NUMB. 101. TUESDAY, March 5, 1751.

NUMB. 102. SATURDAY, March 9, 1751.

"LIFE," ſays Seneca, "is a voyage, in the progreſs of which, we are perpe⯑tually changing our ſcenes; we firſt leave childhood behind us, then youth, then the [11] years of ripened manhood, then the better and more pleaſing part of old age." The peruſal of this paſſage, having excited in me a train of reflections on the ſtate of man, the inceſſant fluctuation of his wiſhes, the gra⯑dual change of his diſpoſition to all external objects, and the thoughtleſneſs with which he floats along the ſtream of time, I ſunk in⯑to a ſlumber amidſt my meditations, and, on a ſudden, found my ears filled with the tu⯑mult of labour, the ſhouts of alacrity, the ſhrieks of alarm, the whiſtle of winds, and the daſh of waters.

MY aſtoniſhment for a time repreſſed my curioſity; but ſoon recovering myſelf ſo far as to enquire whither we were going, and what was the cauſe of ſuch clamour and con⯑fuſion, I was told that they were launching out into the ocean of life; that we had already paſſed the ſtreights of infancy, in which mul⯑titudes had periſhed, ſome by the weakneſs and fragility of their veſſels, and more by the folly, perverſeneſs, or negligence, of thoſe who undertook to ſteer them; and that we were now on the main ſea, abandoned to the winds and billows, without any other means [12] of ſecurity, than the care of the pilot, whom it was always in our power to chooſe among great numbers that offered their direction and aſſiſtance.

I THEN looked round with anxious eager⯑neſs: and firſt turning my eyes behind me, ſaw a ſtream flowing through flowery iſlands, which every one that ſailed along ſeemed to behold with pleaſure; but no ſooner touch⯑ed, than the current, which, though not noiſy or turbulent, was yet irreſiſtible, bore him away. Beyond theſe iſlands all was dark⯑neſs, nor could any of the paſſengers deſcribe the ſhore at which he firſt embarked.

BEFORE me, and each other ſide, was an expanſe of waters violently agitated, and covered with ſo thick a miſt, that the moſt perſpicacious eye could ſee but a little way. It appeared to be full of rocks and whirl⯑pools, for many ſunk unexpectedly while they were courting the gale with full ſails, and in⯑ſulting thoſe whom they had left behind. So numerous, indeed, were the dangers, and ſo thick the darkneſs, that no caution could confer ſecurity. Yet there were many, who, [13] by falſe intelligence, betrayed their followers into whirlpools, or by violence puſhed thoſe whom they found in their way againſt the rocks.

THE current was invariable and inſur⯑mountable; but though it was impoſſible to ſail againſt it, or to return to the place that was once paſſed, yet it was not ſo violent as to allow no opportunities for dexterity or courage, ſince, though none could retreat back from danger, yet they might often avoid it by oblique direction.

IT was, however, not very common to ſteer with much care or prudence; for, by ſome univerſal infatuation, every man appear⯑ed to think himſelf ſafe, though he ſaw his conſorts every moment ſinking round him; and no ſooner had the waves cloſed over them, than their fate and their miſconduct were forgotten; the voyage was perſued with the ſame jocund confidence; every man congratulated himſelf upon the ſoundneſs of his veſſel, and believed himſelf able to ſtem the whirlpool in which his friend was ſwallow⯑ed, or glide over the rocks on which he was [14] daſhed; nor was it often obſerved that the ſight of a wreck made any man change his courſe; if he turned aſide for a moment, he ſoon forgot the rudder, and left himſelf again to the diſpoſal of chance.

THIS negligence did not proceed from in⯑difference, or from wearineſs of their preſent condition; for not one of thoſe, who thus ruſhed upon deſtruction, failed, when he was ſinking, to call loudly upon his aſſociates for that help which could not now be given him; and many ſpent their laſt moments in caution⯑ing others againſt the folly, by which they were intercepted in the midſt of their courſe. Their benevolence was ſometimes praiſed, but their admonitions were unregarded.

THE veſſels, in which we had embarked, being confeſſedly unequal to the turbulence of the ſtream of life, were viſibly impaired in the courſe of the voyage; ſo that every paſſenger was certain, that how long ſoever he might, by favourable accidents, or by inceſſant vigi⯑lance, be preſerved, he muſt ſink at laſt.

THIS neceſſity of periſhing might have been [15] expected to ſadden the gay, and intimidate the daring, at leaſt to keep the melancholy and timorous in perpetual torments, and hid⯑der them from any enjoyment of the varieties and gratifications which nature offered them as the ſolace of their labours; yet in effect none ſeemed leſs to expect deſtruction than thoſe to whom it was moſt dreadful; they all had the art of concealing their danger from themſelves; and thoſe who knew their inability to bear the ſight of the terrors that embarraſſed their way, took care never to look forward, but found ſome amuſement for the preſent moment, and generally enter⯑tained themſelves by playing with HOPE, who was the conſtant aſſociate of the voyage of life.

YET all that HOPE ventured to promiſe, even to thoſe whom ſhe favoured moſt, was, not that they ſhould eſcape, but that they ſhould ſink laſt; and with this promiſe every one was ſatisfied, though he laughed at the reſt for ſeeming to believe it. HOPE, indeed, apparently mocked the credulity of her com⯑panions; for in proportion as their veſſels grew leaky, ſhe redoubled her aſſurances of [16] ſafety; and none were more buſy in making proviſions for a long voyage, than they, whom all but themſelves ſaw likely to periſh ſoon by irreparable decay.

IN the midſt of the current of life was the gulph of INTEMPERANCE, a dreadful whirl⯑pool, interſperſed with rocks, of which the pointed crags were concealed under water, and the tops covered with herbage, on which EASE ſpread couches of repoſe, and with ſhades, where PLEASURE warbled the ſong of invitation. Within ſight of theſe rocks all who ſailed on the ocean of life muſt neceſſarily paſs. REASON, indeed, was always at hand to ſteer the paſſengers through a narrow out⯑let by which they might eſcape; but very few could, by her intreaties or remonſtran⯑ces, be induced to put the rudder into her hand, without ſtipulating that ſhe ſhould ap⯑proach ſo near unto the rocks of PLEASURE, that they might ſolace themſelves with a ſhort enjoyment of that delicious region, after which they always determined to perſue their courſe without any other deviation.

REASON was too often prevailed upon ſo [17] far by theſe promiſes, as to venture her charge within the eddy of the gulph of IN⯑TEMPERANCE, where, indeed, the circum⯑volution was weak, but yet interrupted the courſe of the veſſel, and drew it, by inſen⯑ſible rotations, towards the centre. She then repented her temerity, and with all her force endeavoured to retreat; but the draught of the gulph was generally too ſtrong to be over⯑come; and the paſſenger, having danced in circles with a pleaſing and giddy velocity, was at laſt overwhelmed and loſt. Thoſe few whom REASON was able to extricate, generally ſuffered ſo many ſhocks upon the points which ſhot out from the rocks of PLEASURE, that they were unable to con⯑tinue their courſe with the ſame ſtrength and facility as before, but floated along timorouſly and feebly, endangered by every breeze, and ſhattered by every ruffle of the water, till they ſunk, by ſlow degrees, after long ſtrug⯑gles, and innumerable expedients, always re⯑pining at their own folly, and warning others againſt the firſt approach to the gulph of IN⯑TEMPERANCE.

THERE were artiſts who profeſſed to re⯑pair [18] the breaches and ſtop the leaks of the veſſels which had been ſhattered on the rocks of PLEASURE. Many appeared to have great confidence in their ſkill, and ſome, indeed, were preſerved by it from ſinking, who had received only a ſingle blow; but I remarked that few veſſels laſted long which had been much repaired, nor was it found that the artiſts themſelves continued afloat longer than thoſe who had leaſt of their aſſiſtance.

THE only advantage, which, in the voy⯑age of life, the cautious had above the negli⯑gent, was, that they ſunk later, and more ſuddenly; for they paſſed forward till they had ſometimes ſeen all thoſe in whoſe com⯑pany they had iſſued from the ſtreights of in⯑fancy, periſh in the way, and at laſt were overſet by a croſs breeze, without the toil of reſiſtance, or the anguiſh of expectation. But ſuch as had often fallen againſt the rocks of PLEASURE, commonly ſubſided by ſenſible degrees, contended long with the encroach⯑ing waters, and haraſſed themſelves by la⯑bours that ſcarce HOPE herſelf could flatter with ſucceſs.

[19] AS I was looking upon the various fate of the multitude about me, I was ſuddenly al⯑armed with an admonition from ſome un⯑known Power, "Gaze not idly upon others when thou thyſelf art ſinking. Whence is this thoughtleſs tranquillity, when thou and they are equally endangered?" I look⯑ed, and ſeeing the gulph of INTEMPE⯑RANCE before me, ſtarted and awaked.

NUMB. 103. TUESDAY, March 12, 1751.

CURIOSITY is one of the permanent and certain characteriſticks of a vigorous in⯑ellect, to which every advance into knowledge opens new proſpects, and produces new incite⯑ments to farther progreſs. All the attainments poſſible in our preſent ſtate are evidently in⯑adequate to our capacities of enjoyment; con⯑queſt ſerves no purpoſe but that of kindling ambition, diſcovery has no effect but of raiſ⯑ing [20] expectation; the gratification of one de⯑ſire encourages another, and after all our la⯑bours, ſtudies, and enquiries, we are continu⯑ally at the ſame diſtance from the completion of our ſchemes, have ſtill ſome wiſh impor⯑tunate to be ſatisfied, and ſome faculty reſt⯑leſs and mutinous for want of employment.

THE deſire of knowledge, though it is of⯑ten animated by extrinſick and adventi⯑tious motives, ſeems on many occaſions to operate without ſubordination to any other principle; we are eager to ſee and hear, with⯑out intention of referring our obſerva⯑tions to a farther end; we climb a mountain for a proſpect of the plain; we run to the ſtrand in a ſtorm, that we may contemplate the agitation of the water; we range from city to city, though we profeſs neither archi⯑tecture nor fortification; we croſs ſeas only to view nature in nakedneſs, or magnificence in ruins; we are equally allured by novelty of every kind, by a deſart or a palace, a ca⯑taract or a cavern, by every thing rude, and every thing poliſhed, every thing great and every thing little; we do not ſee a thicket [21] but with ſome temptation to enter it, nor re⯑mark an inſect flying before us but with an inclination to perſue it.

THIS paſſion is, perhaps, regularly height⯑ened in proportion as the powers of the mind are elevated and enlarged. Lucan there⯑fore introduces Caeſar ſpeaking with dignity ſuitable to the grandeur of his deſigns and the extent of his capacity, when he declares to the high prieſt of Egypt, that he has no deſire equally powerful with that of finding the origin of the Nile, and that he would quit all the projects of the civil war for a ſight of thoſe fountains which had been ſo long con⯑cealed. And Homer, when he would furniſh the Sirens with a temptation, to which his hero, renowned for wiſdom, might yield without diſgrace, makes them declare, that none ever departed from them but with en⯑creaſe of knowledge.

THERE is, indeed, ſcarce any kind of ideal acquirement which may not be applied to ſome uſe, or which may not at leaſt gratify pride with occaſional ſuperiority; but who⯑ever attends the motions of his own mind [22] will find, that upon the firſt appearance of an object, or the firſt ſtart of a queſtion, his inclination to a nearer view, or more accu⯑rate diſcuſſion, precedes all thoughts of pro⯑fit, or of competition; and that his deſires take wing by inſtantaneous impulſe, though their flight may be invigorated, or their ef⯑forts renewed, by ſubſequent conſiderations. The gratification of curioſity rather frees us from uneaſineſs than confers pleaſure; we are more pained by ignorance than delighted by inſtruction. Curioſity is the thirſt of the ſoul; it inflames and torments us, and makes us taſte every thing with joy, however other⯑wiſe inſipid, by which it may be quenched.

IT is evident that the earlieſt ſearchers after knowledge muſt have propoſed knowledge only as their reward; and that ſcience, though perhaps the nurſling of intereſt, was the daughter of curioſity: for who can believe that they who firſt watched the courſe of the ſtars, foreſaw the uſe of their diſcoveries to the facilitation of commerce, or the men⯑ſuration of time? They were delighted with the ſplendor of the nocturnal ſkies, they found that the lights changed their places, what they [23] admired they were anxious to underſtand, and in time traced their revolutions.

THERE are, indeed, beings in the form of men, who appear ſatisfied with their intel⯑lectual poſſeſſions, and ſeem to live without deſire of enlarging their conceptions; before whom the world paſſes without notice, and who are equally unmoved by nature or by art.

THIS negligence is ſometimes only the temporary effect of a predominant paſſion; a lover finds no inclination to travel any path, but that which leads to the habitation of his miſtreſs; a trader can ſpare little attention to common occurrences, when his fortune is endangered by a ſtorm. It is frequently the conſequence of a total immerſion in ſenſua⯑lity: corporeal pleaſures may be indulged till the memory of every other kind of hap⯑pineſs is obliterated; the mind long habitu⯑ated to a lethargick and quieſcent ſtate, is un⯑willing to wake to the toil of thinking; and though ſhe may ſometimes be diſturbed by the obtruſion of new ideas, ſhrinks back again to ignorance and reſt.

[24] BUT, indeed, if we except them to whom the continual taſk of procuring the ſupports of life, denies all opportunities of deviation from their own narrow track, the number of ſuch as live without the ardour of enquiry, is very ſmall, though many content them⯑ſelves with cheap amuſements, and waſte their lives in reſearches of no importance.

THERE is no ſnare more dangerous to buſy and excurſive minds, than the cobwebs of petty inquiſitiveneſs, which entangle them in trivial employments and minute ſtudies, and detain them in a middle ſtate between the tediouſneſs of total inactivity, and the fatigue of laborious efforts, enchant them at once with eaſe and novelty, and vitiate them with the luxury of learning. The neceſſity of do⯑ing ſomething, and the fear of undertaking much, ſinks the hiſtorian to a genealogiſt, the philoſopher to a journaliſt of the weather, and the mathematician to a conſtructer of dials.

IT is happy when thoſe who cannot con⯑tent themſelves to be idle, nor reſolve to be [25] induſtrious, are at leaſt employed without injury to others; but it ſeldom happens that we can contain ourſelves long in a neutral ſtate, or forbear to ſink into vice, when we are no longer ſoaring towards virtue.

NUGACULUS was diſtinguiſhed in his ear⯑lier years by an uncommon livelineſs of imagi⯑nation, quickneſs of ſagacity, and extent of knowledge. When after having paſſed through the uſual methods of education, he entered into life, he applied himſelf with par⯑ticular inquiſitiveneſs to examine the various motives of human actions, the complicated influence of mingled affections, the different modifications of intereſt and ambition, and the various cauſes of miſcarriage and ſucceſs both in public and private affairs.

THOUGH his friends did not diſcover to what purpoſe all theſe obſervations were col⯑lected, or how Nugaculus would much im⯑prove his virtue or his fortune by an inceſſant attention to changes of countenance, burſts of inconſideration, ſallies of paſſion, and all the other caſualties by which he uſed to trace a character, yet they could not deny the [26] ſtudy of human nature to be worthy of a wiſe man; they therefore flattered his vanity, applauded his diſcoveries, and liſtened with ſubmiſſive modeſty to his lectures on the un⯑certainty of inclination, the weakneſs of re⯑ſolves, and the inſtability of temper, to his account of the various motives which agitate the mind, and his ridicule of the modern dream of a ruling paſſion.

SUCH was the firſt incitement of Nuga⯑culus to a cloſe inſpection into the conduct of mankind. He had no intereſt in view, and therefore no deſign of ſupplantation; he had no malevolence, and therefore detected faults without any intention to expoſe them; but having once found the art of engaging his attention upon others, he had no inclination to call it back to himſelf, but has paſſed his time in keeping a watchful eye upon every riſing character, and lived upon a ſmall eſtate without any thought of encreaſing it.

HE is, by continual application, become a general maſter of ſecret hiſtory, and can give an account of the intrigues, private marriages, competitions, and ſtratagems of [27] half a century. He knows the mortgages upon every man's eſtate, the terms upon which every ſpendthrift raiſes his money, the real and reputed fortune of every lady, the jointure ſtipulated by every contract, and the expectations of every family from maiden aunts and childleſs acquaintances. He can relate the economy of every houſe, knows how much one man's cellar is robbed by his butler, and the land of another underlet by his ſteward; he can tell where the manor⯑houſe is falling, though large ſums are yearly paid for repairs; and where the tenants are felling woods without the conſent of the owner.

TO obtain all this intelligence he is inad⯑vertently guilty of a thouſand acts of trea⯑chery. He ſees no man's ſervant without draining him of his truſt; he enters no family without flattering the children into diſco⯑veries; he is a perpetual ſpy upon the doors of his neighbours; and knows, by long ex⯑perience, at whatever diſtance, the looks of a creditor, a borrower, a lover, and a pimp.

NUGACULUS is not ill-natured, and there⯑fore [28] his induſtry has not hither to been very miſ⯑chievous to others, or dangerous to himſelf; but ſince he cannot enjoy this knowledge but by diſcovering it, and, if he had no other mo⯑tive to loquacity, is obliged to traffick like the chymiſts, and purchaſe one ſecret with another, he is every day more hated as he is more known; for he is conſidered by great numbers as one that has their fame and their happineſs in his power, and no man can much love him of whom he lives in fear.

THUS has an intention, innocent at firſt, if not laudable, the intention of regulating his own behaviour by the experience of others, betrayed Nugaculus not only to a fooliſh, but vicious waſte of a life which might have been honourably paſſed in public ſervices, or dome⯑ſtic virtues. Such is the fate of all exceſ⯑ſive deſires, and ſuch the conſequence of giv⯑ing up the mind to employments that engroſs, but do not improve it.

NUMB. 104. SATURDAY, March 16, 1751.

THE apparent inſufficiency of every individual to his own happineſs or ſafety, compels us to ſeek from one another aſſiſtance and ſupport. The neceſſity of joint efforts for the execution of any great or ex⯑tenſive deſign, the variety of powers diſ⯑ſeminated in the ſpecies, and the propor⯑tion between the defects and excellencies of different perſons, demand an interchange of help, and communication of intelligence, and by frequent reciprocations of beneficence, unite mankind in ſociety and friendſhip.

IF it can be imagined that there ever was a time when the inhabitants of any country were in a ſtate of equality, without diſtinction of rank, or peculiarity of poſſeſſions, it is rea⯑ſonable to believe that every man was then loved in proportion as he could contribute by his ſtrength, or his ſkill, to the ſupply of natu⯑ral [30] wants; that there was little room for pee⯑viſh diſlike, or capricious favour; that the affe⯑ction then admitted into the heart, was rather eſteem than tenderneſs; and that kindneſs was only purchaſed by benefits. But when by force or policy, by wiſdom or by fortune, property and ſuperiority were introduced and eſtabliſhed, ſo that many were condemned to labour for the ſupport of a few, then they whoſe poſſeſſions ſwelled above their wants, naturally laid out their ſuper fluities upon pleaſure; and thoſe who could not gain friendſhip by neceſ⯑ſary offices, endeavoured to promote their in⯑tereſt by luxurious gratifications, and to create need, which they might be courted to ſup⯑ply.

THE deſires of mankind are ſo much more numerous than their attainments, and the capacity of imagination ſo much larger than actual enjoyment, that no power of beſtowing can equal expectation. Every diſtant appear⯑ance of advantage muſt therefore excite ſtrug⯑gles and competitions; that which can be ob⯑tained only by one will be deſired by multi⯑tudes, while there remain multitudes unſatisfied with their allotment; and he who cannot hope [31] to ſucceed by real ſervices, and either finds no room for the exertion of great qualities, or perceives himſelf excelled by his rivals, will have recourſe to other expedients, will endeavour to become agreeable where he can⯑not be important, and learn, by degrees, to number the art of pleaſing among the moſt uſeful ſtudies, and moſt valuable acquiſitions.

THIS art, like others, is cultivated in pro⯑portion to its uſefulneſs, and will always flouriſh moſt where it is moſt rewarded: for this reaſon we find it practiſed with great aſ⯑ſiduity under abſolute governments, where honours and riches are in the hands of one man, whom all endeavour to propitiate, and who ſoon becomes ſo much accuſtomed to compliance and officiouſneſs, as not eaſily to find, in the moſt delicate addreſs, that no⯑velty which is neceſſary to procure attention.

IT is diſcovered by a very few experiments, that no man is much pleaſed with a compa⯑nion, who does not encreaſe, in ſome re⯑ſpect, his fondneſs of himſelf; and, there⯑fore, he that wiſhes rather to be led forward to proſperity by the gentle hand of favour, [32] than to force his way by labour and merit, muſt conſider with more care how to diſplay his patron's excellencies than his own; that whenever he approaches, he may fill the ima⯑gination with pleaſing dreams, and chaſe away diſguſt and wearineſs by a perpetual ſucceſſion of delightful images.

THIS may, indeed, ſometimes be effected by turning the attention upon advantages which are really poſſeſſed, or upon proſpects which reaſon ſpreads before hope; for, who⯑ever can deſerve or require to be courted has generally, either from nature or from for⯑tune, gifts, which he may review with ſatiſ⯑faction, and of which when he is artfully re⯑called to the contemplation, he will ſeldom be diſpleaſed.

BUT thoſe who have once degraded their underſtanding to an application only to the paſſions, and who have learned to derive hope from any other ſources than induſtry and virtue, ſeldom retain dignity and magnani⯑mity ſufficient to defend them againſt the con⯑ſtant recurrence of temptation to falſhood. He that is too deſirous to be loved will ſoon [33] learn to flatter, and when he has exhauſted all the variations of honeſt praiſe, and can de⯑light no longer with the civility of truth, he will invent new topics of panegyric, and break out into raptures at virtues and beauties con⯑ferred by himſelf.

THE drudgeries of dependence would, in⯑deed, be aggravated by hopeleſneſs of ſucceſs, if no indulgence was allowed to adulation. He that will obſtinately confine his patron to hear only the commendations which he de⯑ſerves, will ſoon be forced to give way to others that regale him with more compaſs of muſic. The greateſt human virtue bears no proportion to human vanity. We always think ourſelves better than we are, and are generally deſirous that others ſhould think us ſtill better than we think ourſelves. To praiſe us for actions, or diſpoſitions, which deſerve praiſe, is not to confer a benefit, but to pay a tribute. We have always pretenſions to fame, which, in our own hearts, we know to be diſputable, and which we are deſirous to ſtrengthen by a new fuffrage; we have always hopes which we ſuſpect to be falla⯑cious, [34] and of which we eagerly ſnatch at every confirmation.

IT may, indeed, be proper to make the firſt approaches under the conduct of truth, and to ſecure credit to future encomiums, by ſuch praiſe as may be ratified by the con⯑ſcience; but the mind once habituated to the luſciouſneſs of eulogy, becomes in a ſhort time nice and faſtidious, and like a vitiated palate is inceſſantly calling for higher grati⯑fications.

IT is ſcarcely credible how far diſcern⯑ment may be dazzled by the miſt of pride, and wiſdom infatuated by the intoxica⯑tion of flattery; or how low the genius may deſcend by ſucceſſive gradations of ſervility, and how ſwiftly it may fall down the preci⯑pice of falſhood. No man can, indeed, ob⯑ſerve without indignation, on what names, both of antient and modern times, the ut⯑moſt exuberance of praiſe has been laviſhed, and by what hands it has been beſtowed. It has never yet been found, that the tyrant, the plunderer, the oppreſſor, the moſt hate⯑ful of the hateful, the moſt profligate of the [35] profligate, have been denied any celebrations which they were willing to purchaſe, or that wickedneſs and folly have not found corre⯑ſpondent flatterers through all their ſubordi⯑nations, except when they have been aſſoci⯑ated with avarice or poverty, and have want⯑ed either inclination or ability to hire a pane⯑gyriſt.

AS there is no character ſo deformed as to fright away from it the proſtitutes of praiſe, there is no degree of encomiaſtic veneration which pride has refuſed. The emperors of Rome ſuffered themſelves to be worſhiped in their lives with altars and ſacrifice; and in an age more enlightened the terms peculiar to the praiſe and worſhip of the Supreme Being, have been applied to wretches whom it was the reproach of humanity to number among men; and whom nothing but riches or power hindered thoſe that read or wrote their deifi⯑cation, from hunting into the toils of juſtice, as diſturbers of the peace of nature.

THERE are, indeed, many among the poe⯑tical flatterers, who muſt be reſigned to in⯑famy without vindication, and whom we muſt [36] confeſs to have deſerted the cauſe of virtue for pay; They have committed, againſt full conviction, the crime of obliterating the di⯑ſtinctions between good and evil, and, in⯑ſtead of oppoſing the encroachments of vice, have incited her progreſs, and celebrated her conqueſts. But there is a lower claſs of ſy⯑cophants, whoſe underſtanding has not made them capable of equal guilt. Every man of high rank is ſurrounded with numbers, who have no other rule of thought or action, than his maxims, and his conduct; whom the honour of being numbered among his ac⯑quaintance, reconciles to all his vices, and all his abſurdities; and who eaſily perſuade them⯑ſelves to eſteem him, by whoſe regard they conſider themſelves as diſtinguiſhed and exalt⯑ed.

IT is dangerous for mean minds to ven⯑ture themſelve within the ſphere of greatneſs. Stupidity is ſoon blinded by the ſplendour of wealth, and cowardice is eaſily fettered in the ſhackles of dependence. To ſolicit patron⯑age, is, at leaſt in the event, to ſet virtue to ſale. None can be pleaſed without praiſe, and few can be praiſed without falſhood; [37] few can be affiduous without ſervility, and none can be ſervile without corruption.

NUMB. 105. TUESDAY, March 19, 1751.

I Was lately conſidering among other ob⯑jects of ſpeculation, the new attempt of an univerſal regiſter, an office, in which every man may lodge an account of his ſuper⯑fluities and wants, of whatever he deſires to purchaſe, or to ſell. My imagination ſoon preſented to me the latitude to which this de⯑ſign may be extended by integrity and in⯑duſtry, and the advantages which may be juſtly hoped from a general mart of intelli⯑gence, when once its reputation ſhall be ſo eſtabliſhed, that neither reproach nor fraud ſhall be feared from it; when an application to it ſhall not be cenſured as the laſt reſource of deſperation, nor its informations ſuſpected as the fortuitious ſuggeſtions of men obliged [38] not to appear ignorant. A place where every exuberance may be diſcharged, and every deficiency ſupplied, where every law⯑ful paſſion may find its gratifications, and every honeſt curioſity receive ſatisfaction, where the ſtock of a nation, pecuniary and intellectual, may be brought together, and where all conditions of humanity may hope to find relief, pleaſure, and accommodation, muſt equally deſerve the attention of the mer⯑chant and philoſopher, of him who mingles in the tumult of buſineſs, and him who only lives to amuſe himſelf with the various em⯑ployments and purſuits of others. Nor will it be an uninſtructing ſchool to the greateſt maſters of method and diſpatch, if ſuch mul⯑tiplicity can be preſerved from embarraſment, and ſuch tumult from inaccuracy.

WHILE I was concerting this ſplendid pro⯑ject, and filling my thoughts with its regula⯑tion, its conveniencies, its variety, and its conſequences, I ſunk gradually into ſlumber; but the ſame images, though leſs diſtinct, ſtill continued to float upon my fancy. I per⯑ceived myſelf at the gate of an immenſe edi⯑fice, where innumerable multitudes were [39] paſſing without confuſion; every face on which I fixed my eyes, ſeemed ſettled in the contemplation of ſome important purpoſe, and every foot was haſtened by eagerneſs and expectation. I followed the croud without knowing whither I ſhould be drawn, and re⯑mained a while in the unpleaſing ſtate of an idler where all other beings were buſy, giv⯑ing place every moment to thoſe who had more importance in their looks. Aſhamed to ſtand ignorant, and afraid to aſk queſtions, at laſt I ſaw a lady ſweeping by me, whom, by the quickneſs of her eyes, the agility of her ſteps, and a mixture of levity and im⯑patience, I knew to be my long loved pro⯑tectreſs, CURIOSITY. "Great goddeſs," ſaid I, "may thy votary be permitted to implore thy favour; if thou haſt been my directreſs from the firſt dawn of reaſon, if I have followed thee through the maze of life with invariable fidelity, if I have turn⯑ed to every new call, and quitted at thy nod one perſuit for another, if I have never ſtopped at the invitations of fortune, nor forgot thy authority in the bowers of plea⯑ſure, inform me now whither chance has conducted me."

[40] "THOU art now," replied the ſmiling power, "in the preſence of JUSTICE, and of TRUTH, whom the father of gods and men has ſent down to regiſter the demands and pretenſions of mankind, that the world may at laſt be reduced to order, and that none may complain hereafter of beîng doomed to taſks for which they are un⯑qualified, of poſſeſſing faculties for which they cannot find employment, or virtues that languiſh unobſerved for want of op⯑portunities to exert them, of being encum⯑bered with ſuperfluities which they would willingly reſign, or of waſting away in de⯑ſires which ought to be ſatisfied. JUSTICE is now to examine every man's wiſhes, and TRUTH is to record them; let us ap⯑proach, and obſerve the progreſs of this great tranſaction."

SHE then moved forward, and TRUTH, who knew her among the moſt faithful of her followers, beckoned her to advance, till we were placed near the ſeat of JUSTICE. The firſt who required the aſſiſtance of the office, came forward with a ſlow pace, and tumour of dignity, and ſhaking a weighty purſe in his [41] hand, demanded to be regiſtred by TRUTH, as the MECAENAS of the preſentage, the chief encourager of literary merit, to whom men of learning and wit might apply in any exi⯑gence or diſtreſs with certainty of ſuccour. JUSTICE very mildly enquired whether he had calculated the expence of ſuch a declara⯑tion? whether he had been informed what number of petitioners would ſwarm about him? whether he could diſtinguiſh idleneſs and negligence from calamity, oſtentation from knowledge, or vivacity from wit? To theſe queſtions he ſeemed not well provided with a reply, but repeated his deſire to be recorded a patron. JUSTICE then offered to regiſter his propoſal on theſe conditions, that he ſhould never ſuffer himſelf to be flattered; that he ſhould never delay an audience when he had nothing to do; and that he ſhould never en⯑courage followers without intending to re⯑ward them. Theſe terms were too hard to be accepted; for what, ſaid he, is the end of patronage, but the pleaſure of reading de⯑dications, holding multitudes in ſuſpenſe, and enjoying their hopes, their fears, and their anxiety, flattering them to aſſiduity, and, at laſt, diſmiſſing them for impatience? JUSTICE [42] heard his confeſſion, and ordered his name to be poſted upon the gate among cheats, and robbers, and publick nuiſances, which all were by that notice warned to avoid.

ANOTHER required to be made known as the diſcoverer of a new art of education, by which languages and ſciences might be taught to all capacities, and all inclinations, without fear of puniſhment, pain of confinement, loſs of any part of the gay mien of ignorance, or any obſtruction of the neceſſary progreſs in dreſs, dancing, or cards.

JUSTICE and TRUTH did not trouble this great adept with many enquiries; but finding his addreſs aukward, and his ſpeech barbarous, ordered him to be regiſtred as a tall fellow who wanted employment, and might ſerve in any poſt where the knowledge of reading and writing was not required

A MAN of a very great and philoſophic aſpect required notice to be given of his in⯑tention to ſet out a certain day, on a ſubma⯑rine voyage, and of his willingneſs to take in paſſengers for no more than double the price [43] at which they might ſail above water. His deſire was granted, and he retired to a con⯑venient ſtand in expectation of filling his ſhip, and growing rich in a ſhort time by the ſe⯑crecy, ſafety, and expedition of the paſſage.

ANOTHER deſired to advertiſe the curious that he had, for the advancement of true knowledge, contrived an optical inſtrument, by which thoſe who laid out their induſtry on memorials of the changes of the wind, might obſerve the direction of the weathercocks on the hither ſide of the lunar world.

ANOTHER wiſhed to be known as the au⯑thor of an invention, by which cities or king⯑doms might be made warm in winter by a ſingle fire, a kettle, and pipe. Another had a vehicle by which a man might bid defiance to floods, and continue floating in an inunda⯑tion without any inconvenience till the wa⯑ter ſhould ſubſide. JUSTICE conſidered theſe projects as of no importance but to their au⯑thors, and therefore ſcarcely condeſcended to examine them; but TRUTH refuſed to ad⯑mit them into the regiſter.

[44] TWENTY different pretenders came in one hour to give notice of an univerſal medicine, by which all diſeaſes might be cured or pre⯑vented, and life protracted beyond the age of NESTOR. But JUSTICE informed them, that one univerſal medicine was ſufficient, and ſhe would delay the notification of her office, till ſhe ſaw who could longeſt preſerve his own life.

A THOUSAND other claims and offers were exhibited and examined. I remarked among this mighty multitude, that, of intel⯑lectual advantages, many had great exube⯑rance, and few confeſſed any want; of every art there were a hundred profeſſors for a ſingle pupil: but of other attainments, ſuch as riches, honours, and preſerments, I found none that had too much, but thouſands and ten thouſands that thought themſelves intitled to a larger dividend.

IT often happened that old miſers, and wo⯑men married at the cloſe of life, advertiſed their want of children; nor was it uncom⯑mon for thoſe who had a numerous offspring, [45] to give notice of a ſon or daughter to be ſpa⯑red; but though appearances promiſed well on both ſides, the bargain ſeldom ſucceeded; for they ſoon loſt their inclination to adopted chil⯑dren, and proclaimed their intentions to pro⯑mote ſome ſcheme of public charity; a thou⯑ſand propoſals were immediately made, among which they heſitated till death precluded the deciſion.

AS I ſtood looking on this ſcene of confu⯑ſion, TRUTH condeſcended to aſk me what was my buſineſs at her office? I was ſtruck with the unexpected queſtion, and awaked by my efforts to anſwer it.

NUMB. 106. SATURDAY, March 23, 1751.

IT is neceſſary to the ſucceſs of flattery, that it be accommodated to particular circumſtances or characters, and enter the heart on that ſide where the paſſions ſtand ready to receive it. A lady ſeldom liſtens with attention to any praiſe but that of her beauty; a trader always expects to hear of his influence at the bank, his importance on the exchange, the height of his credit, and the extent of his traffick; and the author will ſcarcely be pleaſed without ſome lamen⯑tations of the neglect of learning, the conſpi⯑racies againſt genius, and the ſlow progreſs of merit, or ſome praiſes of the diſintereſtedneſs and magnanimity of thoſe who encounter poverty and contempt in the cauſe of knowledge, and truſt for the reward of their labours to the judgment and gratitude of poſterity.

AN aſſurance of unfading laurels, and im⯑mortal reputation, is the ſettled reciprocation of civility between amicable writers; to raiſe [47] monuments more durable than braſs, and more conſpicuous than pyramids, has been long the common boaſt of literature; but among the innumerable architects that erect columns to themſelves, far the greateſt part, either for want of durable materials, or of art to diſ⯑poſe them, ſee their edifices periſh as they are towering to completion, and thoſe few that for a while attract the eye of mankind, are generally weak in the foundation, and ſoon ſink by the ſaps of time.

NO place affords a more ſtriking convic⯑tion of the vanity of human hopes, than a pub⯑lick library; for who can ſee the wall croud⯑ed on every ſide by mighty volumes, the works of laborious meditation, and accurate enquiry, now ſcarcely known but by the ca⯑talogue, and preſerved only to encreaſe the pomp of learning, without conſidering how many hours have been waſted in vain endea⯑vours, how often imagination has anticipated the praiſes of futurity, how many ſtatues have riſen to the eye of vanity, how many ideal converts have elevated zeal, how often wit has exulted in the eternal infamy of his antagoniſts, and dogmatiſm has delighted in the [48] gradual advances of his authority, the immu⯑tability of his decrees, and the perpetuity of his power?

Of the innumerable authors whoſe per⯑formances are thus treaſured up in magnifi⯑cent obſcurity, moſt are undoubtedly for⯑gotten, becauſe they never deſerved to be remembred, and owed the honours which they once obtained, not to judgment or to genius, to labour or to art, but to the pre⯑judice of faction, the ſtratagems of intrigue, or the ſervility of adulation.

NOTHING is more common than to find men whoſe works are now totally neglected, mentioned with praiſes by their contempora⯑ries, as the oracles of their age, and the legiſ⯑lators of ſcience. Curioſity is naturally ex⯑cited, their volumes after long enquiry are found, but ſeldom reward the labour of the ſearch. Every period of time has produced theſe bubbles of artificial fame, which are [49] kept up a while by the breath of faſhion, and then break at once and are annihilated. The learned often bewail the loſs of ancient wri⯑ters whoſe characters have ſurvived their works; but, perhaps, if we could now re⯑trieve them, we ſhould find them only the Granvilles, Montagues, Stepneys, and Sheffields of their time, and wonder by what infatua⯑tion or caprice they could riſe to notice.

IT cannot, however, be denied, that many have ſunk into oblivion, whom it were unjuſt to number with this deſpicable claſs. Vari⯑ous kinds of literary fame ſeem deſtined to va⯑rious meaſures of duration. Some ſpread in⯑to exuberance with a very ſpeedy growth, but ſoon wither and decay; ſome riſe more ſlow⯑ly, but laſt long. Parnaſſus has its flowers of tranſient fragrance, as well as its oaks of towering height, and its laurels of eternal verdure.

AMONG thoſe whoſe reputation is exhauſt⯑ed in a ſhort time by its own luxuriance, are the writers who take advantage of ſome pre⯑ſent incidents and characters which ſtrongly intereſt the paſſions, and engage univerſal [50] attention. It is not difficult to obtain rea⯑ders, when we diſcuſs a queſtion which every one is deſirous to underſtand, which is de⯑bated in every aſſembly, and has divided the nation into parties; or when we diſplay the faults or virtues of him, whoſe public conduct has made almoſt every man his enemy or his friend. To the quick circulation of ſuch pro⯑ductions all the motives of intereſt and vanity concur; the diſputant enlarges his knowledge, the zealot animates his paſſion, and every man is deſirous to inform himſelf concerning af⯑fairs ſo vehemently agitated and variouſly re⯑preſented.

IT is ſcarcely to be imagined, through how many ſubordinations of intereſt, the ardour of party is diffuſed; and what multitudes fancy themſelves affected by every ſatire or pane⯑gyrick on a man of eminence. Whoever has, at any time, taken occaſion to mention him with praiſe or blame, whoever happens to love or hate any of his adherents, is deſirous to confirm his opinion, and to ſtrengthen his party, and diligently peruſes every paper from which he can hope for ſentiments like his own. An object, however ſmall in itſelf, if placed [51] near to the eye, will engroſs all the rays of light; and a tranſaction, however trivial, ſwells into importance, when it preſſes im⯑mediately on our attention. He that ſhall peruſe the political pamphlets of any paſt reign, will wonder why they were ſo generally pur⯑chaſed, ſo eagerly read, or ſo loudly praiſed; many of the performances which had power to inflame factions, and fill a kingdom with confuſion, have now very little effect upon a frigid critick, and the time is coming, when the compoſitions of later hirelings ſhall lie equally deſpiſed and forgotten. In propor⯑tion, as thoſe who write on temporary ſub⯑jects, are exalted above their merit at firſt, they are afterwards depreſſed below it; nor can the brighteſt elegance of diction, or moſt artful ſubtilty of reaſoning, hope for much eſteem from thoſe whoſe regard is no longer quickened by intereſt or by pride.

IT is, indeed, the fate of controvertiſts, even when they contend for philoſophical or theological truth, to be ſoon laid aſide and ſlighted. Either the queſtion is decided; and there is no more place for doubt and oppoſi⯑tion; or mankind deſpair of underſtanding it, [52] and grow weary of diſturbance, content them⯑ſelves with quiet ignorance, and refuſe to be haraſſed with labours which they have no hopes of recompenſing with knowledge.

THE authors of new diſcoveries may ſure⯑ly expect to be reckoned among thoſe, whoſe writings are ſecure of veneration: yet it often happens that the general reception of a doctrine obſcures the books in which it was delivered. When any tenet is generally received and adopted as an incontrovertible principle, we ſeldom look back to the arguments upon which it was firſt eſtabliſhed, or can bear that tediouſneſs of deduction, and multiplicity of evidence, by which its author was forced to reconcile it to prejudice, and fortify it in the weakneſs of novelty againſt obſtinacy and envy.

IT is well known how much of our philo⯑ſophy is derived from Boyle's diſcovery of the qualities of the air; yet of thoſe who now adopt or enlarge his theory, very few have read the detail of his experiments. His name is, indeed, reverenced; but his works are neg⯑lected; we are contented to know, that he [53] conquered his opponents, without enquiring what cavils were produced againſt him, or by what proofs they were confuted.

SOME writers apply themſelves to ſtudies boundleſs and inexhauſtible, as experiments and natural philoſophy. Theſe are always loſt in ſucceſſive compilations, as new advances are made, and former obſervations become more familiar. Others ſpend their lives in remarks on language, or explanations of anti⯑quities, and only afford materials for lexico⯑graphers and commentators; theſe are them⯑ſelves overwhelmed by ſubſequent collectors, who equally deſtroy the memory of their pre⯑deceſſors by amplification, tranſpoſition, or contraction. Every new ſyſtem of nature gives birth to a ſwarm of expoſitors, whoſe buſineſs is to explain and illuſtrate it, and who can hope to exiſt no longer than the founder of their ſect preſerves his re⯑putation.

THERE are, indeed, few kinds of compo⯑ſition from which an author, however learned or ingenious, can hope a long continuance of fame. He who has carefully ſtudied human [54] nature, and can well deſcribe it, may with moſt reaſon flatter his ambition. Bacon, among all his pretenſions to the regard of poſterity, ſeems to have pleaſed himſelf chiefly with his eſſays, which come home to mens buſi⯑neſs and boſoms, and of which, therefore, he declares his expectation, that they will live as long as books laſt. It may, however, ſa⯑tisfy an honeſt and benevolent mind to have been uſeful, though leſs conſpicuous; nor will he that extends his hopes to higher rewards, be ſo much anxious to obtain praiſe, as to diſcharge the duty which Pro⯑vidence aſſigns him.

NUMB. 107. TUESDAY, March 26, 1751.

AMONG the various cenſures, which the unavoidable compariſon of my performances with thoſe of my predeceſſors has produced, there is none more general than that of uniformity. Many of my readers remark the want of thoſe changes of colours, which formerly fed the attention with unex⯑hauſted novelty, and of that intermixture of ſubjects, or alternation of manner, by which other writers relieved wearineſs, and awaken⯑ed expectation.

I HAVE, indeed, hitherto avoided the practice of uniting gay and ſolemn ſubjects in the ſame paper, becauſe it ſeems abſurd for an author to counteract himſelf, to preſs at once with equal force upon both parts of the intellectual balance, and give medicines, which, like the double poiſon of Dryden, de⯑ſtroy the force of one another. I have en⯑deavoured ſometimes to divert, and ſome⯑times [56] to elevate; but have imagined it an uſe⯑leſs attempt to diſturb merriment by ſolem⯑nity, or interrupt ſeriouſneſs by drollery. Yet I ſhall this day publiſh two letters of very different tendency, which, I hope, like tragi⯑comedy, may chance to pleaſe even when they are not critically approved.

NUMB. 108. SATURDAY, March 30, 1751.

AN ancient poet, unreaſonably diſcontent⯑ed at the preſent ſtate of things, which his ſyſtem of opinions obliged him to repre⯑ſent in its worſt form, has obſerved of the earth, "that its greater part is covered by the uninhabitable ocean; that of the reſt ſome is encumbered with naked mountains, and ſome loſt under barren ſands; ſome ſcorch⯑ed with unintermitted heat, and ſome pe⯑trified with perpetual froſt; ſo that only a few regions remain for the production of fruits, the paſture of cattle, and the ac⯑commodation of man."

THE ſame obſervation may be transferred to the time allotted us in our preſent ſtate. When we have deducted all that is abſorbed in ſleep, all that is inevitably appropriated to the demands of nature, or irreſiſtibly engroſſed [65] by the tyranny of cuſtom; all that paſſes in regulating the ſuperficial decorations of life, or is given up in the reciprocations of civility to the diſpoſal of others; all that is torn from us by violence of diſeaſe, or ſtolen impercep⯑tibly away by laſſitude and languor; we ſhall find that part of our duration very ſmall of which we can truly call ourſelves maſters, or which we can ſpend wholly at our own choice. Many of our hours are loſt in a rotation of petty cares, in a conſtant recurrence of the ſame employments; many of our proviſions for eaſe or happineſs are always exhauſted by the preſent day; and a great part of our exi⯑ſtence ſerves no other purpoſe, than that of enabling us to enjoy the reſt.

OF the few moments which are left in our diſpoſal, it may reaſonably be expected, that we ſhould be ſo frugal, as to let none of them ſlip from us without ſome equivalent; and perhaps it might be found, that as the earth, however ſtreightened by rocks or waters, is capable of producing more than all its inha⯑bitants are able to conſume, our lives, though much contracted by incidental diſtraction, and inevitable avocations, would yet afford us a [66] large ſpace vacant to the exerciſe of our rea⯑ſon and our virtue; that we want not time, but diligence, for great performances; and that we ſquander much of our allowance, even think it ſparing and inſufficient.

THIS natural and neceſſary comminution of our lives, perhaps, often makes us inſen⯑ſible of the negligence with which we ſuffer them to ſlide away; we never conſider our⯑ſelves as poſſeſſed at once of time ſufficient for any great deſign, and therefore indulge ourſelves in fortuitous amuſements. We think it unneceſſary to take an account of a few ſupernumerary moments, which, however employed, could have produced little advan⯑tage, and which were expoſed to a thouſand chances of diſturbance and interruption.

IT is obſervable, that either by nature or by habit, our underſtandings are fitted to images of a certain extent, to which we adjuſt great things by diviſion, and little things by accumulation. Of extenſive ſurfaces we can only take a ſurvey, as the parts ſucceed one another; and atoms we cannot perceive, till they are united into maſſes. Thus we break [67] the vaſt periods of time into centuries and years; and thus, if we would know the amount of moments, we muſt agglomerate them into days and weeks.

THE proverbial oracles of our parſimonious anceſtors have informed us, that the fatal waſte of fortune is by ſmall expences, by the profu⯑ſion of ſums too little ſingly to alarm our caution, and which we never ſuffer ourſelves to conſider together. Of the ſame kind is the prodigality of life; he that hopes to look back hereafter with ſatisfaction upon paſt years, muſt learn to know the preſent value of ſingle minutes, and endeavour to let no particle of time fall uſeleſs to the ground.

IT is uſual for thoſe who are adviſed to the perſuit of any ſtudy, or the attainment of any new qualification, to look upon themſelves as required to change the general courſe of their conduct, to diſmiſs buſineſs, and ex⯑clude pleaſure, and to devote their days and nights to a particular attention. But all common degrees of excellence are attainable at a lower price; he that ſhould ſteadily and reſolutely aſſign to any ſcience or language [68] thoſe interſtitial vacancies which intervene in the moſt crouded variety of diverſion or em⯑ployment, would find every day new irradia⯑tions of knowledge, and diſcover how much more is to be hoped from frequency and perſeverance than from violent efforts, and ſudden deſires; efforts which are ſoon remitted when they encounter difficulty, and deſires which, if they are indulged too often will ſhake off the authority of rea⯑ſon, and range capriciouſly from one object to another.

THE diſpoſition to defer every important deſign to a time of leiſure, and a ſtate of ſet⯑tled uniformity, proceeds generally from a falſe eſtimate of the human powers. If we except thoſe gigantick and ſtupendous intelli⯑gences who are ſaid to graſp a ſyſtem by intui⯑tion, and bound forward from one ſeries of concluſions to another, without regular ſteps through intermediate propoſitions, the moſt ſucceſsful ſtudents make their advances in knowledge by ſhort flights, between each of which the mind may lie at reſt. For every ſingle act of progreſſion a ſhort time is ſuffi⯑cient; [69] and it is only neceſſary, that whenever that time is afforded, it be well employed.

FEW minds will be long confined to ſe⯑vere and laborious meditation; and when a ſucceſsful attack on knowledge has been made, the ſtudent recreates himſelf with the contem⯑plation of his conqueſt, and forbears another incurſion, till the new-acquired truth has be⯑come familiar, and his curioſity calls upon him for freſh gratifications. Whether the time of intermiſſion is ſpent in company, or in ſolitude, in neceſſary buſineſs, or in volun⯑tary levities, the underſtanding is equally abſ⯑tracted from the object of enquiry; but, per⯑haps, if it be detained by occupations leſs pleaſing, it returns again to ſtudy with greater alacrity, than when it is glutted with ideal pleaſures, and ſurfeited with intemperance of application. He that will not ſuffer himſelf to be diſcouraged by fancied impoſſibilities, may ſometimes find his abilities invigorated by the neceſſity of exerting them in ſhort inter⯑vals, as the force of a current is encreaſed by the contraction of its chanel.

FROM ſome cauſe like this, it has probably [70] proceeded, that among thoſe who have con⯑tributed to the advancement of learning, many have riſen to eminence in oppoſition to all the obſtacles, which external circum⯑ſtances could place in their way, amidſt the tumult of buſineſs, the diſtreſſes of poverty, or the diſſipations of a wandering and un⯑ſettled ſtate. A great part of the life of Eraſ⯑mus was one continual peregrination; ill ſup⯑plied with the gifts of fortune, and led from city to city, and from kingdom to kingdom, by the hopes of patrons and preferment, hopes which always flattered and always deceived him; he yet found means by unſhaken con⯑ſtancy, and a vigilant improvement of thoſe hours, which, in the midſt of the moſt reſtleſs activity, will remain unengaged, to write more than another in the ſame condition would have hoped to read. Compelled by want to attendance and ſolicitation, and ſo much verſed in common life, that he has tranſmitted to us the moſt perfect delineation of the manners of his age, he joined to his knowledge of the world, ſuch application to books, that he will ſtand for ever in the firſt rank of literary heroes. How this proficiency was obtained he ſufficiently diſcovers, by in⯑forming [71] us, that the Praiſe of Folly, one of his moſt celebrated performances, was com⯑poſed by him on the road to Italy; ne totum illud tempus quo equo fuit inſidendum, illiteratis fabulis tereretur, leſt the hours which he was obliged to ſpend on horſeback, ſhould be tattled away without regard to literature.

AN Italian philoſopher expreſſed in his mot⯑to, that time was his eſtate; an eſtate, indeed, which will produce nothing without cultiva⯑tion, but will always abundantly repay the labours of induſtry, and generally ſatisfy the moſt extenſive deſires, if no part of it be ſuffer⯑ed to lie waſte by negligence, to be over-run with noxious plants, or laid out for ſhew ra⯑ther than for uſe.

NUMB. 109. TUESDAY, April 2, 1751.

NUMB. 110. SATURDAY, April 6, 1751.

THAT to pleaſe the Lord and Father of the univerſe, is the ſupreme intereſt of created and dependent beings, as it is eaſi⯑ly proved, has been univerſally confeſſed; and ſince all rational agents are conſcious of hav⯑ing neglected or violated thoſe duties which are preſcribed to them, the fear of being de⯑ſerted, rejected, or puniſhed by God, has al⯑ways burdened and oppreſſed the human mind. The expiation of crimes, and renova⯑tion of the forfeited hopes of divine favour, has therefore conſtituted a large part of every religion.

[83] THE various methods of propitiation and atonement which fear and folly have dictated, or artifice and intereſt tolerated in the differ⯑ent parts of the world, however they may ſometimes reproach or degrade humanity, at leaſt ſhew the general conſent of all ages and nations in their opinion of the mercy and pla⯑cability of the divine nature. That God will forgive, may, indeed, be eſtabliſhed as the firſt and fundamental truth of religion; for though the knowledge of his exiſtence is the origin of philoſophy, yet, without the belief of his mer⯑cy, it would have very little influence upon our moral conduct. There could be no proſpect of enjoying the protection or regard of him, whom the leaſt deviation from recti⯑tude made inexorable for ever; and every man would naturally withdraw his thoughts from the contemplation of a Creator, whom he muſt conſider as a governor too pure to be pleaſed, and too ſevere to be pacified; as an enemy infinitely wiſe, and infinitely powerful, whom he could neither deceive, eſcape, nor reſiſt.

WHERE there is no hope, there can be no [84] endeavour. A conſtant and unfailing obedi⯑ence is above the reach of terreſtrial diligence; and therefore the progreſs of life could only have been the natural deſcent of negligent de⯑ſpair from crime to crime, had not the univer⯑ſal perſuaſion of forgiveneſs to be obtained by proper means of reconciliation recalled thoſe to the paths of virtue whom their paſſions had ſolicited aſide; and animated to new attempts, and firmer perſeverance, thoſe whom difficulty had diſcouraged, or negligence ſurpriſed.

IN ages and regions ſo disjoined from each other, that there can ſcarcely be imagined any communication of ſentiments either by com⯑merce or tradition, has prevailed a general and uniform expectation of propitiating God by corporal auſterities, of anticipating his ven⯑geance by voluntary inflictions, and appeaſ⯑ing his juſtice by a ſpeedy and chearful ſub⯑miſſion to a leſs penalty when a greater is in⯑curred.

INCORPORATED minds will always feel ſome inclination towards exterior acts, and ri⯑tual obſervances. Ideas not repreſented by ſenſible objects are fleeting, variable, and eva⯑neſcent. [85] We are not able to judge of the de⯑gree of conviction which operated at any par⯑ticular time upon our own thoughts, but as it is recorded by ſome certain and definite effect. He that reviews his life in order to determine the probability of his acceptance with God, if he could once eſtabliſh the neceſſary propor⯑tion between crimes and ſufferings, might ſe⯑curely reſt upon his performance of the expia⯑tion; but while ſafety remains the reward only of mental purity, he is always afraid leſt he ſhould decide too ſoon in his own favour; leſt he ſhould not have felt the pangs of true contrition; leſt he ſhould miſtake ſatiety for abhorrence, or imagine that his paſſions are ſubdued when they are only ſleeping.

FROM this natural and reaſonable diffidence aroſe, in humble and timorous piety, a diſpo⯑ſition to confound penance with repentance, to repoſe on human determinations, and to receive from ſome judicial ſentence the ſtated and regular aſſignment of reconciliatory pain. We are never willing to be without reſource; we ſeek in the knowledge of others a ſuccour for our own ignorance, and are ready to truſt [86] any that will undertake to direct us when we have no confidence in ourſelves.

THIS deſire to aſcertain by ſome outward marks the ſtate of the ſoul, and this willing⯑neſs to calm the conſcience by ſome ſettled method, have produced, as they are diverſi⯑fied in their effects by various tempers and principles, moſt of the diſquiſitions and rules, the doubts and ſolutions, that have embarraſſed the doctrine of repentance, and perplexed ten⯑der and flexible minds with innumerable ſcru⯑ples concerning the neceſſary meaſures of ſor⯑row, and adequate degrees of ſelf-abhorrence; and theſe rules corrupted by fraud, or debaſed by credulity, have, by the common reſiliency of the mind from one extreme to another, in⯑cited others to an open contempt of all ſubſi⯑diary ordinances, all prudential caution, and the whole diſcipline of regulated piety.

REPENTANCE, however difficult to be practiſed, is, if it be explained without ſuper⯑ſtition, eaſily underſtood. Repentance is the relinquiſhment of any practice from the conviction that it has offended God. Sorrow, and fear, and anxiety, are properly not parts, but ad⯑juncts [87] of repentance; yet they are ſo cloſely connected with it, that they cannot eaſily be ſeparated; for they not only mark its ſince⯑rity but promote its efficacy.

NO man commits any act of negligence or obſtinacy, by which his preſent ſafety or hap⯑pineſs is endangered, without feeling the pun⯑gency of remorſe. He who is fully convinced, that he ſuffers by his own failure, can never for⯑bear to trace back his miſcarriage to its firſt cauſe, to image to himſelf a contrary beha⯑viour, and to form involuntary reſolutions againſt the like fault, even when he knows that he ſhall never again have the power of committing it. No man finds himſelf in dan⯑ger without ſuch trepidations of impatience as leave all human means of ſafety behind them: he that has once caught an alarm of terror, is every moment ſeized with uſeleſs anxieties, always adding one ſecurity to another, trem⯑bling with ſudden doubts, and diſtracted by the perpetual occurrence of new expedients. If, therefore, he whoſe crimes have deprived him of the favour of God, can reflect upon his conduct without diſturbance, or can at will baniſh the reflection; if he who conſiders [88] himſelf as ſuſpended over the abyſs of eternal perdition only by the thread of life, which muſt ſoon part by its own weakneſs, and which the wing of every minute may divide, can caſt his eyes round him without ſhuddering with horror, or panting for ſecurity; what can he judge of himſelf but that he is not yet awaked to ſufficient conviction, ſince every loſs is more lamented than the loſs of the divine fa⯑vour, and every danger more dreaded than the danger of final condemnation?

RETIREMENT from the cares and plea⯑ſures of the world has been often recom⯑mended as uſeful to repentance. This at leaſt is evident, that every one retires, whenever ratiocination and recollection are required on other occaſions: and ſurely the retroſpect of life, the diſentanglement of actions compli⯑cated with innumerable circumſtances, and diffuſed in various relations, the diſcovery of the primary movements of the heart, and the extirpation of luſts and appetites deeply rooted, and widely ſpread, may be allowed to de⯑mand ſome ſeceſſion from ſport and noiſe, and buſineſs and folly. Some ſuſpenſion of com⯑mon affairs, ſome pauſe of temporal pain and [89] pleaſure, is doubtleſs neceſſary to him that de⯑liberates for eternity, who is forming the only plan in which miſcarriage cannot be re⯑paired, and examining the only queſtion in which miſtake cannot be rectified.

AUSTERITIES and mortifications are means by which the mind is invigorated and rouſed, by which the attractions of plea⯑ſure are interrupted, and the chains of ſenſua⯑lity are broken. It is obſerved by one of the fathers, that he who reſtrains himſelf in the uſe of things lawful, will never encroach upon things forbidden. Abſtinence, if nothing more, is, at leaſt, a cautious retreat from the utmoſt verge of permiſſion, and confers that ſecurity which cannot be reaſonably hoped by him that dares always to hover over the precipice of deſtruction, or delights to approach the plea⯑ſures which he knows it fatal to partake. Auſterity is the proper antidote to indulgence; the diſeaſes of mind as well as body are cured by contraries, and to contraries we ſhould readily have recourſe, if we dreaded guilt as we dread pain.

THE completion and ſum of repentance is [90] a change of life. That ſorrow which dictates no caution, that fear which does not quicken our eſcape, that auſterity which fails to rectily our affections, are vain and unavailing. But ſorrow and terror muſt naturally precede reformation; for what other cauſe can pro⯑duce it? He, therefore, that feels himſelf al⯑armed by his conſcience, anxious for the at⯑tainment of a better ſtate, and afflicted by the memory of his paſt faults, may juſtly conclude, that the great work of repentance is begun, and hope by retirement and prayer, the natu⯑ral and religious means of ſtrengthening his conviction, to impreſs upon his mind ſuch a ſenſe of the divine preſence, as may over⯑power the blandiſhments of ſecular delights, and enable him to advance from one degree of holineſs to another, till death ſhall ſet him free from miſery and temptation.

NUMB. 111. TUESDAY, April 9, 1751.

IT has been obſerved, by long experience, that late ſprings produce the greateſt plenty. The delay of blooms and fragrance, of verdure and breezes, is for the moſt part liberally recompenſed by the exuberance and fecundity of the enſuing ſeaſons; the bloſ⯑ſoms which lie concealed till the year is ad⯑vanced, and the ſun is high, eſcape thoſe chilling blaſts, and nocturnal froſts, which are often fatal to early luxuriance, prey upon the firſt ſmiles of vernal beauty, deſtroy the feeble principles of vegetable life, intercept the fruit in the gem, and beat down the flow⯑ers unopened to the ground.

[92] I AM afraid there is little hope of perſua⯑ding the young and ſprightly part of my rea⯑ders, upon whom the ſpring naturally forces my attention, to learn from the great proceſs of nature, the difference between diligence and hurry, between ſpeed and precipitation; to proſecute their deſigns with calmneſs, to watch the concurrence of opportunity, and endeavour to find the lucky moment which they cannot make. Youth is the time of enterprize and hope; having yet had no occa⯑ſion of comparing our force with any oppo⯑ſing power, we naturally form preſumptions in our own favour, and imagine that obſtru⯑ction and impediment will give way before us. The firſt repulſes rather inflame vehe⯑mence than teach prudence; a brave and ge⯑nerous mind is long before it ſuſpects its own weakneſs, or ſubmits to ſap the difficulties which it purpoſed to ſubdue by ſtorm, and expected to overbear in the violence of its courſe. Before diſappointments have enfor⯑ced the dictates of philoſophy, we believe it in our power to ſhorten the interval between the firſt cauſe and the laſt effect; we laugh at the timorous delays of plodding induſtry, and [93] fancy that by encreaſing the fire, we can at pleaſure accelerate the projection.

AT our entrance into the world, when health and vigour give us fair promiſes of time ſufficient for the regular maturation of all our ſchemes, and a long enjoyment of all our ac⯑quiſitions, we are eager to ſeize the preſent moment, to pluck every gratification within our reach without ſuffering it to ripen into perfection, and to croud all the varieties of delight into a narrow compaſs: but age ſel⯑dom fails to change our conduct; we grow commonly negligent of time in proportion as we have leſs remaining, and ſuffer the laſt part of life to ſteal from us in languid prepa⯑rations for ſome future undertaking, or in ſlow approaches to ſome remote advantage, in weak hopes of ſome fortuitous occurrence, or in drowſy equilibrations of undetermined counſel. Whether it be that the aged, hav⯑ing taſted the pleaſures of man's condition, and found them falſe and deluſive, become leſs anxious for their attainment; or that frequent miſcarriages have depreſſed them to deſpair, and frozen them to inactivity; or that, like all other objects of terror, death ſhocks them [94] more as it advances upon them, and they are afraid of reminding themſelves of their decay, or to diſcover to their own hearts, that the time of trifling is paſt.

A PERPETUAL conflict with our natural deſires ſeems to be the lot of our preſent ſtate. In youth we require ſomething of the tardi⯑neſs and frigidity of age; and in age, we muſt labour to recal the fire and impetuoſity of youth; in youth we muſt learn to expect, and in age to enjoy.

THE torment of expectation is, indeed, not eaſily to be born at a time when every idea of gratification fires the blood, and flaſhes on the fancy; when the heart is va⯑cant to every freſh form of delight, and has no rival engagements to withdraw it from the importunities of a new deſire. Yet ſince the fear of miſſing what we ſeek muſt always be proportionable to the advantage that we ex⯑pect from poſſeſſing it, the paſſions, even in this tempeſtuous ſtate, might be ſomewhat moderated and reſtrained by frequent inculca⯑tion of the miſchief of temerity, and the ha⯑zard [95] of loſing that which we endeavour to ſeize before our time.

HE that too early aſpires to honours, muſt reſolve to encounter not only the oppoſition of intereſt, but the malignity of envy. He that is too eager to be rich, generally endangers his fortune in wild adventures, and uncertain projects; and he that haſtens too ſpeedily to reputation, often endeavours to ſupport his character by artifices and fallacies, decks him⯑ſelf in colours which quickly fade, or in plumes which accident may ſhake off, or competi⯑tion pluck away.

THE uncertainty and danger of early emi⯑nence has been extended by ſome, even to the gifts of nature; and an opinion has been long conceived, that quickneſs of invention, accuracy of judgment, or extent of know⯑ledge, appearing in an uncommon degree be⯑fore the uſual time, preſage a ſhort life. Even thoſe who are leſs inclined to form general concluſions, from inſtances which by their own nature muſt be rare, have yet been in⯑clined to prognoſticate no ſuitable progreſs from the firſt ſallies of rapid wits; but have [96] obſerved, that after a ſhort effort they either loiter or faint, and ſuffer themſelves to be ſurpaſſed by the equal and regular perſeve⯑rance of ſlower underſtandings.

IT, indeed, frequently happens, that ap⯑plauſe abates diligence. He that finds him⯑ſelf to have performed more than was demand⯑ed, is contented to ſpare the labour of unne⯑ceſſary performances, and ſits down to enjoy at eaſe his ſuperſluities of honour. He whom ſucceſs has made confident of his abilities, eaſi⯑ly allows himſelf the privilege of negligence, and looks contemptuouſly on the gradual ad⯑vances of a rival, whom he imagines himſelf able to leave behind him whenever he ſhall again ſummon his force to the conteſt. But long intervals of pleaſure diſſipate attention, and weaken conſtancy; nor is it eaſy for him that has ſunk from diligence into ſloth to rouſe out of his lethargy, to recollect his notions, rekindle his curioſity, and engage with his former ardour in the toils of ſtudy.

EVEN that friendſhip which intends the re⯑ward of genius, too often tends to obſtruct it. The pleaſure of being careſſed, diſtin⯑guiſhed, [97] and admired, eaſily ſeduces the ſtu⯑dent from literary ſolitude. He is ready to follow the call which ſummons him tohear his own praiſe, and which, perhaps, at once flatters appetites with certainty of pleaſures, and his ambition with hopes of patronage; pleaſures which he conceives inexhauſtible, and hopes which he has not yet learned to diſtruſt.

THESE evils, indeed, are by no means to be imputed to nature, or to be conſidered as inſeparable from an early diſplay of uncom⯑mon abilities. They may be certainly eſcaped by prudence and reſolution, and muſt therefore be recounted rather as conſolations to thoſe who are leſs liberally endowed, than as diſcouragements to ſuch as are born with uncommon qualities. Beauty is well known to draw after it the perſecutions of imperti⯑nence, to incite the artifices of envy, and to raiſe the flames of unlawful love; yet among the ladies whom prudence or modeſty have made moſt eminent, who has ever complained of the inconveniencies or the dangers of an amiable form? or who would have purchaſed ſafety by the loſs of beauty?

[98] NEITHER grace of perſon, nor vigour of underſtanding, are to be regarded otherwiſe than as bleſſings, as means of happineſs in⯑dulged by the Supreme Benefactor; but the advantages of either may be loſt by too much eagerneſs to obtain them. A thouſand beau⯑ties in their firſt bloſſom, by an imprudent expoſure to the open world, have ſuddenly withered at the blaſt of infamy; and men who might have ſubjected new regions to the em⯑pire of learning have been lured by the praiſe of their firſt productions from academical re⯑tirement, and waſted their days in vice and dependence. The virgin who too ſoon aſpires to celebrity and conqueſt, periſhes by childiſh vanity, ignorant credulity, or guiltleſs indiſ⯑cretion. The genius who catches at laurels and preferment before his time, mocks the hopes that he had excited, and loſes thoſe years which might have been moſt uſefully employed, the years of youth, of ſpirit, and vivacity.

IT is one of the innumerable abſurdities of pride, that we are never more impatient of direction, than in that part of liſe when we [99] need it moſt; we are in haſte to meet ene⯑mies whom we have not ſtrength to over⯑come, and to undertake taſks which we can⯑not perform: and as he that once miſcarries, does not eaſily perſuade mankind to favour or obſerve another attempt, an ineffectual ſtruggle for fame is often followed by perpe⯑tual obſcurity.

NUMB. 112. SATURDAY, April 13, 1751.

WE are taught by Celſus, that health is beſt preſerved by avoiding ſettled ha⯑bits of life, and deviating ſometimes into ſlight aberrations from the ſtrict laws of medicine by varying the proportions of food and exer⯑ciſe, interrupting the ſucceſſions of reſt and labour, and mingling hardſhips with indul⯑gence. The body, long accuſtomed to ſtated quantities, and uniform periods, is ſoon diſor⯑dered by the ſmalleſt irregularity; and ſince we cannot exempt ourſelves wholly from the [100] power of accident, nor adjuſt every day by the balance or barometer, but muſt ſome⯑times depart from rigid accuracy in compli⯑ance with neceſſary affairs, or ſtrong inclina⯑tions, he that too long obſerves nice punctu⯑alities, and condemns himſelf to voluntary imbecillity, will not long eſcape the miſeries of diſeaſe.

THE ſame laxity of regimen is equally ne⯑ceſſary to intellectual health, to a conſtant enjoyment of gaiety, and perpetual ſuſcepti⯑bility of occaſional pleaſure. He that by long confinement to the ſame company whom perhaps ſimilitude of taſte brought firſt toge⯑ther, has been accuſtomed to hear only the echo of his own ſentiments, quickly contracts his faculties, and makes a thouſand things offenſive that are in themſelves indifferent; he ſoon bars all the common avenues of de⯑light, and has no part in the general diver⯑ſions or gratifications of mankind.

IN things which are not immediately ſub⯑ject to religious or moral conſideration, it is dangerous to be too long or too rigidly in the right. Senſibility may, by an inceſſant atten⯑tion [101] to elegance and propriety, be quickened to a tenderneſs inconſiſtent with the condition of humanity, irritable by the ſmalleſt aſperity, and vulnerable by the gentleſt touch. He that pleaſes himſelf too much with minute ex⯑actneſs, and ſubmits to endure nothing in ac⯑commodations attendance, or addreſs, be⯑low the utmoſt point of perfection, will, whenever he enters the croud of life, be ha⯑raſſed with innumerable diſtreſſes, from which thoſe who have not in the ſame manner en⯑creaſed their ſenſations find no diſturbance. His exotick ſoftneſs will ſhrink at the coarſe⯑neſs of vulgar felicity, like a plant tranſ⯑planted to northern nurſeries, from the dews and ſunſhine of the tropical regions.

THERE will always be a wide interval be⯑tween practical and ideal excellence; and he, therefore, that allows not himſelf to be ſatisfi⯑ed while he can perceive any error or defect, muſt refer his hopes of eaſe to ſome other pe⯑riod of exiſtence. It is well known, that, ex⯑poſed to a microſcope, the ſmootheſt poliſh of the moſt ſolid bodies diſcovers cavities and prominences; and that the ſofteſt bloom of roſeate virginity repels the eye with excreſ⯑cences [102] and diſcolorations. The perceptions as well as the ſenſes may be improved to our own diſquiet, and we may, by diligent culti⯑vation of the powers of diſlike, raiſe in time an artificial faſtidiouſneſs, which ſhall fill the imagination with phantoms of turpitude, ſhew us the naked ſkeleton of every delight, and preſent us only with the pains of pleaſure, and the deformities of beauty.

PEEVISHNESS, indeed, would perhaps very little diſturb the peace of mankind, were it always the conſequence of ſuperfluous de⯑licacy; for it is the privilege only of deep re⯑flection, or lively fancy, to deſtroy happineſs by art and refinement. But by a continual indulgence of a particular humour, or by a long enjoyment of undiſputed ſuperiority, the dull and thoughtleſs may likewiſe acquire the power of tormenting themſelves and others, and become ſufficiently ridiculous or hateful, to thoſe who are within ſight of their con⯑duct, or reach of their influence.

THEY that have grown old in a ſingle ſtate are generally found to be moroſe, fretful, and captious; tenacious of their own practices and [103] maxims; ſoon offended by contradiction or negligence; and impatient of any aſſociation, but with ſuch as will watch their nod, give up all claim to choice and reaſon, and ſubmit themſelves to unlimited authority. Such is the effect of having lived without the neceſſity of conſulting any inclination but their own.

THE iraſcibility of this claſs of tyrants is generally exerted upon petty provocations, ſuch as are incident to underſtandings not far extended beyond the inſtincts of animal life; but unhappily he that fixes his attention on things always before him, will never have long ceſſations of anger. There are many vete⯑rans of luxury, upon whom every noon brings a paroxyſm of violence, fury, and execration; they never ſit down to their dinner without finding the meat ſo injudiciouſly bought, or ſo unſkilfully dreſſed, ſuch blunders in the ſeaſoning, or ſuch improprieties in the ſawce, as can ſcarcely be expiated without blood; and, in the tranſports of reſentment, make very lit⯑tle diſtinctions between guilt and innocence, but let fly their menaces, or growl out their diſcontent upon all whom ſortune expoſes to the ſtorm.

[104] IT is not eaſy to imagine a more unhappy condition than that of dependence on a peeviſh man. In every other ſtate of inferiority the certainty of pleaſing is perpetually increaſed by a fuller knowledge of our duty; and kind⯑neſs and confidence are ſtrengthened by every new act of truſt, and proof of fidelity. But peeviſhneſs ſacrifices to a momentary of⯑fence the obſequiouſneſs or uſefulneſs of half a life, and as more is performed encreaſes her exactions.

CHRYSALUS gained a fortune by trade, and retired into the country; and, having a brother burdened by the number of his chil⯑dren, adopted one of his ſons. The boy was diſmiſſed with many prudent admonitions; in⯑formed of his father's inability to maintain him in his native rank; cautioned againſt all oppo⯑ſition to the opinions or precepts of his uncle; and animated to perſeverance by the hopes of ſupporting the honour of the family, and over⯑topping his elder brother. He had a natural ductility of mind, without much warmth of affection, or elevation of ſentiment; and there⯑fore readily complied with every variety of [105] caprice; patiently endured contradictory re⯑proofs; heard falſe accuſations without pain, and opprobrious reproaches without reply; laughed obſtreperouſly at the ninetieth repe⯑tition of a joke; aſked queſtions about the uni⯑verſal decay of trade; admired the ſtrength of thoſe heads by which the price of ſtocks is changed and adjuſted; and behaved with ſuch prudence and circumſpection, that after ſix years the will was made, and Juvenculus was declared heir. But unhappily, a month after⯑wards, retiring at night from his uncle's chamber, he left the door open behind him: the old man tore his will, and being then pre⯑ceptibly delining, for want of time to delibe⯑rate, left his money to a trading company.

WHEN female minds are imbittered by age or ſolitude, their malignity is generally exerted in a rigorous and ſpiteful ſuperin⯑tendence of domeſtic trifles. Eriphile has employed her eloquence for twenty years up⯑on the degeneracy of ſervants, the naſtineſs of her houſe, the ruin of her furniture, the diffi⯑culty of preſerving tapeſtry from the moths, and the careleſneſs of the ſluts whom ſhe em⯑ploys in bruſhing it. It is her buſineſs every [106] morning to viſit all the rooms, in hopes of finding a chair without its cover, a window ſhut or open contrary to her orders, a ſpot on the hearth, or a feather on the floor, that the reſt of the day may be juſtifiably ſpent in taunts of contempt, and vociferations of anger. She lives for no other purpoſe but to preſerve the neatneſs of a houſe and gardens, and feels ther inclination to pleaſure, nor aſpiration after virtue, while ſhe is engroſſed by the great em⯑ployment of keeping gravel from graſs, and wainſcot from duſt. Of three amiable nieces ſhe has declared herſelf an irreconcileable enemy to one, becauſe ſhe broke off a tulip with her hoop; to another, becauſe ſhe ſpilt her coffee on a turkey carpet; and to the third, becauſe ſhe let a wet dog run into the parlour. She has broken off her intercourſe of viſits, becauſe company makes a houſe dirty; and reſolves to confine herſelf more to her own affairs, and to live no longer in mire by fooliſh lenity and indulgence.

PEEVISHNESS is generally the vice of nar⯑row minds, and, except when it is the effect of anguiſh and diſeaſe, by which the reſolu⯑tion is broken, and the mind made too feeble [107] to bear the lighteſt addition to its miſeries, proceeds from an unreaſonable perſuaſion of the importance of trifles. The proper re⯑medy againſt it is, to conſider the dignity of human nature, and the folly of ſuffering per⯑turbation and uneaſineſs from failures unwor⯑thy of our notice.

HE that reſigns his peace to little caſual⯑ties, and ſuffers the courſe of his life to be interrupted by fortuitous inadvertencies, or trivial offences, delivers up himſelf to the di⯑rection of the wind, and loſes all that con⯑ſtancy and equanimity which conſtitute the chief praiſe of a wiſe man.

THE province of prudence lies between the greateſt things and the leaſt; ſome ſurpaſs our power by their magnitude, and ſome eſcape our notice by their number and their frequency. But the indiſpenſable buſineſs of life will afford ſufficient exerciſe to every under⯑ſtanding; and ſuch is the limitation of the hu⯑man powers, that by attention to trifles we muſt let things of importance paſs unobſerved: when we examine a mite with a glaſs, we ſee nothing but a mite.

[108] THAT it is every man's intereſt to be pleaſ⯑ed, will need little proof: that it is his intereſt to pleaſe others, experience will inform him. It is therefore not leſs neceſſary to happineſs than to virtue, that he rid his mind of paſſions which make him uneaſy to himſelf, and hate⯑ful to the world, which enchain his intellects, and obſtruct his improvement.

NUMB. 113. TUESDAY, April 16, 1751.

NUMB. 114. SATURDAY, April 20, 1751.

POWER and ſuperiority are ſo flatter⯑ing and delightful, that, fraught with temptation and expoſed to danger as they are, ſcarcely any virtue is ſo cautious, or any pru⯑dence ſo timorous, as to decline them. Even thoſe that have moſt reverence for the laws of right, are pleaſed with ſhewing that not fear, but choice, regulates their behaviour; and would be thought to comply, rather than obey. We love to overlook the boundaries which we do not wiſh to paſs; and, as the Roman ſatiriſt remarks, he that has no deſign to take the life of another, is yet glad to have it in his hands.

FROM the ſame principle, tending yet more to degeneracy and corruption, proceeds the deſire of inveſting lawful authority with ter⯑ror, and governing by force rather than per⯑ſuaſion. Pride is unwilling to believe the [118] neceſſity of aſſigning any other reaſon than her own will; and would rather maintain the moſt equitable claims by violence and penalties, than deſcend from the dignity of command to diſpute and expoſtulation.

IT may, I think, be ſuſpected, that this po⯑litical pride has ſometimes found its way into legiſlative aſſemblies, and mingled with deli⯑berations upon property and life. A ſlight peruſal of the laws by which the meaſures of vindictive and coercive juſtice are eſtabliſhed, will diſcover ſo many diſproportions between crimes and puniſhments, ſuch capricious diſ⯑tinctions of guilt, and ſuch confuſion of re⯑miſſneſs and ſeverity, as can ſcarcely be be⯑lieved to have been produced by publick wiſ⯑dom, ſincerely and calmly ſtudious of publick happineſs.

THE learned, the judicious, the pious Boerhaave relates, that he never ſaw a crimi⯑minal dragged to execution without aſking himſelf, "Who knows whether this man is not leſs culpable than me?" On the days when the priſons of this city are emptied into the grave, let every ſpectator of the dread⯑ful [119] proceſſion put the ſame queſtion to his own heart. How few among thoſe that croud in thouſands to the legal maſſacre, and look with careleſſneſs, perhaps with triumph, on the ut⯑moſt exacerbations of human miſery, would then be able to return without horror and de⯑jection? For, who can congratulate himſelf upon a life paſſed without ſome act more miſ⯑chievous to the peace or proſperity of others, than the theft of a piece of money?

IT has been always the practice, when any particular ſpecies of robbery becomes preva⯑lent and common, to endeavour its ſuppreſſion by capital denunciations. Thus, one gene⯑ration of malefactors is commonly cut off, and their ſucceſſors are frighted into new expedi⯑ents; the art of thievery is augmented with greater variety of fraud, and ſubtilized to higher degrees of dexterity, and more occult methods of conveyance. The law then re⯑news the perſuit in the heat of anger, and overtakes the offender again with death. By this practice, capital inflictions are multiplied, and crimes very different in their degrees of enormity are equally ſubjected to the ſevereſt [120] puniſhment that man has the power of exer⯑ciſing upon man.

THE lawgiver is undoubtedly allowed to eſtimate the malignity of an offence, not merely by the loſs or pain which ſingle acts may pro⯑duce, but by the general alarm and anxiety ari⯑ſing from the fear of miſchief, and inſecurity of poſſeſſion: he therefore exerciſes the right which ſocieties are ſuppoſed to have over the lives of thoſe that compoſe them, not ſimply to puniſh a tranſgreſſion, but to maintain order, and pre⯑ſerve quiet; he enforces thoſe laws with ſe⯑verity that are moſt in danger of violation, as the commander of a garriſon doubles the guard on that ſide which is threatened by the enemy.

THIS method has been long tried, but tried with ſo little ſucceſs, that rapine and violence are hourly encreaſing; yet few ſeem willing to deſpair of its efficacy, and of thoſe who employ their ſpeculations upon the preſent corruption of the people, ſome propoſe the introduction of more horrid, lingering, and terrifick puniſhments; ſome are inclined to [121] accelerate the executions; ſome to diſcourage pardons; and all ſeem to think that lenity has given confidence to wickedneſs, and that we can only be reſcued from the talons of robbery by inflexible rigour, and ſanguinary juſtice.

YET ſince the right of ſetting an uncertain and arbitrary value upon life has been diſputed, and ſince experience of paſt times gives us lit⯑tle reaſon to hope that any reformation will be effected by a periodical havock of our fel⯑low beings, perhaps it will not be uſeleſs to conſider what conſequences might ariſe from relaxations of the law, and a more rational and equitable proportion of penalties to of⯑fences.

DEATH is, as one of the ancients obſerves, [...], of dreadful things the moſt dreadful; an evil, beyond which, no⯑thing can be threatened by ſublunary power, or feared from human enmity or vengeance. This terror ſhould, therefore, be reſerved as the laſt reſort of authority, as the ſtrongeſt and moſt operative of prohibitory ſanctions, and placed before the treaſure of life, to guard from invaſion what cannot be reſtored. To [122] equal robbery with murder is to reduce mur⯑der to robbery, to confound in common minds the gradations of injury, and incite the com⯑miſſion of a greater crime, to prevent the de⯑tection of a leſs. If only murder were puniſh⯑ed with death, very few robbers would ſtain their hands in blood; but when, by the laſt act of cruelty no new danger is incurred, and great⯑er ſecurity may probably be obtained, upon what principle ſhall we bid them forbear?

IT may be urged, that the ſentence is of⯑ten mitigated to ſimple robbery; but ſurely this is to confeſs, that our laws are unreaſon⯑able in our own opinion; and, indeed, it may be obſerved, that all but murderers have, at their laſt hour, the common ſenſations of man⯑kind pleading in their favour.

FROM this conviction of the inequality of the puniſhments to the offence proceeds the frequent ſolicitation of pardons. They who would rejoice at the correction of a thief, are yet ſhocked at the thought of deſtroying him. His crime ſhrinks to nothing compared, with [123] his miſery; and ſeverity defeats itſelf by exci⯑ting pity.

THE gibbet, indeed, certainly diſables thoſe who die upon it from infeſting the com⯑munity; but their death ſeems not to contri⯑bute more to the reformation of their aſſoci⯑ates than any other method of ſeparation. A thief ſeldom paſſes much of his time in recol⯑lection or anticipation, but from robbery haft⯑ens to riot, and from riot to robbery; nor, when the grave cloſes upon his companion, has any other care than to find another.

THE frequency of capital puniſhments therefore rarely hinders the commiſſion of a crime, but naturally and commonly prevents its detection, and is, if we reaſon only upon pru⯑dential principles, chiefly for that reaſon to be avoided. Whatever may be urged by ca⯑ſuiſts or politicians, the greater part of man⯑kind, as they can never think, that to pick the pocket, and to pierce the heart, is equally cri⯑minal, will ſcarcely believe, that two male⯑factors ſo different in guilt can be juſtly doom⯑ed to the ſame puniſhment; nor is the neceſ⯑ſity [124] of ſubmitting the conſcience to human laws ſo plainly evinced, ſo clearly ſtated, or ſo generally allowed, but that the pious, the ten⯑der, and the juſt, will always ſcruple to con⯑cur with the community in an act which their private judgment cannot approve.

HE who knows not how often rigorous laws produce total impunity, and how many crimes are concealed and forgotten for fear of hurrying the offender to that ſtate in which there is no repentance, has converſed very lit⯑tle with mankind. And whatever epithets of reproach or contempt this compaſſion may in⯑cur from thoſe who confound cruelty with firmneſs, I know not whether any wiſe man would wiſh it leſs powerful, or leſs extenſive.

IF thoſe whom the wiſdom of our laws has condemned to die, had been detected in their rudiments of robbery, they might by proper diſcipline, and uſeful labour, have been diſen⯑tangled from their habits, and by eſcaping all the temptations to ſubſequent crimes, have paſſed their days in reparation, and penitence; and detected they might all have been, had the proſecutors been certain, that their lives [125] would have been ſpared. I believe, every thief will confeſs, that he has been more than once ſeized and diſmiſſed; and that he has ſometimes ventured upon capital crimes, be⯑cauſe he knew, that thoſe whom he injured would rather connive at his eſcape, than cloud their minds with the horrors of his death.

ALL laws againſt crimes are ineffectual, unleſs ſome will inform, and ſome will proſe⯑cute; but till we mitigate the penalties for mere violations of property, information will always be hated, and proſecution dreaded. The heart of a good man cannot but recoil at the thought of puniſhing a ſlight injury with death; eſpecially when he remembers, that the thief might have procured ſafety by another crime, from which he was reſtrained only by his remaining virtue.

THE obligations to aſſiſt the exerciſe of publick juſtice are indeed ſtrong; but they will certainly be overpowered by tenderneſs for life. What is puniſhed with ſeverity con⯑trary to our ideas of adequate retribution, will be ſeldom diſcovered; and multitudes will be ſuffered to advance from crime to crime, till [126] they deſerve death, becauſe if they had been early proſecuted, they would have ſuffered death before they deſerved it.

THIS ſcheme of invigorating the laws by relaxation, and extirpating wickedneſs by le⯑nity, is ſo remote from common practice, that I might reaſonably fear to expoſe it to the publick, could it be ſupported only by my own obſervations: I ſhall, therefore, by aſ⯑cribing it to its author, Sir Thomas More, en⯑deavour to procure it that attention, which I wiſh always paid to prudence, to juſtice, and to mercy.

NUMB. 115. TUESDAY, April 23, 1751.

NUMB. 116. SATURDAY, April 27, 1751.

NUMB. 117. TUESDAY, April 30, 1751.

NUMB. 118. SATURDAY, May 4, 1751.

CICERO has, with his uſual elegance and magnificence of language, attempt⯑ed, in his relation of the dream of Scipio, to depreciate thoſe honours for which he himſelf appears to have panted with reſtleſs and impor⯑tunate ſolicitude, by ſhewing within what nar⯑row limits all that fame and celebrity which man can hope from men is circumſcribed.

"YOU ſee," ſays Africanus, pointing at the earth from the celeſtial regions, "that the globe aſſigned to the reſidence and ha⯑bitation of human beings is of ſmall dimen⯑ſions: how then can you obtain from the praiſe of men, any glory worthy of a wiſh? Of this little world the inhabited parts are neither numerous nor wide; even the ſpots where men are found are broken by inter⯑vening deſarts; and the nations are ſo ſepa⯑rated [158] as that nothing can be tranſmitted from one to another. With the people of the ſouth, by whom the oppoſite part of the earth is poſſeſſed, you have no inter⯑courſe; and by how ſmall a tract do you communicate with the countries of the north? The territory which you inhabit is no more than a ſcanty iſland, incloſed by a ſmall body of water, to which you give the name of the great ſea, and the Atlantick ocean. And even in this known and fre⯑quented continent, what hope can you en⯑tertain, that your renown will paſs the ſtream of Ganges, or the cliffs of Caucaſus? or by whom will your name be uttered in the extremities of the north or ſouth, to⯑wards the riſing or the ſetting ſun? So nar⯑row is the ſpace to which your fame can be propagated, and even there how long will it remain?"

HE then proceeds to aſſign natural cauſes why fame is not only narrow in its extent, but ſhort in its duration; he obſerves the dif⯑ference between the computation of time in earth and heaven, and declares, that accord⯑ing [159] to the celeſtial chronology, no human honours can laſt a ſingle year.

SUCH are the objections by which Tully has made a ſhew of diſcouraging the perſuit of fame; objections which ſufficiently diſcover his tenderneſs and regard for his darling phan⯑tom. Homer, when the plan of his poem made the death of Patroclus neceſſary, re⯑ſolved, at leaſt, that he ſhould die with honour; and, therefore, brought down againſt him the patron god of Troy, and left to Hector only the mean taſk of giving the laſt blow to an enemy whom a divine hand had diſabled from reſiſtance. Thus Tully ennobles fame, which he profeſſes to degrade by oppoſing it to cele⯑ſtial happineſs; he confines not its extent but by the boundaries of nature, nor contracts its duration but by repreſenting it ſmall in the eſtimation of ſuperior beings. He ſtill admits it the higheſt and nobleſt of terreſtrial objects, and alleges little more againſt it, than that it is neither without end, nor without limits.

WHAT might be the effect of theſe obſer⯑vations conveyed in Ciceronian eloquence to Roman underſtandings, cannot be determined; [160] but few of thoſe who ſhall in the preſent age read my humble verſion will find themſelves much depreſſed in their hopes, or retarded in their deſigns; for I am not inclined to believe, that they who among us paſs their lives in the cultivating of knowledge, or the acquiſition of power, have very anxiouſly enquired what opinions prevail on the farther banks of the Ganges, or have invigorated any effort by the deſire of ſpreading their renown among the clans of Caucaſus. The hopes and fears of modern minds are content to range in a nar⯑rower compaſs; a ſingle nation, and a few years, have generally ſufficient amplitude to fill our imagination.

A LITTLE conſideration will indeed teach us, that fame has other limits than mountains and oceans; and that he who places happineſs in the frequent repetition of his name, may ſpend his life in propagating it, without any danger of weeping for new worlds, or ne⯑ceſſity of paſſing the Atlantick ſea.

THE numbers to whom any real and per⯑ceptible good or evil can be derived by the greateſt power, or moſt active diligence, are [161] inconſiderable; and where neither benefit nor miſchief operate, the only motive to the mention or remembrance of others is curioſi⯑ty; a paſſion, which, though in ſome degree univerſally aſſociated with reaſon, is eaſily confined, overborn, or diverted from any par⯑ticular object.

AMONG the lower claſſes of mankind, there will be found very little deſire of any other knowledge, than what may contribute imme⯑diately to the relief of ſome preſſing uneaſi⯑neſs, or the attainment of ſome near advan⯑tage. The Turks are ſaid to hear with won⯑der a propoſal to walk out, only that they may walk back; and enquire, why any man ſhould labour for nothing: ſo thoſe whoſe condition has always reſtrained them to the con⯑templation of their own neceſſities, and who have been accuſtomed to look forward only to a ſmall diſtance, will ſcarcely underſtand, why nights and days ſhould be ſpent in ſtudies, which end in new ſtudies, and which, accord⯑ing to Malherbe's obſervation, do not tend to leſſen the price of bread; nor will the trader or manufacturer eaſily be perſuaded, that much pleaſure can ariſe from the mere know⯑ledge [162] of actions, performed in remote regi⯑ons, or in diſtant times; or that any thing can deſerve their enquiry, of which [...], we can only hear the report, but which cannot influence our lives by any conſequences.

THE truth is, that very few have leiſure from indiſpenſable buſineſs, to employ their thoughts upon narrative or characters; and among thoſe to whom fortune has given the liberty of liv⯑ing more by their own choice, many create to themſelves engagements, by the indulgence of ſome petty ambition, the admiſſion of ſome inſatiable deſire, or the toleration of ſome predominant paſſion. The man whoſe whole wiſh is to accumulate money, has no other care than to collect intereſt, to eſtimate ſecu⯑rities, and to enquire for mortgages: the lo⯑ver diſdains to turn his ear to any other name than that of Corinna; and the courtier thinks the hour loſt, which is not ſpent in promoting his intereſt, and facilitating his advancement. The adventures of valour, and the diſcoveries of ſcience, will find a cold reception, when they are obtruded upon an attention, thus [163] buſy with its favourite amuſement, and im⯑patent of interruption or diſturbance.

BUT not only ſuch employments as ſeduce attention by the appearance of dignity, or the promiſe of happineſs, may reſtrain the mind from excurſion and enquiry; curioſity may be equally deſtroyed by leſs formidable enemies; it may be diſſipated in trifles, or congealed by indolence. The ſportſmen and the men of dreſs have their heads filled with a fox or a horſe-race, a feather or a ball; and live in ig⯑norance of every thing beſide, with as much content as he that heaps up gold, or ſolicits preferment, digs the field, or beats the anvil; and ſome dream out their days without plea⯑ſure or buſineſs, without joy or ſorrow, nor ever rouſe from their lethargy to hear or think.

EVEN of thoſe who have dedicated them⯑ſelves to knowledge, the far greater part have confined their curioſity to a few objects, and have very little inclination to promote any fame, but that of which their own ſtudies entitle them to partake. The naturaliſt has no deſire to know the opinions or conjectures [164] of the philologer: the botaniſt looks upon the aſtronomer, as a being unworthy of his regard: the lawyer ſcarcely hears the name of a phy⯑ſician without contempt; and he that is growing great and happy by electrifying a bottle, wonders how the world can be engaged by trifling prattle about war or peace.

IF, therefore, he that imagines the world filled with his actions and praiſes, ſhall ſub⯑duct from the number of his encomiaſts, all thoſe who are placed below the flight of fame, and who hear in the vallies of life no other voice than that of neceſſity; all thoſe who imagine themſelves too important to regard him, and conſider the mention of his name, as an uſur⯑pation of their time; all who are too much, or too little, pleaſed with themſelves, to at⯑tend to any thing external; all who are at⯑tracted by pleaſure, or chained down by pain, to unvaried ideas; all who are with-held from attending his triumph by different perſuits; and all who ſlumber in univerſal negligence; he will find his renown ſtreightened by nearer bounds than the rocks of Caucaſus, and per⯑ceive that no man can be venerable or for⯑midable, [165] but to a ſmall part of his fellow crea⯑tures.

THAT we may not languiſh in our endea⯑vours after excellence, it is neceſſary, that, as Africanus counſels his deſcendant, "we raiſe our eyes to higher proſpects, and contem⯑plate our future and eternal ſtate, without giving up our hearts to the praiſe of crouds, or fixing our hopes on ſuch rewards as hu⯑man power can beſtow."

NUMB. 119. TUESDAY, May 7, 1751.

NUMB. 120. SATURDAY, May 11, 1751.

IN the reign of Jenghiz Can, conqueror of the eaſt, in the city of Samarcand, lived Nouradin the merchant, renowned through⯑out all the regions of India for the extent of his commerce, and the integrity of his deal⯑ings. His warehouſes were filled with all the commodities of the remoteſt nations; every rarity of nature, every curioſity of art, whatever was valuable, whatever was uſeful, haſted to his hand. The ſtreets were croud⯑ed with his carriages; the ſea was covered with his ſhips; the ſtreams of Oxus were wearied with conveyance, and every breeze of the ſky waſted wealth to Nouradin.

[176] AT length Nouradin felt himſelf ſeized with a ſlow malady, which he firſt endeavour⯑ed to divert by application, and afterwards to relieve by luxury and indulgence; but finding his ſtrength every day leſs, he was at laſt ter⯑rified, and called for help upon the ſages of phyſick; they filled his apartments with alexipharmicks, reſtoratives, and eſſential vir⯑tues; the pearls of the ocean were diſſolved, the ſpices of Arabia were diſtilled, and all the powers of nature were employed, to give new ſpirits to his nerves, and new balſam to his blood. Nouradin was for ſome time amuſed with promiſes, invigorated with cordials, or ſoothed with anodynes; but the diſeaſe prey⯑ed upon his vitals, and he ſoon diſcovered with indignation, that health was not to be bought. He was confined to his chamber, deſerted by his phyſicians, and rarely viſited by his friends; but his unwillingneſs to die flattered him long with hopes of life.

AT length, having paſſed the night in te⯑dious languor, he called to him Almamoulin, his only ſon; and, diſmiſſing his attendants, "My ſon," ſays he, "behold here the [177] weakneſs and fragility of man; look back⯑ward a few days, thy father was great and happy, freſh as the vernal roſe, and ſtrong as the cedar of the mountain; the nations of Aſia drank his dews, and art and com⯑merce delighted in his ſhade. Malevolence beheld me, and ſighed: His root, ſhe cried, is fixed in the depths; it is watered by the fountains of Oxus; it ſends out branches afar, and bids defiance to the blaſt; pru⯑dence reclines againſt his trunk, and pro⯑ſperity dances on his top. Now, Almamou⯑lin, look upon me withering and proſtrate; look upon me, and attend. I have traffick⯑ed, I have proſpered, I have rioted in gain; my houſe is ſplendid, my ſervants are nu⯑merous; yet I diſplayed only a ſmall part of my riches; the reſt, which I was hin⯑dered from enjoying by the fear of raiſing envy, or tempting rapacity, I have piled in towers, I have buried in caverns, I have hidden in ſecret repoſitories, which this ſcroll will diſcover. My purpoſe was, af⯑ter ten months more ſpent in commerce, to have withdrawn my wealth to a ſafer country; to have given ſeven years to de⯑light and feſtivity, and the remaining part [178] of my days to ſolitude and repentance; but the hand of death is upon me; a frigori⯑fick torpor encroaches upon my veins; I am now leaving the produce of my toil, which it muſt be thy buſineſs to enjoy with wiſ⯑dom." The thought of leaving his wealth filled Nouradin with ſuch grief, that he fell into convulſions, became delirious, and ex⯑pired.

ALMAMOULIN, who loved his father, was touched a while with honeſt ſorrow, and ſat two hours in profound meditation, without peruſing the paper which he held in his hand. He then retired to his own chamber, as over⯑born with affliction, and there read the in⯑ventory of his new poſſeſſions, which ſwelled his heart with ſuch tranſports, that he no lon⯑ger lamented his father's death. He was now ſufficiently compoſed to order a funeral of modeſt magnificence, ſuitable at once to the rank of Nouradin's profeſſion, and the reputa⯑tion of his wealth. The two next nights he ſpent in viſiting the tower and the caverns, and found the treaſures greater to his eye than to his imagination.

[179] ALMAMOULIN had been bred to the prac⯑tice of exact frugality, and had often looked with envy on the finery and expences of other young men: he therefore believed, that hap⯑pineſs was now in his power, ſince he could obtain all of which he had hitherto been ac⯑cuſtomed to regret the want. He reſolved to give a looſe to his deſires, to revel in enjoy⯑ment, and feel pain or uneaſineſs no more.

HE immediately procured a ſplendid equi⯑page, dreſſed his ſervants in rich embroidery, and covered his horſes with golden capariſons. He ſhowered down ſilver on the populace, and ſuffered their acclamations to ſwell him with inſolence. The nobles ſaw him with anger, the wiſe men of the ſtate combined againſt him, the leaders of armies threatened his deſtruc⯑tion. Almamoulin was informed of his danger: he put on the robe of mourning in the pre⯑ſence of his enemies, and appeaſed them with gold, and gems, and ſupplication.

HE then ſought to ſtrengthen himſelf, by an alliance with the princes of Tartary, and offered the price of kingdoms, for a wife of [180] noble birth. His ſuit was generally rejected, and his preſents refuſed; but a princeſs of Aſtracan once condeſcended to admit him to her preſence. She received him ſitting on a throne, attired in the robe of royalty, and ſhining with the jewels of Golconda; com⯑mand ſparkled in her eyes, and dignity tow⯑ered on her forehead. Almamoulin approach⯑ed and trembled. She ſaw his confuſion, and diſdained him: How, ſays ſhe, dares the wretch hope my obedience, who thus ſhrinks at my glance? Retire, and enjoy thy riches in forbid oſtentation; thou waſt born to be wealthy, but never canſt be great.

HE then contracted his deſires to more pri⯑vate and domeſtick pleaſures. He built pa⯑laces, he laid out gardens, he changed the face of the land, he tranſplanted foreſts, he levelled mountains, opened proſpects into diſtant re⯑gions, poured fountains from the tops of tur⯑rets, and rolled rivers through new chanels.

THESE amuſements pleaſed him for a time; but languor and wearineſs ſoon invaded him. His bowers loſt their fragrance, and the waters murmured without notice. He purchaſed [181] large tracts of land in diſtant provinces, adorn⯑ed them with houſes of pleaſure, and diverſi⯑fied them with accommodations for different ſeaſons. Change of place at firſt relieved his ſatiety, but all the novelties of ſituation were ſoon exhauſted; he found his heart vacant, and his deſires, for want of external objects, ravaging himſelf.

HE therefore returned to Samarcand, and ſet open his doors to thoſe whom idleneſs ſends out in ſearch of pleaſure. His tables were always covered with delicacies; wines of every vintage ſparkled in his bowls, and his lamps ſcattered perfumes. The ſound of the lute, and the voice of the ſinger, chaſed away ſadneſs; every hour was crouded with pleaſure; and the day ended and began with feaſts and dances, and revelry and merriment. Almamoulin cried out, "I have at laſt found the uſe of riches; I am ſurrounded by com⯑panions, who view my greatneſs without envy; and I enjoy at once the raptures of popularity, and the ſafety of an obſcure ſtation. What trouble can he feel, whom all are ſtudious to pleaſe, that they may be [182] repaid with pleaſure? What danger can he dread, to whom every man is a friend?"

SUCH were the thoughts of Almamoulin, as he looked down from a gallery upon the gay aſſembly, regaling at his expence; but in the midſt of this ſoliloquy, an officer of juſtice en⯑tered the houſe, and, in the form of legal cita⯑tion, ſummoned Almamoulin to appear before the emperor. The gueſts ſtood a while aghaſt, then ſtole imperceptible away, and he was led off without a ſingle voice to witneſs his inte⯑grity. He now found one of his moſt fre⯑quent viſitants, accuſing him of treaſon in hopes of ſharing his confiſcation; yet, unpa⯑tronized and unſupported, he cleared himſelf by the openneſs of innocence, and the conſiſt⯑ence of truth; he was diſmiſſed with ho⯑nour, and his accuſer periſhed in priſon.

ALMAMOULIN now perceived with how little reaſon he had hoped for juſtice or fidelity from thoſe who live only to gratify their ſen⯑ſes; and, being now weary with vain experi⯑ments upon life and fruitleſs ſearches after felicity, he had recourſe to a ſage, who, af⯑ter ſpending his youth in travel and obſerva⯑tion, [183] had retired from all human cares, to a ſmall habitation on the banks of Oxus, where he converſed only with ſuch as ſolicit⯑ed his counſel. "Brother," ſaid the philo⯑ſopher, "thou haſt ſuffered thy reaſon to be deluded by idle hopes, and fallacious ap⯑pearances. Having long looked with deſire upon riches, thou hadſt taught thyſelf to think them more valuable than nature de⯑ſigned them, and to expect from them, what experience has now taught thee, that they cannot give. That they do not con⯑fer wiſdom, thou mayſt be convinced, by conſidering at how dear a price they tempt⯑ed thee, upon thy firſt entrance into the world, to purchaſe the empty ſound of vul⯑gar acclamation. That they cannot be⯑ſtow fortitude or magnanimity, that man may be certain, who ſtood trembling at Aſtracan, before a being not naturally ſu⯑perior to himſelf. That they will not ſup⯑ply unexhauſted pleaſure, the recollection of forſaken palaces, and neglected gardens, will eaſily inform thee. That they rarely purchaſe friends, thou didſt ſoon diſcover, when thou wert left to ſtand thy tryal un⯑countenanced and alone. Yet think not [184] riches uſeleſs; there are purpoſes, to which a wiſe man may be delighted to apply them; they may, by a rational diſtribution to thoſe who want them, eaſe the pains of helpleſs diſeaſe, ſtill the throbs of reſtleſs anxiety, relieve innocence from oppreſſion, and raiſe imbecillity to chearfulneſs and vi⯑gour. This they will enable thee to per⯑form, and this will afford the only happi⯑neſs ordained for our preſent ſtate, the confidence of divine favour, and the hope of future rewards."

NUMB. 121. TUESDAY, May 14, 1751.

I Have been informed by a letter, from one of the univerſities, that among the youth from whom the next ſwarm of reaſoners is to learn philoſophy, and the next flight of beau⯑ties to hear elegies and ſonnets, there are many, who, inſtead of endeavouring by books and meditation to form their own opinions, con⯑tent themſelves with the ſecondary know⯑ledge, which a convenient bench in a coffee⯑houſe can ſupply; and, without any examina⯑tion or diſtinction, adopt the criticiſms and remarks, which happen to drop from thoſe, who have riſen, by merit or fortune, to repu⯑tation and authority.

THESE humble retailers of knowledge my correſpondent ſtigmatizes with the name of Echoes; and ſeems deſirous, that they ſhould [186] be made aſhamed of lazy ſubmiſſion, and ani⯑mated to attempts after new diſcoveries, and original ſentiments.

IT is very natural for young men to be vehement, acrimonious, and ſevere. For, as they ſeldom comprehend at once all the conſequences of a poſition, or perceive the difficulties by which cooler and more ex⯑perienced reaſoners are reſtrained from confi⯑dence, they form their concluſions with great precipitance; as they ſee nothing that can darken or embarraſs the queſtion, they expect to find their own opinion univerſally preva⯑lent, and are inclined to impute uncertainty and heſitation to want of honeſty, rather than of knowledge. I may, perhaps, therefore be reproached by my lively correſpondent, when it ſhall be found, that I have no inclination to perſecute theſe collectors of fortuitous knowledge with the ſeverity required; yet, as I am now too old to be much terrified or pained by haſty cenſure, I ſhall not be afraid of taking into protection thoſe whom I think condemned without a ſufficient knowledge of their cauſe.

[187] HE that adopts the ſentiments of another, whom he has reaſon to believe wiſer than him⯑ſelf, is only to be blamed, when he claims the honours which are not due but to the author, and endeavours to deceive the world into praiſe and veneration. For, to learn, is the proper buſineſs of youth; and whether we encreaſe our knowledge by books, or by converſation, we are equally indebted to fo⯑reign aſſiſtance.

THE greater part of ſtudents are not born with abilities, to conſtruct ſyſtems, or advance knowledge; nor can have any hope beyond that of becoming intelligent hearers in the ſchools of art, of being able to comprehend what others diſcover, and to remember what others teach. Even thoſe to whom Provi⯑dence has allotted greater ſtrength of under⯑ſtanding, can expect only to improve a ſingle ſcience. In every other part of learn⯑ing, they muſt be content to follow opinions, which they are not able to examine; and, even in that which they claim as peculiarly their own, can ſeldom add more than ſome ſmall particle of knowledge, to the hereditary [188] ſtock devolved to them from ancient times, the collective labour of a thouſand intel⯑lects.

IN ſcience, which being fixed and limited, admits of no other variety than ſuch as ariſes from new methods of diſtribution, or new arts of illuſtration, the neceſſity of following the traces of our predeceſſors is indiſputably evi⯑dent; but there appears no reaſon, why ima⯑gination ſhould be ſubject to the ſame re⯑ſtraint. It might be conceived, that of thoſe who profeſs to forſake the narrow paths of truth every one may deviate towards a dif⯑ferent point, ſince though rectitude is uni⯑form and fixed, obliquity may be infinitely diverſified. The fields of ſcience are narrow, ſo that they who travel them, muſt either follow or meet one another; but in the boundleſs regions of poſſibility, which fiction claims for her dominion, there are ſurely a thouſand receſſes unexplored, a thouſand flowers unplucked, a thouſand fountains unex⯑hauſted, combinations of imagery yet unob⯑ſerved, and races of ideal inhabitants not hi⯑therto deſcribed.

[189] YET, whatever hope may perſuade, or rea⯑ſon evince, experience can boaſt of very few additions to ancient fable. The wars of Troy, and the travels of Ulyſſes, have furniſhed almoſt all ſucceeding poets with incidents, chara⯑cters, and ſentiments. The Romans are con⯑feſſed to have attempted little more than to diſplay in their own tongue the inventions of the Greeks. There is, in all their writings, ſuch a perpetual recurrence of alluſions to the tales of the fabulous age, that they muſt be confeſſed often to want that power of giving pleaſure which novelty ſupplies; nor can we wonder, that they excelled ſo much in the graces of diction, when we conſider how rarely they were employed in ſearch of new thoughts.

THE warmeſt admirers of the great Man⯑tuan poet can extol him for little more than the ſkill with which he has, by making his hero both a traveller and a warrior, united the beauties of the Iliad and Odyſſey in one com⯑poſition: yet his judgment was perhaps ſome⯑times overborn by his avarice of the Homeric treaſures; and, for fear of ſuffering a ſparkling [190] ornament to be loſt, he has inſerted it where it cannot ſhine with its original ſplendor.

WHEN Ulyſſes viſited the infernal regions, he found, that among the heroes that periſhed at Troy, his competitor Ajax, who, when the arms of Achilles were adjudged to Ulyſſes, died by his own hand in the madneſs of diſappointment. He ſtill appeared to reſent, as on earth, his loſs and diſgrace. Ulyſſes endeavoured to pa⯑cify him with praiſes and ſubmiſſion; but Ajax walked away without reply. This paſ⯑ſage has always been conſidered as eminently beautiful; becauſe Ajax the haughty chief, the unlettered ſoldier, of unſhaken courage, of immoveable conſtancy, but without the power of recommending his own virtues by eloquence, or enforcing his aſſertions by any other argument than the ſword, had no way of making his anger known, but by gloomy ſullenneſs, and dumb ferocity. His hatred of a man whom he conceived to have de⯑feated him only by volubility of tongue, was therefore naturally ſhewn by ſilence more con⯑temptuous and piercing than any words that ſo rude an orator could have found, and by which [191] he gave his enemy no opportunity of exerting the only power in which he was ſuperior.

WHEN Aeneas is ſent by Virgil to viſit the ſhades, he meets with Dido the queen of Carthage whom his perfidy had hurried to the grave; he accoſts her with tenderneſs and excuſes; but the lady turns away like Ajax in mute diſdain. She turns away like Ajax, but ſhe reſembles him in none of thoſe quali⯑ties, which give either dignity or propriety to ſilence. She might, without any departure from the tenour of her conduct, have burſt out like other injured women into clamour, reproach, and denunciation; but Virgil had his imagination full of Ajax, and therefore could not prevail on himſelf to teach Dido any other mode of reſentment.

IF Virgil could be thus ſeduced by imita⯑tion, there will be little hope, that common wits ſhould eſcape; and accordingly we find, that beſides the univerſal and acknowledged practice of copying the ancients, there has prevailed in every age a particular ſpecies of fiction. At one time all truth was conveyed in allegory; at another, nothing was ſeen but [192] in a viſion; at one period, all the poets fol⯑lowed ſheep, and every event produced a paſ⯑toral; at another they buſied themſelves wholly in giving directions to a painter.

IT is indeed eaſy to conceive why any fa⯑ſhion ſhould become popular, by which idle⯑neſs is favoured, and imbecillity aſſiſted; but ſurely no man of genius can much applaud himſelf for repeating a tale with which the audience is already tired, and which could bring no honour to any but its inventor.

THERE are, I think, two ſchemes of writing, on which the laborious wits of the preſent time employ their faculties. One is the adaptation of ſenſe to all the rhymes which our language can ſupply to ſome word, that makes the burden of the ſtanza; but this, as it has been only uſed in a kind of amorous burleſque, can ſcarcely be cenſured with much acrimony. The other is the imitation of Spen⯑ſer, which, by the influence of ſome men of learning and genius, ſeems likely to gain upon the age, and therefore deſerves to be more attentively conſidered.

[193] TO imitate the fictions and ſentiments of Spenſer can incur no reproach, for allegory is perhaps one of the moſt pleaſing vehicles of inſtruction. But I am very far from extend⯑ing the ſame reſpect to his diction or his ſtanza. His ſtile was in his own time al⯑lowed to be vicious, ſo darkened with old words and peculiarities of phraſe, and ſo re⯑mote from common uſe, that Johnſon boldly pronounces him to have written no language. His ſtanza is at once difficult and unpleaſing; tireſome to the ear by its uniformity, and to the attention by its length. It was at firſt form⯑ed in imitation of the Italian poets, without due regard to the genius of our language. The Italians have ſo little variety of termination, that they were forced to contrive ſuch a ſtanza as might admit the greateſt number of ſimilar rhymes; but our words end with ſo much diverſity, that it is ſeldom convenient for us to bring more than two of the ſame ſound together. If it be juſtly obſerved by Milton, that rhyme obliges poets to expreſs their thoughts in improper terms, theſe im⯑proprieties muſt always be multiplied, as the [194] difficulty of rhyme is encreaſed by long con⯑catenations.

THE imitators of Spenſer are indeed not very rigid cenſors of themſelves, for they ſeem to conclude, that when they have diſ⯑figured their lines with a few obſolete ſyllables, they have accompliſhed their deſign, without conſidering that they ought not only to admit words, but to avoid new. The laws of imi⯑tation are broken by every word introduced ſince the time of Spenſer, as the character of Hector is violated by quoting Ariſtotle in the play. It would indeed be difficult to exclude from a long poem all modern phraſes, though it is eaſy to ſprinkle it with gleanings of an⯑tiquity. Perhaps, however, the ſtile of Spen⯑ſer might by long labour be juſtly copied; but life is ſurely given us for higher purpoſes than to gather what our anceſtors have wiſely thrown away, and to learn what is of no va⯑lue, but becauſe it has been forgotten.

NUMB. 122. SATURDAY, May 18, 1751.

NOTHING is more ſubject to miſtake and diſappointment than an⯑ticipated judgment concerning the eaſineſs or difficulty of any undertaking, whether we form our opinion from the performances of others, or from abſtracted contemplation of the thing to be attempted.

WHATEVER is done ſkilfully appears to be done with eaſe; and art, when it is once matured to habit, vaniſhes from obſervation. We are therefore more powerfully excited to emulation, by thoſe who have attained the higheſt degree of excellence, and whom we can therefore with leaſt reaſon hope to equal.

IN adjuſting the probability of ſucceſs by a previous conſideration of the undertaking, we [196] are equally in danger of deceiving ourſelves. It is never eaſy, nor often poſſible, to com⯑priſe the ſeries of any proceſs, with all its cir⯑cumſtances, incidents, and variations, in a ſpeculative ſcheme. Experience ſoon ſhews us the tortuoſities of imaginary rectitude, the complications of ſimplicity, and the aſ⯑perities of ſmoothneſs. Sudden difficulties often ſtart up from the ambuſhes of art, ſtop the career of activity, repreſs the gaiety of confidence, and when we imagine ourſelves almoſt at the end of our labours, drive us back to new plans and different meaſures.

THERE are many things which we every day ſee others unable to perform, and perhaps have even ourſelves miſ⯑carried in attempting; and yet can hardly allow to be difficult; nor can we forbear to wonder afreſh at every new failure, or to promiſe certainty of ſucceſs to our next eſſay; but when we try, the ſame hindrances recur, the ſame inability is perceived, and the vexa⯑tion of diſappointment muſt again be ſuffered.

OF the various kinds of ſpeaking or wri⯑ting, which ſerve neceſſity, or promote plea⯑ſure, [197] none appears ſo artleſs or eaſy as ſimple narration; for what ſhould make him that knows the whole order and progreſs of an af⯑fair unable to relate it? Yet we hourly find ſuch as endeavour to entertain or inſtruct us by recitals, clouding the facts which they in⯑tend to illuſtrate, and loſing themſelves and their auditors in wilds and mazes, in digreſ⯑ſion and confuſion. When we have con⯑gratulated ourſelves upon a new opportunity of enquiry, and new means of information; it often happens, that without deſigning either deceit or concealment, without ignorance of the fact, or unwillingneſs to diſcloſe it, the relator fills the ear with empty ſounds, ha⯑raſſes the attention with fruitleſs impatience, and diſturbs the imagination by a tumult of events, without order of time, or train of conſequence.

IT is natural to believe upon the ſame principle, that no writer has a more eaſy taſk than the hiſtorian. The philoſopher has the works of omniſcience to examine; and is therefore engaged in diſquiſitions, to which finite intellects are utterly unequal. The poet truſts to his invention, and is not only in [198] danger of thoſe inconſiſtencies, to which every one is expoſed by departure from truth; but may be cenſured as well for defici⯑cencies of matter, as for irregularity of diſ⯑poſition, or impropriety of ornament. But the happy hiſtorian has no other labour than of gathering what tradition pours down before him, or records treaſure for his uſe. He has only the actions and deſigns of men like him⯑ſelf to conceive and to relate; he is not to form, but copy characters, and therefore is not blamed for the inconſiſtency of ſtateſmen, the injuſtice of tyrants, or the cowardice of commanders. The difficulty of making va⯑riety conſiſtent, or uniting probability with ſurprize, needs not to diſtrub him; the man⯑ners and actions of his perſonages are already fixed; his materials are provided and put into his hands, and he is at leiſure to employ all his powers in arranging and diſplaying them.

YET, even with theſe advantages, very few in any age have been able to raiſe themſelves to reputation by writing hiſtories; and among the innumerable authors, who fill every na⯑tion with accounts of their anceſtors, or un⯑dertake to ttanſmit to futurity the events of [199] their own time, the greater part, when faſhion and novelty have ceaſed to recommend them, are of no other uſe than chronological me⯑morials, which neceſſity may ſometimes re⯑quire to be conſulted, but which fright away curioſity, and diſguſt delicacy.

IT has been obſerved, that our nation, which has produced ſo many authors eminent for al⯑moſt every other ſpecies of literary excellence, has been hitherto remarkably barren of hiſto⯑rical genius; and ſo far has this defect raiſed prejudices againſt us, that ſome have doubted, whether an Engliſhman can ſtop at that me⯑diocrity of ſtile, or confine his mind to that even tenour of imagination, which narrative requires.

THEY who can believe that nature has ſo capriciouſly diſtributed underſtanding, have ſurely no claim to the honour of ſerious conſu⯑tation. The inhabitants of the ſame country have oppoſite characters in different ages; the prevalence or neglect of any particular ſtudy can proceed only from the accidental influence of ſome temporary cauſe; and if we have fail⯑ed in hiſtory, we can have failed only becauſe [200] hiſtory has not hitherto been diligently cul⯑tivated.

BUT how is it evident, that we have not hiſtorians among us, whom we may venture to place in compariſon with any that the neighbouring nations can produce? The at⯑tempt of Raleigh is deſervedly celebrated for the labour of his reſearches, and the elegance of his ſtile; but he has endeavoured to exert his judgment more than his genius, to ſelect facts, rather than adorn them; and has produced an hiſtorical diſſertation, but ſeldom riſen to the majeſty of hiſtory.

THE work of Clarendon deſerves more re⯑gard. His diction is indeed neither exact in itſelf, nor ſuited to the purpoſe of hiſtory. It is the effuſion of a mind crouded with ideas, and deſirous of imparting them; and there⯑fore always accumulating words, and involv⯑ing one clauſe and ſentence in another. But there is dignity in his negligence, a rude in⯑artificial majeſty, which, without the nicety of laboured elegance, ſwells the mind by its plenitude and diffuſion. His narration is not perhaps ſufficiently rapid, being ſtopped [201] too frequently by particularities, which, though they might ſtrike the author who was preſent at the tranſactions, will not equally detain the attention of poſterity. But his ignorance or careleſneſs of the art of writing are amply compenſated by his knowledge of nature and of policy; the wiſdom of his maxims, the juſtneſs of his reaſonings, and the variety, diſtinctneſs, and ſtrength of his characters.

BUT none of our writers can, in my opi⯑nion, juſtly conteſt the ſuperiority of Knolles, who, in his hiſtory of the Turks, has diſplayed all the excellencies that narration can admit. His ſtile, though ſomewhat obſcured by time, and ſometimes vitiated by falſe wit, is pure, nervous, elevated, and clear. A wonderful multiplicity of events is ſo artfully arranged, and ſo diſtinctly explained, that each facilitates the knowledge of the next. Whenever a new perſonage is introduced, the reader is prepa⯑red by his character for his actions; when a nation is firſt attacked, or city beſieged, he is made acquainted with its hiſtory, or ſituation; ſo that a great part of the world is brought under his view. The deſcriptions of this au⯑thor are without minuteneſs, and the digreſ⯑ſions [202] without oſtentation. Collateral events are ſo artfully woven into the contexture of his principal ſtory, that they cannot be diſ⯑joined, without leaving it lacerated and bro⯑ken. There is nothing turgid in his dignity, nor ſuperfluous in his copiouſneſs. His ora⯑tions only, which he feigns, like the ancient hiſtorians, to have been pronounced on re⯑markable occaſions, are tedious and languid; and ſince they are merely the voluntary ſports of imagination, prove how much the moſt ju⯑dicious and ſkilful may be miſtaken, in the eſti⯑mate of their own powers.

NOTHING could have ſunk this author in obſcurity, but the remoteneſs and barbarity of the people, whoſe ſtory he relates. It ſeldom happens, that all circumſtances concur to hap⯑pineſs or fame. The nation, which produced this great hiſtorian, has the grief of ſeeing his genius employed upon a foreign and uninter⯑eſting ſubject; and that writer, who might have ſecured perpetuity to his name, by a hi⯑ſtory of his own country, has expoſed him⯑ſelf to the danger of oblivion, by recounting enterprizes and revolutions, of which none deſire to be informed.

NUMB. 123. TUESDAY, May 21, 1751.

NUMB. 124. SATURDAY, May 25, 1751.

THE ſeaſon of the year is now come in which the theatres are ſhut, and the card-tables forſaken; the regions of luxury are for a while unpeopled, and pleaſure leads out her votaries to groves and gardens, to ſtill ſcenes and erratick gratifications. Thoſe who have paſſed many months in a continual tumult of diverſion; who have never opened their eyes in the morning, but upon ſome new appointment; nor ſlept at night without a dream of dances, muſick, and good hands, or of ſoft ſighs, languiſhing looks, and humble ſupplications; muſt now retire to diſtant pro⯑vinces, where the ſirens of flattery are ſcarce⯑ly to be heard, where beauty ſparkles without praiſe or envy, and wit is repeated only by the echo.

[213] AS I think it one of the moſt important duties of ſocial benevolence to give warning of the approach of calamity when by timely pre⯑vention it may be turned aſide, or by pre⯑paratory meaſures be more eaſily endured, I cannot feel the encreaſing warmth, or obſerve the lengthening days, without conſidering the condition of my fair readers, who are now preparing to leave all that has ſo long filled up their hours, all from which they have been accuſtomed to hope for delight; and who, till faſhion proclaims the liberty of returning to the ſeats of mirth and elegance, muſt en⯑dure the rugged 'ſquire, the ſober houſewife, the loud huntſman, or the formal parſon, the roar of obſtreperous jollity, or the dulneſs of prudential inſtruction; without any retreat, but to the gloom of ſolitude, where they will yet find greater inconveniencies, and muſt learn, however unwillingly, to endure them⯑ſelves.

IN winter, the life of the polite and gay, may be ſaid to roll on with a ſtrong and rapid current; they float along from pleaſure to pleaſure, without the trouble of regulating [214] their own motions, and perſue the courſe of the ſtream in all the felicity of inattention; content that they find themſelves in progreſ⯑ſion, and careleſs whither they are going. But the months of ſummer are a kind of ſleeping ſtagnation without wind or tide, where they are left to force themſelves for⯑ward by their own labour, and to direct their paſſage by their own ſkill; and where, if they have not ſome internal principle of activity, they muſt be ſtranded upon ſhallows, or lie torpid in a perpetual calm.

THERE are, indeed, ſome to whom this univerſal diſſolution of gay ſocieties affords a welcome opportunity of quitting without diſ⯑grace, the poſt which they have found them⯑ſelves unable to maintain; and of ſeeming to retreat only at the call of nature, from aſſem⯑blies where, after a ſhort triumph of uncon⯑teſted ſuperiority, they are overpowered by ſome new intruder of ſofter elegance or ſprightlier vivacity. By theſe, hopeleſs of vic⯑tory, and yet aſhamed to confeſs a conqueſt, the ſummer is regarded as a releaſe from the fatiguing ſervice of celebrity, a diſmiſſion to more certain joys and a ſafer empire. They now [215] ſolace themſelves with the influence which they ſhall obtain, where they have no rival to fear; and with the luſtre which they ſhall effuſe, when nothing can be ſeen of brighter ſplendour. They image, while they are pre⯑paring for their journey, the admiration with which the ruſticks will croud about them; plan the laws of a new aſſembly; or contrive to delude provincial ignorance with a fic⯑titious mode. A thouſand pleaſing expecta⯑tions ſwarm in the fancy; and all the ap⯑proaching weeks are filled with diſtinctions, honours, and authority.

BUT others, who have lately entered the world, or have yet had no proofs of its in⯑conſtancy and deſertion, are cut off by this cruel interruption from the enjoyment of their prerogatives, and doomed to loſe four months in unactive obſcurity. Many com⯑plaints do vexation and deſire extort from theſe exiled tyrants of the town, againſt the inex⯑orable ſun, who perſues his courſe without any regard to love or beauty; and viſits either tropick at the ſtated time, whether ſhunned or courted, deprecated or implored.

[216] TO them who leave the places of publick reſort in the full bloom of reputation, and withdraw from admiration, courtſhip; ſub⯑miſſion, and applauſe; a rural triumph can give nothing equivalent. The praiſe of ig⯑norance, and the ſubjection of weakneſs, are little regarded by beauties who have been ac⯑cuſtomed to more important conqueſts, and more valuable panegyricks. Nor indeed ſhould the powers which have made havock in the theatres, or borne down rivalry in courts, be degraded to a mean attack upon the un⯑travelled heir, or ignoble conteſt with the ruddy milk-maid.

HOW then muſt four long months be worn away? Four months, in which there will be no routes, no ſhews, no ridottos; in which viſits muſt be regulated by the weather, and aſſemblies will depend upon the moon! The Platoniſts imagine, that the future puniſhment of thoſe who have in this life debaſed their rea⯑ſon by ſubjection to their ſenſes, and have preferred the groſs gratifications of lewdneſs and luxury, to the pure and ſublime felicity of virtue and contemplation, will ariſe from [217] the predominance and ſolicitations of the ſame appetites, in a ſtate which can furniſh no means of appeaſing them. I cannot but ſu⯑ſpect that this month, bright with ſunſhine, and fragrant with perfumes; this month, which covers the meadow with verdure, and decks the gardens with all the mixtures of co⯑lorifick radiance; this month, from which the man of fancy expects new infuſions of ima⯑gery, and the naturaliſt new ſcenes of obſer⯑vation; this month will chain down multi⯑tudes to the Platonick penance of deſire with⯑out enjoyment, and hurry them from the higheſt ſatisfactions, which they have yet learned to conceive, into a ſtate of hopeleſs wiſhes and pining recollection, where the eye of vanity will look round for admiration to no purpoſe, and the hand of avarice ſhuffle cards in a bower with ineffectual dexterity.

FROM the tediouſneſs of this melancholy ſuſpenſion of life, I would willingly preſerve thoſe who are expoſed to it, only by inex⯑perience; who want not inclination to wiſ⯑dom or virtue, though they have been diſ⯑ſipated by negligence, or miſled by example: and who would gladly find the way to rational [218] happineſs, though it ſhould be neceſſary to ſtruggle with habit, and abandon faſhion. To theſe many arts of ſpending time might be re⯑commended, which would neither ſadden the preſent hour with wearineſs, nor the future with repentance.

IT would ſeem impoſſible to a ſolitary ſpe⯑culatiſt, that a human being can want em⯑ployment. To be born in ignorance with a capacity of knowledge, and to be placed in the midſt of a world filled with variety, perpetu⯑ally preſſing upon the ſenſes and irritating cu⯑rioſity, is ſurely a ſufficient ſecurity againſt the languiſhment of inattention. Novelty is in⯑deed neceſſary to preſerve eagerneſs and ala⯑crity; but art and nature have ſtores inex⯑hauſtible by human intellects; and every mo⯑ment produces ſomething new to him, who has quickened his faculties by diligent obſer⯑vation.

SOME ſtudies, for which the country and the ſummer afford peculiar opportunities, I ſhall perhaps endeavour to recommend in a future eſſay; but if there be any ap⯑prehenſion not apt to admit unaccuſtomed [219] ideas, or any attention ſo ſtubborn and infle⯑xible, as not eaſily to comply with new direc⯑tions, even theſe obſtructions cannot exclude the pleaſure of application; for there is a higher and nobler employment, to which all faculties are adapted by him who gave them. The duties of religion, ſincerely and regularly performed, will always be ſufficient to exalt the meaneſt, and to exerciſe the higheſt un⯑derſtanding. That mind will never be va⯑cant, which is frequently recalled by ſtated duties to meditations on eternal intereſts; nor can any hour be long, which is ſpent in obtaining ſome new qualification for celeſtial happineſs.

NUMB. 125. TUESDAY, May 28, 1751.

IT is one of the maxims of the civil law, that definitions are hazardous. Things modified by human underſtandings, ſubject to varieties of complication, and changeable as experience advances knowledge, or acci⯑dent influences caprice, are ſcarcely to be in⯑cluded in any ſtanding form of expreſſion, becauſe they are always ſuffering ſome alter⯑ation of their ſtate. Definition is, indeed, not the province of man; every thing is ſet above or below our faculties. The works and operations of nature are too great in their ex⯑tent or too much diffuſed in their relations, and the performances of art too inconſtant and uncertain, to be reduced to any determi⯑nate idea. It is impoſſible to impreſs upon our minds an adequate and juſt repreſenta⯑tion [221] of an object ſo great that we can never take it into our view, or ſo mutable that it is always changing under our eye, and has already loſt its form while we are labouring to conceive it.

DEFINITIONS have been no leſs difficult or uncertain in criticiſm than in law. Ima⯑gination, a licentious and vagrant faculty, un⯑ſuſceptible of limitations, and impatient of reſtraint, has always endeavoured to baffle the logician, to perplex the conſines of diſtin⯑ction, and burſt the incloſures of regularity, There is therefore ſcarcely any ſpecies of wri⯑ting, of which we can tell what is its eſſence, and what are its conſtituents; every new genius produces ſome innovation, which, when invented and approved, ſubverts the rules which the practice of foregoing authors had eſtabliſhed.

COMEDY has been particularly unpropi⯑tious to definers; for though perhaps they might properly have contented themſelves, with declaring it to be ſuch a dramatic re⯑preſentation of human life, as may excite mirth, they have embarraſſed their definition with [222] the means by which the comic writers attain their end, without conſidering that the va⯑rious methods of exhilarating their audience, not being limited by nature, cannot be com⯑priſed in precept. Thus, ſome make comedy a repreſentation of mean, and others of bad men; ſome think that its eſſence conſiſts in the unimportance, others in the fictitiouſneſs, of the tranſaction. But any man's reflections will inform him, that every dramatic com⯑poſition which raiſes mirth is comic; and that, to raiſe mirth, it is by no means univerſally neceſſary, that the perſonages ſhould be either mean or corrupt, nor always requiſite, that the action ſhould be trivial, nor ever, that it ſhould be fictitious.

IF the two kinds of dramatick poetry had been defined only by their effects upon the mind, ſome abſurdities might have been prevented, with which the compoſitions of our greateſt poets are diſgraced, who, for want of ſome ſettled ideas and accurate di⯑ſtinctions, have unhappily confounded tragic with comic ſentiments. They ſeem to have thought, that as the meanneſs of perſonages conſtituted comedy, their greatneſs was ſuf⯑ficient [223] to form a tragedy; and that nothing was neceſſary to dignity and ſeriouſneſs, but that they ſhould croud the ſcene with mon⯑archs, and generals, and guards; and make them talk, at certain intervals, of the downfal of kingdoms, and the rout of armies. They have not conſidered, that thoughts or inci⯑dents in themſelves ridiculous, grow ſtill more groteſque by the ſolemnity of ſuch cha⯑racters; that reaſon and nature are uniform and inflexible; and that what is deſpicable and abſurd, will not, by any aſſociation with ſplendid titles, become rational or great; that the moſt important affairs, by an inter⯑mixture of an unſeaſonable levity, may be made contemptible; and that the robes of royalty can give no protection to nonſenſe or to folly.

"COMEDY," ſays Horace, "ſometimes raiſes her voice;" and tragedy may like⯑wiſe on proper occaſions abate her dignity; but as the comic perſonages can only depart from their familiarity of ſtile, when the more violent paſſions are put in motion, the heroes and queens of tragedy ſhould never deſcend to trifle, but in the hours of eaſe, and inter⯑miſſions [224] of danger. Yet in the tragedy of Don Sebaſtian, when the king of Portugal is in the hands of his enemy, and having juſt drawn the lot, by which he is condemned to die, breaks out into a wild boaſt that his duſt ſhall take poſſeſſion of Africk, the dialogue proceeds thus between the captive and his conqueror:

THIS converſation, with the ſly remark of the miniſter, can only be found not to be co⯑mick, [225] becauſe it wants the probability ne⯑ceſſary to repreſentations of common life, and degenerates too much towards buffoonry and farce.

THE ſame play affords a ſmart return of the general to the emperor, who, enforcing his orders for the death of Sebaſtian, vents his impatience in this abrupt threat:

To which Dorax anſwers,

A THOUSAND inſtances of ſuch impro⯑priety might be produced, were not one ſcene in Aureng-Zebe ſufficient to exemplify it. In⯑damora, a captive queen, having Aureng-Zebe for her lover, employs Arimant, to whoſe charge ſhe had been intruſted, and whom ſhe had made ſenſible of her charms, to carry a meſſage to his rival.

IN this ſcene, every circumſtance concurs to turn tragedy to farce. The wild abſurdity of the expedient; the contemptible ſubjection of the lover; the folly of obliging him to read the letter only becauſe it ought to have been concealed from him; the frequent interrup⯑tions of amorous impatience; the faint ex⯑poſtulations of a voluntary ſlave; the imperi⯑ous haughtineſs of a tyrant without power; the deep reflection of the yielding rebel upon fate and free-will; and his wiſe wiſh to loſe his reaſon as ſoon as he finds himſelf about to do what he cannot perſuade his reaſon to ap⯑prove, are ſurely ſufficient to awaken the moſt torpid riſibility.

THERE is ſcarce a tragedy of the laſt cen⯑tury [229] which has not debaſed its moſt important incidents, and polluted its moſt ſerious inter⯑locutions with buffoonry and meanneſs; but though perhaps it cannot be pretended that the preſent age has added much to the force and efficacy of the drama, it has at leaſt been able to eſcape many faults, which either igno⯑rance had overlooked, or indulgence had licenſ⯑ed. The later tragedies indeed have faults of another kind, perhaps more deſtructive to de⯑light, though leſs open to cenſure. That per⯑petual tumor of phraſe with which every thought is now expreſſed by every perſonage, the paucity of adventures which regularity ad⯑mits, and the unvaried equality of flowing dialogue, has taken away from our preſent writers almoſt all that dominion over the paſ⯑ſions which was the boaſt of their predeceſ⯑ſors. Yet they may at leaſt claim this com⯑mendation, that they avoid groſs faults, and that if they cannot often move terror or pity, they are always careful not to provoke laugh⯑ter.

NUMB. 126. SATURDAY, June 1, 1751.

NUMB. 127. TUESDAY, June 4, 1751.

POLITIAN, a name eminent among the reſtorers of polite literature, when he publiſhed a collection of epigrams, prefix⯑ed to many of them the year of his age at which they were compoſed. He might de⯑ſign by this information, either to boaſt the early maturity of his genius, or to conciliate indulgence to the puerility of his performances. But whatever was his intent, it is remarked by Scaliger, that he very little promoted his own reputation, becauſe he fell below the pro⯑miſe which his firſt productions had given, and in the latter part of life ſeldom equalled the ſallies of his youth.

IT is not uncommon for thoſe who at their firſt entrance into the world were diſtinguiſh⯑ed for eminent attainments or ſuperior abili⯑ties, to diſappoint the hopes which they had [241] raiſed, and to end in neglect and obſcurity that life which they began in celebrity and honour. To the long catalogue of the in⯑conveniencies of old age, which moral and ſatirical writers have ſo copiouſly diſplayed, may be often added the loſs of fame.

THE advance of the human mind towards any object of laudable perſuit, may be com⯑pared to the progreſs of a body driven by a blow. It moves for a time with great velo⯑city and vigour, but the force of the firſt im⯑pulſe is perpetually decreaſing, and though it ſhould encounter no obſtacle capable of quell⯑ing it by a ſudden ſtop, the reſiſtance of the medium through which it paſſes, and the la⯑tent inequalities of the ſmootheſt ſurface will in a ſhort time by continued retardation wholly overpower it. Some hindrances will be found in every road of life, but he that fixes his eyes upon any thing at a diſtance neceſſari⯑ly loſes ſight of all that fills up the interme⯑diate ſpace, and therefore ſets forward with alacrity and confidence, nor ſuſpects a thou⯑ſand obſtacles by which he afterwards finds his paſſage embarraſſed and obſtructed. Some are indeed ſtopt at once in their career by a ſud⯑den [242] ſhock of calamity, or diverted to a different direction by the croſs impulſe of ſome violent paſſion; but far the greater part languiſh by ſlow degrees, deviate at firſt into ſlight obli⯑quities, and themſelves ſcarcely perceive at what time their ardour forſook them, or when they loſt ſight of their original deſign.

WEARINESS and negligence are perpetu⯑ally prevailing by ſilent encroachments, aſſiſt⯑ed by different cauſes, and not obſerved till they cannot, without great difficulty, be op⯑poſed. Labour neceſſarily requires pauſes of eaſe and relaxation, and the deliciouſneſs of eaſe commonly makes us unwilling to return to labour. We, perhaps, prevail upon our⯑ſelves to renew our attempts, but eagerly liſten to every argument for frequent interpoſitions of amuſement; for when indolence has once entered upon the mind, it can ſcarcely be diſ⯑poſſeſſed but by ſuch efforts as very few are found willing to exert.

IT is the fate of induſtry to be equally en⯑dangered by miſcarriage and ſucceſs, by confi⯑dence and deſpondency. He that engages in a great undertaking with a falſe opinion of its [243] facility, or too high conceptions of his own ſtrength, is eaſily diſcouraged by the firſt hin⯑drance of his advances, becauſe he had promi⯑ſed himſelf an equal and perpetual progreſſion without impediment or diſturbance; when un⯑expected interruptions break in upon him, he is in the ſtate of a man ſurpriſed by a tempeſt where he purpoſed only to baſk in the calm, or ſport in the ſhallows.

IT is not only common to find the difficulty of an enterprize greater, but the profit leſs, than hope had pictured it. Youth enters the world with very happy prejudices in her own favour. She imagines herſelf not only certain of ac⯑compliſhing every adventure, but of obtaining thoſe rewards which the accompliſhment may deſerve. She is not eaſily perſuaded to be⯑lieve that the force of merit can be reſiſted by obſtinacy and avarice, or its luſtre darkened by envy and malignity. She has not yet learned that the moſt evident claims to praiſe or pre⯑ferment may be rejected by malice againſt conviction, or by indolence without exami⯑nation; that they may be ſometimes defeated by artifices, and ſometimes overborn by clamour; that in the mingled numbers of mankind, [244] many need no other provocation to enmity than that they find themſelves excelled; that others have ceaſed their curioſity, and conſider every man who fills the mouth of report with a new name, as an intruder upon their re⯑treat, and diſturber of their repoſe; that ſome are engaged in complications of intereſt which they imagine endangered by every innovation; that many yield themſelves up implicitly to every report which hatred diſſeminates or folly ſcatters; and that whoever aſpires to the notice of the publick, he has in almoſt every man an enemy and a rival; and muſt ſtruggle with the oppoſition of the daring, and elude the ſtratagems of the timorous, muſt quicken the frigid and ſoften the obdurate, muſt reclaim perverſeneſs and inform ſtupidity.

IT is no wonder that when the proſpect of reward has vaniſhed, the zeal of enterprize ſhould ceaſe; for who would perſevere to cul⯑tivate the ſoil which he has, after long labour, diſcovered to be barren? He who had pleaſed himſelf with anticipated praiſes, and expected that he ſhould meet in every place with pa⯑tronage or friendſhip, will ſoon remit his vi⯑gour, when he finds that from thoſe who de⯑ſire [245] to be conſidered as his admirers nothing can be hoped but cold civility, and that many refuſe to own his excellence, leſt they ſhould be too juſtly expected to reward it.

A MAN thus cut off from the proſpect of that port to which his addreſs and fortitude had been employed to ſteer him, often aban⯑dons himſelf to chance and to the wind, and glides careleſs and idle down the current of life, without reſolution to make another effort, till he is ſwallowed up by the gulph of mortality.

OTHERS are betrayed to the ſame deſer⯑tion of themſelves by a contrary fallacy. It was ſaid of Hannibal that he wanted nothing to the completion of his martial virtues, but that when he had gained a victory he ſhould know how to uſe it. The folly of deſiſting too ſoon from ſucceſsful labours, and the haſte of enjoying advantages before they are ſecu⯑red, is often fatal to men of impetuous deſire, and ardent imagination, to men whoſe con⯑ſciouſneſs of uncommon powers fills them with preſumption, and who, having born op⯑poſition down before them, and left emula⯑tion [246] panting behind, are early perſuaded to imagine that they have reached the heights of perfection, and that now being no longer in danger from competitors, they may paſs the reſt of their days in the enjoyment of their acquiſitions, in contemplation of their own ſu⯑periority, and in attention to their own praiſes, and look unconcerned from their eminence upon the toils and contentions of meaner be⯑ings.

IT is not ſufficiently conſidered in the hour of exultation, that all human excellence is comparative; that no man performs much but in proportion to what others accompliſh, or to the time and opportunities which have been allowed him; and that he who ſtops at any point of excellence is every day ſinking in eſtimation, becauſe his improvement grows continually more incommenſurate to his life. Yet, as no man willingly quits opinions favour⯑able to himſelf, they who have once been juſtly celebrated, imagine that they ſtill have the ſame pretenſions to regard, and ſeldom perceive the diminution of their character while there is time to recover it. Nothing then remains but murmurs and remorſe; for [247] if the ſpendthrift's poverty be imbittered by the reflection that he once was rich, how muſt the idler's obſcurity be clouded by re⯑membering that he once had luſtre!

THESE errors all ariſe from an original miſtake of the true motives of action. He that never extends his view beyond the praiſes or rewards of men, will be dejected by neg⯑lect and envy, or infatuated by honours and applauſe. But the conſideration that life is only depoſited in his hands to be employed in obedience to a Maſter who will regard his endeavours not his ſucceſs, would have pre⯑ſerved him from trivial elations and diſcourage⯑ments, and enabled him to proceed with con⯑ſtancy and chearfulneſs, neither enervated by commendation, nor intimidated by cenſure.

NUMB. 128. SATURDAY, June 8, 1751.

THE writers who have undertaken the taſk of reconciling mankind to their preſent ſtate, and of relieving the diſcontent produced by the various diſtribution of ter⯑reſtrial advantages, very frequently remind us that we judge too haſtily of good and evil, that we view only the ſuperficies of life, and determine of the whole by a very ſmall part; and that in the condition of men it frequently happens, that grief and fear, anxiety and de⯑ſire, lie hid under the golden robes of proſpe⯑rity, and the gloom of calamity is cheared by ſecret radiations of hope and comfort; as in the works of nature the bog is ſometimes [249] covered with flowers, and the mine conceal⯑ed in the barren crags.

NONE but thoſe who have learned the art of ſubjecting their ſenſes as well as their reaſon to hypothetical ſyſtems will be per⯑ſuaded by the moſt ſpecious rhetorician that the lots of life are equal; yet it cannot be de⯑nied that every one has his peculiar pleaſures and vexations, that external accidents operate variouſly upon different minds, and that no man can exactly judge from his own ſenſa⯑tions what another would feel in the ſame circumſtances.

IF the general diſpoſition of things be eſti⯑mated by the repreſentation which every one makes of his own ſtate, the world muſt be con⯑ſidered as the abode of ſorrow and miſery; for how few can forbear to relate their troubles and diſtreſſes? If we judge by the ac⯑count which may be obtained of every man's fortune from others, it may be concluded, that we are all placed in an elyſian region, over-ſpread with the luxuriance of plenty, and fan⯑ned by the breezes of felicity; ſince ſcarcely any complaint is uttered without cenſure [250] from thoſe that hear it, and almoſt all are allowed to have obtained a proviſion at leaſt adequate to their virtue or their underſtand⯑ing, to poſſeſs either more than they deſerve, or more than they enjoy.

WE are either born with ſuch diſſimilitude of temper and inclinations, or receive ſo many of our ideas and opinions from the ſtate of life in which we are engaged, and the particular objects by which we are ſurrounded, that the griefs and cares of one part of mankind ſeem to the other hypocriſy, folly, and affectation. Every claſs of ſociety has its cant of lamenta⯑tion, which is underſtood or regarded by none but themſelves; and every part of life has its uneaſineſſes, which thoſe who do not feel them will not commiſerate. An event which ſpreads terror and diſtraction over half the commercial world, that aſſembles the trading companies in councils and committees, and ſinks the hearts and ſhakes the nerves of a thouſand ſtockjobbers, is read by the landlord and the farmer with frigid indifference. An affair of love which fills the young breaſt with inceſſant alternations of hope and fear, and ſteals away the night and day from every other [251] pleaſure or employment, is regarded by them whoſe paſſions time has extinguiſhed, as a tri⯑vial amuſement, which can properly raiſe nei⯑ther joy, nor ſorrow, and which, though it may be ſuffered to fill the vacuity of an idle moment, ſhould always give way to prudence or intereſt.

HE that never had any other deſire than to fill a cheſt with money, or to add another manour to his eſtate, who never grieved but at a bad mortgage, or entered a company but to make a bargain, would be aſtoniſhed to hear of beings known among the polite and gay by the denomination of wits. How would he gape with curioſity, or grin with contempt, at the mention of beings who have no wiſh but to ſpeak what was never ſpoke before; who if they happen to inherit wealth, often exhauſt their patrimonies in treating thoſe who will hear them talk; and if they are poor, neglect a thouſand opportunities of im⯑proving their fortunes for the pleaſure of ma⯑king others laugh? How ſlowly would he be⯑lieve that there are men who would rather loſe a legacy than the reputation of a diſtich; who think it leſs diſgrace to want money than [252] repartee; whom the vexation of having been foiled in a conteſt of raillery is ſometimes ſuf⯑ficient to deprive of ſleep; and who would eſteem it a lighter evil to miſs a profitable bargain by ſome accidental delay, than not to have thought of a ſmart reply till the time of producing it was paſt? How little would he ſuſpect that this child of idleneſs and frolick enters every aſſembly with a beating boſom, like a litigant on the day of deciſion, and revolves the probability of applauſe with all the anxiety of a conſpirator whoſe fate de⯑pends upon the next night; that at the hour of retirement he often carries home, amidſt all his airy negligence, a heart lacerated with envy, or depreſſed with diſappointment; and immures himſelf in his cloſet, that he may diſencumber his memory at leiſure, review the progreſs of the day, ſtate with accuracy his loſs or gain of reputation, and examine the cauſes of his failure or ſucceſs?

AND yet more remote from common con⯑ceptions are the numerous and reſtleſs anxie⯑ties, by which female happineſs is particularly diſturbed. A ſolitary philoſopher would ima⯑gine ladies born with an exemption from care [253] and ſorrow, lulled in perpetual ſecurity, and feaſted with unmingled pleaſure; for what can interrupt the content of thoſe, upon whom one age has laboured after another to confer honours, and accumulate immunities; thoſe to whom rudeneſs is infamy, and inſult is cowardice; whoſe eye commands the brave, and whoſe ſmile ſoftens the ſevere; whom the ſailor travels to adorn, the ſoldier bleeds to defend, and the poet wears out life to cele⯑brate; who claim tribute from every art and ſcience, and for whom all who approach them endeavour to multiply delights, without re⯑quiring from them any return but willingneſs to be pleaſed?

SURELY, among theſe favourites of nature, thus unacquainted with toil and danger, feli⯑city muſt have fixed her reſidence; they muſt know only the changes of more vivid or more gentle joys; their life muſt always move either to the ſlow or ſprightly melody of the lyre of gladneſs; they can never aſſemble but to plea⯑ſure, or retire but to peace.

SUCH would be the thoughts of every man who ſhould hover at a diſtance round the [254] world, and know it only by conjecture and ſpeculation. But experience will ſoon diſco⯑ver how eaſily thoſe are diſguſted who have been made nice by plenty, and tender by in⯑dulgence. He will ſoon ſee to how many dangers power is expoſed which has no other guard than youth and beauty, and how eaſily that tranquillity is moleſted which can only be ſoothed with the ſongs of flattery. It is im⯑poſſible to ſupply wants as faſt as an idle ima⯑gination may be able to form them, or to re⯑move all inconveniencies by which elegance refined into impatience may be offended. None are ſo hard to pleaſe as thoſe whom ſatiety of pleaſure makes weary of themſelves; nor any ſo readily provoked as thoſe who have been always courted with an emulation of civi⯑lity.

THERE are indeed ſome ſtrokes which the envy of fate aims immediately at the fair. The miſtreſs of Catullus wept for her ſparrow many centuries ago, and lapdogs will be ſometimes ſick in the preſent age. The moſt faſhionable brocade is ſubject to ſtains; a pinner, the pride of Bruſſels, may be torn by a careleſs waſher; a picture may drop from a watch; or the tri⯑umph [255] of a new ſuit may be interrupted on the firſt day of its enjoyment, and all diſtinctions of dreſs unexpectedly obliterated by a general mourning.

SUCH is the ſtate of every age, every ſex, and every condition; all have their cares, either from nature or from folly: and whoever therefore finds himſelf inclined to envy an⯑other, ſhould remember that he knows not the real condition which he deſires to obtain, but is certain that by indulging a vicious paſſion, he muſt leſſen that happineſs which he thinks already too ſparingly beſtowed.

NUMB. 129. TUESDAY, June 11, 1751.

THE greater part of moraliſts, like other writers, inſtead of caſting their eyes abroad into the living world, and endea⯑vouring to form from their own obſervations new maxims of practice and new hints of theo⯑ry, content their curioſity with that ſecondary knowledge which the peruſal of books affords, and think themſelves entitled to reverence and to fame by a new arrangement of an ancient ſyſtem, or new illuſtration of eſtabliſhed prin⯑ciples. The ſage precepts of the firſt inſtruc⯑tors of the world are tranſmitted from age to age with little variation, and echoed from one [257] author to another, not perhaps without ſome loſs of their original force at every repercuſ⯑ſion.

I KNOW not whether any other reaſon than this idleneſs of imitation can be aſſigned for that uniform and conſtant partiality, by which ſome vices have hitherto eſcaped cen⯑ſure, and ſome virtues wanted recommenda⯑tion; nor can I diſcover why elſe we have been warned only againſt part of our enemies, while the reſt have been ſuffered to ſteal up⯑on us without notice; or why on one ſide the heart has been doubly fortified, while it has lain open on the other to the incurſions of error, and the ravages of vice.

AMONG the favourite topicks of moral de⯑clamation, may be numbered the dangers and miſcarriages of imprudent boldneſs, the folly of attempts beyond our power, and the neceſſity of modeſt diffidence and cautious deliberation. Every page of every philoſopher is crouded with examples of temerity that ſunk under burthens which ſhe laid upon herſelf, and called out enemies to battle by whom ſhe was deſtroyed.

[258] THEIR remarks are certainly too juſt to be diſputed, and too ſalutary to be rejected; but there is likewiſe ſome danger leſt timorous prudence ſhould be too ſtrongly inculcated, leſt courage and enterprize ſhould be wholly repreſſed, and the mind congealed in perpe⯑tual inactivity by the fatal influence of fri⯑gorifick wiſdom.

EVERY man ſhould, indeed, carefully com⯑pare his force with his undertaking; for though we ought not to live only for our own ſakes, or act with regard folely to our own advantage, and though therefore danger or difficulty ſhould not be avoided merely becauſe we may expoſe ourſelves to miſery or diſgrace; yet it may be juſtly required of us, not to ha⯑zard our lives, or throw away our labour, upon inadequate and hopeleſs deſigns, ſince we might by a more juſt eſtimate of our abilities have become more uſeful to mankind.

THERR is, doubtleſs, an irrational con⯑tempt of danger which approaches very near⯑ly to the folly, if not the guilt, of ſuicide: there is a ridiculous perſeverance in imprac⯑ticable [259] ſchemes, which is juſtly puniſhed with ignominy and reproach. But in the wide regions of probability which are the proper province of prudence and election, there is always room to deviate on either ſide of rectitude without ruſhing againſt apparent abſurdity; and ac⯑cording to the inclinations of nature, or the impreſſions of precept, the daring and the cau⯑tious may move in different directions without touching upon raſhneſs or cowardice.

THAT there is a middle path which it is every man's duty to find, and to obſerve, is unanimouſly confeſſed; but it is likewiſe uni⯑verſally acknowledged that this middle path is ſo narrow, that it cannot eaſily be diſcover⯑ed, and ſo little beaten that there are no cer⯑tain marks by which it can be followed; the care therefore of all thoſe who have undertaken conduct others has been, that whenever they decline into obliquities, they ſhould be cer⯑tain to tend towards the ſide of ſafety.

IT can, indeed, raiſe no wonder that te⯑merity has been generally cenſured; for it is one of the vices with which few can be charg⯑ed, and which therefore great numbers are [260] ready to condemn. It is the vice of noble and generous minds, the exuberance of mag⯑nanimity, and the ebullition of genius; and is therefore not regarded with much tender⯑neſs, becauſe it never flatters us by that ap⯑pearance of ſoftneſs and imbeciility which is commonly neceſſary to conciliate compaſſion. But if the ſame attention had been applied to the ſearch of arguments againſt cold deſpond⯑ency, againſt the mean and cowardly dere⯑liction of ourſelves, and the folly of preſup⯑poſing impoſſibilities, and anticipating fru⯑ſtration, I know not whether many would not have been rouſed to uſefulneſs, who, having been taught to confound prudence with timi⯑dity, never ventured to excel left they ſhould unfortunately fail.

IT is always neceſſary to diſtinguiſh our own intereſt from that of others, and that di⯑ſtinction will perhaps aſſiſt us in fixing the juſt limits of caution and adventurouſneſs. In an undertaking that involves the happineſs, or the ſafety of many, we have certainly no right to hazard more than is allowed by thoſe who partake the dangers; but where only our⯑ſelves can ſuffer by miſcarriage, we are not [261] confined within ſuch narrow limits; and ſtill leſs is the reproach of temerity, when num⯑bers will receive advantage by ſucceſs, and only one be incommoded by failure.

MEN are generally willing to hear precepts by which eaſe is favoured; and as no reſent⯑ment is raiſed by general repreſentations of human folly, even in thoſe who are moſt emi⯑nently jealous of comparative reputation, we confeſs, without reluctance, that vain man is ignorant of his own weakneſs, and there⯑fore frequently preſumes to attempt what he can never accompliſh; but it ought like⯑wiſe to be remembered, that he is no leſs ig⯑norant of his own powers, and might per⯑haps have accompliſhed a thouſand deſigns, which the prejudices of cowardice reſtrained him from attempting.

IT is obſerved in the golden verſes of Py⯑thagoras, that Power is never far from neceſ⯑ſity. The vigour of the human mind quickly appears, when there is no longer any place for doubt and heſitation, when diffidence is abſorbed in the ſenſe of danger or over-whelmed by ſome reſiſtleſs paſſion. We then [262] ſoon diſcover, that difficulty is, for the moſt part, the daughter of idleneſs, that the ob⯑ſtacles with which our way ſeemed to be ob⯑ſtructed were only phantoms, which we be⯑lieved real becauſe we durſt not advance to a cloſe examination; and we learn that it is im⯑poſſible to determine without experience how much conſtancy may endure, or diligence per⯑form.

BUT whatever pleaſure may be found in the review of diſtreſſes when art or courage has ſurmounted them, few will be perſuaded to wiſh that they may be awakened by want or terror to the conviction of their own abili⯑ties. Every one ſhould therefore endeavour to invigorate himſelf by reaſon and reflection, and determine to exert, in any laudable un⯑dertaking, the latent force that nature may have repoſited in him againſt the hour of exi⯑gence, before external compulſion ſhall tor⯑ture him to diligence. It is below the dignity of a reaſonable being to owe that ſtrength to neceſſity which ought always to act at the call of choice, or to need any other mo⯑tive to induſtry and perſeverance than the de⯑ſire of performing the duties of his condition.

[263] REFLECTIONS that may at leaſt drive away deſpair, cannot eaſily be wanting to him who has taken a ſurvey of the world, and con⯑ſiders how much life is now advanced beyond the ſtate of naked, undiſciplined, uninſtructed nature. Whatever has been effected for con⯑venience or elegance, while it was yet un⯑known, was believed impoſſible; and there⯑fore would never have been attempted, had not ſome, more daring than the reſt, adven⯑tured to bid defiance to prejudice and cen⯑ſure. Nor is there yet any reaſon to doubt that the ſame labour would be rewarded with the ſame ſucceſs. There are certainly in⯑numerable qualities in the products of nature yet undiſcovered, and innumerable combina⯑tions in the powers of art yet untried. It is the duty of every man to endeavour that ſomething may be added by his induſtry to the hereditary aggregate of knowledge and happi⯑neſs. To add much can indeed be the lot of few, but to add ſomething, however little, every one may hope; and of every honeſt en⯑deavour it is certain, that, however unſucceſs⯑ful, it will be at laſt rewarded.

NUMB. 130. SATURDAY, June 15, 1751.

NUMB. 131. TUESDAY, June 18, 1751.

THERE is ſcarcely any ſentiment in which, amidſt the innumerable varie⯑ties of inclination that nature or accident have ſcattered in the world, we find greater numbers concurring than in the wiſh for riches; a wiſh indeed ſo prevalent that it may be con⯑ſidered as univerſal and tranſcendental, as the deſire in which all other deſires are included, and of which the various purpoſes which actu⯑ate mankind are only ſubordinate ſpecies and different modifications.

WEALTH is indeed the general center of inclination, the point to which all minds pre⯑ſerve an invariable tendency, and from which they afterwards diverge in numberleſs dire⯑ctions. [275] Whatever is the remote or ultimate deſign, the immediate care is to be rich; and in whatever enjoyment we intend finally to acquieſce, we ſeldom conſider it as attainable but by the means of money. Of wealth there⯑fore all unanimouſly confeſs the value, nor is there any diſagreement but about the uſe.

NO deſire can be formed which riches do not aſſiſt us to gratify. He that places his happineſs in ſplendid equipage or numerous dependents, in refined praiſe or popular ac⯑clamations, in the accumulation of curioſities or the revels of luxury, in ſplendid edifices or wide plantations, muſt ſtill either by birth or acquiſition poſſeſs riches. They may be con⯑ſidered as the elemental principles of pleaſure, which may be combined with endleſs diverſity; as the eſſential and neceſſary ſubſtance, of which only the form is left to be adjuſted by choice.

THE neceſſity of riches being thus appa⯑rent, it is not wonderful that almoſt every mind has been employed in endeavours to ac⯑quire them; that multitudes have vied with each other in arts by which life is furniſhed [276] with accommodations, and which therefore mankind may reaſonably be expected to re⯑ward.

IT had indeed been happy, if this predomi⯑nant appetite had operated only in concurrence with virtue, by influencing none but thoſe who were zealous to deſerve what they were eager to poſſeſs, and had abilities to improve their own fortunes by contributing to the eaſe or happineſs of others. To have riches and to have merit would then have been the ſame, and ſucceſs might reaſonably have been conſidered as a proof of excellence.

BUT we do not find that any of the wiſhes of men keep a ſtated proportion to their pow⯑ers of attainment. Many envy and deſire wealth, who can never procure it by honeſt induſtry or uſeful knowledge. They there⯑fore turn their eyes about to examine what other methods can be ſound of gaining that which none, however impotent or worth⯑leſs, will be content to want.

A LITTLE enquiry will diſcover that there are nearer ways to profit than through the in⯑tricacies [277] of art, or up the ſteeps of labour; that what wiſdom and virtue ſcarcely receive at the cloſe of life, as the recompence of long toil and repeated efforts, is brought within the reach of ſubtilty and diſhoneſty by more ex⯑peditious and compendious meaſures: that the wealth of credulity is an open prey to falſ⯑hood; and that the poſſeſſions of ignorance and imbecillity are eaſily ſtolen away by the con⯑veyances of ſecret artifice, or ſeized by the gripe of unreſiſted violence.

IT is likewiſe not hard to diſcover, that riches always procure protection for them⯑ſelves, that they dazzle the eyes of enquiry, divert the celerity of purſuit, or appeaſe the ferocity of vengeance. When any man is in⯑conteſtably known to have large poſſeſſions, very few think it requiſite to enquire by what practices they were obtained; the reſentment of mankind rages only againſt the ſtruggles of feeble and timorous corruption, but when it has ſurmounted the firſt oppoſition, it is after⯑wards ſupported by favour, and animated by applauſe.

THE proſpect of gaining ſpeedily what is [278] ardently deſired, and the certainty of obtaining by every acceſſion of advantage an addition of ſecurity, have ſo far prevailed upon the paſſions of mankind, that the peace of life is deſtroyed by a general and inceſſant ſtruggle for riches. It is obſerved of gold, by an old epigramma⯑tiſt, that to have it is to be in fear, and to want it is to be in ſorrow. There is no condition which is not diſquieted either with the care of gaining or of keeping money; and the race of man may be divided in a political eſtimate be⯑tween thoſe who are practiſing fraud, and thoſe who are repelling it.

IF we conſider the preſent ſtate of the world, it will be found, that all confidence is loſt among mankind, that no man ventures to act where money can be endangered, upon the faith of another. It is impoſſible to ſee the long ſcrolls in which every contract is in⯑cluded, with all their appendages of ſeals and atteſtation, without wondering at the depra⯑vity of thoſe beings, who muſt be reſtrained from violation of promiſe by ſuch formal and publick evidences, and precluded from equi⯑vocation and ſubterfuge by ſuch punctilious minuteneſs. Among all the ſatires to which [279] folly and wickedneſs have given occaſion, none is equally ſevere with a bond or a ſettle⯑ment.

OF the various arts by which riches may be obtained, the greater part are at the firſt view irrreconcileable with the laws of virtue; ſome are openly flagitious, and practiſed not only in neglect, but in defiance of faith and juſtice; and the reſt are on every ſide ſo en⯑tangled with dubious tendencies, and ſo beſet with perpetual temptations, that very few, even of thoſe who are not yet abandoned, are able to preſerve their innocence, or can pro⯑duce any other claim to pardon than that they have deviated from the right leſs than others, and have ſooner and more diligently endea⯑voured to return.

ONE of the chief characteriſticks of the golden age, of the age in which neither care nor danger had intruded on mankind, is the community of poſſeſſions: ſtrife and fraud were totally excluded, and every turbulent paſſion was ſtilled, by plenty and equality. Such were indeed happy times, but ſuch times can return no more. Community of poſſeſ⯑ſion [280] muſt always include ſpontaneity of pro⯑duction; for what is only to be obtained by labour, muſt be of right the property of him by whoſe labour it is gained. And while a rightful claim to pleaſure or to affluence muſt be procured either by ſlow induſtry or uncer⯑tain hazard, there will always be multitudes whom cowardice or impatience will incite to more ſafe and more ſpeedy methods, who will ſtrive to pluck the fruit without cultivating the tree, and to ſhare the advantages of victory without partaking the danger of the battle.

IN later ages, the conviction of the danger to which virtue is expoſed while the mind continues open to the influence of riches, has determined many to vows of perpetual pover⯑ty; they have ſuppreſſed deſire by cutting off the poſſibility of gratification, and ſecured their peace by deſtroying the enemy whom they had no hope of reducing to quiet ſub⯑jection. But by debarring themſelves from evil, they have reſcinded many opportunities of good; they have too often ſunk into in⯑activity and uſeleſſneſs; and though they have forborn to injure ſociety, have not fully paid their contributions to its happineſs.

[281] WHILE riches are ſo neceſſary to preſent convenience, and ſo much more eaſily ob⯑tained by crimes than virtues, the mind can only be ſecured from yielding to the con⯑tinual impulſe of covetouſneſs by the pre⯑ponderation of unchangeable and eternal motives. Gold will generally turn the in⯑tellectual balance, when weighed only againſt reputation; but will be light and ineffectual when the opopoſite ſcale is charged with juſ⯑tice, veracity, and piety.

NUMB. 132. SATURDAY, June 22, 1751.

NUMB. 133. TUESDAY, June 25, 1751.

NUMB. 134. SATURDAY, June 29, 1751.

I Sat yeſterday morning employed in deli⯑berating on which, among the various ſubjects that occurred to my imagination, I ſhould beſtow the paper of to-day. After a ſhort effort of meditation which by nothing was determined, I grew every moment more irreſolute, my ideas wandered from the firſt intention, and I rather wiſhed to think, than thought, upon any ſettled ſubject; till at laſt I was awakened from this dream of ſtudy by a ſummons from the preſs: the time was come for which I had been thus negligently purpoſing to provide, and, however dubious or ſluggiſh, I was now neceſſitated to write.

THOUGH to a writer whoſe deſign is ſo [301] comprehenſive and miſcellaneous, that he may accommodate himſelf with a topick from every ſcene of life, or view of nature, it is no great aggravation of his taſk to be obliged to a ſudden compoſition, yet I could not forbear to reproach myſelf for having ſo long neglect⯑ed what was unavoidably to be done, and of which every moment's idleneſs increaſed the difficulty. There was however ſome pleaſure in reflecting that I, who had only trifled till diligence was neceſſary, might ſtill congra⯑tulate myſelf upon my ſuperiority to multi⯑tudes, who have trifled till diligence is vain; who can by no degree of activity or reſolu⯑tion recover the opportunities which have ſlipped away; and who are condemned by their own careleſneſs to hopeleſs calamity and barren ſorrow.

THE folly of allowing ourſelves to delay what we know cannot be finally eſcaped, is one of the general weakneſſes, which in ſpite of the inſtruction of moraliſts, and the remon⯑ſtrances of reaſon, prevail to a greater or leſs degree in almoſt every mind: even they who moſt ſteadily withſtand it, find it, if not the moſt violent, the moſt pertinacious of their [302] paſſions, always renewing its attacks, and though often vanquiſhed, never deſtroyed.

IT is indeed natural to have particular re⯑gard to the time preſent, and to be moſt ſoli⯑citous for that which is by its nearneſs enabled to make the ſtrongeſt impreſſions. When therefore any ſharp pain is to be ſuffered, or any formidable danger to be incurred, we can ſcarcely exempt ourſelves wholly from the ſeducements of imagination; we readily be⯑lieve that another day will bring ſome ſupport or advantage which we now want; and are eaſily perſuaded, that the moment of neceſſity which we deſire never to arrive, is at a great diſtance from us.

THUS life is languiſhed away in the gloom of anxiety, and conſumed in collecting reſo⯑lution which the next morning diſſipates; in forming purpoſes which we ſcarcely hope to keep; and reconciling ourſelves to our own cowardice by excuſes, which, while we ad⯑mit them, we know to be abſurd. Our firm⯑neſs is by the continual contemplation of mi⯑ſery hourly impaired; every ſubmiſſion to our fear enlarges its dominion; we not only waſte [303] that time in which the evil we dread might have been ſuffered and ſurmounted, but even where procraſtination produces no abſolute encreaſe of our difficulties, make them leſs ſuperable to ourſelves by habitual terrors. When evils cannot be avoided, it is wiſe to contract the interval of expectation; to meet the miſchiefs which will overtake us if we fly; and ſuffer only their real malignity without the conflicts of doubt and anguiſh of anticipa⯑tion.

TO act is far eaſier than to ſuffer, yet we every day ſee the progreſs of life retarded by the vis inertiae, the mere repugnance to mo⯑tion, and find multitudes repining at the want of that which nothing but idleneſs hinders them from enjoying. The caſe of Tantalus, in the region of poetick puniſhment, was ſomewhat to be pitied, becauſe the fruits that hung about him retired from his hand; but what tenderneſs can be claimed by thoſe who though perhaps they ſuffer the pains of Tanta⯑lus will never lift their hands for their own re⯑lief?

THERE is nothing more common among [304] this torpid generation than murmurs and com⯑plaints; murmurs at uneaſineſs which only vacancy and ſuſpicion expoſe them to feel, and complaints of diſtreſſes which it is in their own power to remove. Lazineſs is commonly aſſociated with timidity. Either fear originally prohibits endeavours by infuſing deſpair of ſucceſs; or the frequent failure of irreſolute ſtruggles, and the conſtant deſire of avoiding labour, impreſs by degrees falſe ter⯑rors on the mind. But fear, whether natu⯑ral or acquired, when once it has full poſſeſ⯑ſion of the fancy never fails to employ it up⯑on viſions of calamity, ſuch as if they are not ſoon diſſipated by uſeful employment, will ſoon overcaſt it with horrors, and imbitter life not only with thoſe miſeries by which all earthly beings are really more or leſs tormented, but with thoſe which do not yet exiſt, and which can only be diſcerned by the perſpicacity of cowardice.

AMONG all who ſacrifice future advant⯑age to preſent inclination, ſcarcely any gain ſo little as thoſe that ſuffer themſelves to freeze in idleneſs. Others are corrupted by ſome enjoyment of more or leſs power to [305] gratify the paſſions; but to neglect our duties, merely to avoid the labour of performing them, a labour which is always punctually re⯑warded, is ſurely to ſink under weak temp⯑tations. Idleneſs never can ſecure tran⯑quillity; the call of reaſon and of conſcience will pierce the cloſeſt pavilion of the ſluggard, and, though it may not have force to drive him from his down, will be loud enough to hinder him from ſleep. Thoſe moments which he cannot reſolve to make uſeful by devoting them to the great buſineſs of his be⯑ing, will ſtill be uſurped by powers that will not leave them to his diſpoſal; remorſe and vexation will ſeize upon them, and forbid him to enjoy what he is ſo deſirous to appro⯑priate.

THERE are other cauſes of inactivity in⯑cident to more active faculties and more acute diſcernment. He to whom many objects of perſuit ariſe at the ſame time, will frequently heſitate between different deſires, till a rival has precluded him, or change his courſe as new attractions prevail, and haraſs himſelf without advancing. He who ſees different ways to the ſame end, will, unleſs he [306] watches carefully over his own conduct, lay out too much of his attention upon the com⯑pariſon of probabilities, and the adjuſtment of expedients, and pauſe in the choice of his road, till ſome accident intercepts his journey. He whoſe penetration extends to remote conſe⯑quences, and who, whenever he applies his attention to any deſign, diſcovers new pro⯑ſpects of advantage, and new poſſibilities of improvement, will not eaſily be perſuaded that his project is ripe for execution; but will ſu⯑peradd one contrivance to another, endeavour to unite various purpoſes in one operation, multiply complications, and refine niceties, till he is entangled in his own ſcheme, and bewildered in the perplexity of various inten⯑tions. He will reſolve to unite all the beau⯑ties of ſituation in a new purchaſe, and waſte his life in roving to no purpoſe from province to province. He will hope in the ſame houſe to obtain every convenience, and draw plans and ſtudy Palladio, but never lay a ſtone. He will attempt a treatiſe on ſome important ſubject, and amaſs materials, conſult au⯑thors, and ſtudy all the dependent and colla⯑teral parts of learning, but never con⯑clude himſelf qualified to write. He that has [307] abilities to conceive perfection, will not eaſily be content without it; and ſince perfection cannot be reached, will loſe the opportunity of doing well in the vain hope of unattain⯑able excellence.

THE certainty that life cannot be long, and the probability that it will be much ſhorter than nature allows, ought to awaken every man to the active proſecution of whatever he is deſirous to perform. It is true that no dili⯑gence can aſcertain ſucceſs; death may inter⯑cept the ſwifteſt career; but he who is cut off in the execution of an honeſt undertaking, has at leaſt the honour of falling in his rank, and has fought the battle, though he miſſed the victory.

NUMB. 135. TUESDAY, July 2, 1751.

IT is impoſſible to take a view on any ſide, or obſerve any of the various claſſes that form the great community of the world, without diſcovering ſome proof of the in⯑fluence of example; and admitting with new conviction and in a ſenſe more extenſive the obſervation of Arſtotle, that man is an imitative being. The greater, far the greater, number follow the track which others have beaten, without any curioſity after new diſ⯑coveries, or ambition of truſting themſelves to their own conduct. And, of thoſe whom the confidence of juvenile temerity incites to break the ranks and diſorder the uniformity of the march, moſt return in a ſhort time from their deviation, and prefer the equal and ſteady ſatisfaction of ſecurity before the frolicks of caprice and the honours of adventure.

[309] IN queſtions difficult or dangerous it is in⯑deed natural to repoſe upon authority, and, when fear happens to predominate, upon the authority of thoſe whom we do not in general think wiſer than ourſelves. Very few have abilities requiſite for the diſcovery of abſtruſe truth; and of thoſe few ſome want leiſure and ſome reſolution, ſome are drawn off from the ſearch by buſineſs or amuſements, and ſome retire at the appearance of difficulty. But it is not ſo eaſy to find the reaſon of the univerſal ſubmiſſion to precedent where every man might ſafely judge for himſelf; where no irre⯑reparable loſs can be hazarded, nor any miſ⯑chief of long continuance incurred. Vanity might be expected to operate on thoſe who are not reſtrained by any more powerful paſ⯑ſion; the mere pleaſure of acknowledging no ſuperior might ſometimes produce ſlight ſin⯑gularities, or the hope of gaining ſome new degree of happineſs awaken the mind to in⯑vention or experiment.

IF in any caſe the ſhackles of preſcription could be wholly ſhaken off, and the imagina⯑tion left to act without controul, on what oc⯑caſion [310] ſhould it be expected, but in the ſelec⯑tion of lawful pleaſure? Pleaſure, of which the eſſence is choice; which compulſion diſſo⯑ciates from every thing to which nature has united it; and which owes not only its vigour but its being to the ſmiles of liberty. Yet we ſee that the ſenſes, as well as the reaſon, are regulated by credulity; and that moſt will feel, or ſay that they feel, the gratifications which others have taught them to expect.

AT this time of univerſal migration, when almoſt every one, confiderable enough to at⯑tract regard, has retired, or is preparing with all the earneſtneſs of diſtreſs to retire, into the country; when nothing is to be heard but the hopes of ſpeedy departure, or the complaints of involuntary delay; I have often been tempt⯑ed to enquire what happineſs to be gained, or what inconvenience to be avoided, by this ſtated receſſion. Of the birds of paſſage, ſome follow the ſummer, and ſome the win⯑ter, becauſe they live upon ſuſtenance which only ſummer or winter can ſupply; but of the annual flight of human rovers it is much har⯑der to aſſign the reaſon, becauſe they do not appear either to find or ſeek any thing which [311] is not equally afforded by the town and coun⯑try.

I BELIEVE, that many of theſe fugitives may have heard of men whoſe continual wiſh was for the quiet of retirement, who watched every opportunity to ſteal away from obſervation, to forſake the croud, and delight themſelves with the ſociety of ſolitude. There is indeed ſcarcely any writer who has not celebrated the happineſs of rural privacy, and delighted himſelf and his reader with the melody of birds, the whiſper of groves, and the murmur of rivulets; nor any man emi⯑nent for extent of capacity, or greatneſs of exploits that has not left behind him ſome me⯑morials of lonely wiſdom, and ſilent dignity.

BUT almoſt all abſurdity of conduct ariſes from the imitation of thoſe whom we cannot reſemble. Thoſe who thus teſtified their wearineſs of tumult and hurry, and haſted with ſo much eagerneſs to the leiſure of re⯑treat, were either men overwhelmed with the preſſure of difficult employments, haraſſed with importunities, and diſtracted with mul⯑tiplicity; or men wholly engroſſed by ſpecu⯑lative [312] ſciences, who having no other end of life but to learn and teach, found their ſearches interrupted by the common commerce of ci⯑vility, and their reaſonings disjointed by fre⯑quent interruptions. Such men might rea⯑ſonably fly to that eaſe and convenience which their condition allowed them to find only in the country. The ſtateſman who devoted the greater part of his time to the publick, was deſirous of keeping the remain⯑der in his own power; the general ruffled with dangers, wearied with labours, and ſtunned with acclamations, gladly ſnatched an interval of ſilence and relaxation; the naturaliſt was unhappy where the works of providence were not always before him; the reaſoner could adjuſt his ſyſtems only where his mind was free from the intruſion of outward objects.

SUCH examples of ſolitude very few of thoſe who are now haſtening from the town, have any pretenſions to plead in their own juſtification, ſince they cannot pretend either weariueſs of labour, or deſire of knowledge. They purpoſe nothing more than to quit one ſcene of idleneſs for another, and after having trifled in publick to ſleep in ſecrecy. The [313] utmoſt that they can hope to gain is the change of ridiculouſneſs to obſcurity, and the privilege of having fewer witneſſes to a life of folly. He who is not ſufficiently important to be diſturbed in his purſuits, but ſpends all his hours according to his own inclination, and has more hours than his mental faculties ena⯑ble him to fill either with enjoyment or de⯑ſires, can have nothing to demand of ſhades and valleys. As bravery is ſaid to be a pan⯑oply, inſignificancy is always a ſhelter.

THERE are however pleaſures and advan⯑tages in a rural ſituation, which are not con⯑fined to philoſophers and heroes. The freſh⯑neſs of the air, the verdure of the woods, the paint of the meadows, and the unexhauſted variety which ſummer ſcatters upon the earth, may eaſily give delight to an unlearned ſpec⯑tator. It is not neceſſary that he who looks with pleaſure on the colours of a flower ſhould ſtudy the principles of vegetation, or that the Ptolemaick and Copernican ſyſtem ſhould be compared before the light of the ſun can glad⯑den, or its warmth invigorate. Novelty is itſelf a ſource of gratification, and Milton juſtly obſerves, that to him who has been long [314] pent up in cities no rural object can be pre⯑ſented, which will not gladden ſome of his ſenſes with refreſhment.

YET even theſe eaſy pleaſures are miſſed by the greater part of thoſe who waſte their ſummer in the country. Should any man purſue his acquaintances to their retreats, he would find few of them liſtening to Philomel, loitering in woods, or plucking daiſies, catch⯑ing the healthy gale of the morning, or watch⯑ing the gentle coruſcations of declining day. Some will be diſcovered at a window by the road ſide, rejoicing when a new cloud of duſt gathers towards them, as at the approach of a momentary ſupply of converſation, and a ſhort relief from the tediouſneſs of unideal vacancy. Others are placed in the adjacent villages, where they look only upon houſes as in the reſt of the year, with no change of objects but what a remove to any new ſtreet in London might have given them. The ſame ſet of acquaintances ſtill ſettle together, and the form of life is not otherwiſe diverſified than by doing the ſame things in a different place. They pay and receive viſits in the uſual form, they frequent the walks in the [315] morning, they deal cards at night, they attend to the ſame tattle, and dance with the ſame partners; nor can they at their return to their former habitation congratulate them⯑ſelves on any other advantage, than that they have paſſed their time like others of the ſame rank; and have the ſame right to talk of the happineſs and beauty of the country, of hap⯑pineſs which they never felt, and beauty which they never regarded.

TO be able to procure its own entertain⯑ments, and to ſubſiſt upon its own ſtock, is not the prerogative of every mind. There are indeed underſtandings ſo fertile and compre⯑henſive, that they can always feed reflection with new ſupplies, and ſuffer nothing from the precluſion of adventitious amuſements; as ſome cities have within their own walls en⯑cloſed ground enough to feed their inhabitants in a ſiege. But others live only from day to day, and muſt be conſtantly enabled, by fo⯑reign ſupplies, to keep out the encroachments of languor and ſtupidity. Such could not in⯑deed be blamed for hovering within reach of their uſual pleaſures, more than any other animal for not quitting its native element, [316] were not their faculties contracted by their own fault. But let not thoſe who go into the country, merely becauſe they dare not be left alone at home, boaſt their love of na⯑ture, or their qualifications for ſolitude; nor pretend that they receive inſtantaneous in⯑fuſions of wiſdom from the Dryads, and are able, when they leave ſmoke and noiſe be⯑hind, to act, or think, or reaſon for them⯑ſelves.

NUMB. 136. SATURDAY, July 16, 1751.

THE regard which they whoſe abilities are employed in the works of imagi⯑nation claim from the reſt of mankind ariſes in a great meaſure from their influence on fu⯑turity. Rank may be conſerred by princes, and wealth bequeathed by miſers or by rob⯑bers; but the honours of a laſting name and a title to the veneration of diſtant ages only the ſons of learning have the power of beſtow⯑ing. [317] While therefore the love of fame is a motive of action, while it continues one of the characteriſticks of rational nature to de⯑cline oblivion, authors never can be wholly overlooked in the ſearch after happineſs, nor become contemptible but by their own fault.

THE man who conſiders himſelf as conſti⯑tuted the ultimate judge of diſputable cha⯑racters, as entruſted with the diſtribution of the laſt terreſtrial rewards of merit, ought ſurely to ſummon all his fortitude to the ſup⯑port of his integrity, and reſolve to diſcharge an office of ſuch dignity and importance with the moſt vigilant caution and ſcrupulous juſ⯑tice. To deliver examples to poſterity, and to regulate the opinion of future times, is no ſlight or trivial undertaking; nor is it eaſy to commit more atrocious treaſon againſt the great republick of humanity, than by falſify⯑ing its records and miſguiding its decrees.

TO ſcatter praiſe or blame without regard to juſtice, is to deſtroy the diſtinction of good and evil. Many have no other teſt of actions than general opinion; and all are ſo far influ⯑enced [318] by a ſenſe of reputation, that they are often reſtrained by fear of reproach, and ex⯑cited by hope of honour, when other princi⯑ples have loſt their power; nor can any ſpe⯑cies of proſtitution promote general depravity more than that which deſtroys the value of praiſe, by ſhewing that it may be acquired without deſerving it, and, which by ſetting free the active and ambitious who muſt always determine the fate of others, from the dread of infamy, lets looſe the rapacity of power, and weakens the only authority by which greatneſs is controlled.

PRAISE, like gold and diamonds, owes its value only to its ſcarcity. It muſt become cheap as it becomes vulgar, and will no lon⯑ger raiſe expectation, or animate enterprize. It is therefore not only neceſſary, that wick⯑edneſs, even when it is not ſafe to cenſure it, be denied applauſe, but that goodneſs be com⯑mended only in proportion to its degree; and that the garlands, due to the great benefactors of mankind, be not ſuffered to fade upon the brow of him who can boaſt only petty ſer⯑vices and eaſy virtues.

HAD theſe maxims been univerſally re⯑ceived [319] how much would have been added to the taſk of dedication, the work on which all the power of modern wit has been exhauſt⯑ed. How few of theſe initial panegyricks had appeared, if the author had been obliged firſt to find a man of virtue, then to know the di⯑ſtinct ſpecies and degree of his deſert, and at laſt to pay him only the honours which he might juſtly claim. It is much eaſier to learn the name of the laſt man whom chance has exalted to wealth and power, to obtain by the intervention of ſome of his domeſticks the privilege of addreſſing him, or to venture on an addreſs without any previous ſolicita⯑tion in confidence of the general acceptance of flattery; and after having heaped upon him all the virtues to which philoſophy has aſſign⯑ed a name, inform him how much more might be truly ſaid, did not the fear of giving pain to his modeſty repreſs the raptures of wonder and the zeal of veneration.

NOTHING has ſo much degraded litera⯑ture from its natural rank, as the practice of indecent and promiſcuous dedication; for what credit can he expect who profeſſes him⯑ſelf the hireling of vanity, however profligate, [320] and without ſhame or ſcruple celebrates the worthleſs, dignifies the mean, and gives to the corrupt licentious and oppreſſive the ornaments which ought only to add grace to truth and lovelineſs to innocence? Every other kind of fraud or adulteration, however ſhameful, however miſchievous, is certainly far leſs deteſtable than the crime of counter⯑feiting characters, and fixing the ſtamp of li⯑terary ſanction, upon the droſs and refuſe of the world.

I WOULD not, yet overwhelm the au⯑thors with the whole load of infamy, of which part, perhaps the greater part, ought to fall upon their patrons. If he that hires a bravo partakes the guilt of murder, why ſhould he who bribes a flatterer hope to be exempted from the ſhame of falſhood? The unhappy dedicator is ſeldom without ſome motives which obſtruct, though not deſtroy the liberty of choice; he is perhaps oppreſſed by miſeries which he hopes to relieve, or infla⯑med by ambition which he expects to gratify. But the patron has no incitements equally violent; he can receive only a ſhort gratifica⯑tion, with which nothing but ſtupidity could [321] diſpoſe him to be pleaſed. The real ſatisfac⯑tion which praiſe can afford is by repeating aloud the whiſpers of conſcience, and by ſhewing us that we have not endeavoured to deſerve well in vain. Every other enco⯑mium is, to an intelligent mind, ſatire and re⯑proach; the celebration of theſe virtues which we feel ourſelves to want, can only impreſs a quicker ſenſe of our own defects, and ſhew that we have not yet ſatisfied the expectations of the world, by forcing us to obſerve how much fiction muſt contribute to the comple⯑tion of our character.

YET perhaps the patron himſelf may have ſome claim to indulgence; for it does not al⯑ways happen, that the encomiaſt has been much encouraged to his attempt. Many a hapleſs author, when his book, and perhaps his dedication, was ready for the preſs, has waited long before any one would pay the price of proſtitution, or conſent to hear the praiſes deſtined to inſure his name againſt the caſualties of time; and many a complaint has been vented againſt the de⯑cline of learning, and neglect of genius, when either parſimonious prudence had de⯑clined [322] expence, or honeſt indignation reject⯑ed falſhood. But if at laſt, after long enquiry and innumerable diſappointments, he finds a lord willing to hear of his own eloquence and taſte, a ſtateſman deſirous of knowing how a friendly hiſtorian will repreſent his conduct, or a lady delighted to leave to the world ſome memorial of her wit and beauty, ſuch weak⯑neſs cannot be cenſured as an inſtance of en⯑ormous depravity. It can ſcarcely be expected but the wiſeſt man may by a diligent ſolicitor be ſurpriſed in the hour of weakneſs, and per⯑ſuaded to ſolace vexation, or invigorate hope with the muſick of flattery.

TO cenſure all dedications as adulatory and ſervile, would diſcover rather envy than juſ⯑tice. Praiſe is the tribute of merit, and he that has inconteſtably diſtinguiſhed himſelf by any publick performance, has a right to all the honours which the publick can beſtow. To men thus raiſed above the reſt of the com⯑munity, there is no need that the book or its author ſhould have any particular relation: that the patron is known to deſerve reſpect, is ſufficient to vindicate him that pays it. To the ſame regard from particular perſons pri⯑vate [323] virtue and leſs conſpicuous excellence may be ſometimes entitled. An author may with great propriety inſcribe his work to him by whoſe encouragement it was undertaken, or by whoſe liberality he has been enabled to proſecute it; and may juſtly rejoice in his own fortitude when he dares to reſcue merit from obſcurity.

I know not whether greater relaxation may not be indulged, and whether hope as well as gratitude may not unblameably produce a de⯑dication; but let the writer who pours out his praiſes only to propitiate power, or at⯑tract the attention of greatneſs, be cautious leſt his deſire betray him to exuberant eulo⯑gies. We are naturally more apt to pleaſe ourſelves with the future than the paſt, and while we luxuriate in expectation, may be eaſily perſuaded to purchaſe what we yet rate only by imagination, at a higher price than experience will warrant.

BUT no private views or perſonal regard can diſcharge any man from his general obli⯑gations [324] to virtue and to truth. It may hap⯑pen in the various combinations of life that a good man may receive favours from one who, notwithſtanding his accidental beneficence, cannot be juſtly propoſed to the imitation of others, and whom, therefore, he muſt find ſome other way of rewarding than by publick celebrations. Self-love has indeed many pow⯑ers of ſeducement, but it ſurely ought not to exalt us to equality with the collective body of mankind, or perſuade us that a benefit con⯑ferred on us is equivalent to every other vir⯑tue. Yet many upon falſe principles of gra⯑titude have ventured to extol wretches whom all but their dependents numbered among the reproaches of the ſpecies, and whom they would likewiſe have beheld with the ſame ſcorn had they not been hired to diſhoneſt approbation.

TO encourage merit with praiſe is the great buſineſs of literature; but praiſe muſt loſe its influence, by unjuſt or negligent diſtribution; and he that impairs its value may be charged with miſapplication of the power that genius puts into his hands, and with ſquandering on guilt the recompence of virtue.