp. Reflect that life and death, affecting 
 
 sounds ! 
 
 Are only varied modes of endless being ; 
 Reflect that life, like every other blessing, 
 Derives its value from its use alone ; 
 Not for itself but for a nobler end, 
 The Eternal gave it, and that end is virtue. 
 When inconsistent with a greater good, 
 Reason commands to cast the less away ; 
 Thus life, with loss of wealth is well-preserved, 
 And virtue cheaply saved with loss of life. 
 
 Irene. If built on settled thought, this con 
 
 stancy 
 
 Not idly flutters on a boastful tongue, 
 Why, when destruction raged around our walls, 
 Why fled this haughty heroine from the battle? 
 Why then did not this warlike Amazon 
 Mix in the war, and shine among the heroes ? 
 
 Asp. Heaven, when its hand pour'd softness 
 
 on our limbs, 
 
 Unfit for toil, and polish'd into weakness, 
 Made passive fortitude the praise of woman 
 Our only arms are innocence and meekness. 
 Not then with raving cries I fill'd the city ; 
 But, while Demetrius, dear lamented name ! 
 Pour'd storms of fire upon our fierce invaders, 
 Implored the Eternal Power to shield my country, 
 With silent sorrows, and with calm devotion. 
 
 Irene. O ! did Irene shine the queen of Turkey, 
 No more should Greece lament those prayers 
 
 rejected ; 
 
 Again should golden splendour grace her cities. 
 Again her prostrate palaces should rise, 
 Again her temples sound with holy music: 
 No more should danger fright, or want distress 
 The smiling widows, and protected orphans. 
 
 Asp. Be virtuous ends pursued by virtuous 
 
 means, 
 
 Nor think the intention sanctifies the deed : 
 That maxim, published in an impious age, 
 Would loose the wild enthusiast to destroy, 
 And fix the fierce usurper's bloody title ; 
 Then Bigotry might send her slaves to war, 
 And bid success become the test of truth : 
 Unpitying massacre might waste the world, 
 And persecution boast the call of Heaven. 
 
 Irene. Shall I not, wish to cheer afflicted kings, 
 And plan the happiness of mourning millions? 
 
 Asp. Dream not of power thou never canst 
 
 attain : 
 
 When social laws first harmonized the world, 
 Superior man possess'd the charge of rule, 
 The scale of justice, and the sword of power, 
 Nor left us aught but flattery and state. 
 
 Irene. To me my lover's fondness will restore 
 Whate'er man's pride has ravish'd from our sex. 
 
 Asp. When soft security shall prompt the 
 
 Sultan 
 
 Freed from the tumults of unsettled conquest 
 To fix his court, and regulate his pleasures,
 
 SCEWK XI.] 
 
 IRENE: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 535 
 
 Soon shall the dire seraglio's horrid gates 
 Close like the eternal bars of death upon thee. 
 Immured and buried in perpetual sloth, 
 That gloomy slumber of the stagnant soul, 
 There shall thou view from far the quiet cottage, 
 And sigh for cheerful poverty in vain ; 
 There wear the tedious hours of life away, 
 Beneath each curse of unrelenting Heaven, 
 Despair and slavery, solitude and guilt. 
 
 Irene. There shall we find the yet untasted 
 
 bliss 
 
 Of grandeur and tranquillity combined. 
 Asp. Tranquillity and guilt, disjoin'd by Hea- 
 ven, 
 
 Still stretch in vain their longing arms afar ; 
 Nor dare to pass th' insuperable bound. 
 Ah ! let me rather seek the convent's cell ; 
 There when my thoughts, at interval of prayer, 
 Descend to range these mansions of misfortune, 
 Oft shall I dwell on our disastrous friendship, 
 And shed the pitying tear for lost Irene. 
 
 Iretie. Go, languish on in dull obscurity; 
 Thy dazzled soul, with all its boasted greatness, 
 Shrinks at theo'erpowering gleams of regal state, 
 Stoops from the blaze like a degenerate eagle, 
 And flies for shelter to the shades of life. 
 Jlsp. On me should Providence, without a 
 
 crime. 
 
 The weighty charge of royalty confer, 
 Call me to civilize the Russian wilds, 
 Or bid soft science polish Britain's heroes: 
 Soon should'st thou see, how false thy weak 
 
 reproach. 
 
 My bosom feels, enkindled from the sky, 
 The lambent flames of mild benevolence, 
 Untouch'd by fierce ambition's raging fires. 
 Irene. Ambition is the stamp impress'd by 
 
 Heaven 
 
 To mark the noblest minds ; with active heat 
 Inform'd they mount the precipice of power, 
 Grasp at command, and tower in quest of em- 
 pire; 
 
 While vulgar souls compassionate their cares, 
 Gaze at their height, and tremble at their danger: 
 Thus meaner spirit* with amazement mark 
 The varying seasons, and revolving skies, 
 And ask, wiiat guilty Power's rebellious hand 
 Rolls with eternal toil the ponderous orbs ; 
 While some archangel, nearer to perfection, 
 In easy state presides o'er all their motions, 
 Directs the planets with a careless nod, 
 Conducts jtha sun, and regulates the spheres. 
 Asp. Wei! may'st thou hide in labyrinths of 
 sound [voice. 
 
 The cause that shrinks from Reason's powerful 
 Stoop from thy flight, trace back th' entangled 
 
 thought, 
 
 And set the glittering fallacy to view. 
 Not power I blame, but power obtain'd by crime ; 
 Angelic greatness is angelic virtue. 
 Amidst the glare of courts, the shout of armies, 
 Will not th' apostate feel the pangs of guilt, 
 And wish, too late, for innocence and peace ? 
 Curst as the tyrant of th' infernal realms, 
 With gloomy state and agonizing pomp ! 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 IRENE, ASPASIA, and MAID. 
 
 Maid. A Turkish stranger of majestic mien, 
 Asks at the gate admission to Aspasia, 
 Commission's, as he says, by Call Bassa. 
 
 Irene. Whoe'er thou art or whatsoe'er thy 
 
 message, \Jlside. 
 
 Thanks for this kind relief With speed admit 
 
 him. [ever ; 
 
 Jlsp. He comes, perhaps, to separate us for 
 
 Whem I am gone, remember, O ! remember, 
 
 That none are great, or happy, but the virtuous. 
 
 [Exit IRENE ; enter DEMETRIUS. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 ASPASIA and DEMETRIUS. 
 
 Dem. 'Tis she my hope, my happiness, my 
 
 love! 
 
 Aspasia ! do 1 once again behold thee ? 
 Still, still the same unclouded by misfortune ! 
 Let my blest eyes for ever gaze 
 
 Asp. Demetrius ! 
 
 Dem. Why does the blood forsake thy lovely 
 cheek ? [nerves ? 
 
 Why shoots this chillness through thy shaking 
 Why does thy soul retire into herself? 
 Recline upon my breast thy sinking beauties : 
 Revive Revive, to freedom and to love. 
 
 Jlsp. What well-known voice pronounced the 
 
 <l grateful sounds 
 
 Freedom and love ? Alas ! I'm all confusion, 
 A sudden mist o'ercasts my darken'd soul ; 
 The present, past, and future, swim before me, 
 Lost in a wild perplexity of joy. 
 
 Dem. Such ecstacy of love, such pure affection, 
 What worth can merit ? or what faith reward ? 
 
 Jlsp. A thousand thoughts, imperfect and dis- 
 tracted, 
 
 Demand a voice, and struggle into birth ; 
 A thousand questions press upon my tongue, 
 But all give way to rapture and Demetrius. 
 
 Dem. O say, bright Being, in this age of ab- 
 sence, [known ? 
 What fears, what griefs, what dangers hast thou 
 Say, how the tyrant threaten'd, flatter'd, sigh'd ! 
 Say, how he threaten'd, flatter'd, sigh'd in vain ! 
 Say, how the hand of Violence was raised ! 
 Say, how thou call'dst in tears upon Demetrius ! 
 
 Jlsp. Inform me rather how thy happy courage 
 Stemm'd in the breach the deluge of destruction. 
 And pass'd uninjured through the walks of death. 
 Did savage anger and licentious conquest 
 Behold the hero with Aspasia's eyes? 
 And, thus protected in the general ruin, 
 
 say, what guardian power convey'd tnee 
 
 hither. [chances. 
 
 Dem. Such strange events, such unexpected 
 Beyond my warmest hope, or wildest wishes, 
 Concurr'd to give me to Aspasia's arms, 
 
 1 stand amazed, and ask, if yet I clasp thee. 
 
 Jlsp. Sure heaven (for wonders are not 
 
 wrought in vain!) 
 That joins us thus, will never part us more 1 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 
 DEMETRIUS, ASPASIA, and ABDALLA. 
 Jlbd. It parts you now The hasty Sultan 
 
 sign'd 
 The laws unread, and flies to his Irene. 
 
 Dem. Fix'd and intent on his Irene's charms, 
 He envies none the converse of Aspasia. 
 
 Jlbd. Aspasia's absence will inflame suspicion'. 
 She cannot, must not, shall not, linger here ; 
 Prudence and Friendship bid rne force her from 
 you.
 
 IRENE: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 [ACT. IV. 
 
 Dem. Force her! profane her with a touch, 
 and die! [hence; 
 
 Abd. 'Tis Greece, 'tis Freedom, calls Aspasia 
 Your careless love betrays your country's cause. 
 
 Dem. If we must part 
 
 Asp. No ! let us die together. 
 
 Dem. If we must part 
 
 Abd. Despatch; tli' increasing danger 
 Will not admit a lover's long farewell, 
 The long-drawn intercourse of sighs and kisses. 
 
 Dem. Then O my fair, I cannot bid thee go. 
 Receive her and protect her, gracious Heaven ! 
 Yet let me watch her dear departing steps, 
 If Fate pursues me, let it find me here. 
 
 Reproach not, Greece, a lover's fond delays, 
 
 Nor think thy cause neglected while I gaze ; 
 
 New force, new courage, from each glance I 
 gain, 
 
 And find our passions not infused in vain. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 DEMETRIUS an I ASPASIA, enter as talking. 
 
 Asp. Enough resistless Reason calms my 
 
 soul- 
 Approving Justice smiles upon your cause, 
 And Nature's rights entreat th' asserting sword. 
 Yet, when your hand is lifted to destroy, 
 Think, but excuse a woman's needless caution 
 Purge well thy mind from every private passion, 
 Drive interest, love, and vengeance from thy 
 thoughts, [Virtue, 
 
 Fill all thy ardent breast with Greece and 
 Then strike secure, and Heaven assist the blow ! 
 
 Dem. Thou kind assistant of my better angel, 
 Propitious guide of my bewilder'd soul, 
 Calm of my cares, and guardian of my virtue ! 
 
 Asp. My soul, first kindled by thy bright ex- 
 ample, 
 
 To noble thought and generous emulation, 
 Now but reflects those beams that flow'd from 
 thee. [greatness, 
 
 Dem. With native lustre and unborrow'd 
 Thou shinest, bright maid, superior to distress ; 
 Unlike the trifling race of vulgar beauties, 
 Those glittering dew-drops of a vernal morn, 
 That spread their colours to the genial beam, 
 And sparkling quiver to the breath of May ; 
 But, when the tempest with sonorous wing 
 Sweeps o'er the grove, forsake the labouring 
 
 bough, 
 Dispersed in air, or mingled with the dust. 
 
 Asp. Forbear this triumph still new conflicts 
 
 wait us, 
 
 Foes unforeseen, and dangers unsuspected. 
 Oft, when the fierce besiegers' eager host 
 Beholds the fainting garrison retire, 
 And rushes joyful to the naked wall, 
 Destruction flashes from the insidious mine, 
 And sweeps the exulting conqueror away. 
 Perhaps in vain the Sultan's anger spared me, 
 To find a meaner fate from treacherous friend- 
 Abdalla! [ship 
 
 Dem. Can Abdalla then dissemble? 
 That fiery chief, renown'd for generous freedom, 
 For zeal unguarded, undissembled hate, 
 For daring truth, and turbulence of honour! 
 
 Asp. This open friend, this undesigning hero, 
 
 With noisy falsehoods forced me from your arms, 
 To shock my virtue with a tale of love. 
 
 Dem. Did not the cau; of Greece restrain my 
 
 sword, 
 Aspasia could not fear a second insult. 
 
 Asp. His pride and love by turns inspired hia 
 
 tongue, 
 
 And intermix'd my praises with his own ; 
 His wealth, his rank, his honours, he recounted, 
 Till, in the midst of arrogance and fondness, 
 Th' approaching Sultan forced me from the 
 
 palace ; 
 
 Then, while he gazed upon his yielding mistress, 
 I stole unheeded from their ravish'd eyes, 
 And sought this happy grove in quest of thee. 
 
 Dem. Soon may the final stroke decide our 
 
 fate, 
 
 Lest baneful discord crush our infant scheme, 
 And strangled freedom perish in the birth. 
 
 Asp. My bosom, harass'd with alternate pas- 
 Now hopes, now fears [sions, 
 
 Dem. The anxieties of love. 
 
 Asp. Think how the Sovereign Arbiter of 
 
 kingdoms 
 
 Detests thy false associates' black designs, 
 And frowns on perjury, revenge, and murdei 
 Embark 'd with treason on the seas of fate, 
 When Heaven shall bid the swelling billows 
 
 rage, 
 
 And point vindictive lightnings at rebellion, 
 Will not the patriot share the traitor's danger' 
 Oh could thy hand unaided free thy country? 
 Nor mingled guilt pollute the sacred cause ! 
 
 Dem. Permitted oft, though not inspired by 
 
 Heaven, 
 Successful treasons punish impious kings 
 
 Asp. Nor end my terrors with the Suilans 
 
 [death ; 
 
 Far as futurity's untravell'd waste 
 Lies open to conjecture's dubious ken, 
 On every side confusion, rage, and death, 
 Perhaps the phantoms of a woman's fear, 
 Beset the treacherous way with fatal ambush ; 
 Each Turkish bosom burns for thy destruction, 
 Ambitious Call dreads the statesman's arts, 
 And hot Abdalla hates the happy lover. 
 
 Dem. Capricious man ! to good and ill in- 
 constant, 
 
 Too much to fear or trust is equal weakness. 
 Sometimes the wretch, unawed by heaven 01 
 With mad devotion idolizes honour. [hell, 
 
 The Bassa, reeking with his master's murder, 
 Perhaps may start at violated friendship. 
 
 Asp. How soon, alas! will interest, fear, or 
 
 envy, 
 
 O'erthrow such weak, such accidental, virtue, 
 Nor built on faith, nor fortified by conscience ? 
 
 Dem. When desperate ills demand a speedy 
 
 cure, 
 Distrust is cowardice, and prudence folly. 
 
 Asp. Yet think a moment, ere you court de- 
 struction, [Demetrius, 
 What hand, when deatn has snatch'd away 
 Shall guard Aspasia from triumphant lust. 
 
 Dem. Dismiss these needless fears a troop 
 
 of Greeks, 
 
 Well known, long try'd, expect us on the shore. 
 Borne on the surface of the smiling deep, 
 Soon shalt thou scorn, in safety's arms reposed, 
 Abdalla's rage and Call's stratagems. 
 
 Asp. Still, still, distrust sits heavy on my heart; 
 Will e'er a happier hour revisit Greece ?
 
 SCENE III.] 
 
 IRENE: A 
 
 GEDY. 
 
 537 
 
 Dem. Should Heaven, yet unappeased, refuse 
 
 its aid, 
 
 Disperse our hopes, and frustrate our designs, 
 Yet shall the conscience of the great attempt 
 Diffuse a brightness on our future days ; 
 Nor will his country's groans reproach De- 
 metrius. 
 
 But how canst thou support the woes of exile ? 
 Canst thou forget hereditary splendours, 
 To live obscure upon a foreign coast, 
 Content with science, innocence, and love ? 
 
 Jlsp. Nor wealth, nor titles, make Aspasia's 
 
 bliss. 
 
 O'erwhelm'd and lost amidst the public ruins, 
 Unmoved I saw the glittering trifles perish, 
 And thought the petty dross beneath a sigh. 
 Cheerful I follow to the rural cell ; 
 Love be my wealth, and my distinction virtue. 
 
 Dem. Submissive, and prepared for each event, 
 Now let us wait the last award of Heaven, 
 Secure of happiness from flight or conquest, 
 Nor fear the fair and learn'd can want protection. 
 The mighty Tuscan courts the banish'd arts 
 TO kind Italia's hospitable shades ; 
 There shall soft leisure wing the excursive soul, 
 And peace propitious smile on soft desire ; 
 There shall despotic Eloquence resume 
 Her ancient empire o'er the yielding heart; 
 There Poetry shall tune her sacred voice, 
 And wake from ignorance the Western world. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 DEMETRIUS, ASPASIA, and CALL 
 
 Call. At length the unwilling sun resigns the 
 
 world 
 
 To silence and to rest. The hours of darkness, 
 Propitious hours to stratagem and death, 
 Pursue the last remains of lingering light. 
 
 Dem. Count not these hours as parts of vul- 
 gar time, 
 
 Think them a sacred treasure lent by Heaven, 
 Which, squander'd by neglect, or fear, or folly, 
 No prayer recalls, no diligence redeems. 
 To-morrow's dawn shall see the Turkish king 
 Stretch'd in the dust, or towering on his throne; 
 To-morrow's dawn shall see the mighty Cali, 
 The sport of tyranny, or lord of nations. 
 
 Cali. Then waste no longer these important 
 
 moments 
 
 In soft endearments and in gentle murmurs ; 
 Nor lose in love the patriot and the hero. 
 
 Dem. 'Tis love, combined with guilt alone, 
 
 that melts 
 
 The soften'd soul to cowardice and sloth ; 
 Bui virtuous passion prompts the ;reat resolve, 
 And fans the slumbering spark of heavenly fire. 
 Retire, my fair; that Power that smiles on 
 
 goodness 
 
 Guide all thy steps, calm every stormy thought, 
 And still thy bosom with the voice of peace ! 
 Asp. Soon may we meet again, secure and 
 
 free, 
 To feel no more the pangs of separation ! [Exit. 
 
 DEMETRIUS and CALI. 
 
 Dem. This night alone is ours Our mighty 
 No longer lost in amorous solitude, [foe, 
 
 Will now remount the slighted seat of empire, 
 And show Irene to the shouting people: 
 Aspasia left her sighing in his arms, 
 And listening to the pleasing tale of power ; 
 3 S 
 
 With soften'd voice she dropp'd the faint refusal, 
 Smiling consent she sat, and blushing love. 
 Cali. Now, tyrant, with satiety oi ueauty, 
 Now feast thine eyes, thine eyes that ne'er here- 
 after 
 
 Shall dart their amorous glances at the fair, 
 Or glare on Cali with malignant beams. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 DEMETRIUS, CALI, LEONTIUS, and ABDALLA. 
 Leon. Our bark unseen has reach'd th' ap- 
 pointed bay, [surge, 
 And where yon trees wave o'er the foaming 
 Reclines against the shore ; our Grecian troop 
 Extends its lines along the sandy beach, 
 Elate with hope, and panting for a foe. 
 
 Md. The favouring winds assist the great de- 
 sign, 
 
 Sport in our sails, and murmur o'er the deep. 
 Cali. 'Tis well A single blow completes our 
 
 wishes ; 
 
 Return with speed, Leontius, to your charge ; 
 The Greeks, disorder'd by their leader's absence, 
 May droop dismay'd, or kindle into madness. 
 Lean. Suspected still ! What villain's pois' 
 nous tongue [hood ? 
 
 Dares join Leontius' name with fear or false- 
 Have I for this preserved my guiltless bosom 
 Pure as the thoughts of infant innocence ? 
 Have I for this defy'd the chiefs of Turkey, 
 Intrepid in the flaming front of war ? 
 
 Cali. Hast thou not search'd my soul's pro- 
 
 foundest thoughts ? 
 
 Is not the fate of Greece and Cali thine? 
 Leon. Why has thy choice then pointed out 
 
 Leontius, 
 
 Unfit to share this night's illustrious toils ? 
 To wait remote from action and from honour, 
 An idle listener to the distant cries 
 Of slaughter'd infidels, and clash of swords ? 
 Tell me the cause, that while thy name, Deme- 
 trius, 
 
 Shall soar triumphant on the wings of Glory, 
 Despised and cursed, Leontius must descend 
 Through hissing ages, a proverbial coward, 
 The tale of women, and the scorn of fools ? 
 Dem. Can brave Leontius be the slave of 
 
 Glory? 
 
 Glory, the casual gift of thoughtless crowds ! 
 Glory, the bribe of avaricious virtue ! 
 Be but my country free, be thine the praise j 
 I ask no witness, but attesting conscience, 
 No records, but the records of the sky. 
 
 Leon. Will thou then head the troop upon the 
 
 shore, 
 
 While I destroy the oppressor of mankind ? 
 Dem. What canst thou boast superior to Do. 
 metrius ? [cause, 
 
 Ask to whose sword the Greeks will trust their 
 My name shall echo through the shouting field : 
 Demand whose force yon Turkish heroes dread, 
 The shuddering camp shall murmur out Deme- 
 trius. 
 
 Cali. Must Greece, still wretched by her chil- 
 dren's folly, 
 
 For ever mourn their avarice or factions? 
 Demetrius justly pleads a double title ; 
 The lover's interest aids the patriot's claim. 
 Leon. My pride shall ne'er protract my coun- 
 try's woes ; 
 Succeed, my friend, unenvied by Leontius.
 
 IRENE: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 [AcrlV. 
 
 Dun. 1 feel new spirit shoot along my nerves, 
 My soul expands to meet the approaching free- 
 dom. 
 
 Now hover o'er us with propitious wings, 
 Ye sacred shades of patriots and of martyrs ! 
 All ye, whose blood tyrannic rage effused, 
 Or persecution drank, attend our call ; 
 And from the mansions of perpetual peace 
 Descend, to sweeten labours once your own ! 
 
 Call. Go then, and with united eloquence 
 Confirm your troops ; and when the moon's fair 
 
 beam 
 
 Plays on the quivering waves, to guide our flight, 
 Return, Demetrius, and be free for ever. 
 
 [Exeunt DEM. and LEON. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 CALI and Ann AI.I.A. 
 
 Jlbd. How the new monarch, swell'd with airy 
 rule, [height, 
 
 Looks down, contemptuous, from his fancied 
 And utters fate, unmindful of Abdalla I 
 
 Cali. Far be such black ingratitude from Cali ! 
 When Asia's nations own me for their lord, 
 Wealth, and command, and grandeur, shall be 
 thine. 
 
 Jlbd. Is this the recompense reserved for me ? 
 Dar'st thou thus dally with Abdalla's passion ? 
 Henceforward hope no more my slighted friend- 
 ship, [tortures, 
 Wake from thy dream of power to death and 
 And bid thy visionary throne farewell. 
 
 CalL Name, and enjoy thy wish 
 
 Jlbd. I need not name it ; 
 Aspasia's lovers know but one desire, 
 Nor hope, nor wish, nor live but for Aspasia. 
 
 Cali. That fatal beauty, plighted to Deme- 
 Heaven makes not mine to give. [trius, 
 
 Jlbd. Nor to deny. 
 
 Cali. Obtain her, and possess ; thou know'st 
 thy rival. [plains, 
 
 Jlbd. Too well I know him, since on Thracia's 
 I felt the force of his tempestuous arm, 
 And saw my scatter'd squadrons fly before him. 
 Nor will I trust th' uncertain chance of combat; 
 The rights of princes let the sword decide, 
 The petty claims of empire and of honour: 
 Revenge and subtle jealousy shall teach 
 A surer passage to his hated heart. 
 
 Cali. O spare the gallant Greek, in him we lose 
 The politician's arts, and hero's flame. 
 
 Jlbd. When next we meet before we storm the 
 
 palace, 
 
 The bowl shall circle to confirm our league ; 
 Then shall these juices taint Demetrius' draught, 
 [Showing a phial. 
 And stream destructive through his freezing 
 
 veins : 
 
 Thus shall he live to strike th' important blow, 
 And perish ere he taste the joys of conquest. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 MAHOMET, MUSTAFHA, CALI, and ABDALLA. 
 
 Mah. Henceforth for ever happy be this day, 
 Sacred to love, to pleasure, and Irene! 
 The matchless fair has bless'd me with compll 
 
 ance ; 
 
 Let every tongue resound Irene's praise, 
 And spread the general transport through man 
 kind. 
 
 his sinking 
 
 Cali. Blest prince, for whom indulgent Hea- 
 ven ordains 
 
 At once the joys of paradise and empire, 
 STow join thy people's and thy Cali's prayers ; 
 Suspend thy passage to the seats of bliss, 
 STor wish for Houries in Irene's arms. 
 
 Mah. Forbear I know the long-try'd faith of 
 Cali. [Heaven, 
 
 Cali. O! could the eyes of kings, like those of 
 3earch to the dark recesses of the soul, 
 Dft Would they find ingratitude and treason, 
 By smiles, and oaths, and praises, ill disguised. 
 How rarely would they meet, in crowded courts, 
 Fidelity so firm, so pure, as mine ! 
 
 Mus. Yet, ere we give our loosen'd thoughts 
 
 to rapture, 
 
 Let prudence obviate an impending danger: 
 Tainted by sloth, the parent of sedition, 
 The hungry Janizary burns for plunder, 
 And growls in private o'er his idle sabre. 
 
 Mah. To still their murmurs, ere the twentieth 
 
 sun 
 
 Shall shed his beams upon the bridal bed, 
 1 rouse to war, and conquer for Irene. 
 Then shall the Rhodian mourn his 
 
 towers, 
 
 And Buda fall, and proud Vienna tremble 
 Then shall Venetia fed Ihe Turkish power. 
 And subject seas roar round their queen in vain. 
 
 Jlbd. Then seize fair Italy's delightful coast, 
 To fix your standard in imperial Rome. 
 
 Mah. Her sons malicious clemency shall spare, 
 To form new legends, sanctify new crimes, 
 To canonize the slaves of superstition, 
 And fill the world with follies and impostures, 
 Till angry Heaven shall mark them out for ruin, 
 And War o'erwhelm them in their dream of vice. 
 O, could her fabled saints and boasted prayers 
 Call forth her ancient heroes to the field, 
 How should I joy, 'midst the fierce shock of na- 
 tions, 
 
 To cross the towerings of an equal soul, 
 And bid the master genius rule the world ! 
 Abdalla, Cali, go proclaim my purpose. 
 
 [Exeunt CALI and ABDALLA. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 MAHOMET and MUSTAPHA. 
 
 Mah. Still Cali lives : and must he live to- 
 morrow ? 
 
 That fawning villain's forced congratulations 
 Will cloud my triumphs, and pollute the day. 
 Mus. With cautious vigilance, at my com- 
 mand, 
 
 Two faithful captains, Hazan and Caraza, 
 Pursue him through his labyrinths of treason, 
 And wait your summons to report his conduct. 
 Mah. Call them but let them not prolong 
 
 their tale, 
 Nor press too much upon a lover's patience. 
 
 [Exit MUSTAPHA. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 Mah. [Solus.] Whome'er the hope, still blast- 
 ed, still renew'd, 
 
 Of happiness lures on from toil to toil, 
 Remember Mahomet, and cease thy labour. 
 Behold him here, in love, in war successful, 
 Behold him wretched, in his double triumph ! 
 His favourite faithless, and his mistress base. 
 Ambition only gave her to my arms,
 
 SCENE H.] 
 
 IRENE: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 539 
 
 By reason not convinced, nor won by love. 
 Ambition was her crime ; but meaner folly 
 Dooms me to loathe at once, and doat on false- 
 hood, 
 
 And idolize th' apostate I contemn. 
 If thou art more than the gay dream of fancy, 
 More than a pleasing sound without a meaning, 
 O happiness ! sure thou art all Aspasia's. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 MAHOMET, MUSTAPHA, HASAN, and CARAZA. 
 
 Mah. Caraza, speak have ye remark'd the 
 Bassa? [his steps; 
 
 Car. Close, as we might unseen, we watch'd 
 Hie hair disorder'd, and his gait unequal, 
 Betray'd the wild emotions of his mind. 
 Sudden he stops, and inward turns his eyes, 
 Absorb'd in thought; then starting from his 
 
 trance, 
 
 Constrains a sullen smile, and shoots away. 
 With him Abdalla we beheld 
 Mus. Abdalla ! 
 
 Mali, He wears of late resentment on his brow. 
 Deny'd the government of Servia's province. 
 Car. We mark'd him storming in excess of 
 
 fury, 
 
 And heard, within the thicket that conceal'd us, 
 An undistinguish'd sound of threatening rage. 
 Mus. How guilt, once harbour'd in the con- 
 scious breast, 
 
 Intimidates the brave, degrades the great ; 
 See Cali, dread of kings, and pride of armies, 
 By treason levell'd with the dregs of men ! 
 Ere guilty fear depress'd the hoary chief, 
 An angry murmur, a rebellious frown, 
 Had stretch'd the fiery boaster in the grave. 
 Mah. Shall monarchs fear to draw the sword 
 of justice, [strain'd ? 
 
 Awed by the crowd, and by their slaves re- 
 Seize him this night, and through the private 
 
 passage 
 
 Convey him to the prison's inmost depths, 
 Reserved to all the pangs of tedious death. 
 
 [Exeunt MAHOMET and MUSTAPHA. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 HASAN and CARAZA. 
 
 Has. Shall then the Greeks, unpunish'd and 
 
 conceal'd, 
 
 Contrive perhaps the ruin of our empire, 
 League with our chiefs, and propagate sedition ? 
 Car. Whate'er their scheme, the Bassa's death 
 
 defeats it, 
 
 And gratitude's strong ties restrain my tongue. 
 Has. What ties to slaves ? what gratitude to 
 
 foes? 
 
 Car. In that black day when slaughter'd thou- 
 sands fell 
 
 Around these fatal walls, the tide of war 
 Bore me victorious onward, where Demetrius 
 Tore unresisted from the giant hand 
 Of stern Sebalias the triumphant crescent, 
 And dash'd the might of Asam from the ram- 
 parts. 
 
 Thore I became, nor blush to make it known, 
 The captive of his sword. The coward Greeks, 
 Enraged by wrongs, exulting with success, 
 Doom'd me to die with all the Turkish captains ; 
 But brave Demetrius scorn'd the mean revenge, 
 A nd gave me life. 
 
 Has. Do thou repay the gift, 
 Lest*unrewarded mercy lose its charms. 
 Profuse of wealth, or bounteous of success, 
 When Heaven bestows the privilege to bless ; 
 Let no weak doubt the generous hand restrain, 
 For when was power beneficent in vain ? 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Asp. [Solus.] In these dark moments of sus- 
 pended fate, 
 
 While yet the future fortune of my country, 
 Lies in the womb of Providence conceal'd, 
 And anxious angels wait the mighty birth ; 
 O grant thy sacred influence, powerful Virtue 1 
 Attentive rise, survey the fair creation, 
 Till, conscious of th' encircling Deity, 
 Beyond the mists of care thy pinion towers. 
 This calm, these joys, dear Innocence! are 
 thine ; fpire. 
 
 Joys ill exchanged for gold, and pride, and em- 
 [Enter IRENE and Attendants. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 ASPASIA, IRENE, and Attendants. 
 
 Irene. See how the moon through all th' un- 
 clouded sky 
 
 Spreads her mild radiance, and descending dews 
 Revive the languid flowers ; thus nature shone 
 New from the Maker's hand, and fair array'd 
 In the bright colours of primeval spring ; 
 When purity, while fraud was yet unknown, 
 Play'd fearless in th' inviolated shades. 
 This elemental joy, this general calm, 
 Is sure the smile of unoffended Heaven. 
 Yet! why 
 
 Maid. Behold within th' embowering grove, 
 Aspasia stands 
 
 Irene. With melancholy mien, 
 Pensive and envious of Irene's greatness. 
 Steal unperceived upon her meditations 
 But see, the lofty maid, at our approach, 
 Resumes th' imperious air of haughty virtue. 
 Are these th' unceasing joys, th' unmingled plea- 
 sures [To ASPASIA. 
 For which Aspasia scorn'd the Turkish crown? 
 Is this th' unshaken confidence in Heaven? 
 Is this the boasted bliss of conscious virtue? 
 When did Content sigh out her cares in secret ? 
 When did Felicity repine in deserts ? 
 
 Asp. Ill suits with guilt the gayeties of tri- 
 umph; 
 
 When daring Vice insults eternal Justice, 
 The ministers of wrath forget compassion, 
 And snatch the flaming bolt with hasty hand. 
 
 Irene. Forbear thy threats, proud Prophetess 
 
 of ill, 
 Versed in the secret counsels of the sny. 
 
 Asp. Forbear! But thou art sunk beneath le- 
 
 proach ; 
 
 In vain affected raptures flush the cheek, 
 And songs of pleasure warble from the tongue, 
 When fear and anguish labour in the breast, 
 And all within is darkness and confusion. 
 Thus on deceitful ^Etna's flowery side 
 Unfading virtue glads the roving eye , 
 While secret flames, with unextinguish'd rage
 
 540 
 
 IRENE : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 [Acx V. 
 
 Insatiate on her wastee. entrails prey, 
 
 And melt her treacherous beauties into ruin. 
 
 ^C, Ut;Ul 111O.1U, C11Y DVJlH-f O VIA Lll^ TtlVjL^iJ, 
 
 e fear, or rage, or treachery, betray'd us ! 
 e. [Aside.] A private station may discove: 
 
 SCENE III. 
 ASPASIA, IRENE, and DEMETRIUS. 
 
 Dem. Fly, fly, my love ! destruction rushes 
 
 on us, 
 
 The rack expects us, and the sword pursues. 
 Asp, Is Greece deliver'd ? Is the tyrant fallen ? 
 Dem. Greece is no more ; the prosperous ty- 
 rant lives, 
 
 Reserved for other lands, the scourge of Heaven. 
 Asp. Say, by what fraud, what force, were 
 
 you defeated? 
 
 Betray'd by falsehood, or by crowds o'erborne ? 
 Dem. The pressing exigence forbids relation. 
 
 Abdalla 
 
 Asp. Hated name ! his jealous rage 
 Broke out in perfidy O cursed Aspasia, 
 Born to complete the ruin of her country ! 
 Hide me, oh hide me from upbraiding Greece ; 
 Oh, hide me from myself! 
 Dem. Be fruitless grief 
 The doom of guilt alone, nor dare to seize 
 The breast wnere Virtue guards the throne of 
 
 Peace, 
 
 Devolve, dear maid, thy sorrows on the wretch, 
 Whose 
 Irene, 
 
 more ; 
 
 Then let me rid them of Irene's presence ; 
 Proceed, and give a loose to love and treason. 
 
 Withdraws. 
 Asp. Yet tell. 
 
 Dem. To tell or hear were waste of life. 
 Asp. The life, which only this design sup- 
 ported, 
 
 Were now well lost in hearing how you fail'd. 
 Dem. Or meanly fraudulent, or madly gay, 
 Abdalla, while we waited near the palace, 
 With ill-timed mirth proposed the bowl of love. 
 Just as it reach'd my lips, a sudden cry 
 Urged me to dash it to the ground untouch'd, 
 And seize my sword with disencumber'd hand. 
 Asp. What cry? The stratagem? Did then 
 
 Abdalla 
 Dem. At once a thousand passions fired his 
 
 cheek ! 
 
 Then all is past, he cried and darted from us ; 
 Nor at the call of Call deign'd to turn. 
 
 Asp. Why did you stay, deserted and be- 
 tray'd? 
 
 What more could force attempt, or art con- 
 trive? 
 Dem. Amazement seiz'd us, and the hoary 
 
 Bassa 
 
 Stood torpid in suspense ; but soon Abdalla 
 Return'd with force that made resistance vain, 
 And bade his new confederates seize the traitors. 
 Cali, disarm'd, was borne away to death ; 
 Myself escaped, or favour'd, or neglected. 
 
 Asp. O Greece ! renown'd for science and for 
 
 wealth, 
 
 Behold thy boasted honours snatch'd away. 
 Dem. Though disappointment blast our gene- 
 ral scheme, 
 
 Yet much remains to hope. I shall not call 
 The day disastrous that secures our flight : 
 Nor think that effort lost which rescues thee. 
 
 [Enter ABDALLA 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 IRENE, ASPASIA, DEMETRIUS, and ABDALLA. 
 
 Abd. At length the prize is mine The haughty 
 
 maid 
 
 That bears the fate of empires in her air, 
 lenceforth shall live for me ; for me alone 
 hall plume her charms, and, with attentive 
 
 watch, 
 
 teal from Abdalla's eye the sign to smile. 
 Dem. Cease this wild roar of savage exultation- 
 Advance, and perish in the frantic boast. 
 
 \sp. Forbear, Demetrius, 'tis Aspasia calls 
 
 thee ; 
 
 Thy love, Aspasia, calls : restrain thy sword ; 
 S^or rush on useless wounds with idle courage. 
 Dem. What now remains ? 
 Asp. It now remains to fly ! 
 Dem. Shall then the savage live, to boast his 
 
 insult? 
 
 Tell how Demetrius shunn'd his single hand, 
 And stole his life and mistress from his sabre ? 
 
 Abd. Infatuate loiterer, has Fate in vain 
 Jnclasp'd his iron gripe to set thee free ? 
 Still dost thou flutter in the jaws of death ; 
 Snared with thy fears, and mazed in stupefac- 
 tion ? [calls : 
 Dem. Forgive, my fair: 'tis life, 'tis nature 
 Now, traitor, feel the fear that chills my hand. 
 Asp. 'Tis madness to provoke superfluous 
 
 danger, 
 And cowardice to dread the boast of folly. 
 
 Abd. Fly, wretch, while yet my pity grants 
 
 thee flight, 
 
 The power of Turkey waits upon my call. 
 Leave but this maid, resign a hopeless claim, 
 And drag away thy life in scorn and safety. 
 Thy life, too mean a prey to lure Abdalla. 
 
 Dem. Once more I dare thy sword ; behold 
 
 the prize, 
 Behold I quit her to the chance of battle. 
 
 [Quitting ASPASIA. 
 Abd. Well may'st thou call thy master to the 
 
 combat, 
 
 And try the hazard, that hast nought to stake ; 
 Alike my death or thine is gain to thee ; 
 But soon thou shalt repent ; another moment 
 Shall throw th' attending janizaries round thee. 
 [Exit hastily ABDALLA. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 ASPASIA, IRENE, and DEMETRIUS. 
 
 Irene. Abdalla fails ; now Fortune, all is mine. 
 
 [Aside. 
 Haste, Murza, to the palace, let the sultan 
 
 [To one of her Attendants. 
 
 Despatch his guards to stop the flying traitors, 
 While I protract their stay. Be swift and faith 
 ful. [Exit MURZA. 
 
 This lucky stratagem shall charm the Sultan, 
 
 [Aside. 
 Secure his confidence, and fix his love. 
 
 Dem. Behold a boaster's worth ! Now snatch, 
 
 my fair, 
 
 The happy moment; hasten to the shore, 
 Ere he return with thousands at his side. 
 Asp. In vain I listen to th' inviting call 
 Of freedom and of love ; my trembling joints, 
 Relax'd with fear, refuse to bear me forward. 
 Depart, Demetrius, lest my fate involve thee ; 
 Forsake a wretch abandon'd to despair, 
 To share the miseries herself has caused.
 
 SCENE VIII.] 
 
 IRENE : A TRAGEDY, 
 
 541 
 
 Dem. Let us not struggle with th' eternal will, 
 
 Nor languish o'er irreparable ruins ; 
 
 Come, haste and live Thy innocence and truth 
 
 Shall bless our wanderings, and propitiate 
 
 Heaven. [nerves 
 
 Irene. Press not her flight, while yet her feeble 
 Refuse their office, and uncertain life 
 Still labours with imaginary wo ; 
 Here let me tend her with officious care, 
 Watch each unquiet flutter of the breast, 
 And joy to feel the vital warmth return, 
 To see the cloud forsake her kindling cheek, 
 And hail the rosy dawn of rising health. 
 
 Asp, Oh ! rather, scornful of flagitious great- 
 ness, 
 
 Resolve to share our dangers and our toils, 
 Companion of our flight, illustrious exile, 
 Leave slavery, guilt, and infamy behind. 
 
 Irene. My soul attends thy voice, and banish'd 
 
 Virtue 
 
 Strives to regain her empire of the mind : 
 Assist her efforts with thy strong persuasion ! 
 Sure 'tis the happy hour ordain'd above, 
 When vanquished Vice shall tyrannize no more. 
 
 Dem. Remember peace and anguish are before 
 
 thee, 
 And honour and reproach, and Heaven and Hell. 
 
 Asp. Content with freedom, and precarious 
 greatness. 
 
 Dem. Now make tht choice, while yet the 
 
 power of choice^ 
 
 Kind Heaven affords thee, and inviting Mercy 
 Holds out her hand to lead thee back to truth. 
 
 Irene. Stay in this dubious twilight of con- 
 viction, 
 
 The gleams of reason, and the clouds of passion, 
 Irradiate and obscure my breast by turns : 
 Stay but a moment, and prevailing truth 
 Will spread resistless light upon my soul. 
 
 Dem. But since none knows the danger of a 
 
 moment, 
 
 And Heaven forbids to lavish life away, 
 Let kind compulsion terminate the contest. 
 
 [Seizing her hand. 
 
 Ye Christian captives follow me to freedom : 
 A galley waits us, and the winds invite. 
 
 Irene. Whence is this violence? 
 
 Dem. Your calmer thought, 
 Will teach a gentler term. 
 
 Irene. Forbear this rudeness, 
 And learn the reverence due to Turkey's queen ; 
 Fly, slaves, and call the Sultan to my rescue. 
 
 ~Dem. Farewell, unhappy maid ; may every 
 
 jy 
 
 Be thine, that wealth can give, or guilt receive ! 
 Asp. And when contemptuous of imperial 
 
 power, 
 
 Disease shall chase the phantoms of ambition, 
 May penitence attend thy mournful bed, 
 And wing thy latest payer to pitying Heaven. 
 
 [Exeunt DEM. and ASP. with part of the 
 Attendants. 
 
 SCENE VI, 
 IRENE walks at a distance from her Attendants. 
 
 Irene. [After a pause.] Against the head which 
 
 innocence secures, 
 
 Insidious Malice aims her darts in vain, 
 Turn'd backwards by the powerful breath of 
 
 Heaven. 
 Perhaps even now the lovers unpursued 
 
 Bound o'er the sparkling waves. Go, happy 
 
 bark, 
 
 Thy sacred freight shall still the raging main. 
 To guide thy passage shall th' aerial spirits 
 Fill all the starry lamps with double blaze ; 
 Th' applauding sky shall pour forth all its beama, 
 To grace the triumph of victorious virtue ; 
 While I, not yet familiar to my crimes, 
 Recoil from thought, and shudder at mysert. 
 How am I changed ! How lately did Irene 
 Fly from the busy pleasures of her sex, 
 Well pleased to search the treasures of remem- 
 brance, 
 
 And live her guiltless moments o'er anew ! 
 Come, let us seek new pleasures in the palace, 
 
 [To her Attendants going off. 
 Till soft fatigue invites us to repose. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 Enter MUSTAPHA, meeting and stopping her. 
 
 Mus. Fair Falsehood, stay. 
 
 Irene. What dream of sudden power 
 Has taught my slave the language of command J 
 Henceforth be wise, nor hope a second pardon. 
 
 Mus. Who calls for pardon from a wretch con- 
 demn'd ? 
 
 Irene. Thy look, thy speech, thy action, all is 
 Who charges guilt on me ? [wildness 
 
 Mus. Who charges guilt ! [science. 
 
 Ask of thy heart ; attend the voice of Con- 
 Who charges guilt ! lay by this proud resentment 
 That fires thy cheek, and elevates thy mien, 
 Nor thus usurp the dignity of virtue. 
 Review this day. 
 
 Irene. Whate'er thy accusation, 
 The Sultan is my judge. 
 
 Mus. That hope is past ; 
 Hard was the strife of justice and of love ; 
 But now 'tis o'er, and justice has prevail'd. 
 Know'st thou not Cali? know'st thou not De- 
 metrius ? [them traitors. 
 
 Irene. Bold slave, I know them both I know 
 
 Mus, Perfidious ! yes too well thou know'st 
 them traitors. [Irene. 
 
 Irene. Their treason throws no stain upon 
 This day has proved my fondness for the Sultan : 
 He knew Irene's truth. 
 
 Mus. The Sultan knows it, 
 He knows how near apostacy to treason 
 But 'tis not mine to judge I scorn and leave 
 
 thee. 
 
 I go, lest vengeance urge my hand to blood, 
 To blood too mean to stain a soldier's sabre. 
 
 [Exit MUSTAPHA. 
 
 Irene. [To her Attendants.] Go, blustering 
 
 slave He has not heard of Murza, 
 That dexterous message frees me from suspicion. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 
 Enter HASAN and CARAZA, with Mutes, who 
 
 throw the black robe upon IRENE, and sign to her 
 
 Attendants to withdraw. 
 
 Has. Forgive, fair Excellence, the unwilling 
 
 tongue, 
 
 The tongue, that, forced by strong necessity, 
 Bids beauty, such as thine, prepare to die. 
 
 Irene. What wild mistake is this ! Take hence 
 
 with speed 
 
 Your robe of mourning, and your dogs of death, 
 duick from my sight, you inauspicious monster*, 
 Nor dare henceforth to shock Irene's walks.
 
 IRENE: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 [Acr V. 
 
 Has. Alas ! they come commanded by the 
 
 Sultan, 
 
 The unpitying ministers of Turkish justice, 
 Nor dare to spare the life his frown condemns. 
 
 Irene. Are these the rapid thunderbolts of war, 
 That pour with sudden violence on kingdoms, 
 And spread their flames resistless o'er the world ? 
 What sleepy charms benumb these active heroes, 
 Depress their spirits, and retard their speed ? 
 Beyond the fear of lingering punishment, 
 Aspasia now, within her lover's arms, 
 Securely sleeps, and in delightful dreams 
 Smiles at the threat'nings of defeated rage. 
 Car. We come, bright Virgin, though relent- 
 ing Nature 
 
 Shrinks at the hated task, for thy destruction ; 
 When summon'd by tne Sultan's clamorous fury, 
 We ask'd with timorous tongue the offender's 
 
 name, 
 
 He struck his tortured breast, and roar'd, Irene ! 
 We started at the sound, again inquired ; 
 Again his thundering voice return'd, Irene ! 
 Irene. Whence is this rage ? what barbarous 
 tongue has wrong'd me ? [cense ? 
 
 What fraud misleads him ? or what crimes in- 
 
 Has. Expiring Call named Irene's chamber, 
 The place appointed for his master's death. 
 Irene. Irene's chamber ! from my faithful 
 
 bosom 
 Far be the thought But hear my protestation. 
 
 Car. 'Tis ours, alas ! to punish, not to judge, 
 Not call'd to try the cause, we heard the sen- 
 tence, 
 
 Ordain'd the mournful messengers of death. 
 Irene. Some ill-designing statesman's base 
 
 intrigue ! 
 
 Some cruel stratagem of jealous beauty ! 
 Perhaps yourselves the villains that defame me, 
 Now haste to murder, ere returning thought 
 
 Recall the extorted doom. It must be so : 
 
 Confess your crime, or lead me to the Sultan, 
 There dauntless truth shall blast the vile ac- 
 cuser ; 
 
 Then shall you feel what language cannot utter, 
 Each piercing torture, every change of pain, 
 That vengeance can invent, or power inflict 
 
 [Enter ABDALLA : he stops short and listens. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 IRENE, HASAN, CARAZA, and ABDALLA. 
 Abd. [Jlside.] All is not lost, Abdalla ; see 
 
 the queen, 
 
 See the last witness of thy guilt and fear 
 Enrobed in death despatch her, and be great. 
 
 Car. Unhappy fair! compassion calls upon me 
 To check this torrent of imperious rage ; 
 While unavailing anger crowds thy tongue 
 With idle threats and fruitless exclamation, 
 The fraudful moments ply their silent wings, 
 And steal thy life away. Death's horrid angel 
 Already shakes his- bloody sabre o'er thee. 
 The raging Sultan burns till our return, 
 Curses the dull delays of lingering mercy, 
 A nd thinks his fatal mandates ill obey'd. 
 
 Jlbd. Is then your sovereign's life so cheaply 
 
 rated, 
 
 That thus you parly with detected treason? 
 Should she prevail to gain the Sultan's presence, 
 Soon might her tears engage a lover's credit ; 
 Perhaps her malice might transfer the charge ; 
 Perhaps her poisonous tongue might blast Ab- 
 dalla. 
 
 Irene. O let me but be heard, nor fear from me 
 Or flights of power or projects of ambition. 
 My hopes, my wishes, terminate in life, 
 A little life, for grief, and for repentance. 
 
 Jlbd. I mark'd her wily messenger afar, 
 And saw him skulking in the closest walks ; 
 I guess'd her dark designs, and warn'd the Sultan, 
 And bring her former sentence new confirm'd. 
 Has. Then call it not our cruelty, nor crime ; 
 Deem us not deaf to wo, nor blind to beauty, 
 That thus constrain'd we speed the stroke of 
 death. [Beckons the Mutes. 
 
 Irene. O, name not death! Distraction and 
 
 amazement, 
 
 Horror and agony are in that sound ! 
 Let me but live, heap woes on woes upon me, 
 Hide me with murderers in the dungeon's gloom, 
 Send me to wander on some pathless shore, 
 Let shame and hooting infamy pursue me, 
 Let slavery harass, and let hunger gripe. 
 
 Car. Could we reserve the sentence of the 
 
 Sultan, 
 
 Our bleeding bosoms plead Irene's cause. 
 But cries and tears are vain ; prepare with pa- 
 tience 
 To meet that fate we can delay no longer. 
 
 [The Mutes at the sign lay hold of her. 
 Jlbd. Despatch, ye lingering slaves ; or nim- 
 bler hands, 
 
 duick at my call shalLexecute your charge ; 
 Despatch, and learn affitter time for pity. 
 
 Irene. Grant me one hour, O grant me but a 
 
 moment, 
 
 And bounteous Heaven repay the mighty mercy 
 With peaceful death, and happiness eternal. 
 Car. The prayer I cannot grant I dare not 
 
 hear. 
 Short be thy pains, [Stg-ns again to the Mutes. 
 
 Irene. Unutterable anguish ! 
 Guilt and despair, pale spectres, grin around me, 
 And stun me with the yellings of damnation ! 
 O, hear my prayers ! accept all-pitying Heaven, 
 These tears, these pangs, these last remains of 
 
 life; 
 
 Nor let the crimes of this detested day 
 Be charged upon my soul. O, mercy ! mercy ! 
 [Mutes force her out 
 
 SCENE X. 
 ABDALLA, HASAN, and CARAZA. 
 
 Jlbd. [Jlside.] Safe in her death, and in De- 
 metrius' flight, 
 
 Abdalla, bid thy troubled breast be calm. 
 Now shall thou shine the darling of the Sultan, 
 The plot all Call's, the detection thine. 
 
 Has. [To CAR.] Does not thy bosom (for 1 
 
 know thee tender, 
 
 A stranger to th' oppressor's savage joy,) 
 Melt at Irene's fate, and share her woes? 
 
 Car. Her piercing cries yet fill the loaded air, 
 Dwell on my ear, and sadden all my soul. 
 But let us try to clear our clouded brows, 
 And tell the horrid tale with cheerful face ; 
 The stormy Sultan rages at our stay. 
 
 Jlbd. Frame your report with circumspective 
 
 art: 
 
 Inflame her crimes, exalt your own obedience 
 But let no thoughtless hint involve Abdalla. 
 
 Car. What need of caution to report the fate 
 Of her the Sultan's voice condemn'd to die? 
 Or whv should he, whose violence of duty
 
 SCEKE XH.J 
 
 IRENE: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 543 
 
 Has served his prince so well, demand our 
 
 silence? 
 Jlbd. Perhaps my zeal, too fierce, betray'd my 
 
 prudence ; 
 
 Perhaps my warmth exceeded my commission ; 
 Perhaps I will not stoop to plead my cause, 
 Or argue with the slave that saved Demetrius. 
 Car. From his escape learn thou the power of 
 virtue ; [worth. 
 
 Nor hope his fortune, while thou want's! his 
 Has. The Sultan comes, still gloomy, still 
 enraged. 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 
 HASAN, CARAZA, MAHOMET, MUSTAPHA, and 
 ABDALLA. 
 
 Mah. Where's this fair traitoress ? Where's 
 
 this smiling mischief, 
 
 Whom neither vows could fix, nor favours bind ? 
 Has. Thine orders, mighty Sultan ! are per- 
 
 form'd, 
 
 And all Irene now is breathless clay. 
 Mah. Your hasty zeal defrauds the claim of 
 
 justice, 
 
 And disappointed vengeance burns in vain. 
 I came to heighten tortures by reproach, 
 And add new terrors to the face of death. 
 Was this the maid whose love I bought with 
 
 empire ? 
 
 True, she was fair; the smile of innocence 
 Plav'd on her cheek So shone the first apos- 
 tate 
 
 Irene's chamber ! Did not roaring Cali, 
 Just as the rack forced out his struggling soul, 
 Name for the scene of death, Irene's chamber? 
 Miis. His breath prolong'd but to detect her 
 
 treason, 
 
 Then in short sighs forsook his broken frame. 
 Mah. Decreed to perish in Irene's chamber! 
 There had she lull'd me with endearing false- 
 hoods, 
 
 Clasp'd in her arms, or slumbering on her breast, 
 And bared my bosom to the ruffian's dagger. 
 
 SCENE XH. 
 
 HASAN, CARAZA, MAHOMET, MUSTAPHA, 
 MURZA, and ABDALLA. 
 
 Mur. Forgive, great Sultan ! that, by fate 
 
 prevented, 
 J bring a tardy message from Irene. 
 
 Mah. Some artful wile of counterfeited love ! 
 Some soft decoy to lure me to destruction ! 
 And thou, the curst accomplice of her treason, 
 Declare thy message, and expect thy doom. 
 
 Mur. The queen requested that a chosen troop 
 Might intercept the traitor Greek, Demetrius, 
 Then lingering with his captive mistress here. 
 
 Mus. The Greek Demetrius! whom th' ex- 
 piring Bassa 
 Declared the chief associate of his guilt ' 
 
 Mah. A chosen troop to intercept Deme- 
 trius [sage ; 
 The queen requested Wretch, repeat the mes- 
 And, if one varied accent prove thy falsehood, 
 Or but one moment's pause betray confusion, 
 Those trembling limbs Speak out thou shiver- 
 ing traitor. 
 
 Mur. The queen requested 
 
 Mah. Who? the dead Irene? 
 
 Was she then guiltless ? has my thoughtless 
 
 rage 
 
 Destroyed the fairest workmanship of Heaven 1 
 Doom'd her to death unpity'd and unheard, 
 Amidst her kind solicitudes for me! 
 Ye slaves of cruelty, ye tools of rage, 
 
 [To HAS. and CAR. 
 Ye blind officious ministers of folly, 
 Could not her charms repress your zeal for 
 
 murder ? 
 
 Could not her prayers, her innocence, her tears, 
 Suspend the dreadful sentence for an hour ? 
 One hour had freed me from the fatal error ; 
 One hour had saved me from despair and madness. 
 Car. Your fierce impatience forced us from 
 
 your presence, 
 
 Urged us to speed, and bade us banish pity, 
 Nor trust our passions with her fatal charms. 
 Mah. What hadst thou lost by slighting those 
 
 commands? 
 
 Thy life, perhaps Were but Irene spared. 
 
 Well if a thousand lives like thine had perish'd ; 
 
 Such beauty, sweetness, love, were cheaply 
 
 bought [globe. 
 
 With half the grovelling slaves that load the 
 
 Mus. Great is thy wo ! But think, illustrious 
 
 Sultan, 
 
 Such ills are sent for souls like thine to conquer. 
 Shake off this weight of unavailing grief, 
 Rush to the war, display thy dreadful banners, 
 And lead thy troops victorious round the world. 
 Mah. Robb'd of the maid with whom I wish'd 
 
 to triumph, 
 
 No more I burn for fame, or for dominion ; 
 Success and conquest now are empty sounds, 
 Remorse and anguish seize on all my breast ; 
 Those groves, whose shades embowered the dear 
 Irene, [ties, 
 
 Heard her last cries, and fann'd her dying beau- 
 Shall hide me from the tasteless world forever. 
 
 [MAHOMET goes back, and returns. 
 Yet, ere I quit the sceptre of dominion, 
 Let one just act conclude the hateful day. 
 Hew down, ye guards, those vassals of destruc- 
 tion, [Pointing to HAS. and CAR. 
 Those hounds of blood, that catch the hint to 
 
 kill, 
 
 Bear off with eager haste th' unfinish'd sentence, 
 And speed the stroke lest mercy should o'ertake 
 
 them. 
 
 Car. Then hear, great Mahomet, the voice of 
 truth. [Irene ? 
 
 Mah. Hear! shall I hear thee? didst thou hear 
 Car. Hear but a moment. 
 Mah. Hadst thou heard a moment, 
 Thou might'st have lived, for thou hadst spared 
 Irene. [save her. 
 
 Car. I heard her, pitied her, and wish'd to 
 Mah. And wish'd Be still thy fate to wish in 
 
 vain. 
 
 Car. I heard, and soften'd, till Abdalla brought 
 Her final doom, and hurried her destruction. 
 Mah. Abdalla brought her doom ! Abdalla 
 
 brought it ! 
 
 The wretch whose guilt, declared by tortured 
 Cali, [brance. 
 
 My rage and grief had hid from my remem- 
 Abdalla brought her doom ! 
 Has. Abdalla brought it, 
 
 While yet she begg'd to plead her cause before 
 
 thee. [me ' 
 
 Mah. O seize me Madness Did she call on
 
 544 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 I feel, I see the ruffian's barbarous rage. 
 He seized her melting in the fond appeal, 
 And stopp'd the heavenly voice that call'd on me. 
 My spirits tail; awhile support me Vengeance 
 Be just, ye slaves; and, to be just, be cruel; 
 Contrive" new racks, embitter every pang, 
 Inflict whatever treason can deserve, 
 Which murder'd innocence that call'd on me. 
 
 [Exit MAHOMET ; ABDALLA is dragged off. 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 HASAN, CARAZA, MUSTAPHA, and MURZA. 
 
 Mus. [ToMuRZA.] What plagues, what tor- 
 tures are in store for thee, 
 Thou sluggish idler, dilatory slave ! 
 Behold the model of consummate beauty, 
 Torn from the mourning earth by thy neglect. 
 Mur. Such was the will of Heaven A band 
 
 of Greeks, 
 
 That mark'd my course, suspicious of my pur- 
 pose, 
 Rush'd out and seized me, thoughtless and un- 
 
 arm'd, 
 
 Breathless, amazed, and on the guarded beach 
 Detain'd me, till Demetrius set me free. 
 
 Miis. So sure the fall of greatness, raised on 
 
 crimes ; 
 
 So fix'd the justice of all-conscious Heaven ! 
 When haughty guilt exults with impious joy, 
 Mistake shall blast, or accident destroy ; 
 Weak man with impious rage may throw the 
 
 dart, 
 But heaven shall guide it to the guilty heart. 
 
 EPILOGUE, 
 BY SIR WILLIAM YOKGE. 
 
 MARRY a Turk ! a haughty tyrant king! 
 Who thinks us women born to dress and sing 
 To please his fancy ! see no other man ! 
 Let him persuade me to it if he can ; 
 Besides, he has fifty wives, and who can bear 
 To have the fiftieth part her paltry share ? 
 
 'Tis true, the fellow's handsome, straight, and 
 
 tall, 
 
 But how the devil should he please us all ! 
 My swain is little true but be it known 
 My pride's to have that little all my own. 
 Men will be ever to their errors blind, 
 Where woman's not allow'd to speak her mind. 
 I swear this Eastern pageantry is nonsense, 
 And for one man one wife's enough in con- 
 science. 
 
 In vain proud man usurps what's woman's 
 
 due; 
 
 For us alone they honour's paths pursue : 
 Inspired by us, they glory's heights ascend ; 
 Woman the source, the object, and the end. 
 Though wealth, and power, and glory, they re- 
 ceive, 
 
 These are all trifles to what we can give. 
 For us the statesman labours, hero fights, 
 Bears toilsome days, and wakes long tedious 
 
 nights ; 
 
 And, when blest peace has silenced war's alarms. 
 Receives his full reward in Beauty's arms. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 LONDON: A POEM: 
 
 IN IMITATION OF THE THIRD SATIRE OF JUVENAL. 
 
 WRITTEN IN 1738. 
 
 Q,uts ineptae 
 Tarn patiens urbis, tarn ferreus ut teneat se ? 
 
 Juv. 
 
 ^THOUGH grief and fondness in my breast rebel, 
 When injured Thales* bids the town farewell, 
 
 JUV. SAT. III. 
 
 * GXuamvis digressu veteris confusus amici ; 
 Laudo tamen vacuis quod sedem figere Cumis 
 Destinet, atque unum civem donare Sibyllas. 
 
 * Sir John Hawkins says, that by Thales we are here 
 to understand Savage. Mr. Boswell asserts that this is 
 entirely groundless, and adds, " I have been assured that 
 Dr. Johnson said, he was not so much as acquainted with 
 Savage when he wrote his ' London.' " This added to 
 the circumstance of the date (for Savage did not set out 
 for Wales till 1739) might be decisive, if, unfortunately 
 for Mr. Boswell, he had not, a few pages after, given us 
 ome highly complimentary lines which "he was assured 
 
 Yet still my calmer thoughts his choice com 
 
 mend, 
 
 I praise the hermit, but regret the friend, 
 Resolved at length, from vice and London far, 
 To breathe in distant fields a purer air, 
 
 were written by Dr. Johnson," "Ad Ricardum Savage," 
 in April, 1738, about a month before " London" was pub- 
 lished. This surely implies previous acquaintance with 
 Savage, for Dr. Johnson would not have praised a 
 stranger in such terms, and gives a very strong probabil- 
 ity to Sir John Hawkins' conjecture. That Savage did 
 not set out for Wales until the following year, is a matter 
 of little consequence, as tfie intention of such a journey 
 would justify the lines alluding to it. See Boswell's Liia 
 of Johnson, vol. i. p. 100, and p. 139, Svo. edit. 1804 C
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 545 
 
 And fix'd on Cambria's solitary shore, 
 Give to St. David one true Briton more. 
 
 b For who would leave, unbribed, Hibernia's 
 
 land, 
 
 Or change the rocks of Scotland for the Strand? 
 There none are swept by sudden fate away, 
 But all, whom hunger spares, with age decay : 
 Here malice, rapine, accident conspire. 
 And now a rabble rages, now a fire ; 
 Their ambush here relentless ruffians lay, 
 And here the fell attorney prowls for prey ; 
 Here falling houses thunder on your head, 
 And here a female Atheist talks you dead. 
 
 'While Thales waits the wherry that contains 
 Of dissipated wealth the small remains, 
 On Thames's banks, in silent thought we stood 
 Where Greenwich smiles upon the silver flood ; 
 Struck with the seat that gave Eliza* birth, 
 We kneel and kiss the consecrated earth ; 
 In pleasing dreams the blissful age renew, 
 And call Britannia's glories back to view ; 
 Behold her cross triumphant on the main, 
 The guard of commerce, and the diead of Spain, 
 Ere masquerades debauch'd, excise oppress'd, 
 Or English honour grew a standing jest. 
 
 A transient calm the happy scenes bestow, 
 And for a moment lull the sense of \Wb. 
 At length awaking, with contemptuous frown, 
 Indignant Thales eyes the neighbouring town. 
 
 d Since worth, he cries, in these degenerate days 
 Wants even the cheap reward of empty praise ; 
 In those cursed walls, devote to vice and gain, 
 Since unrewarded Science toils in vain ; 
 Since hope but soothes to double my distress, 
 And every moment leaves my little less; 
 While yet my steady steps no 'staff sustains, 
 And life still vigorous revels in my veins ; 
 Grant me, kind Heaven, to find some happier 
 
 place, 
 
 Where honesty and sense are no disgrace ; 
 Some pleasing bank where verdant osiers play, 
 Some peaceful vale with Nature's paintings gay ; 
 Where once the harass'd Briton found repose, 
 And, safe in poverty, defy'd his foes ; 
 Some secret cell, ye Powers, indulgent give, 
 
 fLet live here, for he has learn'd to live. 
 
 Here let those reign, whom pensions can incite 
 To vote a patriot black, a courtier white ; 
 
 Ego vel Prochytam praepono Suburrae. 
 Nam quid tarn miserum, et tarn solum vidimus, 
 
 ut non 
 
 Deterius credas horrere incendia, lapsus 
 Tectorum assiduos, ac mille pericula saevae 
 Urbis, et Augusto recitante* mense poetas ? 
 
 Sed dum tota domus rheda componitur una, 
 Substitit ad veteres arcus. 
 
 d Hinc tune Umbritius: duando artibus, in- 
 
 cjuit, honestis 
 
 ISuilus in urbe locus, null a emolumenta laborum, 
 Res hodie minor est, heri quam fuit, atque eadem 
 
 eras 
 
 Deteret exiguis aliquid : proponimus illuc 
 Ire, fatigatas ubi Daedalus exuit alas : 
 Dum nova canities. 
 
 et pedibus me 
 
 Porto meis, nullo dextram subeunte bacillo. 
 
 f Cedamus patria: vivant Arturius istic 
 Et Catulus : maneant qui nigra in Candida ver- 
 tunt 
 
 + Queen Elizabeth, born at Greenwich. 
 3T 
 
 Explain their country's clear-bought rights away, 
 And plead for* pirates in the face of day; 
 With slavish tenets taint our poison'd youth, 
 And lend a lie the confidence of truth. 
 
 BLet such raise palaces, and manors buy, 
 Collect a tax, or farm a lottery ; 
 With warbling eunuchsf fill a licensed stage, 
 And lull to servitude a thoughtless age. 
 
 Heroes, proceed! what bounds your pride 
 
 shall hold? [gold? 
 
 What check restrain your thirst for power and 
 
 Behold rebellious Virtue quite o'erthro'wn, 
 
 Behold our fame, our wealth, our lives your own. 
 
 To such the plunder of a land is given, 
 When public crimes inflame the wrath of 
 Heaven : [me, 
 
 h But what, my friend, what hope remains for 
 Who start at theft, and blush at perjury? 
 Who scarce forbear, though Britain's court he 
 
 sing, 
 
 To pluck a titled poet's borrow'd wing ; 
 A statesman's logic unconvinced can hear, 
 And dare to slumber o'er the ^Gazetteer ; 
 Despise a fool in half his pension dress'd, 
 And strive in vain to laugh at Clodio's jest. 
 
 'Others with softer smiles and subtler art, 
 Can sap the principles, or taint the heart ; 
 With more address a lover's note convey, 
 Or bribe a virgin's innocence away. 
 Well may they rise, while I, whose rustic tongue 
 Ne'er knew to puzzle right, or varnish wrong, 
 Spurn'd as a beggar, dreaded as a spy, 
 Live unregarded, unlamented die. 
 
 JFor what but social guilt the friend endears ? 
 Who shares Orgilio's crimes, his fortune shares . 
 k But thou, should tempting Villany present 
 All Marlborough hoarded, or all Villiers spent, 
 Turn from the glittering bribe thy scornful eye, 
 Nor sell for gold, what gold could never buy, 
 The peaceful slumber, self-approving day, 
 Unsullied fame, and conscience ever gay. 
 
 'The cheated nation's happy favourites see ! 
 Mark whom the great caress, who frown on me! 
 London ! the needy villain's general home, 
 The common-sewer of Paris and of Rome! 
 With eager thirst, by folly or by fate, 
 Sucks in the dregs of each corrupted state. 
 
 gdueis facile est aedem conducere, flumina, 
 
 portus, 
 
 Siccandam eluviem, portandum ad busta ca- 
 daver 
 
 Munera nunc edunt. 
 
 h duid Romae faciam ? mentiri nescio : librum, 
 Si malus est, nequeo laudare et poscere. 
 
 i Ferre ad nuptam quas mittit adulter, 
 
 duse mandat, norint alii ; me nemo ministro 
 Fur erit, atque ideo nulli comes exeo. 
 
 ) duis nunc diligitur, nisi conscius ? 
 
 Carus erit Verri, qui Verrem tempore, quo vult, 
 Accusare potest. 
 
 k Tanti tibi non sit ppaci 
 
 Omnis arena Tagi, quodque in mare volvitur 
 
 aurum, 
 Ut somno careas. 
 
 1 duae nunc divitibus gens acceptissimanostns, 
 Et quos praecipue fugiam, properabo fateri. 
 
 * The invasions of the Spaniards were defended in the 
 Houses of Parliament. 
 
 t The Licensing Act was then lately made. 
 
 I The paper which at that time contained apologies rot 
 the Court.
 
 546 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Forgive my transports on A theme like this, 
 "I cannot hear a French metropolis. 
 
 "Illustrious Edward ! from the realms of day, 
 The land of heroes and of saints survey; 
 Nor hope the British lineaments to trace 
 The rustic grandeur, or the surly grace ; 
 But, lost in thoughtless ease and empty show, 
 Behold the warrior dwi. idled to a beau ; 
 Sense, freedom, piety, refined away, 
 Of France the mimic, and of Spain the prey. 
 
 All that at home no more can beg or steal, 
 Or like a gibbet better than a wheel; 
 Hiss'd from the stage, or hooted from the court, 
 Their air, their dress, their politics, import ; 
 Obsequious, artful, voluble and gay, 
 On Britain's fond credulity they prey. 
 No gainful trade their industry can 'scape, 
 PThey sing, they dance, clean shoes or cure a clap: 
 All sciences a fasting Monsieur knows, 
 And, bid him go to hell, to hell he goes. 
 
 lAh ! what avails it, that from slavery far, 
 I drew the breath of life in English air ; 
 Was early taught a Briton's right to prize, 
 And lisp the tale of Henry's victories ; 
 If the gull'd conqueror receives the chain, 
 And flattery prevails when arms are vain ? 
 
 'Studious to please, and ready to submit, 
 The supple Gaul was born a parasite : 
 Still to his interest true where'er he goes, 
 Wit, bravery, worth, his lavish tongue bestows ; 
 In every face a thousand graces shine, 
 From every tongue flows harmony divine. 
 These arts in vain our rugged natives try, 
 Strain out with falt'ring diffidence, a lie, 
 And get a kick for awkward flattery. 
 
 Besides, with justice, this discerning age 
 Admires their wondrous talents for the stage : 
 'Well may they venture on the mimic's art, 
 Who play from morn to night a borrow'd part ; 
 Practised their master's notions to embrace, 
 Repeat his maxims, and reflect his face ; 
 With every wild absurdity comply, 
 And view each object with another's eye ; 
 To shake with laughter ere the jest they hear, 
 To pour at will the counterfeited tear ; 
 And, as their patron hints the cold or heat, 
 To shake in dog-days, in December sweat. 
 "How, when competitors like these contend, 
 
 Non possum ferre, duirites, 
 
 Grsecam urbem. 
 
 n Rusticus ille tuus sumit trechedipna, duirine, 
 Et ceromatico fert niceteria collo. 
 
 Ingenium velox, audacia perdita, sermo 
 Promptus. 
 
 P Augur, schcenobates, medicus, magus : omnia 
 
 novit. 
 Graeculus escuriens, in ccelum, jusseris, ibit. 
 
 1 Usque adeo nihil est, quod nostra infantia 
 Hausit Aventini ? [coelum 
 
 T duid ? quod adulandi gens prudentissima, 
 
 laudat 
 Sermonem indocti, faciem deformis amici? 
 
 Haec eadem licet et nobis laudare: Bed illis 
 Creditor. 
 
 Natio comcoda est. Rides ? majore cachinno 
 Concutitur, &c. 
 
 Non sumus ergo pares : melior qui semper 
 
 et omni 
 
 Nocte dieque potest alienum sumere vultum, 
 A facie jactare manus : laudare paratus, 
 Si bene ructavit, si rectum minxit amicus. 
 
 Can surly virtue hope to fix a friend ? 
 Slaves that with serious impudence beguile, 
 And lie without a blush, without a smile; 
 Exalt each trifle, every vice adore, 
 Your taste in snuff, your judgment iri a whore j 
 Can Balbo's eloquence applaud, and swear 
 He gropes his breeches with a Monarch's air. 
 
 For arts like these preferr'd, admired, caress'd, 
 They first invade your table, then your breast ; 
 ^Explore your secrets with insidious art, 
 Watch the weak hour, and ransack all the 
 
 heart ; 
 
 Then soon your ill-placed confidence repay, 
 Commence your lords, and govern or betray. 
 
 w By numbers here from shame or censure free 
 All crimes are safe, but hated poverty. 
 This, only this, the rigid law pursues, 
 This, only this, provokes the snarling Muse, 
 The sober trader at a tatter'd cloak 
 Wakes from his dream, and labours for a joke ; 
 With brisker air the silken courtiers gaze, 
 And turn the varied taunt a thousand ways. 
 *Of all the griefs that harass the distress'd, 
 Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest; [heart, 
 Fate never wounds more deep the generous 
 Than when a blockhead's insult points the dart. 
 
 yHas Heaven reserved, in pity to the poor, 
 No pathless waste or undiscover'd shore? 
 No secret island in the boundless main ? 
 No peaceful desart yet unclaim'd* by Spain'' 
 Gluick let us rise, the happy seats explore, 
 And bear Oppression's insolence no more. 
 
 This mournful truth is every where confess'd, 
 'Slow rises worth by poverty depress'd : 
 But here more slow, where all are slaves to 
 gold, [sold : 
 
 Where looks are merchandize and smiles are 
 Where, won by bribes, by flatteries implored, 
 The groom retails the favours of his lord, [cries 
 
 But hark ! the affrighted crowd's tumultuous 
 Roll through the streets, and thunder to the skies : 
 Raised from some pleasing dream of wealth and 
 
 power, 
 
 Some pompous palace, or some blissful bower, 
 Aghast you start, and scarce with aching sight 
 Sustain the approaching fire's tremendous light ; 
 Swift from pursuing horrors take your way, 
 And leave your little all to flames a prey ; 
 Then through the world a wretched vagrant 
 
 T Scire volunt secreta domus atque inde timeri. 
 
 w Materiam praebet causasque jocorum 
 
 Omnibus hie idem ? si fceda et scissa lacerna, &c. 
 
 * Nil habet infelix paupertas durius in se, 
 duam quod ridiculos homines facit. 
 
 y Agmine facto, 
 
 Debuerant olim tenues migrasse duirites. 
 
 *Haud facile emergunt, quorum virtutibus 
 
 obstat 
 
 Res angusta domi ; sed Romae durior illia 
 Conatus. 
 
 -Omnia Romae 
 
 Cum pretio.- 
 
 Cogimur, et cultis augere peculia servis. 
 
 Ultimus auteru 
 
 jErumnae cumulus, quod nudum et frustra ro- 
 
 gantem 
 Nemo cibo, nemo hospitio, tectoqne juvabit. 
 
 * The Spaniards at this time were sa i to make claim 
 w some of our American provinces
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 547 
 
 For where can starving merit find a home ? 
 In vain your mournful narrative disclose, 
 While all neglect, and most insult your woes. 
 
 b Shou!d Heaven's just bolts Orgilio's wealth 
 
 confound, 
 
 And spread his flaming palace on the ground, 
 Swift o'er the land the dismal rumour flies, 
 And public mournings pacify the skies ; 
 The laureat tribe in venal verse relate, 
 flow virtue wars with persecuting fate ; 
 With well-feign'd gratitude the pension'd band 
 Refund the plunder of the beggar'd land. 
 See ! while he builds, the gaudy vassals come, 
 And crowd with sudden wealth the rising dome; 
 The price of boroughs and of souls restore; 
 And raise his treasures higher than before : 
 Now bless'd with all the baubles of the great, 
 The polish'd marble, and the shining plate, 
 d Orgilio sees the golden pile aspire, 
 And hopes from angry Heaven another fire. 
 
 Couldst thou resign the park and play con- 
 For the fair banks of Severn or of Trent ; [tent, 
 There might'st thou find some elegant retreat, 
 Some hireling senator's deserted seat ; 
 And stretch thy prospects o'er the smiling land, 
 For less than rents the dungeons of the Strand : 
 There prune thy walks, support the drooping 
 
 flowers, 
 
 Direct thy rivulets, and twine thy bowers ; 
 And while thy grounds a cheap repast afford, 
 Despise the dainties of a venal lord ; 
 There every bush with Nature's music rings ; 
 There every breeze bears health upon its wings ; 
 On all thy hours security shall smile, 
 And bless thine evening walk and morning toil. 
 
 ( Prepare for death, if here at night you roam, 
 And sign your will before you sup from home. 
 
 iSome fiery fop with new commission vain, 
 Who sleeps on brambles till he kills his man ; 
 Some frolic drunkard, reeling from a feast, 
 Provokes a broil, and stabs you for a jest. 
 
 h Yet even these heroes, mischievously gay, 
 Lords of the street, and terrors of the way; 
 
 b Si magna Asturici cecidit domus, horrida 
 Pullati proceres. [mater, 
 
 e Jam accurrit, qui marmora donet, 
 
 Conferat impensas: hie, &c. 
 Hie modium argenti. 
 
 d Meliora ac plura reponit 
 
 Persicus orborum lautissimus. 
 
 Si potes avelli Circensibus, optima Sorae, 
 Aut Fabrateriae domus, aut Frusinone paratur, 
 Gluanti nunc tenebras unum conducis in annum. 
 
 Hortulus hie. 
 
 Vive bidentis amans, et culti villicus horti. 
 Unde epulum possis centum dare Pythagoraeis. 
 
 ' Possis ignavus haberi, 
 
 Et subiti casus improvidus, ad ccenam si 
 Intestatus eas. 
 
 s Ebrius, ac petulans, qui nullum forte cectdit, 
 Dat pcenas, noctem patitur lugentis amicum 
 Peleids. 
 
 b Sed, cummvis improbus annis, 
 
 Flush'd^s they are, with folly, youth, and wine, 
 Their prudent insults to the poo'r confine : 
 Afar they mark the flambeau's bright approach, 
 And shun the shining train, and golden coach. 
 'In vain, these dangers past, your doors you 
 
 close, 
 
 And hope the balmy blessings of repose ; 
 Cruel with guilt, and daring with despair, 
 The midnight murderer bursts the faithless bar ; 
 Invades the sacred hour of silent rest, 
 And leaves, unseen, a dagger in your breast 
 JScarce can our fields, such crowds at Tyburn 
 
 die, 
 
 With hemp the gallows and the fleet supply. 
 Propose your schemes, ye senatorian band, 
 Whose ways and means* support the sinking 
 
 land : 
 
 Lest ropes be wanting in the tempting spring, 
 To rig another convoy for the king."f 
 
 k A single jail, in Alfred's golden reign, 
 Could half the nation's criminals contain: 
 Fair justice, then, without constraint adored, 
 Held high the steady scale, but sheath'd the 
 
 sword ; 
 
 No spies were paid, no special juries known; 
 Blest age ! but ah ! how different from our own I 
 
 'Much could I add, but see the boat at hand, 
 The tide, retiring, calls me from the land : 
 "Farewell ! When youth, and health, and 
 
 fortune spent, 
 
 Thou fly'st for refuge to the Wilds of Kent; 
 And, tired, like me, with follies and with crimes, 
 In angry numbers warn'st succeeding times ; 
 Then shall thy friend, nor thou refuse his aid, 
 Still foe to vice, forsake his Cambrian shade ; 
 In virtue's cause once more exert his rage, 
 Thy satire point, and animate thy page. 
 
 Atque mero fervens, cavet hunc, quern coccina 
 
 Icena 
 
 Vitari jubet, et comitum longissimus ordo, 
 Multum praeterea flammarum, atque ocnea lam- 
 pas. 
 
 Nee tamen hoc tantum metuas : nam qui 
 
 spoliet te 
 Non deerit ; clausis domibus, &c. 
 
 J Maximus in vinclis ferri modus, ut time-as, 
 Vomer deficiat, ne marrae et sarcula desint. [ne 
 
 k Felices proavorum atavos, felicia dicas 
 Saecula, quae quondam sub regibus atque tribunis 
 Viderunt uno contentam carcere Romam. 
 
 His alias poteram et plures subnectere cau- 
 Sed jumenta vocant [sas : 
 
 m Ergo vale nostri memor : et quoties te 
 
 Roma tuo refici properantem reddet Aquino, 
 Me quoque ad Elvinam Cererem, vestramqu 
 
 Dianam 
 
 Convelle a Cumis : satiraram ego, ni pudet illas, 
 Adjutor gelidos veniam caligatus in agros. 
 
 * A cant term in the House of Commons, for methods of 
 raising money. 
 
 f The nation was discontented at the visits made by tuo 
 kingtoHanovei.
 
 543 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES; 
 
 IN IMITATION OF THE 
 
 TENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL. 
 
 LET *Observation, with extensive view, 
 Survey mankind from China to Peru ; 
 Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife, 
 And watch the busy scenes of crowded life ; 
 Then say, how hope and fear, desire and hate, 
 O'erspread with snares the clouded maze of fate, 
 Where wavering man, betray'd by vent'rous 
 
 pride, 
 
 To tread the dreary paths without a guide, 
 As treacherous phantoms in the mist delude, 
 Shuns fancied ills, or chases airy good ; 
 How rarely reason guides the stubborn choice, 
 Rules the bold hand, or prompts the suppliant 
 
 voice ; 
 
 How nations sink, by darling schemes oppress'd, 
 When Vengeance listens to the fool's request. 
 Fate wings with every wish th' afflictive dart, 
 Each gift of nature, and each grace of art ; 
 With fatal heat impetuous courage glows, 
 With fatal sweetness elocution flows ; 
 I mpeachment stops the speaker's powerful b reath, 
 And restless fire precipitates on death. 
 fBut, scarce observed, the knowing and the 
 
 bold 
 
 Fall in the general massacre of Gold ; 
 Wide wasting pest! that rages unconfined, 
 And crowds with crimes the records of mankind : 
 For gold his sword the hireling ruffian draws, 
 For gold the hireling judge distorts the laws; 
 Wealth heap'd on wealth, nor truth nor safety 
 
 buys, 
 
 The dangers gather as the treasures rise. 
 Let History tell where rival kings command, 
 And dubious title shakes the madded land, 
 When statutes glean the refuse of the sword, 
 How much more safe the vassal than the lord ; 
 Low sculks the hind beneath the rage of power, 
 And leaves the wealthy traitor in the Tower, 
 Untouch'd his cottage, and his slumbers sound, 
 Though Confiscation's vultures hover round. 
 
 The needy traveller, serene and gay, 
 Walks the wild heath, and sings his toil away. 
 Does envy seize thee ? crush th' upbraiding joy ; 
 Increase his riches, and his peace destroy ; 
 Now fears in dire vicissitude invade, 
 The rustling brake alarms, and quivering shade ; 
 Nor light nor darkness bring his pain relief, 
 One shows the plunder, and one hides the thief. 
 
 YetJ still one general cry the skies assails, 
 And gain and grandeur load the tainted gales ; 
 Few^know the toiling statesman's fear or care, 
 Th' insidious rival and the gaping heir. 
 
 Once more, Democritus, arise on earth, 
 With cheerful wisdom and instructive mirth, 
 See motley life in modern trappings dress'd, 
 And feed with varied fools th' eternal jest : 
 Thou who could'st laugh where want enchain d 
 
 caprice, 
 Toil crush'd conceit, and man was of a piece ; 
 
 * Ver. 1 11. 
 Ver. 9327 
 
 t Ver. 1222. 
 j Ver. 2855 
 
 Where wealth, unloved, without a mourner died ; 
 And scarce a sycophant was fed by pride ; 
 Where ne'er was known the form of mock de- 
 bate, 
 
 Or seen a new-made mayor's unwieldy state ; 
 Where change of favourites made no change of 
 
 laws, 
 
 And senates heard before they judged a cause ; 
 How wouldst thou shake at Briton's modish 
 
 tribe, 
 
 Dart the quick taunt, and edge the piercing gibe ? 
 Attentive truth and nature to descry, 
 And pierce each scene with philosophic eye, 
 To thee were solemn toys, or empty show, 
 The robes of pleasure and the veils of wo: 
 All aid the farce, and all thy mirth maintain, 
 Whose joys are causeless, and whose griefs are 
 
 vain. 
 
 Such was the scorn that fill'd the sage's mind, 
 Renew'd at every glance on human kind ; 
 How just that scorn ere yet thy voice declare, 
 Search every state, and canvass every prayer. 
 *Unnumber'd suppliants crowd Preferment'* 
 
 gate, 
 
 Athirstfor wealth, and burning to be great; 
 Delusive Fortune hears th' incessant call, 
 They mount, they shine, evaporate, and falL 
 On every stage the foes of peace attend, 
 Hate dogs their flight, and insult mocks their end. 
 Love ends with hope, the sinking statesman's 
 
 door 
 
 Pours in the morning worshipper no more ; 
 For growing names the weekly scribbler lies, 
 To growing wealth the dedicator flies, 
 From every room descends the painted face, 
 That hung the bright palladium of the place ; 
 And, smoked in kitchens, or in auctions sold, 
 To better features yields the frame of gold ; 
 For now no more we trace in every line 
 Heroic worth, benevolence divine : 
 The form distorted, justifies the fall, 
 And detestation rids th' indignant wall. 
 
 But will not Britain hear the last appeal, 
 Sign her foes' doom, or guard her favourites* 
 zeal ? ["ngs, 
 
 Through Freedom's sons no more remonstrance 
 Degrading nobles, and controlling kings ; 
 Our supple tribes repress their patriot throats, 
 And ask no questions but the price of votes ; 
 With weekly libels and septennial ale, 
 Their wish is full to riot and to rail. 
 
 In full-blown dignity, see Wolsey stand, 
 Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand : 
 To him the church, the realm, their powers con- 
 sign, 
 
 Through him Ihe rays of regal bounty shine, 
 Turn'd by his nod the stream of honour flows, 
 His smile alone security bestows: 
 Still to new heights his restless wishes tower, 
 Claim leads to claim, and power advances power; 
 
 * Ver. 56107.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 549 
 
 assassin's 
 
 Till conquest unresisted ceased to please, 
 And rights submitted, left him none to seize. 
 At length his sovereign frowns the train of state 
 Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to 
 
 hate. 
 
 Where'er he turns, he meets a stranger's eye, 
 Elis suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly ; 
 Now drops at once the pride of awful state, 
 The golden canopy, the glittering plate, 
 The regal palace, the luxurious board, 
 The liveried army, and the menial lord. 
 With age, with cares, with maladies oppress'd, 
 He seeks the refuge of monastic rest. 
 Grief aids disease, remember'd folly stints, 
 And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings. 
 Speak thou, whose thoughts at humble peace 
 
 repine, thine? 
 
 Shall Wolsey's wealth, with Wolsey's end, be 
 Or livest thou now, with safer pride content, 
 The wisest justice on the banks of Trent? 
 For, why did Wolsey, near the steeps of fate, 
 On weak foundations raise th' enormous weight? 
 Why but to sink beneath misfortune's blow, 
 With louder ruin to the gulfs below ? 
 *What gave great Villiers to th' 
 
 knife, 
 
 And fix'd disease on Harley's closing life? 
 What murder'd Wentworth, and what exiled 
 
 Hyde, 
 
 By kings protected, and to kings allied? 
 What but their wish indulged in courts to shine, 
 And power too great to keep, or to resign ? 
 
 | When first the college rolls receive his name, 
 The young enthusiast quits his ease for fame ; 
 Resistless burns the fever of renown, 
 Caught from the strong contagion of the gown ; 
 O'er Bodley's dome his future labours spread, 
 And ^Bacon's mansion trembles o'er his head. 
 Are these thy views? Proceed, illustrious youth, 
 And Virtue guard thee to the throne of Truth ! 
 Yet, should thy soul indulge the generous heat 
 Till captive Science yields her last retreat; 
 Should Reason guide thee with her brightest ray, 
 And pour on misty Doubt resistless day ; 
 Should no false kindness lure to loose delight, 
 Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright ; 
 Should tempting Novelty thy cell refrain, 
 And Sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain ; 
 Should Beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart, 
 Nor claim the triumph of a letter'd heart ; 
 Should no disease thy torpid veins invade, 
 Nor Melancholy's phantojns haunt thy shade, 
 Yet hope not life from grref or danger free, 
 Nor think the doom of man reversed for thee : 
 Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes, 
 And pause awhile from Letters, to be wise ; 
 There mark what ills the scholar's life assail, 
 Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the gaol. 
 See nations, slowly wise, and meanly just, 
 To buried merit raise the tardy bust. 
 If dreams yet flatter, once again attend, 
 Hear Lydiat's life, and Galileo's end. 
 
 Nor deem, when Learning her last prize 
 
 bestows, 
 The glitt'ring eminence exempt from woes ; 
 
 * Ver. 108113. f Ver. 114 132. 
 
 f There is a tradition, that the study of friar Bacon, 
 built on an arch over the bridge, will fall when a man 
 greater than Bacon shall pass under it. To prevent so 
 shocking an accident, it was pulled down many years 
 since. 
 
 4 See Gent. Mag. Vol. LXVIII p. 951. 1027- 
 
 See, when the vulgar 'scape, despised or awed, 
 Rebellion's vengeful talons seize on Laud. 
 From meaner minds though smallerfines content, 
 The plunder'd palace, or sequester'd tent ; 
 Mark'd out by dangerous parts, he meets the 
 
 shock, 
 
 And fatal Learning leads him to the block : 
 Around his tomb let Art and Genius weep, 
 But hear his death, ye blockheads, hear and 
 
 sleep. 
 
 *The festal blazes, the triumphal show, 
 The ravish'd standard, and the captive foe, 
 The senate's thanks, the Gazette's pompous tale, 
 With force resistless o'er the brave prevail. 
 Such bribes the rapid Greek o'er Asia whirl'd, 
 For such the steady Romans shook the world ; 
 For such in distant lands the Britons shine ; 
 And stain with blood the Danube or the Rhine , 
 This power has praise that virtue scarce can 
 
 warm, 
 
 Till fame supplies the universal charm. 
 Yet Reason frowns on War's unequal game, 
 Where wasted nations raise a single name ; 
 And mortgaged states their grandsires' wreaths 
 From age to age in everlasting debt ; [regret, 
 Wreaths which at last the dear-bought right 
 
 convey, 
 To rust on medals, or on stones decay. 
 
 |On what foundation stands the warrior's 
 
 pride, 
 
 How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide ; 
 A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, 
 No dangers fright him, and no labours tire ; 
 O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, 
 Uncpnquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain ; 
 No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, 
 War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field ; 
 Behold surrounding kings their power combine, 
 And one capitulate, and one resign ; 
 Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms 
 
 in vain ; [remain, 
 
 " Think nothing gain'd," he cries, " till nought 
 On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, 
 And all be mine beneath the polar sky." 
 The march begins in military state, 
 And nations on his eye suspended wait; 
 Stern Famine guards the solitary coast, 
 And Winter barricades the realm of Frost ; 
 He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay 
 Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day: 
 The vanquish'd hero leaves his broken bands, 
 And shows his miseries in distant lands ; 
 Condenyi'd a needy supplicant to wait, 
 While ladies interpose and slaves debate. 
 But did not Chance at length her error mend ? 
 Did no subverted empire mark his end ? 
 Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound ? 
 Or hostile millions press him to the ground ? 
 His fall was destined to a barren strand, 
 A petty fortress, and a dubious hand ; 
 He left a name, at which the world grew pale, 
 To point a moral, or adorn a tale. 
 
 {All times their scenes of pompous woes aflbrd, 
 From Persia's tyrant to Bavaria's lord. 
 In gay hostility and barbarous pride, 
 With'half mankind embattled at his side, 
 Great Xerxes comes to seize the certain prey, 
 And starves exhausted regions in his way; 
 Attendant Flattery counts his myriads o'er, 
 Till counted myriads sooth his pride no more, 
 
 * Ver. 133 146. ] Ver. 147 167 | Vzr 168-187.
 
 550 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Fresh praise is try'd till madness fires his mind, 
 The waves he lashes, and enchains the wind, 
 New powers are claim'd, new powers are still 
 
 bestow'd, 
 
 1'ill rude Resistance lops the spreading god ; 
 The daring Greeks deride the martial show, 
 And heap their valleys with the gaudy foe ; 
 Th' insulted sea with humbler thoughts he 
 
 gains, 
 
 A single skiff to speed his flight remains ; 
 The in cumbered oar scarce leaves the dreaded 
 
 coast, 
 Through purple billows and a floating host. 
 
 The bold Bavarian, in a luckless hour, 
 Tries the dread summits of Caesarian power, 
 With unexpected legions bursts away, 
 And sees defenceless realms receive his sway ; 
 Short sway ! fair Austria spreads her mournful 
 
 charms, 
 
 The queen, the beauty, sets the world in arms ; 
 From hill to hill the beacon's rousing blaze 
 Spreads wide the hope of plunder and of praise ; 
 The fierce Croatian, and the wild Hussar, 
 With all the sons of ravage crowd the war ; 
 The baffled prince, in honour's flattering bloom 
 Of hasty greatness, finds the fatal doom ; 
 His foes' derision, and his subjects' blame, 
 And steals to death from anguish and from 
 
 shame. 
 
 * Enlarge my life with multitude of days ! 
 In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays ; 
 Hides from himself his state, and shuns to know, 
 That life protracted is protracted wo. 
 Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy, 
 And shuts up all the passages of joy : 
 In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons pour, 
 The fruit autumnal, and the vernal flower; 
 With listless eyes the dotard views the store, 
 He views, and wonders that they please no 
 
 more: 
 
 Now pall the tasteless meats and joyless wines, 
 And luxury with sighs her slave resigns. 
 Approach, ye minstrels, try the soothing strain, 
 Diffuse the tuneful lenitives of pain : 
 No sounds, alas ! would touch th' impervious 
 ear, [near ; 
 
 Though dancing mountains witness'd Orpheus 
 Nor lute nor lyre his feeble powers attend, 
 Nor sweeter music of a virtuous friend ; 
 But everlasting dictates crowd his tongue, 
 Perversely grave, or positively wrong. 
 The still returning tale, and lingering jest, 
 Perplex the fawning niece and pamper'd guest, 
 While growing hopes scarce awe the gathering 
 And scarce a legacy can bribe to hear ; [sneer, 
 The watchful guests still hint the last offence ; 
 The daughter's petulance, the son's expense, 
 Improve his heady rage with treach'rous skill, 
 And mould his passions till they make his will. 
 
 Unnumber'd maladies his joints invade, 
 Lay siege to life, and press the dire blockade ; 
 But imextingnish'd Avarice still remains, 
 And dreaded losses aggravate his pains ; 
 He turns, with anxious heart and crippled 
 
 hands, 
 
 His bonds of debt, and mortgages of lands ; 
 Or views his coffers with suspicious eyes, 
 Unlocks his gold, and counts it till he dies. 
 
 But grant, the virtues of a temperate prime 
 Bless with an age exempt from scorn or crime ; 
 
 * Ver 183293. 
 
 An age that melts in unperceived decay, 
 And glides in modest innocence away ; 
 Whose peaceful day Benevolence endears, 
 Whose night congratulating Conscience cheers ; 
 The general favourite as the general friend ; 
 Such age there is, and who shall wish its end ? 
 
 Yet even on this her load Misfortune flings, 
 To press the weary minutes' flagging wings ; 
 New sorrow rises as the day returns, 
 A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns. 
 Now kindred Merit fills the sable bier, 
 Now lacerated Friendship claims a tear ; 
 Year chases year, decay pursues decay, 
 Still drop some joy from withering life away; 
 New forms arise, and different views engage, 
 Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage, 
 Till pitying Nature signs the last release, 
 And bids afflicted worth retire to peace. 
 
 But few there are whom hours like these 
 
 await, 
 
 Who set unclouded in the gulfs of Fate, 
 From Lydia's monarch should the search de- 
 By Solon caution'dto regard his end, [scend. 
 In life's last scene what prodigies surprise, 
 Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise ! 
 From Marl borough's eyes the streams of dotage 
 
 flow 
 And Swift expires a driveller and a show. 
 
 * The teeming mother, anxious for her race, 
 Begs for each birth the fortune of a face ; 
 Yet Vane could tell what ills from beauty 
 
 spring ; 
 
 And Sedley cursed the form that pleased a king. 
 Ye nymphs of rosy lips and radiant eyes, 
 Whom Pleasure keeps too busy to be wise ; 
 Whom joys with soft varieties invite, 
 By day the frolic, and the dance by night , 
 Who frown with vanity, who smile with art, 
 And ask the latent fashion of the heart ; 
 What care, what rules, your heedless charms 
 shall save, [slave ? 
 
 Each nymph your rival, and each youth your 
 Against your fame with fondness hate combines, 
 The rival batters, and the lover mines. 
 With distant voice neglected Virtue calls, 
 Less heard and less, the faint remonstrance 
 falls ; [reign, 
 
 Tired with contempt, she quits the slippery 
 And Pride and Prudence take her seat in vain. 
 In crowd at once, where none the pass defend, 
 The harmless freedom, and the private friend. 
 The guardians yield, by force superior plied, 
 To Interest, Prudence*; and to Flattery, Pride. 
 Here Beauty falls betray'd, despised, distress'd, 
 And hissing Infamy proclaims the rest 
 
 t Where then shall Hope and Fear their ob- 
 jects find ? 
 
 Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind ? 
 Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, 
 Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate ? 
 Must no dislike, alarm, no wishes rise, 
 No cries invoke the mercies of the skies ? 
 Inquirer, cease ; petitions yet remain 
 Which Heaven may hear, nor deem Religion 
 
 vain. 
 
 Still raise for good the supplicating voice, 
 But leave to Heaven the measure and the 
 
 choice. 
 
 Safe in his tower, whose eyes discern afar 
 The secret ambush of a specious prayer; 
 
 * Ver. 2333-15. 
 
 t Ver. &16 365.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 551 
 
 Implore his aid, in his decisions rest, 
 Secure, whate'er he gives, he gives the best 
 Yet, when the sense of sacred presence fires, 
 And strong devotion to the skies aspires, 
 Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind, 
 Obedient passions and a will resign'd ; 
 For love, which scarce collective man can fill ; 
 For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill ; 
 For faith, that, panting for a happier seat, 
 Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat 
 These goods for man the laws of Heaven or- 
 dain, [gain ; 
 These goods he grants, who grants the power to 
 With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind, 
 And makes the happiness she does not find. 
 
 PROLOGUE, 
 
 SPOKEN* BY MR. GARRICK, 
 AT THE 
 
 Opening of the Theatre-Royal, Drury-Lane, 1747- 
 
 WHEN Learning's triumph o'er her barharous 
 foes [rose ; 
 
 First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakspeare 
 Each change of many-colour'd life he drew, 
 Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new : 
 Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign, 
 And panting Time toil'd after him in vain. 
 His powerful strokes presiding Truth impress'd, 
 And unresisted Passion storm'd the breast. 
 
 Then Jonson came, instructed from the school, 
 To please in method, and invent by rule ; 
 jlis studious patience and laborious art, 
 By regular approach assail'd the heart : 
 Cold approbation gave the lingering bays, 
 For those, who durst not censure, scarce could 
 
 praise. 
 
 A mortal born, he met the general doom, 
 But left, like Egypt's kings, a lasting tomb. 
 The wits of Charles found easier ways to 
 fame, [flame, 
 
 tfor wish'd for Jonson's art, or Shakspeare's 
 Themselves they studied as they felt they writ ; 
 .ntrigue was plot, obscenity was wit. 
 Vice always found a sympathetic friend ; 
 They pleased their age, and did not aim to mend. 
 Yet "bards like these aspired to lasting praise, 
 And proudly hoped to pimp in future days. 
 Their cause was general, their supports were 
 strong, [long : 
 
 Their slaves were willing,' and their reign was 
 Till Shame regain'd the post that Sense betray'd, 
 And Virtue call'd Oblivion to her aid. 
 Then, crush'd by rules, and weaken'd as re- 
 fined, 
 
 For years the power of Tragedy declined ; 
 From bard to bard the frigid caution crept, 
 Till Declamation roar'd, while Passion slept ; 
 Yet still did Virtue deign the stage to tread, 
 Philosophy remain'd though Nature fled. 
 But forced, at length, her ancient reign to quit, 
 She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of Wit; 
 Exulting Folly hail'd the joyful day, 
 And Pantomine and Song confirm'd her sway. 
 
 But who the coming changes can presage, 
 &.ml mark the future periods of the Stage ? 
 Perhaps, if skill could distant times explore, 
 New Behns, new Durfeys, yet remain in store ; 
 Perhaps, where Lear has raved, and Hamlet 
 On flying cars new sorcerers may ride : [died, 
 
 Perhaps (for who can guess th' effects of 
 
 chance?) [dance. 
 
 Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet * may 
 
 Hard is his lot that, here by Fortune placed, 
 Must watch the wild vicissitudes of taste ; 
 With every meteor of caprice must play, 
 And chase the new-blown bubbles of the day. 
 Ah ! let not Censure term our fate our choice, 
 The stage but echoes back the public voice ; 
 The drama's laws, the drama's patrons give, 
 For we that live to please, must please, to live. 
 
 Then prompt no more the follies you decry. 
 A s tyrants doom their tools of guilt to die ; 
 Tis yours, this night, to bid the reign commence 
 Df rescued Nature and reviving Sense ; [Show, 
 To chase the charms of Sound, the pomp or 
 For useful Mirth, and salutary Wo ; 
 Sid scenic Virtue form the rising age, 
 And Truth diffuse her radiance from the stage. 
 
 PROLOGUE, 
 
 SPOKEN BY MR. GARRICK, APRIL 5, 1750. 
 
 BEFORE THE MASO.UE OF COMCS, 
 ACTED AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE FOR THE BENEFIT OF 
 
 MILTON'S GRANDDAUGHTER. 
 
 YE patriot crowds, who burn for England's 
 
 fame, [name, 
 
 Ye nymphs, whose bosoms beat at Milton's 
 
 Whose generous zeal, unbought by flattering 
 
 rhymes, 
 
 Shames the mean pensions of Augustan times, 
 Immortal patrons of succeeding days, 
 Attend this prelude of perpetual praise ; 
 Let wit, condemn'd the feeble war to wage 
 With close malevolence, or public rage, 
 Let study, worn with virtue's fruitless lore, 
 Behold this theatre, and grieve no more. 
 This night, distinguish'd by your smile, shall 
 That never Briton can in vain excel ; [tell 
 
 The slighted arts futurity shall trust, 
 And rising ages hasten to be just. 
 
 At length our mighty bard's victorious lays 
 Fill the loud voice of universal praise ; 
 And baffled spite, with hopeless anguish dumb, 
 Yields to renown the centuries to come : 
 With ardent haste each candidate of fame, 
 Ambitious, catches at his towering name ; 
 He sees, and pitying sees, vain wealth bestow, 
 Those pageant honours which he scorn'd below, 
 While crowds aloft the laureat bust behold, 
 Or trace his form on circulating gold, 
 Unknown, unheeded, long his offspring lay, 
 And want hung threatening o'er her slow decay, 
 What though she shine with no Miltonian fire, 
 No favouring Muse her morning dreams inspire ; 
 Yet softer claims the melting heart engage, 
 Her youth laborious, and her blameless age ; 
 Hers the mild merits of domestic life, 
 The patient sufferer, and the faithful wife. 
 Thus graced with humble virtue's native charms, 
 Her grandsire leaves her in Britannia's arms ; 
 Secure with peace, with competence, to dwell, 
 While tutelary nations guard her ceD. 
 Yours is the charge, ye fair, ye wise, ye brave ! 
 'Tis yours to crown desert beyond the grave. 
 
 * Hunt a famous boxer on the stage ; Mahomet a rope- 
 dancer, who had exhibited at Covent-Garden Theatre th 
 winter before, said to be a Turk.
 
 552 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 TO THE COMEDY OF 
 
 THE GOODNATURED MAN, 1769. 
 
 PREST by the load of life, the weary mind 
 Surveys the general toil of human kind. 
 With cool submission joins the labouring train, 
 And social sorrow loses half its pain : 
 Our anxious bard without complaint may share 
 This bustling season's epidemic care ; 
 Like Caesar's pilot dignified by Fate, 
 Tost in one common storm with all the great ; 
 Distrest alike the statesman and the wit, 
 _When one a Borough courts, and one the Pit. 
 "The busv candidates for power and fame 
 Have hopes, and fears, and wishes, just the 
 
 same ; 
 
 Disabled both to combat or to fly. 
 Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply.. 
 Uncheck'd on both loud rabbles vent their rage, 
 As mongrels bay the lion in a cage. 
 Th' offended burgess hoards his angry tale, 
 For that blest year when all that vote may rail ; 
 Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss, 
 Till that glad night when all that hate may 
 
 hiss. 
 " This day the powder'd curls and golden 
 
 coat," [vote." 
 
 Says swelling Crispin, " begg'd a cobbler's 
 " This night our wit," the pert apprentice cries, 
 " Lies at my feet ; I hiss him, and he dies." 
 The great, 'tis true, can charm the electing 
 
 tribe ; 
 
 The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe. 
 Yet, judged by those whose voices ne'er were 
 
 sold, 
 
 He feels no want of ill-persuading gold ; 
 But, confident of praise, if praise be due, 
 Trusts without fear to merit and to you. 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 TO THE COMEDY OP 
 
 A WORD TO THE WISE.* 
 Spoken by Mr. Hull. 
 
 THIS night presents a play which public rage, 
 Or right, or wrong, once hooted from the stage.-] 
 From zeal or malice, now no more we dread, 
 For English vengeance wars not with the dead. 
 A generous foe regards with pitying eye 
 The man whom fate has laid where all must lie. 
 
 To wit reviving from its author's dust, 
 Be kind, ye judges, or at least be just, 
 For no renew'd hostilities invade 
 The oblivious grave's inviolable shade. 
 Let one great payment every claim appease, 
 And him, who cannot hurt, allow to please ; 
 To please by scenes unconscious of offence, 
 By harmless merriment or useful sense. 
 Where aught of bright, or fair, the piece displays 
 Approve it only 't is too late to praise. 
 If want of skill, or want of care appear, 
 Forbear to hiss the poet cannot hear. 
 By all, like him, must praise and blame be found 
 At best a fleeting gleam, or empty sound. 
 
 Yet then shall calm reflection bless the night, 
 When liberal pity dignify'd delight; 
 When pleasure fired her torch at Virtue's flame, 
 And Mirth was Bounty with an humbler name. 
 
 * Performed at Covent Garden Theatre, May 29, 1777 
 (or the benefit of Mrs. Kelly, widow of Hugh Kelly, Esq 
 (the author of the play) and her children. 
 
 \ Uix?n fhe first representation of this play, 1770, a party 
 tMuemMad to damn it, and succeeded. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 AN ODE. 
 
 STERN Winter now, by Spring repress'd, 
 
 Forbears the long-continued strife : 
 And Nature on her naked breast, 
 
 Delights to catch the gales of life. 
 Now o'er the rural kingdom roves 
 
 Soft pleasure with the laughing train, 
 Love warbles in the vocal groves, 
 
 And vegetation plants the plain, 
 Unhappy ! whom to beds of pain, 
 
 Arthritic* tyranny consigns ; 
 Whom smiling nature courts in vain, 
 
 Though rapture sings and beauty shines. 
 Yet though my limbs disease invades, 
 
 Her wings imagination tries, 
 And bears me to the peaceful shades, 
 
 Where 's humble turrets rise. 
 
 Here stop, my soul, thy rapid flight, 
 
 Nor from the pleasing groves depart, 
 Where first great nature charm'd my sight, 
 
 Where wisdom first inform'd my heart. 
 Here let me through the vales pursue 
 
 A guide a father and a friend, 
 Once more great Nature's works renew, 
 
 Once more on Wisdom's voice attend. 
 From false caresses, causeless strife, 
 
 Wild hope, vain fear, alike removed ; 
 Here let me learn the use of life, 
 
 When besf enjoy'd when most improved 
 Teach me, thou venerable bower, 
 
 Cool meditation's quiet seat, 
 The generous scorn of venal power, 
 
 The silent grandeur of retreat. 
 When pride by guilt to greatness climbs, 
 
 Or raging factions rush to war, 
 Here let me learn to shun the crimes 
 
 I can't prevent, and will not share. 
 But lest I fall by subtler foes, 
 
 Bright Wisdom, teach me Curio's art, 
 The swelling passions to compose, 
 
 And quell the rebels of the heart. 
 
 MIDSUMMER. 
 
 O PHOEBUS ! down the western sky, 
 
 Far hence diffuse thy burning ray, 
 Thy light to distant worlds supply, 
 
 And wake them to the cares of day. 
 Come, gentle Eve, the friend of care, 
 
 Come, Cynthia, lovely queen of night! 
 Refresh me with a cooling air, 
 
 And cheer me with a lambent light : 
 Lay me where o'er the verdant ground 
 
 Her living carpet Nature spreads : 
 Where the green bower, with roses crown'd, 
 
 In showers its fragrant foliage sheds , 
 Improve the peaceful hour with wine, 
 
 Let music die along the grove ; 
 Around the bowl let myrtles twine, 
 
 And every strain be tuned to love. 
 Come, Stella, queen of all my heart 
 
 * The author being ill of the gout
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Come, born to fill its vast desires! 
 Thy looks perpetual joys impart, 
 
 Thy voice perpetual love inspires. 
 Whilst all my wish and thine complete, 
 
 By turns we languish and we burn, 
 Let sighing gales our sighs repeat, 
 
 Our murmurs murmuring brooks return. 
 Let me when nature calls to rest, 
 
 And blushing skies the morn foretell, 
 Sink on the down of Stella's breast, 
 
 And bid the waking world farewell. 
 
 553 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 AN ODE. 
 
 ALAS ! with swift and silent pace, 
 
 Impatient time rolls on the year; 
 The seasons change, and nature's face 
 
 Now sweetly smiles, now frowns severe. 
 'T was Spring, 't was Summer, all was gay, 
 
 Now Autumn bends a cloudy brow ; 
 The flowers of Spring are swept away, 
 
 And Summer-fruits desert the bough. 
 The verdant leaves that play'd on high, 
 
 And wanton'd on the western breeze, 
 Now trod in dust neglected lie, 
 
 As Boreas strips the bending trees. 
 The fields that waved with golden grain, 
 
 As russet heaths, are wild and bare ; 
 Not moist with dew, but drench'd with rain, 
 
 Nor health nor pleasure, wanders there. 
 No more while through the midnight shade, 
 
 Beneath the moon's pale orb I stray, 
 Soft pleasing woes my heart invade, 
 
 As Progne pours the melting lay. 
 From this capricious clime she soars, 
 
 Oh! would some god but wings supply! 
 To where each morn the Spring restores, 
 
 Companion of her flight I'd fly. 
 Vain wish ! me fate compels to bear 
 
 The downward season's iron reign, 
 Compels to breathe polluted air, 
 
 And shiver on a blasted plain. 
 What bliss to life can Autumn yield, 
 
 If glooms, and showers, and storms prevail, 
 And Ceres flies the naked field, 
 
 And flowers, and fruits, and Phoebus fail? 
 Oh ' what remains, what lingers yet, 
 
 To cheer me in the darkening hour ! 
 The grape remains ! the friend of wit, 
 
 In love, and mirth, of mighty power. 
 Haste press the clusters, fill the bowl 
 
 Apollo ! shoot thy parting ray : 
 This gives the sunshine of the soul, 
 
 This god of health, and verse, and day. 
 Still still the jocund strain shall flow, 
 
 The pulse with vigorous rapture beat ; 
 My Stella with new charms shall glow, 
 
 And every bliss in wine shall meet. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 No more the morn, with tepid rays, 
 
 Unfolds the flower of various hue; 
 Noon spreads no more the genial blaze, 
 
 Nor gentle eve distils the dew. 
 The lingering hours prolong the night, 
 
 Usurping Darkness shares the day ; 
 Her mists restrain the force of light, 
 
 And Phcebus holds a doubtful sway. 
 3U 
 
 By gloomy twilight half reveal'd, 
 
 With sighs we view the hoary hill, 
 The leafless wood, the naked field, 
 
 The snow-topt cot, the frozen rill. 
 No music warbles through the grove, 
 
 No vivid colours paint the plain ; 
 No more with devious steps I rove 
 
 Through verdant paths, now sought in vain. 
 Aloud the driving tempest roars, 
 
 Congeal'd, impetuous, showers descend ; 
 Haste, close the window, bar the doors, 
 
 Fate leaves me Stella, and a friend. 
 In nature's aid, let art supply 
 
 With light and heat my little spnere; 
 Rouse, rouse the fire, and pile it high, 
 
 Light up a constellation here. 
 Let music sound the voice of joy, 
 
 Or mirth repeat the jocund tale ; 
 Let Love his wanton wiles employ, 
 
 And o'er the season wine prevail. 
 Yet time life's dreary winter brings, 
 
 When Mirth's gay tale shall please no more ; 
 Nor music charm though Stella sings ; 
 
 Nor love, nor wine, the Spring restore. 
 Catch, then, Oh ! catch the transient hour, 
 
 Improve each moment as it flies ; 
 Life's a short summer man a flower : 
 
 He dies alas ! how soon he dies ! 
 
 THE WINTER'S WALK. 
 
 BEHOLD, my fair, where'er we rove, 
 
 What dreary prospects round us rise 5 
 The naked hill, the leafless grove, 
 
 The hoary ground, the frowning skies ! 
 Nor only through the wasted plain, 
 
 Stern Winter ! is thy force confess'd ; 
 Still wider spreads thy horrid reign, 
 
 I feel thy power usurp my breast 
 Enlivening hope, and fond desire, 
 
 Resign the heart to spleen and care ; 
 Scarce frighted Love maintains her fire, 
 
 And rapture saddens to despair, 
 In groundless hope, and causeless fear, 
 
 Unhappy man ! behold thy doom ; 
 Still changing with the changeful year, 
 
 The slave of sunshine and of gloom. 
 Tired with vain joys and false alarms, 
 
 With mental and corporeal strife, 
 Snatch me, my Stella, to thy arms, 
 
 And screen me from the ills of life.* 
 
 TO MISS *****. 
 
 On her giving the Author a gold and sUk net-work 
 Purse of her men weaving.^ 
 
 THOUGH gold and silk their charms unite 
 To make thy curious web delight, 
 In vain the varied work would shine, 
 If wrought by any hand but thine ; 
 Thy hand, that knows the subtler art 
 To weave those nets that catch the heart. 
 
 Spread out by me, the roving coin 
 Thy nets may catch, but not confine ; 
 Nor can I hope thy silken chain 
 The glittering vagrants shall restrain. 
 Why, Stella, was it then decreed 
 The heart once caught should ne'er be freed ? 
 
 * And hide me from the sight oflife. 1st edition, 
 f Printed among Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies.
 
 554 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 TO MISS *****. 
 
 On her playing upon the Harpsichord in a Roor, 
 hung with Flower Pieces of her own painting.* 
 
 WHEN Stella' strikes the tuneful string 
 In scenes of imitated Spring, 
 Where Beauty lavishes her powers 
 On heds of never-fading flowers, 
 And pleasure propagates around 
 Each charm of modulated sound ; 
 Ah ! think not, in the dangerous hour, 
 The nymph fictitious as the flower ; 
 But shun, rash youth, the gay alcove, 
 Nor tempt the snares of wily love. 
 
 When charms thus press on every sense, 
 What thought of flight, or of defence ? 
 Deceitful hope, and vain desire, 
 For ever flutter o'er her lyre, 
 Delighting as the youth draws nigh, 
 To point the glances of her eye, 
 And forming with unerring art 
 New chains to hold the captive heart. 
 
 But on those regions of delight 
 Might truth intrude with daring flight, 
 Could Stella, sprightly, fair, and young, 
 One moment hear the moral song, 
 Instruction with her flowers might spring, 
 And wisdom warble from her string. 
 
 Mark, when from thousand mingled dyes 
 Thou seest one pleasing form arise, 
 How active light, and thoughtful shade, 
 In greater scenes each other aid ; 
 Mark, when the different notes agree 
 In friendly contrariety, 
 How passion's well-accorded strife 
 Gives all the harmony of life ; 
 Thy pictures shall thy conduct frame, 
 Consistent still, though not the same ; 
 Thy music teach the nobler art, 
 To tune the regulated heart. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 TO STELLA. 
 
 EVENING now from purple wings 
 Sheds the grateful gift she brings ; 
 Brilliant drops bedeck the mead, 
 Cooling breezes shake the reed ; 
 Shake the reed, and curl the stream, 
 Silver'd o'er with Cynthia's beam: 
 Near the chequer'd, lonely grove, 
 Hears, and keeps thy secrets, Love. 
 Stella, thither let us stray, 
 Lightly o'er the dewy way. 
 Phoebus drives his burning car, 
 Hence, my lovely Stella, far ; 
 In his stead, the dueen of Night 
 Round us pours a lambent light ; 
 Light that seems but just to show 
 Breasts that beat, and cheeks that glow. 
 Let us now, in whisper'd joy, 
 Evening's silent hours employ, 
 Silence best, and conscious shades, 
 Please the hearts that love invades, 
 Other pleasures give them pain, 
 Lovers all but love disdain. 
 
 Printed among Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 WHETHER Stella's eyes are fount! 
 Fix'd on earth, or glancing round 
 If her face with pleasure glow, 
 If she sigh at others' wo, 
 If her easy air express 
 Conscious worth, or soft distress, 
 Stella's eyes, and air and face, 
 Charm'd with undiminish'd grace. 
 
 If on her we see display'd 
 Pendant gems, and rich brocade, 
 If her chintz with less expense 
 Flows in easy negligence ; 
 Still she lights the conscious flame, 
 Still her charms appear the same ; 
 If she strikes the vocal strings, 
 If she's silent, speaks, or sings, 
 If she sit, or if she move, 
 till we love and still approve. 
 
 Vain the casual, transient glance, 
 Which alone can please by chance, 
 Beauty, which depends on art, 
 Changing with the changing heart, 
 Which demands the toilet's aid, 
 Pendant gems and rich brocade. 
 I those charms alone can prize 
 Which from constant nature rise, 
 Which not circumstance nor dress 
 E'er can make, or more, or less. 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 No more thus brooding o'er yon heap. 
 With Avarice painful vigils keep ; 
 Still unenjoy'd the present store, 
 Still endless sighs are breath'd for more, 
 Oh ! quit the shadow, catch the prize, 
 Which not all India's treasure buys ! 
 To purchase Heaven has gold the power .- 
 Can gold remove the mortal hour ? 
 In life can love be bought with gold ? 
 Are friendship's pleasures to be sold? 
 No all that's worth a wish a thought, 
 Fair virtue gives unbribed, unbought. 
 Cease then on trash thy hopes to bind, 
 Let nobler views engage thy mind. 
 
 With science tread the wondrous way, 
 Or learn the Muses' moral lay ; 
 In social hours indulge thy soul, 
 Where mirth and temperance mix the bowl 
 To virtuous love resign thy breast, 
 And be, by blessing beauty blest. 
 
 Thus taste the feast by nature spread, 
 Ere youth and all its joys are fled ; 
 Come taste with me the balm of life, 
 Secure from pomp, and wealth, and strife 
 I boast whate'er for man was meant, 
 In health, and Stella, and content ; 
 And scorn oh ! let that scorn be thine 
 Mere things of clay that dig the mine. 
 
 STELLA IN MOURNING. 
 
 WHEN lately Stella's form display'd 
 
 The beauties of the gay brocade, 
 
 The nymphs, who found their power decline, 
 
 Proclaim'd her not so fair as fine. 
 
 " Fate ! snatch away the bright disguise, 
 
 And let the goddess trust her eyes." 
 
 Thus blindly pray'd the fretful fair, 
 
 And Fate, malicious, heard the prayer ;
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 555 
 
 But, brighli*.,\\\ v the sable dress, 
 As virtue IKOJ \\ distress, 
 Since Stella r-vK) t itends her reign, 
 Ah ! how shall cuvy soothe her pain ? 
 
 Th' adoring Youth and envious Fair, 
 Henceforth shall form one common prayer; 
 And love and hate alike implore 
 The skies " That Stella mourn no more." 
 
 TO STELLA. 
 
 NOT the soft sighs of vernal gales, 
 The fragrance of the flowery vales, 
 The murmurs of the crystal rill, 
 The vocal grove, the verdant hill ; 
 Not all their charms, though all unite, 
 Can touch my bosom with delight 
 
 Not all the gems on India's shore, 
 
 Not all Peru's unbounded store, 
 
 Not all the power, nor all the fame, 
 
 That heroes, kings, or poets, claim ; 
 
 Nor knowledge, which the learn'd approve ; 
 
 To form one wish my soul can move. 
 
 Yet Nature's charms allure my eyes, 
 And knowledge, wealth, and fame I prize ; 
 Fame, wealth, and knowledge I obtain, 
 Nor seek I Nature's charms in vain ; 
 In lovely Stella all combine ; 
 And, lovely Stella ! thou art mine. 
 
 VERSES 
 
 tf'ritten at the request of a Gentleman to whom a 
 Lady had given a Sprig of Myrtle.* 
 
 WHAT hopes, what terrors, does thy gift create; 
 Ambiguous emblem of uncertain fate! 
 The myrtle (ensign of supreme command, 
 Consign'd by Venus to Melissa's hand) 
 Not less capricious than a reigning fair, 
 Oft avours, oft rejects, a lover's prayer, 
 In myrtle shades oft sings the happy swain, 
 In myrtle shades despairing ghosts complain. 
 The myrtle crowns the happy lovers' heads, 
 Th' unhappy lovers' graves the myrtle spreads. 
 Oh ! then, the meaning of thy gift impart, 
 And ease the throbbings of an anxious heart. 
 Soon must this bough, as you shall fix its doom, 
 Adorn Philander" s head, or grace his tomb. 
 
 LADY FIREBRACE.1 
 
 AT BURY ASSIZES. 
 
 AT length must Suffolk's beauties shine in vain, 
 So Ion** renown'd in B n's deathless strain ? 
 
 * These verses were first printed in the Gentleman's 
 Magazine for 1768, p. 439, but were written many years 
 earlier. Elegant as they are, Dr. Johnson assurec 
 me, they were composed in the short space of five 
 minutes. N. 
 
 t Tliis larly was Bridget, third daughter of Philip Ba- 
 con, Esq. of Ipswich, and relict of Philip Evers, Esq. o 
 that town. She became the second wife of Sir Cordel! 
 Firebrace, the last Baronet of that name (to whom she 
 brought a fortune of 25,000), July 26, 1737. Being 
 a'ain left a widow in 1759, she was a third time married 
 April 7, 1762, to William Campbell, Esq. uncle to the 
 present Duke of Argjle, and died July 3, 1782. 
 
 Thy charms at least, fair Firebrace, might in- 
 spire 
 
 Some zealous bard to wake the sleeping lyre ; 
 
 For such thy beauteous mind and lovely face, 
 
 Thou seem'st at once, bright nymph, a Mute 
 and Grace. 
 
 TO L Y C E, 
 
 AN ELDERLY LADT. 
 
 Ye nymphs whom starry rays invest, 
 
 By flattering poets given, 
 Who shine, by lavish lovers drest, 
 
 In all the pomp of Heaven ; 
 
 Engross not all the beams on high, 
 
 Which gilds a lover's lays, 
 But, as your sister of the sky 
 
 Let Lyce share the praise. 
 
 Her silver locks display the moon, 
 
 Her brows a cloudy show, 
 Stripp'd rainbows round her eyes are seen, 
 
 And showers from either flow. 
 
 Her teeth the night with darkness dyes, 
 She 's starr'd with pimples o'er ; 
 
 Her tongue like nimble lightning plies, 
 And can with thunder roar. 
 
 But some Zelinda, while I sing, 
 
 Denies my Lyce shines ; 
 And all the pens of Cupid's wing 
 
 Attack my gentle lines. 
 
 Yet, spite of fair Zelinda's eye, 
 
 And all her bards express, 
 My Lyce makes as good a sky, 
 
 And I but flatter less. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF 
 
 MR. ROBERT LEVET, 
 
 A PRACTISER IN PHYSIC. 
 
 CONDEMN'D to Hope's delusive mine, 
 As on we toil from day to day, 
 
 By sudden blasts, or slow decline, 
 Our social comforts drop away. 
 
 Well tried through many a varying year, 
 See Level to the grave descend, 
 
 Officious, innocent, sincere, 
 
 Of every friendless name the friend. 
 
 Yet still he fills affection's eye, 
 Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind ; 
 
 Nor letter'd arrogance deny 
 Thy praise to merit unrefined. 
 
 When fainting nature call'd for aid, 
 And hovering death prepared the blow, 
 
 His vigorous remedy display'd 
 
 The power of art without the show. 
 
 In misery's darkest cavern known, 
 His useful care was ever nigh, 
 
 Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan. 
 And lonely want retired to die. 
 
 No summons mock'd by chill delay, 
 No petty gain disdain'd by pride,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The modest wants of every day 
 The toil of every day supplied. 
 
 His virtues walk'd their narrow round, 
 Nor made a pause, nor left a void ; 
 
 And sure th' Eternal Master found 
 The single talent well employ'd. 
 
 The busy day the peaceful night, 
 
 Unfelt, uncounted, glided by ; 
 His frame was firm his powers were bright, 
 
 Though now his eightieth year was nigh. 
 
 Then, with no fiery throbbing pain, 
 
 No cold gradations of decay, 
 Death broke at once the vital chain, 
 
 And freed his soul the nearest way. 
 
 EPITAPH ON CLAUDE PHILLIPS, 
 
 AN ITINERANT MUSICIAN.* 
 
 PHILLIPS! whose touch harmonious could re- 
 move 
 
 The pangs of guilty power, and hapless love, 
 Rest here, distress'd by poverty no more, 
 Find here that calm thou gav'st so oft before ; 
 Sleep undisturb'd within this peaceful shrine, 
 Till angels wake thee with a note like thine. 
 
 EPITAPHIUMt 
 
 THOMAM HANMER, BARONETTUM. 
 
 HONORABILIS admodum Thomas Hanmer, 
 
 Baronettus, 
 Wilhelmi Hanmer armigeri, e Peregrina Hen- 
 
 rici North 
 
 De Mildenhall in Com. Suffolciae Baronetti so- 
 rore et haerede, 
 
 Filius ; 
 Johannis Hanmer de Hanmer Baronetti 
 
 Haeres patruelis 
 A.ntiquo gentis SUEC et titulo et patrimonio suc- 
 
 cessit. 
 
 Duas uxores sortitus est ; 
 Alteram Isabellam, honore a patre derivato, de 
 
 Arlington comitissam, 
 Deind6 celsissimi principis ducis de Grafton vi 
 
 duam dotariam : 
 
 Alteram Elizabetham Thomae Foulkes de Bar- 
 ton in Com. Suffi armigeri 
 
 Filiam et haeredem. 
 
 Inter humanitates studia felicitSr enutritus, 
 Omnes liberalium artium disciplinas avide ar 
 
 ripuit, 
 duas morum suavitate haud leviter ornavit. 
 
 Postquam excessit ex ephebis, 
 
 Continud inter populares suos fama eminens, 
 
 Et comitatus sui legatus ad Parliamentum mis 
 
 sus, 
 
 Ad ardua regni negotia per annos prope triginta 
 se accinxit : 
 
 * These lines are among Mrs. Williams's Miscella 
 nies : they are nevertheless recognised as Johnson's i 
 a memorandum of his hand-writing, and were probabl. 
 written at her request. Phillips was a travelling fiddle 
 up and down Wales, and was greatly celebrated for hi 
 performance. 
 
 | At Hanmer church in Flintshire. 
 
 iumque apud illos amplissimorum virorum or- 
 
 dines 
 
 Solent nihil temere effutire, 
 Sed probe perpensa diserte expromere, 
 
 Orator gravis et pressus ; 
 fon minus integritatis quam eloquentiae laude 
 
 commendatus, 
 Equd omnium, utcunque inter se alioqui dissi 
 
 dentium, 
 
 Aures atque animos attraxit. 
 
 Annoque demum M.DCC.XIII. regnante Annft. 
 
 Felicissnnas florentissimasque memoriae regina, 
 
 Ad Prolocutoris cathedram 
 Jommuni Senatus universi voce designatus est: 
 
 Gluod munus, 
 Cum nullo tempore non difficile, 
 
 Turn illo certe, negotiis 
 Et variis et lubricis et implicatis difficillimum, 
 
 Cum dignitate sustinuit. 
 Honores alios, et omnia quoa sibi in lucrum ce- 
 
 derent munera, 
 
 Sedulo detrectavit, 
 
 Ut rei totus inserviret publicae ; 
 
 Justi rectique tenax, 
 Et fide in patriam incorrupta notus. 
 LTbi omnibus, quae virum civemque bonum de- 
 cent, officiis satisfecisset, 
 Paulatim se & publicis consiliis in otium reci 
 
 piens, 
 
 Inter literarum amoenitates, 
 
 [nter ante-actas vitae haud insuaves recordationea. 
 
 Inter amicorum convictus et amplectus, 
 
 Honorifice consenuit ; 
 Et bonis omnibus, quibus charissimus vixit, 
 
 Desideratissimus obiit. 
 Hie, juxta cineres avi, suos condi voluit, et cu- 
 
 ravit 
 Gulielmus Bunbury B ttui - nepos et haeres. 
 
 PARAPHRASE OF THE ABOVE EPI- 
 TAPH. 
 
 BY DR. JOHNSON.* 
 
 THOU who survcy'st these walls with curious 
 
 eye, 
 
 Pause at the tomb where Hanmer's ashes lie ' 
 His various worth through varied life attend, 
 And learn his virtues while thou mourn'st his 
 end. 
 
 His force of genius burn'd in early youth, 
 With thirst of knowledge, and with love of truth , 
 His learning, join'd with each endearing art, 
 Charm'd every ear, and gain'd on every heart. 
 
 Thus early wise, th' endanger'd realm to aid, 
 His country call'd him from the studious shade ; 
 In life's first bloom his public toils began, 
 At once commenced the Senator and man. 
 
 In business dexterous, weighty in debate, 
 Thrice ten long years he labour'd for the State >. 
 In every speech persuasive wisdom flow'd, 
 In every act refulgent virtue glow'd : 
 Suspended faction ceased from rage and strife, 
 To hear his eloquence, and praise his life. 
 
 Resistless merit fix'd the Senate's choice 
 Who hail'd him Speaker with united voice. 
 Illustrious age ! how bright thy glories shone, 
 When Hanmer fill'd the chair and Anne the 
 throne ! 
 
 * This Paraphrase is inserted in Mrs. Williams's Mis- 
 cellanies. The Latin is there said to be written by Dr 
 Freind. Of the person whose memory it celebrates, a 
 copious account may be seen in the Appendix to ihe 
 Supplement to the Biographia Britannica.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 557 
 
 Then when dark arts obscured each fierce de- 
 bate, 
 
 When mutual frauds perplex'd the maze of state, 
 The moderator firmly mild appear'd 
 Beheld with love with veneration heard. 
 
 This task perform'd he sought no gainful 
 
 post, 
 
 Nor wish'd to slitter at his country's cost ; 
 Strict on the right he kept his steadfast eye, 
 With temperate zeal and wise anxiety ; 
 Nor e'er from Virtue's paths was lured aside, 
 To pluck the flowers of pleasure or of pride. 
 Her gifts despised, Corruption blush'd and fled, 
 And Fame pursued him where Conviction led. 
 
 Age ca!!'d, at length, his active mind to rest, 
 With honour sated, and with cares opprest ; 
 To letter'd ease retired, and honest mirth. 
 To rural grandeur and domestic worth : 
 Delighted still to please mankind, or mend, 
 The patriot's fire yet sparkled in the friend. 
 
 Calm Conscience, then, his former life sur- 
 vey 'd, 
 
 And recollected toils endear'd the shade, 
 Till Nature call'd him to the general doom, 
 And Virtue's sorrow dignified his tomb. 
 
 TO MISS II 1C K M A N.* 
 
 PLAYING ON THE SPIXNET. 
 
 BRIGHT Stella, form'd for universal reign, 
 Too well you know to keep the slaves you gain ; 
 When in your eyes resistless lightnings play, 
 Awed into love, our conquer'd hearts obey, 
 And yield reluctant to despotic sway : 
 But when your music sooths the raging pain, 
 We bid propitious Heaven prolong your reign, 
 We bless the tyrant, and we hug the chain. 
 
 When old Timotheus struck the vocal string, 
 Ambition's fury fired the Grecian king : 
 Unbounded projects labouring in his mind, 
 He pants for room, in one poor world confined. 
 Thus waked to rage, by music's dreadful power, 
 He bids the sword destroy, the flame devour. 
 Had Stella's gentle touches moved the lyre, 
 Soon had the monarch felt a nobler fire ; 
 No more delighted with destructive war, 
 Ambitious only now to please the fair ; 
 Resign'd his thirst of empire to her charms, 
 And found a thousand worlds in Stella's arms. 
 
 PARAPHRASE OF PROVERBS. 
 
 CHAP. VI. Verses 6 11. 
 " Go to the *1nt, thou Sluggard."] 
 
 TURK on the prudent ant thy heedful eyes, 
 Observe her labours, sluggard, and be wise : 
 No stern command, no monitory voice, 
 Prescribes her duties, or directs her choice ; 
 Yet, timely provident, she hastes away, 
 To snatch the blessings of the plenteous day ; 
 When fruitful summer loads the teeming plain, 
 She crops the harvest, and she stores the grain 
 
 * These lines, which have been communicated by Dr. 
 Turton, son to Mrs. Turton, the lady to whom they are 
 addressed by her maiden name of Hickman, must have 
 been written at least as early as the year 17S4, as that 
 was the year of her marriase : at how much earlier a 
 period of'Dr. Johnson's life they may have been written, 
 is not known. 
 
 f In Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies, but now printed 
 from the original in Dr. Johnson's own hand-writing. 
 
 How long shall Sloth usurp thy useless hours, 
 Unnerve thy vigour, and enchain thy powers : 
 While artful shades thy downy couch enclose, 
 And soft solicitation courts repose ? 
 Amidst the drowsy charms of dull delight, 
 Year chases year with unremitted flight, 
 Till Want, now following, fraudulent and slow, 
 Shall spring to seize thee like an ambush'd foe. 
 
 HORACE, LIB. IV. ODE VII. 
 
 TRANSLATED. 
 
 THE snow dissolved, no more is seen, 
 The fields and woods, behold ! are green ; 
 The changing year renews the plain, 
 The rivers know their banks again ; 
 The sprightly nymph and naked grace ; 
 The mazy dance together trace ; 
 The changing year's successive plan, 
 Proclaims mortality to man ; 
 Rough winter's blasts to spring give way, 
 Spring yields to summer's sovereign ray j 
 Then summer sinks in autumn's reign, 
 And winter chills the world again ; 
 Her losses soon the moon supplies, 
 But wretched man, when once he lies 
 Where Priam and his sons are laid, 
 Is nought but ashes and a shade. 
 Who knows if Jove, who counts our score 
 Will toss us in a morning more ? 
 What with your friend you nobly share, 
 At least you rescue from your heir. 
 Not you, Torquatus, boast of Rome, 
 When Minos once has fix'd your doom, 
 Or eloquence, or splendid birth, 
 Or virtue, shall restore to earth. 
 Hippolytus, unjustly slain, 
 Diana calls to life in vain ; 
 Nor can the might of Theseus rend 
 The chains of Hell that hold his friend. 
 JVoc. 1784. 
 
 he following TRANSLATIONS, PARODIES, 
 mid BURLESQUE VERSES, most of them extern* 
 pore, are taken from ANECDOTES of Dr. JOHN- 
 SON, published by Mrs. PIOZZI. 
 
 ANACREON, ODE IX. 
 
 Lovely courier of the sky, 
 Whence and whither dost thou fly? 
 Scattering, as thy pinions play, 
 Liquid fragrance all the way : 
 Is it business ? is it love ? 
 Tell me, tell me, gentle dove. 
 
 Soft Anacreon's vows I bear, 
 Vows to Myrtale the fair ; 
 Graced with all that charms the heart, 
 Blushing nature, smiling art. 
 Venus, courted by an ode, 
 On the bard her dove bestow'd ; 
 Vested with a master's right, 
 Now Anacreon rules my flight ; 
 His the letters that you see, 
 Weighty charge consign'd to me; 
 Think not yet my service hard, 
 Joyless task without reward ; 
 Smiling at my master's gates, 
 Freedom my return awaits ; 
 But the liberal grant in vain 
 Tempts me to be wild again.
 
 558 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Can a prudent dove decline 
 Blissful bondage such as mine ? 
 Over hills and fields to roam, 
 Fortune's guest without a home ; 
 Under leaves to hide one's head, 
 Slightly shelter'd, coarsely fed : 
 Now my better lot bestows 
 Sweet repast, and soft repose ; 
 Now the generous bowl I sip 
 As it leaves Anacreon's lip : 
 Void of care, and free from dread, 
 From his fingers snatch his bread ; 
 Then, with luscious plenty gay, 
 Round his chamber dance and play ; 
 Or from wine, as courage springs, 
 O'er his face extend my wings ; 
 And when feast and frolic tire, 
 Drop asleep upon his lyre. 
 This is all, be quick and go, 
 More than all thou canst not know ; 
 Let me now my pinions ply, 
 I have chatter'd like a pye. 
 
 LINES 
 
 Written in Ridicule of certain Poems published 
 in 1777. 
 
 WHERESOE'ER I turn my view, 
 All is strange, yet nothing new ; 
 Endless labour all along; 
 Endless labour to be wrong ; 
 Phrase that time hath flung away, 
 Uncouth words in disarray, 
 Trick'd in antique ruff and bonnet, 
 Ode, and elegy, and sonnet. 
 
 PARODY OF A TRANSLATION 
 
 From the Medea of Euripides. 
 ERR shall they not, who resolute explore, 
 
 Times gloomy backward with judicious eyes ; 
 And scanning right the practices of yore, 
 
 Shall deem our hoar progenitors unwise. 
 
 They to the dome where smoke, with curling 
 play, 
 
 Announced the dinner to the regions round, 
 Summon'd the singer blithe and harper gay, 
 
 And aided wine with dulcet-streaming sound. 
 
 The better use of notes, or sweet or shrill, 
 
 By quivering string or modulated wind ; 
 Trumpet or lyre to their harsh bosoms chill 
 
 Admission ne'er had sought, or could not find. 
 Oh ! send them to the sullen mansions dun, 
 
 Her baleful eyes where Sorrow rolls around ; 
 Where gloom-enamour'd Mischief loves to dwell, 
 
 And Murder, all blood-boltcr'd, schemes the 
 wound. 
 
 Then cates luxuriant pile the spacious dish, 
 And purple nectar glads the festive hour ; 
 
 The guest, without a want, without a wish, 
 Can yield no room to music's soothing power. 
 
 TRANSLATION 
 
 Of the two first Stanzas of the Song " Rio Verde, 
 
 Rio Verde," printed in Bishop Percy's Reliques 
 
 of Ancient English Poetry. 
 
 AN IMPROMPTU. 
 GLASSY water, glassy water, 
 
 1 "own whose current, clear and strong, 
 
 Chiefs confused in mutual slaughter, 
 Moor and Christian, roll along. 
 
 IMITATION 
 
 OF 
 THE STYLE OF ****. 
 
 HERMIT hoar, in solemn cell 
 Wearing out life's evening gray, 
 
 Strike thy bosom, sage, and tell, 
 What is bliss, and which the way ? 
 
 Thus I spoke, and speaking sigh'd, 
 Scarce repress'd the starting tear, 
 
 When the hoary sage reply'd, 
 
 Come, my lad, and drink some beer ! 
 
 BURLESdUE 
 
 Of the follmcing Lines of Lopez de Vega. 
 
 AN IMPROMPTU. 
 
 Se acquien los leones vence 
 
 Vence una muger hermosa 
 O ei de flaco averguence 
 
 O ella di ser mais furiosa. 
 
 IF the man who turnips cries, 
 Cry not when his father dies, 
 'Tis a proof that he had rather 
 Have a turnip than his father. 
 
 TRANSLATION 
 
 Of the follmcing Lines at the end of Barettfs Easy 
 Phraseology. 
 
 AN IMPROMPTU. 
 
 VivA ! viva la padrona ! 
 Tutta bella, e tutta buona, 
 La padrona e un angiolella 
 Tutta buona e tutta bella ; 
 Tutta bella e tutta buona ; 
 Viva ! viva la padrona ! 
 
 LONG may live my lovely Hetty ! 
 Always young, and always pretty I 
 Always pretty, always young 
 Live, my lovely Hetty, long! 
 Always young, and always pretty, 
 Long may live my lovely Hetty I 
 
 IMPROVISO TRANSLATION 
 
 Of the following Distich on the Duke of Modentfs 
 running away from the Comet in 1742 or 1743 
 
 SE al venir vostro i principi se n' vanno 
 Deli venga ogni di durate un anno. 
 
 IF at your coming princes disappear, 
 
 Comets ! come every day and stay a 
 
 year. 
 
 IMPROVISO TRANSLATION 
 Of the following Lines ofM. Benserade a son Lit- 
 THEATRE des ris, et des pleurs, 
 Lit ! ou je nais, et ou je meurs, 
 Tu nous fais voir comment voisins, 
 Sont nos plaisirs, et nos chagrins. 
 
 In bed we laugh, in bed we cry, 
 And born in bed, in bed we die ; 
 The near approach a bed may show 
 Of human bliss to human wo.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 559 
 
 EPITAPH FOR MR. HOGARTH. 
 THE hand of him here torpid lies, 
 
 That drew th' essential form of grace ; 
 Here closed in death th' attentive eyes, 
 
 That saw the manners in the face. 
 
 TRANSLATION 
 Of the following Lines written under a Print re- 
 presenting Persons Skating. 
 
 SUR un mince crystal 1'hyver conduit leurs pas, 
 Le precipice est sous la glace : 
 Telle est de nos plaisirs la leg re surface: 
 Glissoz, mortels ; n'appuyez pas. 
 
 O'KR ice the rapid skater flies, 
 
 With sport above, and death below ; 
 
 Where mischief lurks in gay disguise, 
 'Thus lightly touch and quickly go. 
 
 IMPROMPTU TRANSLATION 
 
 Of the same. 
 
 O'KR crackling ice, o'er gulfs profound, 
 With nimble glide the skaters play ; 
 O'er treacherous Pleasure's flowery ground 
 Thus lightly skim and haste away. 
 
 TO MRS. THRALE 
 On her completing her thirty-fifth year. 
 
 AX IMPROMPTU. 
 OFT in danger, yet alive 
 We are come to thirty-five ; 
 Long may better years arrive, 
 Better years than thirty-five ! 
 Could philosophers contrive 
 Life to stop at thirty-five, 
 Time his hours should never drive 
 O'er the bounds of thirty-five. 
 High to soar, and deep to dive, 
 Nature gives at thirty-five. 
 Ladies, tock and tend your hive, 
 Trifle not at thirty-five ;" 
 For, howe'er we boast and strive, 
 Life declines from thirty-five. 
 He that ever hopes to thrive 
 Must begin by thirty-five ; 
 And all who wisely wish to wive 
 Must look on Thrale at thirty-five. 
 
 IMPROMPTU TRANSLATION 
 Of an air in the Clemenza de Tito of Metastasio 
 
 beginning " Deh se piacermi viioi." 
 WOULD you hope to gain my heart, 
 Bid your teasing doubts depart; 
 He, who blindly trusts, will find 
 Faith from every generous mind ; 
 He, who still expects deceit, 
 Only teaches how to cheat. 
 
 TRANSLATION 
 
 Of a speech of Jlquileio in the Mriano of Metasta- 
 sio, begining " Tu che in corte invechiasti." 
 
 GROWN old in courts, thou surely art not one 
 Who keeps the riijid rules of ancient honour ; 
 Who skill'd to sooth a foe with looks of kind- 
 To sink the fatal precipice before him, [ness, 
 And then lament his fall by seeming friendship ; 
 Open to all, true onlv to thyself, 
 
 Thou know'st those arts which blast with envious 
 
 praise, 
 
 Which aggravate a fault with feign'd excuses, 
 And drive discountenanced virtue from the 
 
 throne ; 
 
 That leave the blame of rigour to the prince, 
 And of his every gift usurp the merit ; 
 That hide in seeming zeal a wicked purpose, 
 And only build upon another's ruin. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP, 
 
 [This originally appeared in the Gentleman's Maga- 
 zine, for the year 1743. See Boswell's Life of Johnson 
 under that year. It was afterwards printed in Mrs. Wil- 
 liams's Miscellanies, in 1766, with several variations, 
 which are pointed out below. J. B.] 
 
 FRIENDSHIP ! peculiar boon of heaven, 
 The noble mind's delight and pride, 
 
 To men and angels only given, 
 To all the lower world denied. 
 
 While love, unknown among the blest, 
 Parent of thousand wild desires, 
 
 The savage and the human breast 
 Torments alike with raging fires ; 
 
 With bright, but oft destructive, gleam, 
 Alike, o'er all his lightnings fly ; 
 
 Thy lambent glories only beam 
 Around the favourites of the sky. 
 
 Thy gentle flows of guiltless joys 
 On fools and villains ne'er descend . 
 
 In vain for thee the tyrant sighs, 
 And hugs a flatterer for a friend. 
 
 Directress of the brave and just, 
 
 O guide us through life's darksome way ' 
 
 And let the tortures of mistrust 
 On selfish bosoms only prey. 
 
 Nor shall thine ardours cease to glow, 
 When souls to blissful climes remove . 
 
 What raised our virtue here below, 
 Shall aid our happiness above. 
 
 Stanza 1. This stanza is omitted in Mrs. Williams'g 
 Miscellanies, and instead of it we have the following, 
 which may be suspected from internal evidence not to 
 have been Johnson's. 
 
 When virtues kindred virtues meet, 
 
 And sister souls together join, 
 Thy pleasures, permanent as great, 
 
 Are all transporting, all divine. 
 
 Stanza 2, line 2d. Parent of rage and hot desires 
 
 Mrs. W. 
 
 line 4th. Inflames alike with equal fires. 
 Stanza 4, line 3d. In vain for thee the monarch sighs, 
 
 Stanza 6, line 1st. O ! shall thy flames then cease to 
 glow. 
 
 TRANSLATION 
 
 FROM THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES, V. 190. 
 
 [This was written by Johnson for his friend, Dr. Bur. 
 ney, and was inserted as the work of "A learned friend," 
 in that gentleman's History of Music, Vol. II. p. 340. It 
 haa always been ascribed to Johnson ; but Jo put the mat- 
 ter beyond a doubt, Mr. Malone ascertained the fact by 
 applying to Dr. Burney himself. J. B.J 
 
 THE rites derived from ancient days 
 With thoughtless reverence we praise, 
 The rites that taught us to combine 
 The joys of music and of wine,
 
 560 
 
 POEMATA. 
 
 And bid the feast, and song, and bowl, 
 
 O'erfill the saturated soul : 
 
 But ne'er the flute or lyre applied 
 
 To cheer despair and soften pride , 
 
 Nor call them to the gloomy cells, 
 
 Where Want repines and Vengeance swells : 
 
 Where Hate sits musing to betray, 
 
 And Murder meditates his prey, 
 
 To dens of guilt and shades of care, 
 
 Ye sons of melody repair ; 
 
 Nor deign the festive dome to cloy, 
 
 With superfluities of joy. 
 
 Ah ! little needs the minstrel's power, 
 
 To speed the light convivial hour. 
 
 The board with varied plenty crown'd, 
 
 May spare the luxuries of sound. 
 
 POEMATA. 
 
 MESSIA.* 
 
 Ex alieno ingenio poeta, ex suo tantum versificator. 
 SCALIO. Poet. 
 
 TOLLITE concentum, Solymsese tollite nymphae, 
 Nil mortale loquor; coelummihi carminis alta 
 Materies ; poscunt gravius ccelestia plectrum. 
 Muscosi fontes, sylvestria tecta valete, 
 Aonidesque Deae, et mendacis somnia Pindi : 
 Tu, mihi qui flamma movisti pectora sancti 
 Siderea Isaiae, dignos accende furores ! 
 
 Immatura calens rapitur per secula vatea 
 Sic orsus Glualis rerum mihi nascitur ordo ! 
 Virgo ! virgo parit ! felix radicibus arbor 
 Jessaeis surgit, mulcentesque aethera flores 
 Ccelestes lambunt animoe, ramisque columba, 
 Nuncia sacra Dei, plaudentibus insidet alia. 
 Nectareos rores, alimentaque mitia ccelum 
 Praebeat, et tacite fcecundos irriget imbres. 
 Hue, foedat quos lepra, urit quos febris, adeste, 
 Dia salutares spirant medicamina rami ; 
 Hie requies fessis : non sacra sasvit in umbra 
 Vis Boreoa gelida, aut rapidi violentia solis. 
 Irrita vanescent prisca vestigia fraud is, 
 Justitiaeque manus pretio intemerata bilancem 
 Attollet reducis ; bellis praetendet olivas 
 Compositis pax alma suas, terrasque revisens 
 Sedatas niveo virtus lucebit amictu : 
 Volvantur celeres anni ! lux purpuret ortum 
 Expectata diu ! naturae claustra refringens, 
 Nascere, magna puer ! tibi primas, ecce, corollas 
 Deproperat tellus, fundit tibi munera quicquid 
 Carpit Arabs, hortis quicquid frondescit Eois. 
 Alf.ius, en ! Lebanon gaudentia culmina tollit. 
 En ! summo exultant nutantes vertice sylvas. 
 Mittit aromaticas vallis Saronica nubes, 
 Et juga Carmeli recreant fragrantia ccelum. 
 Deserti laeta rnollescunt aspera voce, 
 Auditur Deus ! ecce Deus ! reboantia circum, 
 Saxa sonant, Deus ! ecce Deus ! deflectitur 
 
 ffither, 
 
 Demissumque Deum tellus capit ; ardua cedrus, 
 Gloria sylvarum, dominum inclinata salutet. 
 Surgite convalles, tumidi subsidite montes ! 
 Sternite saxa viam, rapidi discedite fluctus ; 
 En ! quern turba diu cecinerunt enthea, vates, 
 En! salvator adest; vultus agnoscite cosci 
 
 * This translation has been severely criticised by Dr- 
 Warton, in his edition of Pope, vol. i. p. 105, 9vo. 1797. 
 It cei t liiily contains some expressions that are not classi- 
 cal. Let it be remembered, however, that n was a college 
 exercise, performed with great rapidity, and was at first 
 Dtaised beyond all suspicion of defect. C. 
 
 Divinos, aurdos sacra vox permulceat aures. 
 Ille cutim spissam visus hebetare vetabit, 
 Reclusisque oculis infundet amabile lumen ; 
 Obstrictasque diu linguas in carmina solvet. 
 Ille vias vocis pandet, flexusque liquentis 
 Harmonise purgata novos mirabitur auris. 
 Accrescunt teneris tactu nova robora nervis . 
 Consuetus fulcro innixus reptare bacilli 
 Nunc saltu capreas ; nunc cursu provocat euros. 
 Non planctus, non moesta sonant suspiria j 
 
 pectus 
 
 Singultans mulcet, lachrymantes tergit ocellos. 
 Vinclacoercebuntluctantem adamantina mortem 
 vEternoque Orel dominator vulnere languens 
 Invalidi raptos sceptri plorabit honores. 
 Ut qua dulce strepent scatebraa, qua lata virescunt 
 Pascua, qua blandum spirat purissimus aer. 
 Pastor agit pecudes-, teneros modo suscipil agnos 
 Et gremio fotis selectas porrigit herbas, 
 Amissas modo quasrit oves, revocatque vagantes ; 
 Fidus adest custos, seu npx furat horrida nimbis, 
 Sive dies medius morientia torreat arva. 
 Postera sic pastor divinus secla beabit, 
 Et curas felix patrias testabitur orbis. 
 Non ultra infestis concurrent agmina signis, 
 Hostiles oculis fiammas jaculantia Jorvis ; 
 Non litui accendent bellum, non campus ahenis 
 Triste coruscabit radiis ; dabit hasta recusa 
 Vomerem, et in falcem rigidus curvabitur ensis. 
 Atria, pacis opus, surgent, finemque caduci 
 Natus ad optatum perducet co3pta parentis. 
 dui duxit sulcos, illi teret area messem, 
 Et seras texent vites umbracula proli. 
 Attoniti dumeta vident inculto coloni 
 Suave rubere rosis, sitientesque inter arenas 
 Garrula mirantur salientis murmura rivi. 
 Per saxa, ignivomi nuper spelaea draconis. 
 Canna viret, juncique tremit variabilis umbra. 
 Horruit implexo qua vallis sente, figurae 
 Surgit amans abies teretia, buxique sequaces 
 Artificis frondent dextrae ; palmisque rubeta 
 Aspera, odoratae cedunt mala gramina myrto 
 Per valles sociata lupo lasciviet agna, 
 Cumque leone petet tutus pracsepe juvencus. 
 Florea mansuetae petulantes vincula tigri 
 Per ludum pueri injicient, et fessa colubri 
 Membra viatoris recreabunt frigore linguae. 
 Serpentes teneris nil jam lethale micantes 
 Tractabit palmis infans,motusque trisulcas 
 Ridebit linguae innocuos, squamasque virentea 
 Aureaque admiraris rutilantis fulgura cristae. 
 Indue reginam, turritae frontis honores 
 Tolle Salema sacros, quam circum gloria penn&n 
 Explicat, incinctam radiatae luce tiarae '
 
 POEMATA. 
 
 561 
 
 En ! formosa tibi spatiosa per atria, proles 
 Orclinibus surgit densis, vitamque rcquirit 
 Impatiens, lenteque fluentcs increpat annos. 
 Eece peregrinis fervent tua limina turbis ; 
 Barbarus en ! clarum divino lumine templum 
 Ingreditur, cultuque tuo mansuescerc gaudet 
 Cinnameos cumulos, Nabathaei munera veris, 
 Ecce cremant genibus trite regalibus arac ! 
 Solis Ophyraeis crudum tibimontibus aurum 
 Maturaiit radii ; tibi balsama sudat Idume. 
 jEtheris ea portas sacrofulgore micantcs 
 Crelicolas pandunt, torrentis aurea lucis 
 Flumina prorumpunt ; non posthac sole rubescet 
 India nascent!, placidaeve argentea noctis 
 Luna vices revehet ; radios pater ipse diei 
 Proferet archetypes ; ccelestis gaudia lucis 
 Ipso fonte bibes, quae circumfusa beatam 
 Regiam inundabit, nullis cessura tenebris. 
 Littora deficiens arentia deseret sequor ; 
 Sidera fumabunt, diro labefacta tremore 
 Saxa cadent, solidique liquescent robora mentis : 
 Tu secura tamen confusa elementa videbis, 
 Laetaque Messia semper dominabere rege, 
 Pollicitis firmata Dei, stabilita minis. 
 
 [Jan. 20, 21, 1773.] 
 
 VIT.JE qui varias vices 
 Rerum perpetuus temperat Arbiter, 
 
 Lasto cedere lumini 
 Noctis tristitiam qui gelidae jubet, 
 
 Acri sanguine turgidos, 
 Obductosque oculos nubibus humidis 
 
 Sanari voluit meos ; 
 Et me, cuncta beans cui nocuit dies, 
 
 Luci reddidit et mihi. 
 dua te laude, Deus, qua prece prosequar? 
 
 Sacri discipulis libn 
 Te semper studiis utilibus colam : 
 
 Grates, summe Pater, tuis 
 Recte qui fruitur muneribus, dedit. 
 
 [Dec. 25, 1779.] 
 
 NUNC dies Christo memoranda nato 
 Fulsit, in pectus mihi fonte purum 
 Gaudium sacro fluat, et benigni 
 
 Gratia Cceli ! 
 
 Christe, da tutam trepido quietem, 
 Christe, spem praesta stabilem timenti ; 
 Da fidem certam, precibusque fidis 
 
 Annue, Christe. 
 
 [In Lecto, die Passionis, Apr. 13, 1781.] 
 
 SUMME Deus, qui semper amas quodcunque 
 creasti ; 
 
 Judice quo, scelerum est poenituisse salus : 
 Da veteres noxas animo sic flere novato, 
 
 Per Christum ut veniam sit repenre mihi. 
 
 [In Lecto, Dec. 25, 1782.] 
 
 SPE non inani confugis, 
 Peccator, ad latus meum ; 
 duod poscis, haud iqiquam tibi 
 Negabitur solatium. 
 3V 
 
 [Nocti, inter 16 et 17 Junii, 1783.*] 
 
 SUMME Pater, quodcunque tuumf de corpore 
 Numenf [velit: 
 
 Hoc statuat, |j precibus Christus adesse 
 In^enio parcas, nee sit mihi culpa rogasse,H 
 
 Clua solum potero parte, placere**~tibi. 
 
 [Cal. Jan. in lecto, ante lucem. 1784.] 
 
 SUMME dator vitae, naturae aeterne magister, 
 Causarum series quo moderante fluit, 
 
 Respice quern subijet senium, morbique senilea. 
 duem terret vitae meta propinqua sues. 
 
 Respice inutiliter lapsi quern poenitet aavi ; 
 Recte ut pceniteat, respice, magne parena , 
 
 PATER benigne, summa semper lenitas, 
 Crimine gravatam plurimo mentem leva: 
 Concede veram pcenitentiam, precor, 
 Concede agendam legibus vitam tuis. 
 Sacri vagantes lumims gressus face 
 Rege et tuere, quae nocent pellens procul ; 
 Veniam petenti, summe da veniam, pater ; 
 Veniaeque sancta pacis adde gaudia : 
 Sceleris ut expers, omni et vacuus metu, 
 Te, mente pura, mente tranquilla colam : 
 Mini dona morte hsec impetret Christus su6 
 
 [Jan. 18, 1784.] 
 SUMME Pater, puro collustra lumine pectus, 
 
 Anxietas noceat ne tenebrosa mihi. 
 In me sparsa manu virtutum semina larga 
 
 Sic ale, pro venial messis ut ampla bom. 
 Noctes atque dies animo spes laeta recurset, 
 
 Certa mihi sancto flagret amore fides. 
 Certa vetat dubitare fides, spes laeta timere. 
 
 Velle vetet cuiquam non bene sanctus amor. 
 Da, ne sint permissa, Pater, mihi praemia frus- 
 
 Et colere, et leges semper amare tuas. [tra, 
 Haec mihi, quo gentes, quo secula, Christe, piasti. 
 
 Sanguine, precanti promereare tuo ! 
 
 [Feb. 27, 1784.] 
 MEKS mea, quid quereris? veniet tibi mollior 
 
 bora, 
 
 In summo ut videas numine laeta patrem, 
 Divinam insontes iram placavit lesus ; 
 Nunc est pro pcena pcenituisse reis. 
 
 CHRISTIANUS PERFECTUS. 
 
 dui cupit in sanctos Christo cogente referri, 
 Abstergat mundi labem, nee gaudia carnis 
 Captans, nee fastu tumidus, semperque future 
 Instet, et evellens terroris spicula corde, 
 Suspiciat tandem clementem in numine patrern. 
 Huic quoque, nee genti nee sectte noxius ulli, 
 
 * The night above referred to by Dr. Johnson, was that 
 in which a paralytic stroke had deprived him of his v ice . 
 and, in the anxiety he felt lest it should likewise have im- 
 paired his understanding, he composed the above lines, 
 and said, concerning them, that he knew at the lime that 
 they were not good, but then that he deemed his discern- 
 in" this to be sufficient for the quieting the anxiety before 
 mentioned, as it showed him that his power of judging 
 
 was not diminished. 
 t Al. tuae. i Al. leges. 
 4 Al. votis. 1T Al. pr*ca 
 
 I! Al. statuant 
 ** A1 - lltare>
 
 562 
 
 POEMATA. 
 
 Sit sacer orbis amor, miseris qui semper adesse 
 Gestiat, et, nullo pietatis limite clausus, 
 Ounctorum ignoscat vitiis, pietate fruatur. 
 Ardeat huic toto sacer ignis pectore, possit 
 Ut vitam, poscat si res, impendere vero. 
 
 Cura placere Deo sit prinia sit ultima, sanctae 
 Irruptum vita? cupiat servare tenorem ; 
 Et sibi, delirans quanquam et peccator in horas 
 Displiceat, servet tutum sub pectore rectum: 
 Nee natet, et nunc has partes, nunc eligat illas, 
 Nee dubitet quern dicat hcrum, sed, totus in uno, 
 Se fidum addicat Christo, mortalia temnens. 
 
 Sed timcat semper, caveatque ante omnia, 
 
 turbae 
 
 Ne stolidae similis, leges sibi segreget audax 
 duas servare velit, leges quas lentus omittat, 
 Plenum opus effugiens, aptans juga mollia collo, 
 Sponte sua demens ; nihilum decedere summoe 
 Vult Deus, at qui cuncta dedit tibi, cuncta re- 
 
 poscit. 
 
 Denique perpetuo contendit in ardua nisu, 
 Auxilioque Dei fretus, jam mente serena 
 Pergit, et imperiis sentit se dulcibus actum. 
 Paulatim mores, animum, vitamque refingit 
 Effigiemque Dei, quantum servare licebit, 
 Induit, et, terris major, ccelestia spirat. 
 
 ./ETERNK rerum conditor, 
 Salutis aeternae dator ; 
 Felicitatis sedibus 
 dui nee scelestos exigis, 
 duoscumque scelerum poenitet; 
 Da, Christe, pcenitentiam, 
 Veniamque, Christe, da mihi ; 
 JEgrum trahenti spiritum 
 Succurre praesens corpori, 
 Multo gravatam crimine 
 Mentem benignus alleva. 
 
 LUCE collustret mihi pectus alma, 
 Pellat et tristes animi tenebras, 
 Nee sinat semper tremere ac dolere, 
 Gratia Christi: 
 
 Me Pater tandem reducem benigno 
 Summus amplexu foveat, beato 
 Me gregi Sanctus socium beatum 
 Spiritus addat. 
 
 JEJUNIUM ET CIBUS. 
 
 SERVIAT ut menti corpus jejunia serva, 
 Ut mens utatur corpore, sume cibos. 
 
 AD URBANUM.* 1738. 
 
 URBANE, nullis fesse laboribus, 
 Urbane, nullis victe calumniis, 
 Cui fronte sertum in erudita 
 _ Perpetuo viret, et virebit ; 
 duid moliatur gens imitantium, 
 duid et minetur, sollicitus parum, 
 Vacare solis perge Musis, 
 
 Juxta animo studiisque felix. 
 Linguae procacis plumbea spicula, 
 Fidens, superbo frange silentio; 
 Victrix per obstantes catervas 
 Scdulitas animosa tendet. 
 
 * See Gent. Mag. Vol. VIII. p. 155; and see also the 
 Introduction to Vol. LIV. 
 
 Intende nervos fortis, inanibut) 
 Risurus olim nisibus femuli ; 
 Intende jam nervos, habebis 
 Participes opera Camffinas. 
 Non ulla Musis pagina gratior, 
 duam quae sevens ludicra jungerf 
 Novit, fatigatamque nugis 
 
 Utilibus recreare mentem. 
 Texente nymphis serta Lycoride, 
 Rosas ruborem sic viola adjuvat 
 Immista, sic Iris refulget 
 ^Ethereis variata fucis. 
 
 IN RIVUM A MOLA STOANA LITCH 
 FELDIJE DIFFLUENTEM. 
 
 ERRAT adhuc vitreus per prata virentia rivus, 
 
 duo toties lavi membra tenella puer; 
 Hie delusa rudi frustrabar brachia motu, 
 
 Dutn docuit blanda voce natare pater. 
 Fecerunt rami latebras, tenebrisque dinrnis 
 
 Pendula secretas abdidit arbor aquas. 
 Nunc veteres duris perifire securibus umbrae, 
 
 Longinquisque oculis nuda lavacra patent. 
 Lympha tamen cursus agit indefessa pcrennis, 
 
 Tectaque qua fluxit, nunc et aperta fluit. 
 duid ferat externi velox, quid deterat aetas, 
 
 Tu quoque securus res age, Nise, tuas. 
 
 raaei ZTEATON.* 
 
 [Post Lexicon Jlnglicanum auctum et emendatum.^ 
 
 LEXICON ad finem longo luctamine tandem 
 Scaliger ut duxit, tenuis pertsesus opellse, 
 Vile indignatus studium, nugasque molestas 
 Ingemit exosus, scribendaque lexica mandat 
 Damnatis, poenam pro pcenis omnibus unam. 
 Ille quidem recte, sublimis, doctus et acer, 
 duem decuit majora sequi, majoribus aptum, 
 dui veterum modo facta ducum, modo carmine 
 
 vatum, 
 
 Gesserat et quicquid virtus, sapientia quicquid 
 Dixerat, imperiique vices, ccelique meatus, 
 Ingentemque animo seclorum volveret orbem. 
 Fallimur exemplis ; temere sibi turba scho 
 
 larum 
 
 Ima tuas credit permitti Scaliger iras. 
 duisque suum n6rit modulum ; tibi, prime vi 
 
 rorum, 
 
 Ut studiis sperem, aut ausim par esse querelis, 
 Non mihi sorte datum ; lenti seu sanguinis obsint 
 Frigora, seu nimium longa jacuisse veterno, 
 Sive mihi mentem dederit natura minorem. 
 
 Te sterili functum cura, vocumque salebris* 
 Tuto eluctatum spatiis sapientia dia 
 Excipit aethereis, ars omnis plaudit amico, 
 Linguarumque omni terra discordia concors 
 Multiplici reducem circumsonat ore magistrum. 
 Me, pensi immunis cum jam mihi reddor in- 
 
 ertis 
 
 Desidiae sors dura manet, graviorque labore 
 Tristis et atra quies, et tardas tsedia vitae. 
 Nascuntur curis cune, vexatque dolorum 
 Importuna cohors, vacuas mala somnia mentis. 
 Nunc clamosa juvant nocturnae gaudia mensas, 
 Nunc loca sola placent ; frustra te, Somne, re- 
 
 cumbens 
 Alme voco, impatiens noctis metuensque diei. 
 
 * See the J'.fe of Dr. Johnson.
 
 POEMATA. 
 
 563 
 
 Omnia percurro trepidus, circum omnia lustro, 
 Si qua usquam pateat melioris semita vitas, 
 Nee quid again invenio; meditatus grandia, 
 
 cogo : 
 
 Notior ipse mihi fieri, incultumque fateri 
 Pcctus, et ingenium vano se robore jactans. 
 Ingenium, nisi materiem doctrina ministrat, 
 Cessat inops rerum, ut torpet, si marmoris absit 
 Copia, Pliidiaci foecunda potentia coeli. 
 duicquid agam, quocunque ferar, conatibus 
 
 obstat 
 
 Res angusta domi, et macrae penuria mentis. 
 Non rationis opes animus, nunc parta re- 
 
 censens 
 
 Conspicit aggestas, et se miratur in illis, 
 Nee sibi de gaza praesens quod postulat usus 
 Summus adesse jubet celsa dominator ab arce ; 
 Non, operum serie seriem dura computat aevi, 
 Praeteritis fruitur, laetos aut sumit honores 
 Ipse sui judex, aotae bene munera vitae ; 
 Sed sua regna videns, loca noete silcntia late 
 Horret, ubi vanas species, umbrfflque fugaces, 
 Et rerum volitant rarae per inane figurae. 
 
 Gluid faciam ? tenebrisne pigram damnare 
 
 senectam 
 
 Restat? an accingar studiis gravioribus audax ? 
 Aut, hoc si nimium est, tandem nova lexica 
 
 poscam ? 
 
 AD THOMAM LAURENCE, 
 
 MEDICUM DOCTISSIMUM, 
 
 Cum jUium peregre agentem desiderio nimis tristi 
 prosequeretur. 
 
 FATERIS ergo, quod populus solet 
 Crepare vecors, nil sapientiam 
 Prodesse vitas, literasque, 
 In dubiis dare terga rebus. 
 
 Tu, queis laborat sors hominum, mala. 
 Nee vincis acer, nee pateria pius : 
 Te mille succorem potentem 
 Destituit medicina mentis. 
 
 Per caeca noctis taedia turbidae, 
 Pigrae per horas lucis inutiles, 
 Torpesque, languescisque, curia 
 Solicitus nimis heu ! paternis. 
 
 Tandem dolori plus satis est datum, 
 Exurge fortis, hunc animis opus, 
 Te, docta, Laurenti, vetustas, 
 Te medici revocant labores. 
 
 Permitte summo quicquid habes Patri, 
 Permitte fidens ; et muliebribus, 
 Amice majorem, querelis 
 
 Redde tuis, tibi redde mentem. 
 
 IN THEATRO, MARCH 8, 1771. 
 
 TERTII verso quater orbe lustri, 
 Quid theatrales tibi, Crispe, pompe ? 
 Gluam decet canos male litteratos 
 
 Sera voluptas ! 
 
 Tene mulceri fidibus canoris ? 
 Tene cantorum modulis stupere ? 
 Tene per pictas oculo elegante 
 
 Currere Comma? 
 
 Inter asquales, sine felle liber, 
 Codices, veri studiosus, inter 
 Rectius vives. Sua quisque carpat 
 
 Gaudia gratua. 
 
 Lusibus gaudet puer otiosis, 
 Luxus oblectat juvenem theatri, 
 At seni fluxo sapienter uti 
 
 Tempore restat. 
 
 INSULA KENNETHI, INTER. 
 HEBRIDAS. 
 
 PARVA quidem regio, sed religione priorum 
 
 Clara, Caledomas panditur inter aquas. 
 Voce ubi Cennethus populos domuisse ferocea 
 
 Dicitur, et vanos dedocuisse decs. 
 Hue ego delatus placido per coerula cursu, 
 
 Scire locus volui quid daret iste novi. 
 Illic Leniades humih regnabat in aula, 
 
 Leniades, magnis nobilitatis avis. 
 Una duas cepit casa cum genitore puellas, 
 
 Quas Amor undarum crederet esse deas. 
 Nee tamen inculti gelidis latuere sub antris, 
 
 Accola Danubii qualia saevus habet. 
 Mollia non desunt vacua? solatia vitae, 
 
 Sive libros poscant otia, sive lyram. 
 Fulserat ilia dies, legis qua docta supernse 
 
 Spes hominum et curas gens procul esse jubet 
 Ut precibus justas avertat numinis iraa 
 
 Et summi accendat pectus amore boni. 
 Ponte inter strepitus non sacri munera cultus 
 
 Cessarunt, pietas hie quoque cura fuit. 
 Nil opus est seris sacra de turre sonantis 
 
 Admonitu, ipsa suas nunciat hora vices. 
 Gluid, quod sacrifici versavit foemina libros ? 
 
 Sint pro legitimis pura labella sacris. 
 GLuo vagor ulterius ? quod ubique requiritur hie 
 est, 
 
 Hie secura quies, hie et honestus amor. 
 
 SKI A. 
 
 PONTI profundis clausa recessibus, 
 Strepens procellis, rupibus obsita, 
 Gluam grata defesso virentem, 
 Skia, sinum nebulosa pandis ! 
 
 His cura, credo, sedibus exulat ; 
 His blanda certe pax habitat locia ; 
 Non ira, non mroror quietis 
 Insidias meditatur horis. 
 
 At non cavata nipe latescere, . 
 Menti nee aegrae montibus aviis 
 Prodest vagari, nee frementes 
 In specula numerare fluctus. 
 
 Humana virtus non sibi sufficit ; 
 Datur nee oequum cuique animum sibi 
 Parare posse, utcunque iactet 
 Grandiloquus nimis alta Zeno. 
 
 Exaestuantis pectoria impetum 
 Rex summe, solus tu regis, arbiter; 
 Mentisque, te tollente, fluctus ; 
 Te, resident, moderante fluctui. 
 
 ODE DE SKIA INSULA. 
 
 PERMEO terras ubi nuda rupea 
 Saxeas miscet nebulis ruinas,
 
 664 
 
 POEMATA. 
 
 Torva ubi rident steriles coloni 
 
 Rura labores. 
 
 Pervagor gentes hominum ferorum, 
 Vita ubi nullo decorata cultu 
 Squallet informis, tigurfque fumis 
 
 FcEda latescit. 
 
 Inter erroris salebrosa longi, 
 Inter ignotse strepitus loquelae, 
 Quot modis, mecum, quid agat, require, 
 Thralia dulcis ? 
 
 Seu viri curas, pia nupta mulcet, 
 Seu fovet mater sobolem benigna, 
 Sive cum libris novitate pascit 
 
 Sedula mentenv 
 
 Sit memor nostri, fideique solvat 
 Fida mercedem, meritoque blandum 
 Thraliae discant resonare nomen 
 
 Littora Skise. 
 
 SPES. 
 
 April 16, 1783. 
 
 HORA sic peragit citata cursum ; 
 Sic diem sequitur dies fugacem ! 
 Spes novas nova lux parit, secunda 
 Spondens omnia credulis homullis ; 
 Spes ludit stolidas, metuque caeco 
 Lux angit, miseros ludens homullos. 
 
 VERSUS, 
 
 COLLARI CAPR.E DOMINI BANKS INSCRIBENDI. 
 
 PERPETUI, ambitsi bis terra praemia lactis 
 Haec habet, altrici capra secunda Jovis. 
 
 AD FffiMINAM ftUANDAM GENERO3AM QVM LI- 
 BERTATIS CAUSJE IN SERMONE PATROCINATA 
 FUERAT. 
 
 LIBER ut esse velim suasisti, pulchra Maria : 
 Ut maiteam liber, pulchra Maria, vale. 
 
 JACTURA TEMPORIS. 
 
 HORA pent furtim laetis, mens temporis aegra 
 Pigritiam incusat, nee minus hora perit. 
 
 Q.UAS navis recipit, quantum sit pondus aqua- 
 rum, 
 Dimidium tanti ponderis intret onus. 
 
 Q.UOT vox missa pedes abit horse parte secunda ? 
 Undecies centum denos quater adde duosque. 
 
 E/f BIPXION.* 
 
 'Ellcv 'AX;0ii7 wpwrjv xnipotxra ypd<j>ovra 
 'Hfwfluv rt jSi'owj Bipxiov, f/ii ao<pS>i\ 
 
 Kal plov, tlirtv, Srav frfyris Savdroio /?A<r<7i, 
 EoB irore ypa\l/6pcvov Bipxiov aXXov Ix 01 *- 
 
 The Rev. Dr. Thomas Birch, author of the History 
 of the Royal Society, and other works of note. 
 
 Eli Tb TTJS 'EAISSHS ir p} T&V 'Oc 
 Atviy[ta.* 
 
 Tfj Kd^ov; Ivvdpei rl r/Xoj ; Zcut irdvra 
 KvTOi(5(, fir/i' aiirov aurj-nTpa fiffirj^c Qtiu 
 
 *E* Ai*5 tarlv "Ovaf, $c!6s -or typa.<tv " 
 'AXXa TiJi' els Svqrovs Ku'rpif jrfi^/v "Ovao. 
 
 Zevs povvos <f>\oy6cvTi mSX.Eif tKirtpae Kepavvtp, 
 'Onftaffi Xa/Jirpa Aids KuTrpij Hard <j>tpei. 
 
 IN ELIZJ2 ENIGMA. 
 
 CltJis formss modus imperio ? Venus arrogal 
 audax 
 
 Omnia, nee CUHE sunt sua sceptra Jovi. 
 Ab Jove Ma?onides descendere somnia narral ; 
 
 HffiC veniunt Cypriae somnia missa Deoe, 
 Jupiter unus erat, qui stravit fulmine gentes ; 
 
 Nunc armant Voneris lumina tela Jovis. 
 
 t O QUI benignus crimina ignoscis, Pater, 
 Facilisque semper confitenti ades reo, 
 Aurem faventem precious O praebe meis , 
 Scelerum catena me laborantem grav6 
 ^Eterna tandem liberet dementia, 
 Ut summa laus sit, summa Christo gloria. 
 
 PER vitae tenebras rerumque incerta vagantem 
 Numine praesenti me tueare, Pater ! 
 
 Me ducat lux sancta, Deus, lux sancta sequatur; 
 Usque regat gressus, gratia fida meos. 
 
 Sic peragam tua jussa libens, accinctus ad omno 
 Mandatum, vivam, sic moriarque tibi. 
 
 ME, Pater omnipotens, de puro respice ccelo, 
 Quern moestum et timidum crimina dira gra 
 vant ; 
 
 Da veniam pacemque mihi, da, niente serena, 
 Ut tibi quse placeant, omnia promptus agam. 
 
 Solvi, quo Christus cunctis delicta redemit, 
 Et pro me pretium, tu patiare, Pater. 
 
 [Dec. 5. 17844] 
 SUMME Deus, cui caeca patent penetralia cord>s , 
 
 duem nulla anxietas, nulla cupido fugit; 
 Cluem nil vafrities peccantum subdola celat ; 
 
 Omni qui spectans, omnia ubique regis ; 
 Mentibus afflatu terrenas ejice sordes 
 
 Divino, sanctus regnet ut intus amor ; 
 Eloquiumque potens linguis torpentibus affer 
 
 Ut tibi laus omni semper ab ore sonet : 
 Sanguine quo gentes, quo secula cuncta piavit, 
 
 Haec nobis Christus promeruisse velit ' 
 
 PSALMUS CXVII. 
 
 ANNI qua volucris ducitur orbita, 
 Patrem ccelicolum perpetuo colunt 
 
 * The lady on whom these verses, and the Latin ones 
 that immediately follow, were written, is the celebrated 
 Mrs. Elizabeth Carter, who translated the works of Epic- 
 tetus from the Greek. 
 
 f This and the three following articles are metrical 
 versions of collects in the Liturgy ; the first, of that, 
 beginning, " O God, whose nature and property ;'' tha 
 2d and 3d, of the collects for the 17th and 21st Sundays 
 after Trinity and the 4th, of the 1st collect in the com 
 munion service. 
 
 t The day on which he received the sacrament for the 
 la st time ; and eight days before his decease
 
 POEMATA. 
 
 565 
 
 duovis sanguine cretae 
 
 Gentes undique carmine. 
 Patrem, cujus amor blandior in dies 
 Mortales miseros servat, alit, fovet. 
 Omnes undique gentes, 
 Sancto dicite carmine. 
 
 * SEU te sseva, levitas sive improba fecit, 
 
 Musca, mese comitem, participemque dapis, 
 Pone metum, rostrum fidens immitte culullo, 
 
 Nam licet, et toto proliie laeta mero. 
 Tu, quamcunque tibi velox indulserit annus, 
 
 Carpe diem, fugit heu, non revocanda dies ! 
 Gluse nos blanda comes, quae nosperducateodem, 
 
 Volvitur hora mihi, volvitur hpra tibi! 
 Una quidem, sic fata volunt, tibi vivitur aestas, 
 
 Eheu, quid decies plus mihi sexta dedit ! 
 Olim praeteritaj numeranti tempora vitae, 
 
 Sexaginta annis non minor unus erit. 
 
 f HABEO, dedi quod alteri ; 
 Habuique, quod dedi mihi; 
 Sed quod reliqui, perdidi. 
 
 tEWALTONI PISCATORE PERFECTO 
 
 EXCERPTUM. 
 NUNC, per gramina fusi, 
 Densa fronde salicti, 
 Dnm defenditur imber, 
 Molles ducimus horas. 
 Hie, dum debita morti 
 Paulum vita moratur, 
 Nunc rescire priora, 
 Nunc instare futuris, 
 Nunc summi prece sancta 
 Patris numen adire est. 
 Q,uicquid qureritur ultra, 
 Caeco ducit amore, 
 Vel spe ludit inani, 
 Lucius mox pariturum. 
 
 * The above is a version of the song, "Busy, curious, 
 thirsty tly." 
 
 t These lines are a version of three sentences that are 
 said in the manuscript to be " On the monument of John 
 of Doncaster;" and which are as follow : 
 What I gave that I have ; 
 What I spent that I had ; 
 What I left that I lost. 
 
 t These lines are a translation of part of a Song in the 
 Complete Angler of Isaac Walton, written by John Chalk- 
 hill, a friend of Spenser, and a good poet in his time. 
 They are but part of the last stanza, which, that the reader 
 may have it entire, is here given at length 
 If the sun's excessive heat 
 Make our bodies swelter 
 To an osier hedge we get 
 For a friendly shelter. 
 Where in a dike, 
 Perch or pike, 
 Roach or dace, 
 We do chase, 
 Bleak or gudgeon, 
 Without g'rudVing, 
 
 We are still contented. 
 Or we sometimes pass an hour 
 
 Under a green willow, 
 That defends us from a shower, 
 Making earth our pillow. 
 Where we may 
 Think and pray, 
 Before death 
 Stops our breath ; 
 Other joys 
 Are but toys. 
 
 And to be lamented. 
 
 *GUris<iuis iter tendis, vitreas qua lucidus undas 
 Speluncae late Thamesis praetendit opacae ; 
 Marmorea trepidant qua lentae in fornice gutte, 
 Crystallisque latex fractus scintilla! acutis ; 
 Gemmaque, luxurine nondum famulata nitentf 
 Splendit, et incoquitur tectum sine fraude me- 
 
 tallum ; 
 
 tngredere O ! rerum pura cole mente parentem ; 
 Auriferasque auri metuens scrutare cavernas. 
 Ingredere ! Egeriae sacrum en tibi panditur an- 
 
 trum ! 
 
 Hie, in se totum, longe per opaca futuri 
 Temporis, Henricum rapuit vis vivida mentis : 
 Hie pia Vindamius traxit suspiria, in ipsa 
 Morte memor patrice ; hie, Marmonti pectore 
 
 prima 
 
 Coelestis fido caluerunt semina flammae. 
 Temnereopes, pretium sceleris, patriamque tueri 
 Fortis, ades ; tibi sponte patet venerabile limen. 
 
 GR^ECORUM EPIGRAMMATUM 
 
 VERSIONES METRICS. 
 Pag. 2. Brodaei edit Bas. Ann. 1549. 
 NON Argos pugilem, non me Messana creavit ; 
 
 Patria Sparta mihi est. patria clara virum. 
 Arte valent isti, mihi robo revivere solo est, 
 Convenit ut natis, inclyta Sparta, tuis. 
 
 Br. 2. 
 
 passim nulla ratione feruntur, 
 Cuncta cinis, cuncta et ludicra, cuncta nihil. 
 
 Br. 5. 
 PECTORE qui duro, crudos de vite racemos 
 
 Venturi exsecuit, vascula prima meri, 
 Labraque constrictus, semesos, jamque terendos 
 
 Sub pedibus, populo praetereunte, jacit. 
 Supplicium huic, quoniam crescentia gaudi laesit, 
 
 Det Bacchus, dederat quale, Lycurge, tibi. 
 Has poterant uvae laeto convivia cantu 
 
 Mulcere, aut pectus triste levare malis. 
 
 Br. 8. 
 
 FERT humeris claudum validis per compita coecus, 
 Hie oculos socio commodat, ille pedes. 
 
 Br. 10. 
 dui, mufare vias ausus terraeque marisque, 
 
 Trajecit montes nauta, fretumque pedes, 
 Xerxi, tercentum Spartae Mars obstitit acris 
 
 Militibus ; terris sit pelagoque pudor! 
 
 Br. 11. 
 
 SIT tibi, Calliope, Parnassum, cura, tenenti, 
 Alter ut adsit Homerus, adest etenim alter 
 Achilles. 
 
 Br. 18. 
 AD Musas Venus haec ; Veneri parete puellse, 
 
 In vos ne missus spicula tendat amor. 
 Hasc Musje ad Venerem ; sic Marti, diva, mmens, 
 
 Hue nunquam volitat debilis iste puer. 
 
 * The above lines are a version of Pope's verses on hi 
 wn grotto, which begin, " Thou who shalt stop where 
 rhames' translucent wave "
 
 POEMATA. 
 
 Br. 19. 
 PROSPERA sors nee te strepitoso turbine tollat, 
 
 Nee menti injiciat sordida cura jugum ; 
 Nam vita incertis incerta impellitur auris, 
 * Omnesque in partes tracta, retraeta fluit ; 
 Firma manet virtus ; virtuti mnitere, tutus 
 Per fluctus vitas sic tibi cursus erit. 
 
 Br. 24. 
 HORA bonis quasi nunc instet suprema fruaris, 
 
 Plura ut victurus secula, parce bonis ; 
 Divitiis, utrinque cavens, (jui tempore parcit, 
 
 Tempore divitiis utitur, ille sapit. 
 
 NUNQUAM jugera messibus onusta, aut 
 duos Gyges cumulus habebat auri ; 
 duod vitae satis est, peto, Macrine, 
 Mi, nequid nimis, est nimis probatum. 
 
 Br. 24. 
 
 Br. 24. 
 
 NON opto aut precibus posco ditescere, paucis 
 Sit contenta mihi vita dolore carens. 
 
 Br. 24. 
 
 RECTA ad pauperiem tendit, cui corpora cordi est 
 Multa alere, et multas aedificare domos. 
 
 Br. 24. 
 
 Ttr neque dulee putes alienae accumbere mensae, 
 Nee probrosa avidae grata sit offa gulae ; 
 
 Nee ficto fletu, fictis solvare cachinnis, 
 Arridens domino, collacrymansque tuo. 
 
 Laetior baud tecum, tecum neque tristior un- 
 
 quam, 
 Sed Milise ridens, atque dolens Miliae. 
 
 Br. 26. 
 NIL non mortale est mortalibus ; omne quod est 
 
 hie 
 Praetereunt, aut hos praeterit omne bonum. 
 
 Br. 26. 
 DEMOCRITE, invisas homines majore cachinno, 
 
 Plus tibi ridendum secula nostra dabunt. 
 Heraclite, fluat lacrymarum crebrior imber ; 
 
 Vita hominum nunc plus quod misereris habet. 
 Interea dubito : tecum me causa nee ulla 
 
 Ridere, aut tecum me lacrimare jubet. 
 
 Br. 26. 
 LLIGE iter yitae ut possis : rixisque dolisque 
 
 Pcrstrepit omne forum; cura molesta domi 
 
 est. 
 Rura labor lassat ; mare mille pericula terrent; 
 
 Verte solum, fient causa timoris opes ; 
 Paupertas misera est ; multse cum conjuge litee 
 
 Tccta ineunt ; ccelebs omnia solus ages, [est 
 Proles aucta gravat, rapta orbat, cceca juvente 
 
 Virtus, canities cauta vigore caret [oras 
 
 Ergo optent homines, aut nunquam in luminis 
 
 Venisse, aut visa luce repente mori. 
 
 ELIGE iter vitae ut mavis, prudentia lausque 
 
 Permeat omne forum ; vita quieta domi est 
 Rus ornat natura ; levat maris aspera lucrum, 
 
 Verte solum, donet plena crumena decus ; 
 Pauperies latitat, cum conjuge gaudia multa 
 
 Tecta ineunt, ccelebs impediere minus ; 
 Mulcet amor prolis, sopor est sine prole pro 
 fundus ; 
 
 Praecellit juvenis vi, pietate senex. 
 Nemo optet nunquam venisse in luminis oras, 
 
 Aut periisse, scatet vita benigna bonis. 
 
 Br. 27. 
 
 VITA omms scena est ludusque, aut ludeie diace 
 Seria seponens, aut mala dura pati. 
 
 Br. 27. 
 dc.E sine morte fuga est vitas, quam turba ina- 
 
 lorum 
 
 Non vitanda gravem, non toleranda facit ? 
 Dulcia dat natura quidem, mare, sidera, terras. 
 
 Lunaque quas et sol itque reditque vias. 
 Terror inest aliis, moerorque, et siquid habebis 
 Forte boni, ultrices experiere vices. 
 
 Br. 27. 
 
 TEKRAM adis nudus, de terra nudus abibo, 
 duid labor efficiet ? non nisi nudus ero. 
 
 Br. 27. 
 NATUS eram lacrymans, lacrymans e luce re 
 
 cedo: 
 
 Sunt quibus a lacrymis vix vacat ulla dies. 
 Tale hominum genus est, infirmum, triste, mi- 
 
 sellum, 
 duod mors in cineres solvit, et abdit humo. 
 
 Br. 29. 
 
 dcisftuis adit lectos elata uxore secundos, 
 Naufragus iratas ille retentat aquas. 
 
 Br. 30. 
 FELIX ante alios nullius debitor aeris ; 
 
 Hunc sequitur ccelebs ; tertius, orbe, venis. 
 Nee male res cessit, subito si funere sponsam 
 
 Ditatus magna dote, recondis humo. 
 His sapiens lectis, Epicurum quaerere frustra 
 
 duales sint monades, qua fit inane, sinas. 
 
 Br. 31. 
 OPTARIT quicunque senex sibi longius aevum, 
 
 Dignus qui multa in lustra senescat, erit. 
 Cum procul est, optat, cum venit, quisque se- 
 tt ec tarn 
 Incusat, semper spe meliora videt. 
 
 Br. 46. 
 
 OMNIS vita nimis brevis est felicibus, una 
 Nox miseris longi temporis instar habet 
 
 Br. 55. 
 
 GRATIA ter grata est velox, sin forte moretur, 
 Gratia vix restat nomine digna suo.
 
 POEMATA. 
 
 567 
 
 Br. 56. 
 
 SEC prece poscatur, seu non, da Jupiter omne, 
 Magnc, bonum ; omne malum, et poscentibus 
 a&nue nobis. 
 
 Br. 60. 
 ME, cane vitato, canis excipit alter: eodem 
 
 In me animo tellus gignit et unda feras, 
 Nee mirum ; restat lepori conscendere ccBlum, 
 
 Sidereus tamen hie territat, ecce canis ! 
 
 Br. 70. 
 
 TELLURI, arboritrus ver frondens, sidera coelo, 
 Grreciae et urbs, urbi est ista propago, decus. 
 
 Br. 75. 
 
 IMPIA facta patrans, homines fortasse latebis, 
 Non poteris, meditans prava, latere Deoa. 
 
 Br. 75. 
 ANTIOPE satyrum, Danae aurum, Europa ju- 
 
 vencum, 
 Et cycnum fecit, Leda petita Jovem. 
 
 Br. 92. 
 
 JE>vi sat novi quam sim brevis ; astra tuenti, 
 Per certas stabili lege voluta vices, 
 
 Tangitur baud pedibus tellus ; conviya Deorum 
 Espleor ambrosiis exhilarorque cibis. 
 
 Br. 96. 
 
 duoD niinnim est sit ineptum, hinc, ut dixere 
 
 priores, 
 Et me'li nimio fellis amaror inest. 
 
 Br. 103. 
 PUPPE gubernatrix sedisti, audacia, prima 
 
 Divitiis acuens aspera corda virum ; 
 Sola rates struis infidas, et dulcis amorem 
 
 Lucri ulciscendum mox nece sola doces. 
 Aurea secla hominum, quorum spectandus ocellis 
 
 E longinquo itidem pontus et orcus erat. 
 
 Br. 126. 
 DITESCIS, credo, quid restat? quicquid habebis 
 
 In tumulum tecum, morte jubente, trahes ? 
 Divitias cumulas, pereuntes negligis horas 
 
 Incrementa a;vi non cumulare potes. 
 
 Br. 126. 
 
 MATER adulantum, prolesque pecunia curae, 
 Teque frui timor est, teque carere dolor. 
 
 Br. 126. 
 
 ME miserum sors omnis habet ; florentibus annis 
 Pauper eram, nummis diffluit area senis ; 
 
 duels uti poteram quondam Fortuna negavit, 
 dueis uti nequeo, nunc mihi praebet opes. 
 
 Br. 127. 
 
 MNEMOSYNE, ut Sappho mellita voce canentem 
 Audiit, irata est ne nova Musa foret. 
 
 Br. 152. 
 
 CUM tacet indoctus, sapientior esse videtur, 
 Et morbus tegitur, dum premit ora pudor. 
 
 Br. 155. 
 NUNC huic, nunc aliis cedens, cura farra Me- 
 
 nippus 
 
 Credit, Achaemenidae nuper agellus eram. 
 
 duod nulli proprium versat Fortuna, putabat 
 
 Hie suum stoh'dus, nunc putat ille suum. 
 
 Br. 156. 
 
 NON Fortuna sibi te gratum tollitin alt urn; 
 At docet, exemplo, vis sibi quanta, tuo. 
 
 Br. 162. 
 Hie, aurum ut reperit, laqueum abjicit, alter ut 
 
 aurum 
 Non reperit, nectit quern reperit, laqueum. 
 
 Br. 167. 
 
 VIVE tuo ex animo, vario rumore loquetur 
 De te plebs audax, hie bene, et ille male. 
 
 Br. 168. 
 
 VITJE rosa brevis est, properans si carpere nolis. 
 duaerenti obveniet mox sine flore rubus. 
 
 Br. 170. 
 
 PULICIBUS morsus, restincta lampade, stultus 
 Exclamat : nunc me cernere desinitis. 
 
 Br. 202. 
 
 MENODOTUM pinxit Diodorus, et exit imago, 
 Praeter Menodotum, nullius absimilis. 
 
 Br. 205. 
 
 HAUD lavit Phido, haud tetigit, mihi febre calenti 
 In mentem ut venit nominis, interii. 
 
 Br. 210 
 
 NYCTICORAX cantat lethale, sed ipsa cancnti 
 Demophilo auscultans Nycticorax moritur. 
 
 Br. 212. 
 
 HERMEM Deorum nuncium, pennis levem, 
 duo rege gaudent Arcades, furem bourn, 
 Hujus palestrae qui vigil custos stetit, 
 Clam nocte tollit Aulus, et ridens ait : 
 Praestat magistro saepe discipulus suo. 
 
 Br. 223. 
 
 dui jacet hie, servua vixit, nunc, lumine cassus, 
 Dario magno non minus ille potest 
 
 Br. 227. 
 
 FUNUS Alexandri mentitur fama : fidesque 
 Si Phoebo, victor nescit obire diem. 
 
 Br. 241. 
 
 NAUTA, quis hoc jaceat ne percontere sepulchro, 
 Eveniat tantum mitior unda tibi ! 
 
 Br. 256. 
 
 CUR opulentus eges? tua cuncta in fcenore ponia. 
 Sic aliis dives, tu tibi pauper agis. 
 
 Br. 262. 
 
 dui pascit barbam si crescit mente, Platoni, 
 Hirce, parem nitido tua barba facit.
 
 568 
 
 POEMATA. 
 
 Br. 266. 
 ^LARUS Joannes, reginoe affinis, ab alto 
 
 Sanguine Anastasii ; cuncta sepulta jacent : 
 Et pi us', et recti cultor: non ilia jacere 
 
 Dicam ; stat virtus non subigenda neci. 
 
 Br. 267. 
 
 CUNCTIPARENS tellus salve, levis esto pusillo 
 Lysigeni, fuerat non gravis ille tibi. 
 
 Br. 285. 
 NAUFRAGUS hie jaceo; contra, jacet ecce co- 
 
 lonus ! 
 Idem orcus terra, sic, pelagoque subest. 
 
 Br. 301. 
 QUID salvere jubes me, pessime? Corripc 
 
 Cfressus ; 
 Est mihi quod non te rideo, plena salus. 
 
 Br. 304. 
 
 ET ferus est Timon sub terris ; janitor orci, 
 Cerbere te morsu ne, petat ille, cave. 
 
 Br. 307. 
 VITAM a terdecimo sextus mihi finiet annus, 
 
 Astra mathematicos si modo vera docent. 
 SufEcit hoc votis, flos hie pulcherrimus aevi est, 
 
 Et senium triplex Nestoris urna capit. 
 
 Br. 322. 
 
 ZOSIMA, quae solo fuit olim corpore serva, 
 Corpore nunc etiam libera facta fuit. 
 
 Br. 328. 
 EXIGUUM en ! Priami monumentum ; haud ille 
 
 meretur 
 duale, sed hostiles, quale dedere manus. 
 
 Br. 326. 
 
 HECTOR dat gladium Ajaci, datbalteum et Ajax 
 Hectori, et exitio munus utrique fuit. 
 
 Br. 344. 
 UT vis, ponte minax ; modo tres discesseris 
 
 ulnas, 
 Ingemina fluctus, ingeminaque sonum. 
 
 Br. 344. 
 
 NAUFRAGUS hie jaceo ; fidens tamen utere velis, 
 Tutum aliis aequor, me pereunte, fuit. 
 
 Br. 398. 
 HERACLITUS ego ; indoctoe ne leedire linguae 
 
 Subtile ingenium quaero, capaxque mei, 
 Unus homo mihi pro sexcentis, turba popelli 
 
 Pro nullo, clamo nunc tumulatus idem. 
 
 Br. 399. 
 AMBRACIOTA, vale rux alma, Cleombrotus infit, 
 
 Et saltu e muro ditis opaca petit : 
 Triate nihil passus, animi at de sorte Platonis 
 
 Scripta legens, sola vivere mente cupiL 
 
 Br. 399. 
 
 SERVUS, Epictetus, mutilato corpore, vixi, 
 Pauperieque Irua curaque summa Deum. 
 
 Br. 445 
 
 UNDE hie Praxiteles? nudam vidistis, Adoni, 
 Et Pari, et Anchisa, non alius, Venerein. 
 
 Br. 451. 
 
 SCFFLATO accendis quisquis carbone lucernam, 
 Corde meo accendens ; ardeo totus ego. 
 
 Br. 4Sh. 
 JUPITER hoc templum, ut siquando relinquit 
 
 Olyrapum, 
 Atthide non alius desit Olympus, habet. 
 
 Br. 437. 
 
 Cms et externus grati ; domus hospita ncscit 
 duaerere, quis, cujus, quis pater, unde venis. 
 
 POMPEII. 
 
 Br. 487. 
 
 CUM fugere haud possit, fractis Victoria pennis, 
 Te manet imperii, Roma, perenne decus. 
 
 Br. 488. 
 
 LATRONES alibi locupletum quaerite tecta, 
 Assidet huic custos strenua pauperies. 
 
 FORTUNJE malim adversae tolerare procellas, 
 Q,uam domini ingentis ferre supercilium. 
 
 EN, Sexto, Sexti meditatur imago, silente, 
 Orator statua est, statuasque orator imago. 
 
 PULCHRA est virginitas intacta, at vita periret, 
 Omnes si vellent virginitate frui ; 
 
 Nequitiam fugiens, servata contrahe lege 
 Conjugium, ut pro te des hominem patriae. 
 
 FERT humeris, venerabile onus, Cythereius heros 
 Per Trojae flammas, densaque tela, patrem, 
 
 Clamat et Argivis, vetuli, ne tangite, vita 
 Exiguum est Marti, sed mihi grande lucrum. 
 
 FORMA animos hominum capit, at, si gratia dcsit, 
 Non tenet; esca natat pulchra, sed hamus 
 abest. 
 
 COGITAT aut loquitur nil vir, nil cogitat uxor, 
 Felici thalamo non, puto, rixa strepiL 
 
 BUCCINA disjecit Thebarum moania, struxit 
 Cluas lyra, quam sibi non concinit harmonia ' 
 
 MENTE senes olim juvenis, Faustine, premebas, 
 Nunc juvenum terres robore corda senex. 
 
 Laevum at utrumque decus, juveni quod praebuit 
 
 olim 
 Turba senum, juvenes nunc tribucre seni. 
 
 EXCEPT^ hospitio musae, tribuere libellos 
 Herodoto hospitii prasmia, quaeque suum
 
 POEMATA. 
 
 569 
 
 STELLA mea, observans stellas. Dii me sethera 
 
 faxint J 
 
 Multis ut te oculis skn potis aspicere. 
 
 CLARA Cheroneae soboles, Plutarche, dicavit 
 Hanc statuam ingenio, Roma benigna, tuo. 
 
 Das bene collates, quos Roma et Graecia jactat, 
 Ad DITOS paribus passibus ire duccs ; 
 
 Sed similem Ptutarche, tuaj describere vitam 
 Non poteras, regie non tulit ulla parem. 
 
 DAT tibi Pythagoram pictor; quod ni ipse tacer 
 Pythagoras mallet, vocem habuisset opus. 
 
 Hippi et sua qua. meliorem secula 
 nullum 
 
 Videre, Archidicen ruec tumulavit humus : 
 -Uiam, regum sobolem, nuptam, matrcm, atque 
 
 sororem 
 Feccrunt nulli sors titulique gravem. 
 
 CECROPIDIS gravis hie ponor, Martique dicatus, 
 duo tua signantur gesta, Philippe, lapis. 
 
 Spreta jacet Marathon, jacet et Salaminia laurus, 
 Omnia dum Macedum gloria et arma pre- 
 munt. 
 
 Sint Demosthenica ut jurata cadavera voce, 
 Stabo illis qui sunt, quique fuere, gravis. 
 
 FLORIBUS in pratis, legi quos ipse, coronam 
 Contextam variis, do, Rhodoclea, tibi : 
 
 Hie anemone humet, confert narcissus odores 
 Cum violis ; spirant lilia mista rosis. 
 
 His redimita comas, mores depone superbos, 
 Hsec peritura nitent ; tu peritura nites ! 
 
 MUREM Asclepiades sub tecto ut vidit avarus, 
 duid tibi, mus, mecum, dixit, amice, tibi ? 
 
 Mus blandum ridens, respondit, pelle timorem ; 
 Hie, bone vir, sedem, non alimenta, peto. 
 
 tuum in tumulum lacrymarum decidit 
 imber 
 
 duem fundit blando junctus amore dolor; 
 Charus enim cunctis, tonquam, dum vita ma- 
 
 nebat, 
 
 Cuique esses natus, cuique sodalis, eras. 
 Heu quam dura preces sprevit, quam surda 
 
 querelas 
 Parca, juventutum non miserata tuam ! 
 
 ARTI ignis lucem tribui, tamen artis et ignis 
 
 Nunc ope, supplicii vivit imago mei. 
 Gratia nulla hominum mentes tenet, ista Pro- 
 
 methei 
 Munera muneribus, si retulere fabri. 
 
 ILLA triumphatrix Graium consueta procorum 
 Ante suas agmen Lais habere fores, 
 
 Hoc Veneri speculum ; nolo me cernere qualis 
 Sum nunc, nee oossum cernere qualis eram. 
 
 CRETHIDA fabellas dulces garrire peritam 
 Proscquitur lacrymis filia mcesta Sam ; * 
 3W 
 
 Blandam lanifici sociam sine fine loquacem, 
 Quam tenet hie, cunctas qua: manet,alta quies. 
 
 DICITE, Causidici, gelido nunc marmore magni 
 Mugitum tumulus comprimit Amphiloci. 
 
 Si forsan tumulum quo conditur Eumarus au 
 
 fers 
 Nil lucri facies ; ossa habet et cinercm. 
 
 EPICETI. 
 
 ME, rex deorum, tuque, due, necessitas, 
 duo, lege vestra, vita me feret mea. 
 Sequar libenter, sin reluctari velim, 
 Fiam scelestus, nee tamen minus sequar. 
 
 POETA, lector, hie quiescit Hipponax, 
 Si sis scelestus, praeteri, procul, marmor . 
 At te bonum si noris, et bonis natum, 
 Tutum hie sedile, et si placet, sopor tutus. 
 
 EUR. MED. 193203. 
 
 NON immerito culpanda venit 
 Proavum vascors insipientia, 
 dui convivia lautasque dapes 
 Hilarare suis jussere modis 
 Cantum, vitas dulce levamen, 
 At nemo feras iras hominum, 
 Domibus claris exitiales, 
 Voce aut fidibus pellere docuit 
 dueis tamen aptam ferre medelam 
 Utile cunctis hoc opus esset ; 
 Namque, ubi mensas onerant epulae, 
 duorsum dulcis luxuria soni ? 
 Sat laetitia sine subsidiis, 
 Pectora molli mulcet dubise 
 G'opia ccense. 
 
 ToTos* 
 Ktai TO? 
 
 To\oiyt>s evi v 
 
 Qcdv. 
 
 The above is a Version of a Latin Epigram on th 
 famous John Duke of Marlborough, by the Abbe Salvini, 
 which is as tbllows : 
 
 Haud alio vultu, fremuit Mars acer in armis : 
 Haud alio, Cypriam percutit ore Deam. 
 
 The Duke was, it seems, remarkably handsome in 
 his person, to which the second line has reference 
 
 SEPTEM STATES. 
 
 PRIMA parit terras astas, siccatque secunda, 
 Evocat Abramum dein tertia : quarta relinquit 
 ^gyptum ; templo Solomonis quinta supersit ; 
 Cyrum sexta timet ; laetatur septima Christo. 
 
 * His Tempelmanni numeris descripseris orbem, 
 Cum sex centuriis Judaso millia septem. 
 
 * To the above Lines, (which are unfinished, and can 
 therefore be only offered as a fragment) in the Doctor's 
 manuscript, are prefixed the words, " Geographia Me. 
 trica." As we are referred, in the first of the verses, to 
 Templeman, for having furnished the numerical com 
 putationa that are the subject of them, his work has beer, 
 accordingly consulted, the title of which is, ' A New
 
 570 
 
 POEMATA. 
 
 Myrias b ^Egypto cessit bis septima pingui. 
 Myrins adsciscit sibi nonagesima septem 
 Imperium qua Turca e ferox exercet miquum. 
 Undecies binas decadas et millia septem, 
 Sortitur d Pelopis tellus quae nomine gaudet. 
 Myriidas decies septem numerare jubebit 
 Pt.btt i d Arabs : decies octo sibi Persa d requirit. 
 Myriadas sibi pulchra duas, duo millia poscit 
 Parthenope. d Novies vult tellus mille Sicana. 
 f Papa suo regit imperio ter millia quinque. 
 Cum 8ex centuriis numeral sex millia Tuscus.e 
 Cent aria Ligures h augent duo millia quartd. [do?. 
 Centuriae octavam decadem addit Lucca' secun- 
 Ut dicas, spatiis quam latis imperet orbi 
 k Russia, myriadas ter denas adde trecentis : 
 'Sardinian! cum sexcentis sex millia complent. 
 Cum sexagenis, dum plura recluserit aetas, 
 
 Myriadas ter mille homini dat terra colendas. 
 Vult sibi vicenas millesim^myrias addi, 
 Vicenis quinas, Asiam n metata celebrem. 
 Se quinquagenis octingentesima jungit 
 Myrias, ut menti pateat tota Africa doctse. 
 Myriadas septem decies EuropaP ducentis 
 Et quadragenis quoque ter tria millia jungit. 
 Myriadas denas dat, quinque et millia, sexque 
 Centurias, et tres decadas Europa Britannis.l 
 Ter tria myriadi conjungit millia quarts, 
 Centurise quarte decades quinque r Anglia nectit. 
 Millia myriadi septem fcecunda secundae 
 Et quadragenis decadas quinque addit lerne.* 
 Glumgentis qaudragenis socialis adauget 
 Millia Belga* npvem. 
 
 Ter sex centurias Hollandia* jactat opima. 
 Undecimum Camber* vult septem millibus addi. 
 
 Survey of the Globe," and which professes to give an 
 accurate mensuration of all the empires, kingdoms, and 
 other divisions thereof, in the square miles that they 
 respectively contain. On comparison of the several 
 mur.bers in these verses with those set down by Temple- 
 man, it appears that nearly half of them are precisely 
 the same ; the rest are not quite so exactly done. For 
 the convenience of the reader, it has been thought right 
 to subjoin each number, as it stands in Templeman's 
 works, to that in Dr. Johnson's verses which refers to it. 
 a. In this first article that is versified, there is an accu- 
 rate conformity in Dr. Johnson's number to Temple- 
 man's ; who sets down the square miles of Palestine at 
 7,600. b. The square miles of Egypt are, in Temple- 
 man, 140,700. c. The whole Turkish empire, in Tem- 
 pleman, is computed at 960,057 square miles. d. In the 
 jour following articles, the numbers in Templeman and 
 in Johnson's verses are alike We find, accordingly, the 
 Morea, in Templeman, to be set down at 7,220 square 
 
 miles. Arabia, at 700,000. Persia at 800,000. And Na- 
 ples, at 22,000. e. Sicily, in Templeman, is put down at 
 9,400. f. The Pope's dominions, at 14,968. g. Tuscany, 
 at 6,640. h. Genoa, in Templeman, as in Johnson like- 
 wise, is set down at 2.400. i. Lucca, at 286. k. The 
 Russian empire, in the 29th plate of T.empleman, is set 
 down at 3,303,485 sq. miles. 1. Sardinia, in Templeman, 
 as likewise in Johnson, 6,600. m. The habitable world, 
 in Templeman, is computed, in square miles, at 30,666,- 
 806. n. Asia, at 10,257,437. o. Africa, at 8,506,208. 
 p. Europe, at 2,749,349. -q. The British dominions, at 
 105,634. r. England, as likewise in Johnson's expres- 
 sion of the number, at 49,450. s. Ireland, at 27,457. 
 t. In the three remaining instances, which make the 
 whole that Dr. Johnson appears to have rendered into 
 Latin verse, we find the numbers exactly agreeing with 
 those of Templeman ; who makes the square miles of 
 the United Provinces, 9,340 ; of the Province of Hoi. 
 land, 1,800; and of Wales, 7,011. 
 
 END 07 VOL. 1