NUMB. 35. TUESDAY July 17, 1750:

NUMB. 36, SATURDAY, July 21, 1750.

THERE is ſcarcely any ſpecies of poetry, that has allured more readers, or exci⯑ted more writers, than the paſtoral. It is ge⯑nerally pleaſing, becauſe it entertains the mind with repreſentations of ſcenes familiar to al⯑moſt every imagination, and of which all can equally judge whether they are well deſcribed. It exhibits a life, to which we have been al⯑ways accuſtomed to aſſociate peace, and leiſure, and innocence: and therefore we readily ſet open the heart, for the admiſſion of its images, which contribute to drive away cares and per⯑turbations, and ſuffer ourſelves, without re⯑ſiſtance, to be tranſported to elyſian regions, where we are to meet with nothing but joy, and plenty, and contentment; where every gale whiſpers pleaſure, and every ſhade promi⯑ſes repoſe.

IT has been maintained by ſome, who love to talk of what they do not know, that paſto⯑ral [11] is the moſt antient poetry; and, indeed, ſince it is probable, that poetry is nearly of the ſame antiquity with rational nature, and ſince the life of the firſt men was certainly rural, we may reaſonably conjecture, that, as their ideas would neceſſarily be borrowed from thoſe objects with which they were acquainted, their compoſures, being filled chiefly with ſuch thoughts on the viſible creation as muſt occur to the firſt obſervers, were paſtoral hymns, like thoſe which Milton introduces the original pair ſinging, in the day of innocence, to the praiſe of their maker.

FOR the ſame reaſon that paſtoral poetry was the firſt employment of the human imagi⯑nation, it is generally the firſt literary amuſe⯑ment of our minds. We have ſeen fields, and meadows, and groves from the time that our eyes opened upon life; and are pleaſed with birds, and brooks, and breezes, much earlier than we engage among the actions and paſſions of mankind. We are therefore delighted with rural pictures, becauſe we know the original at an age when our curioſity can be very little awakened, by deſcriptions of courts which we never beheld, or repreſentati⯑ons of paſſion which we never felt.

[12] THE ſatisfaction received from this kind of writing not only begins early, but laſts long; we do not throw it away among other childiſh amuſements and paſtimes as we advance into the intellectual world, but willingly return to it in any hour of indolence and relaxation. The images of true paſtoral have always the power of exciting delight, becauſe the works of nature, from which they are drawn, have always the ſame order and beauty, and conti⯑nue to force themſelves upon our thoughts, being at once obvious to the moſt careleſs re⯑gard, and more than adequate to the ſtrongeſt reaſon, and ſevereſt contemplation. Our in⯑clination to ſtillneſs and tranquillity is ſeldom much leſſened by long knowledge of the buſy and tumultuary part of the world. In child⯑hood we turn our thoughts to the country, as to the region of pleaſure, we recur to it in old age as a port of reſt, and perhaps with that ſecondary and adventitious gladneſs, which every man feels on reviewing thoſe places, or recollecting thoſe occurrences, that contribut⯑ed to his youthful enjoyments, and bring him back to the prime of life, when the world was gay with the bloom of novelty, when [13] mirth wantoned at his ſide, and hope ſparkled before him.

The ſenſe of this univerſal pleaſure has in⯑vited numbers without number to try their ſkill in paſtoral performances, in which they have generally ſucceeded after the manner of other imitators, tranſmitting the ſame images in the ſame combination from one to another, till he that reads the title of a poem, may gueſs at the whole ſeries of the compoſition; nor will a man, after the peruſal of thouſands of theſe performances, find his knowledge enlarged with a ſingle view of nature not produced be⯑fore, or his imagination amuſed with any new application of thoſe views to moral purpoſes.

THE range of paſtoral is indeed narrow, for though nature itſelf, philoſophically conſi⯑dered, be inexhauſtible, yet its general effects on the eye and on the ear are uniform, and incapable of much variety of deſcription. Poetry cannot dwell upon the minuter diſtinc⯑tions, by which one ſpecies differs from ano⯑ther, without departing from that ſimplicity of grandeur which fills the imagination; nor diffect the latent qualities of things, without [14] loſing its general power of gratifying every mind by recalling its conceptions. However, as each age makes ſome diſcoveries, and thoſe diſcoveries are by degrees generally known, as new plants or modes of culture are introdu⯑ced, and by little and little become common, paſtoral might receive, from time to time, ſmall augmentations, and exhibit once in a century a ſcene ſomewhat varied.

BUT paſtoral ſubjects have been often, like others, taken into the hands of thoſe that were not qualified to adorn them, men to whom the face of nature was ſo little known, that they have drawn it only after their own imagination, and changed or diſtorted her fea⯑tures, that their portraits might appear ſome⯑thing more than ſervile copies from their predeceſſors.

NOT only the images of rural life, but the occaſions on which they can be properly pro⯑duced, are few and general. The ſtate of a man confined to the employments and plea⯑ſures of the country, is ſo little diverſified, and expoſed to ſo few of thoſe accidents which produce perplexities, terrors and ſurpriſes, in more complicated tranſactions, that he can be [15] ſhewn but ſeldom in ſuch circumſtances as at⯑tract curioſity. His ambition is without poli⯑cy, and his love without intrigue. He has no complaints to make of his rival, but that he is richer than himſelf; nor any diſaſters to la⯑ment, but a cruel miſtreſs, or a bad harveſt.

THE conviction of the neceſſity of ſome new ſource of pleaſure induced Sannazarius to ſubſtitute fiſhermen for ſhepherds, to re⯑move the ſcene from the fields to the ſea, and derive his ſentiments from the piſcatory life; for which he has been cenſured by ſucceeding criticks, becauſe the ſea is an object of terrour, and by no means proper to amuſe the mind, and lay the paſſions aſleep. Againſt this ob⯑jection he might be defended by the eſtabliſhed maxim, that the poet has a right to ſelect his images, and is no more obliged to ſhew the ſea in a ſtorm, than the land under an inun⯑dation; but may diſplay all the pleaſures, and conceal the dangers, of the water, as he may lay his ſhepherd under a ſhady beech, without giving him an ague, or letting a wild beaſt looſe upon him.

THERE are however two defects in the piſ⯑catory eclogue, which perhaps cannot be ſup⯑plied. [16] The ſea, though in hot countries it is conſidered by thoſe who live, like Sannazari⯑us, upon the coaſt, as a place of pleaſure and diverſion, has notwithſtanding much leſs va⯑riety than the land, and therefore will be ſoon⯑er exhauſted by a deſcriptive writer. When he has once ſhewn the ſun riſing or ſetting upon it, curled its waters with the vernal breeze, rolled the waves in gentle ſucceſſion to the ſhore, and enumerated the fiſh ſporting in the ſhallows, he has nothing remaining but what is common to all other poetry, the complaint of a nymph for a drowned lover, or the indignation of a fiſher that his oyſters are refuſed, and Mycon's accepted.

ANOTHER obſtacle to the general reception of this kind of poetry, is the ignorance of maritime pleaſures, in which the greater part of mankind muſt always live. To all the in⯑land inhabitants of every region, the ſea is only known as an immenſe diffuſion of wa⯑ters, over which men paſs from one country to another, and in which life is frequently loſt. They have, therefore, no opportunity of tracing, in their own thoughts, the deſcriptions of winding ſhores, and calm bays, nor can look on the poem in which they are mentio⯑ned, [17] 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 lan⯑guage to readers generally acquainted with the works of nature; but if he had made his attempt in any vulgar tongue, he would ſoon have diſcovered how vainly he had endeavour⯑ed to make that loved, which was not un⯑derſtood.

I AM afraid it will not be found eaſy to im⯑prove the paſtorals of antiquity, by any great additions or diverſifications. Our deſcriptions may indeed differ from thoſe of Virgil, as an Engliſh from an Italian ſummer, and, in ſome reſpects, as modern from antient life; but as nature is in both countries nearly the ſame, and as poetry has to do rather with the paſſions of men, which are uniform, than their cuſ⯑toms, which are changeable, the varieties, which time or place can furniſh, will be in⯑conſiderable: and I ſhall endeavour to ſhew, in the next paper, how little the latter ages have contributed to the improvement of the ruſtick muſe.

NUMB. 37. TUESDAY, July 24, 1750.

IN writing or judging of paſtoral poetry, neither the authors nor criticks of latter times ſeem to have paid ſufficient regard to the originals left us by antiquity, but have en⯑tangled themſelves with unneceſſary difficul⯑ties, by advancing principles, which, having no foundation in the nature of things, are wholly to be rejected from a ſpecies of compo⯑ſition in which, above all others, mere nature is to be regarded.

IT is, therefore, neceſſary to enquire af⯑ter ſome more diſtinct and exact idea of this kind of writing. This may, I think, be eaſi⯑ly found in the paſtorals of Virgil, from whoſe opinion it will not appear very ſafe to depart, if we conſider that every advantage of nature, and of fortune, concurred to complete his pro⯑ductions; that he was born with great accura⯑cy and ſeverity of judgment, enlightened [19] with all the learning of one of the brighteſt a⯑ges, and embelliſhed with the elegance of the Roman court; that he employed his powers rather in improving, than inventing, and therefore muſt have endeavoured to recom⯑penſe the want of novelty by exactneſs; that taking Theocritus for his original, he found paſtoral far advanced towards perfection, and that having ſo great a rival, he muſt have pro⯑ceeded with uncommon caution.

IF we ſearch the writings of Virgil, for the true definition of a paſtoral, it will be found a poem in which any action or paſſion is repreſent⯑ed by its effects upon a country life. Whatſoe⯑ver therefore may, according to the common courſe of things, happen in the country, may afford a ſubject for a paſtoral poet.

IN this definition, it will immediately occur to thoſe who are verſed in the writings of the modern criticks, that there is no mention of the golden age. I cannot indeed eaſily diſco⯑ver why it is thought neceſſary to refer deſcrip⯑tions of a rural ſtate to remote times, nor can I perceive that any writer has conſiſtently pre⯑ſerved the Arcadian manners and ſentiments. The only reaſon, that I have read, on which [20] this rule has been ſounded, is, that, according to the cuſtoms of modern life, it is improba⯑ble that ſhepherds ſhould be capable of harmo⯑nious 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 in⯑to their hypotheſis, by conſidering paſtoral, not in general, as a repreſentation of rural na⯑ture, and conſequently as exhibiting the ideas and ſentiments of thoſe, whoever they are, to whom the country affords, pleaſure or em⯑ployment, but ſimply as a dialogue, or narra⯑tive of men actually tending ſheep, and buſied in the loweſt and moſt laborious offices; from whence they very readily 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 the ſentiments.

IN conſequence of theſe original errors, a thouſand precepts have been given, which have only contributed to perplex and to con⯑found. [21] Some have thought it neceſſary that the imaginary manners of the golden age ſhould be univerſally preſerved, and have there⯑fore believed, that nothing more could be ad⯑mitted in paſtoral, than lilies and roſes, and rocks and ſtreams, among which are heard the gentle whiſpers of chaſte fondneſs, or the ſoft complaints of amorous impatience. In paſtoral, as in other writings, chaſtity of ſen⯑timent ought doubtleſs to be obſerved, and purity of manners to be repreſented; not be⯑cauſe 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 principles, 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 [22] 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 accu⯑racy, ſince they converſed with divinities, and tranſmitted to ſucceeding ages the arts of life.

OTHER writers, having the mean and de⯑ſpicable condition of a ſhepherd always before them, conceive it neceſſary to degrade the lan⯑guage of paſtoral, by obſolete terms and ruſ⯑tick words, which they very learnedly call Dorick, without reflecting, that they thus be⯑come authors of a mingled dialect, which no human being ever could have ſpoken, that they may as well refine the ſpeech as the ſen⯑timents of their perſonages, and that none of the inconſiſtencies which they endeavour to avoid, is greater than that of joining elegance of thought with coarſeneſs of diction. Spenſer begins one of his paſtorals with ſtudied bar⯑barity;

[23] What will the reader imagine to be the ſub⯑ject on which ſpeakers like theſe exerciſe their eloquence? Will he not be ſomewhat diſap⯑pointed, when he finds them met together to condemn the corruptions of the church of Rome? Surely, at the ſame time that a ſhep⯑herd learns theology, he may gain ſome ac⯑quaintance with his native language.

PASTORAL admits of all ranks of perſons, becauſe perſons of all ranks inhabit the coun⯑try. It excludes not, therefore, on account of the characters neceſſary to be introduced, 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.

which Pope endeavouring to copy, was car⯑ried to ſtill greater impropriety.

Sentiments like theſe, as they have no ground [24] in nature, are indeed of little value in any poem, but in paſtoral they are particularly li⯑able to cenſure, becauſe they want that exalta⯑tion 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 ſenti⯑ment, or beauty of diction. The Pollio of Virgil, with all its elevation, is a compoſition truly bucolic, though rejected by the criticks; for all the images are either taken from the country, or from the religion of the age com⯑mon to all parts of the empire.

The Silenus is indeed of a more diſputable kind, becauſe though the ſcene lies in the country, the ſong being religious and hiſtori⯑cal, had been no leſs adapted to any other au⯑dience or place. Neither can it well be de⯑fended as a fiction, for the introduction of a God ſeems to imply the golden age, and yet [25] he alludes to many ſubſequent tranſactions, and mentions Gallus the poet's contemporary.

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 intereſt thoſe who have retired into places of ſolitude and quiet, than the more buſy part of mankind. It is therefore improper to give the title of a paſtoral to verſes, in which the ſpeakers, af⯑ter the ſlight mention of their flocks, fall to complaints of errors in the church, and cor⯑ruptions in the government, or to lamentati⯑ons of the death of ſome illuſtrious perſon, whom when once the poet has called a ſhep⯑herd, 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 ruſ⯑tick, that he computes his time not by the ſucceſſion of conſuls, but of harveſts. Thoſe who paſs their days in retreats diſtant from the theatres of buſineſs, are always leaſt likely to hurry their imagination with publick affairs.

[26] THE facility of treating actions or events in the paſtoral ſtile has incited many writers, from whom more judgment 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 natu⯑rally be expected 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 religion has made in the whole ſyſtem of the world.

NUMB. 38. SATURDAY, July 28, 1750.

AMONG many fanciful parallels which men of more imagination than expe⯑rience have drawn between the natural and moral ſtate of the world, it has been obſerved [27] that happineſs as well as virtue conſiſts in me⯑diocrity; that it is neceſſary, even to him who has no other care than to paſs through the pre⯑ſent ſtate with eaſe and ſafety, to avoid every extreme; and that the middle path is the road of ſecurity, on either ſide of which, are not only the pitfals of vice, but the precipices of ruin.

THUS the maxim of Cleobulus the Lindi⯑an, [...], Mediocrity is beſt, has been long conſidered as an univerſal principle, ex⯑tended through the whole compaſs of life and nature. The experience of every age ſeems to have given it new confirmation, and to ſhew that nothing, however ſpecious or allu⯑ring, is to be perſued with propriety, or en⯑joyed with ſafety, beyond certain limits.

EVEN the gifts of nature, which may truly be conſidered as the moſt ſolid and durable of all terreſtrial advantages, are ſound, when they exceed the middle point, to be no very certain cauſes of felicity, but to draw the poſ⯑ſeſſor into many calamities, eaſily avoided by others that have been leſs bountifully enriched or adorned. We ſee every day women pe⯑riſhing with inſamy, by having been too will⯑ing [28] to ſet their beauty to ſhow, and others, though not with equal guilt or miſery, yet with very ſharp remorſe, languiſhing in decay, neglect, 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 be⯑haviour rather than virtue."

HEALTH and vigour, and a happy conſti⯑tution of the corporeal frame, are, to a com⯑mon degree, of abſolute neceſſity to the en⯑joyment of the comforts, and to the perfor⯑mance of the duties of life, and requiſite in yet a greater meaſure to the accompliſhment of any thing illuſtrious or diſtinguiſhed; yet even theſe, if we can judge by their apparent conſe⯑quences, are ſometimes not very beneficial to thoſe on whom they are moſt liberally beſtow⯑ed. They that frequent the chambers of the ſick, will generally find the ſharpeſt pains, and moſt ſtubborn maladies among them whom confidence of the force of nature for⯑merly betrayed to negligence and irregularity; [29] 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, al⯑ways bleſſings in themſelves, and to be ac⯑knowledged with gratitude to him that gives them; ſince they are, in their regular and le⯑gitimate effects, productive of happineſs, and prove pernicious only by voluntary corruption, or idle negligence. And as there is little dan⯑ger of perſuing 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 re⯑preſs 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 [30] thing more eagerly or conſtantly deſired. Poverty is an evil always in our view, an e⯑vil 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 pur⯑poſe is once attained, we naturally wiſh for more, that the evil which is regarded with ſo much horror may be yet at a greater diſtance from us; as he that has once felt or dreaded the paw of a ſavage, will not be at reſt till they are parted by ſome barrier, which may take away all poſſibility of a ſecond attack.

TO this point, if fear be not unreaſonably indulged, Cleobulus would, perhaps, not re⯑fuſe to extend his mediocrity. But it almoſt always happens, that the man who grows rich changes his notions of poverty, ſtates his wants by ſome new meaſure, and from flying the enemy that perſued him, bends his endea⯑vours to overtake thoſe whom he ſees before him. The power of gratifying his appetites encreaſes their demands; a thouſand wiſhes croud in upon him importunate to be ſatisfied, and vanity and ambition open proſpects to de⯑ſire, [31] which ſtill grow wider, as they are more contemplated.

THUS in time [...] enlarged without bounds; an eagerneſs for increaſe of poſſeſ⯑ſions 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, perhaps, the pain of repreſ⯑ſing them is leſs pungent before they have been long accuſtomed to comphance.

WHOSOEVER ſhall look heedfully upon thoſe who are eminent for their riches, will not think their condition ſuch as that he ſhould hazard his [...], and much leſs his virtue to obtain it. For all that great wealth generally gives above a moderate fortune, is more room for the freaks of caprice, and more privilege for ignorance and vice, a quicker ſucceſſion of flatteries, and a larger circle of voluptuouſneſs.

THERE is one reaſon ſeldom remarked which makes riches leſs deſirable. Too much [32] wealth is very frequently the occaſion of po⯑verty. He whom the wantonneſs of abun⯑dance has once ſoftened, very eaſily ſinks into neglect of his affaris; and he that thinks he can afford to be negligent, is not far from be⯑ing poor. He will ſoon be involved in per⯑plexities, which his inexperience will render unſurmountable; he will fly for help to thoſe whoſe intereſt it is that he ſhould be more diſ⯑treſſed, and will be at laſt torn to pieces by the vulturs that always hover over fortunes in decay.

WHEN the plains of India were burnt up by a long continuance of drought, Hamet and Raſchid, two neighbouring ſhepherds, faint with thirſt, ſtood at the common boundary of their grounds, with their flocks and herds panting round them, and in extremity of diſ⯑treſs 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 know upon his nearer approach to be the Ge⯑nius of diſtribution. In one hand he held the ſheaves of plenty, and in the other the ſabre of deſtruction. The ſhepherds ſtood trem⯑bling, [33] and would have retired before him; but he called to them with a voice gentle as the breeze that plays in the evening among the ſpices of Sabaea; "Fly not from your bene⯑factor, children of the duſt! I am come to offer you gifts, which only your own folly can make vain. You here pray for water, and water I will beſtow; let me know with how much you will be ſatisfied: ſpeak not raſhly; conſider, that of whatever can be enjoyed by the body, exceſs is no leſs dangerous than ſcarcity. When you re⯑member 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 immediately he opened the ground with his ſabre, and a fountain bub⯑bling 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.

[34] THEN turning to Raſchid, the Genius in⯑vited him likewiſe to offer his petition. "I requeſt, ſays Raſchid, that thou wilt turn the Ganges through my grounds, with all his waters, and all their inhabitants." Ha⯑met was ſtruck with the greatneſs of his neigh⯑bour's ſentiments, 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 repeated his deſire, and pleaſed himſelf with the mean ap⯑pearance that Hamet would make in the pre⯑ſence of the proprietor of the Ganges. The Genius then retired towards the river, and the two ſhepherds ſtood waiting the event. As Raſ⯑chid 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 Ganges were broken. The flood rolled forward into the lands of Raſchid, his plantations were torn up, his flocks overwhelmed, he was ſwept away be⯑fore it, and a crocodile devoured him.

NUMB. 39. TUESDAY, July 31, 1750.

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 mar⯑riage, or determine upon a ſingle life, are ex⯑poſed, in conſequence of their choice, to ſick⯑neſs, miſery, and death.

IT were to be wiſhed that ſo great a degree of natural infelicity might not be increaſed by adventitious and artificial miſeries; and that beings whoſe beauty we cannot behold with⯑out admiration, and whoſe delicacy we can⯑not contemplate without tenderneſs, might be ſuffered to enjoy every alleviation of their ſor⯑rows. But, however it has happened, the cuſtom of the world ſeems to have been formed ed in a kind of a conſpiracy againſt them, tho [36] it does not appear but they had themſelves an equal ſhare in its eſtabliſhment; and preſcrip⯑tions which, by whomſoever they were be⯑gun, are now of very long continuance, and by conſequence of great authority, ſeem to have almoſt excluded them from content, in whatſoever condition they ſhall paſs their lives.

IF they refuſe the ſociety of men, and con⯑tinue in that ſtate which is reaſonably ſuppo⯑ſed to place happineſs moſt in their own pow⯑er, they ſeldom give thoſe that obſerve their conduct, or frequent their converſation, any exalted notions of the bleſſing of liberty; for, whether it be that they are angry to ſee with what inconſiderate eagerneſs the reſt of their ſex ruſhes into ſlavery, or with what abſurd va⯑nity the married ladies boaſt the change of their condition, and condemn the heroines who endeavour by their example 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 for men; it is certain that they generally appear to have [37] ſome great and inceſſant cauſe of uneaſineſs, and that many of them have at laſt been per⯑ſuaded, by powerful rhetoricians, to try the life which they had ſo long contemned, and put on the bridal ornaments at a time when they leaſt became them.

WHAT are the real cauſes of the diſcontent and impatience which the ladies always diſco⯑ver in a virgin ſtate, I ſhall perhaps take ſome other occaſion to examine. That it is by no means to be envied for its happineſs, appears from the ſolicitude with which it is generally avoided; from the opinion univerſally preva⯑lent among the ſex, that no woman continues long in it but becauſe ſhe is not invited to for⯑ſake it, and the diſpoſition which they always ſhew 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 expe⯑rience has enabled them to judge at leiſure, and decide with authority.

YET ſuch is the condition of life, that whatever is propoſed, it is much eaſier to find reaſons for avoiding than embracing. Mar⯑riage, though a certain ſecurity from the re⯑proach and ſolitude of antiquated virginity, [38] has yet, as it is uſually conducted, many diſ⯑advantages, which take away much from the pleaſure which ſociety promiſes, and which it might afford, if pleaſures and pains were ho⯑neſtly ſhared, and mutual confidence inviola⯑bly preſerved.

THE miſeries, indeed, which many ladies ſuffer under conjugal vexations, are to be conſidered with great pity, becauſe their huſ⯑bands are often not taken by them as objects of affection, but forced upon them by authori⯑ty and violence, or by perſuaſion and impor⯑tunity, equally reſiſtleſs when urged by thoſe whom they have been always accuſtomed to reverence and obey; and it very ſeldom ap⯑pears, 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 enquired whether they will be happy, as whether they will be rich.

IT may be urged, however, in extenuation of this crime, which parents, not in any other reſpect to be numbered with robbers and aſ⯑ſaſſins, frequently commit, that, in their eſti⯑mation, riches and happineſs are equivalent terms, and that having paſſed their lives with [39] no other wiſh than that of adding acre to acre, and filling one bag after another, they imagine themſelves to have ſufficiently conſi⯑dered the advantage of a daughter, when they have ſecured her a large jointure, and given her reaſonable expectations of living in the midſt of thoſe ſatisfactions, with which ſhe had ſeen her father and mother ſolacing their age.

THERE is an oeconomical oracle received among the prudential and grave 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 contri⯑bute very little to their felicity. Who was the author of this maxim, or with what inten⯑tion it was originally uttered, I have not yet diſcovered; but imagine that however ſolemn⯑ly it may be tranſmitted, or however implicit⯑ly received, it can confer no authority which nature has denied; it cannot licenſe Titius to be unjuſt, leſt Caia ſhould be imprudent; nor give right to impriſon for life, leſt li⯑berty ſhould be ill employed.

[40] THAT the ladies have ſometimes incurred imputations which might naturally produce edicts not much in their favour, muſt be con⯑feſſed by their warmeſt advocates; and I have indeed ſeldom obſerved, that when the ten⯑derneſs or virtue of their parents has preſerved them from forced marriage, and left them at large to chuſe their own path in the labyrinth of life, they have made any great advantage of their liberty; for they have generally taken the opportunity of an independent fortune to trifle away their youth in the amuſements of the town, and loſe their bloom in a hurry of diverſions, recurring in a ſucceſſion too quick to leave room for any ſettled reflection; they have grown old without growing wiſe, have ſeen the world without gaining experience, and at laſt have regulated their choice by mo⯑tives trivial 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 [41] was not at leiſure, from the park, the gar⯑dens, the theatres, viſits, aſſemblies, and maſquerades, to attend ſeriouſly to any pro⯑poſal, but was ſtill impatient for a new flatter⯑er, and neglected marriage as always in her power; till in time her admirers fell away, ſome wearied with treating, others diſguſted with her folly, and others offended by her in⯑conſtancy; ſhe heard of concerts to which ſhe was not invited, and was more than once for⯑ced to ſit ſtill at an aſſembly, for want of a partner. In this diſtreſs, chance threw in her way Philotryphus, a man vain, glittering, and thoughtleſs as herſelf, who had ſpent a ſmall fortune in equipage and dreſs, and was ſhining in the laſt ſuit for which his taylor would give him credit. He had been long endeavouring to retrieve his extravagance by marriage, and therefore ſoon paid his court to Melanthia, who after ſome weeks of inſenſibility at laſt ſaw him at a ball, and was wholly overcome by his performance in a minuet. They mar⯑ried; but a man cannot always dance, and Philotryphus had no other method of pleaſing: however, as neither was in any great degree vitious, they live together with no greater un⯑happineſs, than vacuity of mind, and that taſteleſſneſs of life, which proceeds from a ſa⯑tiety [42] of juvenile pleaſures, and an utter inabi⯑lity to fill their place by nobler and more ſuita⯑ble employments. As they have known the faſhionable world at the ſame time, they agree in their notions of all thoſe ſubjects on which they ever ſpeak, and being able to add nothing to the ideas of each other, they are much inclined to converſation, but very often join in one wiſh, "That they could dream more, and think leſs."

Argyris, after having refuſed a thouſand of⯑fers from men equal in rank and fortune, at laſt conſented to marry Cotylus, the younger brother of a duke, a man without elegance of mien, beauty of perſon, or force of under⯑ſtanding; who, while he courted her, could not always forbear alluſions to her birth, and hints how cheaply ſhe would purchaſe an al⯑liance to ſo illuſtrious a family. His conduct from the hour of his marriage has been inſuf⯑ferably 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 ſplendidly at⯑tended; and ſhe has, among all her mortifica⯑tions, the happineſs, which ſhe always deſi⯑red, of taking place of her elder ſiſter.

NUMB. 40, SATURDAY, Auguſt 4, 1750.

IT has been very frequently remarked, that authors are genus irritabile, a generation very eaſily put out of temper, and that they ſel⯑dom fail of giving proofs of their iraſcibility, upon the ſlighteſt attack of criticiſm, or the moſt gentle or modeſt offer of advice and in⯑formation.

AS writers have generally been moſt ac⯑quainted with one another, they have repre⯑ſented this character as chiefly prevailing among men of literature, which a more ex⯑tenſive view of the world would have ſhewn them to be diffuſed through all human nature, to mingle itſelf with every ſpecies of ambition, and deſire of praiſe, and to diſcover its effects with greater or leſs reſtraint, and under diſ⯑guiſes more or leſs artful, in every place and in every condition.

[44] THE quarrels of writers, indeed, are more obſerved, becauſe they neceſſarily appeal to the deciſion of the publick. Their enmities are incited by applauſes from their parties, and prolonged by treacherous encouragement for general diverſion; and when the conteſt hap⯑pens to riſe high between men of genius and learning, its memory is continued for the ſame reaſon as its vehemence was at firſt pro⯑moted, becauſe it gratifies the malevolence or curioſity of readers, and relieves the vacan⯑cies of life with amuſement and laughter. The perſonal diſputes, therefore, of rivals in wit are ſometimes tranſmitted to poſterity, when the grudges and heart-burnings of men leſs conſpicuous, though carried on with equal bitterneſs, and productive of greater evils, are expoſed to the knowledge of thoſe only whom they nearly affect, and ſuffered to paſs off and be forgotten among common and caſual tranſ⯑actions.

THE reſentment which the diſcovery of a fault or folly produces, muſt bear a certain proportion to our pride, and will regularly be more acrimonious as pride is more immedi⯑ately the principle of action. In whatever [45] therefore we wiſh or imagine ourſelves to ex⯑cel, we ſhall always be diſpleaſed to have our claims to reputation diſputed, and generally more diſpleaſed, if the accompliſhment be ſuch as can expect reputation only for its re⯑ward. For this reaſon it is common to find men break out into rage at any inſinuations to the diſadvantage of their wit, who have born with great patience reflections on their morals; and of women it has been always known, that no cenſure wounds ſo deeply, or rankles ſo long, as that which charges them with want of beauty.

AS men frequently fill their imaginations with trifling perſuits, and pleaſe themſelves moſt with things of ſmall importance, I have often known very ſevere and laſting ma⯑levolence excited by unlucky cenſures, which would have fallen without any effect, had they not happened to wound a part remarkably tender. Guſtulus, who valued himſelf upon the nicety of his palate, diſinherited his eldeſt ſon for telling him that the wine, which he was then commending, was the ſame which he had ſent away the day before as not fit to be drunk. Proculus withdrew his kindneſs from a nephew, whom he had always conſidered as [46] the moſt promiſing genius of the age, for hap⯑pening to praiſe in his preſence the graceful horſemanſhip of Marius. And Fortunio, when he was privy counſellor, procured a clerk to be diſmiſſed from one of the publick offices, in which he was eminent for his ſkill and aſſidu⯑ity, becauſe he had been heard to ſay over a bottle, that there was another man in the kingdom, on whoſe ſkill at billiards he would lay his money againſt Fortunio's.

FELICIA and Floretta had been bred up in one houſe, and ſhared all the pleaſures and en⯑dearments of infancy together. They enter⯑ed upon life at the ſame time, and continued their confidence and friendſhip; conſulted each other in every change of their dreſs, and every admiſſion of a new lover; thought every di⯑verſion more entertaining whenever it hap⯑pened that both were preſent, and when ſepa⯑rate juſtified the conduct, and celebrated the excellencies of one another. Such was their intimacy, and ſuch their fidelity; till a birth⯑night approached, when Floretta took one morning an opportunity, as they were conſul⯑ting upon new cloaths, to adviſe her friend not to dance at the ball, and informed her that her performance the year before had not [47] anſwered the expectation which her other ac⯑compliſhments had raiſed. Felicia commend⯑ed her ſincerity, and thanked her for the cau⯑tion; but told her that ſhe danced to pleaſe herſelf, and was in very little concern what the men might take the liberty of ſaying, but that if her appearance gave her dear Floretta any uneaſineſs ſhe would ſtay away. Floretta had now nothing left but to make new pro⯑teſtations of ſincerity and affection, with which Felicia was ſo well ſatisfied, that they parted with more than uſual fondneſs. They ſtill continued to viſit, with this only difference, that Felicia was more punctual than before, and often declared how high a value ſhe put upon ſincerity, how much ſhe thought that goodneſs to be eſteemed which would venture to admoniſh a friend of an error, and with what gratitude advice was to be received, even when it might happen to proceed from miſtake.

IN a few months Felicia, with great ſeri⯑ouſneſs, told Floretta, that though her beauty was ſuch as gave charms to whatever ſhe did, and her qualifications ſo extenſive, that ſhe could not fail of excellence in any attempt, yet ſhe thought herſelf obliged by the duties of [48] friendſhip to inform her, that if ever ſhe be⯑trayed want of judgment, it was by too fre⯑quent compliance with ſolicitations to ſing, for that her manner was ſomewhat ungraceful, and her voice had no great compaſs. It is true, ſays Floretta, when I ſung three nights ago at lady Sprightly's, I was hoarſe with a cold; but I ſing for my own ſatisfaction, and am not in the leaſt pain whether I am liked. However, my dear Felicia's kindneſs is not the leſs, and I ſhall always think myſelf hap⯑py in ſo true a friend.

FROM this time, they never ſaw each other without mutual profeſſions of eſteem, and declarations of confidence, but went ſoon af⯑ter into the country to viſit their relations. When they came back, they were prevailed on, by the importunity of new acquaintance, to take lodgings in different parts of the town, and had frequent occaſion when they met, to bewail the diſtance at which they were placed, and the uncertainty which each experienced of finding the other at home.

THUS are the fondeſt and firmeſt friend⯑ſhips diſſolved, by ſuch openneſs, and ſince⯑rity, as interrupt our enjoyment of our own [49] approbation, or recalls us to the remembrance of thoſe failings, which we are more willing to indulge than to correct.

IT is by no means neceſſary to imagine, that he who is offended at advice, was igno⯑rant of the fault, and reſents the admonition as a falſe charge; for perhaps it is moſt natu⯑ral to be enraged, when there is the ſtrongeſt conviction of our own guilt. While we can eaſily defend our character, we are no more diſturbed at an accuſation, than we are alarm⯑ed by an enemy whom we are ſure to conquer; and whoſe attack, therefore, will bring us honour without danger. But when a man feels the reprehenſion of a friend ſeconded by his own heart, he is eaſily heated into reſent⯑ment and revenge, either becauſe he hoped, that the fault of which he was conſcious had eſcaped the notice of others; or that his friend had looked upon it with tenderneſs and exte⯑nuation, and excuſed it for the ſake of his o⯑ther virtues; or had conſidered him as too wiſe to need advice, or too delicate to be ſhocked with reproach: or, becauſe we can⯑not feel without pain thoſe reflections rouſed, which we have been endeavouring to lay a⯑ſleep; and when pain has produced anger, [50] who would not willingly believe, that it ought to be diſcharged on others, rather than on himſelf.

THE reſentment produced by ſincerity, whatever be its immediate cauſe, is ſo certain, and generally ſo keen, that very few have magnanimity ſufficient for the practice of a duty, which, above moſt others, expoſes its votaries to hardſhips and perſecutions; yet friendſhip without it is of a very little value, ſince the great uſe of ſo cloſe an intimacy is that our virtues may be guarded and encour⯑aged, and our vices repreſſed in their firſt ap⯑pearance by timely detection, and ſalutary re⯑monſtrances.

IT is decreed by providence, that nothing truly valuable ſhall be obtained in our preſent ſtate, but with difficulty and danger. He that hopes for that pleaſure which is to be gained by an unreſtrained communication of ſenti⯑ments, muſt dare to hazard, by unpleaſing truths, that regard which he aſpires to merit. The chief rule to be obſerved in the exerciſe of this dangerous office, is to preſerve it pure from all mixture of intereſt or vanity; to for⯑bear admonition or reproof, when our con⯑ſciences [51] tell us that they are incited not by the hopes of reforming faults, but the deſire of ſhewing our diſcernment, or gratifying our own pride by the mortification of another. It is not indeed certain that the moſt refined caution will find a proper time, for bringing a man to the knowledge of his own failings, or the moſt zealous benevolence reconcile him to that judgment, by which they are detected; but he who endeavours only the happineſs of him whom he reproves, will always have either the ſatisfaction of obtaining or deſerving kind⯑neſs; if he ſucceeds, he benefits his friend, and if he fails, he has at leaſt the conſciouſneſs that he ſuffers for only doing well.

NUMB. 41. TUESDAY, Auguſt 7, 1750.

SO few of the hours of life are filled up with objects adequate to the mind of man, and ſo frequently are we in want of pre⯑ſent [25] pleaſure or employment, that we are for⯑ced to have recourſe every moment to the paſt and future for ſupplemental ſatisfactions, and relieve the vacuities of our being, by recol⯑lection of former paſſages, or anticipation of events to come.

I CANNOT but conſider this neceſſity of ſearching on every ſide for matter on which the attention may be employed, as a ſtrong proof of the ſuperior and celeſtial nature of the ſoul of man. We have no reaſon to believe that other creatures have higher faculties, or more extenſive capacities, than the preſervati⯑on of themſelves, or of their ſpecies, requires; they ſeem always to be fully employed, or to be completely at eaſe without employ⯑ment, to feel few intellectual miſeries or plea⯑ſures, and to have no exuberance of under⯑ſtanding to lay out upon curioſity or caprice, but to have their minds exactly adapted to their bodies, with few other ideas than ſuch as corporal pain or pleaſure impreſs upon them.

OF memory, which makes ſo large a part of the excellence of the human ſoul, and which has ſo much influence upon all its other [53] powers, but a ſmall portion has been allotted to the animal world. We do not find the grief, with which the dams lament the loſs of their young, proportionate to the tenderneſs with which they careſs, the aſſiduity with which they feed, or the vehemence with which they defend them. Their regard for their offspring, when it is before their eyes, is not, in appearance, leſs than that of a hu⯑man parent; but when it is taken away, it is very ſoon forgotten, and, after a ſhort abſence, if brought again, wholly diſregarded.

THAT they have very little remembrance of any thing once out of the reach of their ſenſes, and ſearce any power of comparing the preſent with the paſt, and regulating their concluſions from experience, may be gathered from this, that their intellects are produced in their full perfection. The ſparrow that was hatched laſt ſpring makes her firſt neſt the enſuing ſeaſon, of the ſame materials, and with the ſame art, as in any following year; and the hen conducts and ſhelters her firſt brood of chickens with all the prudence that ſhe ever attains.

IT has been aſked by men who love to per⯑plex [54] any thing that is plain to common under⯑ſtandings, how reaſon differs from inſtinct; and Prior has with no great propriety made Solomon himſelf declare, that, to diſtinguiſh them is the fool's ignorance, and the pedant's pride. To give an accurate anſwer to a queſ⯑tion, of which the terms are not compleatly underſtood, is impoſſible; we do not know in what either reaſon or inſtinct conſiſt, and therefore cannot tell with exactneſs how they differ; but ſurely he that contemplates a ſhip and a bird's neſt, will not be long without finding out, that the idea of the one was im⯑preſſed at once, and continued through all the progreſſive deſcents of the ſpecies, without va⯑riation or improvement; and that the other is the reſult of experiments compared with ex⯑periments, has grown, by accumulated obſer⯑vations, from leſs to greater excellence, and exhibits the collective knowledge of different ages, and various profeſſions.

MEMORY is the purveyor of reaſon, the power which places thoſe images before the mind upon which the judgment is to be exer⯑ciſed, and which treaſures up the determinati⯑on, that are once paſſed, as the rules of future action, or grounds of ſubſequent concluſions.

[55] IT is, indeed, the faculty of remembrance, which may be ſaid to place us in the claſs of moral agents. If we were to act only in con⯑ſequence of ſome immediate impulſe, and re⯑ceive no direction from internal motives of choice, we ſhould be puſhed forward by an invincible fatality, without power or reaſon for the moſt part to prefer one thing to ano⯑ther, becauſe we could make no compariſon but of objects which might both happen to be preſent.

WE owe to memory not only the increaſe of our knowledge, and our progreſs in ratio⯑nal enquiries, but many other intellectual plea⯑ſures. Indeed, almoſt all that we can be ſaid to enjoy is paſt or future; the preſent is in perpetual motion, leaves us as ſoon as it ar⯑rives, ceaſes to be preſent before its preſence is well perceived, and is only known to have ex⯑iſted by the effects which it leaves behind. The greateſt part of our ideas ariſes, there⯑fore, from the view before or behind us, and we are happy or miſerable, according as we are affected by the ſurvey of our life, or our proſpect of future exiſtence.

[56] WITH regard to futurity, when events are at ſuch a diſtance from us, that we cannot take the whole concatenation into our view, we have generally power enough over our ima⯑gination to turn it upon pleaſing ſcenes, and can promiſe ourſelves riches, honours, and delights, without intermingling thoſe vexati⯑ons and anxieties, with which all human en⯑joyments are polluted. If fear breaks in on one ſide, and alarms us with dangers and diſappointments, we can call in hope on the other, to ſolace us with rewards, and eſcapes, and victories; ſo that we are ſeldom without means of palliating remote evils, and can ge⯑nerally ſooth ourſelves to tranquillity, when⯑ever any troubleſome preſage happens to at⯑tack us.

IT is therefore, I believe, much more com⯑mon for the ſolitary and thoughtful, to amuſe themſelves with ſchemes of the future, than reviews of the paſt. For the future is pliant and ductile, and will be eaſily moulded by a ſtrong fancy into any form. But the images which memory preſents are of a ſtubborn and untractable nature, the objects of remem⯑brance have already exiſted, and left their ſig⯑nature [57] behind them impreſſed upon the mind, ſo as to defy all attempts of raſure, or of change.

AS the ſatisfactions, therefore, ariſing from memory are leſs arbitrary, they are more ſo⯑lid, and are, indeed, the only joys which we can call our own. Whatever we have once repoſited, as Dryden expreſſes it, in the ſacred treaſure of the paſt, is out of the reach of ac⯑cident, or violence, nor can be loſt either by our own weakneſs, or another's malice:

THERE is certainly no greater happineſs, than to be able to look back on a life uſefully and virtuouſly employed, to trace our own progreſs in exiſtence, by ſuch tokens as excite neither ſhame nor ſorrow. Life, in which nothing has been done or ſuffered to diſtin⯑guiſh one day from another, is to him that has paſſed it, as if it had never been, except that he is conſcious how ill he has huſbanded the great depoſit of his creator. Life, made me⯑morable by crimes, and diverſified thro' its [58] ſeveral periods by wickedneſs, is indeed eaſily reviewed, but reviewed only with horror and remorſe.

THE great conſideration which ought to in⯑fluence us in the uſe of the preſent moment, is to ariſe from the effect, which, as well or ill applied, it muſt have upon the time to come; for though its actual exiſtence be in⯑conceivably ſhort, yet its effects are unlimited, and there is not the ſmalleſt point of time but may extend its conſequences, either to our hurt or our advantage, through all eternity, and give us reaſon to remember it for ever, with anguiſh or exultation.

THE time of life, in which memory ſeems particularly to claim predominance over the other faculties of the mind, is our declining age. It has been remarked by former writers, that old men are generally narrative, and fall eaſily into recitals of paſt tranſactions, and accounts of perſons known to them in their youth. When we approach the verge of the grave it is more eminently true; ‘Vitae ſumma brevis ſpem nos vetat incloare longam.’ We have no longer any poſſibility of great vi⯑ciſſitudes [59] in our favour; the changes which are to happen in the world will come too late for our accommodation; and thoſe who have no hope before them, and to whom their pre⯑ſent ſtate is painful and irkſome, muſt of ne⯑ceſſity turn their thoughts back to try what retroſpect will afford. It ought, therefore, to be the care of thoſe who wiſh to paſs the laſt hours with comfort, to lay up ſuch a treaſure of pleaſing ideas, as ſhall ſupport the expenſes of that time, which is to depend wholly upon the fund already acquired.

IN youth, however unhappy, we ſolace ourſelves with the hope of better fortune, and, however vicious, appeaſe our conſciences with intentions of repentance; but the time comes at laſt, in which life has no more to promiſe, in which happineſs can be drawn only from recollection, and virtue will be all that we can recollect with pleaſure.

NUMB. 42. SATURDAY, Auguſt 11, 1750.

NUMB. 43. TUESDAY, Auguſt 14, 1750.

IT is obſerved by thoſe who have written on the conſtitution of the human body, and the original of thoſe diſeaſes by which it is afflicted, that every man comes into the world morbid, that there is no temperature ſo exactly regulated but that ſome humour is fatally pre⯑dominant, and that we are generally impreg⯑nated, in our firſt entrance upon life, with the ſeeds of that malady, which, in time, ſhall bring us to the grave.

THIS remark has been extended by others to the intellectual faculties. Some that ima⯑gine themſelves to have looked with more than common penetration into human nature, have [69] endeavoured to perſuade us, that each man is born with a mind formed peculiarly for certain purpoſes, and with deſires unalterably deter⯑mined to particular objects, from which the attention cannot be long diverted, and which alone, as they are well or ill perſued, muſt produce the praiſe or blame, the happineſs or miſery, of his future life.

THIS poſition has not, indeed, been hither⯑to proved with ſtrength proportionate to the aſſurance with which it has been advan⯑ced, and, perhaps, will never gain much prevalence by a cloſe examination.

IF the doctrine of innate ideas be itſelf diſ⯑putable, there ſeems to be little hope of eſta⯑bliſhing an opinion, which ſuppoſes that even complications of ideas have been given us at our birth, and that we are made by nature ambitious, or covetous, before we know the meaning of either power or money.

YET as every ſtep in the progreſſion of ex⯑iſtence changes our poſition with reſpect to the things about us, ſo as to lay us open to new aſſaults and particular dangers, and ſubjects us to inconveniences from which any other ſitu⯑ation [70] is exempt; as a publick or a private life, youth and age, wealth and poverty, have all ſome evil cloſely adherent, which can⯑not wholly be eſcaped but by quitting the ſtate to which it is annexed, and ſubmitting to the incumbrances of ſome other condition: ſo it cannot be denied that every difference in the ſtructure of the mind has its advantages and its wants; and that failures and defects being inſeparable from humanity, however the pow⯑ers of underſtanding be extended or contract⯑ed, there will on one ſide or the other always be an avenue to error and miſcarriage.

There ſeem to be ſome ſouls ſuited to great, and others to little employments; ſome for⯑med to ſoar aloft, and take in wide views, and others to grovel on the ground, and con⯑fine their regard to a narrow ſphere. Of theſe the one is always in danger of becoming uſe⯑leſs by a daring negligence, the other by a ſcrupulous ſolicitude; the one collects many ideas, but confuſed and indiſtinct; the other is buſied in minute accuracy, but without compaſs and without dignity.

THE general error of thoſe who poſſeſs powerful and elevated underſtandings, is, that [71] they form ſchemes of too great extent, and flatter themſelves too haſtily with ſucceſs; they feel their own force to be great, and, by the complacency with which every man ſur⯑veys himſelf, imagine it ſtill greater: they therefore look out for undertakings worthy of their abilities, and engage in them with very little precaution, for they imagine that every obſtruction will give way, and that, without any premeditated meaſures, they ſhall be able to find expedients in all difficulties. They are naturally apt to conſider all prudential max⯑ims as below their regard, to treat with con⯑tempt thoſe ſecurities and reſources which o⯑thers know themſelves obliged to provide, and diſdain to accompliſh their purpoſes by eſta⯑bliſhed means, and common gradations.

THIS precipitation, which is incited by the pride of intellectual ſuperiority, is very often fatal to great deſigns. The ſtrength and reſo⯑lution of the combat are ſeldom equal to the vehemence of the charge. He that meets with an oppoſit on which he did not expect, very quickly loſes his courage, and too ſoon con⯑ſiders the enterpriſe as deſperate, only becauſe he had before concluded it eaſy. The vio⯑lence of his firſt onſet is ſucceeded by a [72] laſting and unconquerable languor; the miſ⯑carriage ſeizes his faculties; his conviction of the unreaſonable confidence, with which he had flattered his own deſires, makes him fear⯑ful of giving way to new hopes; the contem⯑plation of an attempt, in which he has ſo far fallen below the expectations which he had in⯑dulged, is always painful and vexatious; he therefore naturally turns his attention to more pleaſing objects, and habituates his imaginati⯑on to other entertainments, till, by ſlow de⯑grees, he quits his firſt perſuit, and ſuffers ſome other project to take poſſeſſion of his thoughts, in which the ſame ardour of mind promiſes him again certain ſucceſs, and which diſappointments of the ſame kind compel him to abandon.

THUS too much vigour in the beginning of an undertaking, often intercepts and prevents the ſteadineſs and perſeverance always neceſſa⯑ry in the conduct of any complicated ſcheme, where many intereſts are to be connected, ma⯑ny movements to be adjuſted, and the joint effort of diſtinct and independent powers to be directed to a ſingle point. In all important events which have been ſuddenly brought to paſs, chance has been the agent rather than [73] reaſon; and, therefore, however thoſe, who ſeemed to preſide in the tranſaction, may have been celebrated by ſuch as loved or feared them, ſucceeding times have commonly conſidered them as fortunate rather than prudent. Every deſign in which the connexion is regularly traced from the firſt motion to the laſt, muſt be formed and executed by calm intrepidity, and requires not only courage which danger cannot turn aſide, but conſtancy which fa⯑tigues cannot weary, and contrivance which impediments cannot exhauſt.

ALL the performances of human art, at which we look with praiſe or wonder, are in⯑ſtances of the reſiſtleſs force of perſeverance: it is by this that the quarry becomes a pyramid, and that diſtant countries are united with ca⯑nals. If a man was to compare the effect of a ſingle ſtroke of the pick-ax, or of one im⯑preſſion of the ſpade, with the general deſign and laſt conſequence, he would be overwhelm⯑ed by the ſenſe of their diſproportion; yet thoſe petty operations, inceſſantly continued, in time ſurmount the greateſt difficulties, and mountains are levelled, and oceans bounded, by the ſlender force of human beings.

[74] IT is therefore of the utmoſt importance that thoſe who have any intention of deviating from the beaten roads of life, and acquiring a reputation ſuperior to the common names which are hourly ſinking into oblivion, and ſwept away by time among the refuſe of fame, ſhould add to their reaſon, and their ſpirit, the power of perſiſting in their purpoſes; acquire the art of ſapping what they cannot batter, and the habit of vanquiſhing obſtinate reſiſtance by obſtinate attacks.

THE ſtudent who would build his know⯑ledge on ſolid foundations, and proceed by juſt degrees to the pinacles of truth, is directed by the great philoſopher of France to begin by doubting of his own exiſtence. In like manner, whoever would complete any ardu⯑ous and intricate enterpriſe ſhould, as ſoon as his imagination can cool after the firſt blaze of hope, place before his own eyes every poſſible embarraſment that may retard or defeat him. He ſhould firſt queſtion the probability of ſuc⯑ceſs, and then endeavour to remove the ob⯑jections that he has raiſed. It is proper, ſays old Markham, to exerciſe your horſe on the more inconvenient ſide of the courſe, that if [75] he ſhould, in the race, be forced upon it, he may not be diſcouraged; and Horace adviſes his poetical friend to conſider every day as the laſt which he ſhall enjoy, becauſe that will al⯑ways give pleaſure which we receive beyond our hopes. If we alarm ourſelves beforehand with more difficulties than we really find, we ſhall be animated by unexpected facility with double ſpirit; and if we find our cautions and fears juſtified by the conſequence, there will however happen nothing againſt which provi⯑ſion has not been made, no ſudden ſhock will be received, nor will the main ſcheme be diſconcerted.

THERE is, indeed, ſome danger leſt he that too ſcrupulouſly balances probabilities, and too perſpicaciouſly foreſees obſtacles, ſhould remain always in a ſtate of inaction, without venturing upon attempts on which he will think it not unlikely that he may ſpend his la⯑bour without advantage. But previous de⯑ſpondence is not the fault of thoſe for whom this eſſay is deſigned; they who require to be warned againſt precipitation, will not ſuffer more fear to intrude into their contemplations than is neceſſary to allay the efferveſcence of an agitated fancy. As Des Cartes has kindly [76] ſhewn how a manmay prove to himſelf his own exiſtence, if once he can be prevailed upon to queſtion it, ſo the ardent and adventurous will not be long without finding ſome plauſible extenuation of the greateſt difficulties; and, indeed, ſuch is the uncertainty of all human affairs, that ſecurity and deſpair are equal fol⯑lies, and as it is preſumption and arrogance to anticipate triumphs, it is weakneſs and cow⯑ardice to prognoſticate miſcarriages. The numbers that have been ſtopped in their ca⯑reer of happineſs are ſufficient to ſhew the uncertainty of human foreſight; but there are not wanting contrary inſtances of ſuch ſucceſs obtained againſt all appearances, as may warrant the boldeſt flights of genius, if they are ſupported by unſhaken perſeve⯑rance.

NUMB. 44. SATURDAY, Auguſt 18, 1750.

NUMB. 45. TUESDAY, Auguſt 21, 1750.

NUMB. 46. SATURDAY, Auguſt 25, 1750.

NUMB. 47. TUESDAY, Auguſt 28, 1750.

OF the paſſions with which the mind of man is agitated, it may be obſerved, that they naturally haſten towards their own extinction by inciting and quickening the at⯑tainment of their objects. Thus fear urges our flight, and deſire animates our progreſs; and if there are ſome which perhaps may be indulged till they out-grow the good appro⯑priated to their ſatisfaction, as is frequently obſerved of avarice and ambition, yet their immediate tendency is to ſome means of hap⯑pineſs really exiſting, and generally within the proſpect. The miſer always imagines that [103] there is a cer ain ſum that will fill his heart to the brim; and the ambitious man, like king Pyrrhus, has an acquiſition in his thoughts that is to terminate his labours, after which he ſhall paſs the reſt of his life in eaſe or gay⯑ety, in repoſe or devotion.

SORROW is perhaps the only affection of the breaſt that can be excepted from this gene⯑ral remark, and it therefore deſerves the parti⯑cular attention of thoſe who have aſſumed the arduous province of preſerving the balance of our mental conſtitution, and of adminiſtering phyſick to the ſoul. The other paſſions are diſeaſes indeed, but they neceſſarily direct us to their proper cure. A man at once feels the pain, and knows the medicine, to which he is carried with greater haſte, as the evil which requires it is more excruciating, and cures himſelf by unerring inſtinct, as the wounded ſtags of Crete are related by Aelian to have re⯑courſe to vulnerary herbs. But for ſorrow there is no remedy provided by nature, it is often occaſioned by accidents irreparable, and dwells upon objects that have loſt or changed their exiſtence; it requires what it cannot hope, that the laws of nature ſhould be re⯑pealed, [104] that the dead ſhould return, or the paſt ſhould be recalled.

SORROW is not that regret for negligence or error which may animate us to future care or activity, or that repentance of crimes for which, however irrevocable, our creator has promiſed to accept it as an attonement; the pain which ariſes from theſe cauſes has very ſalutary effects, and is every hour extenuating itſelf by the reparation of thoſe miſcarriages that produce it. Sorrow is properly that ſtate of the mind in which our deſires are fixed upon the paſt, without looking forward to the fu⯑ture, an inceſſant wiſh that ſomething were otherwiſe than it has been, a tormenting and haraſſing want of ſome enjoyment or poſſeſſi⯑on which we have loſt, and which no endea⯑vours can poſſibly regain. Into ſuch anguiſh many have ſunk upon ſome ſudden diminuti⯑on of their fortune, an unexpected blaſt of their reputation, or the loſs of children or friends. They have ſuffered all ſenſibility of pleaſure to be deſtroyed by a ſingle blow, have given up for ever the hopes of ſubſtituting any other object in the room of that which they lament, have reſigned the remaining part of their lives to gloom and ſolitude, com⯑plaints [105] and deſpondency, worn themſelves out in unavailing miſery, and ſunk down at laſt under their burthen.

YET ſo much is this paſſion the natural conſequence of tenderneſs and endearment, that, however painful and however uſeleſs, it is juſtly reproachful not to feel it on ſome oc⯑caſions; and ſo widely and conſtantly has it always prevailed, that the laws of ſome na⯑tions, and the cuſtoms of others, have limited a time for the external appearances of grief cauſed by the diſſolution of cloſe alliances, and the breach of domeſtic union.

IT ſeems determined, by the general ſuffrage of mankind, that ſorrow is to a certain point laudable, as the offspring of love, or at leaſt pardonable as the effect of weakneſs; but that it ought not to be ſuffered to increaſe by in⯑dulgence, but muſt give way, after a ſtated time, to ſocial duties, and the common avo⯑cations of life. It is at firſt unavoidable, and therefore muſt be allowed, whether with or without our choice; it may afterwards be ad⯑mitted as a decent and affectionate teſtimony of kindneſs and eſteem; ſomething will be extorted by nature, and ſomething may be giv⯑en [106] to the world. But all beyond the burſts of paſſion, or the forms of ſolemnity, is not only uſeleſs, but culpable; for we have no righ to ſacrifice, to the vain longings of affection, that time which providence allows us for the taſk of our ſtation.

YET it too often happens that ſorrow, thus lawfully entering, gains ſuch a firm poſſeſſion of the mind, that it is not afterwards to be ejected; the mournful ideas, firſt violently im⯑preſſed, and afterwards willingly received, ſo much engroſs the attention, as to predominate in every meditation, to intrude uncalled, to darken gayety, and perplex ratiocination. An habitual ſadneſs then ſeizes upon the ſoul, and the faculties are chained to a ſingle object, which can never be contemplated but with hopeleſs uneaſineſs.

This is a ſtate of dejection from which it is often very difficult to riſe to chearfulneſs and alacrity, and therefore many who have laid down ſpeculative rules of mental health, think preſervatives eaſier than remedies, and teach us not to truſt ourſelves with favourite enjoyments, not to indulge the luxury of fond⯑neſs, [107] but to keep our minds always ſuſpended in ſuch a ſtate of indifference, that we may change any of the objects about us without in⯑convenience or emotion.

AN exact compliance with this rule might, perhaps, contribute to tranquillity, but ſurely it would never produce happineſs. He that regards none ſo much as to be afraid of loſing them, muſt live for ever without the gentle pleaſures of ſympathy and confidence; he muſt feel no melting fondneſs, no warmth of benevolence, nor any of thoſe honeſt joys which nature annexes to the power of plea⯑ſing. And as no man can juſtly claim more tenderneſs than he pays, he muſt forfeit his ſhare in all that officious and watchful kindneſs which love only can dictate, and all thoſe le⯑nient endearments by which love only can ſoft⯑en life. He may juſtly be overlooked and ne⯑glected by ſuch as have more warmth in their heart; for who would be the friend of him, whom, with whatever aſſiduity he may be courted, and with whatever ſervices obliged, his principles will not ſuffer to make equal re⯑turns, and who, when you have exhauſted all the inſtances of good will, can only be prevail⯑ed on not to be an enemy?

[108] AN attempt to preſerve life in a ſtate of neutrality and indifference, is unreaſonable and vain. If by excluding joy we could ſhut out grief, the ſcheme would deſerve very ſe⯑rious attention; but ſince, however we may debar ourſelves from happineſs, miſery will find its way at many inlets, and the aſſaults of pain will force our regards, though we may withhold it from the invitations of plea⯑ſure, we may ſurely endeavour to raiſe life a⯑bove the middle point of apathy at one time, ſince it will neceſſarily ſink below it at another.

BUT though it cannot be reaſonable not to gain happineſs for fear of loſing it, yet it muſt be confeſſed, that in proportion to the pleaſure of poſſeſſion, will be for ſome time our ſorrow for the loſs; but it is the province of the moraliſt to enquire whether ſuch pains may not quickly give way to mitigation. Some have thought, that the moſt certain way to clear the heart from its embarraſſment is to drag it by force into ſcenes of merriment. Others imagine, that ſuch a tranſition is too violent, and recommend rather to ſooth it in⯑to tranquillity, by making it acquainted with miſeries more dreadful and afflictive, and di⯑verting to the calamities of others the regard [109] which we are inclined to fix too cloſely upon our own misfortunes.

IT may be doubted whether either of thoſe remedies will be ſufficiently powerful. The efficacy of mirth it is not always eaſy to try, and the indulgence of melancholy may be ſuſpected to be one of thoſe medicines, which will deſtroy, if it happens not to cure.

THE ſafe and general antidote againſt ſor⯑row, is employment. It is commonly obſer⯑ved, that among ſoldiers and ſeamen, though there is much kindneſs, there is little grief; they ſee their friend fall without any of that lamentation which is indulged in ſecurity and idleneſs, becauſe they have no leiſure to ſpare from the care of themſelves; and whoever ſhall keep his thoughts equally buſy, will find him⯑ſelf equally unaffected with irretrievable loſſes.

TIME is obſerved generally to wear out ſor⯑row, and its effects might doubtleſs be accele⯑rated by quickening the ſucceſſion and enlarg⯑ing the variety of objects.

[110] SORROW is a kind of ruſt of the ſoul, which every new idea contributes in its paſſage to ſcour away. It is the putrefaction of ſtagnant life, and is remedied by exerciſe and motion.

NUMB. 48. SATURDAY, Sept. 1, 1750.

AMONG the innumerable follies, by which we lay up in our youth repen⯑tance and remorſe for the ſucceeding part of our lives, there is ſcarce any thing againſt which warnings are of leſs efficacy, than the neglect of health. When the ſprings of mo⯑tion are in their full ſtrength, when the heart bounds with vigour, and the eye ſparkles with ſpirit, it is with difficulty, that we are taught to conceive the imbecillity and tenderneſs that every hour is bringing upon us, or to ima⯑gine, that the nerves which are now braced with ſo much ſtrength, and the limbs which play with ſo much activity, will loſe all their power under the gripe of time, relax with numbneſs, and totter with debility.

[111] AMONG the arguments which have been uſed againſt complaints under the miſeries of life, the philoſophers have, I think, forgot to mention the incredulity of thoſe to whom we tell our ſufferings. But if the purpoſe of lamentation be to excite pity, and if pity muſt preſuppoſe ſympathy, it is ſurely ſuperflu⯑ous for age and weakneſs to tell their plaintive ſtories; for a little attention will ſhew them, that thoſe who do not feel pain, ſeldom think that it is felt; and a ſhort recollection will in⯑form almoſt every man, that he is only repaid the inſult which he has given, ſince he may remember how often he has treated infirmity with contempt, mocked its cautions, and cenſured its impatience.

THE valetudinarian race have made the care of health ridiculous by ſuffering it to pre⯑vail over all other conſiderations, as the miſer has brought frugality into contempt, by per⯑mitting the love of money not to ſhare but to engroſs his mind: they both err alike, by confounding the means with the end; they graſp at health only to be well, as at money only to be rich; and forget that every ter⯑reſtrial advantage is chiefly valuable, as it fur⯑niſhes abilities for the exerciſe of virtue.

[112] HEALTH is, indeed, ſo neceſſary to all the duties, as well as pleaſures of life, that the crime of ſquandering it is equal to the folly; and he that for the ſake of a few ſhort gratifi⯑cations brings weakneſs and diſeaſes upon himſelf, and for the pleaſure of a few years paſſed in riot and noiſe, in the tumults of di⯑verſion, and clamours of merriment, con⯑demns the maturer and more experienced part of his life to the chamber and the couch, may be juſtly reproached, not only as a ſpendthrift of his own happineſs, but as a robber of the publick; as a wretch that has voluntarily diſ⯑qualified himſelf for the buſineſs of his ſtation, and refuſed that part which providence aſſigns him in the general taſk of human nature.

THERE are perhaps very few conditions more to be pitied than that of an active and elevated mind, labouring under the weight of a diſtempered body; the time of ſuch a man is always ſpent in forming ſchemes, which a change of wind hinders him from executing, his powers fume away in projects and in hope, and the day of action never arrives. He lies down delighted with the thoughts of [113] to-morrow, pleaſes his ambition with the ſame he ſhall acquire, or his benevolence with the good he ſhall confer. But in the night the ſkies are overcaſt, the temper of the air is changed, he wakes in languor, impatience, and diſtraction, and has no longer any wiſh but for eaſe, nor any attention but to miſery. It may be ſaid that diſeaſe generally begins that equality which death completes; the diſtincti⯑ons which ſet one man ſo much above another are very little perceived in the gloom of a ſick chamber, where it will be in vain to expect entertainment from the gay, or inſtruction from the wiſe, where all human glory is obli⯑terated, where the wit is clouded, the reaſon⯑ner embarraſſed, and the hero ſubdued; where the higheſt and brighteſt of mortal beings finds nothing left him but the conſciouſneſs of in⯑nocence.

THERE is among the fragments of the Greek poets a ſhort hymn to Health, in which her power of exalting the happineſs of life, of heightening the gifts of fortune, and ad⯑ding enjoyment to poſſeſſion, is inculcated with ſo much force and beauty, that no one, at leaſt no one who has ever languiſhed under the diſcomforts and infirmities of a lingering [114] diſeaſe, can read it without feeling the images dance in his heart, and adding from his own experience new vigour to the wiſh, and from his own imagination new colours to the pic⯑ure. The particular occaſion of this little com⯑poſition is not known, but it is probable that the author had been ſick, and in the firſt rap⯑tures of returning vigour addreſſed Health in the following manner: ‘ [...]’ ‘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 thy reſidence. For whatever there is of beauty or of pleaſure in wealth, in deſcendants, or in ſovereign command the higheſt ſummit of hu⯑man enjoyment, or in thoſe objects of deſire which [115] 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 pre⯑ſence, thou parent of happineſs, all thoſe joys ſpread out and flouriſh; in thy preſence blooms the ſpring of pleaſure, and without thee there is no gladneſs.’

SUCH is the power of health, that with⯑out its cooperation every other comfort is tor⯑pid 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 remembring its value, or waſte it to ſhew how much we have to ſpare; it is ſometimes given up to the ma⯑nagement of levity and chance, and ſome⯑times ſold for the applauſe of jollity and de⯑bauchery.

HEALTH is equally neglected, and with equal impropriety, by the votaries of buſineſs and the followers of pleaſure. Some men ru⯑in the fabrick of their bodies by inceſſant re⯑vels, and others by intemperate ſtudies; ſome batter it by exceſs, and others ſap it by inacti⯑vity. To the noiſy rout of bacch analian rio⯑ters it will be to little purpoſe that advice is [116] 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 conſider, that the greater good ought not to be ſacrifi⯑ced to the leſs. Health is certainly more va⯑luable than money, becauſe it is by health that money is procured; but thouſands and mil⯑lions are of ſmall avail to alleviate the pro⯑tracted tortures of the gout, to repair the bro⯑ken 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.

THOSE who loſe their health in an irregu⯑lar and impetuous perſuit of literary accom⯑pliſhments are yet leſs to be excuſed; for as [117] they profeſs argument and reflection, they ought to know that the body is not forced be⯑yond its ſtrength, but with the loſs of more vigour than is proportionate to the effect pro⯑duced; and that whoever takes up life before⯑hand, by depriving himſelf of reſt and refreſh⯑ment, 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 liſtleſneſs of languor, and the implacability of pain; they whoſe endeavour is mental excellence, will learn at laſt, perhaps too late, how much it is endangered by diſ⯑eaſes of the body, and find that knowledge may eaſily be loſt in the ſtarts of melancholy, the flights of impatience, and the peeviſhneſs of decrepitude.

NUMB. 49. TUESDAY, September 4, 1750.

THE firſt motives of human actions are thoſe appetites which providence has giv⯑en to moſt, in common with the reſt of the in⯑habitants [118] of the earth. Immediately after our birth, thirſt and hunger incline us to the breaſt, whch we draw by inſtinct, like other young creatures, and, when we are ſatisfied, we expreſs our uneaſineſs by importunate 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 quick⯑ly 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 near⯑ly; but by degrees we diſcover it at a greater diſtance, and find it lurking in remote conſe⯑quences. Our terror in time improves into caution, and we learn to look round with vi⯑gilance 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 [119] procure ſome poſitive good, or avert ſome evil greater than itſelf.

BUT as the ſoul advances to a fuller exer⯑ciſe of its powers, the animal appetites, and the paſſions immediately ariſing from them, are not ſufficient to find it employment; the wants of nature are ſoon ſupplied, the fear of their return is eaſily precluded, and ſome⯑thing more is neceſſary to relieve the long in⯑tervals of inactivity, and to give thoſe facul⯑ties, which cannot lie wholly quieſcent, ſome particular direction. For this reaſon now de⯑ſires and artificial paſſions are by degrees pro⯑duced; and, from having wiſhes only in con⯑ſequence of our wants, we begin to feel wants in conſequence of our wiſhes; we perſuade ourſelves to ſet a value upon things which are of no uſe, but becauſe we have agreed to va⯑lue 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 and barbarous manners keep them al⯑ways anxious for the neceſſaries of life.

THIS is the original of avarice, vanity, ambition, and generally of all thoſe deſires [120] which ariſe from the compariſon of our con⯑dition with that of others. He that thinks himſelf poor, becauſe his neighbour is richer; he that like Caeſar would rather be the firſt man of a village than the ſecond in the capital of the world, has apparently kindled in him⯑ſelf deſires which he never received from na⯑ture, and acts upon principles eſtabliſhed only by the authority of cuſtom.

OF thoſe adſcititious paſſions, ſome, as a⯑varice 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 pro⯑mote the happineſs, or increaſe the miſeries of mankind.

OF this ambiguous and diſputable kind is the love of fame, a deſire of filling the minds of others with admiration, and of being cele⯑brated by generations to come with praiſes which we ſhall not hear. This ardour has been conſidered by ſome, as nothing better than ſplendid madneſs, as a flame kindled by pride, and fanned by folly; for what, ſay they, can be more remote from wiſdom, than to di⯑rect [121] 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 wild⯑ly put upon it, ariſes from this particular con⯑dition, that, during life, it is not to be obtain⯑ed? To gain the favour, and hear the applauſes of our contemporaries, is indeed equally deſir⯑able with any other prerogative of ſuperiori⯑ty, becauſe fame may be of uſe to ſmooth the paths of life, to terrify oppoſition, and fortify tranquillity; but to what end ſhall we be the darlings of mankind, when we can no longer receive any benefits from their favour? It is more reaſonable to wiſh for reputation while it may be yet enjoyed, as Anacreon calls upon his companions to give him for preſent uſe the wine and garlands which they purpoſe to be⯑ſtow upon his tomb.

THE advocates for the love of fame allege in its vindication, that it is a paſſion natural and univerſal; a flame lighted by heaven, and always burning with greateſt vigour in the moſt enlarged and elevated minds. That the deſire of being praiſed by poſterity implies a reſolution to deſerve their praiſes, and that the folly charged upon it, is only a noble and [122] 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 con⯑tracted 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 cooperating with future ages, and as coex⯑tended with endleſs duration. That the cen⯑ſure urged with ſo much petulance, the re⯑proach of labouring for what cannot be en⯑joyed, is founded on an opinion which may with great probability be queſtioned; for ſince we ſuppoſe the powers of the ſoul to be en⯑larged by its ſeparation, why ſhould we con⯑clude that its knowledge of ſublunary tranſac⯑tions is contracted or extinguiſhed?

UPON an attentive and impartial review of the argument, it will appear that the love of fame is to be regulated, rather than extinguiſh⯑ed; 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 repu⯑tation will be able to tranſmit any pleaſure be⯑yond the grave.

[123] IT is evident that fame, conſidered [...] as the immortality of a name, is not leſs like⯑ly to be the reward of bad actions than of good; and that therefore he has no certain principle for the regulation of his conduct, whoſe ſingle aim is not to be forgotten; and hiſ⯑tory will inform us, that this blind and undiſ⯑tinguiſhing appetite of renown has always been uncertain in its effects, and directed by acci⯑dent or opportunity, indifferently to the be⯑nefit or devaſtation of the world. When The⯑miſtocles complained that the trophies of Mil⯑tiades hindered him from ſleep, he was ani⯑mated 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 ambiti⯑on break out to the ruin of his country.

IF, therefore, the love of ſame is ſo far in⯑dulged by the mind as to become independent and predominant, it is dangerous and irregular; but it may be uſefully employed as an inferior 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 [124] our laſt. But it muſt be ſtrongly impreſſed upon our minds, that virtue is not to be per⯑ſued 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 advan⯑tage; it is a privilege which ſatire as well as panegyric can confer, and is not more enjoy⯑ed by Titus or Conſtantine, than by Timocre⯑on of Rhodes, of whom we only know from his epitaph, that he had eaten many a meal, drank many a flaggon, and uttered many a re⯑proach. ‘ [...]’

THE true ſatisfaction which is to be drawn from the conſciouſneſs that we ſhall ſhare the attention of future times, muſt ariſe from the hope, that, with our name, our virtues will be propagated; and that thoſe whom we can⯑not benefit in our lives, may receive inſtructi⯑on from our examples, and incitement from our renown.

NUMB. 50. SATURDAY, Sept, 8, 1750.

I HAVE always thought it the buſineſs of thoſe who turn their ſpeculations upon the living world, to admire and commend the virtues, as well as to expoſe and cenſure the faults of their contemporaries, and to confute a falſe as well as to ſupport a juſt accuſation; not only becauſe it is peculiarly the buſineſs of a monitor to keep his own reputation with⯑out taint, leſt thoſe who can once charge him with partiality, ſhould indulge themſelves afterwards in diſbelieving him at pleaſure; but becauſe he may find real crimes ſufficient to give full employment to caution or repen⯑tance, without diſtracting the mind by need⯑leſs ſcruples and vain ſolicitudes.

THERE are certain fixed and ſtated reproach⯑es that one part of mankind has in all ages [126] thrown upon another, which are regularly tranſmitted through continued ſucceſſions, and which he that has once ſuffered them is cer⯑tain to uſe with the ſame undiſtinguiſhing ve⯑hemence, when he has changed his ſtation, and gained the preſcriptive right of impoſing on others, what he had formerly endured himſelf.

TO theſe hereditary imputations, of which no man ſees the juſtice, till it becomes his in⯑tereſt to ſee it, very little regard is to be ſhewn; ſince it does not appear that they are produced by ratiocination or enquiry, but re⯑ceived implicitly, or caught by a kind of in⯑ſtantaneous contagion, and ſupported rather by willingneſs to credit, than ability to prove them.

IT has been, in all ages of the world, the practice of thoſe who are deſirous to believe themſelves made venerable by length of time, to cenſure the new comers into life, for want of reſpect to grey hairs and ſage experience, for heady conſidence in their own underſtand⯑ings, for haſty concluſions upon partial views, for a contemptuous diſregard of thoſe ſalutary counſels, which their fathers and grandſires [127] are always ready to afford them, and a rebelli⯑ous impatience of that ſubordination to which youth is condemned by nature, as neceſſary to its ſecurity from thoſe evils into which it would be otherwiſe inevitably precipitated, by the raſhneſs of paſſion, and the blindneſs of ignorance.

EVERY old man complains of the growing depravity of the world, of the petulance and inſolence of the riſing generation. He re⯑counts the decency and regularity of former times, and celebrates the diſcipline and ſobriety of the age in which his youth was paſſed; a happy age which is now no more to be ex⯑pected, ſince confuſion has broke in upon the world, and thrown down all the boundaries of civility, reverence, and obedience.

IT is not always ſufficiently conſidered how much he aſſumes, who dares to claim the pri⯑vilege of complaining: for as every man has in his own opinion a full ſhare of the miſe⯑ries of life, he is inclined to conſider all cla⯑morous uneaſineſs, as a proof of impatience rather than of affliction, and to aſk, What me⯑rit has this man to ſhow, by which he has ac⯑quired a right to repine at the diſtributions of [128] nature? Or why does he imagine that exemp⯑tions ſhould be granted him from the general condition of man? We find ourſelves excited rather to captiouſneſs than pity, and inſtead of being in haſte to ſooth his complaints by ſym⯑pathy and tenderneſs, we enquire, whether the pain be proportionate to the lamentation, and whether, ſuppoſing his afflictions real, they are not the effect of vice and folly, rather than of calamity.

THE querulouſneſs and indignation which is obſerved ſo often to disfigure the laſt ſcene of life, naturally leads us to enquiries like theſe. For ſurely it will be thought at the firſt view of things, that if age be thus con⯑temned and ridiculed, inſulted and neglected, the crime muſt at leaſt be equal on either part; ſince they who have had ſo many opportuni⯑ties of eſtabliſhing their authority over minds ductile and unreſiſting, they who have been the protectors of helpleſſneſs, and the inſtruct⯑ors of ignorance, and who yet retain in their own hands the power of wealth, and the dig⯑nity of command, muſt defeat their influence by their own miſconduct, and make uſe of all theſe advantages with very little ſkill, if they can⯑not ſecure to themſelves an appearance of re⯑ſpect, [129] and ward off open mockery, and declar⯑ed contempt.

THE general ſtory of mankind will evince, that lawful and ſettled authority is very ſeldom reſiſted when it is well employed, and that groſs corruption, or evident imbecillity is ne⯑ceſſary to the conqueſt of that prepoſſeſſion with which the majority of mankind look upon their governors, on thoſe whom they ſee ſur⯑rounded by ſplendor, and fortified by power: for tho' men are drawn by their paſſions into forgetfulneſs of inviſible rewards and puniſh⯑ments, yet they are eaſily kept obedient to thoſe who have temporal dominion in their hands, till their veneration is diſſipated by ſuch wickedneſs and folly as can neither be de⯑fended, palliated nor concealed.

IT may, therefore, very reaſonably be ſuſ⯑pected that the old draw upon themſelves the greateſt part of thoſe inſults, which they ſo much lament, and that age is rarely deſpiſed but when it is contemptible. If men imagine that exceſs or debauchery can be made reve⯑rend by time, that knowledge is the conſe⯑quence of long life however idly and thought⯑leſly employed, that priority of birth will ſup⯑ply [130] the want of ſteadineſs or honeſty, and that the regard will be paid to wrinkles, which is due only to wiſdom, can it raiſe much won⯑der that their hopes are diſappointed, and that they ſee their poſterity rather willing to truſt their own eyes in their progreſs into life, than enliſt themſelves under guides who have loſt their way?

THERE are, indeed, many truths which time neceſſarily and certainly teaches, and which might, by thoſe who have learned them from experience, be communicated to their ſucceſſors at a cheaper rate: but dictates, though liberally enough beſtowed, are gene⯑rally without effect, becauſe they are ſeldom re⯑commended by ſufficient authority; the teach⯑er gains few proſelytes by inſtruction which his own behaviour contradicts; young men miſs the benefit of counſel, becauſe they want the more powerful attraction of exam⯑ple, and are not very ready to believe that thoſe who fall below them in practice, can much excel them in theory. Thus the pro⯑greſs of mankind in knowledge is retarded, the world is kept long in the ſame ſtate, and every new race is to gain the prudence of their [131] predeceſſors by commiting and redreſſing the ſame miſcarriages.

TO ſecure to the old that influence which they are willing to claim, and which might ſo much contribute to the improvement of the arts of life, it is abſolutely neceſſary that they give themſelves up to the duties of declining years; and contentedly reſign to youth its le⯑vity, its pleaſures, its frolicks, and its ſoppe⯑ries. It is a lifeleſs endeavour to unite the con⯑trarieties of ſpring and winter, and unjuſt to claim the privileges of age, and retain the play-things of childhood. Young men al⯑ways form magnificent ideas of the wiſdom and gravity of thoſe, whom they conſider as pla⯑ed at a diſtance from them in the ranks of ex⯑iſtence, and naturally look on thoſe whom they find triſſing with long beards, and luxurious and vain on the brink of the grave, with contempt and indignation, like that which women feel at the effeminacy of men. If dotards will contend with boys in thoſe performances in which boys muſt always excel them; if they will dreſs crippled limbs in embroidery, and endeavour at gayety with faltering voices; if they will drag infirmity to the ball, and darken aſſemblies of pleaſure with the ghaſtli⯑neſs [132] of diſeaſe, they may well expect that thoſe who find their diverſions obſtructed will hoot them away; and that if they deſcend to competition with youth, they muſt bear the inſolence of ſucceſsful rivals.

ANOTHER vice of age, by which the riſing generation may be alienated from it, is ſeveri⯑ty and cenſoriouſneſs; a diſpoſition of mind that gives no allowance to the failings of early life, that expects artfulneſs from childhood, and conſtancy from youth, that is peremptory in every command, and inexorable to every failure. There are many who live merely to hinder happineſs, and whoſe deſcendants can only tell of long life, that it produces ſuſpi⯑cion, malignity, peeviſhneſs and perſecution: and yet even they can talk of the ingratitude of the age, curſe their heirs for impatience, and wonder that young men cannot take plea⯑ſure in their fathers' company.

He that would paſs the latter part of life with honour and decency, muſt, when he is young, conſider that he ſhall one day be old; [133] and lay up knowledge for his ſupport, when his powers of acting ſhall forſake him; and remember when he is old that he has once been young, and forbear to animadvert with unne⯑ceſſary rigour on faults which experience only can correct.

NUMB. 51. TUESDAY, Sept. 10, 1750.

NUMB. 52. SATURDAY, September 15, 1750.

AMONG the various methods of conſo⯑lation, to which the miſeries inſepa⯑rable from our preſent ſtate have given occaſi⯑on, it has been, as I have already remark⯑ed, recommended by ſome writers to put the ſufferer in mind of heavier preſſures, and more excruciating calamities, than thoſe of which he has himſelf reaſon to complain.

THIS has, in all ages, been directed and practiſed; and, in conformity to this cuſtom, Lipſius, the great modern maſter of the Stoic philoſophy, has, in his celebrated treatiſe on ſteadineſs of mind, endeavoured to fortify the breaſt againſt too much ſenſibility of misfor⯑tune, by enumerating the great evils which have in former ages fallen upon the world, the devaſtation of wide-extended regions, the ſack of cities, and the maſſacre of nations. [144] And the common voice of the multitude un⯑inſtructed by precept, and unprejudiced by authority, which, in queſtions that relate to the heart of man, is, in my opinion, more deciſive than the learning of Lipſius, ſeems to juſtify the efficacy of this procedure; for one of the firſt comforts which one neighbour ad⯑miniſters to another, is a relation of the like infelicity, combined with circumſtances of greater bitterneſs.

BUT this medicine of the mind is like ma⯑ny remedies applied to the body, of which, though we ſee the effects, moſt are unac⯑quainted with the manner of operation, and of which, therefore, ſome, who are unwilling to ſuppoſe any thing out of the reach of their own ſagacity, have been inclined to doubt whether they have really thoſe virtues for which they are celebrated, and whether their reputation is not the mere gift of fancy, pre⯑judice and credulity.

CONSOLATION, or comfort, are words which, in their proper acceptation, ſignify ſome alleviation of that pain to which it is not in our power to afford the proper and ad⯑equate remedy; they imply rather an aug⯑mentation [145] of the power of bearing, than a diminution of the burthen. A priſoner is re⯑lieved by him that ſets him at liberty, but re⯑ceives comfort from ſuch as ſuggeſts conſider⯑ations by which he is enabled to be more pa⯑tient under the inconvenience of confinement. To that grief which ariſes from a great loſs he only brings the true remedy, who makes his friend's condition the ſame as before; but he may be properly termed a comforter, who by his counſel and perſuaſions extenuates the pain of poverty, and ſhews, in the ſtyle of He⯑ſiod, that half is more than the whole.

IT is, perhaps, not immediately obvious, how it can lull the memory of misfortune, or appeaſe the throbbings of anguiſh, to hear that others are more miſerable; others, per⯑haps, unknown or wholly indifferent, whoſe proſperity raiſes no envy, and whoſe fall can gratify no reſentment. Some topics of com⯑fort ariſing, like that which gave hope and ſpirit to the captive of Seſoſtris, from the perpetual viciſſitudes of life, and mutability of human affairs, may as properly raiſe the dejected as depreſs the proud, and have an im⯑mediate and neceſſary tendency to exhilarate and revive. But how can it avail the man [146] who languiſhes in the gloom of ſorrow, with⯑out proſpect of emerging into the ſunſhine of chearfulneſs, to hear that others are ſunk yet deeper in the dungeon of miſery, ſhackled with heavier chains, and ſurrounded with darker deſperation?

THE ſolace ariſing from this conſideration ſeems, indeed, the weakeſt of all others, and is, perhaps, never properly applied, but in caſes where there is no place for reflexions of more ſpeedy and pleaſing efficacy. But even from ſuch calamities life is by no means free; a thouſand ills incurable, a thouſand loſſes ir⯑reparable, a thouſand difficulties inſurmount⯑able, are known, or will be known, by all the ſons of men. Native deformity cannot be rectified, a dead friend cannot return, and the hours of youth trifled away in folly, or loſt in ſickneſs, cannot be reſtored.

UNDER the oppreſſion of ſuch melancholy it has been found uſeful to take a ſurvey of the world, to contemplate the various ſcenes of diſtreſs in which mankind are ſtruggling round us, and acquaint ourſelves with the terribiles viſu formae, the various ſhapes of miſery, which make havock of terreſtrial happineſs, [147] range all corners almoſt without reſtraint, trample down our hopes at the hour of harveſt, and when we have built our ſchemes to the top, ruin their foundations.

THE firſt effect of this meditation is, that it furniſhes a new employment for the mind, and engages the paſſions to remoter objects; as kings have ſometimes freed themſelves from the turbulence of a ſubject too haughty to be governed, and too powerful to be cruſhed, by poſting him in a diſtant province, till his popularity has ſubſided, or his pride been re⯑preſſed. The attention is diſſipated by variety, and acts more weakly upon any ſingle part, as that torrent may be drawn off to different channels, which, pouring down in one collect⯑ed body, cannot be reſiſted. This ſpecies of comfort is, therefore, uſeleſs in ſevere pa⯑roxyſms of corporal pain, when the mind is every inſtant called back to miſery, and in the firſt ſhock of any ſudden evil; but will cer⯑tainly be of uſe againſt encroaching melan⯑choly, and a ſettled habit of gloomy thoughts.

IT is further advantageous as it ſupplies us with opportunities of making compariſons in our own favour. We know that very little [148] of the pain, or pleaſure, which does not be⯑gin and end in our ſenſes, is otherwiſe than relative; we are rich or poor, great or little, in proportion to the number that excel us, or fall beneath us, in any of theſe reſpects; and therefore, a man, whoſe uneaſineſs ariſes from reflection on any misfortune that throws him below thoſe with whom he was once equal, is comforted by finding that he is not yet loweſt.

BUT there is another kind of compariſon, leſs tending towards the vice of envy, very well illuſtrated by an old poet, whoſe ſyſtem will not afford many reaſonable motives to content. 'It is,' ſays he, 'pleaſing to look from ſhore upon the tumults of a ſtorm, and to ſee a ſhip ſtruggling with the billows; it is pleaſing, not becauſe the pain of ano⯑ther can give us delight, but becauſe we have a ſtronger impreſſion of the happineſs of ſafety.' Thus when we look abroad, and behold the multitudes that are groaning under evils heavier than thoſe which we have expe⯑rienced, we ſhrink back to our own ſtate, and inſtead of repining that ſo much muſt be felt, learn to rejoice that we have not more to feel.

[149] BY this obſervation of the miſeries of others, fortitude is ſtrengthened, and the mind brought to a more extenſive knowledge of her own powers. As the heroes of action catch the flame from one another, ſo they to whom providence has allotted the harder taſk of ſuf⯑fering with calmneſs and dignity, may animate themſelves by the remembrance of thoſe evils which have been laid on others, perhaps natu⯑rally as weak as themſelves, and bear up with vigour and reſolution againſt their own op⯑preſſions, when they ſee it yet poſſible that more ſevere afflictions may be born.

THERE is ſtill another reaſon why, to many minds, the relation of other mens' infe⯑licity may give a laſting and continual relief. Some, not well inſtructed in the meaſures by which providence diſtributes happineſs, are per⯑haps miſled by divines, who, as Bellarmine makes temporal proſperity one of the charac⯑ters of the true church, have repreſented wealth and eaſe as the certain concomitants of virtue, and the unfailing reſult of the divine approbation. Such ſufferers are dejected in their misfortunes, not ſo much for what they feel, as for what they dread; not becauſe [150] they cannot ſupport the ſorrows, or endure the wants, of their preſent condition, but becauſe they conſider them as only the begin⯑nings of more ſharp and more laſting pains. To theſe mourners it is an act of the higheſt charity to repreſent the calamities which not only virtue has ſuffered, but virtue has incur⯑red; to inform them that one evidence of a future ſtate is the uncertainty of any preſent reward for goodneſs; and to remind them, from the higheſt authority, of the diſtreſſes and penury of men of whom the world was not worthy.

NUMB. 53. TUESDAY, Sept. 18, 1750.

THERE is ſcarcely, among thoſe evils to which human life is expoſed, any ſo generally dreaded as poverty. Every other ſpecies of miſery, thoſe, who are not much accuſtomed to diſturb the preſent moment with reflexion, can eaſily forget, becauſe it is not always forced upon their regard: but it is impoſſible to paſs a day or an hour in the con⯑fluxes [151] of men, without ſeeing how much in⯑digence is expoſed to contumely, neglect and inſult; and, in its loweſt ſtate, to hunger and nakedneſs; to injuries againſt which every paſſion 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 digni⯑ty and reputation: thus we ſee dangers of eve⯑ry kind faced with willingneſs becauſe bravery, in a good or bad cauſe, is never without its encomiaſts and admirers. But in the proſpect of poverty there is nothing but gloom and me⯑lancholy; 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 chearfulneſs is inſenſibility, and de⯑jection ſullenneſs, of which the hardſhips are without honour, and the labours without re⯑ward.

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 multitudes, whoſe faces are clouded with anxiety, and whoſe [152] ſteps are hurried by precipitation, from no other motive than the hope of gain; and the whole world is put in motion, by the deſire of that wealth, which is chiefly to be valued, as it ſecures us from poverty; for it is more uſe⯑ful 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 poverty, 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 reſolu⯑tion to change their courſe of life; and perſe⯑vere againſt all remonſtrances, and go for⯑ward with full career, though they ſee before them the precipice of deſtruction.

IT is not my purpoſe, in this paper, to ex⯑poſtulate with ſuch as ruin their fortunes by expenſive ſchemes of buildings and gardens, which they carry on with the ſame vanity that prompted them to begin, chuſing, as it hap⯑pens in a thouſand other caſes, the remote evil before the lighter, and deferring the [153] ſhame of repentance till they incur the miſe⯑ries of diſtreſs. Thoſe for whom I intend my preſent admonitions, are the thoughtleſs, the negligent, and the diſſolute; who having, by the viciouſneſs of their own inclinations, or the ſeducements of alluring companions, been engaged in habits of expence, and ac⯑cuſtomed to move in a certain round of plea⯑ſures diſproportioned to their condition, are without power to extricate 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 uſu⯑ry 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 exe⯑cute before there could be time for an appeal to reaſon. Theſe men are advancing towards miſery by ſoft approaches, and deſtroying themſelves, not by the violence of a blow, which, when once given, can never be re⯑called, [154] but by a ſlow poiſon, hourly repeated, and obſtinately continued.

THIS conduct is ſo abſurd when it is exa⯑mined 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 pre⯑ſcribes, to counteract its own purpoſe. Too much rage hinders the warrior from circum⯑ſpection, too much eagerneſs of profit hurts the credit of the trader, too much ardor takes away from the lover that eaſineſs of ad⯑dreſs with which ladies are delighted. Thus extravagance, though dictated by vanity, and incited by voluptuouſneſs, ſeldom procures ultimately either applauſe or pleaſure.

IF praiſe be juſtly eſtimated by the charac⯑ter of thoſe from whom it is received, little ſatisfaction will be given to the ſpendthrift by [155] the encomiums which he purchaſes. For who are they that animate him in his perſuits, but young men, thoughtleſs and abandoned like himſelf, unacquainted with all on which the wiſdom of nations has impreſſed the ſtamp of excellence, and devoid alike of knowledge and of virtue? By whom in 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 af⯑ford much gratification to pride, on him whom the pandars of luxury have drawn into the circle of their influence, and whom he ſees parcelled out among the different miniſ⯑ters of folly, and about to be torn to pieces by taylors and jockeys, vintners and attor⯑neys, by whom he is at once robbed and ri⯑diculed, and who are ſecretly triumphing over his weakneſs, when they preſent new incite⯑ments to his appetite, and heighten his de⯑ſire by counterfeited applauſe.

SUCH is the praiſe that is purchaſed by pro⯑digality; [156] 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 when ever 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 ſur⯑round him with obſequiouſneſs and compli⯑ments, fawn among his equipage, and ani⯑mate his rio [...]s, ſhall turn upon him with inſo⯑lence, and reproach him with the vices pro⯑moted by themſelves.

AND as little pretenſions has the man, who ſquanders his eſtate by vain or vicious expen⯑ces, to greater degrees of pleaſure than are ob⯑tained 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 ſoli⯑citude and uneaſineſs, and the more value we ſet upon it, the more muſt the preſent poſſeſ⯑ſion be imbittered. How can he then be en⯑vied [157] for his felicity, who knows that its con⯑tinuance cannot be expected, and who is con⯑ſcious that a very ſhort time will give him up to the gripe of poverty, which will be harder to be born, as he has given way to more ex⯑ceſſes, wantoned 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 deſperation, and affected laviſhneſs, as criminals brave the gallows when they can⯑not eſcape it, or pay their money with a pee⯑viſh anxiety, and endeavour at once to ſpend idly, and to ſave meanly, having neither firmneſs to deny their paſſions, nor courage to gratify them, but murmuring at their own enjoyments, and poiſoning the bowl of plea⯑ſure by reflexion on the coſt.

AMONG theſe men there is often the voci⯑feration of merriment, but very ſeldom the tranquillity of chearfulneſs; they inflame their [158] 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 re⯑collection, and lay that reaſon aſleep which diſturbs their gayety, and calls upon them to retreat from ruin.

BUT this poor broken ſatisfaction is of ſhort continuance, and muſt be expiated by a long ſe⯑ries 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.

NUMB. 54. SATURDAY, September 22, 1750.

NUMB. 55. TUESDAY, Sept. 25. 1750.

NUMB. 56. SATURDAY, Sept. 29, 1750.

NOTHING is more unpleaſing than to find that others have received offence when none was intended, and that pain has been given to thoſe who were not guilty of any provocation. As the great end of ſociety is mutual beneficence, a good man is always uneaſy when he finds himſelf acting in oppo⯑ſition to the purpoſes of life; becauſe tho' his conſcience may eaſily acquit him of malice pre⯑penſe, of ſettled hatred or contrivances of miſ⯑chief, [176] yet he ſeldom can be certain, that he has not failed by negligence, or indolence; that he has not been hindered 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 unca⯑ſineſs, the mind ſhould be extended to any great diffuſion of generoſity, or melted by any un⯑common warmth of benevolence; for that prudence which riſes from obſervation of the world, and a quick ſenſibility of private inter⯑eſt, will eaſily direct us to ſhun needleſs enmi⯑ties; ſince there is no man whoſe kindneſs we may not ſome time want, or by whoſe ma⯑lice we may not ſome time ſuffer.

I HAVE therefore frequently looked with re⯑aentment and wonder, and now and then with pity, at the thoughtleſſneſs and folly with which ſome alienate from themſelves the affections of all whom chance, or buſineſs, or inclina⯑tion brings in their way. When we ſee a man purſuing ſome darling intereſt, without much regard to the opinion of the world, though we may juſtly conſider him as corrupt and dangerous, we are not long in diſcover⯑ing [177] his motives; we ſee him actuated by paſ⯑ſions which are hard to be reſiſted, and delu⯑ded by appearances which have dazzled ſtron⯑ger eyes. But the greateſt part of thoſe who ſet mankind at defiance by hourly irritation, and who live but to infuſe malignity, and multiply enemies, have no hopes to foſter, no deſigns to promote, nor any expectations of attaining power by inſolence, or of climb⯑ing to greatneſs by trampling on others. They give up all the ſweets of private kindneſs, and all the ſatisfaction of general regard, for the ſake of peeviſhneſs, petulance, or gloom; 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 perſwaded to love, though no reaſon can be aſſigned why they ſhould be hated; and who, if their good qualities and actions ſometimes force a com⯑mendation, 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 [178] 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 perceptions are languid and ſluggiſh, who lament nothing but loſſes, and feel nothing but a blow, are of⯑ten at a difficulty to gueſs by what means they have encompaſſed themſelves with enemies, though they lived in total neglect of all thoſe arts by which men are endeared to one ano⯑ther. They comfort themſelves that they have lived irreproachably; that none can charge them with having endangered his life, or diminiſhed his poſſeſſions; and therefore conclude that they ſuffer by ſome invincible fatality, or impute the malice of their neigh⯑bours to ignorance or envy. They wrap themſelves up in their innocence, and enjoy the congratulations of their own hearts, with⯑out knowing or ſuſpecting that they are every day deſervedly incurring reſentments, by withholding from thoſe with whom they con⯑verſe, that regard, or appearance of regard, to which every one is entitled by the cuſtoms of the world.

THERE are many injuries, which almoſt [179] very man feels, though he does not complain and which, upon thoſe whom virtue, ele⯑gance, or vanity have made delicate and ten⯑der, fix deep and laſting impreſſions; as there are many arts of graciouſneſs and conciliation, which are to be practiſed without expence, and by which thoſe may be made our friends, who have never received from us any real be⯑nefit. 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 ignorance 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 atten⯑dance, 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 with [180] the general maſs of the community, but ſpent their lives amidſt the obſequiouſneſs of depen⯑dants, and the flattery of paraſites; and have by long conſulting only their own inclination, forgotten that others have an equal claim to the ſame deference.

TYRANNY thus avowed, is indeed an ex⯑uberance of pride, by which all mankind is ſo much enraged, that it is never quietly en⯑dured, except in thoſe who can reward the patience which they exact; and inſolence is generally ſurrounded only by ſuch whoſe baſe⯑neſs inclines them to think nothing inſupport⯑able that produces gain, and who can laugh at ſcurrility and rudeneſs with a luxurious ta⯑ble and an open purſe.

BUT though all wanton provocations and contemptuous inſolence are to be diligently avoided, there is no leſs danger in timid com⯑pliance and tame reſignation. It is common, for ſoft and fearful tempers, to give themſelve; up implicitly to the direction of the bold, the turbulent, and the overbearing; of thoſe whom they do not believe wiſer or better than them⯑ſelves; to recede from the beſt deſigns where [181] oppoſition muſt be encountered, and to fall off from virtue for fear of cenſure.

SOME firmneſs and reſolution is neceſſary to the diſcharge of duty; but it is a very un⯑happy 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 be⯑lieves himſelf in the right, and exerted with bitterneſs if even to his own conviction he is detected in the wrong; and, though no regard were to be had to the conſequences of contra⯑riety and diſpute, it muſt always be painful to a worthy mind to put others in pain, and there will be ſome danger leſt the kindeſt na⯑ture may be vitiated by too long a cuſtom of debate and conteſt.

I KNOW not whether I may not be taxed with inſenſibility by many of my correſpon⯑dents, who believe their contributions unjuſt⯑ly 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 au⯑thor, cannot remember how long they have lain in my boxes unregarded, without imagining [182] to myſelf the various changes of ſorrow, im⯑patience, and reſentment, which the writers muſt have felt in this tedious interval.

THESE reflexions are ſtill more awakened, when, upon peruſal, I find ſome of them call⯑ing for a place in the next paper, a place which they have never yet obtained; others writing in a ſtyle of ſuperiority and haughti⯑neſs, as ſecure of deference, and above all fear of criticiſm; others humbly offering their weak aſſiſtance with ſoftneſs and ſubmiſſion, which they believe impoſſible to be reſiſted; ſome introducing their compoſitions with a menace of the contempt, which he that re⯑fuſes them will incur; others applying pri⯑vately to the bookſellers for their intereſt and ſolicitation; every one by different ways en⯑deavouring to ſecure the bliſs of publication. I cannot but conſider myſelf, as placed in a very incommodious ſituation, where I am for⯑ced 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, [183] contains his raptures in his own boſom, and how naturally he imparts to his friends his ex⯑pectations of renown; and as I can eaſily con⯑ceive the eagerneſs with which a new paper is ſnatched up, by one who expects to [...] it filled with his own production, [...] perhaps has called his companions to [...] pleaſure of a ſecond [...], I [...] grieve for the diſappointment [...] at the fatal inſpection. [...] however do not yet forſake him; he is certain of giving luſtre to the next day. The next day comes, and again he [...] with expectation, and having dreamed of [...] and Parnaſſus, caſt his eyes upon the [...] 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 [...] care is prevention for the future. Let therefore the next friendly con⯑tributor, whoever he be, obſerve the cautions of Swift, and [...] ſecretly in his own cham⯑ber, without communicating his deſign to his neareſt friend, for the neareſt friend will be pleaſed with an opportunity of laughing. [184] 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 au⯑thor; 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.

NUMB. 57. TUESDAY, October 2, 1750.

NUMB. 58. SATURDAY, October 6, 1750.

AS the love of money has been, in all ages, one of the paſſions that have gi⯑ven great diſturbance to the tranquillity of the world, there is no topick more copiouſly treat⯑ed by the antient moraliſts than the folly of devoting the heart to the accumulation of riches; they who are acquainted with theſe au⯑thors need not be told how riches incite pity, contempt, or reproach, whenever they are mentioned; with what numbers of examples the danger of large poſſeſſions is illuſtrated; and how all the powers of reaſon and elo⯑quence have been exhauſted in a fruitleſs en⯑deavour to eradicate a deſire, which ſeems to have intrenched itſelf too ſtrongly in the mind to be driven out by argument or ridicule, and which, perhaps, had not loſt its power, even over thoſe who declaimed moſt vehemently againſt it, but would have broken out in the poet or the ſage, if it had been excited by op⯑portunity, [193] and invigorated by the approxima⯑tion of its proper object.

THEIR arguments have been, indeed, ſo unſucceſsful, that I know not whether it can be ſhown, 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 diſburthened himſelf of wealth, when he had tried its inquietudes, merely to enjoy the peace, and leiſure, and ſecurity, of a mean and unenvied ſtate.

IT is true, indeed, that many have neglect⯑ed opportunities of raiſing themſelves to ho⯑nours and to wealth, and rejected the kind⯑eſt offers of fortune: but, however their mo⯑deration may be boaſted by themſelves, or ad⯑mired 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 competition, or to ſtand the ſhock of conteſt; but though they, therefore, decline [194] the toil of climbing, they, nevertheleſs, wiſh themſelves aloft, and would willingly enjoy what they dare not ſeize.

OTHERS have retired from high ſtations, and voluntarily condemned themſelves to pri⯑vacy and obſcurity; but, even theſe will not afford many occaſions of triumph to the phi⯑loſopher; for they have commonly either quit⯑ted that only which they thought themſelves unable to hold, and prevented diſgrace by re⯑ſignation; 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 equal⯑ly unable to ſatisfy the wiſhes of a diſtem⯑pered mind, and were unable to ſhelter them⯑ſelves in the cloſeſt retreat from diſappoint⯑ment, ſolicitude, and miſery.

Yet though theſe admonitions have been thus neglected by thoſe, who either enjoyed riches, or were able to procure them, it is not raſhly to be determined that they are alto⯑gether without uſe; for ſince far the greateſt [195] part of mankind muſt be confined to conditi⯑ons comparatively mean, and placed in ſitua⯑tions, from which they naturally look up with envy to the eminences before them, thoſe writers cannot be thought ill employed that have adminiſtered remedies to diſcontent al⯑moſt univerſal, by ſhowing, that what we cannot reach may very well be forborn, 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 ſplendor, when we are ſuffered to approach it.

IT is the buſineſs of moraliſts to detect the frauds of fortune, and to ſhow that ſhe im⯑poſes upon the careleſs eye, by a quick ſuc⯑ceſſion of ſhadows, which will ſhrink to no⯑thing in the gripe; that ſhe diſguiſes life in extrinſick ornaments, which can be of uſe 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 wiſ⯑dom, it ſhakes off, as vain or cumbrous, the chief part of thoſe diſtinctions which are of uſe to dazzle the gazer, and to awe the ſup⯑plicant.

[196] IT may be remarked, that they whoſe con⯑dition has not afforded them the light of mo⯑ral or religious inſtruction, and who collect all their ideas by their own eyes, and digeſt them by their own underſtandings, ſeem to conſider thoſe who are placed in ranks of re⯑mote ſuperiority, as almoſt another and high⯑er ſpecies of beings; and as themſelves have known little other miſery than the conſequences 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 up⯑on the reſt of mankind.

THIS prejudice is, indeed, confined to the loweſt meanneſs, and the darkeſt ignorance; but it is ſo confined only becauſe others have been ſhown its folly, and its falſehood, be⯑cauſe it has been oppoſed in its progreſs by hiſtory and philoſophy, and hindered from ſpreading its infection by powerful preſer⯑vatives.

THE doctrine of the contempt of wealth though it has not been wholly able to extin⯑guiſh [197] avarice or ambition, has certainly made them leſs importunate and over-bearing; and though it has not wholly ſuppreſſed that reluctance with which a man paſſes his days in a ſtate of inferiority, it muſt, at leaſt, have made the lower conditions leſs grating and weariſome, and has conſequently contributed to the general ſecurity of life, by hindering a great part of that fraud and violence, rapine and circumvention, 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 admonitions of thoſe, whoſe experience and ſagacity have recommended them as the guides of mankind, as to ſtop and conſider whether he is about to engage in an undertaking that will reward his toil, and to examine before he ruſhes to wealth, through right and wrong, what it will confer when he has acquired it; and this ex⯑amination will ſeldom fail to repreſs his ar⯑dor, and retard his violence.

[198] WEALTH is nothing in itſelf, it is not uſe⯑ful 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 enjoy⯑ment, money can neither open new avenues to pleaſure, nor block up the paſſages of an⯑guiſh. Diſeaſe and infirmity ſtill continue to torture and enfeeble, perhaps exaſperated by luxury, or promoted by ſoftneſs. With re⯑ſpect to the mind, it has rarely been obſerved, that wealth contributes much to quicken the diſcernment, enlarge the capacity, or elevate the imagination; but may, by hiring flattery, or laying diligence aſleep, confirm error, and harden ſtupidity.

WEALTH cannot confer greatneſs, for no⯑nothing can make that great, which the de⯑cree 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 [199] been governed in the name of kings, whoſe exiſtence has ſcarcely been perceived by any real effects beyond their own palaces.

WHEN therefore the deſire of wealth takes hold of the mind, let us look round and ſee how it operates upon thoſe whoſe induſtry, or fortune, has obtained it. When we find them oppreſſed with their own abundance, luxurious without pleaſure, idle without eaſe, impatient and 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 re⯑mains little to be ſought with ſolicitude, or deſired with eagerneſs.

NUMB. 59. TUESDAY, Oct. 9, 1750.

IT is common to diſtinguiſh men by the names of animals which they are ſuppo⯑ſed to reſemble. Thus a hero is frequently termed a lion, and a ſtateſman a fox, an ex⯑tortioner gains the appellation of vultur, and a fop the title of monkey. There is alſo a⯑mong the various anomalies of character, which a ſurvey of the world exhibits, a ſpe⯑cies of beings in human form, which may be properly marked out as the ſcreech-owls of mankind.

THESE ſcreech-owls ſeem to be ſettled in an opinion that the great buſineſs of life is to complain, and that they were born for no o⯑ther purpoſe than to diſturb the happineſs of others, to leſſen the little comforts, and ſhor⯑ten [201] the ſhort pleaſures of our condition, by painful remembrances of the paſt, or melan⯑choly prognoſticks of the future; their only care is to cruſh the riſing hope, to damp the kindling tranſport, and allay the golden hours of gayety with the hateful droſs of grief and ſuſpicion.

TO thoſe, whoſe weakneſs of ſpirits, or ti⯑midity of temper, ſubjects them to impreſſions from others, and who are apt to ſuffer by faſ⯑cination, and catch the contagion of miſery, it is extremely unhappy to live within the compaſs of a ſcreech-owl's voice; for it will often fill their ears in the hour of dejection, terrify them with apprehenſions, which their own thoughts would never have produced, and ſadden, by intruded ſorrows, the day which might have been paſſed in amuſements, or in buſineſs; it will fill the heart with unne⯑ceſſary diſcontents, and weaken for a time that love of life which is neceſſary to the vigo⯑rous proſecution of any undertaking.

THOUGH I have, like the reſt of mankind, many failings and weakneſſes, I have never yet, by either friends or enemies, been charg⯑ed with ſuperſtition; I never count the com⯑pany [202] which I enter, and I look at the new moon indifferently 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 cli⯑macterical 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 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 when⯑ever 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.

[203] ANOTHER of his topicks is the neglect of merit, with which he never fails to amuſe every man whom he ſees not eminently for⯑tunate. If he meets with a young officer, he always, informs him of gentlemen whoſe per⯑ſonal courage is unqueſtioned, and whoſe mi⯑litary 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 in⯑forms of many men of great parts and deep ſtudy, who have never had an opportunity to ſpeak in the courts: And meeting Serenus the phyſician, "Ah doctor, ſays he, what a-foot ſtill, when ſo many blockheads are rattling their chariots? I told you ſeven years ago that you would never meet with encouragement, 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 fif⯑teen authors in their way to the ſtage; per⯑ſuaded [204] nine and thirty merchants to retire from a proſperous trade for fear of bankrupcy, broke off an hundred and thirteen matches by prognoſtications of unhappineſs, and ena⯑bled the ſmall-pox to kill nineteen ladies, by perpetual alarms of the loſs of beauty.

WHENEVER my evil ſtars bring us toge⯑ther, he never fails to repreſent to me the folly of my perſuits, and informs me that we are much older than when we began our acquain⯑tance, 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 now at hand when I ought to look for no other pleaſures than a good dinner and an ea⯑ſy chair.

THUS he goes on in his unharmonious ſtrain, diſplaying preſent miſeries, and fore⯑boding more, [...], every ſyllable is loaded with misfortune, and death is always brought nearer to the view. Yet, what always raiſes my reſentment and in⯑dignation, I do not perceive that his mournful meditations have much effect upon himſelf. [205] 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 ex⯑preſſions of condolence for paſt, or apprehen⯑ſion of future miſchiefs, as all men ſtudious of their eaſe have recourſe to thoſe ſubjects upon which they can moſt fluently or copiouſly diſ⯑courſe.

IT is reported of the Sybarites, that they deſtroyed all their cocks, that they might dream out their morning dreams without diſ⯑turbance. Though I would not ſo far pro⯑mote effeminacy as to propoſe the Sybarites for an example, yet ſince there is no man ſo corrupt or fooliſh, but ſomething uſeful may be learned from him, I could wiſh that, in imitation of a people not 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 Agamem⯑non, [206] thou never foretelleſt me good, but the joy of thy heart is to predict misfortunes. Whoever is of the ſame temper might there find the means of indulging his thoughts, and impro⯑ving his vein of denunciation, and the flock of ſcreech-owls might hoot together without injury to the reſt of the world.

YET, though I have ſo little kindneſs for this dark generation, I am very far from in⯑tending to debar the ſoft and tender mind from the privilege of complaining, when the ſigh riſes from the deſire not of giving pain, but of gaining eaſe. To hear complaints with pa⯑tience, even when complaints are vain, is one of the duties of friendſhip; and though it muſt be allowed that he ſuffers moſt like a hero that hides his grief in ſilence, ‘Spem vultu ſimulat, promit altum corde do⯑lorem,’ yet, it cannot be denied that he who com⯑plains acts like a man, like a ſocial being who looks for help from his fellow-creatures. Pity is to many of the unhappy a ſource of com⯑fort in hopeleſs diſtreſſes, as it contributes to recommend them to themſelves, by proving that they have not loſt the regard of others; and heaven ſeems to indicate the duty even of [207] barren compaſſion, by inclining us to weep for evils which we cannot remedy.

NUMB. 60. SATURDAY, Oct. 13, 1750.

ALL joy or ſorrow for the happineſs or calamities of others is produced by an act of the imagination, that realiſes the event however fictitious, or approximates it however remote, by placing us, for a time, in the con⯑dition of him whoſe fortune we contemplate; ſo that we feel, while the deception laſts' whatever motions would be excited by the ſame good or evil happening to ourſelves.

OUR paſſions are therefore more ſtrongly moved, in proportion as we can more readily adopt the pains or pleaſure propoſed to our minds, by recogniſing them as once our own, or conſidering them as naturally incident to our ſtate of life. It is not eaſy for the moſt [208] artful writer to give us an intereſt in happi⯑neſs or miſery, which we think ourſelves ne⯑ver likely to feel, and with which we have never yet been made acquainted. Hiſtories of the downfall of kingdoms, and revolutions of empires are read with great tranquilly; it the imperial tragedy pleaſes common audi⯑tors only by its pomp of ornament, and gran⯑deur of ideas; and the man whoſe faculties have been engroſſed by buſineſs, and whoſe heart never fluttered but at the riſe or fall of 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 no ſpecies of writing ſeems more worthy of cultivation than bio⯑graphy, ſince none can be more delightful or more uſeful, none can more certainly enchain the heart by irreſiſtible intereſt, or more wide⯑ly diffuſe inſtruction to every diverſity of con⯑dition.

THE general and rapid narratives of hiſto⯑ry, [209] which involve a thouſand fortunes in the buſineſs of a day, and complicate innumerable incidents in one great tranſaction, 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 conſider⯑able, Parva ſi non fiant quotidie, ſays Pliny, and which can have no place in thoſe relations which never deſcend below the conſultation of ſenates, the motions of armies, and the ſchemes of conſpirators.

I HAVE often thought that there has rarely 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 miſ⯑carriages, eſcapes and expedients, would be of immediate and apparent uſe; but there is ſuch an uniformity in the ſtate of man, if it be con⯑ſidered apart from adventitious and ſeparable decorations and diſguiſes, that there is ſcarce any poſſibility of good or ill, but is common to humankind. A great part of the time of thoſe who are placed at the greateſt diſtance by fortune, or by temper, muſt unavoidably [210] paſs in the ſame manner; and though, when the claims of nature are ſatisfied, caprice, and vanity, and accident, begin to produce diſ⯑criminations and peculiarities, yet the eye is not very heedful, or quick, which cannot diſ⯑cover the ſame cauſes ſtill terminating their influence in the ſame effects, though ſome⯑times accelerated, ſometimes retarded, or per⯑plexed by multiplied combinations. We are all prompted by the ſame motives, all deceived by the ſame fallacies, all animated by hope, obſtructed by danger, entangled by deſire, and ſeduced by pleaſure.

IT is frequently objected to relations of particular lives, that they are not diſtinguiſhed by any ſtriking or wonderful viciſſitudes. The ſcholar who paſſes his life among his books, the merchant who conducted only his own affairs, the prieſt whoſe ſphere of action was not extended beyond that of his duty, are conſidered as no proper objects of publick re⯑gard, 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 excel⯑lence and dignity, and muſt be eradicated by conſidering, that, in the eſteem of uncorrupt⯑ed [211] reaſon, what is of moſt uſe is of moſt va⯑lue.

IT is, indeed, not improper to take honeſt advantages of prejudice, and to gain attenti⯑on by a celebrated name; but the buſineſs of the biographer is often to paſs ſlightly over thoſe performances and incidents, which pro⯑duce vulgar greatneſs, to lead the thoughts into domeſtick privacies, and diſplay the mi⯑nute details of daily life, where exterior appen⯑dages are caſt aſide, and men excel each other only by prudence and by virtue. The ac⯑count 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 ingenium 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 enquiries after na⯑tural or moral knowledge, whether we intend to enlarge our ſcience, or increaſe our virtue, are more important than publick occurrences. Thus Saluſt, the great maſter, has not forgot, [212] in his account of Catiline, to remark that his walk was now quick, and again ſlow, as indi⯑cations of a mind revolving ſomething with violent commotion. Thus the ſtory of Melanc⯑thon 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 ſuſpenſe; and all the plans and enterprizes of De Wit 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 a⯑bout the performance. They rarely afford a⯑ny other account than might be collected from publick papers, but imagine themſelves wri⯑ting a life when they exhibit a chronological ſeries of actions or preferments, and ſo little regard the manners or behaviour of their he⯑roes, 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 [213] and ſtudied narrative, begun with his pedi⯑gree, and ended with his funeral.

IF now and then they condeſcend to inform the world of particular facts, they are not al⯑ways ſo happy as to ſelect thoſe which are moſt important. I know not well what advantage poſterity can receive from the only circum⯑ſtance by which Tickell has diſtinguiſhed Ad⯑diſon from the reſt of mankind, the irregula⯑rity of his pulſe: nor can I think myſelf o⯑verpaid for the time ſpent in reading the life of Malherb, by being enabled to relate, after the learned biographer, that Malherb had two predominant opinions; one, that the looſe⯑neſs of a ſingle woman might deſtroy all her boaſt of ancient deſcent; the other, that the French beggars made uſe very improperly and barbarouſly of the phraſe noble Gentlemen, be⯑cauſe either word included the ſenſe of both.

THERE are, indeed, ſome natural reaſons why theſe narratives are often written by ſuch as were not likely to give much inſtruction or delight, and why moſt accounts of particular perſons are barren and uſeleſs. If a life be de⯑layed till intereſt and envy are at an end, and all motives to calumny or flattery are ſuppreſ⯑ſed, [214] we may hope for impartiality, but muſt ex⯑pect 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 traditi⯑on. We know how few can portray 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 danger leſt his in⯑tereſt, 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 ſailings of their friends, even when they can no longer ſuffer by their detection; we therefore ſee whole ranks of characters adorn⯑ed with uniform panegyrick, and not to be known from one another, but by extrinſick and caſual circumſtances. "Let me remem⯑ber, ſays Hale, when I find myſelf incli⯑ned [215] to pity a criminal, that there is like⯑wiſe a pity due to the country." If there is a regard due to the memory of the dead, there is yet more reſpect to be paid to know⯑ledge, to virtue, and to truth.

NUMB. 61. TUESDAY, Oct. 16. 1750.

NUMB. 62. SATURDAY, Oct. 20, 1750.

NUMB. 63. TUESDAY, October 22, 1750.

IT has been remarked, perhaps, by every writer, who has leſt behind him obſerva⯑tions upon life, that no man is pleaſed with his preſent ſtate, which proves equally unſatiſ⯑factory, 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.

[234] 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 unnatural and unneceſſary gloom, by withdrawing our minds from the contemplation and enjoyment of that happi⯑neſs which our ſtate affords us, and fixing our attention upon foreign objects, which we only behold to depreſs ourſelves, and in⯑creaſe our miſery by injurious compariſons.

WHEN this opinion of the happineſs of others predominates in the heart, ſo as to ex⯑cite reſolutions of obtaining, at whatever price, the condition to which ſuch tranſcendent pri⯑vileges are ſuppoſed to be annexed; when it burſts into action and produces fraud, violence, and injuſtice, it is, without doubt, to be perſued wiih all the rigour of legal puniſh⯑ments. But while it only operates upon the thoughts, and diſturbs none but him who has happened to admit it, and, however it may interrupt content, makes no attack on piety or virtue, I cannot think it ſo far criminal [235] or ridiculous, 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, as it has been often objected, we cannot judge of the con⯑dition of others, yet every man has found frequent viciſſitudes in his own ſtate, and muſt therefore be convinced that life is ſuſceptible of more or leſs felicity. What then ſhall forbid us to endeavour the alteration of that which we find 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 rea⯑ſonably make efforts to rid himſelf from vex⯑ation, 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 ac⯑cidental cauſes, and external efficients.

[236] IT is, indeed, frequently diſcovered by us, that we have complained too haſtily of peculiar hardſhips, and have imagined ourſelves diſtinguiſhed by embarraſſments, with 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 reproach⯑ed, which reaſon could not obviate, nor prudence avoid.

TO take a view at once diſtinct and com⯑prehenſive 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 ac⯑quainted us, we ſnatch a glimpſe, we diſcern a point, and regulate the reſt by paſſion, and by fancy. In this enquiry 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 [237] what we ſeeck we are naturally eager to believe that we have ſound. Our confidence is, in⯑deed, 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, be⯑cauſe he foreſees the difficulty of attainment. As among the numerous ſtudents of Hermetick philoſophy, not one appears to have deſiſted from the taſk of tranſmutation, from convic⯑tion 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 ſeenes of human exiſtence, and, conſequently, are often apt to conceive that they fall upon new regions of pleaſure, and ſtart new poſſibilities of hap⯑pineſs. Thus they are too often 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 flower [238] 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 proſpect, that will always have the diſ⯑advantage which we have already tried; be⯑cauſe 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 always the art of fixing our regard upon the more pleaſing images, and ſuffer hope to diſpoſe the lights by which we look upon fu⯑turity.

THE good and ill of different modes of life are ſometimes ſo equally oppoſed, that, per⯑haps 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 propo⯑ſed to the election, than oſcillations of a beam charged with equal weights. The mind no [239] ſooner imagines itſelf determined by ſome pre⯑valent 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 very large eſtate from a father, who had been long eminent in the moſt con⯑ſpicuous employments. His father, harraſſed with frequent competitions, and perplexed with multiplicity of buſineſs, very earneſtly re⯑commended to him the quiet and ſecurity of a private ſtation, and impreſſed his perſuaſions with ſo much force, that Eumenes for ſome years reſiſted every motion of ambitious wiſhes; but being once provoked by the ſight of oppreſſion and injuſtice, 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, ex⯑cited by a thouſand projects of advantage to his country. His fortune immediately placed him in the ſenate, his knowledge and eloquence ſoon advanced him at court, and he poſſeſſed that authority and influence which he had re⯑ſolved to exert for the happineſs of mankind.

[240] HE now became acquainted with the em⯑barraſſments of greatneſs, and was in a ſhort time convinced, that in proportion as the power of doing well was enlarged, the temp⯑tations to do ill were 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 conſcience could not ap⯑prove. Sometimes he was forced to comply with the prejudices of the publick, and ſome⯑times with the ſchemes of the miniſtry. He was by degrees wearied with perpetual ſtrug⯑gles to unite policy and virtue, and went back to retirement as the ſhelter of innocence, per⯑ſuaded that he could only hope to benefit mankind by a blameleſs example of private virtue. Here he ſpent ſome years in tran⯑quillity and beneficence; but finding that corruption increaſed, and falſe opinions in government prevailed, he thought himſelf again ſummoned to poſts of publick truſt, from which new evidence of his own weak⯑neſs again determined him to retire.

THUS men may be made inconſtant by [241] virtue and by vice, by too much or too little thought; yet inconſtancy, however dignified by its motives, is always to be avoided, be⯑cauſe life allows us but a ſmall time for en⯑quiry and experiment, and he that ſteadily en⯑deavours at excellence, in whatever employ⯑ment, will 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.

NUMB. 64. SATURDAY, Oct. 27, 1750.

WHEN Socrates was building himſelf a houſe at Athens, being aſked by one that obſerved the littleneſs of the deſign, why a man ſo eminent would not have an abode more ſuitable to his dignity? he replied, that he ſhould think himſelf ſufficiently accommo⯑dated, [428] if he could ſee that narrow habitation filled with real friends. Such was the opinion of this great maſter of human life, concern⯑ing the infrequency of ſuch an union of minds as might deſerve the name of friend⯑ſhip, that, among the multitudes whom vani⯑ty or curioſity, civility or veneration, crouded about him, he did not expect, that very ſpa⯑cious apartments would be neceſſary to contain all that ſhould regard him with ſincere kind⯑neſs, or adhere to him with ſteady fidelity.

SO many qualities are indeed requiſite to the poſſibility of friendſhip, and ſo many accidents muſt concur to its riſe and its continuance, that no wonder can be excited by obſerving, 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 con⯑ſtant and warm reciprocation of benevolence, as they are incapacitated for any other elevated excellence, by a perpetual attention to their intereſt, and an unreſiſting ſubjection to their paſſions. An inability may be ſuperinduced by long habits of denying any deſire, or of re⯑preſſing, by ſuperior motives, the importuni⯑ties [243] of any immediate gratification, and an inveterate ſelfiſhneſs will imagine all advanta⯑ges diminiſhed in proportion as they are com⯑municated.

BUT not only this hateful and confirmed corruption, but many varieties of diſpoſition, not inconſiſtent with common degrees of vir⯑tue, may exclude friendſhip from the heart. Some ardent enough in their benevolence, and defective neither in officiouſneſs, nor li⯑berality, are mutable and uncertain, ſoon at⯑tracted by new objects, diſguſted without of⯑fence, and alienated without enmity. Others are ſoft and flexible, eaſily influenced by re⯑ports or whiſpers, ready to catch alarms from every dubious circumſtance, and to liſten to every ſuſpicion which envy and flattery ſhall ſuggeſt, to follow the opinion of every con⯑fident adviſer, and move by the impulſe of the laſt breath. Some are impatient of con⯑tradiction, more willing to go wrong by their own judgment, than to be indebted for a better or a ſafer way to the ſagacity of another, inclined to conſider counſel as inſult, and en⯑quiry as want of confidence, and to confer their regard on no other terms than unreſerved ſubmiſſion, and implicit compliance. Some [244] are dark and involved, equally careful to con⯑ceal good and bad purpoſes, and pleaſed with producing effects by inviſible means, and ſhew⯑ing 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 neceſ⯑ſary 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 reputati⯑on of good purpoſes and uncorrupted morals, but they are unfit for cloſe and tender intima⯑cies. He cannot properly be choſen for a friend, whoſe kindneſs is exhaled by its own warmth, or frozen by the firſt blaſt of ſlan⯑der; he cannot be a uſeful counſellor, who will hear no opinion but his own; he will not much invite confidence whoſe principal max⯑im 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 denizon of his boſom.

THAT friendſhip may be at once fond and laſting, there muſt not only be equal virtue on [245] 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 endearments, 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 ten⯑derneſs and its permanence from the other; and therefore requires not only that its candi⯑didates 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 exigences, but pleaſing in familiar life; their preſence ſhould give chearfulneſs as well as courage, and diſpel alike the gloom of fear and of melancholy.

TO this mutual complacency is generally re⯑quiſite an uniformity of opinions, at leaſt of thoſe active and conſpicuous principles which diſcriminate parties in government, 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 [246] ſometimes known to continue between men eminent in contrary factions; yet ſuch friends are to be ſhewn rather as prodigies than exam⯑ples, 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 pre⯑ſerve private kindneſs in the midſt of publick oppoſition, in which will neceſſarily be in⯑volved a thouſand incidents, extending their influence to converſation and privacy. Men engaged, by moral or religious motives, in contrary parties, will generally look with dif⯑ferent eyes upon every man, and decide almoſt every queſtion upon different principles. When ſuch occaſions of diſpute happen, to comply is to betray our cauſe, and to maintain friendſhip by ceaſing to deſerve it; to be ſilent, is to loſe the happineſs and dignity of inde⯑pendence, to live in perpetual conſtraint, and to deſert, if not to betray: and who ſhall de⯑termine 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? [247] 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 extincti⯑on of benevolence? Exchange of endearments and intercourſe of civility may continue, in⯑deed, as boughs may for a while be verdant, when the root is wounded; but the poiſon of diſcord is infuſed, and though the counte⯑nance may preſerve its ſmile, the heart is har⯑dening and contracting.

THAT man will not be long agreeable, whom we ſee only in times of ſeriouſneſs and ſeverity; and therefore, to maintain the ſoft⯑neſs and ſerenity of benevolence, it is neceſ⯑ſary that friends partake each others pleaſures as well as cares, and be led to the ſame diver⯑ſions by ſimilitude of taſte. This is, howe⯑ver, not to be conſidered as equally indiſpen⯑ſable with conformity of principles, becauſe any man may honeſtly, according to the pre⯑cepts 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 ingenuouſly confeſſed to me, [248] by a painter, that no profeſſor of his art ever loved another. This declaration is ſo far juſti⯑fied by the knowledge of life, as to damp the hopes of warm and conſtant friendſhip, be⯑tween men whom their ſtudies have made competitors, and whom every favourer and every cenſurer are hourly inciting againſt each other. The utmoſt expectation that experi⯑ence can warrant, is, that they ſhould forbear open hoſtilities and ſecret machinations, and when the whole fraternity is attacked, be able to unite againſt a common ſoe. Some how⯑ever, though few, may perhaps be found, in whom emulation has not been able to over⯑power 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 equivalent advantage on the other. Benefits which cannot be repaid, and obligations which cannot be diſcharged, are not commonly ſound to increaſe affection; they excite gratitude indeed, and heighten vencrati⯑on, [249] but commonly take away that eaſy free⯑dom, 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 en⯑dangered, like plants that bear their fruit and die. Yet this conſideration ought not to re⯑ſtrain bounty, or repreſs compaſſion; for du⯑ty is to be preferred before convenience, and he that loſes part of the pleaſures of friendſhip by his generoſity, gains in its place the gratulation of his conſcience.

NUMB. 65. TUESDAY, October 30, 1750.

OBIDA, the ſon of Abenſina, left the caravanſera early in the morning, and perſued his journey through the plains of Indoſtan. He was freſh and vigorous with reſt; he was animated with hope; he was in⯑cited by deſire; he walked ſwiftly forward [250] over the vallies, 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 ſinking breeze, and ſprink⯑led with dew by groves of ſpices; he ſometimes contemplated the towering height of the oak, monarch of the hills; and ſometimes caught the gentle fragrance of the primroſe, eldeſt daughter of the ſpring: all his ſenſes were gratified, and all care was baniſhed from his heart.

THUS he went on till the ſun approached his meridian, and the increaſing heat preyed upon his ſtrength; he then looked round about him for ſome more commodious path. He ſaw, on his right hand, a grove that ſeemed to wave 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 hap⯑py experiment, he had found means to unite pleaſure with buſineſs, and to gain the re⯑wards of diligence without ſuffering its fa⯑tigues. [251] He, therefore, ſtill continued to walk for a time, without the leaſt remiſſion of his ardour, except that he was ſometimes tempted to ſtop by the muſick of the birds, whom the heat had aſſembled in the ſhade; and ſome⯑times amuſed himſelf with plucking the flow⯑ers that covered the banks on either ſide, or the fruits that hung upon the branches. At laſt the green path began to decline from its firſt tendency, and to wind among hills and thickets, cooled with fountains, and mur⯑muring with water-falls. Here Obidah pauſ⯑ed for a time, and began to conſider whether it were longer ſafe to forſake the known and common track; but remembering that the heat was now in its greateſt violence, and that the plain was duſty and uneven, he re⯑ſolved to perſue the new path, which he ſup⯑poſed only to make a few meanders, in com⯑pliance with the varieties of the ground, and to end at laſt in the common road.

HAVING thus calmed his ſolicitude, he re⯑newed 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 [252] to every echo, he mounted every hill for a freſh proſpect, he turned aſide to every caſ⯑cade, and pleaſed himſelf with tracing the courſe of a gentle river that rolled among the trees, and watered a large region with innu⯑merable circumvolutions. In theſe amuſe⯑ments the hours paſſed away uncounted, his deviations had perplexed his memory, and he knew not towards what point to travel. He ſtood penſive and confuſed, afraid to go for⯑ward leſt he ſhould go wrong, yet conſcious that the time of loitering was now paſt. While he was thus tortured with uncertainty, the ſky was over-ſpread with clouds, the day vaniſhed from before him, and a ſudden tem⯑peſt gathered round his head. He was now rouſed by his danger to a quick and painful remembrance of his folly, he now ſaw how happineſs is loſt when eaſe is conſulted; he lamented the unmanly impatience that prompt⯑ed him to ſeek ſhelter in the grove, and deſpi⯑ſed 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 [253] he had paſſed, and try to find ſome iſſue where the wood might open into the plain. He pro⯑ſtrated himſelf on the ground, and commend⯑ed 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 deſart were in motion, and on every hand were heard the mingled howls of rage and fear, and ravage, and expiration; all the horrors of darkneſs and ſolitude ſurround⯑ed him; the winds roared in the woods, and the torrents tumbled from the hills, ‘ [...]’

THUS forlorn and diſtreſſed, he wandered through the wild, without knowing whither he was going, or whteher he was every mo⯑ment drawing nearer to ſafety or to deſtruction. At length not fear but labour began to over⯑come him; his breath grew ſhort, and his knees crembled, and he was on the point of lying down in reſignation to his fate, when he beheld through the brambles the glimmer of a taper. He advanced towards the light, and finding that it proceeded from the cottage of a hermit, he called humbly at the door, [254] and obtained admiſſion. The old man ſet before him ſuch proviſions as he had collected for himſelf, on which Obidah fed with eager⯑neſs and gratitude.

WHEN the repaſt was over, "Tell me, ſaid the hermit, by what chance thou haſt been brought hither; I have been now twenty years an inhabitant of the wilder⯑neſs, in which I never ſaw a man before." Obidah then related the occurrences of his journey, without any concealment or pallia⯑tion.

"SON, ſaid the hermit, let the errors and follies, the dangers and eſcape of this day, ſink deep into thy heart. Remember, my ſon, that human life is the journey of a day. We riſe in the morning of youth, full of vigour and full of expectation; we ſet forward with ſpirit and hope, with gaie⯑ty and with diligence, and travel on a while in the ſtreight road of piety towards the manſions of reſt. In a ſhort time we remit our fervor, and endeavour to find ſome mitigation of our duty, and ſome more eaſy means of obtaining the ſame end. [255] We then relax our vigour, and reſolve no longer to be terrified with crimes at a di⯑ſtance, but rely upon our own conſtancy, and venture to approach what we reſolve never to touch. We thus enter the bow⯑ers of eaſe, and repoſe in the ſhades of ſe⯑curity. Here the heart ſoftens, and vigi⯑lance ſubſides; we are then willing to en⯑quire whether another advance cannot be made, and whether we may not, at leaſt, turn our eyes upon the gardens of pleaſure. We approach them with ſcruple and heſi⯑tation; we enter them, but enter timorous and trembling, and always hope to paſs through them without loſing the road of virtue, which we, for a while, keep in our ſight, and to which we purpoſe to re⯑turn. But temptation ſucceeds temptation, and one compliance prepares us for ano⯑ther; we in time loſe the happineſs of in⯑nocence, and ſolace our diſquiet with ſen⯑ſual gratifications. By degrees we let fall the remembrance of our original intention, and quit the only adequate object of ratio⯑nal deſire. We entangle ourſelves in buſi⯑neſs, immerge ourſelves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of inconſtancy till the darkneſs of old age begins to in⯑vade [256] us, and diſeaſe and anxiety obſtruct our way. We then look back upon our lives with horror, with ſorrow, with re⯑pentance; and wiſh, but too often vainly wiſh, that we had not forſaken the ways of virtue. Happy are they, my ſon, who ſhall learn from thy example not to de⯑ſpair, but ſhall remember, that though the day is paſt, and their ſtrength is waſted, there yet remains one effort to be made; that reformation is never hopeleſs, nor ſincere endeavours ever unaſſiſted, that the wanderer may at length return after all his errors, and that he who implores ſtrength and courage from above, ſhall find danger and difficulty give way before him. Go now, my ſon, to thy repoſe, commit thy⯑ſelf to the care of omnipotence, and when the morning calls again to toil, begin a new thy journey and thy life."

NUMB. 66. SATURDAY, November 3, 1750.

THE folly of human wiſhes and perſuits has always been a ſtanding ſubject of mirth and declamation, and has been ridicul⯑ed and lamented from age to age; till perhaps the fruitleſs repetition of complaints and cen⯑ſures may be juſtly numbered among the ſub⯑jects of cenſure and complaint.

SOME of theſe inſtructors of mankind have not contented themſelves with checking the overflows of paſſion, and lopping the exube⯑rance of deſire, but have attempted to de⯑ſtroy the root as well as the branches; and not only to confine the mind within bounds, but to ſmooth it forever by a dead calm. They have employed their reaſon and their eloquence to perſuade us, that nothing is worth the wiſh of a wiſe man, have repreſented all earthly good and evil as indifferent, and counted among vulgar errors the dread of pain, and the love of life.

[258] IT is almoſt always the unhappineſs of a vic⯑torious diſputant, to deſtroy his own authori⯑ty by claiming too many conſequences, or diffuſing his propoſition to an indefenſible ex⯑tent. When we have heated our zeal in a cauſe, and elated our confidence with ſucceſs, we are naturally inclined to perſue the ſame train of reaſoning, to eſtabliſh ſome collateral truth, to remove ſome adjacent difficulty, and to take in the whole comprehenſion of our ſyſtem. As a prince in the ardour of acqui⯑ſition, is willing to ſecure his firſt conqueſt by the addition of another, add fortreſs to fortreſs, and city to city, till deſpair and op⯑portunity turn his enemies upon him, and he loſes in a moment the glory of a reign.

THE philoſophers having found an eaſy victory over thoſe deſires which we produce in ourſelves, and which terminate in ſome imaginary ſtate of happineſs unknown and unattainable, proceeded to make further inroads upon the heart, and attacked at laſt our ſen⯑ſes and our inſtincts. They continued to war upon nature with arms, by which only folly could be conquered; they therefore loſt the trophies of their former combats, and were [259] conſidered no longer with reverence or re⯑gard.

YET it cannot be with juſtice denied, that theſe men have been very uſeful monitors, and have left many proofs of ſtrong rea⯑ſon, deep penetration, and accurate attention to the affairs of life, which it is now our bu⯑ſineſs to ſeparate from the foam of a boiling imagination, and to apply judiciouſly to our own uſe. They have ſhewn that moſt of the conditions of life, which raiſe the envy of the timorous, and rouſe the ambition of the daring, are empty ſhows of felicity, which, when they become familiar, loſe their power of de⯑lighting; and that the moſt proſperous and exalted have very few advantages over a meaner and more obſcure fortune, when their dangers and ſolicitudes are balanced againſt their equi⯑page, their banquets, and their palaces.

IT is natural for every man, uninſtructed and unenlightened, to murmur at his condition, becauſe, in the general infelicity of life, he feels his own miſeries, without knowing that they are common to all the reſt of the ſpecies; and therefore though he will not be leſs ſenſi⯑ble of pain by being told that others are equal⯑ly [260] tormented, he will at leaſt be freed from the temptation of ſeeking by perpetual chan⯑ges that eaſe which is no where to be found, and though his diſeaſe ſtill continues, he e⯑ſcapes the hazard of exaſperating it by remedies.

THE gratifications which affluence of wealth, extent of power, and eminence of reputation confer, muſt be always, by their own nature, confined to a very ſmall number; and the life of the greater part of mankind muſt be loſt in empty wiſhes and painful com⯑pariſons, were not the balm of philoſophy ſhed upon us, and our diſcontent at the ap⯑pearances of unequal diſtribution ſoothed and appeaſed.

IT ſeemed, perhaps, below the dignity of the great maſters of moral learning, to de⯑ſcend to familiar life, and caution mankind againſt that petty ambition, which is known among us by the name of vanity; which yet had been an undertaking not unworthy of the longeſt beard, and moſt ſolemn auſterity. For though the paſſions of little minds, act⯑ing in low ſtations, do not fill the world with bloodſhed and devaſtations, or mark, by great events, the periods of time, yet they torture [261] the breaſt which they happen to ſeize, infeſt thoſe that are placed within the reach of their influence, deſtroy private quiet and private vir⯑tue, and undermine, inſenſibly, the happineſs of the world.

THE deſire of excellence is laudable, but is very frequently ill directed. We fall, by chance, into ſome claſs of mankind, and, with⯑out conſulting nature or wiſdom, reſolve to gain their regard by thoſe qualities which they happen to eſteem. I once knew a man remarkably dimſighted, who, by converſing much with country gentlemen, found himſelf irreſiſtibly determined to ſylvan honours, and was very deſirous to be thought a ſkilful ſportſman. His great ambition was to ſhoot flying, and he therefore ſpent whole days in the woods perſuing game; which, before he was near enough to ſee them, his approach al⯑ways frighted away.

WHEN it happens that the deſire tends to ob⯑jects which produce no competition, it may be overlooked with ſome indulgence, becauſe, however fruitleſs or abſurd, it cannot have ill effects upon the morals. But moſt of our en⯑joyments owe their value to the peculiarity of [262] poſſeſſion, and when they are rated at too high a value, give occaſion to ſtratagems of malig⯑nity, and incite oppoſition, hatred, and defa⯑mation. The conteſt of two rural beauties for preference and diſtinction, is often ſuffi⯑ciently keen and rancorous to fill their breaſts with all thoſe paſſions, which are gene⯑rally thought the curſe only of ſenates, of armies, and of courts; and the rival dancers of an obſcure aſſembly have their partiſans and abettors, often not leſs exaſperated againſt each other, than thoſe who are promot⯑ing the intereſts of rival monarchs.

IT is common to conſider thoſe whom we find infected with an unreaſonable regard for trifling accompliſhments, as juſtly chargeable with all the conſequences of their folly, and as the authors of their own unhappineſs: but, perhaps, thoſe whom we thus ſcorn or deteſt, have more claim to tenderneſs than has been yet allowed them. Before we permit our ſe⯑verity to break looſe upon any fault or error, we ought ſurely to conſider how much we have countenanced or promoted it. We ſee multitudes buſy in the perſuit of riches, at the expence of wiſdom and of virtue; but we ſee the reſt of mankind approving their conduct, [263] and inciting their eagerneſs, by paying that re⯑gard and deference to wealth, which wiſdom and virtue only can deſerve. We ſee women univerſally jealous of the reputation of their beauty, and frequently look with contempt on the care with which they ſtudy their com⯑plexions, endeavour to preſerve or to ſupply the bloom of youth, regulate every ornament, twiſt their hair into curls, and ſhade their fa⯑ces from the weather. We often recommend to them the care of their nobler part, and tell them how little addition is made by all their arts to the graces of the mind. But when was it known that female virtue or knowledge was able to attract that officiouſneſs, or inſpire that ardour which beauty produces whenever it ap⯑pears? And with what hope can we endeavour to perſuade the ladies, that the time ſpent at the toilet is loſt in vanity, when they have every moment ſome new conviction, that their intereſt is more effectually promoted by a rib⯑band well diſpoſed, than by the brighteſt act of heroick virtue?

IN every inſtance of vanity it will be found, that the blame ought to be ſhared among more than it generally reaches; all who exalt trifles by immoderate praiſe, or inſtigate needleſs [264] emulation by invidious incitements, are to be conſidered as perverters of reaſon, and cor⯑rupters of the world: and ſince every man is obliged to promote happineſs and virtue, he ſhould be careful not to miſlead unwary minds, by appearing to ſet too high a value upon things by which no real excellence is conferred.

NUMB. 67. TUESDAY, November 6, 1750.

THERE is no temper ſo univerſally in⯑dulged as hope: other paſſions ope⯑rate by ſtarts on particular occaſions, or in certain parts of life; but hope begins with the firſt power of comparing our actual with our poſſible ſtate, and attends us through every ſtage and period of our lives, always urging us forward to new acquiſitions, and holding out ſome diſtant bleſſing to our view, promiſ⯑ing us either relief from pain, or increaſe of happineſs.

HOPE is neceſſary in every condition. The miſeries of poverty, of ſickneſs, of cap⯑tivity, [265] would, without this comfort, be inſup⯑portable; nor does it appear that the happieſt lot of terreſtrial exiſtence can ſet us above the want of this general bleſſing, or that life, when the gifts of nature and of fortune are accumulated upon it, would not ſtill be wretched, were it not elevated and delighted by the expectation of ſome new poſſeſſion, of ſome enjoyment yet behind, by which the wiſh ſhall be at laſt ſatisfied, and the heart filled up to its utmoſt extent.

HOPE is, indeed, very fallacious, and promiſes what it ſeldom gives; but its pro⯑miſes are more valuable than the gifts of for⯑tune, and it ſeldom fruſtrates us without aſſu⯑ring us of recompenſing the delay by a greater bounty.

I WAS muſing on this ſtrange inclination which every man feels to deceive himſelf, and conſidering the advantages and dangers pro⯑ceeding from this gay proſpect of futurity, when, falling aſleep, on a ſudden I found myſelf placed in a garden, of which my ſight could deſcry no limits. Every ſcene about me was gay and gladſome, light with ſun⯑ſhine, and fragrant with perfumes; the ground [266] was painted with all the variety of ſpring, and all the choir of nature was ſinging in the groves. When I had recovered from the firſt raptures, with which the confuſion of pleaſure had for a time entranced me, I began to take a particular and deliberate view of this delight⯑ful region. I then perceived that I had yet higher gratifications to expect, and that, at a ſmall diſtance from me, there were brighter flowers, clearer fountains, and more loſty 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 proceeded, that the colours of the field faded at my approach, the fruit fell before I reached it, the birds flew ſtill ſinging before me, and though I preſſed onward with great celerity, I was ſtill in ſight of pleaſures of which I could not yet gain the poſſeſſion, and which ſeemed to mock my diligence, and to retire as I advanced.

THOUGH I was confounded with ſo many alternations of joy and grief, I yet perſiſted to [267] go forward, in hopes that theſe fugitive de⯑lights would in time be overtaken. At length I ſaw an innumerable multitude of every age and ſex, who ſeemed all to partake of ſome ge⯑neral 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 a while to gaze upon them, without interrupting them with troubleſome enquiries. At laſt I obſerved one man worn with time, and unable to ſtruggle in the croud; and, therefore, ſup⯑poſing 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 ſlave⯑ry ſhould no longer dig the mine for gold.

I LEFT hin, and attempted another, whoſe ſoftneſs of mien, and eaſy movement, gave me reaſon to hope for a more agreeable re⯑ception: but he told me, with a low bow, [268] 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 va⯑cant. 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 follow⯑ed 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 enquiry, 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, [269] and all the bleſſings of life were ſpread abroad to view; ſhe had a perpetual gayety 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 confi⯑dence 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 crouds 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 ſur⯑ly and ſcrupulous, and ſeldom turned the key without many interrogatories, and long heſi⯑tation; but FANCY was a kind and gentle por⯑treſs, ſhe held her gate wide open, and wel⯑comed all equally to the diſtrict under her ſuperintendency; ſo that the paſſage was crouded by all thoſe who either feared the ex⯑amination 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 [270] ſlippery, and winding path, called the Streight of Difficulty, which thoſe who entered with the permiſſion of the guard endeavoured to climb. But tho' they ſurveyed the way very chearful⯑ly before they began to riſe, and marked out the ſeveral ſtages of their progreſs, they com⯑monly found unexpected obſtacles, and were obliged frequently to ſtop on the ſudden, where they imagined the way plain and even. A thouſand intricacies embarraſſed them, a thouſand ſlips threw them back, and a thou⯑ſand pitfals impeded their advance. So for⯑midable were the dangers, and ſo frequent the miſcarriages, that many returned from the firſt attempt, and many fainted in the midſt of the way, and only a very ſmall number were led up to the ſummit of HOPE, by the hand of FORTITUDE. Of theſe few the greater part, when they had obtained the gift which HOPE had promiſed them, regretted the labour which it coſt, and felt in their ſuc⯑ceſs the regret of diſappointment; the reſt re⯑tired with their prize, and were led by WIS⯑DOM to the bowers of CONTENT.

TURNING then towards the gate of FAN⯑CY, I could find no way to the ſeat of HOPE: but though ſhe ſat full in view, and held out [271] her gifts with an air of invitation, which fill⯑ed 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 ima⯑gined himſelf to have diſcovered a way to which the reſt were ſtrangers. Many expe⯑dients were indeed tried by this induſtrious tribe, of whom ſome were making themſelves wings, which others were contriving to actu⯑ate 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 entered the garden, without mak⯑ing, like the reſt, any 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 them⯑ſelves with believing that ſhe intended ſpeedily to deſcend. Theſe were indeed ſcorned by all the reſt, but they ſeemed very little affect⯑ed [272] 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 queſti⯑ons, and willing to communicate their mirth: but turning round I ſaw two dreadful monſters entring the vale, one of whom I knew to be AGE, and the other WANT. Sport and re⯑velling were now at an end, and an univerſal ſhrick of affright and diſtreſs burſt out and awaked me.

NUMB. 68. SATURDAY, November 10, 1750.

THE younger Pliny has very juſtly ob⯑ſerved, that of actions which deſerve our attention, the moſt ſplendid are not al⯑ways the greateſt. Fame, and wonder, and [273] applauſe, are not excited but by external and adventitious circumſtances, often diſtinct and ſeparate from virtue and heroiſm. Eminence of ſtation, greatneſs of effect, and all the favours of fortune, muſt concur to place ex⯑cellence in publick view; but fortitude, and diligence, and patience, diveſted of their ſhow, glide unobſerved through the croud of life, and ſuffer and act, though with the ſame vigour and conſtancy, yet without pity and without praiſe.

THIS remark may be extended to all parts of life. Nothing is to be eſtimated by its effect upon common eyes and common ears. A thouſand miſeries make ſilent and inviſible inroads on mankind, and the heart feels innu⯑merable throbs, which never break into com⯑plaint. Perhaps, likewiſe, our pleaſures are for the moſt part equally ſecret, and moſt are born up by ſome private ſatisfaction, ſome in⯑ternal conſciouſneſs, ſome latent hope, ſome peculiar proſpect, which they never commu⯑nicate, but reſerve for ſolitary hours, and clan⯑deſtine meditation.

THE main of life is, indeed, compoſed of ſmall incidents, and petty occurrences; of [274] wiſhes for objects not remote, and grief for diſappointments of no fatal conſequence; of inſect vexations which ſting us and fly away, impertinences which buzz a while about us, and are heard no more; of meteorous plea⯑ſures 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 e⯑very man is to cull his own condition: for, as the chymiſts tell us, that all bodies are re⯑ſolvable into the ſame elements, and that the bound leſs variety of things ariſes from the dif⯑ferent proportions of very few ingredients; ſo a few pains, and a few pleaſures are all the materials of human life, and of theſe the pro⯑portions are partly allotted by providence, and partly left to the arrangement of reaſon and of choice.

AS theſe are well or ill diſpoſed, man is for the moſt part happy or miſerable. For very few are involved in great events, or have their thread of life entwiſted with the chain of cauſes on which armies or nations are ſuſ⯑pended; and even thoſe who ſeem wholly [275] buſied in publick affairs, and elevated above low cares, or trivial pleaſures, paſs the chief part of their time in familiar and domeſtick 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 chearfulneſs to thoſe hours, which ſplendour cannot gild, and acclamation cannot exhila⯑rate; thoſe ſoft intervals of unbended amuſe⯑ment, in which a man ſhrinks to his own natural dimenſions, and throws aſide the or⯑naments or diſguiſes, which he feels in priva⯑cy to be uſeleſs incumbrances, and to loſe all effect when they become familiar. To be happy at home is the ultimate reſult of all ambition, the end to which every enterpriſe 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 occaſional, [276] 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 con⯑cealed under fair appearances bad qualities, which, whenever they thought themſelves out of the reach of cenſure, broke out from their reſtraint, like winds impriſoned in their ca⯑verns, and whom every one had reaſon to love, but they whoſe love a wiſe man is chiefly ſolicitous to procure. And there are others who, without any ſhow of general goodneſs, and without the attractions, by which popu⯑larity is conciliated, are received among their own families as beſtowers of happineſs, and reverenced as inſtructors, guardians, and be⯑nefactors.

THE moſt authentick witneſſes of any man's character are thoſe who know him in his own family, and ſee him without any re⯑ſtraint, or rule of conduct, but ſuch as he voluntarily preſcribes to himſelf. If a man carries virtue with him into his private apart⯑ments, and takes no advantage of unlimited power, or probable ſecreſy; if we trace him [277] through the round of his time, and find that his character, with thoſe allowances which mortal frailty muſt always want, is uniform and regular, we have all the evidence of his ſincerity, that one man can have with regard to another; and, indeed, as hypocriſy cannot be its own reward, we may, without heſita⯑tion, determine that his heart is pure.

THE higheſt panegyrick, therefore, that private virtue can receive, is the praiſe of ſer⯑vants. For, however vanity or inſolence may look down with contempt on the ſuffrage of men, undignified by wealth, and unenlight⯑ened by education, it very ſeldom happens that they commend or blame without juſtice. Vice and virtue are eaſily diſtinguiſhed. Op⯑preſſion, according to Harrington's aphoriſm, will be felt by thoſe that cannot ſee it; and, perhaps, it falls out very often that, in moral queſtions, the philoſophers in the gown, and in the livery, differ not ſo much in their ſen⯑timents, as in their language, and have equal power of diſcerning right, though they can⯑not point it out to others with equal addreſs.

THERE are very few faults to be commit⯑ted in ſolitude, or without ſome agents, part⯑ners, [278] confederates, or witneſſes; and, there⯑fore, the ſervant muſt commonly know the ſecrets of a maſter, who has any ſecrets to en⯑truſt; and failings, merely perſonal, are ſo frequently expoſed by that ſecurity which pride and folly generally produce, and ſo in⯑quiſitively watched by that deſire of reducing the inequalities of condition, which the low⯑er orders of the world will always feel, that the teſtimony of a menial domeſtick can ſel⯑dom be conſidered as defective for want of knowledge. And though its impartiality may be ſometimes ſuſpected, it is at leaſt as credible as that of equals, where rivalry inſtigates cen⯑ſure, or friendſhip dictates palliations.

THE danger of betraying our weakneſs to our ſervants, and the impoſſibility of conceal⯑ing it from them, may be juſtly conſidered as one motive to a regular and irreproachable life. For no condition is more hateful or deſpica⯑ble, than his who has put himſelf in the pow⯑er 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 [279] inſolence, or that the maſter is not forced to confeſs, by his tameneſs or forbearance, 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 dignity 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 ſecreſy 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 fro⯑lick of drunkenneſs.

TO dread no eye, and to ſuſpect no tongue, is the great prerogative of innocence; an ex⯑emption granted only to invariable virtue. But guilt has always its horrors and ſolicitudes; and, to make it yet more ſhameful and de⯑teſtable, is doomed often to ſtand in awe of thoſe, to whom nothing could give influence or weight, but their power of betraying.

NUMB. 69. TUESDAY, November 13, 1750.

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 calamity of continuing to grow old from century to century. He thought that no adventitious or foreign pain was requiſite, that decrepitude itſelf was an epitome of all that is dreadful, and that nothing could be added to the curſe of age, but that it ſhould be extended beyond its natural limits.

THE moſt indifferent or negligent ſpecta⯑tor can indeed ſcarcely retire, without heavi⯑neſs 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 [281] diſtinguiſhed by oppoſition of conduct, con⯑trariety of deſigns, and diſſimilitude of perſo⯑nal qualities, all involved in one common diſ⯑treſs, and all ſtruggling with affliction which they cannot hope to overcome.

ALL the other miſeries, which way-lay our paſſage through the world, wiſdom may eſcape, and fortitude may conquer: 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 vic⯑tory. But a time muſt come when all our policy and our bravery ſhall be equally uſeleſs; when we ſhall all ſink into helpleſneſs and ſadneſs, without any power of receiving ſo⯑lace from the pleaſures that have formerly de⯑lighted us, or any proſpect of emerging into a ſecond poſſeſſion of the bleſſings that we have loſt.

THE induſtry of man has, indeed, not been wanting in endeavours to procure com⯑forts for theſe hours of dejection and melan⯑choly, and to gild the dreadful gloom with artificial light. The moſt uſual ſupport of old age is wealth. He whoſe poſſeſſions are [282] large, and whoſe cheſts are full, imagines himſelf always fortified againſt invaſions on his authority, and ſecure, at leaſt from open inſult, and apparent contempt. If he has loſt all other means of government, if his ſtrength and his reaſon fail him, he can at leaſt 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 is perpetually ſeiz⯑ing his domains, diſputing his commands, and cancelling his preſcriptions. 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 uni⯑verſally 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 [283] conceptions, this full peopled world is a diſ⯑mal ſolitude. He ſtands forlorn and ſilent, neglected or inſulted, in the midſt of mul⯑titudes, animated with hopes which he can⯑not ſhare, and employed in buſineſs which he is no longer able to forward or retard; nor can he find any to whom his life or his death are of importance, unleſs he has ſecured ſome domeſtic gratifications, ſome tender employ⯑ments, 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 ſenti⯑ments which this contrariety of appearance naturally produces, that the converſation of the old and young ends generally with con⯑tempt or pity on either ſide. To a young man entering the world, with fulneſs of hope, and ardor of perſuit, nothing is ſo unpleaſing as the cold caution, the ſaint expectations, the ſcrupulous diffidence which experience and diſappointments certainly infuſe; and the old man wonders in his turn that the world never can grow wiſer, that neither precepts, nor teſtimonies, can cure boys of their credulity and ſufficiency; and that not one can be con⯑vinced [284] 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 volatiliſed by paſſion, ſoon leave behind them the phlegmatic ſediment of warineſs and deli⯑beration, and burſt out in temerity and enter⯑priſe. The tenderneſs therefore which nature infuſes, and which long habits of beneficence confirm, is neceſſary to reconcile ſuch oppoſi⯑tion; 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 yet been hardened by time, and chilled by fruſtration.

YET it may be doubted, whether the plea⯑ſure of ſeeing children ripening into ſtrength and importance, be not overbalanced by the pain of ſeeing ſome fall in the bloſſom, and others blaſted in their growth; ſome ſhaken down by ſtorms, ſome tainted with cankers, [285] and ſome ſhrivelled in the ſhade; and whe⯑ther he that extends his care beyond himſelf, does not multiply his anxieties more than his pleaſure, and weary himſelf to no purpoſe by ſuperintending what he cannot regulate.

BUT though age be to every order of human being ſufficiently terrible, it is particularly to be dreaded by fine ladies, who have had no other end or ambition, than to fill up the day and the night, with dreſs, diverſions and flat⯑tery, and who having made no acquaintance with knowledge, or with buſineſs, have con⯑ſtantly caught all their ideas from the current prattle of the hour, and been indebted for all their happineſs to compliments and treats. With theſe ladies, age begins early, and very often laſts long; it begins when their beauty fades, when their mirth loſes its ſprightlineſs, and their motion its caſe. From that time all that gave them joy vaniſhes from about them; they hear the praiſes beſtowed on others, which uſed to ſwell their boſoms with exultation. They viſit the ſeats of ſelicity, and endeavour to continue the habit of being delighted. But pleaſure is only received when we believe that we give it in return; and neglect and petulance ſoon inform them that their power [286] and their value are paſt; and what then re⯑mains but a tedious and comfortleſs 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 enquire, 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 chearfulneſs?

IF it has been found by the experience of mankind, that no ſeaſon of life is able to ſup⯑ply itſelf with ſufficient gratifications, with⯑out anticipating uncertain felicities, it cannot ſurely be ſuppoſed, that old age, worn with labours, harraſſed with anxieties, and tortured with diſeaſes, ſhould have any gladneſs of its own, or feel any ſatisfaction from the con⯑templation 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 too often very ſoon exhauſted, all the events or actions of which the memory can afford pleaſure are quickly recollected; and [287] the future lies beyond the grave, where it can be reached only by virtue and devotion.

PIETY, then, is the only proper and ade⯑quate relief of decaying man, ſince this world can give him no further proſpects. He, there⯑fore, that grows old without religious hopes, as he declines into imbecillity, and feels pains and ſorrows inceſſantly crowding upon him, falls into a gulph of bottomleſs miſery, in which every reflection muſt plunge him deep⯑er, and where he finds only new gradations of anguiſh, and precipices of horrour.

NUMB. 70. SATURDAY, Novemb. 17, 1750.

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 [288] 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 them⯑ſelves 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 conſiderations, and uniformly examine every action and every deſire, by comparing it with the divine commands. There are others in a kind of equipoiſe between good and ill; who are moved on one part by riches or pleaſure, by the gratifications of paſſion, and the de⯑lights of ſenſe; and, on the other, by laws of which they own the obligation, and rewards of which they believe the reality, and whom a very ſmall addition of weight turns either way. The third claſs conſiſts of beings im⯑merſed [289] in pleaſure, or abandoned to paſſion, without any deſire of higher good, or any effort to extend their thoughts beyond imme⯑diate and groſs ſatisfactions.

THE ſecond claſs is ſo much more numerous than the firſt and laſt, that it may be conſi⯑dered as compriſing the whole body of man⯑kind. Thoſe of the laſt are not very many, and of the firſt are very few; and neither the one nor the other fall much under the conſi⯑deration of the moraliſt, whoſe precepts are intended chiefly for thoſe who are endeavour⯑ing to go forward up the ſteeps of virtue, not for thoſe who have already reached the ſum⯑mit, or thoſe who are reſolved to ſtay for ever in their preſent ſituation.

TO a man not verſed in the living world, but accuſtomed to judge of every thing only by ſpeculative reaſon, it is ſcarcely credible that any one ſhould be in this ſtate of indif⯑ference, or ſtand undetermined and unenga⯑ged, ready to follow the firſt call to either ſide. It ſeems certain, that a man either muſt believe that virtue will make him happy, and reſolve therefore to be virtuous, or think that he may be happy without virtue, and there⯑fore [290] caſt off all care but for his preſent inter⯑eſt. It ſeems impoſſible that conviction ſhould be on one ſide, and practice on the other; and that he who has ſeen the right way, ſhould voluntarily ſhut his eyes, that he may quit it with more 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 ſur⯑priſe; 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 complica⯑tions of affairs, or the force of particular in⯑fluence, has filled his mind with the excel⯑lence of virtue; he who 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 a⯑gainſt the ſmalleſt failure, ready to exact the utmoſt punctualities of right, and to conſider [291] every man that fails in any part of his duty, as without conſcience and without merit; un⯑worthy of truſt, or love, or 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 poſſibility of retaining ſome vir⯑tues, 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 arguments by which the mind is fortifi⯑ed againſt one crime are of equal force againſt all, and the conſequence very naturally fol⯑lows, 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 corruption.

YET ſuch is the ſtate of all mortal virtue, that it is always uncertain and variable, ſome⯑times extending to the whole compaſs of du⯑ty, and ſometimes ſhrinking into a narrow ſpace, and fortifying only a few avenues of [292] the heart, while all the reſt is left open to the incurſions of appetite, or given up to the do⯑minion of wickedneſs. Nothing therefore is more unjuſt than to judge of man by too ſhort an acquintance, and too ſlight inſpection; for it often happens, that in the looſe, and thoughtleſs, and diſſipated, there is a ſecret ra⯑dical 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 exhorta⯑tion be kindled into flame.

TO imagine that every one who is not com⯑pletely good is irrecoverably abandoned, is to ſuppoſe that all are capable of the ſame degrees of excellence; it is indeed to exact, from all, that prefection 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 cir⯑cumſtances, and conform to any hand that undertakes to mould them, roll down any torrent of cuſtom in which they happen to [293] 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 practice vice or virtue; and that neither education nor reaſon gives them much ſecurity againſt the influence of example. Whether it be that thay have leſs courage to ſtand againſt oppoſition, or that their deſire of admiration makes them ſacrifice their principles to the poor pleaſure of worthleſs praiſe, it is certain, whatever be the cauſe, that female 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 ac⯑countable, 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 endeavours to have his followers, admirers, and imitators; has therefore the influence of his example to watch with care; he ought to avoid not only crimes but the appearance of crimes, and not [294] only to practiſe virtue, but to applaud, coun⯑tenance, and ſupport it. For it is poſſible that for want of attention we may teach others faults from which ourſelves are free, or by a heedleſs negligence or cowardly deſertion of a good cauſe, which we ourſelves approve, may alienate thoſe who fix their eyes upon us, and who, having no certain rule of their own to guide their courſe in the ocean of the world, are eaſily confounded by the aberrations of that example which they chuſe for their direc⯑tion.