SAM* J O HN SON, I, L, D, THE WORKS ' 0F 7- SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. WITH MURPHY’S ESSAY. EDITED BY THE REV. ROBERT LYNAM, A.M. ASSISTANT CHAPLAIN TO THE MAGDALEN HOSPITAL. IN SIX VOLUMES. VOL I. LIBRARY LONDON : PRINTED FOR GEORGE COWIE AND CO. IN THE POULTRY. • v ' •< „ !f \ i 18251 \ S'M { * O V> .6 r 68. Every man chiefly happy or miserable at home. The opi- nion of servants not to be despised 317 69. The miseries and prejudice of old age 322 70. Different men virtuous in different degrees. The vicious not always abandoned 326 — ' 71. No man believes that his own life will be short 330 72. The necessity of good humour 334 73. The lingering expectation of an heir 338 74. Peevishness equally wretched and offensive. The character ofTetrica * 343 75. The world never known but by a change of fortune. The history of Melissa 347 76. The arts by which bad men are reconciled to themselves* • 352 77. The learned seldom despised but when they deserve contempt 356 78. The power of novelty. Mortality too familiar to raise appre- hensions 361 79. A suspicious man justly suspected 366 80. Variety necessary to happiness. A winter scene 370 81. The great rule of action. Debts of justice to be distinguished from debts of charity 374 82. The virtuoso’s account of his rarities 378 83. The virtuoso’s curiosity justified 383 84. A young lady’s impatience of controul 388 ' 85. The mischiefs of total idleness 393 ^ 86. The danger of succeeding a great authour : an introduction to a criticism on Milton’s versification 398 87. The reasons why advice is generally ineffectual* • • 403 \88. A criticism on Milton’s versification. Elisions dangerous in English poetry 407 89. The luxury of vain imagination 411 , $0. The pauses in English poetry adjusted 416 91. The conduct of patronage, an allegory 421 92. The accommodation of sound to sense, often chimerical* • • 425 CONTENTS. viii N° Page 93. The prejudices and caprices of criticism 432 \94. An inquiry how far Milton has accommodated the sound to the sense. 436 95. The history of Pertinax the sceptlck 442 96. Truth, falsehood, and fiction, an allegory 447 97. Advice to unmarried ladies 451 98. The necessity of cultivating politeness 457 99. The pleasures of private friendship. The necessity of similar dispositions * 462 90. Modish pleasures * 466 A proper audience necessary to a wit 471 : — * The voyage of life 476 10v e prevalence of curiosity. The character of Nugaculus* 481 104. original of flattery. The meanness of venal praise. • . . 486 ~T0 5. 1 ne universal register, a dream 490 106. The vanity of an authour’s expectations. Reasons why good authours are sometimes neglected 495 107. Properantia’s hopes of a year of confusion. The misery of prostitutes 499 W T68. Life sufficient to all purposes if well employed 504 109. The education of a fop 508 110. Repentance stated and explained. Retirement and absti- nence useful to repentance 514 - 111. Youth made unfortunate by its haste and eagerness* • * * . . . 519 112. Too much nicety not to be indulged. The character of Eri- phile * 523 113. The history of Hymenaeus’s courtship 528 114. The necessity of proportioning punishments to crimes 532 115. The sequel of Hymenaeus’s courtship 537 116. The young trader’s attempt at politeness * 543 117. The advantages of living in a garret 548 1 1 8. The narrowness of fame 554 ?. Tranquilla’s account of her lovers, opposed to Hymenseus • 558 120. The history of Almamoulin the son of Nouradin 563 S AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND GENIUS OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL. D. W hen the works of a great Writer, who has bequeathed to posterity a lasting legacy, are presented 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 character, his conversation, and the means by which he rose to eminence, become the favourite objects of inquiry. Curiosity is ex- cited; and the admirer of his works is eager to know his private opinions, his course of study, the particularities of his conduct, and, above all, whether he pursued the wisdom which he recommends, and practised the virtue which his writings inspire. 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 sensible tempers are ready to pay their tribute of praise, and even to form a posthumous friendship 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 partial friendship should not be suffered to represent his virtues with exaggeration ; nor should malignity be allowed, under a specious dis- guise, to magnify mere defects, the usual failings of human nature, into vice or gross deformity. The lights and shades VOL. i. b 11 AX ESSAY OX THE LIFE AND of the character should be given ; and if this be done a strict regard to truth, a just estimate of Dr. John;, will afford a lesson 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 friend- ship of that excellent man more than thirty years. He thought it an honour to be so connected, and to this hou he reflects on his loss with regret : but regret, he knows, has secret bribes, by which the judgment may be in- fluenced, and partial affection may be carried beyond the bounds of truth. In the present case, however, nothing needs to be disguised, and exaggerated praise is unne- cessary. It is an observation of the younger Pliny, in his Epistle to his friend Tacitus, that history ought never to magnify matters of fact, because worthy actions require nothing but the truth. Nam nec historia debet egredi veritatem , et honestb factis veritas suffic'd . This rule the esent biographer promises shall guide his pen through- out the following narrative. It may be said, the death of Dr. Johnson kept the pub lie 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 publications of every kind, what occasion now for a new tract on the same threadbare subject ? The plain truth shall be the answer. The proprietors of Johnson’s Works thought the life, which they prefixed to their for- mer edition, too unwieldy for republication. The prodi- js variety of foreign matter, introduced into that per- — Tobmance, seemed to overload the memory of Dr. Johnson, and in the account of his own life to leave him hardly visible. ^JThey wished to have a more concise, and, for that reason, perhaps, a more satisfactory account, such as .y exhibit a just picture of the man, and keep him the principal figure in the fore- ground of his own picture. To comply with that request is the design of this essay, which the writer undertakes with a trembling hand. He has no discoveries, no secret anecdotes, no occasional con- GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. Ill troversy, 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 him- self, “ 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 en- joyed 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 without distinction. Dicenda tacenda locutl : Every thing that fell from him has been caught with eager- ness 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 : “ Such that grave bird in Northern seas is found. Whose name a Dutchman only knows to sound ; Where-e’er the king of fish moves on before, This humble friend attends from shore to shore ; With eye still earnest, and with bill inclined, He picks up what his patron drops behind. With those choice cates his palate to regale, And is the careful Tibbald of a whale.” After so many essays and volumes of Johnsoniana, what remains for the present writer ? Perhaps, what has not been attempted ; a short, yet full, a faithful, yet temperate, history of Dr. Johnson. SAMUEL JOHNSON was bom at Lichfield, Septem- ber 7, 1709, O. S.f 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 mad- 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 repre- * Boswell’s Life of Johnson, vol. ii. p. 465, 4to. edit, t 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 b 2 IV AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND sented near the punch-bowl in Hogarth’s Midnight Mo- dern Conversation. In the Life of Fenton, Johnson says, that “ his abilities, instead of furnishing convivial merri- ment to .the voluptuous and dissolute, might have enabled him to excel among the virtuous and the wise.” Being chaplain to the Earl of Chesterfield, he wished to attend that nobleman on his embassy to the Hague. Colley Cibber 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 Doctor.” 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 Lichfield ; 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 wrest- lers and boxers. Our author used to say, that he was never thrown or conquered. Michael, the father, died December 1731, at the age of seventy-six : his mother at eighty-nine, of a gradual decay, 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 unwhole- some nurse, the distemper called the King’s Evil. The Jacobites at that time believed in the efficacy of the royal touch, and accordingly Mrs. Johnson presented her son, when two years old, before Queen 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 scrophulous 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 hearing. At eight years old, he was placed under Mr. Hawkins, at the Free-school at Lichfield, where he was not remarkable GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. V for diligence or regular application. Whatever he read, his tenacious memory made his own. In the fields with his school- fellows he talked more to himself than with his companions. \ In 1725, when he was about sixteen years old, he wetffon a visit to his cousin Cornelius Ford, who detained him for some months, and in the mean time as- sisted him in the classics. The general direction 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.” The advice Johnson seems to have pursued with a good inclinatio j^~ H is read- ing was always desultory, seldom resting on any particular author, but rambling from one book to another, and, by hasty snatches, hoarding up a variety of knowledge.^) It may be proper in this place to mention another general rule laid down by Ford for Johnson’s future conduct : “ You will make ydur way the more easily in the world, as you are contented to dispute no man’s claim to con- versation-excellence : they will, therefore, more willingly allow your pretensions as a writer.” “ But,” says Mrs. Piozzi, “ the features of peculiarity, which mark a cha- racter to all succeeding generations, are slow in coming to their growth.” That ingenious lady adds, with her usual vivacity, “ Can one, on such an occasion, forbear recollecting the predictions of Boileau’s father, who said, stroking the head of the young satirist, 6 This little man has too much wit, but he will never speak ill of any one.’ ” On Johnson’s return from Cornelius Ford, Mr. Hunter, then master of the Free-school at Lichfield, refused to re- ceive 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 genius must be pronounced harsh and illiberal. It did not, however, stop the progress of the young student’s education. He was placed at another school, at Stourbridge in Worces-. vi AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND tershire, under the care of Mr. Wentworth. Having gone through the rudiments of classic literature, he 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 gentle- man, of the name of Corbet, to the University of Oxford ; and on the 31st of October, 1728, both were entered of Pembroke College; Corbet as a gentleman-commoner, and Johnson as a commoner. The college tutor, Mr. Jordan, was a man of no genius ; and Johnson, it seems, shewed an early contempt of mean abilities, in one or two instances behaving with insolence to that gentleman. Of his general conduct at the university there are no parti- culars that merit attention, except the translation of Pope’s Messiah, which was a college exercise imposed upon him as a task by Mr. Jordan. Corbet left the university in about two years, and Johnson’s salary ceased. He was, by consequence, straitened in his circumstances ; but he still remained at college. Mr. Jordan, the tutor, went off to a living ; and was succeeded by Dr. Adams, who after- wards became 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 discovered, 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 phi- lology, agreeably to his cousin Ford’s advice, was the ob- ject of his ambition. He received, at that time, an early impression of piety, and a taste for the best authors, an- cient and modern. It may, notwithstanding, be questioned whether except 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 you read it through ?” If the answer was in the affirmative, he did not seem will- ing to believe it. He continued at the university till the GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. V*i want of pecuniary supplies obliged him to quit the place. He obtained, however, the assistance of a friend, and re- turning 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 Lichfield. His father died soon after, December 1731 ; and the whole receipt out of his effects, as appeared by a memorandum in the son’s hand- writing, dated loth June, 1732, was no more than twenty pounds.* In this exigence, deter- mined that poverty should neither depress his spirits nor warp his integrity, hp became under-master of a grammar- school at Market Bosworth, in Leicestershire. That re- source, however, did not last long. Disgusted by the pride of Sir Wolstan Dixie, the patron of that little se- minary, 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 his 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 mis- sionary. 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 desire 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, Pater- noster-row. It contains a narrative of the endeavours of a company of missionaries to convert the people of Abys- sinia to the Church of Rome. In the preface to this work * The entry of this is remarkable for his early resolution to preserve through life a fair and upright character. “ 1732, Junii 15. Undecim aureos deposui, quo die, quidquid ante matris fun us (quod serum sit precor) de paternis bonis sperare licet, viginti scilicet libras, accepi. Usque adeo mihi mea fortuna fingenda est. Interea, ne paupertate vires animi languescant, nec in flagitia egestas abigat, cavendum.” Vlll AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND Johnson observes, “that the Portuguese traveller, contrary to the general view of his countrymen, has amused his readers with no romantic absurdities, or incredible fictions. He appears, by hip 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, without tears ; and his cataracts fall from the rock, without deafen- ing the neighbouring inhabitants. The reader will here find no regions cursed with irremediable barrenness, or blessed with spontaneous fecundity ; no perpetual gloom, or unceasing sun-shine; nor are the nations, here described, 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 per- fectly polite, and completely skilled in all sciences ; he will discover, what will always be discovered by a dili- gent and impartial inquirer, that wherever human nature is to be found, there is a mixture of vice and virtue, a con- test of passion and reason ; 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 specimen of Johnson’s manner : the vein of thinking and the frame of the sentences are manifestly his : we see the infant Her- cules. 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 edi- tion ; but a compendious account of so interesting a work as Father Lobo’s discovery of the head of the Nile will not, it is imagined, be unacceptable to the reader. Father Lobo, the Portuguese Missionary, embarked, in 1622, in the same fleet with the Count Vidigueira , who was appointed, by the king of Portugal, Viceroy of the In- dies. They arrived at Goa; and in Jan. 1624, Father Lobo set out on the mission to Abyssinia. Two of the Jesuits, sent on the same commission, were murdered in GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. their attempt to penetrate into that empire. Lobo better success : he surmounted all difficulties, and ma his way into the heart of the country. Then follows a description of Abyssinia, formerly the largest empire 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, containing 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 emperor, and part paid him a tribute, as an acknowledgment. The provinces were in- habited by Moors, Pagans, Jews, and Christians. The last was in Lobo’s time the established and reigning reli- gion. The diversity of people and religion is the reason why the kingdom was under 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 without 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 a world. This deity they call in their language Oul. The Christianity, professed by the people in some parts, is so corrupted with superstitions, errors, and heresies, 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 pro- perly be said to have either cities or houses ; they live in tents or cottages made of straw or clay, very rarely build- ing 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 intestine commotions. Ethiopia produces very near the same kinds of provision as Portugal, though, by the extreme laziness of the inhabitants, in a much less quantity. What the Vlll AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND ^ents imagined of the torrid zone being a part of the Johns, 0 orld uninhabitable, is so far from being true, that the re climate is very temperate. The blacks have better features than in other countries, and are not without wit and in- genuity. Their apprehension is quick, and their judgment sound. There are in this 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, pomegra- nates, 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 unicorn, horses, mules, oxen, and cows without number. They have a very particular custom, which obliges every man, that has a thousand cows, to save every year one day’s milk of all his herd, and make a bath with it for his relations. This they do so many days in each year, as they have thousands of cattle ; so that, to express how rich a man is, they tell you, he bathes so many times. “ Of the river Nile, which has furnished so much con- troversy, we have a full and clear description. It is called by the natives, Abavi, the Father of Water. It rises in Sacala, a province of the kingdom of Goiama, the most fertile and agreeable part of the Abyssinian dominions. 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 ten feet did not reach the bottom of the other. These springs are supposed by the Abyssins to be the vents of a great subterraneous lake. At a small distance to the South, is a village called Quid ' , GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. XI 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 nations always paid adoration to the deity of this famous river. “ As to the course of the Nile, its waters, after their first rise, run towards the east, about the length of a musket- shot ; then, turning northward, continue hidden in the grass and weeds 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 Brans a, 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, however, a little to the east, for the space of nine or ten leagues, and then enters the so-much-talked-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 farther, in the land of Alata, it rushes precipitately from the top of a high rock, and forms one of the most beautiful water-falls 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 thousand de- lightful rainbows, which the sun-beams painted on the water, in all their shining and lively colours.* The fall of this mighty stream, from so great a height, makes a * This Mr. Bruce, the late traveller, avers to be a downright falsehood. He says, a deep pool of water reaches to the very foot of the rock ; and, allowing that there was a seat 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 asked, can Mr. Bruce say what was the face of the country in the year 1622, when Lobo saw the magnificent sight which he has described ? Mr. Bruce’s pool of water may have been formed since ; and Lobo, perhaps, was content to sit down without a bench. Xll AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND 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 Se- qued has since built a stone bridge of one arch, in the same place, for which purpose he procured masons from India. Here the river alters its course, and passes through various kingdoms, such as Amhara, Olaca, Ciioaa, Damot, and the kingdom of Goiama, and, after various windings, returns within a short day’s journey of its spring. To pursue it through all its mazes, and accompany it round the kingdom of Goiama, is a journey of twenty- nine days. From Abyssinia, the river passes into the countries of Fazulo and Ombarca, two vast regions little known, inhabited by nations entirely different from the Abyssins. 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 Se- qued, entered those kingdoms in a hostile manner; but, not being able to get intelligence, returned without at- tempting any thing. As the empire of Abyssinia termi- nates at these descents, Lobo followed the course of the Nile no farther, leaving it to rage over barbarous king- doms, and convey wealth and plenty into iEgypt, which owes to the annual inundations of this river its envied fertility.* Lobo knows nothing of the Nile in the rest of its passage, except that it receives great increase from many other rivers, has several cataracts like that already described, and that few fish are to be found in it : that scarcity is to be attributed to the river-horse and the croco- dile , 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 * After comparing this description with that lately given by Mr. Bruce, the reader will judge whether Lobo is to lose the honour of having been at the head of the Nile near two centuries before any other European traveller. GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. XIII 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 hypothesis 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 moun- tains 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 informed, that Abyssinia, where the Nile rises, is full of mountains, and, in its natural situation, is much higher than iEgypt; that in the winter, from June to September, no day is without rain ; that the Nile re- ceives in its course, all the rivers, brooks, and torrents, that fall from those mountains, and, by necessary conse- quence, swelling above its banks, fills the plains of iEgypt with inundations, which come regularly about the month of July, or three weeks after the beginning of the rainy season of Ethiopia. The different degrees of this flood are such certain indications of the fruitfulness or sterility of the ensuing year, that it is publicly proclaimed at Cairo how much the water hath gained during the night.” Such is the account of the Nile and its inundations, which it is hoped will not be deemed an improper or tedious digression, especially as the whole is an extract from John- son’s translation. He is all the time the actor in the scene, and in his own words relates the story. Having finished xiv AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND this work, he returned in February 1734, to his native city, and, in the month of August following, published Proposals for printing by subscription the Latin Poems of Politian, with the History of Latin Poetry, from the era of Petrarch 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 30 octavo sheets, price five shillings. It is to be regretted that this project failed for want of encouragement. Johnson, it seems, dif- fered from Boileau, Voltaire, and D’Alembert, who have taken upon them to proscribe all modern efforts to write with elegance in a dead language. For a decision pro- nounced in so high a tone, no good reason can be assign- ed. The interests of learning require, that the diction of Greece and Rome should be cultivated with care ; and he who can write a language with correctness, will be most likely to understand its idiom, its grammar, and its peculiar graces of style. What man of taste would willingly forego the pleasure of reading Vida , Fracastorius , 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 valu- able addition to the history of letters ; but his project failed. His next expedient was to offer his assistance to Cave, the original projector of the Gentleman’s Magazine. For this purpose he sent his proposals in a letter, offer- ing, on reasonable terms, occasionally to fill some pages with poems and inscriptions never printed before ; with fugitive pieces that deserved to be revived, and critical remarks on authors ancient and modern. Cave agreed to retain him as a correspondent and contributor to the Ma- gazine. 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 employ- ment. Accordingly, in 1735, he made overtures to the reverend Mr. Budworth, Master of a Grammar-school at Brerewood, in Staffordshire, to become his assistant. This proposition did not succeed. Mr. Budworth appre- GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. XV hended, that the involuntary motions, to which Johnsons nerves were subject, might make him an object of ridicule with his scholars, and, by consequence, lessen their re- spect for their master. Another mode of advancing him- self presented itself about this time. Mrs. Porter, the widow of a mercer in Birmingham, 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 affluent fortune. A marriage took place ; and, to turn his wife’s money to the best advantage, he projected the scheme of an academy for education. Gilbert Walmsley, at that time Registrar of the Ecclesiastical Court of the Bishop of Lichfield, was distinguished by his erudition, and the politeness of his manners. He was the friend of Johnson, and, by his weight and influence, endeavoured to promote his interest. The celebrated Garrick, whose father, Cap- tain Garrick, lived at Lichfield, was placed in the new seminary of education by that gentleman’s advice. Gar- rick 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 Lichfield, in Staffordshire, young gentle- men 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; and, accordingly, in March 1737, they arrived in London together. Two such candidates for fame per- haps never, before that day, entered the metropolis to- gether. Their stock of money was soon exhausted. In his visionary project of an academy, Johnson had pro- bably wasted his wife’s substance ; and Garrick’s father had little more than his half-pay. — The two fellow-travel- lers had the world before them, and each was to choose his road to fortune and to fame. They brought with them * See the Gentleman’ 9 Magazine for 1736, p. 418. Xvi AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND genius, and powers of mind, peculiarly formed by nature for the different vocations to which each of them felt him- self 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. Colson, 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 countrymen.” Of Mr. Walmsley ’s merit, and the excellence of his character, Johnson has le:ft a beautiful testimonial at the end of the Life of Edmund Smith. It is reasonable to conclude, that a mathematician, absorbed in abstract speculations, 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 afterwards Garrick came forth with talents that astonished the public. He began his career at Goodmans-fields, and there, monstratus fatis Vespasianus ! he chose a lucrative profession, and consequently soon emerged from all his difficulties. Johnson was left to toil in the humble walks of literature. A tragedy, as ap- pears by Walmsley’s letter, was the whole of his stock. This, most probably, was Irene ; but, if then finished, it was doomed to wait for a more happy period. It was of- fered to Fleetwood, and rejected. Johnson looked round him for employment. Having while he remained in the country, corresponded with Cave, under a feigned name, he now thought it time to make himself known to a man whom he considered a patron of literature. Cave had announced, by public advertisement, a prize of fifty pounds for the best poem on Life, Death, Judgment, Hea- ven, and Hell ; and this circumstance diffused an idea of GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. Xvii his liberality. Johnson bee Connected with him in xvii business, and in a close and'sntimatc acquaintance. Of tne possession ot Mr. INichois, the compiler ot that'fe*&|#£ Johnson’s translation was never completed : a 1 was offered to the public, under the patronage ot Ur. Zachary Pearce ; and by that contention both attempts were frustrated. Johnson had been commended by Pope for th6 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 be- came acquainted at St. John’s Gate ; and that person was no other than the well-known Richard Savage, whose Life was afterwards written by Johnson with great elegance, and a depth of moral reflection. Savage was a man of considerable talents. His address, his various ac- complishments, and, above all, the peculiarity of his mis- fortunes, recommended him to Johnson’s notice. They became 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 morning ; in the course of their conversation reforming the world, de- throning 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 muster up more than four-pence-halfpenny. Savage, it is true, had VOL, i, c taining and useful work, the Gentleman’s XV111 AN ESSAY ON THE / EIEE AND many vices ; but vice could nev/cr strike its roots in a mind like Johnson’s, seasoned eaj^y. with religion, and the prin- ciples of moral rectitude;;./' His first prayer was composed in the year 173 8 .v • H.e jaad not at that time renounced the use of wine; and,-J!ffo doubt, occasionally enjoyed his friend and jiis bojjffife. The love of late hours, which fol- lowed him till life, was, perhaps, originally con- tracted in ; «^p'any with Savage. However that may be, fexion was not of long duration. In the year 17.38, Savage was reduced to the last distress. Mr. Pope, r to him, expressed his concern for “ the miserable tdrawing of his pension after the death of the queen ;ave him hopes that, “ in a short time, he should find iself supplied with a competence, without any depend- ence on those little creatures, whom we are pleased to call the Great.” The scheme proposed to him was, that he should retire to Swansea in Wales, and receive an al- lowance of fifty pounds a year, to be raised by subscrip- tion ; 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 Juvenal, in which that poet takes leave of a friend, who was withdrawing 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 injur'd Thales bids the town farewell ; Yet still my calmer thoughts his choice commend ; I praise the hermit, but regret the friend : Resolv’d at length, from Vice and London far. To breathe in distant fields a purer air ; And, fix'd on Cambria’s solitary shore, Give to St. David one true Briton more.” Johnson at that time lodged at Greenwich. He there fixes the scene, and takes leave of his friend: who, he says in his Life, parted from him with tears in his eyes. The poem, when finished, was offered to Cave. It hap- pened, however, that the late Mr. Dodsley was the pur^ chaser, at the price of ten guineas. It was published in GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. xix 1738 ; and Pope, we are told, said, “ The author, who- ever he is, will not be long concealed alluding to the passage in Terence, Ubi , ubi est , diu celciri non potest . Notwithstanding that prediction, it does not appear that, besides the copy-money, any advantage accrued to the author of a poem, written with the elegance and energy of Pope. Johnson, in August 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 late lord Gower was induced to write to a friend, in order to obtain for Johnson a master’s degree in the University of Dublin, by the recommendation of Dr. Swift. The letter was printed in one of the Magazines, and is as follows : “ Sir, <£ Mr. Samuel Johnson (author of London, a satire, and some other poetical pieces,) is a native of this county, and much respected by some worthy gentlemen in the neigh- bourhood, who are trustees of a charity-school, now va- cant ; the certain salary of which is sixty pounds per year, of which they are desirous to make him master ; but un- fortunately 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 prevail upon you to write to Dean Swift, to persuade the University of Dublin to send a diploma to me, constituting this poor man master of arts in their University. They highly extol the man’s learning and probity ; and will not be per- suaded, that the University will make any difficulty of conferring such a favour upon a stranger, if he is recom- mended 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 venture it, if the Dean thinks it necessary, c 2 XX AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND 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 11th 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 impracticable thing ; but, if you think there is a probability of obtaining the favour asked, I am sure your humanity and propen- sity to relieve merit in distress will incline you to serve the poor man, without my adding any more to the trouble I have already given you, than assuring you, that I am, with great truth, Sir, “ Your faithful humble servant, “ Trentham, Aug. 1st. “ GoWER.” This scheme miscarried. There is reason to think, that Swift declined to meddle in the business ; and to that cir- cumstance Johnson’s known dislike of Swift has been often imputed. It is mortifying to pursue a man of merit through all his difficulties ; and yet this narrative 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 in- terest, he was condemned to drudgery in the service of Cave, his only patron. In November 1738 was published a translation of Crousaz’s Examen of Pope s Essay on Man ; “ containing a succinct View 7 of the System of the Fatalists, and a Confutation of their Opinions ; with an Illustration of the Doctrine of Free Will ; and an Enquiry, 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 generally thought a production GENIUS Of DR. JOHNSON. xxi of Johnson’s pen ; but it is now known, that Mrs. Eliza- beth Carter has acknowledged it to be one of her early performances. It is certain, however, that Johnson was eager to promote the publication. He considered the fo- reign philosopher as a man zealous in the cause of reli- gion; 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 con- ceived 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 ex- tant, and may well justify Sir John Hawkins, who inferred that Johnson was the translator of Crousaz. The con- clusion of the letter is remarkable. “ I am yours, Im- pransus.” 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 quickened by ne- cessity, Johnson formed a multiplicity 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 prophetical Inscription, in Monkish Rhyme, discovered at Lynn in Norfolk. By Probus Britannicus .” 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 dili- gent 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 representa- tion of a tragedy, called “ Gustavus Vasa,” by Henry Brooke. Under the mask of irony Johnson published, u A Vindication of the Licenser from the malicious and XXII AX ESS A V ON THE LIFE AND scaudalous Aspersions of Mr. Brooke/' Of these two pieces Sir John Hawkins says, “ they have neither learn- ing nor wit ; nor a single ray of that genius which has since blazed forth but, as they have been lately re- printed, the reader, who wishes to gratify his curiosity, 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 subscription of fifty pounds a year for Savage was completed ; and in July 1739, Johnson parted with the companion of his mid- night 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-re- proach the waste occasioned by dissipation. His absti- nence from wine and strong liquors began soon after the departure of Savage. What habits he contracted in the course of that acquaintance cannot now be known. The ambition 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 pf independence, even in the midst of poverty, may be seen in Savage; and, if not thence transfused by Johnson into his own manners, it may, at least, be supposed to have gained strength from the example before him. Dur- ing that connexion there was, if we believe Sir John Haw- kins, a short separation between our author and his wife ; but a reconciliation soon took place. Johnson loved her, and shewed 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 unwieldy figure : his admiration was received by the wjfe with the flutter of an antiquated coquette ; 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 talents, was not able, at the * It may be found in the present edition. GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. XX1I1 age of thirty, to force his way to the favour of the public. “ Slow rises worth by poverty depress’d.” “ 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, Urbane, nullis victe calumniis,” put one in mind of Casimir’s Ode to Pope Urban : “ Urbane, regum maxime, maxime Urbane vatum.” The Polish poet, was, probably, at that time in the hands of a man who had meditated the history of the Latin poets. Guthrie the historian had from July 1736 composed the parliamentary speeches for the Magazine; but, from the beginning of the session which opened on the 19th of Nov. 1740, Johnson succeeded to that department, and continued it from that time to the debate on spirituous liquors, which happened in the House of Lords in Feb. 1742-3. The eloquence, the force of argument, and the splendour of language, displayed in the several speeches, are well known, and universally admired. That Johnson was the author of the debates during that period was not generally known ; but the secret transpired several years afterwards, and was avowed by himself on the following occasion. Mr. Wedderburne (now lord Loughborough*), Dr. Johnson, 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 Wal- pole’s administration being mentioned, Dr. Francis ob- served, “ 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 Demos- thenes, and finished a translation of that celebrated ora- * Afterwards Earl of RossHn. He died Jan. 3, 1805. XXIV AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND tor, with all the decorations of style and language within the reach of his capacity ; 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 pre- sent. During the ardour of conversation Johnson re- mained 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 w 7 ritten 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 employed 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 afterwards communicated to me, and I com- posed 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 Demos- thenes himself ; for to say, that you have exceeded Francis’s Demosthenes, would be saying nothing.” The rest of the company bestow T ed lavish encomiums on John- son : one, in particular, praised his impartiality ; observ- ing, that he dealt out reason and eloquence w T ith an equal hand to both parties. “ That is not quite true,” said Johnson; “ I 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. Hawkes worth. in 1743-4, Osborne, the bookseller, who kept a shop in Gray's Inn, purchased the earl of Oxford's library, at the price of thirteen thousand pounds. He projected a cata- GENIUS OF Dll. JOHNSON. XXV logue in five octavo volumes, at five shillings each. John- son was employed in that painful drudgery. He was likewise to collect all such small tracts as were in any de- gree worth preserving, in order to reprint and publish the whole in a collection, called “ The Harleian Miscellany.” The catalogue was completed ; and the Miscellany in 1749 was published in eight quarto volumes. In this business Johnson was a day-labourer for immediate sub- sistence, not unlike Gustavus Vasa working in the mines of Dalicarlia. 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 gui- neas, and then asked him, “ How do you mean to earn your livelihood in this town ?” “ By my literary labours,” was the answer. Wilcox, 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 roughness which was natural to him, enforced his argument by giving the lie. Johnson seized a folio, and knocked the bookseller down. This story has been related as an instance of Johnson’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 present 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 * “ The simple truth I had from Johnson himself. ‘ Sir, he was impertinent to me, and I beat him. But it was not in his shop : it was in my own chamber.’ ” — Boswell’s Life of Johnson, vol. i. XXVI AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND edition of Shakspeare. As a prelude to this design, he published, in 1745, “ Miscellaneous Observations on the Tragedy of Macbeth, with Remarks on Sir Thomas Han- mer's Edition to which were prefixed, “ Proposals for a new Edition of Shakspeare, with a Specimen.” Of this pamphlet, Warburton, in the Preface to Shakspeare, 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 cri- tical notes on Macbeth, given as a specimen of a projected edition, and written, as appears, by a man of parts and genius, the rest are absolutely below a serious 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, how- ever, was soon after proposed ; namely, an English Dic- tionary upon an enlarged plan. Several of the most opu- lent booksellers had meditated a work of this kind ; and the agreement was soon adjusted between the parties. Emboldened by this connexion, Johnson thought of a better habitation than he had hitherto known. He had lodged w r ith his wife in courts and alleys about the Strand ; but now, for the purpose of carrying on his arduous un- dertaking, and to be near his printer and friend, Mr. Stra- han, he ventured to take a house in Gough-square, Fleet- street. He was told that the earl of Chesterfield was a friend to his undertaking; and in consequence of that in- telligence, he published, in 1747, “ The Plan of a Dic- tionary of the English language, addressed to the Right Honourable Pinup Dormer, earl of Chesterfield, one of his Majesty s principal Secretaries of State.” Mr. White- head, afterwards Poet Laureat, undertook to convey the manuscript to his lordship; the consequence was an in- vitation from lord Chesterfield to the author. A stronger contrast of characters could not be brought together ; the Nobleman, celebrated 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 scho- GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. XXV11 lastic logic, but a stranger to the arts of polite conversa- tion, uncouth, vehement, and vociferous. The coalition was too unnatural. Johnson expected a Maecenas, and was disappointed. No patronage, no assistance followed. Visits were repeated ; but the reception was not cordial. Johnson one day was left a full hour, waiting in an anti- chamber, till a gentleman should retire, and leave his lord- ship at leisure. This was the famous Colley Cibber. Johnson saw him go, and fired with indignation, rushed out of the house.* What lord Chesterfield thought of his visitor may be seen in a passage in one of that Noble- man's letters to his son.f “ There is a man, whose moral character, deep learning, and superior parts, I acknowledge, 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 disgrace or ridicule the common structure of the human body. His legs and arms are never in the posi- tion 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 down 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, character, and situation of those with whom he disputes. Absolutely ignorant of the several grada- tions of familiarity and respect, he is exactly the same to his superiors, his equals, and his inferiors ; and, there- fore, by a necessary consequence, is absurd to two of the three. Is it possible to love such a man? No. The ut- most I can do for him is, to consider him a respectable Hottentot/’J Such was the idea entertained by lord Chesterfield. After the incident of Colley Cibber, John- son never repeated his visits. In his high and decisive * Dr. Johnson assured Boswell, that there was not the least foundation for this story. Boswell’s Life, vol. i. t Letter CCXII. + The application of this character to Dr. Johnson rests only upon conjecture. XXV111 AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND 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, Johnson thought the opportu- nity 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 accordingly 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, which have lost their place in the theatre, but continue to please in the closet. During the repre- sentation of this piece, Johnson attended every night be- hind the scenes. Conceiving that his character as an au- thor required some ornament for his person, he chose, upon that occasion, to decorate himself with a handsome waist- coat, and a gold-laced hat. The late Mr. Topham Beau- clerc, who had a great deal of that humour which pleases the more for seeming undesigned, used to give a pleasant description 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 consider- able, as the profit, that stimulating motive, never invited the author to another dramatic attempt. Some years af- GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. Xxix terwards, when the present writer was intimate with Gar- rick, and knew Johnson to be in distress, he asked the manager why he did not produce another tragedy for his Lichfield friend ? Garrick’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 ano- ther, and the reader may feel the effect of a tedious mo- notony ; but in the life of Johnson there are no other land- marks. He was now forty years old, and had mixed but little with the world. He followed no profession, trans- acted 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 man- kind with a degree 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 ex- cellence of Pope ; and the tragedy of Irene , though un- interesting 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 com- position. His fame was widely diffused; and he had made his agreement with the booksellers for his English Dictionary at the sum of fifteen hundred guineas ; part of which was to be, from time to time, advanced in propor- tion 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 established 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 mem- bers of this little society were, Samuel Johnson ; Dr. Salter, (father of the late Master of the Charter-house ;) Dr. Hawkesworth; Mr. Ryland, a merchant; Mr. Payne, XXX AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND a bookseller in Paternoster-row ; Mr. Sam. Dyer, a learned young man; Dr. William M Ghie, a Scotch physician: Dr. Edmund Barker, a young physician ; Dr. Bathurst, another young physician; 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 character 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 7nost essential part of our duty. That notion of moral goodness gave umbrage to Sir John Hawkins, and drew down upon the memory of his friend the bitterest im- putations. 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 ta- lents, and according to his custom, always contending for victory. Dr. Bathurst 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 va- lued 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 Being, which he implored in a solemn form of 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 en- * See Gent. Mag. vol. LXXI. p. 190. GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. XXXi rich with ail 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 Heaven, and by that act of piety fortified his mind, he began the great w T ork of the Rambler. The first number was published on Tuesday, March the 20th, 1750; and from that time was continued regularly every Tuesday and Saturday for the space of two years, when it was finally closed on Sa- turday, March 14, 1752. As it began with motives of piety, so it appears that the same religious spirit glowed with unabatino* ardour to the last. His conclusion is : O “ The Essays professedly serious, if I have been able to execute my own intentions, will be found exactly con- formable to the precepts of Christianity, without any ac- commodation 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 ob- tain 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 Essays amounted to two hundred and eight. Addison’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 his genius, and send his paper to the press when his own taste was satisfied. Johnson’s case was very different. He wrote singly and alone. In the whole progress of the work he did not re- ceive more than ten essays. This was a scanty contribu- tion. For the rest, the author has described his situation. u He that condemns himself to compose on a stated day, will often bring to his task an attention dissipated, a me- mory embarrassed, an imagination overwhelmed, a mind distracted with anxieties, a body languishing with dis- ease : he will labour on a barren topic, till it is too late to change it; or, in the ardour of invention, diffuse his thoughts into wild exuberance, which the pressing hour XXXll AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND of publication cannot suffer judgment to examine or re- duce.” Of this excellent 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 per- severance deserve to be commended : and happily, when the collection appeared in volumes, were amply rewarded. Johnson lived to see his labours flourish in a tenth edi- tion. His posterity, as an ingenious French writer has said on a similar occasion, began in his life-time. In the beginning of 1750, soon after the Rambler was set on foot, Johnson was induced by the arts of a vile im- postor 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 conceived a mortal antipathy to the name and character of Milton. His reason was, because the prayer of Pamela, in Sir Philip Sidney’s Arcadia, 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 Jesuit, Staphorstius a Dutch divine, Beza, and others, all such passages as bore any kind of re- semblance to different places in the Paradise Lost ; and these he published from time to time, in the Gentle- man’s Magazine, with occasional interpolations of lines, which he himself translated from Milton. The public credulity swallowed all with eagerness ; and Milton was supposed to be guilty of plagiarism from inferior modern writers. The fraud succeeded so well, that Lauder col- lected the whole into a volume, and advertised it under the title of “ An Essay on Milton’s Use and Imitation of the Moderns, in his Paradise Lost; dedicated to the Uni- versities of Oxford and Cambridge.” While the book was in the press, the proof-sheets were shewn to Johnson GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. XXX111 at the Ivy-lane Club, by Payne the bookseller, who was one of the members. No man in that society was in pos- session of 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 repre- sented 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 friend cannot well be imagined. Hawkins adds, “ that he wished well to the argument must he 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 his own words in that very preface. “ Among the in- quiries to which the ardour 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 construction 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 struc- ture 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 quar- ries 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 scholar ? What reader of taste, what man of real knowledge, would not think his time well employed in an inquiry so curious, so interesting, and instructive ? If Lauder’s facts were really true, who would not be glad, without the smallest tincture of male- volence, to receive real information ? It is painful to be yoL. i. d XXxiv AN ESSAY ON THE LTFE AND 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. Another writer, Dr. Towers, in an Essay on the Life and Character of Dr. John- son, seems to countenance this calumny. He says, It can hardly be doubted ', but that Johnson's aversion to Miltons politics was the cause of that alacrity with which he joined with Lauder in his infamous attack 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 decla- ration, that Johnson was unacquainted with the imposture. 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 Jane theatre, 1750, on the performance of the Masque of Comus , for the benefit of Miltons grand-daughter . Dr. Towers is not free from pre- judice ; but, as Shakspeare has it, “ he begets a tem- perance to give it smoothness.” He is therefore entitled to a dispassionate answer. When Johnson wrote the pro- logue, it does appear that he was aware of the malignant artifices practised by Lauder. In the postscript to John- son’s preface, a subscription is proposed, for relieving the grand-daughter of the author of Paradise Lost. Dr. Towers will agree that this shews Johnson’s alacrity in doing good. That alacrity shewed itself again in the letter printed 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 illustrious dead, united with the pleasure of doing good to the living. The letter adds, “To assist indus- trious indigence, struggling with distress, and debilitated by age, is a display of virtue, and an acquisition of hap- piness and honour. Whoever, therefore, would be thought capable of pleasure in reading the works of our incom- GENIUS OF Dll. JOHNSON. XXXV parable Milton, and not so destitute of gratitude as to refuse to lay out a trifle, in a rational and elegant enter- tainment, for the benefit of his living remains, for the exercise of their own virtue, the increase of their repu- tation, and the consciousness of their doing good, should appear at Drury-lane theatre, to-morrow, April 5, when Comus will be performed for the benefit of Mrs. Elizabeth Foster, grand-daughter to the author, and the only sur- viving branch of his family. Not a bene , there will be a new prologue on the occasion 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 grandfather. 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, now Lord Bishop of Salisbury. “ Dir am 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 convicted of several Forgeries and gross Impositions on the Publick, 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 writer, whose judicious sentiments and inimitable style point out the author of Lauder’s preface and post- script, will no longer allow a man to plume himself with his feathers , who appears so little to have deserved his assistance ; an assistance 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 contem- porary testimony to the integrity of Dr. Johnson through- out the whole of that vile transaction. What was the consequence of the requisition made by Dr. Douglas? Johnson, whose ruling passion may be said to be the love d 2 xxxvi AN essay on the life and of truth, convinced Lauder that it would he more to his interest to make a full confession 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. Douglas, which Lauder signed, and published in the year 1751. That piece will remain a lasting memorial of the abhorrence with which Johnson beheld a violation of truth. Mr. Nichols, whose attach- ment to his illustrious friend was unwearied, shewed him in 1780 a book called ‘Remarks on Johnson’s Life of Mil- ton,’ in which the affair of Lauder was renewed with viru- lence, and a poetical 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 attention, 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 Maga- zine I am not the author. I fancy it was put in after 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 connection with the author. In March 1752, he felt a severe stroke of affliction in the death of his wife. The last number of the Rambler, as already mentioned, was on the 14th of that month. The loss of Mrs. Johnson was then approaching, and, proba- bly, was the cause that put an end to those admirable 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 GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. XXXVii Easter-Day, 22d April, 1764, 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 commends, 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 persevered to the end of his days. The Rev. Mr. Strahan, the editor of the Prayers and Medita- tions, observes, “ That Johnson, on some occasions, 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 conse- quence, proving, that he had no belief in a state of pur- gatory, and no reason for praying for the dead that could impeach the sincerity of his profession as a protestant.” Mr. Strahan adds, “ That, in praying 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 he ; if our state, at the close of life, is to be the measure of our final sen- tence, then prayers for the dead, being visibly fruitless, can be regarded only as the vain oblations of superstition. But of all superstitions this, perhaps, is one of the least unamiable, 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 reason just mentioned, such evidences of our surviving affection may be thought ill- judged ; but surely they are generous, and some natural tenderness is due even to a superstition, which thus ori- ginates 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 improper to add what Johnson himself has XXXVlll AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND said on the subject. Being asked by Mr. Boswell,* what he thought of purgatory as believed by the Roman Ca- tholicks? his answer was, “ It is a very harmless doctrine. They are of opinion that the generality of mankind are neither so obstinately wicked as to deserve everlasting punishment ; nor so good as to merit being admitted into the society of blessed spirits ; and, therefore, that God is graciously pleased to allow a middle state, where they may be purified by certain degrees of suffering. You see there is nothing unreasonable in this ; and if it be once established 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 daughter of Zachary Williams, a phy- sician of eminence in South Wales, who had devoted more than thirty years of a long life to the study of the longi- tude, and was thought to have made great advances to- wards that important discovery. His letters to Lord Halifax, and the Lords of the Admiralty, partly corrected and partly written by Dr. Johnson, are still extant in the hands of Mr. Nichols.')' We there find Dr. Williams, in the eighty-third year of his age, stating, that he had pre- pared an instrument, which might be called an epitome or miniature of the terraqueous globe, shewing, 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 Newton ; but that great philoso- pher excusing himself on account of his advanced age, all applications were useless till 1751, when the subject was referred, by order of Lord Anson, to Dr. Bradley, the cele- * Life of Johnson, vol. i. p. 32a, 4to. Edit, t See Gentleman’s Magazine for Nov. and Dec. 1787. GENIUS OF DIt. JOHNSON. XXXix brated professor of astronomy. II is report was unfavour- able,* though it allows that a considerable progress had been made. Dr. Williams, after all his labour and expence, died in a short time after, a melancholy instance of unre- warded merit. His daughter possessed uncommon talents, and, though blind, had an alacrity of mind that made her conversation agreeable, and even desirable. To relieve and appease 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 17GG, she published, by subscription, a quarto volume of Miscellanies, and increased her little stock to three hundred 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 car- ried 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 re- sumed his grand design, and went on with vigour, giving, however, occasional assistance to his friend Dr. Hawkes- worth 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 language, that his old friend did not live to see the triumph of his la- bours. In May 1755, that great work was published. Johnson was desirous that it should come from one who had obtained academical honours ; and for that purpose his friend the Rev. Thos. Warton obtained for him in the preceding month of February, a diploma for a master’s degree from the University of Oxford. — Garrick, on the publication 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. * See Gentleman’s Magazine for Dec. 1787, p. 1042. xl AN ESSAY ON THE LITE AND In the deep mines of science though Frenchmen may toil, Can their strength be compar’d to Locke, Newton, or Boyle"? Let them rally their heroes, send 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 flight. In satires, epistles, and odes would they cope "? 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 settle their language. In the course of the winter preceding this grand pub- lication, the late earl of Chesterfield gave two essays in the periodical paper, called “ The World,” dated No- vember 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 understood, at the • time, to be a courtly way of soliciting 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 lano'ua^e ; and does he now send out two cockboats to tow me into harbour?” He had said in the last number of the Rambler, “ 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 finished his Dictionary, “ not,” as he says himself, “ in the soft obscurities of retirement, or under the shelter of academic bowers, but amidst inconvenience and distraction, in sick- ness 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. GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. xli “ To the Right Honourable the Earl of Chesterfield. “ My Lord, “■I have been lately informed, by the proprietors of the World, that two papers, in which my Dictionary is recommended to the public, were written by your lord- ship. To be so distinguished 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 acknow- ledge. “ When upon some slight encouragement, I first visited your lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of man- kind, by the enchantment of your address, and could not forbear to wish, that I might boast myself le vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre ; that I might obtain that regard for which I saw the world contending. But I found my at- tendance so little encouraged, that neither pride nor mo- desty 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 scholar can possess. I had done all that I could ; and no man is well pleased to have his all neglected, be it ever so little. “ Seven years, my lord, have now passed since I waited in your outward room, or was repulsed 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 uncon- cern 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 xlii AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it ; till I am soli- tary, and cannot impart it ; till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity not to con- fess obligations 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 w^ork thus far with so little ob- ligation to any favourer of learning, I shall not be disap- pointed, though I should conclude 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 exultation, “ My Lord, “ Your Lordship's most humble “ and most obedient servant, “ Samuel Johnson.” It is said, upon good authority, that Johnson once re- ceived from lord Chesterfield the sum of ten pounds. It were to be wished that the secret had never transpired. It was mean to receive it, and meaner to give it. It may be imagined, 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 conclusion, 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 tavern-dinner, given by the booksellers, it appeared, that he had been paid a hundred pounds and upwards 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 never replied. “ Abuse, 1 ’ 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.” GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. xliii Lexiphanes professed to be an imitation of the pleasant manner of Lucian ; but humour was not the talent of the writer of Lexiphanes. As Dryden says, “ He had too much horse-play in his raillery.” It was in the summer 1754, that the present writer be- came acquainted with Dr. Johnson. 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 un- studied essay. He therefore took up a French Journal Litteraire , and, translating something he liked, sent it away to town. Time, however, discovered that he tran- slated from the French a Rambler, which had been taken from the English without acknowledgment. Upon this discovery Mr. Murphy thought it right to make his ex- cuses to Dr. Johnson. 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 Alchemist, making rether. 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 posthu- mous 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 scoundrel, who spent his life in charg- ing 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, called for an interval of re- pose and indolence. But indolence was the time of xliv AN ESSAY ON THE LTFE AND danger : it was then that his spirits, not employed abroad, turned with inward hostility against himself. His reflec- tions on his own life and conduct were always 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 years, was wasted in a morning bed ; and his reigning sin was a general sluggishness, to which he was always inclined, and, in part of his life, al- most compelled, by morbid melancholy, and weariness of mind. This was his constitutional malady, derived, per- haps, from his father, who was, at times, overcast with a gloom that bordered 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 Staffordshire ; and received an answer to his letter, importing, that the symptoms indi- cated 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 hu- man 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 me- lancholy ; 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 title, TNQGI 2EAYT0N, 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 volume ; and it is hoped, that a translation, or rather imitation, of so curious a piece will not be improper in this place. GENIUS OF DU. JOHNSON. xlv 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 pil'd on words a fabric rise, He curs’d the industry, inertly strong, In creeping toil that could persist so long, And if, enrag’d he cried, Heav’n meant to shed Its keenest vengeance on the guilty head, The drudgery of words the damn’d would know, Doom’d to write Lexicons in endless woe.* Yes, you had cause, great genius, to repent; “ You lost good days, that might be better spent;” You well might grudge the hours of ling’ring pain, And view your learned labours w T ith disdain. To you ’were given the large expanded mind, The flame of genius, and the taste refin’d. ’Twas yours on eagle wings aloft to soar, iVnd amidst rolling worlds the Great First Cause ex- plore ; To fix the eras of recorded time, And live in ev ry age and ev’ry clime ; Record the Chiefs, who propt their Country’s cause ; Who founded Empires, and establish’d Laws ; To learn whate’er the Sage with virtue fraught, Whate’er the 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 compare. * See Scaliger’s Epigram on this subject, communicated without doubt by Dr. Johnson, Gent. Mag. 1743, p. 8. xlvi AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND 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, loit’ring 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 misfortune 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 gen’rous bosom fir’d ; Each Science hail’d him, and each Muse inspir’d. For him the Sons of Learning trimm’d the bays, And nations grew harmonious in his praise. My task performed, and all my labours o’er, For me what lot has Fortune now in store? 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 conspires, Where Comus revels, and where wine inspires, Delight no more : I seek my lonely bed, And call on Sleep to sooth my languid head. But Sleep from these sad lids flies far away ; I mourn all night, and dread the coming day. Exhausted, tir’d, 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 pow’rs decline. If Science open not her richest vein, Without materials all our toil is vain. GENIUS OF Dll. JOHNSON. xlvii 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 pow’rs confin’d 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 combin’d 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 him- self. He gives the prominent features of his character ; his lassitude, his morbid melancholy, his love of fame, his dejection, his tavern parties, and his wandering reve- ries, Vacuce 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 Dic- tionaries was not merely said in verse. Mr. Hamilton, who was at that time an eminent printer, and well acquainted with Dr. Johnson, remembers that he engaged in a Com- mercial Dictionary, and, as appears by the receipts in his possession, was paid his price for several sheets ; but he soon relinquished the undertaking. It is probable, that he found himself not sufficiently versed in that branch of knowledge, xlviii AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND He was again reduced to the expedient of short compo- sitions for the supply of the day. The writer of this nar- rative has now before him a letter in Dr. Johnson’s hand- writing', which shews 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 fol- lows : “ Sir, “ I am obliged to entreat your assistance. I am now under an arrest for five pounds eighteen shillings. Mr. Strahan, from whom I should have received the necessary help in this case, is not at home ; and I am afraid of not finding Mr. Millar. If you will be so good 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, 16th March.” In the margin of this letter there is a memorandum 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 entry. To his friend in distress he sent eight shillings more than was wanted. Had an incident of this kind oc- curred in one of his Romances, Richardson would have known how to grace his hero ; but in fictitious scenes ge- nerosity costs the writer nothing. About this time Johnson contributed several papers to a periodical Miscellany, called The “ Visitor,” from mo- tives which are highly honourable 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. Newbery, a man of a projecting head, good taste, and great industry. This em- GEXIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. xiix ployment engrossed but little of Johnson’s time. He re- signed himself to indolence, took no exercise, rose about two, and then received the visits of his friends. Authors, long since forgotten, waited on him as their oracle, and he gave responses 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 ob- scure , men marked not when He believed, that he could give a better history of Grub-street than any man living. His house was filled with a succession of visitors till four or five in the evening. During the whole time he pre- sided at his tea-table. Tea was his favourite beverage ; and, when the late Jonas Hanway pronounced his ana- thema against the use of tea, Johnson rose in defence of his habitual 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 welcomed the morning.” The proposal for a new edition of Shakspeare, which had formerly miscarried, was resumed in the year 1756. The booksellers readily agreed to his terms ; and sub- scription-tickets were issued 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 periodical pro- duction called “The Idler.” The first number appeared on Saturday, April, 15, 1758; and the last, April 5, 1760. The profits of this work, and the subscriptions for the new edition of Shakspeare, were the means by which he sup- ported himself for four or five years. In 1759 was pub- lished Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia. His translation of Lobo’s Voyage to Abyssinia seems to have pointed out that country for the scene of action ; and Rassela Christos , the General of Sultan Sequed , mentioned in that work, most probably suggested the name of the prince. The au- thor wanted to set out on a journey to Lichfield, in order VOL. I. e 1 AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND to pay the last offices of filial piety to his mother, who, at the age of ninety, was then near her dissolution ; but money was necessary. Mr. Johnston, a bookseller, who has long since left off business, gave one hundred pounds for the copy. With this supply, Johnson set out for Lich- field : 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 ex- pences. He gave up his house in Gough-square. Mrs. Williams went into lodgings. He 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 of literature. Magni stat nominis umbra. Mr. Fitzherbert (the father of Lord St. Helen’s, the present minister at Madrid), a man distinguished through life for his benevo- lence 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 surprize, he found an author by profession without pen, ink, or paper. The present Bishop of Salisbury was also among those who endeavoured by constant attention, to sooth the cares of a mind which he knew to be afflicted with gloomy ap- prehensions. At one of the parties made at his house, Boscovich, the Jesuit, who had then lately introduced the Newtonian philosophy at Rome, and, after publishing an elegant Latin poem on the subject, 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 of Boileau and La Bruyere, did not understand its pronunciation, nor could he speak 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. GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. li 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 this writer well remembers. Ob- serving that Fontenelle at first opposed the Newtonian philosophy, and embraced it afterwards, his words were : Fonlenellia , ni f allot', in extrema senectute , fuit transfuga ad castra Newtoniana. We have now travelled through that part of Dr. John- son's life which was a perpetual struggle with difficulties. Halcyon days are now to open upon him. In the month of May, 1762, his Majesty, to reward literary merit, sig- nified his pleasure to grant to Johnson a pension of three hundred pounds a year. The Earl of Bute was minister. Lord Loughborough, w T ho, perhaps, was originally a mover in the business, had authority to mention it. He was well acquainted 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 author 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 ap- proaches 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 conducted 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 e 2 lii AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND 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. How- ever that be, Johnson was never heard to utter a disre- spectful word of that nobleman. The writer of this essay remembers 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-emi- nence 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, Pulfendorf, and Burlemaqui, have reaped in that field before him.” “ He will treat it,” said Dr. Rose, “ in a new manner.” “ 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 claim for him.” Ingratitude was no part of Johnson’s character. Being now in the possession of a regular income, J ohn- son left his chambers in the Temple, and once more be- came 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 enter- tained 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 inten- * See Johnson’s epitaph on him, in vol. vi. GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. liii tion to grow suddenly rich by the philosopher’s stone, or the transmutation of metals. To enlarge his circle, John- son once more had recourse to a literary club. This was at the Turk’s Head, in Gerard-street, Soho, on every Tues- day evening through the year. The members were, be- sides himself, the Right Hon. Edmund Burke, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Dr. Nugent, Dr. Goldsmith, the late Mr. Top- ham Beauclerk, Mr. Langton, Mr. Chamier, Sir J. Haw- kins, and some others. Johnson’s affection for Sir Joshua was founded on a long acquaintance, and a thorough knowledge of the virtuous and amiable qualities of that excellent artist. He delighted in the conversation of Mr. Burke. He met him for the first time at Mr. Gar- rick’s several years ago. On the next day he said, “ I suppose, Murphy, you are proud of your countryman. Cum talis sit, utinam noster esset !” 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 being convinced that he was the first man in England.” Johnson felt not only kind- ness, but zeal and ardour for his friends. He did every thing in his power to advance the reputation of Dr. Gold- smith. He loved him, though he knew his failings, and particularly the leaven of envy, which corroded the mind of that elegant writer, and made him impatient, without disguise, of the praises bestowed on any person whatever. Of this infirmity, which marked Goldsmith’s character, Johnson gave a remarkable instance. It happened that he went with Sir Joshua Reynolds and 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 dexte- rity, that though Nature s journeyman made the men , they imitated humanity to the astonishment of the spectator. The entertainment being over, the three friends retired to a tavern. Johnson and Sir Joshua talked with pleasure Hv AN ESSAY ON - THE LIFE AND of what they had seen ; and says Johnson, in a tone of admiration, “ How the little fellow brandished his spon- toon !” “ There is nothing in it,” replied Goldsmith, starting up with impatience : “ give me a spontoon : I can do it as well myself.” Enjoying his amusements at his weekly club, and happy in a state of independence, Johnson gained in the year 1765 another resource, which contributed more than any thing else to exempt him from the solicitudes of life. He was introduced to the late Mr. Thrale and his family. Mrs. Piozzi has related the fact, and it is therefore need- less to repeat it in this place. The author of this narra- tive 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 obligation, he went to work unwil- lingly, but proceeded with vigour. — In the month of Oc- tober, 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. Ox- ford 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 rapid decline ; 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 situ- ation, and found him on 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 Johnson 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 GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. lv 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 accompanied the family in all their summer excursions to Brighthelm- stone, to Wales, and to Paris. It is but justice to Mr. Thrale to say, that a more ingenuous frame of mind no man possessed. His education at Oxford gave him the habits of a gentleman ; his amiable temper recommended 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 entangled. 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 Gar- rick, “ that any man should shew 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 expression was afterwards repeated to Foote ; who, in return, gave out, that he would produce the Caliban of literature on the stage. Being informed of this design, Johnson sent word to Foote, “ That the the- atre 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 anta- gonist, 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 ex- traordinary things were said. Accordingly, the librarian lvi AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND 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 sluggishness, could not lie still. In 1770 we find him entering the lists as a political writer. The flame of discord that blazed throughout the nation on the expulsion of Mr. Wilkes, and the final de- termination of the House of Commons, that Mr. Luttreil was duly elected by 206 votes against 1143, spread a general spirit of discontent. To allay the tumult, Dr. Johnson published “ 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, however, be placed within the bounds of pro- bability. Johnson has observed that there are different methods of composition. Virgil was used to pour out a great number of verses in the morning, and pass the day in retrenching the exuberances, and correcting inac- curacies ; 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 intermediate use of the pen, form and polish large masses by continued meditation, and write their productions only, wdien, 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, and the arrange- ment of the whole. As he often thought aloud, he had, perhaps, talked it over to himself. This may account for GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. lvii that rapidity with which, in general, he dispatched his sheets to the press, without being at the trouble of a fair copy. Whatever may be the logic or eloquence of the “ False Alarm” the House of Commons have since erased the resolution from the Journals. But whether they have not left materials 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 shew the impro- priety 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 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 patriots. In 1775 he undertook a pamphlet of more importance, namely, “ Taxation no Tyranny, in an- swer 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 shewn 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. Boswell, 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 narra- tive, and the depth of observation on life and manners ; by others, as much condemned, as a work of avowed hostility to the Scotch nation. The praise was, beyond all ques- lviii AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND tion, fairly deserved ; and the censure, on due examina- tion, 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 success in England exceeded their proportion of real merit , and he could not but see in them that nation- ality 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 Scottish 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 impu- dence of a leech, that fixes and sucks your blood.” Upon another occasion, this writer went with him into the shop of Davies, the bookseller, in Russell-street, Covent-garden. Davies 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 prejudice has gone forth against us North Britons ; but when I am talking to you, 1 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 him from the natives of Scotland. Being a cordial well-wisher to die constitution in church and state, he did not think that Calvin and John Knox were proper founders of a national religion. He made, however, a wide distinction between the Dissenters of Scotland and the Separatists of England. * Mr. Boswell’s account of this introduction is very different from the above. See his life of Johnson, vol. i. p. 360, 8vo. edit. 1804. GENIUS OF DU. JOHNSON. lix To the former he imputed no disaffection, no want of loyalty. Their soldiers and their officers had shed their blood with zeal and courage in the service of Great Bri- tain ; 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 Scotch- man to whom an Englishman was as a Scotchman, that Scotchman should be as an Englishman to him. In this, surely, there was no rancour, no malevolence. The Dis- senters 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 horrour 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 Scotland as a spy ; though Hawkins, his biographer, and the professing defender of his fame, allowed himself leave to represent him in that ignoble character. He lx AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND went into Scotland to survey men and manners. Anti- quities, 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 literature, were his objects. The civilities which he received in the course of his tour have been re- paid with grateful acknowledgment, and, generally, 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 resented 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 plantations of pine planted by gentlemen near their 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 there- fore 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 surprized by modes of life, and ap- pearances of nature, that are familiar to men of wider survey, and more varied conversation. Novelty and ig- norance 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 Johnson’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, Johnson declared with- out hesitation. “ The Earsef he says, “ was always oral only, and never a written language. The Welsh and the GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. lxi Irish were more cultivated. In Earse , there was not in the world a single manuscript a hundred years old. Mar- tin, who in the last century published an account of the Western Islands, mentions Irish , but never Earse manu- scripts, to be found in the islands in his time. The bards could not read ; if they could, they might probably have written. But the bard was a barbarian among barbarians, and, knowing nothing himself, lived with others that knew no more. If there is a manuscript from which the trans- lation was made, in what age was it written, and where is it ? If it was collected from oral recitation, it could only be in detached parts and scattered fragments : the whole is too long to be remembered. 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 shew the original, nor can it be shewn by any other. To revenge reasonable incredulity, by refusing evidence, is a degree of insolence with which the world is not yet acquainted ; and stubborn audacity is the last refuge of guilt.” This reasoning carries with it great weight. It roused the resentment of Mr. Mac- pherson. He sent a threatening letter to the author ; and Johnson answered him in the rough phrase of stern de- fiance. The two heroes frowned at a distance, but never came to action. In the year 1777, the misfortunes of Dr. Dodd 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 Queen ; 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 widow. Mrs. Piozzi relates, that when Johnson was rallied for these exertions, so close to one another, his answer was, lxii AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND When they come to me with a dying parson, and a dead stay-maker, 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 memorandum of that year he says, some time in March 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 unla- mented. 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 survived, the history of the man was to give no moral lesson to after ages. If tradition told us that Ben Jonson went to the Devil Tavern ; that Shakspeare stole deer, and held the stirrup at play- house 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 examples taken from the school of life. This task re- mained for Dr. Johnson, when years had rolled away; when the channels of information were, for the most part, choaked up, and little remained besides doubtful anecdote, uncertain tradition, and vague report. “ Nunc situs informis prexnit et deserta Vetustas.” The value of Biography has been better understood in other ages, and in other countries. Tacitus informs us, that to record the lives and characters of illustrious men GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON., lxiii was the practice of the Roman authors, in the early periods of the republic. In France the example has been fol- lowed. Fontenelle, D'Alembert, and Monsieur Thomas , have left models in this kind of composition. They have embalmed the dead. But it is true, that they had incite- ments and advantages, 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 phi- losophers. They had, besides, an Academy of Delies Let- tres , where genius was cultivated, refined, and encouraged. They had the tracts, the essays, and dissertations, which remain in the Memoires of the Academy, and they had the speeches of the several members, delivered at their first admission to a seat in that learned assembly. In those speeches the new academician did ample justice to the memory of his predecessor ; and though his harangue was decorated with the colours of eloquence, and was, for that reason, called panegyric, yet being pronounced before qualified judges, who knew the talents, the con- duct, and morals of the deceased, the speaker could not, with propriety, wander into the regions of fiction. 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 fac- tion ; by the madness of many for the gain of a few ; by civil wars, religious dissentions, trade and commerce, and the arts of accumulating wealth. Amidst such attentions, who can wonder that cold praise has been often the only reward of merit? In this country, Doctor Nathaniel Hodges, who, like the good Bishop of Marseilles, dreio purer breath amidst the contagion of the plague in Lon- don, and during the whole time continued in the city, administering medical assistance, was suffered, as John- son used to relate with tears in his eyes, to die for debt in a gaol. In this country, the man who brought the New lxiv AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND River to London was ruined by that noble project ; and in this country, Otway died for want on Tower-hill ; But- ler, the great author of Hudibras, whose name can only die with the English language, was left to languish in poverty, the particulars of his life almost unknown, and scarce a vestige of him left except his immortal poem. Had there been an Academy of Literature, the lives, at least, of those celebrated persons would have been writ- ten for the benefit of posterity. Swift, it seems, had the idea of such an institution, and proposed it to Lord Ox- ford ; 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 ex- pected 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 assembly.” To this it may be sufficient to answer, that the Royal Society has not been dissolved by sullen disgust ; and the modern academy at Somerset-house has already performed much, and pro- mises more. Unanimity is not necessary to such an as- sembly. On the contrary, by difference of opinion, 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 opinions ; but in that contention truth would 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 general 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 to be told. The edicts of an English academy would probably be read by many, only that they may be sure to disobey them. GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. 1x37 The present manners of the nation would deride authority, and therefore nothing is left, but that every writer should criticize himself.” This surely is not conclusive. It is by the standard of the best writers that every man settles for himself his plan of legitimate composition ; and since the authority of superiour genius is acknowledged, that authority, which the individual obtains, would not be lessened by an association with others of distinguished 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 pro- fitable places would not be wanted. Vatis avarus haud facile est animus ; and the minister, who shall find leisure from party and faction to carry such a scheme into exe- cution, will, in all probability, be respected by posterity as the Maecenas of letters. We now take leave of Dr. Johnson as an author. Four, volumes of his Lives of the Poets were published in 1778, and the work was completed 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 criti- cal and moral instruction. In April, 1 78 1 , he lost his friend Mr. Thrale. His own words, in his diary, will best tell that melancholy event. “ On Wednesday, the 11th of April, was buried my dear friend Mr. Thrale, who died on Wednesday, the 4th, and with him were buried many of my hopes and pleasures. About five, I think, on Wed- nesday morning he expired. I felt almost 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 op- portunities 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 persecuted him through VOL. i. f lxvi AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND life came upon him with alarming severity, and his con- stitution declined apace. In 1782 his old friend Levet expired without warning and without a groan. Events like these reminded Johnson of his own mortality. 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 family 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 lingering look be- hind. The few remaining occurrences may be soon dispatched. In the month of June, 1783, Johnson had a paralytic stroke, which affected his speech only. He wrote to Dr. Taylor, of Westminster ; 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. Watson’s Chemistry. Articulating with diffi- culty, he said, “ From this book, he who knows nothing may learn a great deal ; and he who knows, will be pleased to find his knowledge recalled to his mind in a manner highly pleasing.” In the month of August he set out for Lichfield, on a visit to Mrs. Lucy Porter, the 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 Septem- ber, during his absence. This was another shock to a mind like his, ever agitated by the thoughts of futurity. The contemplation of his own approaching end was con- stantly before his eyes ; and the prospect of death, he declared, was terrible. For many years, when he was not disposed to enter into the conversation going forward, . GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. lxvff 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 sooth his anxious moments. In November, 1783, he was swelled from head to foot with a dropsy. Dr. Brock- lesby, 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 constitution was not entirely broken. For the sake of conversing with his friends, he established a conversation club, to meet on every Wed- nesday 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 malignant remarks of Sir John Hawkins on this subject, were a wretched waste of time. Professing to be Johnson’s friend, that biographer has raised more objections to his character, than all the enemies of 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 affections are the essence of virtue : they are the will of God implanted in our nature, to aid and strengthen moral obligation; they incite to action ; a sense of benevolence is no less necessary than a /2 lxviii AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE ANJ) sense of duty. Good affections are an ornament not only to an author but to his writings. He who shews himself upon a cold scent for opportunities to bark and snarl throughout a volume of six hundred pages, may, if lie 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 punctuality till about Midsummer, 1784, when, with some appearance of health, Johnson went into Derbyshire, and thence to Lichfield. 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 prolong a valuable life. But a pension of 300/. a year was a slender fund for a travelling valetudinarian, and it was not then known that he had saved a moderate sum of money. Mr. Boswell and Sir Joshua Reynolds under- took to solicit the patronage of the chancellor. With Lord Thurlow, 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 going to say, I was afraid, but that would not be true, for I never was afraid of any man ; but 1 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 possible the days of a man, whom he respected, he offered to advance the sum of five hundred pounds. Being informed of this at Lichfield, Johnson wrote the following letter : My Lord, “ After a long and not inattentive observation of man- kind, the generosity of your lordship’s offer raises in me not less wonder than gratitude. Bounty, so liberally be- stowed, I should gladly receive, if my condition made it GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. lxix 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 encouraged 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 will- ing ; 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 I 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 benefit which only men like you are able to bestow. 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 servant, “ Samuel Johnson.’* September, 1T84.” We have in this instance the exertion of two congenial minds ; one, with a generous impulse relieving merit in distress ; and the other, by gratitude and dignity of sen- timent rising to an equal elevation. It seems, however, that greatness of mind is not con- fined to greatness of rank. Dr. Brocklesby was not con- tent to assist with his medical art; he resolved to minister to his patient’s mind , and pluck from his memory the sorrow which the late refusal from a high quarter might occa- sion. To enable him to visit the south of France in pur- suit of health, he offered from his own funds an annuity Ixx AN ESSAt ON THE LIFE AND 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, how- ever, 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 Magazine, and, in the languor of sick- ness, still desirous to contribute all in his power to the advancement of science and useful knowledge. He says, in a letter to that gentleman, dated Lichfield, October 20, that he should be glad to give so skilful a lover of anti- quities any information. He adds, ‘ At Ashburne, where I had very little company, I had the luck to borrow Mr. Bowyer’s Life, a book so full of contemporary history, 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 notice : 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 pro- gress 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. Brock- lesby, Dr. Butter, and Mr. Cruikshank, the eminent sur- geon. Eternity presented to his mind an aweful prospect, and, with as much virtue as perhaps ever is the lot of man, he shuddered at the thought of his dissolution. His friends awakened the comfortable reflection of a well- spent life ; and, as his end drew near, they had the satis- faction of seeing him composed, and even cheerful, inso- much, that he was able, in the course of his restless nights, to make translations of Greek epigrams from the Antho- logia ; and to compose a Latin epitaph for his father, his GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. lxxi mother, and his brother Nathaniel. He meditated, at the same time, a Latin inscription 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 fol- lowing letter to his friend, Mr. Nichols. “ Sir, “ The late learned Mr. Swinton, of Oxford, having one day remarked that one man, meaning, 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 will- ing that of so great a work the history should be known, and that each writer should receive his due proportion of praise from posterity. “ 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, Dec. 6, 1784. “ Sam. Johnson,” Mr. Swinton. The History of the Carthaginians. Numidians. Mauritanians. Gaetulians. Garamantes. Melano Gaetulians. Nigritae. Cyrenaica. Marmarica. Regio Syrtica. — Turks, Tartars, and Moguls. * It is there deposited. J. N. Ixxii an essay on the LIFE AN& The History of the Indians. Chinese. The Dissertation on the Peopling of America. The Dissertation on the Independency of the Arabs. The Cosmogony, and a small part of the History imme- diately following. By Mr. Sale. To the Birth of Abraham. Chiefly by Mr. Shelvock. History of the Jews, Gauls, and Spaniards. By Mr. Psalmanazar. Xenophon’s Retreat. By the same. History of the Persians, and the Constantinopolitan Em- pire. By Dr. Campbell. History of the Romans. By Mr. Bower.* On the morning of Dec. 7, Dr. Johnson requested to see Mr. Nichols. A few days before, he had borrowed some of the early volumes of the Magazine, with a pro- fessed 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 particular those which contained his share in the Parliamentary Debates. Such was the goodness of Johnson’s heart, that he then declared, that “ those debates were the only parts of his 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 imagination.” He * Before this authentic communication, Mr. Nichols had given in the volume of the Gentleman’s Magazine for 1781, p. 370, the following account of the Universal History. The proposals were published October 6, 1729; and the authors of the first seven- Volumes were, Vol. I. Mr. Sale, translator of the Koran. II. George Psalmanazar. III. George Psalmanazar. Archibald Bower. Captain Shelvock. Dr. Campbell. IV. The same as vol. III. V. Mr. Bower. VI. Mr. Bower. Rev. John S win ton. til. Mr. S win ton. Mr. Bower, GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. lxxiil kdded, “ 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 twelves 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.” 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. Hamilton 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. Sastres (whom Dr. Johnson esteemed and men- tioned in his will) entered the room during his illness. Dr. Johnson, as soon as he saw him, stretched forth his hand, and in a tone of lamentation, called out, Jam mo- riturus ! But the love of life was still in active principle. Feeling himself swelled with the dropsy, he conceived that, by incisions in his legs, the water might be discharged. Mr. Cruikshank apprehended that a mortification might be the consequence ; but, to appease a distempered fancy, he gently lanced the surface. Johnson cried out, “ Deeper, deeper ! I want length of life, and you are afraid of giving me pain, which I do not value.” On the eighth of December, the Reverend Mr. Strahan drew his will, by which, after a few legacies, the residue* amounting to about fifteen hundred pounds, was be- Ixxiv AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND queathed to Frank, the black servant, formerly consigned to the testator 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 subsided into a pious trust and humble hope of mercy at the throne of grace. On Monday, the 13tli day of December (the last of his existence on this side the grave), the desire of life returned with all its former vehemence. He still imagined, that, by punctur- ing his legs, relief might be obtained. At eight in the morning he tried the experiment, but no water followed. 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 solem- nities, and a numerous attendance of his friends, were buried in Westminster Abbey, near the foot of Shak- speare’s monument, and close to the grave of the late Mr. Garrick. The funeral service was read by his friend Dr. Taylor. A black marble over his grave has the following in- scription : Samuel Johnson, LL.D. obiit xiii die Decembris, Anno Domini MDCCLXXXIV. iEtatis suae lxxv. If we now look back, as from an eminence, to view the scenes of life, and the literary labours in which Dr. John- son was engaged, we may be able to delineate the fea- tures of the man, and to form an estimate of his genius. As a man, Dr. Johnson stands displayed in open day- light. Nothing remains undiscovered. Whatever he said is known; and without allowing him the usual privilege of hazarding sentiments, and advancing positions, for mere amusement, or the pleasure of discussion, Criticism has endeavoured to make him answerable for what, perhaps, GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. IxXV 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 paths of life, nor in his secret recesses, has any one vice been discovered. We see him reviewing every year of his life, and severely censuring himself, for not keeping resolutions, which morbid me- lancholy, and other bodily infirmities, rendered impracti- cable. 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 uncer- tain that his legs and arms would, even at a tea-table, re- main in their proper place. A person of Lord Chester- field’s delicacy might in his company be in a fever. He would sometimes of his own accord do things inconsistent with the established modes of behaviour. Sitting: at table with the celebrated Mrs. Cholmondeley, who exerted her- self to circulate the subscription for Shakspeare, he took hold of her hand in the middle of dinner, and held it close to his eye, wondering at the delicacy and the white- ness, till with a smile she asked, Will he give it to me again when he has done with it? The exteriors of politeness did not belong to Johnson. Even that civility which pro- ceeds, 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, inflamed him on some occasions above all bounds of moderation. Though not in the shade of academic bowers, he led a * On the subject of voluntary penance see the Rambler, No. 110. Ixxvi AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND 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 introduced 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 discern- ment. 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 ludicrous light, one was almost inclined to think ridicule the test of truth. He was surprized to be told, but it is certainly true, that, with great powers of mind, wit and humour were his shining talents. That he often argued for the sake of a triumph over his adversary, cannot be dissembled. Dr. Rose, of Chiswick, has been heard to tell of a friend of his, who thanked him for in- troducing 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 errour. 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 de- termined neither to he thrown nor conquered. Notwith- standing all his piety, self-government, or the command of his passions in conversation, does not seem to have been among his attainments. Whenever he thought the contention was for the superiority, he has been known to break out with violence, and even ferocity. When the GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. lxxvii 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 say, 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 mis- behaviour I am afraid he learned part of me. I hope to set him hereafter a better example.” For his own intole- rant and overbearing spirit he apologized, by observing, 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-accom- plished visitors. In that society he began to wear off the rugged points of his own character. He saw the 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 acquaintance. Men were glad to see that he was willing to be communicative on equal terms and reci- procal complacence. The time was then expected 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 purchase 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 lxxviii AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND take the name of vice. From his attainments in literature grew the pride of knowledge; and from his powers of rea- soning, the love of disputation and the vain-glory of su- periour 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 suspence. “ Second sight,” Mr. Pen- nant 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 passing at a distance, or likely to happen at a future day. In 1771, 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 drooping 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 indigestion, 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 bene- volence 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 Presbyterian. To that body of dissenters his zeal for the established church made him in some degree an adversary : and his attachment to a mixed and limited monarchy led him to declare open war against what he called a sullen republican. 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. GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. lxxix Since virtue, or moral goodness, consists in a just con- formity 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 diligent in the discharge of those essential duties ( His first prayer was composed in 1738 ; he continued 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 benevo- lence, and a constant aim at the production of happiness. 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 corrosions 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 uneasiness. He was also hurt that his Lichfield friend did not think so highly of his dramatic art as the rest of the world. The fact was, Johnson could not see the pas- sions as they rose and chased one another in the varied features of that expressive face ; and by his own manner of reciting verses, which was wonderfully impressive, he plainly shewed that he thought there was too much of artificial tone and measured 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 feelings.” “ Prithee,” replied Johnson, “ do not talk of feelings; Punch has no feelings.” This seems to have been his settled opinion ; admirable as Garrick’s imitation of nature always was, Johnson thought it no better than mere mimickry. Yet it is certain that he esteemed and loved Garrick ; that he dwelt with plea- 3xXX AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND sure 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. After Garrick’s death he never talked of him without a tear in his eyes. He of- fered, if Mrs. Garrick 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 shewed to them with unaltered affection for a number of years. His humanity and generosity, in proportion 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 retreat. 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 miniature : Iracundior est pauld, minus aptus acutis Naribus horum hominum, rideri possit, eo quod Rusticius tonso toga defluit, et male laxus In pede calceus hgeret. At est bonus, ut melior vir Non alius quisquam ; at tibi amicus ; at ingenium ingens Inculto latet hoc sub corpore. “ Your friend is passionate, perhaps unfit For the brisk petulance of modem wit. His hair ill-cut, his robe that aukward flows, Or his large shoes to raillery expose The man you love ; yet, is he not possess’d Of virtues, with which very few are blest ? While underneath this rude, uncouth disguise A genius of extensive knowledge lies.’’ Francis’s Hor. Book i. Sat. 3. It remains to give a review of Johnson’s works ; and this, it is imagined, will not be unwelcome to the reader. GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. lxxxi Like Milton and Addison, he seems to have been fond of his Latin poetry. Those compositions shew that he was an early scholar ; but his verses have not the graceful ease that gave so much suavity to the poems of Addison. The translation of the Messiah labours under two disadvan- tages ; it is first compared with Pope’s inimitable per- formance, and afterwards with. the Pollio of Virgil. It may appear trifling to remark, that he has made the let- ter 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 trans- lated 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 intermixture 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 glory, 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. * Homer has taken a similar liberty in the line commencing "Agee. "Apse Bpyro Xatyi. — 11. v. 31 and 455. VOL. I. ixxxii AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND “ Let us,” he says, “ leave it to the gods to judge what is fittest for us. Man is dearer to his Creator than him- self. If we must pray for special favour, let it be for a sound mind in a sound body. Let us pray for fortitude, that we may think the labours of Hercules and all his suf- ferings 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 Wolsey, Buckingham stabbed by Felton, Lord Strafford, Claren- don, Charles XII. of Sweden ; and for Tully and De- mosthenes, 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 I. to be sent to Ethiopia to procure manuscripts. Having spoken in favour of mo- narchy and bishops, 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 Knolless History of the Turks; an author highly com- mended 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 sub- stance 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 embrace the law of the GENIUS OF DR. JOHNSON. Ixxxiii Prophet, and to grace his throne. Enraged at this in- tended 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 Knolles 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 terrour 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 re- mained for the author to amplify it with proper episodes, and give it complication and variety. The catastrophe is changed, and horrour gives place to terrour 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 sentiments are beautiful, always happily expressed, 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 senti- ments in elegant language, than a representation of natural affections. Nothing excites or assuages emotion. The events are expected without solicitude, and are remem- bered without joy or sorrow. Of the agents we have no care : we consider 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 philosophy.” The following speech, in the mouth of a Turk, who is sup- posed 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, g 2 lxxxiv AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND Her grateful sons shine bright with ev’ry 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.” These are British sentiments. Above forty years ago they found an echo in the breast of applauding audiences; and to this hour they are the voice of the people, in de- fiance of the metaphysics and the new lights of certain politicians, who would gladly find their private advantage in the disasters of their country ; a race of men, quibus nulla ex honesto spes. The prologue to Irene is written with elegance, and, in a peculiar strain, shews the literary pride and lofty spirit of the author. The epilogue, we are told, in a late publication, was written by Sir William Yonge. This is a new discovery, but by no means probable.* When the appendages 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 ..v; ' : r •' : . ' • ; • ’ .■ • - : : . 1 : ‘ -t . UV! . •• S. * : »a - rjo i- J- 4 . i lo " H.a , . and am therefore mc ^ ne< ^ to believe that modern criticks, who if they ha^ e not e y es > ^ ave ^ ie watchfulness of Argus and as l° u( * as Cerberus, though, per- haps they cai^W' ^ te with equal force, might be subdued , with e ad van- ^nue themselves upon frst nptice of a prey, mselves by the appel- a£iew author to find probable, that the 12 THE RAMBLER. N° 3. by methods of the same kind. I have heard how some have been pacified 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 genera- tion, yet, I have not hitherto 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 have presumed upon a forged commission, stiled themselves the ministers of Criticism, without any au- thentick evidence of delegation, and uttered their own determinations as the decrees of a higher judicature. Criticism, from whom they derive their claim to de- cide 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 T7 tsdom. Being soon distinguished by the celestials, for *r uWommon qualities, she was appointed the governess of FANcV,^and empowered to beat time to the chorus of the Muses, iwhen they sung before the throne of Jupiter. When the 'JVf uses condescended to visit this lower world, they carne accompanied by Criticism, to whom, upon her descent from her native regions, Justice gave a sceptre,' to be carried aloft in her right hand, one end of which was wreathed with a gel the other end was in dipped in the waters of an unextinguishabl^ tor m- led with ambrosia, and ;e of amaranths and bays ; Lth cypress and poppies, and In her left hand, she bore manufactured by Labour, and lighted by Truth,’ ol which it was the particu- lar quality immediately to ;h ew every thing in its true form, however it might q e di S g U i S ed to common eyes. Whatever Art could Q°*h)lieate, or Polly could confound, was, upon the first gleam ^the'Torch of Truth, exhibited in its distinct parts and orig^j s i m p]i c ity; it darted through the labyrinths of sophistq an( j s ] iewe( j a t once all the absurdities to which they seik^ f or re f U g e - it pierced through the robes which rhetorj 0 f ten so j^ to THE RAMBLER. N° 3. 13 falsehood, and detected the disproportion of parts which artificial veils had been contrived to cover. Thus furnished for the execution of her office, Criti- cism came down to survey the performances of those who professed themselves the votaries of the Muses. What- ever was brought before her, she beheld by the steady light of the Torch of Truth; and when her examination had convinced her, that the laws of just writing had been observed, she touched it with the amaranthine 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 inequality 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 ap- pearance of the whole, without contributing to its beauty, solidity, 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 immor- tality; and, when the errours were frequent and gross, reversed the sceptre, and let drops of lethe distil from the poppies and cypress a fatal mildew, which immediately began to waste the work away, 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, re- ferred the cause to be considered by Time. The proceedings of Time, though very dilatory, were, "me fr y '^prices excepted, conformable to justice : and 14 THE RAMBLER. N° 3. many who thought themselves secure by a short forbear- ance, have sunk under his scythe, as they were posting down with their volumes in triumph to futurity. It was observable that some were destroyed by little and little, and others crushed for ever by a single blow. Criticism having long kept her eye fixed steadily 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 ; con- tenting herself thenceforth 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 com- panions of Malevolence were supplied by the Furies with a torch, which had this quality peculiar to infernal lustre, that its light fell only upon faults. No light, but rather darkness visible, Serv’d only to discover sights of woe. With these fragments of authority, the slaves of Flat- tery and Malevolence marched out, at the command of their mistresses, to confer immortality, or condemn to oblivion. But the sceptre had now lost its power ; and Time passes his sentence at leisure, without any regard to their determinations. N° 4. THE RAMBLER. 15 T l/ N° 4. Saturday, March 31, 1750. Simul etjucundu et idonea dicere vilce. — 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, diversified 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 improperly the comedy of romance, and is to be conducted nearly by the rules of comick poetry. Its province is to bring about natural events by easy means, and to keep up curiosity without the help of wonder : it is therefore precluded from the machines and expedients of the heroick romance, and can neither employ giants to snatch away a lady from the nuptial rites, nor knights to bring her back from cap- tivity ; it can neither bewilder 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 dryads, 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 shipwreck. 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 pro- cured, the authors were willing to continue it; for when a man had by practice gained some fluency of lammation : had no further care than to retire to his closet. e, which is invention, and heat his mind with incredibed by wicked- was thus produced without fear of criticiribed, I cannot 16 Vr H E RAMBLER. N° 4. toil o^ study, without^ knowledge of nature, or acquaint- ance with life. The task of our pV^sent writers is very different ; it re- quires, together with mat learning which is to be gained from books, that expedience which can never be attained by solitary diligence, 4ut must arise from general converse and accurate observation of the living world. Their per- formances have, as Horace expresses it, plus oneris quan- tum Venice minus, little indulgence, and therefore more difficulty. They are engaged in portraits of which every one knows the original, and c?m detect any deviation from exactness of resemblance. Other writings are safe, ex- cept from the malice of learning, but these are in danger from every common reader: as the slipper 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 copiers of human manners, is not the most important concern that an author of this sort ought 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 entertainment of minds unfurnished with ideas, and therefore easily suscep- tible of impressions ; not fixed by principles, and there- fore easily following the current of fancy; not informed by experience, and consequently open to every false sug- gestion and partial account. That the highest degree of reverence should be paid 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 emi- nent 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 from unjust es^perverse opinions, and incongruous combina- ^es. nces formerly written, every transaction s so remote from all that passes among THE RAMBLER. 17 N° 4. men, that the reader was in very little danger of making any applications to himself ; the virtues and crimes were equally beyond his sphere of activity ; and he amused himself with heroes and with traitors, deliverers and per- secutors, as with beings of another species, whose actions were regulated upon motives of their own, and who had neither faults nor excellencies 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 solemnities of professed mo- rality, and convey the knowledge of vice and virtue with more efficacy than axioms and definitions. But if the power of example is so great as to take possession of the memory by a kind of violence, and produce effects 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 ope- rate 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 in- vent, yet to select objects, and to cull from the mass of mankind, those individuals 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 situa- tion, as to display that lustre which before was buried among common stones. It is justly considered as the greatest excellency of art, to imitate nature ; but it is necessary 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 wicked- ness. If the world be promiscuously described, I cannot VOL. i. c 18 THE RAMBLER. 4. see of what use it can be to read the account : or why ii may not be as safe to turn the eye immediate!}' upon man- kind as upon a mirrour which shews all that presents itself L without discrimination. It is therefore not a sufficient vindication of a character, that it is drawn as it appears; for many characters ought never to be drawn : nor of a narrative, that the train of events is agreeable to observation and experience ; for that observation 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 shew mankind, but to provide that they may be seen hereafter with less hazard ; to teach the means of avoiding: the snares which are laid by Treachery for Innocence, without infusing any wish for that superiority with which the betrayer flatters his vanity; to give the power of coun- teracting fraud, without the temptation to practise it; to initiate youth by mock encounters in the art of necessary defence, and to encrease prudence without impairingvirtue. Many writers, for the sake of following nature, so mingle good and bad qualities in their principal personages, that they are both equally conspicuous ; and as we accompany them through their adventures with delight, and are led by degrees 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 perfectly detestable, because they never could be wholly divested of their excellencies; 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 con- sequence of this notion, that certain virtues have their correspondent faults, and therefore that to exhibit either apart is to deviate from probability. Thus men are ob- THE RAMBLER. 19 f N° 4. served by Swift to be “ grateful in the same degree as they are resentful.” This principle, with others of the same kind, supposes man to act from a brute impulse, and pursue a certain degree of inclination, without any choice of the object ; for, otherwise, though it should be allowed that gratitude and resentment arise from the same con- stitution of the passions, it follows not that they will be equally indulged when reason is consulted ; yet, unless that consequence be admitted, this sagacious maxim be- comes 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 resentment, will obstruct gratitude, by unwillingness to admit that inferiority which obligation implies; 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 posi- tions 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 them- selves, will be apt to estimate their virtues by their vices. To this fatal errour all those will contribute, who con- found the colours of right and wrong, and, instead of helping to settle their boundaries, mix them with so much art, that no common mind is able to disunite them. In narratives where historical 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 what we cannot credit, we shall never imitate, but the highest and purest that humanity can reach, which, exercised in such trials as the various revolutions of things shall bring upon it, may, by con- quering some calamities, and enduring others, teach us what we may hope, and what we can perform. Vice, for vice is necessary to be shewn, should always dis- c 2 20 THE RAMBLER. N° 4. gust ; nor should the graces of gaiety, 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 supported by either parts or spirit, it will be seldom heartily abhorred. The Roman tyrant was content to be hated, if he was but feared ; and there are thousands of the readers of ro- mances 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. N° 5. Tuesday, April 3, 1750. Ft nunc omnis ager, nunc ornnis parturit arbos, Nunc frondent silvce, nunc formosissimus annus . — Virg. Now ev’ry field, now ev’ry tree is green; Now genial Nature’s fairest face is seen. — Elphinston. Every man is sufficiently discontented with some cir- cumstances 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 inconvenience which now perplexes him, or acqui- sition of the advantage which he at present wants, he shall find the condition of his life very much improved. When this time, wffiich is too often expected with great impatience, at last arrives, it generally comes without the blessing for which it was desired ; but we solace our- selves with some new prospect, and press forward again with equal eagerness. It is lucky for a man, in whom this temper prevails, tvhen 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 N° 5. THE RAMBLER. 21 his felicity, and waits for the blissful hour with less neg- lect of the measures necessary to be taken in the mean time. I Have long known a person of this temper, who in- dulged his dream of happiness with less hurt to himself than such chimerical wishes commonly 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 never 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 con- stant practice of referring the removal of all his uneasi- ness 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 always 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 contemplation 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 testimony 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 hap- piness 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 22 THE RAMBLER. N° 5. we turn our eyes, make us rejoice at the succeeding sea- son, as well for what we have escaped as for what we may enjoy ; and every budding flower, which a warm situation brings early to our view, is considered by us as a mes- senger to notify the approach of more joyous days. The Spring affords to a mind, so free from the dis- turbance 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 pleasure 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 gaiety, significantly expressed by the smile of 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 assemblies, 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 equi- poise of an empty mind, which, having no tendency to one motion more than another, but as it is impelled by some external power, must always have recourse to foreign objects; or he must be afraid of the intrusion of some un- pleasing ideas, and perhaps is struggling to escape from the remembrance of a loss, the fear of a calamity, or some other thought of greater horrour. Those whom sorrow incapacitates to enjoy the plea- sures of contemplation, may properly apply to such di- versions, provided they 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 danger. My considerations shall, on this occasion, be turned on THE RAMBLER. 23 N° 5. such as are burthensome to themselves merely because they want subjects for reflection, and to whom the volume of nature is thrown open without affording them pleasure or instruction, because they never learned to read the characters. A French author has advanced this seeming paradox, that very few men know how to take a walk ; and, indeed, it is true, that^few know how to take a w r alk with a pros- pect of any other pleasure, than the same company would have afforded them at homeN 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 endeavour of every man to derive his reflections from the objects about him ; for it is to no pur- 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 predominance of particular thoughts, as easily to accommodate itself to occasional entertainment. A man that has formed this habit of turning every new object to his entertainment, finds in the productions of nature an inexhaustible stock of materials upon which he can employ himself, without any temptations to envy or malevolence; faults, perhaps, seldom totally avoided by those, whose judgment is much exercised upon the works of art. He has always a certain prospect of discovering new reasons for adoring the sovereign Author of the universe, and probable hopes of making some discovery of benefit to others, or of profit to himself. There is no doubt but many vegetables and animals have qualities that might be of great use, to the knowledge of which there is not required much force of penetration, or fatigue of study, but only frequent experiments, and close atten- tion. What is said by the chemists of their darling mercury, is, perhaps, true of every body through the whole creation, that if a thousand lives should be spent upon it, all its properties would not be found out. 24 THE RAMBLER. N° C. Mankind must necessarily be diversified by various tastes, since life affords and requires such multiplicity of employments, and a nation of naturalists is neither to be hoped, nor desired ; but it is surely not improper to point out a fresh amusement to those who languish in health, and repine in plenty, for want of some source of diver- sion that may be less easily exhausted, and to inform the multitudes of both sexes, who are burdened with every new day, that there are many shows which they have not seen. He that enlarges his curiosity after the works of nature, demonstrably multiplies the inlets to happiness ; and therefore, the younger part of my readers, to whom I de- dicate this vernal speculation, must excuse me for calling upon them, to make use at once of the spring of the year, and the spring of life; to acquire, while their minds may be yet impressed with new images, a love of innocent pleasures, aud an ardour for useful knowledge ; and to remember, that a blighted spring makes a barren year, and that the vernal flowers, however beautiful and gay, are only intended by nature as preparatives to autumnal fruits. N°6. Saturday, April!, 1750. Strenua nos eiercet inertia, navibus atque Quadrigis petimus bene vivere : quod petis, hie est ; Est Ulubris, animus si tenon dejicit tequus. — Hor. Active in indolence, abroad we roam In quest of happiness which dwells at home : With vain pursuits fatigu’d, at length j’ou'll find. No place excludes it from an equal mind. — E lphinston. That man should never suffer his happiness to depend upon external circumstances, is one of the chief precepts of the Stoical philosophy; a precept, indeed, which that lofty sect has extended beyond the condition of human life, and in which some of them seem to have comprised an utter exclusion of all corporal pain and pleasure from the regard or attention of a wise man. THE RAMBLER. 25 N°6. Such sapientia insaniens , as Horace calls the doctrine of another sect, such extravagance of philosophy, can want neither authority nor argument for its confutation ; it is overthrown by the experience of every hour, and the powers of nature rise up against it. But we may very properly inquire, how near to this exalted state it is in our power to approach, how far we can exempt ourselves from outward influences, and secure to our minds a state of tranquillity : for, though the boast of absolute independence is ridiculous and vain, yet a mean flexibility to every im- pulse, and a patient submission to the tyranny of casual troubles, is below the dignity of that mind, which, how- ever depraved or weakened, boasts its derivation from a celestial original, and hopes for an union with infinite goodness, and unvariable felicity. Ni vitiis pejoraf ovens Proprium deserat ortum. Unless the soul, to vice a thrall. Desert her own original. The necessity of erecting ourselves to some degree of intellectual dignity, and of preserving resources of plea- sure, 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 re- gular and stated allotment of their hours, are obliged to find themselves business or diversion, and having nothing within that can entertain or employ them, are compelled to try all the arts of destroying time. The numberless expedients practised by this class of mortals to alleviate the burthen of life, are not less shame- ful, nor, perhaps, much less pitiable, than those to which a trader on the edge of bankruptcy is reduced. I have seen melancholy overspread a whole family at the disap- pointment of a party for cards ; and when, after the pro- posal of a thousand schemes, and the dispatch of the foot- man upon a hundred messages, they have submitted, with gloomy resignation, to the misfortune of passing one even- 26 THE RAMBLER. N° G. ing in conversation with each other; on a sudden, such are the revolutions of the world, an unexpected visitor has brought them relief, acceptable as provision 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 always return- ing home with disappointment and complaints. Who can look upon this kind of infatuation, without re- flecting on those that suffer under the dreadful symptom of canine madness, termed by physicians the dread of water ? These miserable wretches, unable to drink, though burning with thirst, are sometimes known to try various contortions, or inclinations of the body, flattering them- selves that they can swallow in one posture that liquor which they find in another to repel their lips. Yet such folly is not peculiar to the thoughtless or ig- norant, but sometimes seizes those minds which seem most exempted from it, by the variety of attainments, quick- ness of penetration, or severity of judgment; and, indeed, the pride of wit and knowledge is often mortified by find- ing that they confer no security against the common errours, which mislead the weakest and meanest of man- kind. These reflections arose in my mind upon the remem- brance 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 ima- gination of a girl upon the loss of her first lover could have scarcely given way ; but which he seems to have in- dulged, till he had totally forgotten its absurdity, and would probably have put in execution, had he been hin- dered only by his reason. “ My desire,” says he, “ has been for some years past, though the execution has been accidentally diverted, and THE RAMBLER. 27 N° 6. does still vehemently continue, to retire myself to some of our American plantations, not to seek for gold, or enrich myself with the traffick 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 with- out the consolation 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 stronger 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, incumbrances, 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, innumerable coverts sufficiently dark to have concealed the genius of Cowley; for whatever might be his opinion of the importunity with which he might be summoned back into publick life, a short ex- perience 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 pre- vent 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 absence when they have tried a little to live without him, and found new diversions for those moments which his company contributed to exhila- rate. It was, perhaps, ordained by Providence, to hinder us from tyrannizing over one another, that no individual should be of such importance, as to cause, by his retire- 28 THE RAMBLER. N°6. ment or death, any chasm in the world. And Cowley had conversed to little purpose with mankind, if he had never remarked, how soon the useful friend, the gay com- panion, and the favoured lover, when once they are re- moved 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 vexa- tions of the world, not less efficacious than those which the woods or fields of America could afford him : but having once his mind imbittered with disgust, he con- ceived it impossible to be far enough from the cause of his uneasiness ; and was posting away with the expedi- tion 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 fatigued with business, he so strongly imaged to himself the happiness of leisure and retreat, that he determined to enjoy them for the future without interruption, and to exclude for ever all that could deprive him of his darling satisfactions. He forgot, in the vehemence of desire, that solitude 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 satiated ; we desire some- thing else, and begin a new pursuit. If he had proceeded in his project, and fixed his habi- tation in the most delightful part of the new world, it may be doubted, whether his distance 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 known the troubles and perplexities of a particular condi- tion, readily persuaded himself that nothing worse was THE RAMBLER. 29 N° 7. to be found, and that every alteration would bring some improvement: he never suspected that the cause of his unhappiness 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 accompany 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 purposes to remove.* N° 7. Tuesday, April 10, 1750. O qui perpetua tnundum ratione gubei’nas, Terrarum codique sator ! Dhjice terrene nebulas el pondera molis, Atque tun splendore mica ! Tu namque serenum, Tu requies tranquilla piis. Te cernere, finis, Principium, vector, dux, semita, terminus idem . — Boethiu*, O thou whose pow’r o’er moving worlds presides, Whose voice created, and whose wisdom guides, On darkling man in pure effulgence shine, And chear 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 supposed to confer happiness, have been forced to seek it in the shades of privacy. Though they possessed both power and riches, and were, there- fore, surrounded by men who considered it 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 * See Dr. Johnson’s Life of Cowley. 30 THE RAMBLER. N° 7. pursue the race of life without frequent respirations of intermediate solitude. To produce this disposition, nothing appears requisite but quick sensibility, and active imagination ; 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 expectations and disap- pointments, that he will gladly snatch an hour of retreat, to let his thoughts expatiate at large, and seek for that variety in his own ideas, which the objects of sense can- not 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 spe- culations, which he must pursue by his own reason, and which the splendour of his condition can only hinder: for those who are most exalted above dependance or control, are yet condemned to pay so large a tribute of their time to custom, ceremony, and popularity, that, according to the Greek proverb, no man in the house is more a slave than the master. When a king asked Euclid, the mathematician, whether he could not explain his art to him in a more compendious manner? he was answered, That there was no royal way to geometry. 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 assemblage of things is ade- quate, and who seldom range beyond those entertainments and vexations, which solicit their attention by pressing on their senses. But there is an universal reason for some stated intervals N° 7. THE RAMBLER. 31 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 influence all ranks of life, and all degrees of intellect; since none can imagine themselves not comprehended in its obligation, but such as determine to set their Maker at defiance by obstinate wickedness, or whose enthusiastick security of his approbation places them above external ordinances, and all human means of improvement. The great task of him who conducts his life by the pre- cepts of religion, is to make the future predominate over the present, to impress upon his mind so strong a sense of the importance of obedience to the divine will, of the value of the reward promised to virtue, and the terrours of the punishment denounced against crimes, as may over- bear all the temptations which temporal hope or fear can bring in his way, and enable him to bid equal defiance to joy and sorrow, to turn away at one time from the allure- ments of ambition, and push forward at another against the threats of calamity. It is not without reason that the apostle represents 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 ten- dency to obstruct the way that leads to happiness, and either to turn us aside, or retard our progress. Our senses, our appetites, and our passions, are our law- ful and faithful guides, in most things that relate solely to this life : and, therefore, by the hourly necessity of con- sulting them, we gradually sink into an implicit submission, and habitual confidence. Every act of compliance with their motions facilitates a second compliance, every new step towards depravity is made with less reluctance than THE RAMBLER. 32 N° 7. the former, and thus the descent to life merely sensual is perpetually accelerated. 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. W e 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 established, and incessantly increasing, it must be remembered, that almost every man has, in some part of his life, added new strength by a voluntary 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 multiply their demands? From the necessity of dispossessing the sensitive facul- ties 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 na- turally be felt in some degree, though varied without end, by different tempers of mind, and innumerable circum- stances of health or condition, 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 impulses, even in cases where they ought to be of no weight; for the motions of sense are instantaneous, its objects strike unsought, we are accustomed to follow its directions, and therefore often sub- mit to the sentence without examining the authority of the judge. Thus it appears, upon a philosophical estimate, that, sup- posing the mind, at any certain time, in an equipoise be- tween the pleasures of this life, and the hopes of futurity, present objects falling more frequently into the scale, would N° 7. THE RAM BLER. 33 in time preponderate, and that our regard for an invi- sible state would grow every moment weaker, till at last it would lose all its activity, and become absolutely 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 infi- nite, not less than the favour or anger of Omnipotence, not less than eternity of happiness or misery. But these can only influence our conduct as they gain our attention, 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 instituted, is the per- petual renovation of the motives to virtue, by a voluntary employment of our mind in the contemplation of its ex- cellence, its importance, and its necessity, which, in pro- portion as they are more frequently and more willingly revolved, gain a more forcible and permanent influence, till in time they become the reigning ideas, the standing principles of action, and the test by which every thing pro- posed to the judgment is rejected or approved. To facilitate this change of our affections, it is neces- sary that we weaken the temptations of the world, by re- tiring at certain seasons from it; for its influence, arising only from its presence, is much lessened when it becomes the object of solitary meditation. A constant residence amidst noise and pleasure inevitably obliterates the 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 reinstate religion in its just autho- rity, 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 ourselves, which has been always considered as the perfection of human nature ; and this is only to be obtained by fervent VOL. I. D U 34 THE RAMBLER. N° 8. prayer, steady resolutions, and frequent retirement from folly and vanity, from the cares of avarice, and the joys of intemperance, from the lulling sounds of deceitful flattery, and the tempting sight of prosperous wickedness. N° 8. Saturday, April 14, 1750. Patitur p&nas peccandi sola voluntas ; Nam scelus intra se taciturn qui cogitat ullum, Facti crimen habet . — Juv. 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 regular account, according to the manner in which they have been spent, it is scarcely to be imagined 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 seeming possibilities of action, how many chasms he would find of wide and con- tinued 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 uni- verse, 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 employment 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 performance. 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 them- N° 8. THE RAMBLER. 35 selves at leisure to pursue the study of philosophy in the camp; and Lucan, with historical veracity, makes Caesar relate of himself, that he noted the revolutions of the stars in the midst of preparations for battle. — — Media inter prcdia semper Sideribus, coelique plagis, superisque vacavi. Amid the storms of war, with curious eyes I trace the planets and survey the skies. That the soul always exerts her peculiar powers, with greater or less force, is very probable, though the common occasions of our present condition require but a small part of that incessant cogitation ; and by the natural frame of our bodies, 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 unprofitably or hurtfully employed, and the superfluities 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 know- ledge of science, by what steps it is to be led forwards in its pursuit, how it is to be cured of its defects, and ha- bituated to new studies, 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 origin in the mind, and that therefore to suffer the thoughts to be vitiated, is to poison the fountains of morality ; irregular desires will produce licentious practices; what raen 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 d 2 36 THE RAMBLER. N° 8. gain, by confession, great opportunities of knowing human nature, have generally determined that what it 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 relax, and his detes- tation soften; the happiness of success glittering before him, withdraws his attention from the atrociousness of the guilt, and acts are at last confidently perpetrated, of which the first conception only crept into the mind, disguised in pleasing complications, and permitted rather than invited. No man has ever been drawn to crimes by love or jea- lousy, envy or hatred, but he can tell how easily he might at first have repelled the temptation, how readily his mind would have obeyed a call to any other object, and how weak his passion 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 solitude, with more pernicious and ty- rannical appetites and wishes than the commerce of the world will generally produce ; for we are easily shocked by crimes which appear at once in their full magnitude ; but the gradual growth of our own wickedness, 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 degrees submits to absurdity, as the eye is in time accommodated to darkness. In this disease of the soul, it is of the utmost import- ance to apply remedies at the beginning ; and therefore I shall endeavour to shew 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 vi- vilance, who, perhaps, indulge themselves in dangerous dreams, so much the more dangerous, because, being yet only dreams, they are concluded innocent. The recollection of the past is only useful by way of N° 8. THE RAMBLER. 37 provision for the future; and therefore in reviewing all occurrences that fall under a religious 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 success- ful fraud, a night of licentious riot, or an intrigue of guilty pleasure, let him summon off his imagination as from an unlawful pursuit, expel those passages from his remem- brance, 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 im- pressions of past pleasure are always lessening, but the sense of guilt, which respects futurity, continues the same. The serious and impartial retrospect of our conduct, is indisputably necessary to the confirmation or recovery of virtue, and is, therefore, recommended under the name of self-examination, by divines, as the first act previous to re- pentance. 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 endeavour to see every thing in its proper form, and excite in ourselves those sentiments, which the great Author of nature has decreed the conco- mitants or followers of good and bad actions. MnS’ O7TV0V fj.aXaxoia'iv In ofxfxag-i npotrie^ai\ov icrjp, to devour his own heart in solitude and contempt. N° 12. Saturday, April 28, 1750. Miserum parva stipe focilat, ut pvdibundos Exercere sales inter convivia possit. . Tu mitis, et acri Asperitate carens, positoque per omnia fastu, Inter ut cequales unus numeraris amicos, Obsequiumque doces, et amorem quceris amando. Lucanus 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 rev’rence rev’rence 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 54 THE RAMBLER. N° 12. make him acquainted ; and which, as it seems to produce no other advantage to those that practise it than a short gratification of thoughtless vanity, may become less com- mon when it has been once exposed 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 affluence, has been lately so much impaired by an unsuccessful law-suit, that all the younger children are obliged to try such means as their education affords them, for procuring the necessaries of life. Distress and curiosity concurred to bring me to London, where I was received by a relation with the coldness which misfortune generally finds. A week, a long week, I lived with my cousin, 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 vexatioas^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 remaining 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 nothing 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 needle. 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 Bombasine, of whom the first sight gave me no ravishing ideas. She was two yards round the waist, her voice was at once loud and squeaking, and her face brought to my mind the THE RAMBLER. 55 N° 12. 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 servant, 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 town, we dine at one o’clock. But I never take any body without a character ; what friends do you come of? I then told her that my father was a gentleman, and that we had been unfortunate. — 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 sup- pose — such gentlewomen! — Madam, I did not mean to claim any exemptions, I only answered your inquiry— Such gentlewomen ! people 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 continuing her insult ; but happily the next word was, Pray, Mrs. gentlewoman, troop down stairs. — You may believe I obeyed her. I 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 husband 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, / madam. — 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 never heard of the foundling-house! Upon this, they all laughed so ob- streperously, that I took the opportunity of sneaking off in the tumult. 56 THE RAMBLER. N° 12. 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-letters 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 shewed 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 THE RAMBLER. 57 N° 12. 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 my answer, was told by the lady, that people should qualify them- selves in ordinary places, for she should never have done if she was to follow 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 go away laughing. — Madam will stretch her small shanks in the entry; she will know the house again. — At sunset the two first days I was told, that my lady would see me to-morrow, and on the third, that her woman staid. My 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 declared by me to be never on my side ; I was reasoning against in- terest, 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 piquet, 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 common questions. At last Mr. Courtly called out, 58 THE RAMBLER. N° 12. after a whisper, Stand facing the light, that one may see you. I changed my place, and blushed. They fre- quently turned their eyes upon me, and seemed to disco- ver 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 better 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 suppose, 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 vyas a laugh of happiness and triumph, prolonged by the confusion which I could no longer repress. At last the lady re- collected 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 ribands before they were left off by 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 in- sulting? 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. Servants insulted! — a fine time. — In- sulted ! Get down stairs, you slut, or the footman shall insult you. The last day of the last week was now coming, and my kind cousin talked of sending me down in the wag- gon to preserve me from bad courses. But in the morn- THE RAMBLER. N° 12. 59 ing she came and told me that she had one trial more for me; Euphemia 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 pretended to want it, she could have little beforehand ; 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 gen- tlewoman, who told me she had herself been hired that morning, but that she was ordered to bring any that of- fered up stairs. I was accordingly introduced to Euphe- mia, who, when I came in, laid down her book, and told me, that she sent for me not to gratify an idle curiosity, 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 no- thing in my appearance which did not make her wish for my company ; but that another, whose claims might per- haps be equal, had come before me. The thought of being 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 sup- posing 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, ordering me to lodge near her, and make use of her table till she could provide for me. I am now under her protection, and know not how to shew my gratitude better than by giving this account to the Rambler. Zosima. 60 THE RAMBLER. N° 13. N° 13. Tuesday, May 1, 1750. Commissumque teges et vino tortus ct ira. — Hor. And let not wine or anger wrest Th’ intrusted secret from your breast. — Francis. It is related by Quintus Curtius, that the Persians always conceived an invincible contempt of a man who had violated the laws of secrecy ; for they thought, that, however he might be deficient in the qualities requisite to actual excellence, 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 secrecy, they seem to have considered it as opposed, not to treachery, but loquacity, and to have conceived the man whom they thus censured, not frighted by menaces to reveal, or bribed by promises to betray, but incited by the mere plea- sure 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 it. Whether, by their settled and avowed scorn of thought- less 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 remaining of the court of Persepolis, nor any distinct accounts handed down to us of their office-clerks, their ladies of the bedchamber, their attorneys, their chambermaids, 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 sel- dom kept, that it may with some reason be doubted, whether the ancients were not mistaken in their first pos- tulate, whether the quality of retention be so generally bestowed, and whether a secret has not some subtle vola- tility, by which it escapes imperceptibly at the smallest THE RAMBLER. G1 N° 13. vent, or some power of fermentation, by which it expands itself so as to burst the heart that will not give it way. Those that study either the body or the mind of a man, very often find the most specious and pleasing theory falling under the weight of contrary experience ; and in- stead 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 spe- culatist can demonstrate in his retreat, and therefore thinks himself justified in placing confidence; the man of the world knows, that, whether difficult or not, it is uncommon, and therefore finds himself rather inclined to search after the reason of this universal failure in one of the most im- portant 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 shews that it was conferred without merit, yet most men seem rather inclined to confess the want of virtue than of importance, and more willingly shew their influence, though at the expence of their probity, than glide through life with no other pleasure than the private consciousness of fidelity; which, while it is preserved, 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 reproaches 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 denun- ciation of a certain forfeiture of his friendship, if he dis- covers that they become publick. Secrets are very frequently told in the first ardour of kindness, or of love, for the sake of proving, by so im- portant a sacrifice, sincerity or tenderness ; but with this motive, though it be strong in itself, vanity concurs, since 62 THE RAMBLER. N° 13. 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 consideration, there is always a distinction carefully to be made between our own and those of another ; 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 hap- piness or convenience of such as we have no right to ex- pose to hazard. To tell our own secrets is generally folly, but that folly is without 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 «ome enthusiastic and irra- tional 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 viola- tion of kindness to exempt any secret from this boundless 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 declaimer, to shew 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 shewn us how far weakness may be deluded, or indolence 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 understanding of another, to mislead honest intentions, and an under- * Duchess of Marlborough. THE RAMBLER. 63 N° 13. standing 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 tell 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 faithfulness 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 there- fore the trust is transferred by Caius, if he reveal what has been told him, to one from whom the person ori- ginally concerned would have withheld it ; and whatever may be the event, Caius has hazarded the happiness of his friend, without necessity 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 reflection know to be uncertain, because he finds them without effect upon himself. When he is imagining that Titius will be cautious, from a regard to his interest, his reputation, or his duty, he ought to re- flect 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 first whom he should con- clude deserving of his confidence ; therefore Caius, in admitting Titius to the affairs imparted only to himself, must know that he violates his faith, since he acts contrary to the intention of Claudius, to whom that faith was given. For promises of friendship are, like all others, useless and * That of Queen Anne. THE RAMBLER. 64 N° 13. vain, unless they are made in some known sense, adjusted and acknowledged by both parties. I am not ignorant that many questions may be started relating to the duty of secrecy, where the affairs are of publick 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 de- gree of obligation, and that the principles upon which a man is chosen for a confidant may not always equally con- strain him. But these scruples, if not too intricate, are of too extensive consideration for my present purpose, nor are they such as generally occur in common life ; and though casuistical 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 awaken their own consciences ; and the threads of reasoning, on which truth is suspended, are frequently drawn to such subtility, that common eyes cannot perceive, and common sensibility cannot feel them. The whole doctrine, as well as practice of secrecy, is so perplexing and dangerous, that next to him who is com- pelled to trust, I think him unhappy 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 appearance of friendship and honesty ; and sometimes subjected to suspicion by the treachery of others, who are engaged without his knowledge in the same schemes ; for he that has one confidant 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 concerning se- crecy, and from which I think it not safe to deviate, with- out long and exact deliberation, are — Never to solicit the knowledge of a secret. Not willingly, nor without many limitations, to accept such confidence when it is offered. When a secret is once admitted, to consider 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. N° 14. THE RAMBLER. 65 N° 14. Saturday, May 5, 1750. Nilfuit unquam Sic dispar sibi Hor. Sure such a various creature ne’er was known. — Francis. Among the many inconsistencies which folly prodaces, 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 learned stranger, by whom he had been visited, with great reason congratulates himself upon the consci- ousness of being found equal to his own 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 water at the touch ; the phantom of perfection has va- nished when they wished to press it to their bosom. They have lost the pleasure of imagining how far humanity may be exalted, and, perhaps, 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 been long the custom of the oriental monarchs 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 neces- sary 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 weak- nesses with themselves. A sudden intruder into the closet of an author would perhaps feel equal indignation with the officer, who having long solicited admission into the VOL. I. F 66 THE RAMBLER. N° 14. presence of Sardanapalus, saw him not consulting upon laws, inquiring into grievances, or modelling armies, 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 lives. For with- out entering into refined speculations, it may be shewn much easier to design than to perform. A man proposes his schemes of life in a state of abstraction and disengage- ment, exempt from the enticements of hope, the solicita- tions of affection, the importunities of appetite, 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 the dif- ference between pure science, which has to do only with ideas, and the application of its laws to the use of life, in which they are constrained to submit to the imperfection of matter and the influence of accidents. Thus, in moral discussions, it is to be remembered that many impediments obstruct our practice, which very easily give way to theory. The speculatist is onlyin danger of erroneous reasoning ; but the man involved in life, has his own passions, and those of others, to encounter, and is embarrassed with a thousand inconveniencies, which confound him with variety of im- pulse, and either perplex or obstruct his way. He is forced to act without deliberation, 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 be- cause he is indolent, or because he is timorous; he is sometimes afraid to know what is right, and sometimes finds friends or enemies diligent to deceive him. W e are, therefore, not to wonder that most fail, amidst tumult, and snares, and danger, in the observance of those precepts, which they lay down in solitude, safety, and tranquillity, with a mind unbiassed, and with liberty unob- structed. It is the condition of our present state to see THE RAMBLER- 07 N° 14. more than we can attain ; the exactest vigilance and cau- tion can never maintain a single day of unmingled inno- cence, much less can the utmost efforts of incorporated mind reach the summit of speculative virtue. It is, however, necessary for the idea of perfection to be proposed, that we may have some object to which our endeavours are to be directed ; and he that is most deficient in the duties of life, makes some atonement for his faults, if he warns others against his own failings, and hinders, by the salubrity of his admonitions, the contagion of his example. Nothing is more unjust, however common, than to charge with hypocrisy him that expresses zeal for those virtues which he neglects to practise ; 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 mankind have in hardening themselves against every motive to amendment, has disposed them to give to these contradictions, when they can be produced 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 pursuits 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 impose upon the world, whose writings are not confirmed by his life. They never consider that themselves neglect or practise something every day inconsistently with their own settled judgment, nor discover that the conduct of the advocates for virtue can little increase, or lessen, the obligations of their dictates: f 2 6.8 THE RAMBLER. N° 14. 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 unreasonable, is al- ways 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 be- lief of others, he should show that he believes himself; and when he teaches the fitness of virtue by his reason- ings, he should, by his example, prove its possibility: Thus much at least may be 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 in- dulgence beyond mortals of the lower classes, and be ex- cused 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 pro- poses lower advantages in its place to the reason as at- tainable. The same method may be sometimes 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 Mathew Hale, that he, for a long time, concealed the consecration of himself to the stricter duties of religion, lest by some flagitious and shameful action, he should bring piety in disgrace. For the same reason it may be prudent for a writer, who apprehends that he shall not inforce his own maxims by his domes- tick character, to conceal his name, that he may not in- jure them. There are, indeed, a great number whose curiosity to gain a more familiar knowledge of successful writers, is not so much prompted by an opinion of their power to im- prove as to delight, and who expect from them not argu- ments against vice, or dissertations on temperance or jus- THE RAMBLER. 09 N° 14. tice, but flights of wit, and sallies of pleasantry, or, at least, acute remarks, nice distinctions, justness of sentiment, and elegance of diction. This expectation is, indeed, specious and probable, 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 po- lished 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 temper be soft and timorous, he is diffident and bashful, from the knowledge of his defects ; or if he was born with spirit and resolution, he is ferocious and arrogant, from the consciousness of his merit : he is either dissipated by the awe of company, and unable to recollect his reading, and arrange his arguments; or he is hot and dogmatical, quick in opposition, and tenacious in defence, 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 application, 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, wholly accustomed to works of study, may be without that readiness of conception, and affluence of language always necessary to colloquial en- tertainment. 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 mat- ter on common subjects, that discourse not professedly li- terary, glides over them as heterogeneous bodies, without admitting th'eir conceptions to mix in the circulation. A transition from an author’s book to his conversation, is too often like an entrance into a large city, after a dis- tant prospect. Remotely, we see nothing but spires of 70 THE RAMBLER. N° 15. temples and turrets of palaces, and imagine it the residence of splendour, grandeur, and magnificence ; but, when we have passed the gates, we find it perplexed with narrow passages, disgraced with despicable cottages, embarrassed with obstructions, and clouded with smoke. N° 15. Tuesday, May 8, 1750. Et quando uberior vitiorum copia? Quando Major avaritite patuit sinus ? Alea quando • Hos animos? Juv. What age so large a crop of vices bore. Or when was avarice extended more'? When were the dice with more profusion thrown? — D b yden. There is no grievance, publick or private, of which, since I took upon me the office of a periodical 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 threat- ens, in its further progress, to destroy all distinctions, both of rank and sex, to crush all emulation but that of fraud, to corrupt all those classes of our people, whose ancestors 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 en- terprises so hopeless as contests with the fashion, in which the opponents are not only made confident by their num- bers, and strong by their union, but are hardened by con- tempt of their antagonist, whom they always look upon as a wretch of low notions, contracted views, mean con- versation, and narrow fortune, who envies the elevations which he cannot reach, who would gladly imbitter the happiness which his inelegance or indigence deny him to partake, and who has no other end in his advice than to THE RAMBLER. 71 N° 15. revenge 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 affected by this formidable censure, which I have incurred often enough to be acquainted with its full force, yet I shall, in some mea- sure, obviate it on this occasion, by offering very little in my own name, either of argument or intreaty, 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 practised, by which know- ledge 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 readers : yet I will ven- ture to lay my state before you, because I believe it is na- tural, 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 con- tinual 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 nor books, nor the acquaintance of some persons of learning in the neighbourhood, I endeavoured to acquire such knowledge as might most recommend me to esteem, and thought myself able to support a conversation upon most of the subjects, which my sex and condition made it pro- per for me to understand. I had, besides my knowledge, as my mamma and my maid told me, a very fine face, and elegant shape, and 72 THE RAMBLER. N° 15. with all these advantages had been seventeen months the reigning toast for twelve miles round, and never came to the monthly 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 natural 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 repetition of the same pleasures, which was not sufficient to fill up the mind for the present, or raise any expec- tations 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 discoveries 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 husband had 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 of my fortune, procured me every convenience for my departure, with great expedition ; and I could not, amidst all my trans- ports, forbear some indignation to see with what readi- ness 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 entered 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. THE RAMBLER. 73 N° 15. 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 as- sembly 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, whe- ther great or little, that I had lost all regard to her opinion, and dressed myself with great expectations of an opportunity to display my charms among rivals, whose competition would not dishonour me. The company came in, and after the cursory compliments of salutation, alike easy to the lowest and the highest understanding, what was the result ? The cards were broke open, the parties were formed, the whole night passed in a game, upon which the young and old were equally employed ; nor was I able to attract an eye, or gain an ear, but being 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, to take from those who could outshine them all the ad- vantages of mind and body, to withhold youth from its natural pleasures, deprive wit of its influence, and beauty of its charms, to fix those hearts upon money, to which love has hitherto been entitled, to sink life into a tedious 74 THE RAMBLER. N° 15. 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 prero- gatives, 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 know- ledge 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 woman of taste, spirit, and virtue. I would have it published to the world, how deserving wives are used by imperious coxcombs, that henceforth no woman may marry who has not the pa- tience 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 allow enough from his own extravagances to support a woman of fashion in the ne- cessary 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 expences and elegant diversions. What if I was unfortunate at Brag? — should he not have stayed to see how luck would turn another time ? Instead of that, what does he do, but picks a quarrel, up- braids 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 N° 15. THE RAMBLER. 75 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 routs this winter, and sent out ten packs of cards in invitations to private parties. As for management, I am sure he cannot call me extravagant, or say I do not mind my family. The chil- dren 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 dinners come from the Thatched House; and I have never paid a penny for any thing I have bought since I was 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 ro- mances, things so forbidden at our house, and so railed at, that it was impossible not to fancy them very charm- ing. Most unfortunately, to save me from absolute un- dutifulness, 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? f Yet the perfidious 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 expected, and never found. Within these few hours must I be dragged into the coun- try. The wretch, Sir, left me in a fit, which his threaten- 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 76 THE RAMBLER. N° 16. 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. N° 16. Saturday, May 12, 1750. Multis dicendi copia torrens, Et sua mortifera estfacundia Juv. Some who the depths of eloquence have found. In that unnavigable stream were drown’d. — Dryden. SIR, I am the modest young man whom you favoured with your advice, in a late paper; and, as I am very far from suspecting that you foresaw the numberless inconvenien- cies 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. You told me, as you thought, to my comfort, that a writer might easily find means of introducing his genius to the world, for the presses of England were open. This I have now fatally experienced ; the press is, indeed, open. - — Facilis descensus Averni, Nodes atque d ; es patet atrijanua Ditis . — Virg. The gates of hell are open night and day ; Smooth the descent, and easy is the way. — Dry den. The means of doing hurt to ourselves are always 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 ab- sent from the printing-house, and continually urged the workmen to haste, by solicitations, promises, and rewards. From the day all other pleasures were excluded, by the delightful employment of correcting the sheets ; and from THE RAMBLER. 77 N° 16. the night, sleep generally was 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 criti- cism, set my name upon the title, without sufficiently con- sidering, that what has once passed the press is irrevoca- ble, and that though the printing-house may properly be compared to the infernal regions, for the facility of its en- trance, and the difficulty with which authors return from it; yet there is this difference, that a great genius can never return to his-former state, by a happy draught of the waters of oblivion. I am now, Mr. Rambler; known to be an author, and am condemned, irreversibly condemned, to all the miseries of high reputation. The first morning after publication my friends assembled about me; I presented each, as is usual, with a copy of my book. They looked into the first pages, but were hindered, by their admiration, from read- ing further. The first pages are, indeed, very elaborate. Some passages they particularly 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, and invited them, I could do no less, to dine with me at a tavern. After din- ner, the book was resumed; but their praises very often so much overpowered 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 thundering to the drawer for another bottle. Next morning another set of my acquaintance con- gratulated me upon my performance, with such impor- tunity of praise, that I was again forced to obviate their civilities by a treat. On the third day, I had yet a greater number of applauders 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 78 THE RAMBLER. N° 16. 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 possession of their minds, that no en- treaties of mine could change their topick, and I was obliged to stifle, with claret, that praise which neither my modesty could hinder, nor my uneasiness repress. The whole week was thus spent in a kind of literary revel, and 1 have now found that nothing is so expensive as great abilities, unless there is joined with them an insa- tiable eagerness of praise ; for to escape from the pain of hearing myself exalted above the greatest names, dead and living, 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 champagne. 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 conceal, sometimes with the 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 deservedly its own punishment, I frequently indulge myself in tor- menting them with my presence. But though there may be some slight satisfaction re- ceived from the mortification of my enemies, yet my bene- volence will not suffer me to take any pleasure in the ter- rours of my friends. I have been cautious, since the appearance of my work, not to give myself more preme- ditated airs of superiority, than the most rigid humility might allow. It is, indeed, not impossible that I may N° 16. THE RAMBLER. 79 sometimes have laid down my opinion, in a manner that shewed 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 explain- ing his sentiments ; 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 absurdi- ties, or to encroach upon subjects which I knew them unqualified to discuss. But 1 generally acted with great appearance of respect, even to those whose stupidity I pitied in my heart. Yet, notwithstanding this exemplary moderation, 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 merriment 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 occasion of errour to half the nation ; and such is the expectation with which I am attended, when 1 am going to speak, that I fre- quently pause to reflect 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 broke open, at the instigation of pira- tical booksellers, 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 sitting for that pur- 80 tHE RAMBLER. N° 16. pose, and whose likenesses must have been certainly stolen when their names made their faces vendible. These con- siderations at first put me on my guard, and I have, indeed, found sufficient reason for my caution, for I have disco- vered many people examining my countenance, with a curiosity that shewed their intention to draw it ; I imme- diately 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 painters are now dog- ging 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 I hope somewhat to con- found 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 shew my fape lest it should be copied ; afraid to speak, lest I should injure my character; and to write, lest my correspondents should publish my letters ; always uneasy lest my servants should steal my papers for the sake of money, or my friends for that of the publick. This it is to soar above the rest of mankind ; and this repre- sentation 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. N° 17. J'HE RAMBLER 81 N° 17. Tuesday, ff/ 03 / 15, 1750. Me non oi'acula certain, Sed mors certa facit. — 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 fixt, my certain soul, from doubt has freed. — R owe. It is recorded of some eastern monarch, that he kept an officer in his house, whose employment it was to re- mind him of his mortality, by calling out every morning, at a stated hour, Remember , prince , that thou shalt die ! And the contemplation of the frailness and uncertainty of our present 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 moment, which must put a period to all our schemes, and deprive us of all our acquisitions, is indeed of the utmost efficacy to the just and rational regulation of our lives ; nor would ever any thing wicked, or often any thing absurd, be un- dertaken 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 all these, the consideration of mortality is a certain and adequate re- medy. Think, says Epictetus, frequently on poverty, banishment, and death, and thou wilt then never indulge violent desires, or give up thy heart to mean sentiments, OvSeTTOTE TCLTTEIVOV EV^Vfll)^, OVTE GLyUV ETT lO U/Jiri a E IQ TIVOQ. That the maxim of Epictetus is founded on just obser- vation will easily be granted, when we reflect, how T that vehemence of eagerness after the common objects of pur- suit 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- grossed the imagination, and permits us not to conceive VOL. I. Q 82 THE RAMBLER. N° 17. any happiness but its attainment, or any misery but its loss ; every other satisfaction which the bounty of Provi- dence 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 ac- tivity, 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 extensive 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 approach- ing : and the same appearance they would always have, if the same thought was always predominant. We should then find the absurdity of stretching out our arms inces- santly to grasp that which we cannot keep, and wearing out our lives in endeavours to add new turrets to the fabrick 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 advanced by the addition of that which he withholds from us ; and therefore whatever de- presses immoderate wishes, will, at the same time, set the heart free from the corrosion of envy, and exempt us from that vice which is, above most others, tormenting to our- selves, hateful to the world, and productive of mean ar- tifices, and sordid projects. He that considers how soon he must close his life, will find nothing of so much im- portance as to close it well ; and will, therefore, look with indifference upon whatever is useless to that purpose. Whoever reflects frequently upon the uncertainty of his own duration, will find out, that the state of others is not more permanent, and that what can confer nothing on him- self 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 obstinate opposition. THE RAMBLER. 83 N° 17. 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 condition are enjoyed with a con- stant sense of this uncertain 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 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 under- standing, as not to suffer us to enjoy advantages 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 irreco- verably vanished. We may then suefully revolve the un- certainty of our own 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 con- solation proportionate to his affliction; for the pain, what- ever it be, that he himself feels, his friend has escaped. Nor is fear, the most overbearing and resistless of all our passions, less to be temperated by this universal me- dicine of the mind. The frequent contemplation of death, as it shews the vanity of all human good, discovers like- wise 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 mis- g 2 84 THE RAMBLER. N° 17. fortune can produce, must, by the necessity of nature, be quickly at an end. The soul cannot long be held in pri- son, but will fly away, and leave a lifeless body to human malice, Ridetque sui ludibria truv.ci. And soaring mocks the broken frame below. The utmost that we can threaten to one another is that death, which, indeed, we may precipitate, but cannot re- tard, and from which, therefore, it cannot become a wise man to buy a reprieve at the expence 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 moderate 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 be- yond 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 mafiy 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 re- corded in the histories of the world, but are of little use to the bulk of mankind, who seem very little interested in admonitions against errours which they cannot commit. But the fate of learned ambition is a proper subject for every scholar to consider; for who has not had occasion 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 sub- ject made inviting by its novelty, and to observe the inac- THE RAMBLER. 85 N° 18. curacy 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 continue 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 execute. The uncertainty of our duration ought at once to set bounds to our de- signs, and add incitements 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 recollecting, with the father of physick, that art is long , and life is short. N° 18. Saturday, May, 19, 1750. Illic matre carentibus, Privignis mulier temper at innocent, Nec dotata regit virum Conjux, nec nitidojidit adultero : Dos est magna parentum Virtus, et metuens alterius tori Certofoedere castitas . — Horace. 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 essenced 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 Providence, is yet very often the cause of misery, and that those who enter into that state can seldom forbear to express their repentance, and their THE RAMBLER. $6 N° 18 . envy of those whom either chance or caution hath with- held 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 shewn 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 reproach 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, extrava- gance or lust. Led by such a number of examples, and incited by my share in the common interest, I sometimes venture to con- sider this universal grievance, having endeavoured to divest my heart of all partiality, and place myself as a kind of neutral being between the sexes, whose clamours, being equally vented on both sides with all the vehemence 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 tes- timonies of philosophers, historians, and poets, but the pleas 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 argu- ments : it is to little purpose, that Socrates, or Euripides, are produced against 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 THE RAMBLER. 87 N° 18. can hear the vociferations of 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 mistress 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 hus- band hastens to the tavern, and the lady retires 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 animate their fury. But how little credit soever may be given to particular accusations, the general accumula- tion of the charge shews, with too much evidence, that married persons are not very often advanced in felicity; and, therefore, it may be proper to examine at what ave- nues 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 first of my acquaintances that resolved to quit the unsettled thoughtless condition of a bachelor, was Prudentius, a man of slow parts, but not without know- ledge or judgment in things which he had leisure to con- sider gradually before he determined them. Whenever w 7 e 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 orim- © nally 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 estimating the exact worth of annuities, he found that considering the constant diminution of the value of life, with the probable fall of the interest of money, it was not worse to have ten thousand pounds at the age of two and 88 THE RAMBLER. N° 18 . 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 afterwards recover. Full of these reflections, he threw his eyes about him, not in search of beauty or elegance, dignity or understand- ing, but of a woman with ten thousand pounds. Such a woman, in a wealthy part of the kingdom, it was not very difficult to And ; 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 fool 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 in- tellects, violent passions, a strong voice, and low educa- tion, without any sense of happiness but that which con- sisted in eating, and counting money. Furia was a scold. They agreed in the desire of wealth, but with this diffe- rence, that Prudentius was for growing rich by gain, Furia by parsimony. Prudentius 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 traflick too great a hazard, and was for putting it out at low interest, upon good security. Pru- dentius ventured, however, to insure a ship at a very un- reasonable 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 Furia’s direction, who never once men- tioned 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 N° 18. THE RAMBLEll. 89 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 awaked from his rapture, by conviction that his pleasure was but the plea- sure of a day. Zephyretta had in four and twenty hours spent her stock of repartee, gone round the circle of her airs, and had nothing remaining for him but childish in- sipidity, or for herself, but the practice of the same artifices upon new men. Melissus was a man of parts, capable of enjoying and of improving life. He had passed through the various scenes of gaiety 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 in the same house with lanthe, and w 7 as unavoidably drawn to some acquaintance, which her wit and politeness soon invited him to improve. Having no opportunity of any other company, they were always together ; and as they owed their pleasures to each other, they began to forget that any pleasure was enjoyed before their meeting. Melissus, from being delighted with 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 declared 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 excitements to contrary desires. They had both loved solitude and reflection, w r here there was nothing but solitude and reflection to be loved ; but when they came into public life, lanthe discovered those passions which accident rather than hypocrisy had hi- therto concealed. She was, indeed, not without the 90 THE RAMBLER. N° 18. power of thinking, but was wholly without the exertion of that power when either gaiety or splendour played on her imagination. 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 philosopher found in his retirement, and from whom he expected an associate in his studies, and an assistant to his virtues. Prosapius, upon the death of his younger brother, that the family might not be extinct, married his housekeeper, and has ever since been complaining to his friends that mean notions are instilled 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 important article of life, and shall, therefore, make no reflection upon these histories, except that all whom I have men- tioned failed to obtain happiness, 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. N° 19. THE RA MBLER. 91 N° 19. Tuesday, May 22, 1750. Dum te causidicum, dum te modo rhetor a fingis, Et non decernis, Taure, quid esse velis, Peleos et Priami transit, vel Nestoris (etas , Et serum fuerat jam tibi desinere. Eja, age, rumpe moras, quo te spectabimus usque ? Dum quid sis dubitas, jam potes esse nihil . — Mart. To rhetorick now, and now to law inclin’d. Uncertain where to fix thy changing mind ; Old Priam’s age or Nestor’s may be out, And thou, O Taures! still go on in doubt. Come, then, how long such wavering shall we see 1 Thou may’st doubt on : thou now canst nothing be. — F. Lewis. It is never without very melancholy reflections, that we can observe the misconduct, or miscarriage, of those men, who seem, by the force of understanding, or extent of knowledge, exempted from the general frailties of human nature, and privileged from the common infelici- ties of life. Though the world is crowded with scenes of calamity, we look upon the general mass of wretched- ness 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 slaughter, 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 Poly- philus, a man whom all his acquaintances have, from his first appearance in the world, feared for the quickness of his discernment, and admired for the multiplicity of his attainments, but whose progress in life, and usefulness to mankind, has been hindered by the superfluity of his knowledge, and the celerity of his mind. Polyphilus was remarkable, at the school, for surpass- ing all his companions, without any visible application, and at the university was distinguished equally for his successful progress as well through the thorny mazes of 92 THE RAMBLER. N° 19. science, as the flowery path of politer literature, without any strict confinement to hours of study, or remarkable 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 inquire 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 contemporaries behind him, and mount to the highest honours of that class in which he should inlist himself, without those delays and pauses which must be endured by meaner abilities. Polyphilus, though by no means insolent or assuming, had been sufficiently encouraged, by uninterrupted 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 w 7 orld would be struck, when first his lustre should break out upon it; nor could he forbear (for whom does not constant flat- tery intoxicate?) to join sometimes in the mirth of his friends, at the sudden disappearance of those, who, having shone a while, and drawn the eyes of the publick upon their feeble radiance, were now doomed to fade away be- fore 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, after having con- sidered 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 che- mistry, and to leave no part unconquered, either of the animal, mineral, or vegetable kingdoms. He therefore read authors, constructed systems, and tried THE RAMBLER. 93 N° 19. 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, w ? here a remarkable cause hap- pened to be tried, and found himself able to produce 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 me- lancholy attendance upon misery, mean submission to peevishness, and continual interruption of restand pleasure. He immediately took chambers in the Temple, bought a common-place book, and confined himself 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 dis- covered, by considering the fortune of lawyers, that pre- ferment was not to be got by acuteness, learning, and elo- quence. He was perplexed by the absurdities of attorn ies, and misrepresentations 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 having devoted himself to a study, which was so narrow in its comprehen- sion that it could never carry his name to any other coun- try, and thought it unworthy of a man of parts to sell his life only for money. The barrenness of his fellow-students forced him generally into other company at his hours of entertainment, and among the varieties of conversation through which his curiosity was daily wandering, he by chance, mingled at a tavern with some intelligent officers of the army. A man of letters was easily dazzled with the gaiety 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 fa- miliarly they mingled with every rank and order of men, he began to feel his heart beat for military honours, and wondered how the prejudices of the university should make 94 THE RAMBLER. N° J9. 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 illustrious, and which gives, even to the exterior appearance 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 regard for soldiers he could not observe, without wishing himself one of that happy fraternity, to which the female world seem to have devoted their charms and their kindness. The love of knowledge, which was still his predominant inclination, was gratified by the recital of adventures, and accounts of foreign countries; and therefore he concluded that there was no way of life in which all his views could so com- pletely concentre as in that of a soldier. In the art of war he thought it not difficult to excel, having observed his new friends not very much versed in the principles of tac- ticks or fortification: he therefore 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 fatal errour at Pharsalia, how Charles of Sweden might have escaped his ruin at Pul- towa, and Marlborough might have been made to repent his temerity at Blenheim. He entrenched 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 effect. Polyphilus, in a short time, obtained a commission ; but before he could rub off the solemnity of a scholar, and gain the true air of military vivacity, a war was declared, and forces sent to the continent. Here Polyphilus unhappily found that study alone would not make a soldier ; 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 N° 19. THE RAMBLER. 95 terrour 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 him- self 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 admitted to him without pre- vious notice, I have found him within this last half year, decyphering the Chinese language, making a farce, col- lecting 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 ex- tended the sphere of any science, or benefited the world in any profession, dissipated in a boundless variety, with- out profit to others or himself! He makes sudden irrup- tions 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 value 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 for- ward, 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 favour of his opinion. The general precept of con- 96 THE RAMBLER. N° 20. suiting the genius is of little use, unless vve 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, perhaps, be very early discerned. At least, if to miscarry in an attempt be a proof of having mistaken 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 of his own fancy. It was said of the learned bishop Sanderson, that when he was preparing his lectures, he hesitated 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 argu- ments 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 unne- cessary delay, and can be useful to few other purposes than to warn others against the same folly, and to shew, that of two states of life equally consistent with religion and virtue, he who chooses earliest chooses best. N° 20. Saturday, May 26, 1750. Ad populum phuleras, ego te intuSj 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. — D ry den. Among the numerous stratagems, by which pride en- deavours to recommend folly to regard, there is scarcely N* 20. THE RAMBLER. 97 one that meets with less success than affectation, or a per- petual disguise of the real character by fictitious appear- ances; whether it be, that every man hates falsehood, from the natural congruity of truth to his faculties of rea- son, or that every man is jealous of the honour of his un- derstanding, and thinks his discernment consequently called in question, whenever anything is exhibited under a borrowed form. This aversion from all kinds of disguise, whatever be its cause, is universally diffused, and incessantly in action ; nor is it necessary, that to exasperate detestation, or ex- cite contempt, any interest should be invaded, or any com- petition attempted ; it is sufficient, that there is an inten- tion 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 correspondents, of writing under characters which they cannot support, which are of no use to the explanation or enforcement of that which they describe or recommend ; and which, therefore, since they assume them only for the sake of displaying their abilities, I will advise them for the future to forbear, as laborious without advantage. 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 assistance of my understanding, to affect the style and the names of ladies. And I cannot always withhold some expression of anger, like Sir Hugh in the comedy, when I happen to find that a woman has V 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 pre- tensions to female elegance, till she has lived three weeks without hearing the politicks of Batson’s coffee-house. I must indulge myself in the liberty of observation, that there were some allusions in Chloris’s production, suffi- cient to shew that Bracton and Plowden are her favourite authors; and that Euphelia has not been long enough at VOL. i. h THE RAMBLER. 98 N° 20. home, to wear out all the traces of 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 con- fusion of images, and medley of barbarity, which held me long in suspence ; 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 dialects of these various regions, has mingled them all in a studied composition. When Lee was once told by a critick, 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 con- tributors, if, in imitation 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 won- derful appellations. A very smart letter 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 the improvements of the fishery, from Dioclesian: but 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 the hostile passions ; for it is not folly but pride, not errour but deceit, which the world means to persecute, when it raises the full cry of nature to hunt down af- fectation. The hatred which dissimulation always draws upon N° 20. THE RAMBLER. 99 itself, is so great, that if I did not know how much cun- ning differs from wisdom, I should wonder that any men have so little knowledge of their own interest, as to aspire to wear a mask for life ; to try to impose upon the world a character, to which they feel themselves void of any just claim ; and to hazard their quiet, their fame, and even their profit, by exposing themselves to the danger of that reproach, malevolence, and neglect, which such a dis- covery as they have always to fear will certainly bring upon them. It might be imagined, that the pleasure of reputation should consist in the satisfaction of having our opinion of our own merit confirmed by the suffrage of the publick ; 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 af- fectation, knows nothing of this delicacy ; like a desperate adventurer in commerce, he takes up reputation upon trust, mortgages possessions which he never had, and enjoys, to the fatal hour of bankruptcy, though with a thousand terrours and anxieties, the unnecessary splendour of borrowed riches. Affectation is to be always distinguished from hypo- crisy, 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 greater, as the end, for which he puts on the false appear- ance, is more pernicious. But he that, with an awkward address, and unpleasing countenance, boasts of the con- quests 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 chargeable only with affectation. Hypocrisy is the necessary burthen of villany, affectation part of the chosen trappings of folly ; the one completes a villain, the other only finishes a fop. h 2 THE RAM BLEU. JOO N a 20. Contempt is the proper punishment of affectation, and detestation the just consequence of hypocrisy. With the hypocrite it is not at present my intention to expostulate, though even he might be taught the excel- lency of virtue, by the necessity of seeming to be virtuous; but the man of affectation may, perhaps, be reclaimed, by finding how little he is likely to gain by perpetual con- straint, and incessant vigilance, and how much more se- curely 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 pinnacles of fame be at best, slippery, how unsteady must his footing be who stands upon pinnacles without foundation ! If praise be made by the incon- stancy and maliciousness of those who must confer it, a blessing which no man can promise himself from the most conspicuous merit and vigorous industry, how faint must be the hope of gaining it, when the uncertainty is multi- plied by the weakness of the pretensions! He that pursues 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 cala- mity. Affectation may possibly succeed for a time, and a man may, by great attention, persuade others, that he really has the qualities which he presumes to boast ; but the hour will come when he should exert them, and then whatever he enjoyed in praise, he must suffer 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 N° 21. THE RAMBLER. 101 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 reputation, as freedom from pain is, among some philosophers, the de- finition of happiness. If we therefore compare the value of the praise obtained by fictitious excellence, even while the cheat is yet undis- covered, 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, we shall find that when from the adscititious happiness all the deductions are made by fear and casualty, there will remain nothing equiponderant to the security of truth. The state of the possessor of humble virtues, to the affecter of great excellencies, is that of a small cottage of stone, to the palace raised with ice by the empress of Russia ; it was for a time splendid and luminous, but the first sun- shine melted it to nothing. N° 21 . Tuesday, May 29, 1750. Terra salutiferas herbas, eademque nocentes, Nutrit ; et urticce proxima soepe rasa est . — Ovid. Our bane and physick the same earth bestows, And near the noisome nettle blooms the rose. Every man is prompted by the love of himself to ima^ gine, that he possesses some qualities, superiour, 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 invisible distinctions, some latent reserve of excellence, which he throws into the balance, and by which he gene- rally 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 102 THE RAMBLER. N° 21. opposition to those who are engaged in the tumult of publick business ; and have pleased themselves, from age to age, with celebrating the felicity of their own condition, and with recounting the perplexity of politicks, the dan- gers of greatness, the anxieties of ambition, and the mise- ries of riches. Among the numerous topicks of declamation that their industry has discovered on this subject, there is none which they press with greater efforts, or on which they have more copiously laid out their reason and their ima- gination, than the instability of high stations, and the un- certainty with which the profits and honours are possessed, that must be acquired with so much hazard, vigilance, and labour. This they appear to consider as an irrefragable argu- ment against the choice of the statesman and the warriour; and swell with confidence of victory, thus furnished by the muses with the arms which never can be blunted, and which no art or strength of their adversaries can elude or resist. It was well known by experience to the nations which employed elephants in war, that though by the terrour of their bulk, and the violence of their impression, they often threw the enemy into disorder, yet there was always dan- ger in the use of them, very nearly equivalent to the ad- vantage ; 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 havock in the precipitation of their retreat, than in the fury of their onset. I know not whether those who have so vehemently urged the inconveniencies and danger of an active life, have not made use of arguments that may be retorted with equal force upon themselves ; and whether the happiness of a candidate for literary fame be not subject to the same uncertainty with that of him who governs provinces, com- mands armies, presides in the senate, or dictates in the cabinet. N° 21. THE RAMBLER. 103 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 allowed by those who wish to elevate the character of a scholar ; since they cannot but know, that every human acquisition is valuable in pro- portion to the difficulty employed in its attainment. And that those who have gained the esteem and veneration of the world, by their knowledge or their genius, are by no means exempt from the solicitude which any other kind of dignity produces, may be conjectured from the innu- merable artifices which they make use of to degrade a superiour, to repress a rival, or obstruct a follower ; arti- fices 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 which the student can gratify his desire of appearing to have built his happiness on a more firm basis than his antagonist, except the cer- tainty 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 civick 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 ob- noxious to the blasts of accident. Even this hope will receive very little encouragement from the examination of the history of learning, or obser- vation 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 un- certain tenure ; sometimes bestowed by a sudden caprice 104 THE RAMBLER. N° 21. of the publick, 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 sometimes by security and negligence, and sometimes by too diligent endeavours to retain it. A successful author is equally in danger of the dimi- nution of his fame, whether he continues or ceases to write. The regard of the publick is not to be kept but by tribute, and the remembrance of past service will quickly languish, unless 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 inequality which we may so frequently observe in the performances of the same man, from the influence of which no ability or in- dustry is sufficiently 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 Expectanda dies homini, dicique beatus Ante obitum nemo supremaque funera debet. But no frail man, however great or high. Can be concluded blest before he die. — Addisok. Among the motives that urge an author to undertakings by which his reputation is impaired, one of the most fre- quent must be mentioned with tenderness, because it is not to be counted among his follies, but his miseries. It very often happens that the works of learning or of wit are performed 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 accept any task which is thrown before him, without much consideration of his own convenience, and without time to prepare himself by pre- vious studies. THE RAMBLER. 105 N° 21. Miscarriages of this kind are likewise frequently 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 understanding to their con- duct; 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 favour 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 com- pany 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 fortune can avoid the necessity of dependance, and by his spirit can repel the usurpations of patronage, yet he may easily, by writing long, happen to write ill. There is a general succession of events in which contraries are produced by periodical vicissitudes ; labour and care are rewarded with success, success produces confidence, confidence relaxes industry, and negligence ruins that reputation which accuracy had raised. He that happens not to be lulled by praise into supine- ness, may be animated by it to undertakings above his strength, or incited to fancy himself alike qualified for every kind of composition, and able to comply with the publick taste through all its variations. By some opinion like this, many men have been engaged, at an advanced 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 generation gain ground upon them. From these failures the highest genius is not exempt; that judg- ment which appears so penetrating, when it is employed 106 THE RAMBLER. N° 22. upon the works of others, very often fails where interest or passion can exert their power. We are blinded in ex 1 amining our own labours by innumerable prejudices. Our juvenile compositions please us, because they bring to our minds the remembrance of youth ; our later perform- ances we are ready to esteem, because we are unwil- ling 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. N° 22. Saturday, June 2, 1750. Ego nec studium sine divite vend. Nec rude quid prosit video ingenium ; alterius sic Altera poscit opem res, et conjurat amice . — Hor. Without a genius learning soars in vain ; And without learning genius sinks again ; Their force united crowns the sprightly reign. — Elphinston. 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 dividing his regard equally between them, yet his impartiality and kindness were without effect ; the maternal animosity was deeply rooted, having been intermingled with their first ideas, and was corn- firmed every hour, as fresh opportunities occurred of THE RAMBLER. 107 N° 22. exerting it. No sooner were they of age to be received into the apartments of the other celestials, than Wit be- gan to entertain Venus at her toilet, by aping the solem- nity of Learning, 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 received from those whom their mothers had persuaded to patronize and sup- port 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 of putting an everlasting stop to the progress of that in- fluence which either believed the other to have obtained by mean arts and false appearances. At 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 Concord 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 nei- ther was depressed. It was observable, that, at the beginning of every de^ bate, the advantage was on the side of Wit ; and that, at the first sallies, the whole assembly sparkled, accord* ing to Homer’s expression, with unextinguishable merri- ment. 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 at* tempted her defence, and, by comparing one part of her antagonist’s objections with another, commonly made him confute himself ; or, by shewing 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 THE RAMBLER. 108 N° 22. last, with great veneration for Learning, but with greater kindness for Wit. Their conduct was, whenever they desired to recom- mend themselves to distinction, entirely opposite. Wit was daring and adventurous; Learning cautious and deliberate. Wit thought nothing reproachful but dul- ness ; Learning was afraid of no imputation but that of errour. Wit answered before he understood, lest his quickness of apprehension should be questioned ; Learn- ing paused, where there was no difficulty, lest any in- sidious sophism should lie undiscovered. Wit perplexed every debate by rapidity and confusion; Learning tired the hearers with endless distinctions, and prolonged the dispute without advantage, by proving that which never was denied. Wit, in hopes of shining, would venture to produce what he had not considered, and often succeeded beyond his own expectation, by follow- ing the train of a lucky thought; Learning would re- ject every new motion, 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 darling of Wit, and Antiquity of Learning. To Wit, all that was new was spe- cious; to Learning, whatever was ancient was vene- rable. Wit, however, seldom failed to divert those whom he could not convince, and to convince was not often his ambition ; Learning always supported her opinion with so many collateral truths, that, when the cause was de- cided 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 weapons which had been employed against them. Wit would sometimes labour a syllogism, and Learning distort her features with a THE RAMBLER. 109 N° 22. jest ; but they always suffered by the experiment, and betrayed themselves to confutation or contempt. The seriousness of Wit was without dignity, and the merri- ment of Learning without vivacity. Their contests, by long continuance, grew at last im- portant, and the divinities broke into parties. Wit was taken into protection of the laughter-loving Venus, had a retinue allowed him of Smiles and Jests, and was often permitted to dance among the Graces. Learn- ing still continued the favourite of Minerva, and seldom went out of her palace without a train of the severer virtues, Chastity, Temperance, Fortitude, and Labour. Wit, cohabiting with Malice, had a son named Satire, 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 inquiries, or giving instructions to her followers. Mi- nerva therefore deputed Criticism to her aid, who generally broke the point of Satire’s arrows, turned them aside, or retorted them on himself. Jupiter was at last angry that the peace of the hea- venly regions should be in perpetual danger of violation, and resolved to dismiss these troublesome antagonists to the lower world. Hither therefore they came, and carried on their ancient quarrel among mortals, nor was either long without zealous votaries. Wit, by his gaiety, cap- tivated the young ; and Learning, by her authority, influenced the old. Their power quickly appeared by very eminent effects : theatres were built for the reception of Wit, and colleges endowed for the residence of Learning. Each party endeavoured to outvie the other in cost and magnificence, 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 pow r er. 110 THE RAMBLER. N° 22. 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 gaiety of Wit could raise a smile, or the eloquence of Learning procure attention. In revenge 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 flat- tered the rich in publick, while they scorned them in their hearts ; and when, by this treachery, they had ob- tained the favour of Plutus, affected to look with an air of superiority on those who still remained in the service of Wit and Learning. Disgusted with these desertions, the two rivals, at the same time, petitioned Jupiter for re-admission to their na- tive 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 immensity 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 dwell- ings of Jupiter, and were so endeared to each other, that they lived afterwards in perpetual concord. Wit persuaded Learning to converse with the Graces, and Learning engaged Wit in the service of the Virtues. They were now the favourites of all the powers of heaven, and glad- dened every banquet by their presence. They soon after married, at the command of Jupiter, and had a numerous progeny of Arts and Sciences. N° 23. THE RAMBLER. Ill N° 23. Tuesday, June 5, 1750. Tres mihi convive prope dissentire videntur; Voscentur vario mulium diversa palato. — Hoe. 1 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 va- riety of irreconcileable judgments, be held in perpetual suspence between contrary impulses, and consult for ever without determination. I know not whether, for the same reason, it is not neces- sary for an author to place some confidence in his own skill, and to satisfy himself in the knowledge that he has not deviated from the established laws of composition, without submitting his works to frequent examinations before he gives them to the publick, or endeavouring to secure success by a solicitous conformity to advice and criticism. It is, indeed, quickly discoverable, that consultation and compliance can conduce little to the perfection of any lite- rary performance ; for whoever is so doubtful of his own abilities as to encourage the remarks of others, will find himself every day embarrassed with new difficulties, and will harass his mind, in vain, with the hopeless labour of uniting heterogeneous ideas, digesting 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 perio- dical sheets would be most unhappy, if they were much to regard the censures or the admonitions of their readers : 112 THE RAMBLER. N° 23. for, as their works are not sent into the world at once, but by small parts in gradual succession, it is always imagined, by those who think themselves qualified to give instruc- tions, 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 li- berally afforded. 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 per- formance. When a book is once in the hands of the pub- lick, it is considered as permanent and unalterable; and the reader, if he be free from personal prejudices, takes it up with no other intention than of pleasing or instructing himself: he accommodates his mind to the author’s de- sign; and, having no interest in refusing the amusement that is offered him, never interrupts his own tranquillity by studied 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 with- out 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 passages which he has yet never heard ; he invokes all the powers of criticism, and stores his memory with Taste and Grace, Purity and Delicacy, Manners and Unities, sounds which, having been once ut- tered 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 cox- comb to another. He considers himself as obliged to shew, 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 sagacity will enable him to find ; for, in every work of imagination, the disposition of parts, the insertion of incidents, and the use of decorations, may be varied a thousand ways with equal propriety ; and as in N° 23. THE RAMBLER. 113 things nearly equal, that will always seem best to every man which he himself produces ; the critick, whose busi- ness is only to propose, without the care of execution, can never want the satisfaction of believing that he has sug- gested very important improvements, nor the power of en- forcing his advice by arguments, which, as they appear convincing to himself, either his kindness or his vanity will press obstinately 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 they had before conceived. Every man who is called to give his opinion of a performance, decides upon the same prin- ciple; he first suffers himself to form expectations, and then is angry at his disappointment. He lets his imagi- nation rove at large, and wonders that another, equally unconfined 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 domestick criticism to a higher judicature, and the publick, which is never cor- rupted, nor often deceived, 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 predeces- sors, established an idea of unconnected essays, to which they believed all future authors under a necessity of con- forming, were impatient of the least deviation from their system, and numerous remonstrances were accordingly made by each, as he found his favourite subject omitted VOL. i. i 114 THE RAMBLER. N° 23. or delayed. Some were angry that the Rambler did not, like the Spectator, introduce himself to the ac- quaintance of the publick, by an account of his own birth and studies, an enumeration of his adventures, and a de- scription of his physiognomy. Others soon began to re- mark that he was a solemn, serious, dictatorial writer, without sprightliness or gaiety, 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 imitating the politeness of his predeces- sors, having hitherto neglected to take the ladies under his protection, and give them rules for the just opposition of colours, and the proper dimensions of ruffles and pinners. He has been required by one to fix a particular censure upon those matrons who play at cards with spectacles : and another is very much offended whenever he meets with a speculation in which naked precepts are comprised without the illustration of examples and characters. I make not the least question that all these monitors 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 topicks of amusement have been already treated with too much success to invite a competition ; and that he who endeavours to gain many readers must try various arts of invitation, essay every avenue of pleasure, and make frequent changes in his methods of approach. I cannot but consider myself, amidst this tumult 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 multi- plicity of distress. Had the opinion of my censurers been unanimous, it might perhaps have overset my resolution ; THE RAMBLER. 115 N° 24. but since I find them at variance with each other, I can, without scruple, neglect them, and endeavour to gain the favour of the publick by following the direction of my own reason, and indulging the sallies of my own imagi- nation. N° 24. Saturday, June 9, 1750. yemo in sex cental descender e . — Pfrsics. None, none descends into himself. — Detdex. Among the precepts, or aphorisms, admitted by general consent, and inculcated by frequent repetition, there is none more famous among the masters of ancient wisdom, than that compendious lesson, TvuQi amwov, Be acquainted with thyself; ascribed by some to an oracle, and by others to Chilo of Lacedemon. This is, indeed, a dictate, which, in the whole extent of its meaning, may be said to comprise all the specula- tion requisite to a moral agent. For what more can be necessary to the regulation 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 to be understood in this un- limited and complicated sense ; for of the inquiries, which in so large an acceptation it would seem to recommend, some are too extensive for the powers of man, and some require light firom above, which was not yet indulged to the heathen world. We might have had more satisfaction concerning the original import of this celebrated sentence, if history had informed us, whether it was uttered as a general instruc- tion to mankind, or as a particular caution to some pri- vate inquirer; whether it was applied to some single oc- casion, or laid down as the universal rule of life. There will occur, upon the slightest consideration, many possible circumstances, in which this monition might i 2 THE RAMBLER. N° 24. 116 very properly be inforced : for every errour in human con- duct must arise from ignorance in ourselves, either per- petual or temporary; and happen either because we do not know what is best and fittest, or because our know- ledge is at the time of action not present to the mind. When a man employs himself upon remote and unne- cessary subjects, and wastes his life upon questions which cannot be resolved, and of which the solution would con- duce very little to the advancement of happiness ; when he lavishes his hours in calculating the weight of the terra- queous globe, or in adjusting successive systems of worlds beyond the reach of the telescope ; he may be very pro- perly recalled from his excursions by this precept, and re- minded, that there is a nearer being with which it is his duty to be more acquainted ; and from which his atten- tion 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 example, 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 saying ; if we suppose the knowledge of ourselves recom- mended 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 them- selves above comparison ; despised, as useless to common purposes, as unable to conduct the most trivial affairs, and unqualified to perform those offices by which the concate- nation of society is preserved, and mutual tenderness ex- cited and maintained. Gelidus is a man of great penetration and deep re- searches. Having a mind naturally formed for the ab- struser sciences, he can comprehend intricate combina- N° 24. THE RAMBLER. 117 tions without confusion, and being of a temper naturally cool and equal, he is seldom interrupted by his passions in the pursuit of the longest chain of unexpected conse- quences. He has, therefore, a longtime indulged hopes, that the solution of some problems, by which the profes- sors of science have been hitherto 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 suf- fered 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 regard or tenderness. He has totally divested 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 publick 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 swum naked to land, and was de- stitute 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 shew him that a town at a small distance was on fire ; and in a few moments a servant came 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 Gelidus, 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 considering that men are de- signed for the succour and comfort of each other ; that though there are hours which may be laudably spent upon knowledge not immediately useful, yet the first attention is due to practical virtue ; and that he may be justly driven out from the commerce of mankind, who has so far ab- lis THE RAMBLER. N° 24. stracted himself from the species, as to partake neither of the joys nor griefs of others, but neglects the endear- ments of his 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 religious 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 philosopher may forfeit his pretences to real learning, but 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 num- bers resolutely struggling against nature, and contending for that which they never can attain, endeavouring* to unite contradictions, and determined to excel in cha- racters inconsistent with each other ; that stock-jobbers affect dress, gaiety, and elegance, and mathematicians labour to be wits ; that the soldier teazes his acquaint- ance with questions in theology, and the academick hopes to divert the ladies by a recital of his gallantries. That absurdity of pride could proceed only from igno- rance of themselves, by which Garth attempted criticism, and Congreve w r aved his title to dramatick reputation, and desired to be considered only as a gentleman. Euphues, with great parts, and extensive knowledge, has a clouded 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 out- vie beaux in embroidery, to import new trimmings, and to be foremost in the fashion. Euphues has turned on his exterior appearance, that attention which would al- ways have produced esteem, had it been fixed upon his mind ; and though his virtues and abilities have pre- served 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 THE RAMBLER. N° 25. 119 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 particu- larly unwilling to observe the rule of Chilo. They are desirous to hide from themselves the advances of age, and endeavour too frequently to supply the sprightliness 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 in time ought to give place to virtues. They con- tinue to trifle, because they could once trifle agreeably, till those who shared their early pleasures are withdrawn to more serious engagements ; and are scarcely awakened from their dream of perpetual youth, but by the scorn of those whom they endeavour to rival. N° 25. Tuesday, June 12, 1750. Possunt quia posse videntur . — Virgil. For they can conquer who believe they can. — Dryden. There are some vices and errours which, though often fatal to those in whom they are found, have yet, by the universal consent of mankind, been considered as in- titled to some degree of respect, or have, at least, been exempted from contemptuous infamy, and condemned by the severest moralists with pity rather than detestation. A constant and invariable example of this general par- tiality will be found in the different regard which has always been shewn to rashness and cowardice, two vices, of which, though they may be conceived equally distant from the middle point, where true fortitude is placed, and may equally injure any publick or private interest, yet the one is never mentioned without some kind of veneration, and the other always considered as a topick of unlimited and licentious censure, on which all the virulence of reproach may be lawfully exerted. 120 THE RAMBLER. N° 25. The same distinction is made, by the common suffrage, between profusion and avarice, and, 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 knowledge has been forced upon them by ex- perience, without long deductions or deep researches, I am inclined to believe that this distribution of respect is not without some agreement with the nature of things ; and that in the faults, which are thus invested with ex- traordinary privileges, there are generally some latent principles of merit, 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 supply 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 excess may be easily retrenched ; the other wants the qualities re- quisite 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 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 errour, ought to be the constant endeavour of every reasonable being ; nor can I think those teachers of moral wisdom much to be honoured as benefactors to mankind, who are always enlarging upon the difficulty of our duties, and providing rather excuses for vice, than in- centives to virtue. But, since to most it will happen often, and to all sometimes, that there will be a deviation towards one side or the other, we ought always to employ our vigi- lance, with most attention, on that enemy from which THE RAMBLER. 121 N° 25. there is the greatest danger, 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 different degrees, I have often had occasion to consider the contrary effects of presumption and despondency ; of heady confidence, which promises victory without contest, and heartless pusillanimity, which shrinks back from the thought of great undertakings, confounds difficulty with impossi- bility, and considers all advancement towards any new attainment as irreversibly prohibited. Presumption will be easily corrected. Every experi- ment will teach caution, and miscarriages will hourly shew, that attempts are not always rewarded with success. The most precipitate ardour will, in time, be taught the necessity of methodical gradation and preparatory mea- sures ; and the most daring confidence be 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 reformation ; be- cause they incite us to try whether 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 a man once per- suaded 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 ; and since he never will try his strength, can never 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 observe frequently to depress the alacrity of enterprise, and, by consequence, to retard the improvement of science. They have annexed to every species of knowledge some chimerical character of terrour and inhibition, which they transmit, without much reflec- 122 THE RAMBLER. N° 25. tion, from one to another ; they first fright themselves, and then propagate the panick to their scholars and acquaint- ance. 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 overbur- dens the memory; one is insufferable to taste and deli- cacy, and another wears out life in the study of words, and is useless to a wise man, who desires only the know- ledge of things. But of all the bugbears by which the Infantes barbati , boys both young and old, have been hitherto frighted from 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 chemistry, to amal- gamate 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 represent- ing the difficulties with which they must contend, and the necessity of qualities which are supposed to be not gene- rally conferred, and which no man can know, but by ex- perience, whether he enjoys. To this discouragement it may be possibly answered, that since a genius, whatever it be, is like fire in the 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 THE RAMBLER. 123 N° 25. only by the event, he needs but engage in the same under- taking with equal spirit, and may reasonably hope for equal success. There is another species of false intelligence, given by those who profess to shew the way to the summit of know- ledge, 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 study, it is common to make flattering representations of its pleasant- ness and facility. Thus they generally attain one of two ends almost equally desirable ; they either incite his in- dustry by elevating 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 for- ward in the new path, and proceeds a few steps with great alacrity, but he soon finds asperities and intricacies of which he has not been forewarned, and imagining that none ever were so entangled or fatigued before him, sinks suddenly into despair, and desists as from an expe- dition in which fate opposes him. Thus his terrours are multiplied by his hopes, and he is defeated without resist- ance, because he had no expectation of an enemy. Of these treacherous instructors, the one destroys in- dustry, by declaring that industry is vain, the other by re- presenting it as needless ; the one cuts away the root of hope, the other raises it only to be blasted : the one con- fines his pupil to the shore, by telling him that his wreck is certain, the other sends him to sea, without preparing him for tempests. False hopes and false terrours are equally to be avoided. Every man who proposes to grow eminent by learning, should carry in his mind, at once, the difficulty of excel- lence, and the force of industry ; and remember that fame is not conferred but as the recompence of labour, and that labour vigorously continued, has not often failed of its reward. 124 THE RAMBLER. N“ 26. N° 26. Saturday, June 16, 1750. Jngentes dominos, et clam nomina fame t, Illustrique graves nobilitate domos Devita, et lotige cautusfuge ; contrahe vela, Et te littoribus cymba 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, It is usual for men, engaged in the same pursuits, to be inquisitive after the conduct and fortune of each other ; and, therefore, I suppose it will not be unpleasing to you, to read an account of the various changes which have happened in part of a life devoted to literature. My nar- rative will not exhibit any great variety of events, or ex- traordinary revolutions ; but may, perhaps, be not less useful, because I shall relate nothing which is not likely to happen to a thousand others. I was born heir to a very small fortune, and left by my father, whom I cannot remember, to the care of an uncle. He having no children, always treated me as his son, and finding in me those qualities which old men easily discover in sprightly children, when they happen to love them, de- clared that a genius like mine should never be lost for want of cultivation. He therefore placed me, for the usual time, at a great school, and then sent me to the university, with a larger allowance than my own patrimony would have afforded, that I might not keep mean company, but learn to become my dignity when I should be made lord chancellor, which he often lamented, that the increase of his infirmities was very likely to preclude him from seeing. This exuberance of money displayed itself in gaiety of appearance, and wantonness of expence, and introduced me to the acquaintance of those whom the same super- fluity of fortune betrayed to the same licence and osten- tation : young* heirs, who pleased themselves with a re- THE RAMBLER. 125 N° 26. 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 reputa- tion of a great genius, and was persuaded, that with such liveliness of imagination, and delicacy 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 youths with whom I conversed, that I began to listen, with great attention, to those that recom- mended to me a wider and more conspicuous theatre; and was particularly touched with an observation made by one of my friends : That it was not by lingering in the univer- sity that Prior became ambassador, or Addison secretary of state. This desire was hourly increased by the solicitation of my companions, who removing one by one to London, as the caprice of their relations allowed them, or the legal dismission from the hands of their guardians put it in their power, 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 retire- ment and constraint. My uncle in the mean time frequently harassed 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 shew how much I was superiour to instruction or advice. I could not but wonder how a man confined to the country, and unac- quainted with the present system of things, should imagine himself qualified to instruct a rising genius, born to give laws to the age, refine its taste, and multiply its pleasures. The postman, however, still continued to bring me 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 THE RAMBLER. N° 26 . 126 all, to make him an example to those who imagine them- selves wise because they are old, and to teach young men, who are too tame under representation, in what manner grey-bearded insolence ought to be treated. I therefore one evening took my peu in hand, and after having ani- mated 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 a large company with universal laughter, disturbed the neighbourhood with vociferations of applause, and live days afterwards was answered, that I must be content to live on 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 my call, and prospects of such advancement as would soon reconcile my uncle, whom, upon mature deliberation, I resolved to receive into favour without insisting on any acknowledgment of his offence, when the splendour of my condition should induce him to wish for my countenance. I therefore went up to London, before I had shewn the alteration of my condition by any abatement of my way of living, aud was received by all my academical acquaint- ance with triumph and congratulation. I was imme- diately introduced among the wits and men of spirit ; and in a short time had divested myself of all my scholar's gravity, and obtained the reputation of a pretty fellow. You will easilv believe that I had no great knowledge of the world; yet I had been hindered, by the general disinclination every man feels to confess poverty, from telling to any one the resolution of my uncle, and for some time subsisted upon the stock of money which I had brought with me, and contributed my share as before to all our entertainments. But my pocket 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 acci- dental. and therefore willingly supplied them. In a short N° 26. THE RAMBLER. 127 time I found a necessity of asking again, and was again treated with the same civility; 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, advised me to stipulate for more regular remittances. This somewhat disturbed my dream of constant af- fluence; but I was three days after completely awaked; for entering the tavern where they met every evening, I found the waiters remitted their complaisance, and, instead of contending to light me up stairs, suffered me to wait for some minutes by the bar. When I came to my com- pany, I found them unusually grave and formal, and one of them took the hint to turn the conversation upon the mis- conduct of young men, and enlarged upon the folly of frequenting the company of men of fortune, without being able to support the expence, an observation which the rest contributed either to enforce by repetition, or to illustrate by examples. Only one of them tried to divert the dis- course, and endeavoured to direct my attention to remote questions, and common topicks. A man guilty of poverty easily believes himself sus- pected. I went, however, next morning to breakfast with him who appeared ignorant of the drift of the conversa- tion, and by a series of inquiries, drawing still nearer to the point, prevailed on him, not, perhaps, much against his will, to inform me that Mr. Dash , whose father was a wealthly attorney near my native place, had, the morning before, received an account of my uncle’s resentment, and communicated his intelligence with the utmost industry of grovelling insolence. It was now no longer practicable to consort with my former friends, unless I would be content to be used as an inferior guest, who was to pay for his wine by mirth and flattery; a character which, if I could not escape it, I resolved to endure only among those who had never known me in the pride of plenty. I changed my lodgings, and frequented the coffee-houses in a different region of the town ; where I was very quickly distinguished by several 128 THE RAMBLER. N° 26. young gentlemen of high birth, and large estates, and be- gan again to amuse my imagination with hopes of prefer- ment, though not quite so confidently as when I had less experience. The first great conquest which this new scene enabled me to gain over myself was, when I submitted 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 unanimously promised to pro- cure me by their joint interest. 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 coun- tenance a thousand errours. I endured innumerable mor- tifications, if not from cruelty, at least from negligence, which will creep in upon the kindest and most deli- cate minds, when they converse without the njiutual 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 degrees upon all my be- haviour, 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 com- munity, and, therefore, not the charge of any particular person, made no scruple of neglecting 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 shew how ill he forms his schemes, who expects happiness without freedom. I am, &c. N° 27. THE RAMBLER. 129 N° 27. Tuesday, June , 19, 1750. Pauperiem metuens potiore metallis Libertate 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 ahaughty master’s galling weight. — Francis. MR. RAMBLER, As it is natural for every man to think himself of im- portance, your knowledge of the world will incline you to forgive me, if I imagine your curiosity so much excited by the former part of my narration, as to make you desire that I should proceed without any unnecessary arts of connection. I shall, therefore, not keep you longer in such suspence, as perhaps my performance may not com- pensate. In the gay company with which I was now united, I found those allurements and delights, which the friend- ship of young men always affords; there was that open- ness which naturally produced confidence, that affability which, in some measure, softened dependance, and that ardour of profession which incited hope. When our hearts were dilated with merriment, promises 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 gene- rally the vexation to find that my interest weighed nothing against the slightest amusement, and that every petty avo- cation was found a sufficient plea for continuing me in uncertainty and want. Their kindness was indeed sin- cere: when they promised, they had no intention to de- ceive ; but the same juvenile warmth which kindled their benevolence, 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 perplexities VOL. I. K 130 THE RAMBLER. N° 27. should be soon at an end, and desired me, from that in- stant, 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 ap- pointed, with all the flame of gratitude, 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 pro- moting his interest in return ; and he pleased himself with imaginingthe 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 ambition, 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 come back 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 neighbouring shop to replenish a snuff-box. At last I thought my solicitude at an end, for 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 reasonable request. Hippodamus therefore set for- ward with great expedition, and I expected every hour THE RAMBLER. 131 N° 27. an account of his success. A long time I waited without any intelligence, but at last received a letter from New- market, by which I was informed that the races were begun, and I knew the vehemence of his passions too well to imagine that he could refuse himself his favourite amuse- o ment. 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 greater 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 admission to the table of Hilarius, the celebrated orator, renowned equally for the extent of his knowledge, the elegance of his diction, and the acuteness of his wit. Hilarius re- ceived me with an appearance of great satisfaction, pro- duced to me all his friends, and directed to me that part of his discourse in which he most endeavoured to display 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 un- fortunately, when the assembly was more splendid than usual, his desire of admiration prompted him to turn his raillery upon me. I bore it for some time with great sub- mission, 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, unaccus- k 2 132 THE RAMBLER. N° 27. tomed to resistance, was disconcerted, and soon found means of convincing me that his purpose was not to en- courage a rival, but to foster a parasite. I was then taken into the familiarity of Argutio, a nobleman eminent for judgment and criticism. 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 de- grees of excellence, when time or information had reduced its exuberance. He therefore required me to consult him before the publication of any new performance, and com- monly proposed innumerable alterations, without sufficient attention to the general design, or regard to my form of style, and mode of imagination. But these corrections he never failed to press as indispensably 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 understanding. My next patron was Eutyches, the statesman, who was wholly engaged in publick 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 always ready to pay liberally for the service that he required. His demands w r ere, 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 nothing but that necessity which the con- sumption 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 be- THE RAMBLER. 133 N° 28. came heir to a small fortune. I had resolution to throw off the splendour which reproached me to myself, and retire to an humbler state, in which I am now endeavour- ing to recover the dignity of virtue, and hope to make some reparation 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 re- pentance. I am, See. Eubulus. N° 28. Saturday, June 23, 1750. Mi mors gravis incubat, Qui, notus ii imis omnibus, Ignotns moritur sibi . — Seneca. To him! alas ! to him, I fear, The face of death will terrible appear. Who in his life, flattering his senseless pride. By being known to all the world beside. Does not hims elf, when he is dying, know. Nor what he is, nor whither he’s to go. — Cowley. I have shewn, in a late essay, to what erroursmen 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 familiar scenes, I think it proper to inquire, how far a nearer acquaintance with ourselves is necessary to our preservation from crimes as well as follies, and how much the attentive study of 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 total happiness. If it be reasonable to estimate the difficulty of any en- terprise by frequent miscarriages, it may justly be con- cluded 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 sen- 134 THE RAMBLER. N° 28. timents, indulging more favourable conceptions of their own virtue than they have been able to impress upon others, and congratulating themselves upon degrees of excellence, which their fondest admirers cannot allow them to have attained. Those representations of imaginary virtue are generally considered as arts of hypocrisy, and as snares laid for confidence and praise. But I believe the suspicion often unjust ; those who thus propagate their own reputation, only extend the 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 ap- pears on occasions which promise no accession of honour or of profit, and to persons from 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 re- flect how much a secondary passion can cloud our judg- ment, 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 errour flows in upon him who contemplates his own character, would re- quire more exact knowledge of the human heart, than, per- haps, the most acute and laborious observers have ac- quired. And since falsehood may be diversified without end, it is not unlikely that every man admits an imposture in some respect peculiar to himself, as his views have been accidentally directed, or his ideas particularly com- bined. Some fallacies, however, there are, more frequently in- sidious, which it may, perhaps, not be useless to detect; because, though they are gross, they may be fatal, and be- cause nothing but attention is necessary to defeat them. One sophism by which men persuade themselves that they have those virtues which they really want, is formed by the substitution of single 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 N° 28. THE RAMBLER. 135 who are blind to merit, or insensible to misery, and who can please themselves with the enjoyment of that wealth, which they never permit 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 con- cludes himself to be tender and liberal, because he has once performed an act of liberality and tenderness. As a glass which magnifies objects by the approach of one end to the eye, lessens them by the application of the other, so vices are extenuated by the inversion of that fal- lacy, 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 single lapses. A man who has from year to year set his country to sale, either for the gratification of his ambition or resentment, confesses that the heat of party nowand then betrays the se- verest virtue to measures that cannot be seriously defended. He that spends his days and nights in riot and debauchery, owns that his passions oftentimes overpower his resolu- tions. But each comforts himself that his faults are not without precedent, for the best and the wisest men have given way to the violence of sudden temptations. 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 eloquence in commendation of mildness, fidelity, and other virtues. This is an errour almost uni- versal among those that converse much with dependents, with such whose fear or interest disposes them to a seem- ing reverence for any declamation, however enthusiastick, and submission to any boast, however arrogant. Having none to recall their attention to their lives, they rate them- selves by the goodness of their opinions, and forget how much more easily men may shew their virtue in their talk than in their actions. The tribe is likewise very numerous of those who regu- THE RAMBLER. 136 N°28. late their lives, not by the standard of religion, but the measure of other men’s virtue; .who lull their own remorse with the remembrance of crimes more atrocious than their own, and seem to believe that they are not bad while another can be found worse. For escaping these and a thousand other deceits, many expedients have been proposed. Some have recommended the frequent consultation of a wise friend, admitted to in- timacy, and encouraged to sincerity. But this appears a remedy by no means adapted to general use : for in order to secure the virtue of one, it presupposes 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 quali- fied to judge. A man of the world, however penetrating, ► is not fit to counsel. Friends are often chosen for simili- tude 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, re- member the reproaches that are vented to his face, and listen for the censures that are uttered in private. For his great business is to know his faults, and those malig- nity will discover, and resentment will reveal. But this precept may be often frustrated ; for it seldom happens that rivals or opponents are suffered to come near enough to know our conduct with so much exactness as that con- science should allow and reflect the accusation. The THE RAMBLER. 137 N° 28. charge of an enemy is often totally false, and commonly so mingled with falsehood, that the mind takes advantage from the failure of one part to discredit the rest, and never suffers any disturbance afterward 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 acquainted with himself, and this effect it must produce by withdrawing flatterers, whose business it is to hide our weaknesses from us, or by giving loose to malice, and licence to reproach ; or at least by cutting off those pleasures which called us away from meditation on our own conduct, and repressing 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 pro- cure to himself, by assigning proper portions of his life to the examination of the rest, and by putting himself fre- quently in such a situation, by retirement and abstraction, as may weaken the influence of external objects. By this practice he may obtain the solitude of adversity without its melancholy, its instructions without its censures, and its sensibility without its perturbations. The necessity of setting the world at a distance 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 resolution 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 reason but because there ought to he some time for sober reflection be- tween the life of a soldier and his death . There are few conditions which do not entangle us with sublunary hopes and fears, from which it is necessary to be at intervals disencumbered, that we may place our- selves in his presence who views effects in their causes, and actions in their motives ; that we may, as Chilling- THE RAMBLER. 138 N° 29. worth 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 he 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 Joannes Jovianus Pontanus, quern amaverunt bonce musce , suspexerunt viri probi , honestaverunt reges domini ; jam scis qui sim, vel qui potius fuerim ; ego vero te, hospes , noscere in tenebris nequeo , 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 intreat thee to know thyself.” I hope every reader of this paper will consider himself as engaged to the observation of a precept, which the wisdom and virtue of all ages have concurred to enforce : a precept, dictated by philosophers, inculcated by poets, and ratified by saints. N° 29. Tuesday, June 26, 1750. Prudens futuri temporis exitum Caliginosa node premit Feus, 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 laughs at all the giddy turns of state. When mortals search too soon, and fear too late. — Dryden. There is nothing recommended with greater frequency among the gayer poets of antiquity, than the secure pos- session of the present hour, and the dismission of all the cares which intrude upon our quiet, or hinder, by impor- THE RAMBLER. 139 N° 29. tunate perturbations, the enjoyment of those delights which our condition happens to set before us. The ancient poets are, indeed, by no means unex- ceptionable teachers of morality ; their precepts are 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 little solicitous about the suffrage of reason. The darkness and uncertainty through which the heathens were compelled to wander in the pursuit of hap- piness, 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 necessary to put some restraint upon their imagination, 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 servility of imitation only to copy that of which the writer, if he was to live now, would often be ashamed. Yet as the errours and follies of a great genius are seldom without some radiations of understanding, by which meaner minds may be enlightened, the incitements to pleasure are, in those authors, generally mingled with such reflections 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 ex- tensive observation, acute sagacity, and mature experience. It is not without true judgment, that on these occasions they often warn their readers against inquiries into futu- rity, and solicitude about events which lie hid in causes yet unactive, and which time has not brought forward into the view of reason. An idle and thoughtless resig- 140 THE RAMBLER. N°29. nation to chance, without any struggle against calamity, or endeavour after advantage, is indeed below the dignity of a reasonable being, in whose power Providence has put a great part even of his present happiness; but it shews an equal ignorance 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 influence ? It is a maxim commonly received, that a wise man is never surprized ; and, perhaps, this exemption from asto- nishment may be imagined to proceed from such a pros- pect into futurity, as gave previous intimation of those evils which often fall unexpected upon others that have less foresight. But the truth is, that things to come, except when they approach very nearly, are equally hidden from men of all degrees of understanding ; 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 was de- ceived by their phantoms, nor ever realized nonentities to his mind. He is not surprized, because he is not disap- pointed ; and he escapes disappointment, because he never forms any expectations. The concern about things to come, that is so justly censured, is not the result of those general 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 imagination. Anxiety of this kind is nearly of the same nature 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 THE RAMBLER. N° 29. 141 favours his own quiet, fills him with perpetual stratagems of counteraction, wears him out in schemes to obviate 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 repress the swellings of vain hope, by representations of the innume- rable casualties to which life is subject, and by instances of the unexpected defeat of the wisest schemes of policy, and sudden subversions of the highest eminences of great- ness. It has, perhaps, not been equally observed, that all these examples afford the proper antidote to fear as well as to hope, and may be applied with no less efficacy as con- solations 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 dejection. 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 ge- neral course of the current. The sudden accidents by ' which the powerful are depressed, 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 may become weak, or we grow strong before our encounter, or we may advance against each other without ever meeting. There are, indeed, natural 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 ter s uiir, by considering that our persecutors are weak and ignorant, and mortal like ourselves. The misfortunes which arise from the concurrence of unhappy incidents should never be suffered to disturb us before they happen; because, if the breast be once laid open to the dread of mere possibilities of misery, life must THE RAMBLER. 142 N° 29. 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 this sentiment be entirely just, I shall not examine ; 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 never happen, and which, if they should come upon 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 re- presentations of one more than of the other, because they are both equally fallacious ; as hope enlarges happiness, fear aggravates calamity. It is generally allowed, that no man ever found the happiness of possession pro- portionate to that expectation which incited his desire, and invigorated his pursuit; nor has any man found the evils of life so formidable in reality, as they were described to him by his own imagination: every species of distress brings with it some peculiar supports, some unforeseen 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 conduces not to safety is painful without use. Every consii e ration therefore, by which groundless terrours may be removed, adds something to human happiness. It is likewise not unworthy of remark, that in proportion as our cares are employed 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 THE RAMBLER. N° 30. 143 provision against visionary attacks, we shall certainly counteract our own purpose ; for he, doubtless, mistakes his true interest, who thinks that he can increase his safety, when he impairs his virtue. N° 30. Saturday, June 30, 1750. Vultus ubi tuus Affuisit populo, gratior it dies, Et soles melius nitent . — Hor. Whene’er thy countenance divine Th’ attendant people cheers, The genial suns more radiant shine, The day more glad appears. — Elphinston. 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 for the general good, and a generous spirit will on such occasions assert its merit, and vindicate itself with becoming warmth. My circumstances, Sir, are very hard and peculiar. Could the world be brought to treat me as I deserve, it would be a publick benefit. This makes me apply to you, that my case being fairly stated in a paper so generally esteemed, I may suffer no longer from ignorant and childish prejudices. My elder brother was a Jew; a very respectable person, but somewhat austere in his manner : highly and deservedly valued by his near relations and intimates, but utterly unfit for mixing in a large society, or gaining a general acquaintance 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 dignities, and formed, as I might reasonably flatter myself, to be the object of uni- versal 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 imaginations are apt to fancy me 144 THE RAMBLER. N° 30. wrinkled, old, and disagreeable ; but, unless my looking- glass deceives 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 I am the friend of human kind, to few, very few comparatively, am I useful or agreeable. This is the more grievous, as it is utterly impossible for me to avoid being in all sorts of places and companies; and I am 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 physick 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 generally whenever I come I throw a dulness over 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 rewarding the greatest warmth and de- licacy 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 tedious to relate the variety of my adventures, and strange vicissitudes of my, fortune in many different countries. Here in England THE RAMBLER. 145 N° 30. there was a time when I lived according to my heart’s de- sire. Whenever I appeared, public assemblies appointed for my reception were crowded with persons of quality and fashion, early drest as for a court, to pay me their devoirs. Cheerful hospitality every where crowned my board, and I was looked upon in every country parish as a kind of social bond between the ’squire, the parson, and the tenants. The laborious poor every where blest 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 be instructed by foreign masters, and taught to dance and play. This method of education was so con- trary to my genius, formed for much nobler entertain- ments, 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 gaiety of my ap- pearance, as not only to despoil me of the foreign foppe- ries, 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 permitted so much as to smile upon any occasion. In this melancholy disguise I became a perfect bugbear to all children, and young folks. Wherever I came there was a general hush, and immediate stop to all pleasant- ness of look or discourse ; 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 children, I cannot now be heard, fhough it is long since I have recovered my natural VOL. I. L 146 THE RAMBLER. N° 30. 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 charming 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 advance- ments, of distinctions to which the whole world should be witness, of unenvied dignities and durable preferments. To the rich I would tell of inexhaustible treasures, and the sure method to attain 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. To the afflicted I would administer comfort, and relaxation to the busy. As I dare promise myself you will attest the truth of all I have advanced, there is no doubt but many will be de- sirous of improving their acquaintance with me ; and that I may not be thought too difficult, I 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-humour and 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 agree- able people, in such discourse as I shall naturally dictate, or in reading some few selected out of those numberless books that are 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 these con- versations and books should be both well chosen, to give some advice on that head may possibly furnish you with THE RAMBLER. N° 31. 147 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 Servant, Sunday,* N° 31. Tuesday, July 3, 1750. Non ego mendosos ausim defendere mores, Falsaque pro vitiis arma tenere meis . — Ovid. Corrupted manners I shall ne’er defend ; Nor, falsely witty, for my faults contend. — Elphinstov. Though the fallibility of man’s reason, and the nar- rowness of his knowledge, are very liberally confessed, yet the conduct of those who so willingly admit the weak- ness of human nature, seems to discover that this ac- knowledgment 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 errour in their opinions. The certain and obstinate opposition, which we may observe made to confutation however clear, and to re- proof however tender, is an undoubted 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 contradiction, or the slightest censure, since they apparently conclude them- selves 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 either as shameful or wonderful, and they would not receive with so much emotion intelligence * This paper was supplied by Miss Catherine Talbot, daughter of the Rev. Ed. Talbot, Archdeacon of Berks, and Preacher at the Rolls. L 2 148 THE RAMBLER. N° 31. 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 an account was brought him of his son’s death, he received it only with this reflection, I knew that my son was mortal. He that is convinced of an errour, 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 excited by the novelty of objects, there is little reason for doubting, that to be considered as subject to fallacies of ratiocina- tion, or imperfection of knowledge, is to a great part of mankind entirely new ; for it is impossible to fall into any company where there is not some regular and esta- blished subordination, without finding rage and vehe- mence produced only by difference of sentiments about things in which neither of the disputants have any other interest, than what proceeds from their mutual unwilling- ness to give way to any opinion that may bring upon them the disgrace of being w 7 rong. I have heard of one that, having advanced some erro- neous doctrines in philosophy, refused to see the expe- riments by which they were confuted : and the observa- tion of every day will give new proofs with how much industry subterfuges and evasions are sought to decline the pressure of resistless arguments, how often the state of the question is altered, how often the antagonist is wilfully misrepresented, and in how much perplexity the clearest positions are involved by those whom they hap- pen to oppose. Of all mortals none seem to have been more infected < c with this species of vanity, than the race of writers, whose reputation arising solely from their understanding, gives THE RAMBLER. 149 N° 31. 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 abilities will endeavour to palliate absurdities and reconcile contra- dictions, only to obviate criticisms 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 compo- sition, very frequently hurried him into inaccuracies, heard himself sometimes exposed 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 followed 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 will 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 criticks, never confessed that he had been surprized 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 criticks were pleased to condemn as non- sense ; not but I may sometimes write nonsense, though they have not the fortune to find it.” Every one sees the folly of such mean doublings 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 she>vn consciousness enough of his own superiority to set such cavils at defiance, and owned THE RAMBLER. 150 N° 31. that lie sometimes slipped into errours by the tumult of his imagination, and the multitude of his ideas. It is happy when this temper discovers itself only in little things, which may be right or wrong without any in- fluence on the virtue or happiness of mankind. We may, with very little inquietude, see a man persist in a project which he has found to be impracticable, live in an incon- venient house because it was contrived by himself, or wear a coat of a particular cut, in hopes by perseverance to bring it into fashion. These are indeed follies, but they are only follies, and, however wild or ridiculous, can very little affect others. But such pride, once indulged, too frequently operates upon more important objects, and inclines men not only to vindicate their errours, 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 advice of others ; or to search for sophisms tending to the confusion of all principles, and the evacuation 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 predominant, as to betray him to the danger of this last degree of cor- ruption, pause a moment to consider what will be the con- sequences of the plea which he is about to offer for a practice to which he knows himself not led at first by reason, but impelled by the violence of desire, surprized by the suddenness of passion, or seduced by the soft approaches of temptation, and by imperceptible gradations of guilt. Let him consider what he is going to commit, by forcing his understanding to patronize those appetites, which it is its chief business to hinder and reform. The cause of virtue requires so little art to defend it, and good and evil, when they have been once shewn, 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 THE RAMBLER. N° 31 . 151 can perform is, to persuade the hearers that the man is hopeless whom they only thought vicious, that corruption has passed from his manners to his principles, that all endeavours for his recovery are without prospect of success, and that nothing remains but to avoid him as infectious, or hunt him down as destructive. But if it be supposed that he may impose on his au- dience by partial representations of consequences, intricate deductions of remote causes, or perplexed combinations of ideas, which having various relations appear different as viewed on different sides ; that he may sometimes puzzle 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 instruction nor enlightened by experience ; yet what must be the event of such a triumph ! A man cannot spend all this life in frolick : 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 loaded 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 consci- ousness of having propagated corruption by vitiating principles, of having not only drawn others from the paths of virtue, but blocked 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 destruction. There is yet another danger in this practice : men who cannot deceive others, are very often successful in de- ceiving 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 152 THE RAMBLER. N° 32.' the uttermost verge of wickedness, and may die without having that light rekindled in their minds, which their ow r n pride and contumacy have extinguished. The men who can be charged with fewest failings, either with respect to abilities or virtue, are generally most ready to allow them ; for, not to dwell on things of solemn and awful consideration, the humility of confessors, the tears of saints, and the dying terrours of persons eminent for piety and innocence, it is well known that Caesar wrote an account of the errours committed by him in his wars of Gaul, and that Hippocrates, whose name is perhaps, in rational estimation, 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 errour become a man conscious that he has enough remaining to support his character . As all errour is meanness, it is incumbent on every man who consults his own dignity, to retract it as soon as he discovers it, without fearing any censure so much as that of his own mind. As justice requires that all in- juries should be repaired, 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 errours should know his retraction, and that those who have learned vice by his example, should by his example be taught amendment. N° 32. Saturday, July 7, 1750. *0 aaa re iaifj.avir.g-i ruyai' 0 parol aXye eycvgiv, T Slv av juoTpav •rrpaa; 40 . THE RAMBLER. 176 N° 37. mentioned, 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 ac- quainted with the works of nature; but if he had made his attempt in any vulgar tongue, he would soon have dis- covered 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 diversifi- cations. Our descriptions may indeed differ from those of Virgil, as an English from an Italian summer, and, in some respects, as modern from ancient life ; but as nature is in both countries nearly the same, and as poetjy has to do rather with the passions of men, which are uniform, than their customs, which are changeable, the varieties, which time or place can furnish, will be inconsiderable; and I shall endeavour to shew, in the next paper, how little the latter ages have contributed to the improvement of the rustick muse. N° 37. Tuesday, July 24, 1750. Canto qua solitus, si quando armenla vocabat, Amphion Dircceus. Virg. Such strains I sing as once Amphion play’d When list’ning flocks the powerful call obey’d. — Elphinston. In writing or judging of pastoral poetry, neither the authors nor criticks of latter times seem to have paid suf- ficient regard to the originals left us by antiquity, but have entangled themselves with unnecessary difficulties, by advancing principles, yffiich, having no foundation in the nature of things, are wholly to be rejected from a species of composition, in which, above all others, mere nature is to be regarded. It is therefore necessary to inquire after some more dis- tinct and exact idea of this kind of writing. This may, I think, be easily found in the pastorals of Virgil, from VHE RAMBLER. 177 N° 37. whose opinion it will not appear very safe to depart, if we consider that every advantage of nature, and of fortune, concurred to complete his productions; that he was born with great accuracy and severity of judgment, enlightened with all the learning of one of the brightest ages, and em- bellished with the elegance of the Roman court; that he employed h ; >s powers rather in improving, than inventing, and therefore must have endeavoured to recompence the want of novelty by exactness ; that taking Theocritus for his original, he found pastoral far advanced towards per- fection, and that having so great a rival, he must have proceeded with uncommon caution. If we search the writings of Virgil for the true defini- tion of a pastoral, it would be found a poem in which any action or passion is represented by its effects upon a country life. Whatsoever therefore may, according to the common course of things, happen in the country, may afford a sub- ject for a pastoral poet. In this definition, it will immediately occur to those who are versed in the writings of the modern criticks, that there is no mention of the golden age. I cannot indeed easily discover why it is thought necessary to refer de- scriptions of a rural state to remote times, nor can I per- ceive 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 customs of modern life, it is improbable that shepherds should be capable of harmonious numbers, 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 hypo- thesis, by considering pastoral, not in general as a repre- sentation of rural nature, and consequently as exhibiting the ideas and sentiments of those, whoever they are, to whom the country affords pleasure or employment, but simply as a dialogue, or narrative of men actually VOL. I. N 178 THE RAMBLER. N° 37. tending sheep, and busied in the lowest and most labo- rious offices; from whence they very ieadily concluded, since characters must necessarily be preserved, that either the sentiments must sink to the level of the speakers, or the speakers must be raised to the height of t he sentiments. In consequence of these original errours, a thousand precepts have been given, which have only contributed to perplex and confound. Some have thought it neces- sary that the imaginary manners of the golden age should be universally preserved, 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 sentiment ought doubtless to be observed, and purity of manners to be represented ; not because the poet is confined to the images 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 prin- ciples, not very consistent with their general plan; for they tell us, 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 interspersed. Thus the shepherd in Virgil is supposed to have forgot the name of Anaximander, and in Pope the term zodiack is too hard for a rustick apprehension. But if we place our shepherds in their primitive condition, we may give them learning among their other qualifications ; and if we suffer them to allude at all to things of later exist- ence, 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 divi- nities, and transmitted to succeeding ages the arts of life. Other writers, having the mean and despicable condi- tion of a shepherd always before them, conceive it neces- sary to degrade the language of pastoral by obsolete terms and rustick words, which they very learnedly call Dorick, THE RAMBLER. 179 N° 37. without reflecting that they thus became authors of a mangled dialect, which no human being ever could have spoken, that they may as well refine the speech as the sentiments of their personages, and that none of the in- consistencies which they endeavour to avoid, is greater than that of joining elegance of thought with coarseness of diction 'Spenser begins one of his pastorals with studied barbarity : Diggon Davie, I bid her good-day : Or, Diggon her is, or 1 missay. Dig. Her was her while it was day-light. But now her is a most wretched wight. What will the reader imagine to be the subject on which speakers like these exercise their eloquence? Will he not be somewhat disappointed, when he finds them met toge- ther to condemn the corruptions of the church of Rome? Surely, at the same time that a shepherd learns theology, he may gain some acquaintance with his native language. Pastoral admits of all ranks of persons, because per- sons of all ranks inhabit the country. It excludes not, therefore, on account of the characters necessary to be in- troduced, any elevation or delicacy of sentiment; those ideas only are improper, which, not owing their original to rural objects, are not pastoral. Such is the exclamation in Virgil, Nunc scifl quid sit Amor , duris in cautibus ilium Ismarus, aut Rhodope , aut eitremi Garamantes, Nec generis nostri putrum, nec sanguinis, cdunt. I know thee, Love, in deserts thou wertbred, And at the dugs of savage tygers fed; Alien of birth, usurper of the plains. — D ryden. Which Pope endeavouring to copy, was carried to still greater impropriety : I know thee. Love, wild as the raging main. More fierce than tygers on the Libyan plain ; Thou wert fromiEtna’s burning entrails tom ; Begot in tempests and in thunders born ! Sentiments like these, as they have no ground in nature, n 2 180 THE RAMBLER. N° 37. are indeed of little value in any poem ; but in pastoral they are particularly liable to censure, because, it wants that exaltation above common life, which in tragick or heroick 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 nothing peculiar but its confinement to rural imagery, without which it ceases to be pastoral. This is its true characteristick, and this it cannot lose by any dignity of sentiment, or beauty of diction. The Pollio of Virgil, with all its elevation, is a composition truly bucolick, though rejected by the cri- ticks ; for all the images are either taken from the coun- try, or from the religion of the age common to all parts of the empire. The Silenus is indeed of a more disputable kind, be- cause, though the scene lies in the country, 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 fiction; for the introduction of a god seems to imply the golden age, and yet he alludes to many subsequent transactions, and mentions Gallus, the poet s contempo- rary. It seems necessary to the perfection of this poem, that the occasion which is supposed to produce it, be at least not inconsistent with a country life, or less likely to inte- rest those who have retired into places of solitude and quiet, than the more busy part of mankind. It is there- fore improper to give the title of a pastoral to verses, in which the speakers, after the slight mention of their flocks, fall to complaints of errours in the church, and corruptions in the government, or to lamentations of the death of some illustrious person, 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 rustick, that he THE RAMBLER. N° 38. 181 computes his time not by the succession of consuls, but of harvest. Those who pass their days in retreats distant from the theatres of business, are always least likely to to hurry their imagination with publick affairs. The facility of treating actions or events in the pastoral style, has incited many writers, from whom more judg- ment might have been expected, to put the sorrow or the joy which the occasion required into the mouth of Daphne or of Thyrsis; and as one absurdity must naturally be ex- pected to make way for another, they have written with an utter disregard both of life and nature, and filled their productions with mythological 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. N° 38. Saturday, July 28, 1750. Auream quisquis mediocritatem Dili git, tutus caret obsoleti Sordibus tecti, caret invidendd Sobrius auld. — Ho r . 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 imagination have drawn between the natural and moral state of the world, it has been observed that happiness as well as virtue, con- sists in mediocrity ; that to avoid every extreme is neces- sary, 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 either side of which are not only the pitfalls of vice, but the precipices of ruin. Thus the maxim of Cleobulus the Lindian, p&rpov apia- rov, Mediocrity is best , has been long considered as an L82 THE RAMBLER. N° 3$ universal principle, extended through the whole compass of life and nature. The experience of every age seems to have given it new confirmation, and to shew that no- thing, however specious or alluring, is pursued with pro- priety, or enjoyed with safety, beyond certain limits. Even the gifts of nature, which may truly be con- sidered as the most solid and durable of all terrestrial ad- vantages, are found, when they exceed the middle point, to draw the possessor into many calamities, easily avoided by others that have been less bountifully en- riched or adorned. We see every day women perish with infamy, by having been too willing to set their beauty to shew; and others, though not with equal guilt or misery, yet with very sharp remorse, languishing in decay, neg'lect, and obscurity, for having 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 elegance of form; “ for beautiful women,” says he, “ are seldom of any great accomplishments, because they, for the most part, study behaviour rather than virtue.” Health and vigour, and a happy constitution of the cor- poreal frame, are of absolute necessity to the enjoyment of the comforts, and to the performance of the duties of life, and requisite in yet a greater measure to the ac- complishment of any thing illustrious or distinguished ; yet even these, if we can judge by their apparent conse- quences, are sometimes not very beneficial to those on whom they are most liberally bestowed. They that fre- quent the chambers of the sick will generally find the sharpest pains, and most stubborn maladies, among them whom confidence of the force of nature formerly be- trayed 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 to THE RAMBLER. 183 N° 38. him that gives them; since they are, in their regular and legitimate effects, productive of happiness, and prove per- nicious 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 consider how much less is the calamity of not possessing 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 de- sired. 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 degree of riches is therefore required, that we may be 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 horrour, 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 they are parted by some barrier, which may take away all pos- sibility of a second attack. To this point, if fear be not unreasonably indulged, Cleobulus would, perhaps, not refuse to extend his me- diocrity. 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, importunate 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 184 THE RAMBLER. N° 38. eagerness for increase of possessions deluges the soul, and we sink into the gulphs of insatiability, 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 accus- tomed to compliance. Whosoever 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 vir- tue, 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 circle 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 negli- gent, 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 for- tunes in decay. When the plains of India were burnt up by a long continuance of drought, Hamet and Raschid, two neigh- bouring 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 chirp, 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 approach to be the Genius of Distribution. In one hand be held the sheaves of plenty, and in the other the N° 38. THE RAMBLER. 185 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 Sabsea ; “ 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 be enjoyed by the body, excess is no less dangerous than scarcity. When you remember the pain of thirst, do not forget the danger of suffocation. Now, Hamet, tell me your request.” “ O Being, kind and beneficent,” says Hamet, “ let thine eye pardon my confusion. I entreat a little brook, which in summer shall never be dry, and in winter never overflow.” “ It is granted,” replies the Genius ; and im- mediately he opened the ground with his sabre, and a fountain bubbling up under their feet, scattered its rills over the meadows ; the flowers renewed their fragrance, the trees spread a greener foliage, and the flocks and herds quenched their thirst. Then turning to Raschid, the Genius invited him like- wise 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 senti- ments, and secretly repined in his heart, that he had not made the same petition before him ; when the Genius spoke, “ Rash man, be not insatiable ! remember, to thee that is nothing which thou canst not use ; and how are thy wants greater than the wants of Hamet?” Raschid re- peated his desire, and pleased himself with the mean ap- pearance that Hamet would make in the presence of the proprietor of the Ganges. The Genius then retired to- wards the river, and the two shepherds stood waiting the event. As Raschid was looking with contempt upon his neighbour, on a sudden was heard the roar of torrents, and they found by the mighty stream that the mounds of the 186 THE RAMBLER. N° 39. 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 croco- dile devoured him. N° 39. Tuesday, July 31, 1750. Infelix nulli bene nupta marito . — Ausonius. Unblest, still doom’d to wed with misery. The condition of the female sex has been frequently the subject of compassion to medical writers, because their constitution of body is such, that every state of life brings its peculiar diseases : 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 adventitious and arti- ficial miseries ; and that beings, whose beauty we cannot behold without admiration, 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 establishment ; and prescriptions which, by whom- soever they were begun, are now of long continuance, and by consequence of great authority, seem to have almost excluded them from content, in whatsoever condi- tion 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 fre- THE RAMBLER. 187 N° 39. quent their conversation any exalted notions of the bless- ing of liberty ; for whether it be that they are angry to see with what inconsiderate eagerness other heedless fe- males rush into slavery, or with what absurd 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 contempt of men ; it is certain, that they generally appear to have some great and inces- sant cause of uneasiness, and that many of them have at last been persuaded, by powerful rhetoricians, to try the life which 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, appears from the solicitude with which it is avoided ; from the opinion universally prevalent among the sex, that no woman continues long in it but be- cause she is not invited to forsake it ; from the disposition always shewn to treat old maids as the refuse of the world ; and from the willingness 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. Mar- riage, though a certain security from the reproach and so- licitude of antiquated virginity, 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 188 THE RAMBLER. N° 39 . objects of affection, but forced upon them by authority and violence, or by persuasion and importunity, equally re- sistless when urged by those whom they have been always accustomed to reverence and obey; and it very seldom appears that those who are thus despotick in the disposal of their children, pay any regard to their domestick and personal felicity, or think it so much to be inquired whe- ther 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 happiness 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 consi- dered, 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 solacing their age. There is an ceconomical oracle received among the pru- dential part of the world, which advises fathers to marry their daughters , lest they should marry themselves; by which I suppose it is implied, that women left to their own conduct generally unite themselves with such partners as can contribute very little to their felicity. Who was the author of this maxim, or with what intention it was ori- ginally uttered, I have not yet discovered ; but imagine, that however solemnly it may be transmitted, or however implicitly received, it can confer no authority which nature has denied ; it cannot licence Titius to be unjust, lest Caia should be imprudent ; nor give right to imprison for life, lest liberty should be ill employed. That the ladies have sometimes incurred imputations which might naturally produce edicts not much in their favour, must be confessed by their warmest advocates ; and I have indeed seldom observed that when the tender- ness or virtue of their parents has preserved them from forced marriage, and left them at large to choose their own N° 39. THE RAMBLER. 189 path in the labyrinth of life, they have made any great ad- vantage of their liberty. They commonly take the oppor- tunity 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: they see the world without gaining experience, and at last re- gulate their choice by motives trifling 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 therefore 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, as- semblies, and masquerades, to attend seriously to any pro- posal, but was still impatient for a new flatterer, and ne- glected marriage as always in her power ; till in time her admirers fell away, wearied with expence, 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 part- ner. In this distress, chance threw in her way Philotry- phus, a man vain, glittering, and thoughtless as herself, who had spent a small fortune in equipage and dress, an was shining in the last suit for which his tailor woul give him credit. He had been long endeavouring to r trieve his extravagance by marriage, and therefore soo paid his court to Melanthia, who after some weeks of i sensibility saw him at a ball, and was wholly overco' by his performance in a minuet. They married ; but man cannot always dance, and Philotryphus had no ot method of pleasing; however, as neither was in any gr degree vicious, they live together with no other unha' ness, than vacuity of mind, and that tastelessness of 1 which proceeds from a satiety of juvenile pleasures,, an utter inability to fill their place by nobler employ: As they have known the fashionable world at the time, they agree in their notions of all those subjec THE RAMBLER. 190 N° 40. which they ever speak, and being able to add nothing to the ideas of each other, are not much inclined to conver- sation, but very often join in one wish, “ That they could sleep 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 understanding; who, while he courted her, could not always 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 gaily dressed, and splen- didly attended ; and she has, among all her mortifications, the happiness to take place of her eldest sister. N° 40. Saturday, August 4, 1750. Nec dicei, cur ego amicum Offendam in nugis ? Hot2?* lv 5e' [xo i Trpotypw rimKot elj?* 230 THE RAMBLER. N° 48. E l yaL^ r»f n flrXouToy Xjxgis *i tsxsxy, T 2; Bi/Sai/uovo; t* aiBgpxiroif BctsriXwSo; ieycLq, Jj iroBxv, "Ouj xpiKf>i'otf Apo&-nj? apHutriv Bripe-jojutr, *H ei T{j aXXa Beodev avdpxTroi; TEp^ij, ‘H TTOvasy ufATnox iretytrreu’ Mera ceTo, /xxKaipa 'TyUia, TsflnXs TravTct, xa; \af/.7rsi ^apirxv lap’ 2s0£v 5s X.vpU, ouJetc giiJttijuaiy 7 riX£«. Health, most venerable of the powers of heaven ! with thee may the remaining part of my life be passed, nor do thou refuse to bless me with my 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 desire which we endeavour to chase into the toils of love ; whatever delight, or whatever solace is granted by the celestials, to soften our fatigues, in thy presence, thou parent of hap- piness, all those joys spread out and flourish : in thy presence blooms the spring of pleasure, and without 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 com- monly thrown away in thoughtless negligence, or in foolish experiments 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 sometimes given up to the manage- ment 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 fabrick 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 route 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 hasten more slowly to their wishes. Yet since lovers of money are generally cool, deliberate, and thoughtful, they might surely con- sider, that the greater good ought not to be sacrificed to THE RAMBLER. 231 N° 49. the less. Health is certainly more valuable than money, because it is by health that money is procured ; but thousands and millions are of small avail to alleviate the protracted tortures of the gout, to repair the broken organs of sense, or resuscitate the powers of digestion. Poverty is, indeed, an evil from which we naturally fly; but let us not run from one enemy to another, nor take shelter in the arms of sickness. Projecere animam ! qudm vellent cethere in alto Nunc et pauperiem, et duros tolerare labores! 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 impe- tuous 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 langour, and the implacability of pain. They whose en- deavour 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 me- lancholy, the flights of impatience, and the peevishness of decrepitude. N°49. Tuesday, Sept. 4, 1705. Non omnis moriar ; multaque pars mei Vitabit Libitinam , usque ego posterd 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 appetites which Providence has given to man in common with the rest of the inhabitants of the earth. Immediately after 232 THE RAMBLER. N° 49. 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 importu- nate and incessant cries, till we have obtained a place or posture proper for repose. The next call that rouses us from a state of inactivity is that of our passions ; we quickly begin to be sensible of hope and fear, love and hatred, 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 afterwards 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. Our terrour in time improves into caution, and we learn to look round with vigilance and solicitude, to stop all the avenues at which misery can enter, and to perform or endure many things in themselves toilsome and unpleasing, because we know by reason, or by experience, that our labour will be over- balanced by the reward, that it will either procure some positive 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 to find it employ- ment; the wants of nature are soon supplied, the fear of their return is easily precluded, and something more is necessary to relieve the long intervals of inactivity, and to give those faculties, which cannot lie wholly quiescent, some particular direction. For this reason new desires and artificial passions are by degrees produced; and, from having wishes only in consequence of our wants, we begin to feel wants in consequence of our wishes ; we per- suade ourselves 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 mitigate pain, nor secure us from any real calamity, and which, therefore, we find of no esteem among those nations whose artless N° 49. THE RAMBLER. 233 and barbarous manners keep them always anxious for the necessaries of life. This is the original of avarice, vanity, ambition, and generally of all those desires which arise from the com- parison 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 v il lage, than the second in the capital of the world, has apparently kindled in himself desires which he never received from nature, and acts upon principles established only by the authority of custom. Of these adscititious passions, some, as avarice 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 hap- piness, 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 admira- tion, and of being celebrated by generations to come with praises which we shall 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 never be possessed, and of which the value thus wildly put upon it, arises from this particular condition, that, during life, it is not to be obtained? To gain the favour, and hear the applauses of our contempo- raries, is indeed equally desirable with any other preroga- tive of superiority, because fame may be of use to smooth the paths of life, to terrify opposition, and fortify tran- quillity ; but to what end shall we be the darlings of man- kind, when we can no longer receive any benefits from their favour? It is more reasonable to wish for reputa- tion, while it may yet be enjoyed, as Anacreon calls upon 234 THE RAMBLER. N° 49. 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 vindi- cation, that it is a passion natural and universal; a flame lighted by Heaven, always burning with greatest vigour in the most enlarged and elevated minds. That the de- sire 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 generosity, which is not felt, and therefore not understood, by those who have been always accustomed to refer every thing to themselves, and whose selfishness has contracted their understandings. That the soul of man, formed for eternal life, naturally springs forward beyond the limits of corporeal existence, and rejoices to consider 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 en- larged by its separation, why should we conclude that its knowledge of sublunary transactions is contracted or ex- tinguished? Upon an attentive and impartial review of the argu- ment, it will appear that the love of fame is to be regu- lated rather than extinguished : and that men should be taught not to be wholly careless 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 im- mortality 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 regulation 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 ac- N° 49. THE RAMBLER. 235 cident or opportunity, indifferently to the benefit or de- vastation of the world. When Themistocles complained that the trophies of Miltiades 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 opportunities 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 predominant, it is dangerous and irregular ; but it may be usefully employed as an inferiour and secondary motive, and will serve some- times to revive 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 recompence which mortals can bestow on virtue; to be accepted with complacence, but not sought with eager- ness. Simply to be remembered is no advantage; it is a privilege which satire as well as panegyrick can confer, and is not more enjoyed by Titus or Constantine, than by Timocreon of Rhodes, of whom we only know from his epitaph, that he had eaten many a meal, drunk many a flaggon , and uttered many a reproach. IToXXa EiS'sa raJv kt £«vS5v. — 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, be- cause it is not always forced upon their regard ; but it is impossible to pass a day or an hour in the confluxes of men, without seeing how much indigence is exposed to contumely, neglect, and insult; and, in its lowest state, to hunger and nakedness ; to injuries against which every pas- sion is in arms, and to wants which nature cannot sustain. Against other evils the heart is often hardened by true or by false notions of dignity and reputation : thus we see dangers of every kind faced with willingness, because bravery in a good or bad cause is never without its enco- miasts and admirers. 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 reproach; a state in which cheerfulness is insensibility, and dejection sullenness, of which the hardships are without honour, and the labours without reward. Of these calamities there seems not to be wanting a general conviction; we hear on every side the noise of trade, and see the streets thronged with numberless mul- titudes, whose faces are clouded with anxiety, and whose THE RAMBLER. N° 53. 251 steps are hurried by precipitation, from no other motive than the hope of gain ; and the whole world is put in mo- tion, by the desire of that wealth, which is chiefly to be valued as it secures us from poverty ; for it is more useful for defence than acquisition, 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 general maxims and practice of mankind; some who seem to rush upon po- verty with the same eagerness 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 expostulate with such as ruin their fortunes by expensive schemes of build- ings and gardens, which they carry on with the same va- nity that prompted them to begin, chusing, 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 intend my present admonitions, are the thoughtless, the negli- gent, and the dissolute ; who having, by the viciousness of their own inclinations, or the seducements of alluring companions, been engaged in habits of expence, and ac- customed to move in a certain round of pleasures dispro- portioned to their condition, are without power to extri- cate themselves from the enchantments of custom, avoid thought because they know it will be painful, and continue from day to day, and from month to month, to anticipate their revenues, and sink every hour deeper into the gulphs of usury and extortion. This folly has less claim to pity, because it cannot be imputed to the vehemence of sudden passion; nor can the mischief which it produces be extenuated as the effect of any single act, which rage, or desire, might execute before 252 THE RAMBLER. N° 53. there could be time for an appeal to reason. These men are advancing towards misery by soft approaches, and de- stroying 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, that nothing but experience could evince its possibility ; 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 wretches reduced to contempt and want, by their costly sacrifices to pleasure and vanity. It is the fate of almost every passion, when it has passed the bounds which nature prescribes, to counteract its own purpose. Too much rage hinders the warrior from cir- cumspection, too much eagerness of profit hurts the credit of the trader, too much ardour takes away from the lover that easiness of address with which ladies are delighted. Thus extravagance, though dictated by vanity, and in- cited by voluptuousness, seldom procures ultimately either applause or pleasure. If praise be justly estimated by the character of those from whom it is received, little satisfaction will be given to the spendthrift by the encomiums which he purchases. For who are they that animate him in his pursuits, but young men thoughtless and abandoned like himself, un- acquainted with all on which the wisdom of nations has impressed the stamp of excellence, and devoid alike of knowledge and of virtue? By whom is his profusion praised, but by wretches who consider him as subservient to their purposes, Sirens that entice him to shipwreck, and Cyclops that are gaping to devour him? Every man, whose knowledge, or whose virtue, 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 of luxury have drawn into the circle of their influence, and whom he sees parcelled out among the different ministers of folly, and about to be torn to N° 53. THE RAMBLER. 253 piece by tailors and jockies, vintners and attornies, who at once rob and ridicule him, and who are secretly triumph- ing over his weakness, when they present new incite- ments to his appetite, and heighten his desires by coun- terfeited applause. Such is the praise that is purchased by prodigality. Even when it is yet not discovered to be false, it is the praise only of those whom it is reproachful to please, and whose sincerity is corrupted 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 compli- ments, fawn among his equipage, and animate his riots, shall turn upon him with insolence, and reproach him with the vices promoted by themselves. And as little pretensions has the man who squanders his estate, by vain or vicious expences, 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 uneasiness, and the more value we set upon it, the more must the pre- sent possession be imbittered. 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 gripe of poverty, which will be harder to be borne, as he has given way to more excesses, wan- toned in greater abundance, and indulged his appetites with more profuseness ? It appears evident that frugality is necessary even to complete the pleasure of expence; for it may be generally remarked of those who squander what they know their fortune not sufficient to allow, that in their most jovial expence, there always breaks out some proof of discontent and impatience; they either scatter with a kind of wild 254 THE RAMBLER. N° 54. 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 murmur at their own enjoyments, and poison the bowl of pleasure by reflection on the cost. Among these men there is often the vociferation of mer- riment, but very seldom the tranquillity of cheerfulness ; they inflame their imaginations to a kind of momentary jollity, by the help of wine and riot, and consider it as the first business of the night to stupify recollection, and lay that reason asleep which disturbs their gaiety, and calls upon them to retreat from ruin. But this poor broken satisfaction is of short continuance, 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 passions and appetites still continue their tyranny, with incessant calls for their usual gratifications, and the remainder of life passes away in vain repentance, or impotent desire. N° 54. Saturday, Sept. 22, 1750. Truditur dies die, Novceque pergunt interire luncc ; Tu secanda marmora Locos sub ipsumf unus, et sepulchri Immemor struis domos . — Hor. Day presses on the heels of day, And moons increase to their decay ; But you, with thoughtless pride elate. Unconscious of impending fate. Command the pillar’d doom to rise, When lo ! thy tomb forgotten lies. — Francis. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, I have lately been called, from a mingled life of busi- ness and amusement, to attend the last hours of an old friend ; an office which has filled me, if not with melan- choly, at least with serious reflections, and turned my N° 54. THE RAMBLER. 255 thoughts towards the contemplation of those subjects, which though of the utmost importance, and of indubit- able certainty, are generally secluded from our regard, by the jollity of health, the hurry of employment, and even by the calmer diversions of study and speculation ; or if they become accidental topicks of conversation and argu- ment, yet rarely sink deep into the heart, but give occasion only to some subtilties of reasoning, or elegancies of de- clamation, which are heard, applauded, and forgotten. It is, indeed, not hard to conceive how a man accus- tomed to extend his views through a long concatenation of causes and effects, to trace things from their origin to their period, and compare means with ends, may discover the weakness of human schemes ; detect the fallacies by which mortals are deluded; shew the insufficiency of wealth, honours, and power, to real happiness; and please himself, and his auditors, with learned lectures on the vanity of life. But though the speculatist may see and shew the folly of terrestrial hopes, fears, and desires, every hour will give proofs that he never felt it. Trace him through the day or year, and you will find him acting upon the principles which he has in common with the illiterate and unen- lightened, angry and pleased like the lowest of the vulgar, pursuing, with the same ardour, the same designs, grasping, with all the eagerness of transport, 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 resist- ance, 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 opportuni- ties, nor laborious preparations ; they are enforced without the aid of eloquence, and understood without skill in analytick science. Every tongue can utter them, and THE RAMBLER. 2 56 N° 54. every understanding can conceive them. He that wishes in earnest to obtain just sentiments concerning his con- dition, 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 orna- ments 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 chamber 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 eminent for genius, and, like others of the same class, sufficiently pleased with acceptance and applause. Being caressed by those who have preferments and riches in their dis- posal, he considered himself as in the direct road of ad- vancement, and had caught the flame of ambition by ap- proaches to its object. But in the midst of his hopes, his projects, and his gaieties, 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 hap- piness ; 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 reputa- tion, which were formerly 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 soli- citude of approaching death. Whoever would know how much piety and virtue 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 became dust in the balance, without weight and without regard. Riches, authority, and praise, lose all their influence when they are consi- dered as riches which to-morrow shall be bestowed upon THE RAMBLER. 257 N° 54. another, authority which shall this night expire for ever, and praise which, however merited, or however sincere, shall, after a few moments, be heard no more. In those hours of seriousness and wisdom, nothing ap- peared to raise his spirits, or gladden his heart, but the recollection of acts of goodness ; nor to excite his atten- tion, 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 re- garded 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 passions, an awful stillness of sorrow, a gloomy terrour without a name. The thoughts that entered my soul were too strong to be diverted, and too piercing to be endured ; but such violence cannot be lasting, the storm subsided in a short time, 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 unre- garded. Their friends and their enemies sink into the g "ave without raising any uncommon emotion, or remind- ing them that they are themselves on the edge of the pre- cipice, and that they must soon plunge into the gulph of eternity. t seems to me remarkable that death increases our ve- neration for the good, and extenuates our hatred of the bad. Those virtues which once we envied, as Horace VOL. i. s 258 THE RAMBLER. N° 54. observes, because they eclipsed our own, can now no longer obstruct our reputation, and we have therefore no interest to suppress their praise. That wickedness, which we feared for its malignity, is now become impotent, and the man whose name filled us with alarm, and rage, and in- dignation, 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 palliations of every fault ; we recollect a thousand endearments, which before glided off our minds without impression, a thousand favours un- repaid, 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 recompence that kind- ness which before we never understood. There is not, perhaps, to a mind well instructed, 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 death of an emulator or competitor produces. Whoever had quali- ties to alarm our jealousy, had excellence to deserve our fondness ; and to whatever ardour of opposition interest may inflame us, no man 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 antagonist of Cardan and Erasmus; yet at the death of each of his great rivals he relent* d, and complained that they were snatched away from him before their reconciliation was completed. Tune etiam moreris ? Ah ! quid me linquis, Erasme, Ante meus quam sitconciliatus amor? Art thou too fallen ? ere anger could subside And love return, has great Erasmus died ? N° 55. THE RAMBLER. 259 Such are the sentiments with which we finally review the effects of passion, but which we sometimes delay till we can no longer rectify our errours. Let us therefore make haste to do what we shall certainly at last wish to have done : let us return the caresses of our friends, and endeavour by mutual endearments to heighten that tender- ness 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 early and willingly those honours which justice will com- pel us to pay at last. Athanatus. N° 55. Tuesday, Sept. 25, 1750. Maturo prvpior desine funeri Inter ludere virgines, Et steliis maculam spargere candidis : Non siquid Pholoen satis Ette, Chlori, decet. Hor. 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, Grey Chloris will not thee become ; A bed is different from a tomb. — C reech. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, I HAVE been but a little time conversant in the world, yet I have already had frequent opportunities of observing the little efficacy of remonstrance and complaint, which, however extorted by oppression, or supported by reason, are detested by one part of the world as rebellion, cen- sured by another as peevishness, by some heard with an appearance of compassion, only to betray any of those sallies of vehemence and resentment, which are apt to break out upon encouragement, and by others passed over with indifference and neglect, as matters in which they have no concern, and which if they should endeavour to s 2 260 the rambler. N° 55. examine or regulate, they might draw mischief upon them- selves. Yet since it is no less natural for those who think them- selves 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 endeavour to rectify my sentiments, if I am mistaken. I expect, at least, that you will divest yourself of partiality, and that whatever your age or solemnity may be, you will not, with the dotard’s insolence, pronounce me ignorant and foolish, perverse and refractory, only because you perceive that I am young. My father dying when I was but ten years old, left me, and a brother two years younger than myself, to the care of my mother, a woman of birth and education, whose prudence or virtue he had no reason to distrust. She felt, for some time, all the sorrow which nature calls forth, upon the final separation of persons dear to one another; and as her grief was exhausted by its own vio- lence, it subsided into tenderness for me and my brother, and the year of mourning was spent in caresses, consola tions, and instruction, in celebration of my father's virtues, in professions of perpetual regard to his memory, and hourly instances of such fondness as gratitude will not easily suffer me to forget. But when the term of this mournful felicity was expired, and my mother appeared again without the ensigns of sorrow, the ladies of her acquaintance 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 Mrs. Gravely told her privately, with great tenderness, that it began to be publickly observed how much she overacted her part, and that most, of her acquaintance suspected her hope of procuring another husband to be the true ground of all that appearance of tenderness and piety. All the officiousness of kindness and folly was busied THE RAMBLER. 261 N° 55. 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 ab- sent; of new comedies, to which all the town was crowd- ing ; and of many ingenious ironies, by which domestick diligence was made contemptible. It is difficult for virtue to stand alone against fear on one side, and pleasure on the other ; especially when no actual crime is proposed, and prudence itself can suggest many reasons for relaxation and indulgence. My mamma was at last persuaded to accompany Miss Giddy to a play. She was received with a boundless profusion of compli- ments, 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 distinctions that had been paid her awakened her vanity, and good luck had kept her principles of frugality from giving her disturbance. She now made her second en- trance into the world, and her friends were sufficiently industrious to prevent 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 controul, of being unaccountable for her hours, her expences, and her company; and learned by degrees to drop an expression of contempt, or pity, at the men- tion of ladies whose husbands were suspected of restrain- ing their pleasures, or their play, and confessed that she loved to go and come as she pleased. I was still favoured with some incidental precepts and transient endearments, and was now and then fondly kissed for smiling like -my papa : but most part of her morning was spent in comparing the opinion of her maid and milliner, contriving some variation in her dress, visit- ing 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 impossible to 262 THE RAMBLER. N° 55. educate children properly at home. Parents 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 natu- rally the first step into the open world. A thousand other reasons she alleged, some of little force in themselves, but so well seconded by pleasure, vanity, and idleness, that they soon overcame all the remaining principles of kind- ness and piety, and both I and my brother were despatched to boarding schools. How my mamma spent her time when she was thus disburthened, I am not able to inform you ; but I have rea- son to believe that trifles and amusements took still faster hold of her heart. At first, she visited me at school, and afterwards wrote to me ; but in a short time, both her visits and her letters were at an end, and no other notice 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 stopt me with exclamations 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 look like women before their time. I was dis- concerted, 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 malignity; and poor Miss Maypole, for that was my appellation, was never mentioned or spoken to but with some expression of anger or dislike. THE RAMBLER. 263 N° 55. 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 accompanied her favour with some hints that my mamma might now consider her age, and give me her ear-rings, which she had shewn long enough in publick places. I now left the school, and came to live with my mamma, who considered me as an usurper that had seized the rights of a woman before they were due, and was pushing her down the precipice of age, that I might reign without a superiour. While I am thus beheld with jealousy and suspicion, 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 excellencies which it is criminal to possess ; if I am gay, she thinks it early enough to coquette ; 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 ensuing week but taunts and menaces, contradiction and rej^oaches. 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, if, by any arguments or persuasions, you could make mothers ashamed of rivalling their children ; if you could shew them, that though they may refuse to grow 264 THE RAMBLER. N° 56. wise, they must inevitably grow old ; and that the proper solaces of age are not musick 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 therefore their interest to retire while there yet remain a few hours for nobler employments. I am, &c. N° 56. Saturday, Sept. 29, 1750. Vuleat res ludicra, si me Palma negata macrum, donata reducit opimum . — IIor. 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 intended, and that pain has been given to those who were not guilty of any pro- vocation. As the great end of society is mutual bene- ficence, 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 hin- dered from consulting the common 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 diffusion of gene- rosity, or melted by uncommon warmth of benevolence ; for that prudence which the world teaches, and a quick sensibility of private interest, will direct us to shun needless enmities ; 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 wonder, and THE RAMBLER. 265 N 6 56. now and then with pity, at the thoughtlessness with which some alienate fiom themselves the affections of all whom chance, business, or inclination, brings in their way. When we see a man pursuing some darling interest, without much regard to the opinion of the world, we justly consider him as corrupt and dangerous, 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 mul- tiply 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 peevishness, petulance, or gloom ; and alienate the world by neglect of the common forms of civility, and breach of the established laws of conversation. 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 per- suaded 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 panegyrick always concluded with confessions 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 effect of stupidity. Men whose preceptions are languid and slug- gish, who lament nothing but loss of money, and feel nothing but a blow, are often at a difficulty to guess why they are encompassed with enemies, though they neglect all those arts by which men are endeared to one another. They comfort themselves that they have lived irre- proachably ; that none can charge them with having endangered his life, or diminished his possessions; and 266 THE RAMBLER. N° 56. therefore conclude that they suffer by some invincible fata- lity, 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 eveiy day deservedly incurring resentments, by withholding from those with whom they converse, that regard, or appearance of regard, to wdiich 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 vanity, have made delicate and tender, fix deep and lasting impressions ; as there are many arts of graciousness and conciliation, wdiich are to be practised without expence, and by wdiich those may be made our friends, who have never received from us any real benefit. Such arts, when they include neither guilt nor meanness, it is surely 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 igno- rance or negligence cannot be alleged, because it is apparent that they are not only careless of pleasing, but studious to offend ; that they contrive to make all ap- proaches to them difficult and vexatious, and imagine that they aggrandize themselves by wasting the time of others in useless attendance, by mortifying them with slights, and teazing them with affronts. Men of this kind are generally to be found among those that have not mingled much in general conversation, but spent their lives amidst the obsequiousness of dependants, and the flattery of parasites; and by long consulting only their own inclination, have forgotten that others have claim to the same deference. Tyranny thus avowed, is indeed an exuberance of pride, by which all mankind is so much enraged, that it is never qfietly endured, except in those who can reward the patience which they exact; and insolence is generally THE RAMBLER. 267 N° 56. 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 contemptuous insolence are to be diligently avoided, there is no less danger in timid compliance and tame resignation. It is common for soft and fearful 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 encountered, and to fall off from virtue for fear of censure. Some firmness and resolution is necessary to the dis- charge of duty ; but it is a very unhappy state of life in which the necessity of such struggles frequently occurs; for no man is defeated without some resentment, which will be continued with obstinacy while he believes him- self 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 conse- quences 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 insensibility by many of my correspondents, who believe their contributions unjustly neglected. And, indeed, when I sit before a pile of papers, of which each is the production of laborious study, and the offspring of a fond parent, I, who know the passions of an author, cannot remember how long they have lain in my boxes unregarded, without imagining to myself the various changes of sorrow, impatience, and re- sentment, which the writers must have felt in this tedious interval. These reflections are still more awakened, when, upon perusal, I find some of them calling for a place in the next 268 THE RAMBLER. N° 56. paper, a place which they have never yet obtained : others writing in a style of superiority and haughtiness, as secure of deference, and above fear of criticism ; others humbly offering their weak assistance with softness and submis- sion, which they believe impossible to be resisted ; some introducing their compositions with a menace of the con- tempt which he that refuses them will incur ; others ap- plying privately to the booksellers for their interest and solicitation; every one by different ways endeavouring to secure the bliss of publication. I cannot but consider myself as placed in a very incommodious situation, where I am forced to repress confidence, which it is pleasing to indulge, to repay civilities with appearances of neglect, and so frequently to offend those by whom I never was offended. 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 expectations of renown ; and as I 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 inspection. His hopes, howeVer, do not yet forsake 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, observe the cautions of Swift, and write secretly in his own chamber, without communicating his design to his nearest friend, for the nearest friend will be pleased with N° 57. THE RAMBLER. 269 an opportunity of laughing. Let him carry it to the post himself, and wait in silence for the event. If it is published and praised, 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. N° 57. Tuesday, October 2, 1750. "Son intelligunt homines quam magnum vectigal sit parsimonia. — Tull. 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 elevation, which, as it raises them above common life, must likewise hinder them from beholding the ways of men otherwise than in a cloud of bustle and confusion. Having lived a life of business, 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 them- selves in studies by which I have not found that they grow much wiser, might, with more advantage both to the publick and themselves, apply their understandings to domestick arts, and store their minds with axioms of humble prudence, and private economy. Your late paper on frugality was very elegant and pleas- ing, but, in my opinion, not sufficiently adapted to com- mon readers, who pay little regard to the musick of periods, the artifice of connection, or the arrangement of the flowers of rhetorick; but require a few plain and cogent instruc- tions, which may sink into the mind by their own weight. 270 THE RAMBLER. N° 57. 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 recom- mended 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 observation of the world, am satis- fied with knowing 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 dependence, and invite corruption ; it will almost always produce a passive compliance with the wickedness of others ; and there are few who do not learn by degress to practice those crimes which they cease to censure. If there are any who do not dread poverty as dangerous to virtue, yet mankind seem unanimous enough in abhor- ring it as destructive to happiness; and all to whom want is terrible, upon whatever principle, ought to think them- selves obliged to learn the sage maxims of our parsimo- nious ancestors, and attain the salutary arts of contracting expence ; for without frugality none can be rich, and with it very few would be poor. To most other acts of virtue or exertions of wisdom, a concurrence of many circumstances is necessary, some previous knowledge must be attained, some uncommon gifts of nature possessed, or some opportunity produced by an extraordinary combination of things ; 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 shew, that the highest intellect cannot safely neglect THE RAMBLER. 271 N° 57. it, a thousand 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 accumulation. But I am not certain that it is equally impossible to exempt the lower classes of mankind from poverty; because, though whatever be the wealth of the community, some will always have least, and he that has less than any other is comparatively poor; yet I do not see any coactive neces- sity that many should be without the indispensable con- veniences of life ; but am sometimes inclined to imagine, that, casual calamities excepted, there might, by universal prudence, be procured an universal exemption from want ; and that he who should happen to have least, might not- withstanding have enough. But without entering too far into speculations which I do not remember that any political calculator has at- tempted, and in which the most perspicacious reasoner may be easily bewildered, it is evident that they to whom Pro- vidence has allotted no other care but of their own for- tune and their own virtue, which make far the greater part of mankind, have sufficient incitements to personal frugality ; since, whatever might be its general effect upon provinces or nations, by which it is never likely to be tried, we know with certainty, that there is scarcely any indivi- dual entering the world, who, by prudent parsimony, may not reasonably promise himself a cheerful competence in the decline of life. The prospect of penury in age is so gloomy and ter- rifying, 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 mankind must owe their 272 THE RAMBLER. N° 57- affluence to small and gradual profits, below which their expence must be resolutely reduced. You must not therefore think me sinking below the dignity of a practical philosopher, when I recommend to the consideration of your readers, from the statesman to the apprentice, a position replete with mercantile wisdom, A 'penny saved is two-pence got; which may, I think, be accommodated to all conditions, by observing not only that they who pursue any lucrative employment will save time when they forbear expence, and that the time may be employed to the increase of profit; but that they who are above such minute considerations will find, by every vic- tory over appetite or passion, new strength added to the mind, will gain the power of refusing 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 expence, not absolutely necessary, degenerates into profusion? 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, however, be laid down as a rule never to be broken, that a man's voluntary ex - pence should not exceed his revenue . A maxim so obvious and incontrovertible, that the civil law ranks the prodigal with the madman, and debars them equally from the con- duct 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 projits. 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, undisputed, I will add another, N° 58. THE RAMBLER. 273 Let 710 7nan squander against his inclination . With this precept it may be, perhaps, imagined easy to comply: yet if 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 pur- chased 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 ridi- cule ; an emulation for the prize of folly, or the dread of the laugh of fools. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, Sophron. N° 58. Saturday, October 6, 1750. Improbce Crescunt divitice, tamen Curtce nescio quid semper abest rei. — Hor. 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 tran- quillity of the world, there is no topick more copiously treated by the ancient moralists than the folly of devoting the heart to the accumulation of riches. They who are acquainted with these authors need not be told how riches excite pity, contempt, or reproach, whenever they are men- tioned; with what numbers of examples the danger of large possessions is illustrated ; and how all the powers of reason and eloquence have been exhausted in endeavours to eradicate a desire, which seems to have intrenched itself too strongly in the mind to be driven out, and which, per- haps, had not lost its power, even over those who declaimed against it, but would have broken out in the poet or the VOL. i. T THE RAMBLER. 274 N° 58. sage, if it had been excited by opportunity, and invigorated by the approximation of its proper object. Their arguments have been, indeed, so unsuccessful, that I know not whether it can be shewn, that by all the wit and reason which this favourite 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 lei- sure and security of a mean and unenvied state. It is true, indeed, that many have neglected opportuni- ties 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 in the race of com- petition, or to stand the shock of contest ; but though they, therefore, decline the toil of climbing, they never- theless wish themselves aloft, and would willingly enjoy what they dare not seize. Others have retired from high stations, and voluntarily 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 induced to try new measures by general inconstancy, which always dreams of happiness in novelty, or by a gloomy disposition, which is disgusted 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 distem- pered mind, and were unable to shelter themselves in the closest retreat from disappointment, solicitude, and misery. THE RAMBLER. 275 N° 58. Yet though these admonitions have been thus neglected by those, who either enjoyed riches, or were able to pro- cure 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 ad- ministered remedies to discontent almost universal, by shewing, 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 shew 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 extrinsick ornaments, 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 religious instruction, and who collect all their ideas by their own eyes, and digest them by their own understandings, seem to con- sider those who are placed in ranks of remote superiority, as almost another and higher species of beings. As themselves have known little other misery than the con- sequences of want, they are with difficulty persuaded 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 lowest mean- ness, and the darkest ignorance ; but it is so confined only t 2 276 THE RAMBLER. N° 58. because others have been shewn its folly and its false- hood, because it has been opposed in its progress by history and philosophy, and hindered from spreading its infection by powerful preservatives. The doctrine of the contempt of wealth, though it has not been able to extinguish avarice or ambition, or sup- press that reluctance with which a man passes his days in a state of inferiority, must, at least, have made the lower conditions less grating and wearisome, and has conse- quently contributed to the general security of life, by hindering that fraud and violence, rapine and circum- vention, which must have been produced 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 violent impulse of passion, to pursue riches as the chief end of being, must surely be so much alarmed by the successive admo- nitions of those whose experience and sagacity have re- commended them as the guides of mankind, as to stop and consider whether he is about to engage in an under- taking 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 this 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 suppose 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 corporal enjoyment, money can neither open new avenues to pleasure, nor block up the passages 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 contributes much to quicken the discernment, enlarge the capacity, or elevate the imagi- nation ; but may, by hiring flattery, or laying diligence asleep, confirm errour, and harden stupidity. 277 N° 59. THE RAMBLER. 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 royalty 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 ex- istence 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, luxu- rious without pleasure, idle without ease, impatient and querulous 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 eager- ness. N° 59. Tuesday, October 9, 1750. Est aliquid fatale malum per verba levare, Hoc querulam Prcgnen Haley onenquefacit : Hoc erat in solo quare Pceantius antro Voce fatigaret Lemnia saxa sua. Strangulat inclusus dolor, atque exefstuat intus, Cogitur et vires multiplicare suas . — Ovid. Complaining oft gives respite to our grief ; From hence the wretched Progne sought relief. Hence the Paeantian chief his fate deplores. And vents his sorrow to the Lemnian shores : In vain by secrecy we would assuage Our cares ; conceal’d they gather tenfold rage. — F. Lewis. It is common to distinguish men by the names of ani- mals which they are supposed to resemble. Thus a hero is frequently termed a lion, and a statesman a fox, an ex- tortioner gains the appellation of vulture, and a fop the title of monkey. There is also among the various ano- malies of character, which a survey of the world exhibits, THE RAMBLER. 278 N° 59. a species of beings in human form, which may be pro- perly 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 complain, and that they were born for no other purpose than to disturb the happiness of others, to lessen the little comforts, and shorten the short pleasures of our condition, by painful remembrances of the past, or melancholy prognosticks of the future ; their only care is to crush the rising hope, to damp the kindling transport, and allay the golden hours of gaiety with the hateful dross of grief and suspicion. To those whose weakness of spirits, or timidity of tem- per, 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 ap- prehensions, which their own thoughts would never have produced, and sadden, by intruded sorrows, the day which might have been passed in amusements or in business ; it will burthen the heart with unnecessary 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 ene- mies, been charged with superstition ; I never count the company which I enter, and I look at the new moon in- differently over either shoulder. I have, like most other philosophers, 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 abruptly because a snake crosses my way, nor have any particular dread of a elimacterical 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 Suspirius the screech-owl. I have now known Suspirius fifty-eight years and four THE RAMBLER. 279 N° 59. 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 acquainted, his great topick 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 considered as the objects of a wish, had not his unseasonable representations placed them in my sight. Another of his topicks 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 wdiose personal cou- rage is unquestioned, and whose military skill qualifies them to command armies, that have, notwithstanding all their merit, grown old with subaltern commissions. For a genius in the church, 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 opportunity to speak in the courts : And meeting Serenus, the physi- cian, “ Ah, doctor,” says he, “ what a-foot still, when so many blockheads are rattling in their chariots ? I told you seven years ago that you would never meet with en- couragement, and I hope you will now take more notice, when I tell you that your Greek, and your diligence, 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 unhappiness, 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 pursuits, and in- 280 THE RAMBLER. N° 59. forms me that we are much older than when we began 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 plea- sures than a good dinner and an easy chair. Thus he goes on in his unharmonious strain, displaying present miseries, and foreboding more, vvKTucopat a« Oava- rr)(j)6pog, 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 per- ceive 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 condolence for past, or apprehension of future mischiefs, as all men studious of their ease have recourse to those subjects upon which they can most fluently or copiously discourse. It is reported of the Sybarites, that they destroyed 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 ex- ample, 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 often 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 Agamemnon, thou never foretellest me good , but the joy of thy heart is to pre- dict misfortunes. Whoever is of the same temper, might there find the means of indulging his thoughts, and im- proving his vein of denunciation, and the flock of screech- THE RAMBLER. 281 N° 60. owls might hoot together without injury to the rest of the world. Yet, though I have so little kindness for this dark gene- ration, I am very far from intending 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 friend- ship ; and though it must be allowed that he suffers most like a hero that hides his grief in silence, Spent vultu simulat, premit alturn 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 fel- low-creatures. Pity is to many of the unhappy a source of comfort in hopeless distresses, as it contributes to re- commend 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 inclining us to weep for evils which we cannot remedy. N° 60. Saturday, October 13, 1750. — Quid sit pulchrum, quid turpe, quid utile, quid non,] Plenius et melius Chrysippo et Crantore 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 imagination, that realizes the event however fictitious, or approximates it however remote, by placing us, for a time, in the condi- tion of him whose fortune we contemplate ; so that we feel, while the deception lasts, whatever motions would be ex- cited by the same good or evil happening to ourselves. Our passions are therefore more strongly moved, in pro- portion as we can more readily adopt the pains or pleasure proposed to our minds, by recognizing them as once our THE RAMBLER. 282 N°_60. own, or considering 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 our- selves never likely to feel, and with which we have never yet been made acquainted. Histories of the downfal of kingdoms, and revolutions of empires, are read with great tranquillity; the imperial tragedy pleases common audi- tors only by its pomp of ornament, and grandeur of ideas : and the man whose faculties have been engrossed by bu- siness, and whose heart never fluttered but at the rise or fall of the stocks, wonders how the attention can be seized, or the affection agitated, by a tale of love. Those parallel circumstances and kindred images, to which we readily conform our minds, are, above all other writings, to be found in narratives of the lives of particular persons ; and therefore flo species of writing seems more worthy of cultivation than biography, since none can be more delightful or more useful, none can more certainly enchain the heart by irresistible interest, or more widely diffuse instruction to every diversity of condition. The general and rapid narratives of history, which in- volve a thousand fortunes in the business of a day, and complicate innumerable incidents in one great transac- tion, afford few lessons applicable to private life, which derives its comforts and its wretchedness from the right or wrong management of things, which nothing but their frequency makes considerable, Parva si non jiant quotidie , says Pliny, and which can have no place in those rela- tions which never descend below the consultation of se- nates, the motions of armies, and the schemes of conspi- rators. I have often thought that there has rarely passed 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 numbers in the same condition with himself, to whom his mistakes and miscarriages, escapes and expedients, would be of immediate and apparent use ; but there is such a uniformity in the state of man, consi- THE RAMBLER. N° 60. 283 dered 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 distances by fortune, or by temper, must unavoidably pass in the same manner ; and though, when the claims of nature are satis- fied, 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 ani- mated by hope, obstructed by danger, entangled by de- sire, and seduced by pleasure. It is frequently objected to relations of particular lives, that they are not distinguished by any striking or won- derful vicissitudes. The scholar who passed his life among his books, the merchant who conducted only his own affairs, the priest, whose sphere of action was not ex- tended beyond that of his duty, are considered as no pro- per objects of publick regard, however they might have excelled in their several stations, whatever might have been their learning, integrity, and piety. 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 advantages of prejudice, and to gain attention by a celebrated name; but the business of the biographer is often to pass slightly over those performances and incidents, which produce vulgar greatness, to lead the thoughts into domestick pri- vacies, and display the minute details of daily life, where exteriour appendages are cast aside, and men excel 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 familiar character of that man, cujus mgtnium 284 THE RAMBLER. N° 60. et candorem ex ipsius scriptis sunt olim semper miraturi , 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 moral knowledge, whether we intend to enlarge our science, or increase our virtue, are more important than publick occurrences. Thus Sallust, the great master of nature, has not forgot, in his account of Catiline, to remark that his walk was now quick , and again slow , as an indication of a mind revolving some- thing with violent commotion. Thus the story of Me- lancthon affords a striking lecture on the value of time, by informing us, that when he made an appointment, he expected not only the hour, but the minute to be fixed, that the day might not run out in the idleness of suspence : and all the plans and enterprizes 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 writers who seem very little acquainted with the nature of their task, or very negligent about the performance. They rarely afford any other account than might be collected from publick papers, but imagine themselves writing a life when they exhibit a chronological series of actions or prefer- ments ; 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 man- kind, the irregularity of his pulse: nor can I think myself overpaid for the time spent in reading the life of Malherb by being enabled to relate after the learned biographer, N° 60. THE RAMBLER. 285 that Malherb had two predominant opinions ; one, that the looseness of a single woman might destroy all her boast of ancient 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 to both. There are, indeed, some natural reasons why these nar- ratives are often written by such as were not likely to give much instruction or delight, and why most accounts of particular persons are barren and useless. If a life be de- layed till interest and envy are at an end, we may hope for impartiality, 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 pourtray a living acquaintance, except by his most prominent and observable particularities, and the grosser features of his mind ; and it may be easily imagined 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 knowledge, and makes haste to gratify the publick curiosity, there is dan- ger lest his interest, his fear, his gratitude, or his tender- ness, 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 adorned with uniform pane- gyrick, and not to be known from one another, but by ex- trinsick 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. 286 THE RAMBLER. N° 61. N°6L Tuesday, October 16, 1750. Falsus honor juvat, et mendax infamia teiret — Quern, nisi mendosum et mendacemJ — Hor. False praise can charm, unreal shame contrOul — 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 till it has satiated 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 politick, the aims of the busy, and the hopes of the ambi- tious ; what changes of publick 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 county, I am condemned always to confound the future with the past, to form prognosti- cations 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 prospects, like a man pointing his telescope at a remote 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 discoveries, 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 THE RAMBLER. N° 61. 287 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 con- sider me as a wretch scarcely worthy of human converse, when I happen to talk of the fortune of a bankrupt, or propose the healths of the dead ; when I warn them of mischiefs already incurred, or wish for measures that have been lately taken. They seem to attribute to the superi- ority of their intellects what they only ow r e to the accident of their condition, and think themselves indisputably en- titled 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 publick in all other places, and known where they could neither be seen, related, nor conjectured. To this haughtiness they are indeed too much en- couraged by the respect which they receive amongst us, for no other reason than that they come from London. For no sooner is the arrival 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 controversies, to him, as to a being descended from some nobler region, and he grows on a sudden oraculous and infallible, solves all difficulties, and sets all objections at defiance. There is, in my opinion, great reason for suspecting, that they sometimes take advantage of this reverential mo- desty, and impose upon rustick understandings with a false show of universal intelligence ; for I do not find that they are willing to own themselves ignorant of any thing, or that they dismiss any inquirer with a positive and de- cisive answer. The court, the city, the park, and exchange, are to those men of unbounded observation equally fami- liar, and they are alike ready to tell the hour at which stocks will rise, or the ministry be changed. THE RAMBLER. N° 61. 288 A short residence at London entitles a man to know- ledge, to wit, to politeness, and to a despotick and dicta- torial 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 my- self 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 convinced of the merits of the claimant. It is well remembered here, that about seven years ago, one Frolick, 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 de- signed 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 for- tune, till last summer a report burst upon us, that Mr. Frolick was come down in the first post-chaise which this village had seen, having travelled with such rapidity that one of his postillions had broke his leg, and another nar- rowly escaped suffocation in a quicksand ; but that Mr. Frolick seemed totally unconcerned, for such things were never heeded at London. Mr. Frolick next day appeared among the gentlemen at their weekly meeting on the bowling-green, and now were seen the effects of a London education. His dress, his language, his ideas, were all new, and he did not much endeavour to conceal his contempt of every thing that differed from the opinions, or practice, of the modish world. He shewed us the deformity of our skirts and sleeves, in- formed us where hats of the proper size were to be sold, and recommended to us the reformation of a thousand ab- surdities in our clothes, our cookery, 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. THE RAMBLER. 289 N° 61. 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 topicks 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 town , he has not indeed hitherto informed us, though there is no phrase so fre- quent 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 achievements. I have heard of the union of various characters 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 ; whatever has endeared the lover, are all concentered in Mr. Frolick, whose life has, for seven years, been a regular interchange of intrigues, dangers, and waggeries, and who has dis- tinguished himself 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 times on the point of perishing, sometimes by the terrours 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 giddiness on the top of the Monument ; he has crossed the street amidst the rush of coaches ; he has been surrounded by robbers without VOL. I. U 290 THE RAMBLER. N° 61. 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 rescued 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 understanding than his bravery ; for he informs us, that he is, at London, the established arbitrator of all points of honour, and the decisive judge of all performances of genius; that no musical performer is in reputation till the opinion of Fro- lick 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 publick entertainment has failed or succeeded, but because he opposed or favoured it ; that all controversies 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 the state or army, of which he has not more or less influenced the 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 Frolick. Yet, notwithstanding all these declarations, I cannot hitherto persuade myself to see that Mr. Frolick has more wit, or knowledge, or courage, than the rest of mankind, or that any uncommon enlargement of his faculties has happened in the time of his absence. For when he talks on subjects known to the rest of the company, he has no advantage over us, but by catches of interruption, brisk- ness of interrogation, and pertness of contempt ; and there- fore if he has stunned the world with his name, and gained a place in the first ranks of humanity, I cannot but con- THE RAMBLER. 291 N° 62. elude, that either a little understanding confers eminence at London, or that Mr. Frolick thinks us unworthy of the exertion of his powers, or that his faculties are benumbed by rural stupidity, as the magnetic needle loses its ani- mation in the polar climes. I would not, however, like many hasty philosophers, search after the cause till I am certain of the effect ; and therefore I desire to be informed, whether you have yet heard the great name of Mr. Frolick. If he is celebrated by other tongues than his own, I shall willingly propa- gate his praise ; but if he has swelled among us with empty boasts, and honours conferred only by himself, I shall treat him with rustick sincerity, and drive him as an impostor from this part of the kingdom to some region of more credulity. I am, &c. Ruricola. N° 62. Saturday, October 20, 1750. Nunc ego Triptolemi cuperem conscendere currus, Misit in ignotam qui rude semen humum: Nunc ego Medece vellem freenare dracones, Quos habuit fugiens arva, Corinthe, tua ; Nunc egojactandas optarem sumere pennas, Sive tuas, Perseu ; Dcedale, give tuas . — Ovid. Now would I mount his car, whose bounteous hand First sow’d with teeming seed the furrow’d land : Now to Medaea’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 very large fortune, which, if my parents would have been persuaded to comply with the rules and customs of the polite part of mankind, might long since have raised me to the highest honours of the female world ; but so strangely have they hitherto con- trived to waste my life, that I am now on the borders of u 2 292 THE RAMBLER. N° 62. twenty, without having ever danced but at our monthly assembly, or been toasted but among a few gentlemen of the neighbourhood, or seen in any company in which it was worth a wish to be distinguished. My father having impaired his patrimony in soliciting a place at court, at last grew wise enough to cease his pursuit ; and, to repair the consequences of expensive at- tendance and negligence of his affairs, married a lady much older than himself, who had lived in the fashionable world till she was considered as an incumbrance upon parties of pleasure, and as I can collect from incidental informations, retired from gay assemblies just time enough to escape the mortification of universal neglect. She was, however, still rich, and not yet wrinkled ; my father was too distressfully embarrassed to think much on any thing but the means of extrication, and though it is not likely that he wanted the delicacy which polite con- versation will always produce in understandings not re- markably defective, yet he was contented with a match, by which he might be set free from inconveniencies, that would have destroyed all the pleasures of imagination, and taken from softness and beauty the power of de- lighting. As they were both somewhat disgusted with their treatment in the world, and married, though without any dislike of each other, yet principally for the sake of set- ting themselves free from dependence on caprice or fa- shion, they soon retired into the country, and devoted their lives to rural business and diversions. They had not much reason to regret the change of their situation ; for their vanity, which had so long been tor- mented by neglect and disappointment, was here gratified with every honour that could be paid them. Their long familiarity with publick life made them the oracles of all those who aspired to intelligence or politeness. My fa- ther dictated politicks, my mother prescribed the mode, and it was sufficient to entitle any family to some consi- deration, that they were known to visit at Mrs. Courtly’s. N° 62. THE RAMBLER. 293 In this state they were, to speak in the style of novel- ists, made happy by the birth of your correspondent. My parents had no other child, I was therefore not brow- beaten by a saucy brother, or lost in a multitude of co- heiresses, whose fortunes being equal, would probably have conferred equal merit, and procured equal regard ; and as my mother was now old, my understanding and my person had fair play, my inquiries were not checked, my advances towards importance were not repressed, and I was soon suffered to tell my own opinions, and early accustomed to hear my own praises. By these accidental advantages I was much exalted above the young ladies with whom I conversed, and was treated by them with great deference. 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 expences to hinder her from concurring with his inclination. Thus, Mr. Rambler, I lived without much desire after any thing beyond the circle of our visits ; and here I should have quietly continued to portion out my time among my books, and my needle, and my company, had not my curiosity been every moment excited by the con- versation of my parents, who, whenever they sit down to familiar prattle, and endeavour the entertainment of each other, immediately transport themselves to London, and relate some adventure in a hackney-coach, some frolick at a masquerade, some conversation in the Park, or some quarrel at an assembly, display the magnificence of a birth-night, relate the conquests of maids of honour, or give a history of diversions, shows, and entertainments, 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 succession of celebrated singers, musicians, tragedians, comedians, and harlequins ; 294 THE RAMBLER. N° 62. 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. You will easily imagine, Mr. Rambler, that I could not hear these narratives, for sixteen years together, without suffering some impression, and wishing myself nearer to those places where every hour brings some new pleasure, and life is diversified with an unexhausted 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 amuse- ments, its grandeur, 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 enlightened the times that she remembers ; that no one who had seen, or heard, the ancient performers, 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 fop- peries 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 particular com- plaisance, and, as we grew intimate, gave me such a detail of the elegance, the splendour, the mirth, the happiness of the town, that I am resolved to be no longer buried in N° 62. THE RAMBLER. 295 ignorance and obscurity, but to share with other wits the joy of being admired, and divide with other beauties the empire of the world. I do not find, Mr. Rambler, upon a deliberate and im- partial comparison, that I am excelled by Belinda in beauty, in wit, in judgment, in knowledge, or in any thing, but a kind of gay, lively familiarity, by which she mingles with strangers as with persons long acquainted, and which enables her to display her powers without any obstruction, hesitation, or confusion. Yet she can relate a thousand civilities paid to her in publick, can produce, from a hundred lovers, letters filled with praises, protestations, ecstacies, 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 my mother to send me to town, and shall set out in three weeks on the grand expe- dition. I intend to live in publick, and to crowd into the winter every pleasure which money can purchase, and every honour which beauty can obtain. But this tedious interval how shall 1 endure ? Cannot you alleviate the misery of delay by some pleasing de- scription of the entertainments of the town ? I can read, I can talk, I can think of nothing else ; and if you will not sooth my impatience, 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. 296 THE RAMBLER. N° 63. N° 63. Tuesday, October 23, 1750. Habebat s cepe ducentos, Scepe decern servos ; modd reges atque tetrarchas, Omnia magna loquens : modb, sit mihi mensa tripes, el Concha salis puri, et toga, qua defendere frigus, Quamvis crassa, queat . — Hob. Now with two hundred slaves he crowds his train ; Now walks with ten. In high and haughty strain At mom, of kings and governors he prates ; At night, — “ A frugal table, O ye fates, “ A little shell the sacred salt to hold, “ And clothes, tho’ coarse, to keep me from the cold.” — Francis. It has been remarked, perhaps, by every writer who has left behind him observations upon life, that no man is pleased with his present state ; which proves equally un- satisfactory, says Horace, 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 unreasonable 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 hap- piness 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 com- parisons. When this opinion of the felicity of others predomi- nates in the heart, so as to excite resolutions of obtaining, at whatever price, the condition to which such trans- cendent privileges are supposed to be annexed ; when it bursts into action, and produces fraud, violence, and in- justice, 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 admit it, THE RAMBLER. 297 N° 63. and, however it may interrupt content, makes no attack on piety or virtue, I cannot think it so far criminal or ri- diculous, but that it may deserve some pity, and admit some excuse. That all are equally happy, or miserable, I suppose none is sufficiently enthusiastical to maintain ; because, though we cannot judge of the condition 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 en- deavour the alteration of that which is capable of being improved, and to grasp at augmentations of good, when we know it possible to be increased, and believe that any particular change of situation will increase it ? If he that finds himself 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 external efficients. It is, indeed, frequently discovered by us, that we com- plained too hastily of peculiar hardships, and imagined ourselves distinguished by embarrassments, 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 desirable to be delivered. But this knowledge, though it is easily gained by the trial, is not always 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 comprehensive of human life, with all its intricacies of combination, and varieties of connexion, is beyond the power of mortal intelligences. Of the state with which practice has not acquainted us we snatch a glimpse, we discern a point, 298 THE RAMBLER. N° 63. and regulate 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 admit ; we necessarily desire the melioration of our lot ; what we desire we very reasonably seek, and what we seek we are naturally eager to believe that we have found. Our confidence is often disappointed, but our reason is not convinced, and there is no man who does not hope for something which he has not, though perhaps his wishes lie unactive, because he foresees the difficulty of attainment : as among the numerous students of Hermetick philosophy, not one appears to have de- sisted 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 mutability 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 con- sequently 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 sorrow, for want of that calm and immovable acquiescence in their condition, by which men of slower understandings are fixed for ever to a certain point, or led on in the plain beaten track, which their fathers and grandsires have trod before them. Of two conditions of life equally inviting to the pros- pect, that will always have the disadvantage 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 expect, yet in those meditations which we indulge by choice > and which are not forced upon the mind by necessity, we have THE RAMBLER. 29S N° 63. always the art 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 some- times 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 wonderful, when they are proposed to the elec- tion, than oscillations of a beam charged with equal weights. The mind no sooner imagines itself determined by some prevalent advantage, than some convenience 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, inherited a large estate from a father, long eminent in conspicuous employments. His father, harassed with competitions, and perplexed with multiplicity of business, recommended the quiet of a private station with so much force, that Eumenes for some years resisted every motion of ambitious wishes ; but being once provoked by the sight of oppres- sion, which he could not redress, 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 elo- quence 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 proportion as the power of doing well is enlarged, the temptations to do ill are multiplied and enforced. He felt himself every moment in danger 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 con- science could not approve. Sometimes he was forced to comply with the prejudices of the publick, and sometimes 300 THE RAMBLER. N° 64. with the schemes of the ministry. He was by degrees wearied with perpetual struggles to unite policy and virtue, and went back to retirement 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 govern- ment prevailed, he thought himself again summoned to posts of publick 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 motives, is always to be avoided, because life allows us but a small time for inquiry and experiment, and he that steadily endeavours at excellence, in whatever employment, w T ill more benefit mankind than he that hesitates in choosing his part till he is called to the performance. The traveller 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 for smoother ground and shorter passages. N° 64. Saturday, October 27, 1750. Idem velle, et idem nolle, ea demnm firma amiciiiaest . — Sallust. To lire in friendship is to have the same desires and the same aversions. W hen Socrates was building himself a house at Athens, being asked by one that observed the littleness of the de- sign, 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, con- cerning the infrequency of such an union of minds as might deserve the name of friendship, that among the multitudes whom vanity or curiosity, civility, or veneration, crowded THE RAMBLER. 301 G4. about him, he did not expect, that very spacious apart- ments would be necessary to contain all that should regard 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 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 unresisting subjection to their pas- sions. Long habits may superinduce inability to deny any desire, or repress, by superior motives, the importu- nities of any immediate gratification, and an inveterate selfishness will imagine all advantages diminished in pro- portion as they are communicated. But not only this hateful and confirmed corruption, but many varieties of disposition, not inconsistent with com- mon degrees of virtue, may exclude friendship from the heart. Some ardent enough in their benevolence, and defective neither in officiousness nor liberality, are mu- table and uncertain, soon attracted by new objects, dis- gusted without offence, and alienated without enmity. Others are soft and flexible, easily influenced 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 confident 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 safer way to the sagacity of another, in- clined to consider counsel as insult, and inquiry as want of confidence, and to confer their regard on no other terms than unreserved submission, and implicit compliance. Some are dark and involved, equally careful to conceal good and bad purposes; and pleased with producing 302 THE RAMBLER. N° 64. effects by invisible means, and shewing their design only in its execution. 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 without 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 they are unfit for close and tender intimacies. He cannot properly be chosen for a friend, whose kindness is exhaled by its own warmth, or frozen by the first blast of slander; he cannot be a useful counsellor who will hear no opinion but his own; he will not much invite confidence whose principal maxim is to suspect ; nor can the candour and frankness of that man be much esteemed, 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 lasting, 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 cannot 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, derives 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 exigencies, but pleasing in familiar life ; their presence should give cheerfulness as well as courage, and dispel alike the gloom of fear and of melancholy. To this mutual complacency is generally requisite an uniformity of opinions, at least of those active and con- spicuous principles which discriminate parties in govern- THE RAMBLER. 303 N° 64. ment, and sects in religion, 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 contrary factions ; yet such friends are to be shewn rather as prodigies than ex- amples, and it is no more proper to regulate our conduct by such instances, 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 publick opposition, in which will necessarily be involved a thousand incidents, extending their influence to conversation and privacy. Men en- gaged, by moral or religious motives, in contrary parties, will generally look with different eyes upon every man, and decide almost every question upon different princi- ples. 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 triumph, the vexation of defeat, and, in time, a weariness of contest, and an extinc- tion of benevolence ? Exchange of endearments and inter- course of civility may continue, indeed, as boughs may for a while be verdant, when the root is wounded ; but the poison of discord is infused, and though the countenance may preserve 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 serenity of benevolence, it is ne- cessary 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 304 THE RAMBLER. N° 64. indispensable with conformity of principles, because any man may honestly, according to the precepts of Horace, resign the gratifications of taste to the humour of another, and friendship may well deserve the sacrifice of pleasure, though not of conscience. It was once confessed to me, by a painter, that no pro- fessor of his art ever loved another. This declaration is so far justified by the knowledge 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 at- tacked, 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 interest. Friendship is seldom lasting but between equals, or where the superiority on one side is reduced by some equi- valent advantage on the other. Benefits which cannot be repaid, and obligations which cannot be discharged, are not commonly found to increase affection ; they excite 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 friendship is beneficence, yet by the first act of uncommon kindness it is endangered, like plants that bear their fruit and die. Yet this consideration ought not to restrain bounty, or re- press compassion ; for duty is to be preferred before con- venience, and he that loses part of the pleasures of friend- ship by his generosity, gains in its place the gratulation of his conscience. N u 65. THE RAMBLER. 305 N° 65. Tuesday, October 30, 1750. Garrit aniles Ex refabdlas . Hoh. The cheerful sage, when solemn dictates fail, Conceals the moral counsel in a tale. Obidah, the son of Abensina, left the caravansera early in the morning, and pursued his journey through the plains of Indostan. He was fresh and vigorous with rest; he was animated with hope; he was incited by de- sire ; he walked swiftly forward over the valleys, and saw the hills gradually rising before him. As he passed along, his ears were delighted with the morning song of the bird of paradise, he was fanned by the last flutters of the sink- ing breeze, and sprinkled 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 its shades as a sign of invitation ; he entered it, and found the coolness and verdure irresistibly pleasant. 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 some- times tempted to stop by the musick of the birds whom the heat had assembled in the shade ; and sometimes amused himself with plucking the flowers that covered vol. r. x THE RAMBLER. N* 65. 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 waterfalls. Here Obidah paused for a time, and began to consider whether it were longer safe to forsake the known and com- mon track ; but remembering that the heat was now in its greatest violence, and that the plain was dusty and un- even, he resolved to pursue the new path, which he sup- posed only to make a few meanders, in compliance with the varieties of the ground, and to end at last in the com- mon 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 sooth or divert him. He listened to every echo, he mounted every hill for a fresh prospect, he turned aside to every cascade, and pleased himself with tracing the course of a gentle river that rolled among the trees, and watered a large region with innumerable circumvolutions. In these amusements 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 overspread 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 remem- brance of his folly ; he now saw how happiness is lost when ease is consulted ; he lamented the unmanly impa- tience 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 reflecting, 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 ground which he had passed, and try to N° 65. THE RAMBLER. 307 find some issue 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 motion, and on every hand were heard the mingled howls of rage and fear, and ravage and expiration ; all the horrours of darkness and solitude surrounded him : the winds roared in the woods, and the torrents tumbled from the hills, • xjzi/Jtappoi itOTO.fj.oi hot op£o3flf Sittigiy, when, falling asleep, on a sudden I found myself placed in a garden, of which my sight could descry no lihiits. Every scene about me was gay and gladsome, with sunshine, and fragrant with perfumes ; the glrotmd 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 con- fusion 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 gratifica- tions to expect, and that, at a small distance from me, there were brighter flowers, clearer fountains, and more lofty groves, where the 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 blossoms ; 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 pro- ceeded. 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 dili- gence, and to retire as I advanced. Though I was confounded with so many alternations 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 innumerable multitude of every age and sex, who seemed all to partake of some general felicity ; 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 communicate their intentions, or extend their concern beyond themselves. Most of them seemed, by the rapidity of their motion, too busy to gratify the curiosity of a stranger, and therefore I was content for awhile to gaze upon them, without interrupting them with trouble- some inquiries. At last I observed one man worn with THE RAMBLER. 315 N* 67. 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 softness of mien, and easy movement, gave me reason 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 of 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 myself for information, I began to imagine it best to desist from in- quiry, and try what my own observation 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 blessings of life were spread abroad to view ; she had a perpetual gaiety of aspect, and every one imagined that her smile, which was impartial and general, was directed to himself, and triumphed in his own superiority to others, who had conceived 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 316 THE RAMBLER. N° 67. that filled it. From this station I observed, that the en- trance 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 welcomed all equally to the district under her superintendency; 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 Sti'tight of Difficulty, which those who entered with the permission of the guard endeavoured to climb. But though they surveyed the way very carefully before they began to rise, and marked out the several stages of their progress, they commonly found unexpected obsta- cles, and were obliged frequently to stop on the sudden, where they imagined the way plain and even. A thou- sand intricacies embarrassed them, a thousand slips threw them back, and a thousand pitfalls impeded their advance. So formidable were the dangers, and so frequent the mis- carriages, 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 Fortitude. Of these few the greater part, when they had obtained the gift which Hope had pro- mised them, regretted the labour which it cost, and felt in their success the regret of disappointment ; the rest re- tired with their prize, and were led by Wisdom 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, inaccessibly steep, but so channelled and shaded, that none perceived the impossibility of ascending it, but each imagined himself to have discovered a way to THE RAMBLER. 317 N° 68. 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 labour, and all their artifices, they never rose above the ground, or quickly fell back, nor ever approached 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 the Streight of Difficulty. Part of the favourites of Fancy, when they had en- tered 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 intended 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 commu- nicate their mirth ; but turning round, I saw two dreadful monsters entering the vale, one of whom I knew to be Age, and the other Want. Sport and revelling were now at an end, and an universal shriek of affright and dis- tress burst out and awaked me. N° 68. Saturday, November 10, 1750. Vivendum recte, cum propter plurima, tunc his Proecipue causis, ut linguas mancipiorum Contemnas ; i mm lingua mali pars pessima ssrvi. — Juv. Let us live well : were it alone for tlxis The baneful tongues of servants to despise : Slander, that worst of poisons, ever finds An easy entrance to ignoble minds. — Hertey. The younger Pliny very justly observed, that of actions that deserve our attention, the most splendid are not alw r ays the greatest. Fame, and wonder, and applause, are not 318 THE RAMBLER. N° 68. excited but by external and adventitious circumstances, often distinct and separate from virtue and heroism. Emi- nence of station, greatness of effect, and all the favours of fortune, must concur to place excellence in publick view ; but fortitude, diligence, and patience, divested of their show, glide unobserved 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. No- thing is to be estimated by its effect upon common eyes and common ears. A thousand miseries make silent and invisible inroads on mankind, and the heart feels innume- rable 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 pecu- liar 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, imperti- nences which buzz awhile about us, and are heard no more; of meteorous pleasures which dance before us and are dissipated; of compliments which glide off the soul like other musick, 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 chemist tells us, that all bodies are resolvable into the same elements, and that the boundless variety of things arises from the different proportions of 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 Provi- dence, 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 THE RAMBLER. 319 N° 68. great events, or have their thread of life entwisted with the chain of causes on which armies or nations are sus- > pended; and even those who seem wholly busied in pub- lick affairs, and elevated above low cares, or trivial plea- sures, pass the chief part of their time in familiar and do- mestick scenes ; from these they came into publick 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 cheerfulness to those hours, which splendour cannot gild, and acclama- tion cannot exhilarate; those soft intervals of unbended amusement, in which a man shrinks to his natural dimen- sions, 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 ihome is the ultimate result of all ambition, the end to which every enterprize and labour 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 embroidery are alike oc- casional, and the mind is often dressed for show in painted honour and fictitious benevolence. Every man must have found some whose lives, in every house but their own, was a continual series of hypocrisy, and who concealed under fair appearances bad qualities, which, whenever they thought themselves out of the reach of censure, broke out from their restraint, like winds im- prisoned in their caverns, and whom every one had reason to love, but they whose love a wise man is chiefly solici- tous 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 benefactors. The most authentick witnesses of any man’s character are those who know him in his own family, and see him 320 THE RAMBLER. N° 63. 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 advan- tage of unlimited power or probable secrecy ; if we trace him through the round of his time, and find that his cha- racter, with those allowances which mortal frailty must always want, is uniform and regular, we have all the evi- dence of his sincerity that one man can have with regard to another: and, indeed, as hypocrisy cannot be its own reward, we may, without hesitation, determine that his heart is pure. The highest panegyrick, therefore, that private virtue can receive, is the praise of servants. For, however vanity or insolence may look down with contempt on the suf- frage 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 Harrington’s apho- rism, will be felt by those that cannot see it; and, per- haps, it falls out very often that, in moral questions, the philosophers in the gown, and in the liver) 7 , differ not so much in their sentiments, 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, confederates, or wit- nesses; and, therefore, the servant must commonly know the secrets of a master, who has any secrets to entrust; and failings, merely personal, are so frequently exposed by that security which pride and folly generally produce, and so inquisitively watched by that desire of reducing the inequalities of condition, which the lower orders of the world w 7 ill alw r ays feel, that the testimony of a menial do- mestick can seldom be considered as defective for want of knowledge. 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 pal- liations. THE RAMBLER. 321 N° 68. The danger of betraying our weakness to our servants, and the impossibility of concealing it from them, may be justly considered as one motive to a regular and irre- proachable life. For no condition is more hateful or de- spicable, 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 enforce 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 forbear- ance, that he has enslaved himself by some foolish confi- dence. 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 dig- nity to his passions, in perpetual dread of insolence or defamation ; of a controuler at home, or an accuser abroad. He is condemned to purchase, by continual bribes, that secrecy which bribes never secured, and which, after a long course of submission, promises, and anxieties, he will find violated in a fit of rage, or in a frolick of drunkenness. To dread no eye, and to suspect no tongue, is the great prerogative of innocence ; an exemption granted only to invariable virtue. But, guilt has always its horrours and solicitudes; and to make it yet more shameful and detes- table, it is doomed often to stand in awe of those, to whom nothing could give influence or weight, but their power of betraying. VOL. i. 322 THE RAMBLER. N° 69. N° 69. Tuesday, November 13, 1750. Flet quoque, ut in speculo rugas adspexit aniles, Tyndaris; et secum, cur sit bis rapia, requirit. Tempus edax rerum, tuque invidiosa vetustas, Omnia destruitis : vitiataque dentibus cevi Paulatim lentd consumitis omnia morte .— Ovid. The dreadful wrinkles when poor Helen spy’d. Ah ! why this second rape ? with tears she cry’d, Time, thou devourer, and thou, envious age, Who all destroy with keen corroding rage, Beneath your jaws, whate’er have pleas’d or please, Must sink, consum’d by swift or slow degrees. — E lphinston. An old Greek epigrammatist, intending to shew the miseries that attend the last stage of man, imprecates upon those who are so foolish as to wish for long life, the ca- lamity of continuing to grow old from century to century. He thought that no adventitious or foreign pain was re- quisite ; that decrepitude itself was an epitome of what- ever is dreadful ; and nothing could be added to the curse of age, but that it should be extended 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 tragedy of life, in which he finds those who, in the former parts of the drama, were distin- guished 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 fortitude may con- quer : by caution and circumspection we 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 use- less ; when we shall all sink into helplessness and sadness, without any power of receiving solace from the pleasures that have formerly delighted us, or any prospect of emer- N* 69. THE RAMBLER. 323 ging into a second possession of the blessings that we have 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 arti- ficial 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 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 his 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 commands, and cancels his pre- scriptions. But here, though there may be safety, 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 survived 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 bu- siness 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 domestick grati- fications, 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 ap- y 2 324 THE RAMBLER. N° 69. pearance 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 fulness of hope, and ardour of pursuit, nothing is so un- pleasing as the cold caution, the faint expectations, the scrupulous diffidence, which experience and disappoint- ments 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 phleg- matick sediment of weariness and deliberation, and burst out in temerity and enterprize. The tenderness therefore which nature infuses, and which long habits of beneficence confirm, is necessary to reconcile 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 plea- sures and the sorrows, of those who have not vet 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 him- self, does not multiply his anxieties more than his plea- sures, 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, N° 69. THE RAMBLER. 325 and flattery, and who, having made no acquaintance with knowledge, 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, w T hen 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 sw 7 ell their bosoms with exultation. They visit the seats of felicity, and endeavour to continue tfhe habit of being delighted. But pleasure is only received when we believe that we give it in return. Neglect and petu- lance inform them that their power and their value are past; and what then remains but a tedious and comfort- less uniformity of time, without any motion of the heart, or exercise of the reason ? Yet, however age may discourage us by its appearance from considering it in prospect, we shall all by degrees certainly be old ; and therefore we ought to inquire what provision can be made against that time of distress ? what happiness can be stored up against the winter of life ? and how we may pass our latter years with serenity and cheerfulness ? If it has been found by the experience of mankind, that not even the best seasons of life are able to supply suffi- cient gratifications, without anticipating uncertain felici- ties, it cannot surely be supposed that old age, worn with labours, harassed with anxieties, and tortured with dis- eases, should have any gladness of its own, or feel any satisfaction from the contemplation of the present. 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 326 THE, RAMBLER. N° 70. man. He that grows old without religious hopes, as he declines into imbecility, and feels pains and sorrows in- cessantly crowding upon him, falls into a gulpli of bot- tomless misery, in which every reflection must plunge him deeper, and where he finds only new gradations of anguish, and precipices of horrour. N° 70. Saturday, November 17, 1750. 'e . Argente a proles, Auro deterior, fulvo prttiosior tcre . — OvrD. 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 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 instruction, and can perceive right and wrong when they are shewn 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 may be 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 perseve- rance, that they rise above all other cares and considera- tions, and uniformly examine every action and desire, by comparing it with the divine commands. There are others in a kind of equipoise between good and ill ; who are moved on the one part by riches or pleasure, by the grati- fications of passion and the delights of sense ; and, on the N° 70. THE RAMBLER. 327 other, by laws of which they own the obligation, and re- wards of which they believe the reality, and whom a very small addition of weight turns either way. The third class consists of beings immersed in pleasure, or aban- doned to passion, 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 numerous, that it may be considered as comprising the whole body of man- kind. 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 moralists, whose precepts are intended chiefly for those who are endea- vouring to go forward up the steeps of virtue, 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 accus- tomed 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 therefore cast off all care but for his present interest. It seems impossible that convic- tion 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 tranquillity. Yet all these absurdities are every hour to be found ; the wisest and best men deviate from known and acknowledged duties, by inadvertency or surprize ; 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 affairs, or the force of partial influence, has filled his 328 THE RAMBLER. N* 70. mind with the excellence of virtue, and, having never tried his resolution in any encounters with hope or fear, believes it able to stand firm whatever shall oppose it, will be always clamorous 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 without merit ; unworthy of trust or love, of pity or regard ; as an enemy 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 pos- sibility of retaining some virtues, and rejecting others, or of being good or bad to a particular degree. For it is very easy to the solitary reasoner, to prove that the same argu- ments by which the mind is fortified against one crime are of equal force against all, and the consequence 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 of one crime, . no farther evidence is needful of his depravity and cor- ruption. 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 appetite, or given up to the dominion of wickedness. Nothing there- fore is more unjust than to judge of man by too short an acquaintance, and too slight inspection ; for it often hap- pens, 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 yet not extinguished, but may, by the breath of counsel and exhortation, be kindled into flame. To imagine that every one who is not completely good is irrecoverably abandoned, is to suppose that all are ca- pable of the same degree of excellence; it is indeed to THE RAMBLER. 329 N* 70. 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 con- clude, 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 against opposition, or that their desire of admira- tion makes them sacrifice their principles to the poor pleasure of worthless praise, it is certain, whatever be the cause, that female goodness seldom keeps its ground against laughter, flattery, or fashion. For this reason, every one should consider himself as entrusted, not only with his own conduct, but with that of others ; and as accountable, not only for the duties which he neglects, or the crimes that he commits, but for that negligence and irregularity which he may encourage or inculcate. Every man, in whatever station, has, or en- deavours to have, his followers, admirers, and imitators, and has therefore the influence of his example to watch with care ; he ought to avoid not only crimes, but the ap- pearance of crimes, and not only to practise virtue, but to applaud, countenance, 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 aber- rations of that example which they choose for their di- rection. 330 THE RAMBLER. N°7i. N° 71. Tuesday, November 20, 1750. Vivere quod proper o pauper, nec inutilis annis, Da veniarn ; properat vivere nemo satis . — Mart. True, sir, to live I haste, your pardon give, For tell me, who makes haste enough to live ? — 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 present to the attention, and by which the use of every hour is to be adjusted. Yet, if we consider the the conduct of those sententious philosophers, it will often be found, that they repeat these aphorisms, merely be- cause 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 under- stand them. Of this kind is the well-known and well-attested posi- tion, that life is short , which may be heard among mankind by an attentive auditor, many times a day, but which never yet within my reach of observation left any impres- sion upon the mind; and perhaps, if my readers will turn their thoughts back upon their old friends, they will find it difficult 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 cha- racters of men, as they are diversified by the various in- fluence of time, remarks, that the old man is dilator , spe longus, given to procrastination, 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 N° 71. THE RAMBLER. 331 projects which we delay to execute, indulge such expecta- tions 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 groves, and has at last de- termined 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 re- quisites which imagination can suggest are gathered to- gether. Where our design terminates only in our own satisfaction, the mistake 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 in- volved, nothing is more unworthy either of wisdom or be- nevolence, 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 purpose to do an action, sinks into a mournful wish that it had once been done. We are frequently importuned, by the bacchanalian writers, to lay hold on the present hour, to catch the plea- sures within our reach, and remember that futurity is not at our command. To po'5ov a,*(j cafet 0aiov %povov nv 5s nap sX0jj?, ZrjTolv Sugrurui; ov po5cv, aXXa 0arov. Soon fades the rose ; once past the fragrant hour, The loiterer finds a bramble for a flow’r. But surely these exhortations may, with equal propriety THE RAMBLER. N° 71. 332 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 frolick and noisy merriment. 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 charita- ble while God gives the power of bestowing, and con- sidered 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 antiquary of Oxford, that this general forgetfulness of the fragility of life, has remarkably infected the students of monuments and records ; as their employment consists first in collect- ing, and afterwards 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 sup- plies, when they are already overburthened, and at last leave their work unfinished. It is, says he, the business of a good antiquary, as of a good man, to have mortality always before him. Thus, not only in the slumber of sloth, but in the dissi- pation of ill-directed 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 reparation of neglect; others busy themselves in providing that no length of life may want employment ; 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 re- ceived the shot in her flight, from her that is killed upon the bush. Among the many improvements made by the last cen- turies in human knowledge, may be numbered the exact THE RAMBLER. 333 N° 71. calculations of the value of life ; but whatever may be their use in traffick, they seem very little to have advanced morality. They have hitherto been rather applied to the acquisition of money, than of wisdom; the computer refers none of his calculations to his own tenure, but persists, in contempt of probability, to foretel 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, shewn 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 attention, to a future time ; we subject ourselves to need- less dangers from accidents which early diligence 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. 334 THE RAMBLER. N* 72. NT° 72. Saturday, November 24, 1750. Omnis Aristippum decuit status, et color, et res, Tentantem majora,fere presentibus cequum. — Hor. Yet Aristippus ev’ry dress became, In ev’ry 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 instruc- tion, without enquiring 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 qua- lities, 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 bittter 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 shewn yourself not ignorant of the value of those subaltern endowments, yet have hitherto neg- lected to recommend good humour to the world, though a little reflection will shew you that it is the balm of being , y the quality to which all that adorns or elevates mankind must owe its power of pleasing. Without good-humour, learning and bravery can only confer that superiority which swells the heart of the lion in the desert, where he roars without reply, and ravages without resistance. With- out good-humour, virtue may awe by its dignity, and amaze by its brightness; but must always be viewed at THE RAMBLER. N° 72. 335 a distance, and will scarcely gain a friend or attract 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 disposition ; 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 gaiety and unconcern; 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 shew 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 easi- ness and good-humour, as the eye gazes awhile on emi- nences glittering with the sun, but soon turns aching away to verdure and to flowers. Gaiety is to good-humour as animal perfumes to vege- table fragrance ; the one overpowers weak spirits, and the other recreates and revives them. Gaiety seldom fails to give some pain ; the hearers either strain their faculties to accompany 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 princi- pally by not offending. It is well known that the most certain way to give any man pleasure, is to persuade him that you receive plea- sure from him, to encourage him to freedom and confi- dence, 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, in- vitations, and civilities; and without any extraordinary 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 THE RAMBLER. 336 N° 72. such as excite neither jealousy nor fear, and are not con- sidered as candidates for any eminent degree of reputa- tion, 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 glad- ness, and every hand is extended in salutation, yet if you pursue him beyond the first exchange of civilities, you will find 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 contradiction, 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 deserving 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 that encourages us to please ourselves, will not be long without preference in our affection to those whose learning holds us at the dis- tance 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 Falstaff lying on the ground, that he could have better spared a better man. He was well acquainted with the vices and follies of him whom he lamented, but while his conviction compelled him to do justice to superior qualities, his tenderness still broke out at the remembrance of Falstaff, of the cheerful companion, the loud buffoon, with whom N° 72. THE RAMBLER. 337 he had passed his time in all the luxury of idleness, who had gladded him with unenvied 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 shew the value of this quality, than that it recommends those who are destitute of all other excellencies, 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 excellencies of higher reputation and brighter splendour, perhaps imagine that they have some right to gratify themselves at the expence of others, and are to demand compliance, rather than to practise it. It is by some unfortunate mistake that almost all those who have any claim to esteem or love, press their pretensions with too little consideration of others. This mistake, my own interest, 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 usefulness, 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 entitle her to tyranny, and whose wit is only used to justify perverseness. Surely nothing can be more unreasonable than to lose the will to please, when we are conscious of the power, or show more cruelty than to choose any kind of influence before that of kindness. He that regards the welfare of others, should make his virtue approachable, that it may be loved and copied ; and he that considers the wants which every man feels, or will feel, of external assistance, must rather wish to be surrounded by those that love him, than by those that admire his excellencies, or solicit his favours ; for admiration ceases with novelty, and interest gains i t§ VOL. i. z 338 THE RAMBLER. N° 73. end and retires. A man whose great qualities want the ornament of superficial attractions, is like a naked moun- tain with mines of gold, which will be frequented only till the treasure is exhausted. I am, &c. Philomides. N° 73. Tuesday, November 27, 1750. Stulte, quid heu! voiisfrustra puerilibus optas, Qucenon ulla tulit, fertve,feretve dies . — Ovid. Why thinks the fool with childish hope to see What neither is, nor was, nor e’er shall be ? — Elphinston. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, If you feel any of that compassion which you recom- mend to others, you will not disregard a case which I have reason from observation to believe very common, and which I know by experience 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 contagion of im- patience, 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, however elegant, or however just. I was born in a remote county, of a family that boasts alliances with the greatest names in the English history, and extends its claims of affinity to the Tudors and Plantage- nets. My ancestors, by little and little, wasted their patri- mony, 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 for- tunes allotted them by my grandfather, who is suspected to have made his will when he was incapable of adjusting properly the claims of his children, and who, perhaps 339 N° 73. THE RAMBLER. without design, enriched his daughters by beggaring his son. My aunts being, at the death of their father, neither young nor beautiful, nor very eminent for softness of be- haviour, were suffered to live unsolicited; and by accumu- lating the interest of their portions grew every day richer and prouder. My father pleased himself with foreseeing 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 lu- crative employment ; whenever therefore I discovered any inclination 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 I might be re- proached when I should come to my aunts’ estate. In all the perplexities or vexations which want of money brought upon us, it was our constant practice to have re- course 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 purse-proud upstart was deficient in respect, ven- geance was referred to the time in which our estate was to be repaired. We registered every act of civility and rudeness, enquired the number of dishes at every feast, and minuted the furniture of every house, that we might, when the hour of affluence should come, be able to eclipse all their splendour, and surpass all their magnificence. Upon plans of elegance and schemes of pleasure the day rose and set, and the year went round unregarded, while we were busied in laying out plantations on ground not yet our own, and deliberating whether the manor- house should be rebuilt or repaired. This was the amuse- ment of our leisure, and the solace of our exigencies ; we met together only to contrive how our approaching fortune should be enjoyed ; for in this our conversation always ended, on whatever subject it began. We had none of the collateral interests which diversify the life of others with joys and hopes, but had turned our whole attention on one event, which we could neither has ten nor retard, z 2 340 THE RAMBLER. N° 73. 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 awhile soothed our imagina- tion, but afterwards fired our wishes, and exasperated our necessities, and my father could not always restrain him- self from exclaiming, 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 his 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 civilities and compliments which sickness requires with the utmost punctuality. I dreamed every night of escutcheons and white gloves, and enquired every morning at an early hour, whether there was 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 threatened to be married, and every thing was disappointment and discon- tent. 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 stipulations, articles, and settlements, ran away with the daughter of his father’s groom ; and my aunt, upon this conviction of the perfidy of man, resolved never to listen more to amorous addresses. N° 73. THE RAMBLER. 341 Ten years longer I dragged the shackles of expectation* 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 larger fortune, though not in my power, was certain and unalien- able ; nor was there now any danger, that I might at last be frustrated of my hopes by a fret of dotage, the flatteries of a chambermaid, the whispers of a tale-bearer, or the officiousness of a nurse. But my wealth was yet in rever- sion; my aunt was to be buried before I could emerge to grandeur and pleasure; and there were yet, according to my father’s observation, nine lives between me and happi- ness. I however lived on, without any clamours of discontent, and comforted myself with considering, that all are mortal, and they who are continually 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 preservation 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 eagerness, and sometimes received passionate injunctions to be kind to her maid, ajid directions how the last offices should be performed; but if before 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 342 THE RAMBLER. N° 73, slipping through the gripe of death ; and after having tor- tured me three months at each time with violent alterna- tions 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 practice 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 feebly, and that she could never climb May-hill ; or, at least, that the autumn would carry her off. Thus was I flattered in the winter with the piercing 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 fourteenth of last June, aged ninety-three years, five months, and six days. For two months after her death I was rich, and was pleased with that obsequiousness and reverence which wealth instantaneously procures. But this joy is now past, and I have returned 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 ex- pected enjoyment, I deliver up myself to the tyranny of every desire which fancy suggests, and long for a thousand things which I 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 execute; I had sup- posed events which do not come to pass ; and the rest of my life must pass in craving 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 supplied. I am, &c. Cu PIDUSd N° 74. THE RAMBLER. 343 N° 74. Saturday, December 1, 1750. Risatur de land scepe caprina. — Hor. For nought tormented, she for nought torments. — Elphinston. Men seldom give pleasure, where they are not pleased themselves ; it is necessary, therefore, to cultivate an habi- tual alacrity and cheerfulness, that in whatever state we may be placed by Providence, 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 imagined, that he who grants favours, may spare any attention to his beha- viour, 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 officiousness and liberality may be so adulterated, as to lose the greater part of their effect; that compliance may provoke, relief may harass, and liberality distress. No disease of the mind can more fatally disable 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 bloodshed, it wears out happiness by slow corrosion, and small injuries incessantly repeated. It may be consi- dered as the canker of life, that destroys its vigour, and checks its improvement, that creeps on with hourly de- predations, 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 depravity in the highest degree disgusting and offensive, because no rectitude of intention, nor softness of address, can ensure a moment’s exemption from affront and indignity. While we are courting the favour of a peevish man, and exerting our- selves in the most diligent civility, an unlucky syllable displeases, an unheeded circumstance ruffles and exaspe- rates ; and in the moment when we congratulate ourselves 344 THE RAMBLER. N° 74, upon having- gained a friend, our endeavours are frus- trated at once, and all our assiduity forgotten, in the casual tumult of some trifling irritation. This troublesome impatience is sometimes nothing more than the symptom of some deeper malady. He that is angry without daring to confess his resentment, or sorrow- ful without the liberty of telling his grief, is too frequently inclined 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 tedious course of sickness frequently pro- duces such an alarming apprehension of the least increase of uneasiness, as keeps the soul perpetually on the watch, such a restless and incessant solicitude, 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 excited. Nearly approaching to this weakness, is the captious- ness of old age. When the strength is crushed, the senses 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, unkindness, 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 re- solve to charge them ; and too often drive mankind away at the time we have the greatest need of tenderness and assistance. But though peevishness may sometimes claim our corm passion, as the consequence N or concomitant of misery, it is very often found, where nothing can justify or excuse its admission. It is frequently one of the attendants on the prosperous, and is employed by insolence in exacting homage, or by tyranny in harassing subjection. It is the offspring of idleness or pride ; of idleness anxious for trifles ; or pride unwilling to endure the least obstruction of her wishes. Those who have long lived in solitude THE RAMBLER. 345 N° 74. indeed naturally contract this unsocial quality, because, having long had only themselves to please, they do not readily depart from their own inclinations ; their singula- rities therefore are only blameable, when they have im- prudently or morosely withdrawn themselves from the world : but there are others, who have, without any ne- cessity, nursed up this habit in their minds, by making implicit submissiveness the condition of their favour, and suffering none to approach them, but those who never speak but to applaud, or move but to obey. He that gives himself up to his own fancy, and con- verses with none but such as he hires to lull him on the down of absolute authority, to sooth him with obsequious- ness, and regale him wfith flattery, soon grows too slothful for the labour of contest, too tender for the asperity of contradiction, and too delicate for the coarseness of truth; a little opposition offends, a little restraint enrages, 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 rolling at his beck, and all mankind employed to accommodate and delight him. Tetrica had a large fortune bequeathed to her by an aunt, which made her very early independent, and placed her in a state of superiority to all about her. Having no superfluity of understanding, she was soon intoxicated by the flatteries of her maid, who informed her that ladies, such as she, had nothing to do but take pleasure their own way ; that she wanted nothing from others, and had there- fore no reason to value their opinion; that money was every thing ; and that they who thought themselves ill- treated, should look for better usage among their equals. Warm with these generous sentiments, Tetrica came forth into the world, in which she endeavoured to force respect by haughtiness of mien and vehemence of lan- guage : but having neither birth, beauty, nor w T it, in any uncommon degree, she suffered such mortifications from those who thought themselves at liberty to return her in- 346 THE RAMBLER. N° 74. suits, 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 inferiours with so much diligence, that she has formed a principle of disapprobation, and finds in every place something to grate her mind, and disturb her quiet. If she takes the air, she is olfended 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 cannot see without aversion. Her tea is never of the right sort; the figures on the China give her dis- gust. 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 ruined by a numerous retinue ; if few, she relates the story of a miser that made his company wait on them- selves. 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 recompence the vexation ; they at last leave the clothes at her house, and refuse to serve her. Her maid, the only being who 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 attention to mi- nute exactness, or a too rigorous habit of examining every thincr by the standard of perfection, vitiates the temper, N° 75. THE RAMBLER. 347 rather than improves the understanding, and teaches the mind to discern faults with unhappy penetration. It is incident likewise to men of vigorous imagination to please themselves too much with futurities, and to fret because those expectations are disappointed, which should never have have been formed. Knowledge 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 evidence ; for though peevish- ness may sometimes justly boast its descent from learning or from wit, it is much oftener of a base extraction, the child of vanity and nursling of ignorance. N° 75. Tuesday, December 4, 1750. Diligitur nemo, nisi cui Fortuna secunda est, Qua, simul intonuit, proximo quceque fugat . — Ovid. 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 cultivate 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 in- formation, and whose opinions are the result, not of soli- tary conjectures, but of practice and experience. I was born 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, * Anna Williams, for an account of whom see the Life of Dr. Johnson. THE RAMBLER. N° 75. 348 and the conversation of that species of men whom the ladies generally mention with terrour and aversion 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 communi- cate knowledge, and more inclined to degrade their own character by cowardly submission, than to overbear or op- press us with their learning or their wit. From these men, however, if they are by kind treat- ment encouraged 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 acquaintance with the bookish part of the world I derived many principles of judgment and maxims 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 remembered by those who desired the second de- gree of fame, my mien was studied, my dress was imi- tated, my letters were handed from one family to another, and read by those who copied them as sent to themselves ; my visits were solicited as honours, and multitudes boast- ed of an intimacy with Melissa, who had only seen me by accident, and whose familiarity had never proceeded beyond the exchange of a compliment, or return of a courtesy. I shall make no scruple of confessing that I was pleased with this universal veneration, because I always consi- dered it as paid to my intrinsick qualities and inseparable merit, and very easily persuaded myself that fortune had no part in my superiority. When I looked upon my glass, I saw T youth and beauty, with health that might give me reason to hope their continuance; when I ex- amined my mind, I found some strength of judgment, and fertility of fancy; and was told that every action was grace, and that every accent was persuasion. In this manner my life passed like a continual triumph, amidst acclamations, and envy, and courtship, and ca- N° 75. THE RAMBLER. 349 resses : to please Melissa was the general ambition, and every stratagem of artful flattery was practised upon me. To be flattered 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 shew that our favour is valued, since it is purchased by the meanness of falsehood. But, perhaps, the flatterer is not often de- tected, for an honest mind is not apt to suspect, and no one exerts the power of discernment with much vigour when self-love favours the deceit. The number of adorers, and the perpetual distraction of my thoughts by new schemes of pleasure, prevented me from listening to any of those who crowd in multi- tudes 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 improving, the failure of a fund, in which my money was placed, re- duced me to a frugal competency, which allowed little beyond neatness and independence. I bore the diminution of my riches without &ny 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 for- tune, it did not suddenly enter my imagination, that Me- lissa could sink beneath her established rank, while her form and her mind continued the same ; that she could eease 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 appearance, with all the credit of my original fortune ; but I was not so far sunk in my own esteem, 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 unsuitable to my new con- dition, and appeared among those with whom I used to converse with less glitter, but with equal spirit. 350 THE RAMBLER. N° 75. I found myself received at every visit, with sorrow be- yond 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 compare my present and former con- dition, to tell me how much it must trouble me to want the splendour which I became so well, to look at pleasures which I had formerly enjoyed, and to sink to a level with those by whom I had been considered as moving in a higher sphere, and who had hitherto approached me with reverence and submission, which I was now no longer to expect. Observations like these, are commonly nothing better than covert insults, which serve to give vent to the flatu- lence 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 esta- blishment of this rule, that no one ought to remind another of misfortunes of which the sufferer 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 unseasonable com- passion. My endless train of lovers immediately withdrew, with- out raising any emotions. The greater part had indeed always professed to court, as it is termed, upon the square, had enquired my fortune, and offered settlements ; these had undoubtedly 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 THE RAMBLER. 351 N° 75. 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 discovered 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 forfeited by its loss. She that has once demanded a settlement has allowed the importance of fortune : and when she cannot shew pecuniary merit, why should she think her cheapener obliged to purchase ? My lovers were not all contented with silent desertion. Some of them revenged the neglect which they had for- merly 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 suspence, who could have employed it to better purpose, and had therefore no ene- mies but coxcombs, whose resentment and respect were equally below my consideration. The only pain which I have felt from degradation, is the loss of that influence which I had always exerted on the side of virtue, in the defence 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 struggle to be first in expressing their conviction. The female disputants have wholly thrown off my au- thority ; 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 in- sulted with contradiction by cowards, who could never find till lately that Melissa was liable to errour. There are two persons only whom I cannot charge with having changed their conduct with my change of 352 THE RAMBLER. N°76. fortune. One is an old curate that has passed his life in the duties of his profession, with great reputation for his knowledge and piety; the other is a lieutenant of dra- goons. The parson made no difficulty in the height of 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 freedom should be thought rudeness. The soldier never paid me any particular ad- dresses, but very rigidly observed all the rules of polite- ness, 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 world. It is impossible for those that have only known affluence 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 give hopes or fears. I am, &c. Melissa. N° 76. Saturday, December 8, 1750. • Silvis ubi passim Palantes error certo de tramite pellit. Ille sinistrorsum, hie dextrorsum abit ; unus utrique Error, sed variis illudit partibus. — Hor. While mazy errour 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 character with others, to find reasons for esteeming himself, and there- fore censure, contempt, or conviction of crimes, seldom deprive him of his own favour. Those, indeed, who can see only external facts, may look upon him with abhor- rence; but when he calls himself to his own tribunal, he finds every fault, if not absolutely effaced, yet so much pal- THE RAMBLER. N° 76. 353 Hated 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 character, he discovers so many latent excellencies, so many virtues that want but an opportunity to exert them- selves in act, and so many kind wishes for universal hap- piness, 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 abstracted ideas of virtue are proposed to the mind, and no particular pas- sion turns us aside from rectitude ; and so willing is every man to flatter himself, that the difference between ap- proving 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 rival steals away his heart. There are, however, great numbers who have little re- course 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 numbers 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 exception, that none are so industrious to detect wickedness, or so ready to impute it, as they whose crimes are apparent and con- fessed. 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, vol. i. 2 a 354 THE RAMBLER. N° 76. and therefore willingly pull down from their elevations those with whom they cannot rise to an equality. No man yet was ever wicked without secret discontent, and ac- cording to the different degrees of remaining virtue, or unextinguished reason, he either endeavours to reform himself, or corrupt others; either to regain the station which he has quitted, or prevail 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 con- tribute nothing to resistance or escape; some comfort of the same kind seems to incite wickedness to seek asso- ciates, though indeed another reason may be given, for as guilt is propagated the power of reproach is diminished, 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 of the same, but of different crimes. He that cannot justify himself by his resemblance to others, is ready to try some other expe- dient, and to inquire what will rise to his advantage from opposition and dissimilitude. He easily finds some faults in every human being, which he weighs against his own, and easily makes them preponderate 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 him- self at ease, not because he can refute the charges ad- vanced against him, but because he can censure his ac- cusers 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 specious 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. THE RAMBLER. 355 N° 76. Every recession from temerity is an approach towards 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 understand- ings, by turning the attention wholly from himself, and keeping it fixed invariably on the opposite fault; and by shewing 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 address for such artful subterfuges; men often extenuate their own guilt, only by vague and general charges upon others, or endea- vour to gain rest to themselves, by pointing some other prey to the pursuit of censure. Every whisper of infamy is industriously circulated, 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 publick should be em- ployed on any rather than on themselves. All these artifices, and a thousand others equally vain and equally despicable, are incited by that conviction of the deformity of wickedness, from which none can set himself free, and by an absurd 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 understand- ings 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 themselves; for when no particular circumstances make them dependant 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 conscience, which they would engage on their side at any price but the la- bours of duty, and the sorrows of repentance. For this purpose every seduce frient and fallacy is sought, the hopes 2 a 2 356 THE RAMBLER. N* 77. 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 reason, and repressing the sense of the Divine disapprobation. N° 77. Tuesday, December 11, 1750. Os dignum aterno nitidum quod fulgeat auro, Si mallet laudare Deum, cui sordida monstra PrcEtulit, et liquidam temeravit crimine vocem . — Prudent. A golden statue such a wit might claim, Had God and virtue rais’d the noble flame ; But ah ! how lewd a subject has he sung, What vile obscenity profanes his tongue. — F. Lewis. Am ong those, whose hopes of distinction, or riches, arise from an opinion of their intellectual attainments, it has been, from age to age, an established custom to complain of the ingratitude of mankind to their instructors, and the discouragement 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 affected by those evils which themselves feel, or which appear before their own eyes ; and as there has never been a time of such general feli- city, but that many have failed to obtain the rewards to which they had, in their own judgment, a just claim, some offended writer has always declaimed, in the rage of dis- appointment, against his age or nation; nor is there one who has not fallen upon times more unfavourable to learn- ing than any former century, or who does not wish, that he had been reserved in the insensibility of non-existence to some happier hour, when literary merit shall no longer be despised, and the gifts and caresses of mankind shall recompence the toils of study, and add lustre to the charms of wit. Many of these clamours are undoubtedly to be con- sidered only as the bursts of pride never to be satisfied, THE RAMBLER. 357 N° 77. as the prattle of affectation mimicking 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 mortified with contempt, or harassed with perse- cution. It is not necessary, however, to join immediately in the outcry, or to condemn mankind as pleased with ignorance, or always envious of superiour 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 sufferings, we may conclude that they have not forgotten to deck their cause with the brightest ornaments, and strongest colours. The logician collected all his subtilties when they were to be employed in his own defence ; and the master of rhetorick exerted against his adversary all the arts by which hatred is embittered, and indignation in- flamed. To believe no man in his own cause, is the standing and perpetual rule of distributive justice. Since, there- fore, in the controversy between the learned and their enemies, we have only the pleas of one party, of the party more able to delude our understandings, and engage our passions, we must determine our opinion by facts uncon- tested, and evidences on each side allowed to be genuine. By this procedure, I know not whether the students will find their cause promoted, or the compassion which they expect much increased. Let their conduct be im- partially surveyed ; let them be allowed no longer to direct attention at their pleasure, by expatiating on their own deserts; let neither the dignity of knowledge overawe the judgment, nor the graces of elegance seduce it. It will then, perhaps, be found, that they were not able to pro- THE RAMBLER. 35B N 6 77. duce claims to kinder treatment, but provoked the calami- ties which they suffered, and seldom wanted friends, but when they wanted virtue. That few men, celebrated for theoretick wisdom, live with conformity to their precepts, must be readily con- fessed 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 conviction the necessity of performing. Yet since no man has power of acting equal to that of thinking, I know not whether the speculatist may not sometimes incur censures too severe, and by those who form ideas of his life from their knowledge of his books, be con- sidered as worse than others, only because he was ex- pected to be better. He, by whose writings the heart is rectified, the appe- tites counteracted, and the passions repressed, may be considered as not unprofitable to the great republick of humanity, even though his behaviour should not always exemplify his rules. His instructions may diffuse their influence to regions, in which it will not be inquired, whether the author be albas an ater , good or bad ; to times, when all his faults and all his follies shall be lost in for- getfulness, among things of no concern or importance to the world; and he may kindle in thousands and ten thou- sands that flame which burnt but dimly in himself, through the fumes of passion, or the damps of cowardice. The Vicious moralist may be considered as a taper, by which we are lighted through the labyrinth of complicated pas- sions : 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 familiarly 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 N° 77. THE RAMBLER. 359 practice than enlightened by his ideas. Admiration be- gins 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 alledged that they have endeavoured to increase the wisdom or virtue of their readers. They have been at once profligate in their lives, and licentious in their compositions; have not only forsaken the paths of virtue, but attempted to lure others after them. They have smoothed the road of perdition, covered 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 wri- ters, whose powers and acquisitions place them high in the rank of literature, to set fashion on the side of wicked- ness; to recommend debauchery and lewdness, by asso- ciating them with qualities most likely to dazzle the dis- cernment, and attract the affections ; and to shew innocence and goodness with such attendant weaknesses as necessa- rily expose them to contempt 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 pro- mises 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 protectors hourly drop away, and wondered and stormed to find themselves abandoned. Whether their companions persisted in wickedness, or re- turned to virtue, they were left equally without assistance ; for debauchery is selfish and negligent, and from virtue the virtuous only can expect regard. It is said by Florus of Catiline, who died in the midst of slaughtered enemies, that his death had been illustrious, had it been suffered for his country. Of the wits who have languished away life under the pressures of poverty, 360 THE RAMBLER. N° 77. or in the restlessness of suspence, caressed and rejected, flattered and despised, as they were of more or less use to those who stiled themselves their patrons, it might be observed, that their miseries would enforce 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 of desire, a good man may sometimes be surprized before reflection can come to his rescue; when the appetites have strengthened their influence by habit, they are not easily resisted or suppressed ; but for the frigid villainy of studious lewdness, 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 debauchery ; who tortures his fancy, and ransacks his memory, only that he may leave the w^rld 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 excuses, is below the dignity of reason to examine. If, having extinguished in themselves the distinction 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 sacrificed their own convictions to vanity or interest, they were to be ab- horred with more acrimony than he that murders for pay ; since they committed greater crimes without greater temptations. Of him , to whom much is given , much shall be required . Those, whom God has favoured with superiour faculties, and made eminent for quickness of intuition, and accuracy of distinctions, will certainly be regarded as culpable in THE RAMBLER. 361 N° 78. his eye, for defects and deviations which, in souls less enlightened, may be guiltless. But, surely, none can think without horrour on that man's condition, 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 embellish folly, and shed lustre upon crimes. N° 78. Saturday, December 15, 1750. M on tola fatetur Qiiantula tint haminum cerpiueula. — Jut. Death only this mysterious truth unfolds. The mighty scral how small a body holds. — D eydex. Corporal sensation is known to depend so much upon novelty, that custom takes away from many things their power of giving pleasure or pain. Thus a new dress be- comes 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 convinced 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 op- pressed, as he will find himself, with the ancient panoply. Yet the heroes that overran regions, and stormed towns in iron accoutrements, he knows not to have been bigger, o O 7 and has no reason to imagine them stronger, than the pre- sent 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 with ease, vigour, and agility. Yet it seems to be the condition of our present state, that pain should be more fixed and permanent than plea- sure. Uneasiness gives way bv slow degrees, and is loner before it quits its possession of the sensory ; but all our gratifications are volatile, vagrant, and easily dissipated. 362 THE RAMBLER. N° 78. The fragrance of the jessamine bower is lost after the enjoy- ment of a few moments, and the Indian wanders among his native spices without any sense of their exhalations. It is, indeed, not necessary to shew by many instances what all mankind confess, by an incessant call for variety, and restless pursuit of enjoyments, which they value only because unpossessed. Something similar, or analogous, may be observed in effects produced immediately upon the mind; nothing can strongly strike or affect us, but what is rare or sudden. The most important 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 thought, is soon thrust aside into some remote repository of the mind, and lies among other lumber of the memory, 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 invigorate his senses, prolong the agency of any impulse, 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 faci- litate and promote their recurrence, 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 frequency; 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 man- kind, as seized with horrour and astonishment at the sight of death exhibited to him on the mount of vision. For N° 78. THE RAMBLER. 363 surely, nothing can so much disturb the passions, or per- plex the intellects of man, as the disruption of his union with visible nature ; a separation from all that has hitherto 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 com- munication with the supreme Being, and, what is above all distressful and alarming, the final sentence, and unal- terable allotment. Yet we to whom the shortness of life has given frequent occasions of contemplating mortality, can, without emo- tion, 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 per- petual 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 remem- brance 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 condition, 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 1 though we cannot appoint the time, we may sectd consequence. Every instance of death may justly awaken ourfi and quicken our vigilance ; but its frequency so weakens its effect, that we are seldom alarmed unles: close connexion is broken, some scheme frustrated, oi hope defeated. Many therefore seem to pass on from to decrepitude without any reflection on the end ol mat 364 THE RAMBLER. N° 78. 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 bestowing 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 mortified 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 distin- guished by extraordinary performances. It is not possible to be regarded with tenderness except by a few. That merit which gives greatness and renown, diffuses its influ- ence 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 philo- sopher, whom their tempers or their fortunes have hindered from intimate relations, die, without any other effect than that of adding a new topic to the conversation of the day. They impress none with any fresh conviction of the fragi- lity of our nature, because none had any particular interest in their lives, or was united to them by a reciprocation of benefits and endearments. 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 of a stone ; because by those excellencies 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 com- mon 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 himself N° 78. THE RAMBLER. 365 is ready to fall; not that he is more willing to die than formerly, but that he is more familiar 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 consi- dered as a summons to prepare for that state, into which it shews us that we must some time enter ; and the sum- mons is more loud and piercing, as the event of which it warns us is at less distance. To neglect at any time pre- paration 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 Quevedo, which stigmatizes those as fools who complain that they failed of happiness by sudden death. “ How,” says he, “ can death be sudden to a being who always knew that he must die, and that the time of his death was uncertain?” Since business and gaiety are always drawing our atten- tion away from a future state, some admonition is frequently necessary to recal it to our minds, and what can more pro- perly renew the impression than the examples of mor- tality which every day supplies? The great incentive to virtue is the reflection that we must die ; it will therefore be useful to accustom ourselves, whenever we see a funeral, to consider how soon we may be added to the number of those whose probation is past, and whose happiness or misery shall endure for ever. 36G THE RAMBLER. N° 79. N° 79. Tuesday, December 18, 1750. Tam sape nostrum decipi Fabidlum, quid Miraris, Aide ? Semper bonus homo tiro est . — Mart. You wonder I’ve so little wit. Friend John, so often to be bit, — r None better guard against a cheat Than be 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 stand- ing maxim, that he who believes not another on his oath , knows 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 wickedness of mankind, and been taught to avoid fraud by having often suffered or seen treachery, or he must derive his judgment from the consciouness 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 ob- serving the arts by which negligence is surprized, timidity overborne, and credulity amused, requires either great latitude of converse and long acquaintance with business, or uncommon activity of vigilance, and acuteness of pene- tration. When, therefore, a young man, not distinguished by vigour of intellect, comes into the world full of scruples and diffidence ; makes a bargain with many provisional limitations ; hesitates in his answer to a common question, lest more should be intended than he can immediately discover ; has a long reach in detecting the projects of his acquaintance ; considers every caress as an act of hy- pocrisy, and feels neither gratitude nor affection from the THE RAMBLER. 367 N° 79. 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 generosity or benevolence ; as a villain early completed beyond the need of common op- portunities and gradual temptations. Upon men of this class instruction and admonition are generally thrown away, because they consider artifice and deceit as proofs of understanding ; 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 publick transactions, and of art in private affairs ; they have been considered as the effects of great qualities, and as unattainable 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 falsehood 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 sooth 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, that he who finds in himself no tendency to use them, cannot easily believe that they are considered by others with less de- testation ; 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 THE RAMBLER. 368 N° 79. themselves, who was hindered from obviating their stra- tagems, not by folly, but by innocence. Suspicion is, indeed, a temper so uneasy and restless, that it is very justly appointed the concomitant 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 vigilan'ce and circumspection, but considers himself as surrounded by secret foes, and fears to entrust his children, or his friend, with the secret that throbs in his breast, and the anxieties that break into his face. To avoid, at this expence, those evils to which easiness and friendship might have exposed him, is surely to buy safety at too dear a rate, and, in the language of the Roman satirist, to save life by losing all for which a wise man would live.* When in the diet of the German empire, as Camerarius relates, the princes were once displaying their felicity, and each boasting the advantages of his own dominions, one who possessed a country not remarkable for the grandeur of 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 commendation which would have been ill exchanged for the boast of palaces, pastures, or streams. Suspicion is not less an enemy to virtue than to hap- piness ; he that is already corrupt is naturally suspicious, and he that becomes suspicious will quickly be corrupt. It is too common for us to learn the frauds by which our- selves have suffered ; men who are once persuaded that deceit will be employed against them, sometimes think the same arts justified by the necessity of defence. Even they whose virtue is too well established to give way to example, or be shaken by sophistry, must yet feel their love of mankind diminished with their esteem, and grow * Propter vitam vivendi perdere causas. — Juv. THE RAMBLER. N° 79. 369 less zealous 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 younger years ; and they that happen to petition the old for compassion or assistance, are doomed to languish 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 without censure those stra- tagems of war by which the virtues of an enemy are en- gaged to his destruction. A ship comes before a port, weather-beaten and shattered, and 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 recorded to encourage imitation. But surely war has its laws, and ought to be conducted with some regard to the universal interest 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 kindness, cut off from every man all hopes of assistance from another, and fill the world with perpetual suspicion and implacable malevolence. Whatever is thus gained ought to be restored, and those who have conquered by such treachery may be justly denied the protection of their native country. Whoever commits a fraud is guilty not only of the par- vol. i. 2 b 370 THE RAMBLER. N° 80. ticular injury to him whom he deceives, but of the dimi- nution of that confidence which constitutes not only the ease but the existence of society. He that suffers by im- posture 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 tenderness by suspicion ; it is better to suffer wrong than to do it, and happier to be sometimes cheated than not to trust. N° 80. Saturday, December 22, 1750. Yides ut alt& stet nive candidum Soracte, vec jam sastineant onus Silva laborantes Hon. Behold yon mountain s hoary height Made higher with new mounts of snow; Again behold the winter's weight Oppress the lab’ring woods below. — Dbyden. As Providence has made the human soul an active being, always impatient for novelty, and struggling for something yet unenjoyed with unwearied progression, the world seems to have been eminently adapted to this dis- position of the mind ; it is formed to raise expectations by constant vicissitudes, and to obviate satiety by per- petual change. Wherever we turn our eyes, we find something to revive our curiosity, and engage our attention. 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 advance. After a few hours, we see the shades lengthen, and the light decline, till the sky is resigned to a multitude of shining orbs different from each other in magnitude and splendour. The earth varies its ap- pearance as we move upon it ; the woods offer their shades, and the fields their harvests ; the hill flatters with an extensive view, and the valley invites with shelter, fragrance, and flowers. The poets have numbered among the felicities of the THE RAMBLER. 371 N° 80. 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 happiness they have made suffi- cient provision for that insatiable demand of new gratifi- cations, which seems particularly to characterize the na- ture of man. Our sense of delight is in a great measure comparative, and arises at once from the sensations which we feel, and those which we remember. Thus ease after torment is pleasure for a time, and we are very agreeably recreated, when the body, chilled with the weather, is gradually recovering its natural tepidity ; but the joy ceases when we have forgot the cold : we must fall below 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 descrip- tion of regions in which no wind is heard but the gentle zephyr, and no scenes are displayed but valleys enamelled with unfading flowers, and woods waving their perennial verdure, we should soon grow weary of uniformity, find our thoughts languish for want of other subjects, call on heaven for our wonted round of seasons, and think our- selves liberally recompenced for the inconveniences of summer and winter, by new perceptions of the calmness and mildness of the intermediate variations. Every season has its particular power of striking the mind. The nakedness and asperity of the wintry world always fill the beholder with pensive and profound astonishment; as the variety of the scene is lessened, its grandeur is increased ; and 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 pleasures that are then in their first bloom and fragrance, is guilty of sullen- ness against nature . If we allot different duties to di ferent seasons, he may be charged with equal disobedience to the voice of nature, who looks on the bleak hills and 2 b 2 372 THE RAMBLER. N° 80. leafless woods, without seriousness and awe. Spring is the season of gaiety, and winter of terrour ; in spring the heart of tranquillity dances to the melody of the groves, and the eye of benevolence sparkles at the sight of happi- ness and plenty: in the winter, compassion melts at uni- versal calamity, and the tear of softness starts at the wail- ings 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 sym- pathy and tenderness, which, in a world of so much misery, is necessary to the ready discharge of our most important duties. The winter, therefore, is generally celebrated as the proper season for domestick merriment and gaiety. 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 smoaking dinner. Winter brings natural inducements to jollity and con- versation. Differences, we know, are never so effectually laid asleep, as by some common calamity: an enemy unites all to whom he threatens dano-er. The rigour of winter brings generally to the same fire-side, those, who, by the opposition of inclinations, or difference of employ- ment, 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 compliances, and often wish for the continuance of the social season, with all its bleakness and all its se- verities. To the men of study and imagination the winter is generally the chief time of labour. Gloom and silence produce composure of mind, and concentration of ideas; and the privation of external pleasure naturally causes an effort to find entertainment within. This is the time in THE RAMBLER. N° 80. 378 which those whom literature enables to find amusements for themselves, have more than common convictions of their own happiness. When they are condemned by the elements to retirement, and debarred from most of the diversions which are called in to assist the flight of time, they can find new subjects of inquiry, and preserve them- selves from that Weariness which hangs always flagging upon the vacant mind. It cannot indeed be expected of all to be poets and phi- losophers; it is necessary that the greater part of man- kind should be employed in the minute business of com- mon life ; minute, indeed, not if we consider its influence upon our happiness, but if we respect the abilities requi- site 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 willingly 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 com- mon games, which not only weary the mind without im- proving it, but strengthen the passions of envy and ava- rice, and often lead to fraud and to profusion, to corrup- tion 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 of our ex- istence. And though every moment cannot be laid out on the formal and regular improvement 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 con- versation, without being able, when we rise from it, to please ourselves with having given or received some advantages ; but a man may shuffle cards, or rattle dice, from noon to midnight, without tracing any new idea in his mind, or being able to recollect the day by any other THE RAMBLER. 374 N° 81. token than his gain or loss, and a confused remembrance of agitated passions, and clamorous altercations. However, as experience is of more weight than pre- cept, 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. N°81. Tuesday, December 25, 1750. Discite Jnstitiam moniti Virg. Hear, and be just. Among questions which have been discussed, without any approach to decision, may be numbered the precedency or superiour 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 sometimes withheld from the practice of their favourite duty, by zeal for its advancement, and diligence in its celebration. The intricacy of this dispute may be alledged as a proof of that tenderness for mankind which Providence has, I think, universally displayed, by making attainments easy in proportion as they are necessary. That all the duties of morality ought to be practised, is without difficulty discoverable, because ignorance or uncertainty would im- mediately involve the world in confusion and distress; but which duty ought to be most esteemed, we may con- tinue to debate without inconvenience, so all be diligently performed as there is opportunity or need : for upon prac- tice, not upon opinion, depends the happiness of man- kind ; and controversies, merely speculative, are of small importance in themselves, however they may have some- times heated a disputant, or provoked a faction. N°81. THE RAMBLER. 375 Of the Divine Author of our religion it is impossible to peruse the evangelical histories, without observing how little he favoured the vanity of inquisitiveness ; how much more rarely he condescended to satisfy curiosity, than to re- lieve distress; and how much he desired that his followers 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, with- out ostentation, without art, at once irrefragable and plain, such as well-meaning simplicity may readily con- ceive, 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 transac- tions with others, is remarkably 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 immediately 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 al- ways be observed without any other qualifications than honesty of intention, and purity of will. Over this law, indeed, some sons of sophistry have been subtle enough to throw mists, which have darkened their own eyes. To perplex this universal principle, they have enquired whether a man, conscious to himself of unrea- sonable 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 expectations in others which we condemn in ourselves, 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 pro- duced as requiring some skill in the direction 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 376 THE RAMBLER. N° 81. which he now denies. The difficulty of this sophism will vanish, if we remember that the parties are, in reality, on one side the criminal, and on the other the community, of which the magistrate is only the minister, and by which he is intrusted with the publick safety. The magistrate, therefore, in pardoning a man unworthy of pardon, 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 wffiich regard the great republick of mankind, and cannot justify such forbearance as may promote wickedness, and lessen the general Confidence and security in which all have an equal interest, and which all are therefore bound to maintain. For this reason the state has not a right to erect a general sanctuary for fugi- tives, 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 infraction of the universal league of social beings, incite, by prospects of impunity and safety, those practices in another dominion, which they would them- selves punish in their own. One occasion of uncertainty and hesitation, in those by whom this great rule has been commented and dilated, is the confusion of what the exacter casuists are careful to distinguish, debts of justice, and debts of charity. The im- mediate and primary intention of this precept, is to esta- blish a rule of justice ; and I know not whether invention, or sophistry, can start a single difficulty to retard its ap- plication, when it is thus expressed and explained, let every yuan allow the claim of right in another , which he should think himself entitled to make in the like circum- stances . The discharge of the debts of charity , or duties which we owe to others, not merely as required by justice, but as dictated by benevolence, admits in its own nature greater complication of circumstances, and greater latitude of THE RAMBLER. 377 N° 81. choice. Justice is indispensably and universally neces- sary, and what is necessary must always be limited, uni- form, 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, allow in the distribution of kindness something to our af- fections, and change the measure of our liberality, ac- cording to our opinions and prospects, our hopes and fears. This rule therefore is not equally determinate and absolute, with respect to offices of kindness, and acts of liberality, because liberality and kindness, absolutely determined, would lose their nature; for how could we be called tender, or charitable, for giving that which we are posi- tively forbidden to withhold? Yet, even in adjusting the extent of our beneficence, no other measure can be taken than this precept affords us, for we can only know what others suffer for want, by con- sidering how we should be affected in the same state ; nor can we proportion our 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 interest inclines one to large expectations, and the other to sparing distributions. Perhaps the in- firmity of human nature will scarcely suffer a man groan- ing 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 impossible 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 determine against their own in- clinations, and secure themselves from deficiency, by doing 378 THE RAMBLER. N° 82. more than they believe strictly necessary. For of this every man may be certain, that, if he were to exchange conditions with his dependent, he should expect more than, with the utmost exertion of his ardour, he now will pre- vail upon himself to perform ; 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. N° 82. Saturday, December 29, 1750. Omnia Castor emit, sicjiet 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 vir- tuoso that the present age has had the honour of producing, and that inconveniencies have been brought upon me by an 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 superiour ge- nius. 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 structure, 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 Peiresc, innumerable ques- tions 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 diversions, made collec- tions of natural rarities, and never walked into the fields without bringing home stones of remarkable forms, or in- THE RAMBLER. 379 N° 82. sects 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 windows by law. Being thus early possessed by a taste for solid know- ledge, 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, poli- ticks, fashions, or love, I carried on my inquiries with in- cessant diligence, and had amassed more stones, mosses, and shells, than are to be found in many celebrated col- lections, at an age in which the greatest part of young men are studying under tutors, or endeavouring to recommend themselves to notice by their dress, their air, and their levities. When I was two-and-twenty years old, I became, by the death of my father, possessed of a small estate in land, with a very large sum of money in the publick 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 expence of only ten shillings, which he happened to overhear me offering for the sting of a hornet, though it was a cold moist summer, in which very few hornets had been seen. He often recommended to me the study of physick, in which, said he, you may at once gratify your curiosity after natural history, and in- crease your fortune by benefiting mankind. I heard him, Mr. Rambler, with pity, and as there was no prospect of elevating a mind formed 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, I very soon enlarged the bounds of my curiosity, and contented myself no longer with such rarities as required only judg- ment and industry, and when once found might be had 380 THE RAMBLER. N° 82. for nothing. I now turned my thoughts to exoticks and antiques, and became so well known for my generous pa- tronage of ingenious men, that my levee was crowded with visitants, some to see my museum, and others to in- crease its treasures, by selling me whatever they had brought from other countries. I had always a contempt for that narrowness of con- ception, which contents itself with cultivating some single corner of the field of science ; I took the whole region into my view, and wished it of yet greater extent. But no man’s power can be equal to his will. I was forced to pro- ceed by slow degrees, and to purchase what chance or kindness happened to present. I did not, however, pro- ceed without some design, or imitate the indiscretion of those, who begin a thousand collections, and finish none. Having been always a lover of geography, I determined to collect the maps drawn in the rude and barbarous times, before any regular surveys, or just observations; and have, at a great expence, brought together a volume, in which, perhaps, not a single country is laid down ac- cording to its true situation, and by which, he that desires to know the errours of the 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 tenants to pay their rents in butterflies, till I had exhausted the papilionaceous tribe. I then directed 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. I have three species of earth- worms not known to the naturalists, have discovered a new ephemera, and can shew four wasps that were taken torpid in their winter quarters. I have, from my own ground, the longest blade of grass upon record, and once accepted, as a half year’s rent for a field of wheat, an ear containing more grains than had been seen before upon a single stem. THE RAMBLER. 381 N° 82. 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 w r as not only forgiven, but rewarded. These, however, were petty acquisitions, and made at small expence ; nor should I have ventured 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 have ransacked the old and the new world, and been equally attentive to past ages and the present. For the illustration of ancient history, I can shew r a marble, of which the inscription, though it is not now legible, ap- pears, from some broken remains of the letters, to have been Tuscan, and therefore probably engraved before the foundation of Rome. I have two pieces of porphyry 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, and a plate without figures or characters, which was found at Corinth, and which I therefore believe to be that metal which w r as once valued before gold. I have sand gathered out of the Granieus; a fragment of Trajan’s bridge over the Danube; some of the mortar which cemented the water-course of Tarquin; a horseshoe broken on the Fla- minian way; and a turf with five daisies dug from the field of Pharsalia. I do not wish to raise the envy of unsuccessful collec- tors, by too pompous a display of my scientifick 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 shew 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 382 THE RAMBLER. N° 82. brushed from a banana in the gardens of Ispahan ; and, in another, brine that has rolled in the Pacifick 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 therefore 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 elephant who carried the queen of Siam ; the skin of an ape that was kept in the palace of the great mogul; a ribbon that adorned one of the maids of a Turkish sultana; and a scymitar once wielded by a soldier of Abas the great. In collecting antiquities of every country, I have been careful to choose only by intrinsick worth, and real use- fulness, without regard to party or opinions. I have there- fore 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 Ra- leigh, and a stirrup of king James. I have paid the same price for a glove of Lewis, and a thimble of queen Mary ; for a fur cap of the Czar, and a boot of Charles of Sweden. You will easily imagine that these accumulations were not made without 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 price of any thing, it was sufficient to double the demand. For curiosity, traf- ficking 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 mort- gaged my land, and purchased thirty medals, which I could never find before. I have at length bought till I can buy no longer, and the cruelty of my creditors has N° S3. THE RAMBLER. 383 seized my repository; I am therefore condemned to dis- perse what the labour of an age will not re-assemble. 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 recom- pence than that you will recommend my catalogue to the publick. Quisquilius. N° 83. Tuesday, January 1, 1751. Nisi utile est quod facias, stnlta est gloria . — Phjed. All useless science is an empty boast. The publication of the letter in my last paper has na- turally led me to the consideration of thirst after curiosi- ties, which often draws contempt and ridicule upon itself, but which is perhaps no otherwise blameable, than as it wants those circumstantial recommendations which add lusture even to moral excellencies, and are absolutely ne- cessary to the grace and beauty of indifferent actions. Learning confers so much superiority on those who possess it, that they might probably have escaped all cen- sure had they been able to agree among themselves; but as envy and competition have divided the republick of letters into factions, they have neglected the common in- terest: 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 popularity. They have all engaged in feuds, till by mutual hostilities they demo- lished 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 professions, may be observed a constant reciprocation of reproaches. The collector of shells and stones derides the folly of him who THE RAMBLER. 384 N° 83. 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 life- less 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 pursuit, won- ders that the rest of mankind are not seized with the same passion. There are, indeed, many subjects of study which seem but remotely allied to useful knowledge, and of little im- portance 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, and emaciated with so- licitude, in the investigation of questions, of which, with- out visible inconvenience, the world may expire in igno- rance. Yet it is dangerous to discourage well -intended labours, or innocent curiosity ; for he who is employed in searches, which by any deduction of consequences tend to the benefit of life, is surely laudable, in comparison of those who spend their time in counteracting 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 beholds the multitudes that live in total idleness, and have never yet endeavoured to be useful. It is impossible to determine the limits of inquiry, or to foresee what consequences a new discovery may pro- duce. He who suffers not his faculties to lie torpid, has a chance, whatever be his employment, of doing good to his fellow-creatures. The man that first ranged the woods in search of medicinal springs, or climbed the mountains for salutary plants, has undoubtedly merited the gratitude of posterity, how much soever his frequent miscarriages might excite the scorn of his contemporaries. If what ap- pears little be universally despised, nothing greater can be attained, for all that is great was at first little, and rose to N° 83. THE^ RAMBLER. 385 its present bulk by gradual accessions, and accumulated labours. Those who lay out time or money in assembling matter for contemplation, are doubtless entitled to some degree of respect, though in a flight of gaiety it be easy to ridi- cule their treasure, or in a fit 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 ad- miration to a philosophical eye than the structure of animals, by which they are qualified to support life in the elements or climates to which they are appropriated ; and of all natural bodies it must be generally confessed, that they exhibit evidences of infinite wisdom, bear their testi- mony 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 examples of me- chanical science or manual ability, is unquestionably useful, even when the things themselves are of small im- portance, because it is always advantageous to know how far the human powers have proceeded, and how much experience has found to be within the reach of diligence. Idleness and timidity often despair without being over- come, and forbear attempts for fear of being defeated; and we may promote the invigoration of faint endeavours, by shewing 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 action 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 nations, which make the greatest part of many collections, I have little regard when they are valued only because they are foreign, and can suggest no improvement of our own VOL. i. 2 c 386 THE RAMBLER. N° 83. practice. Yet they are not all equally useless, nor can it be always safely determined which should be rejected or retained : for they may sometimes unexpectedly contri- bute to the illustration of history, and to the knowledge of the natural commodities of the country, or of the genius and customs of its inhabitants. Rarities there are of yet a lower rank, which owe their worth merely to accident, and which can convey no infor- mation, nor satisfy any rational desire. Such are many fragments of antiquity, 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 pre- servation of these seems to be a thing indifferent, nor can I perceive why the possession of them should be coveted. Yet, perhaps, 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 reverence which every nation, civil and bar- barous, has paid to the ground where merit has been buried, 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 relique 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 sometimes culpable for confining himself to business below his genius, and losing, in petty speculations, 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 discovered a method of gratifying his desire of eminence by expence rather than by labour, and THE RAMBLER. N° 83. 387 known the sweets of a life blest 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 require circumspection and vigilance, and principles which cannot be obtained but by the drudgery 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’ alrov (3ov\ovto /met’ avtyag-i Aa>ro’ Ayj,\r,a. xwm^uevov ta-ranro xvfxa ’’SlQii V Iv eraxti nrlmccv poof oii$£ ffotitmv "Eitjm ct — - 428 THE RAMBLER. N°92. So oft the surge, in wat’ry 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. Tir’d 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 unpleasing and harsh sounds. 2uv ie $vcv t?, Strre o-xvhetxaf itori yaU YLqttt' ex S’ eyxeo#o£ re. Tremendous Gorgon frown’d upon its field, And circling terrours fill’d th’ expressive shield. — Pope. Many other examples Dionysius produces ; but these will sufficiently shew, that either he was fanciful, or we have lost the genuine pronunciation ; for I know not whether, in any one of these instances, such similitude can be discovered. It seems, indeed, probable, that the veneration with which Homer was read, produced many supposititious beauties : for though it is certain, that the sound of many of his verses very justly corresponds with the things expressed, yet, when the force of his imagina- tion, which gave him full possession of every object, is considered, together with the flexibility of his language, of which the syllables might be often contracted or dilated at pleasure, it will seem unlikely 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 excellencies, to exhibit this similitude ; nor has he been less happy in this than in the other graces of versification. THE RAMBLER 429 N° 92. This felicity of his numbers was, at the revival of learning, Hand, satis est illis utcunque claudere versum . Omnia sed numeris vocum concurdibus aptant, Atque sono qucecunque canunt imitantur, et apta Verborum facie, et qucesito car minis ore. Nam diversa opus est veluti dare versibus ora, Hie melior motuque pedum, et pernicibus alis, Molle viam tacito lapsu per levia radit : Ille autem membris, ac mole, ignavius, ingens Incedit, tardo molimine subsidendo. Ecce aliquis subit egregio pulchtrrimus ore, Cui Icetum membris Venus omnibus aflat honorem. Contra alius rudis, informes ostendit et artus, Hirsutumque supercilium, ac caudam sinuosam, Ingratus visu, sonitu illcetabilis ipso. Ergo ubijam nautce, spumas salis cere ruentes, Incubuere mari, videos spumare, reductis Convulsum remis, rostrisque stridentibus, cequor. Tunc longe sale saxa sonant, tunc etfreta ventis Incipiunt agitata tumescere : littore fluctus lllidunt rauco, atque refracta remurmurat unda Ad scopulos, cumulo insequitur pueruptus aquie mons . — Cum vero ex alto speculatus ceerula Nereus Leniit in merrem stagni, placidceque paludis, Labitur uncta vadis abies, natat nncta Carina. Verba etiam res exiguas angusta sequuntur, Ingentesque 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 quando vi multa gleba coactis JEternum frangenda bidentibus, ccquore seu ciim Cornua velatarum obvertimus antennarum. At mora sifuerit darnno, properare jubebo. Si se forte cava extulerit mala vipera terra, Tolle moras, cape saxa manu, cape robora, pastor ; Ferte citi flammas, date tela, repellite pestem. Ipse etiam versus ruat, in prcecepsque feratur, Immenso cum prcecipitans ruit Oceano nox, Aut ciim, perculsus graviter, procumbit humi bos. Cumque etiam requies rebus datur, ipsa quoque ultro Carmina puulisper cursu cessare videbis, In medio interrupta : quierunt cumfreta ponti, Postquam aura: posuere, quiescere protinus ipsum Cernere erit, mediisque incceptis sistere versum. Quid dicam, senior cum telum imbelle sine ictu Invalidus jacit, et defectis viribus ager ? Num quoque turn versus segni pariter pede languet ? Sanguis heljet,frigent effect a in corpore vires. Fortem autem juvenem deceat prorumpere in arces, Evertisse domos, prefractaque quadrupedantum Pectora pectoribus perrumpere, sternere turres Ingentes, totoque, ferum , dare funera campo. — Lib. iii. Poetry. 430 THE RAMBLER. N* 92. ’Tis not enough his verses to complete. In measure, number, or determin’d feet. To all, proportion’d terms he must dispense. And make the sound a picture 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 ev’ry limb a grace ; That, of rude form, his uncouth members shews. 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 the eye, and frightful to the ear. Lo ! when the sailors steer the pond’rous ships , And plough, with brazen beaks, the foamy deeps, Incumbent on the main that roars around, Beneath the lab’ring oars the waves resound ; The prows wide echoing thro’ the dark profound. To the loud call each distant rock replies ; Tost by the storm the tow ’ring surges rise ; While the hoarse ocean beats the sounding shore. Dash’d from the strand, the flying waters roar, Flash at the shock, and gathering in a heap, The liquid mountains rise, and over-hang the deep. But when blue Neptune from his car surveys. And calms at one regard the raging seas, Stretch’d 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 tow’ring 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 pond’rous plough Crumbles and breaks, th’ encumber’d lines must flow. 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 num’rous strokes. 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 Pause for a space — at last it glides again. N° 92. THE RAMBLER. 431 When Priam strains his aged arms, to throw His unavailing jav’lin at the foe ; (His blood congeal’d, and ev’ry nerve unstrung) Then with the theme complies the artful song ; Like hi m , 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 on trembling Ilion falls. Bums her strong gates, and shakes her lofty walls ; Provokes his flying courser to the 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 trans- planted 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 th’ unbending com, and skims along the main. From these lines, laboured with great attention, and celebrated by a rival wit, may be judged what can be ex- pected from the most diligent endeavours after this ima- gery 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 lan- guage 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 contrasted than exemplified; why the verse should be lengthened to ex- press speed, will not easily be discovered. In the dactyls used for that purpose by the ancients, two short syllables were pronounced with such rapidity, as to be equal only to one long; they, therefore, naturally exhibit the act of passing through a long space in a short time. But the THE RAMBLER. N° 93. 432 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. These rules and these examples have taught our present criticks to inquire very studiously and minutely into sounds and cadences. It is, therefore, 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. N° 93. Tuesday, February 5, 1751. Experiar quid concedatur in illos, Quorum jiaminia tegitur cinis atque Latind, — Juv. More safely truth to urge her claim presumes. On names now found alone on books and tombs. There are few books on which more time is spent by young students, than on treatises which deliver the cha- racters of authors; nor any which oftener deceive the ex- pectation of the reader, or fill his mind with more opinions which the progress of his studies and the increase of his knowledge oblige him to resign. Bailiet has introduced his collection of the decisions of the learned, by an enumeration of the prejudices which mislead the critick, 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 knowledge be evinced by evidence, or drawn out into demonstrations; they are therefore wholly subject to the imagination, and do not force their effects upon a mind pre-occupied by unfavour- able sentiments, nor overcome the counteraction 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 pronounced by Dryden N° 93. THE RAMBLER. 433 to be above the reach of human abilities. Interest and passion will hold out long against the closest siege of dia- grams and syllogisms, but they are absolutely impreg- nable to imagery and sentiment; and will for ever bid de- fiance 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 critick, we are in danger not only from that vanity which exalts writers too often to the dignity of teaching what they are yet to learn, from that negligence which sometimes steals upon the most vigilant caution, and that fallibility to which the condition of nature has subjected every human under- standing; but from a thousand extrinsick)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 merit, may be justly suspected of having passed sentence, as Seneca remarks of Claudius, Una tantum parte audita, Scepe et nulla, without much knowledge of the cause before them : for it will not easily be imagined of Langbaine, Borrichius, 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 criticism. Such performances, however, are not 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. Criticks, like t 1 e rest of mankind, are very frequently 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 vol. i. 2 F 434 THE RAMBLE R. N° 93. Addison is suspected to have denied the expediency of poetical justice, because his own Cato was condemned to perish in a good cause. There are prejudices which authors, not otherwise weak or corrupt, have indulged without scruple; and perhaps some of them are so complicated with our natural af- fections, that they cannot easily be disentangled from the heart. Scarce any can hear with impartiality a com- parison 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 I due to comparative criticism, when the competitors are of ( different countries, unless the judge is of a nation 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 considered himself as allied to Virgil, by being born in the same country, he would have found his works so much supe- riour 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 dishonour to be some- times 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 with this opinion are continually enforcing civilly and decency, recommending to criticks the proper diffidence of them- selves, and inculcating the veneration due to celebrated names. I am not of opinion that these professed enemies of ar- THE RAMBLER. 435 N° 93. rogance and severity have much more benevolence or modesty than the rest of mankind ; or that they feel in their own hearts, any other intention than to distinguish themselves by their softness and delicacy. Some are modest because they are timorous, and some are lavish of praise because they hope to be repaid. There is indeed some tenderness due to living writers, when they attack none of those truths which are of im- portance to the happiness of mankind, and have com- mitted no other offence than that of betraying their own ignorance or dulness. 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 harmless stupidity, or destroy the jest which makes its author laugh. Yet I am far from thinking this tenderness universally necessary; for he that writes may be con- sidered as a kind of general challenger, whom every one has a right to attack; since he quits the common rank of life, steps forward beyond the lists, and offers his merit to the publick 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 contemporaries, whom he that knows the treachery of the human heart, and considers how often we gratify our own pride or envy under the appearance of contending for elegance and pro- priety, will find himself not much inclined to disturb; there can surely be no exemptions pleaded to secure them from criticism, who can no longer suffer by reproach, and of whom nothing now remains but their waitings and their names. Upon these authors the critick is undoubtedly at full liberty to exercise y1 \e strictest severity, since he endangers only his own fa: and, like iEneas when he drew his sword in the ii.^rnal regions, encounters phantoms which cannot be wounded. He may indeed pay some regard to established reputation ; but he can by that shew of reverence consult only his own security, for all other motives are now at an end. 2 F 2 436 THE RAMBLER. N° 94. The faults of a writer of acknowledged excellence are more dangerous, because the influence of his example is more extensive ; and the interest of learning requires that they should be discovered and stigmatized, before they have the sanction of antiquity conferred upon them, and become precedents of indisputable authority. It has, indeed, been advanced by Addison, as one of the characteristicks of a true critick, that he points out beauties rather than faults. But it is 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 depre- ciate, 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. N° 94. Saturday, February 9, 1751. Bonus atquejidus Judex — per obstantes catervas Explicuit sua victor arma . — Hor. Perpetual magistrate is he Who keeps strict justice full in sight ; Who bids the crowd at aweful distance gaze. And virtue’s arms victoriously displays. — Francis. The resemblance of poetick numbers to the sub- ject which they mention or describe, may be considered as general or particular; as consisting in the flow and structure of a whole passage taken together, or as com- prized in the sound of some emphatical and descriptive words, or in the cadence and \armony of single verses. The general resemblance 1 the sound to the sense is to be found in every languagb which admits 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 supply him with just repre- sentations. To such a writer it is natural to change his THE RAMBLER. 437 N° 94. measure with his subject, even without any effort of the understanding, or intervention of the judgment. To revolve jollity and mirth necessarily tunes the voice of a poet to gay and sprightly notes, as it fires his eye with vivacity ; and reflection on gloomy situations and dis- astrous 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 application to particular images. The same flow of joyous versification will celebrate the jollity of marriage, and the exultation of triumph ; and the same langour of melody will suit the complaints of an absent lover, as of a conquered king. It is scarcely to be doubted, that on many occasions we make the musick 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 pleasing message in an unpleasing manner, and that we readily associate 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 Homer had no extraordinry attention to the melody of his verse when he described a nuptial festivity ; Nu ( cc<|>ttj sk SaXttfcw, tiaiSaiv v7ro\afx