The Rambler.: [pt.6]

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- NUMB. 173. TUESDAY, Nov. 12, 1751.

- NUMB. 174. SATURDAY, Nov. 15, 1751.

- NUMB. 175. TUESDAY, Nov. 19, 1751.

- NUMB. 176. SATURDAY, Nov. 23, 1751.

- NUMB. 177. TUESDAY, Nov. 26, 1751.

- NUMB. 178. SATURDAY, Nov. 30, 1751.

- NUMB. 179. TUESDAY, Dec. 3, 1751.

- NUMB. 180. SATURDAY, Dec. 7, 1751.

- NUMB. 181. TUESDAY, Dec. 10, 1751.

- NUMB. 182. SATURDAY, Dec. 14, 1751.

- NUMB. 183. TUESDAY, Dec. 17, 1751.

- NUMB. 184. SATURDAY, Dec. 21, 1751.

- NUMB. 185. TUESDAY, Dec. 24, 1751.

- NUMB. 186. SATURDAY, Dec. 28, 1751.

- NUMB. 187. TUESDAY, Dec. 31, 1751.

- NUMB. 188. SATURDAY, Jan. 4, 1752.

- NUMB. 189. TUESDAY, Jan. 7, 1752.

- NUMB. 190. SATURDAY, Jan. 11, 1752.

- NUMB. 191. TUESDAY, Jan. 14, 1752.

- NUMB. 192. SATURDAY, Jan. 18, 1752.

- NUMB. 193. TUESDAY, Jan. 21, 1752.

- NUMB. 194. SATURDAY, Jan. 25, 1752.

- NUMB. 195. TUESDAY, Jan. 28, 1752.

- NUMB. 196. SATURDAY, Feb. 1, 1752.

- NUMB. 197. TUESDAY, Feb. 4, 1752.

- NUMB. 198. SATURDAY, Feb. 8, 1752.

- NUMB. 199. TUESDAY, Feb. 11, 1752.

- NUMB. 200. SATURDAY, Feb. 15, 1752.

- NUMB. 201. TUESDAY, Feb. 18, 1752.

- NUMB. 202. SATURDAY, Feb. 22, 1752.

- NUMB. 203. TUESDAY, Feb. 25, 1752.

- NUMB. 204. SATURDAY, Feb. 29, 1752.

- NUMB. 205. TUESDAY, March 3, 1752.

- NUMB. 206. SATURDAY, March 7, 1752.

- NUMB. 207. TUESDAY, March 10, 1752.

- NUMB. 208. SATURDAY, Mar. 14, 1752.

- CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

- MOTTOS AND QUOTATIONS IN THE FIRST VOLUME TRANSLATED.

- CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

- MOTTOS AND QUOTATIONS IN THE SECOND VOLUME TRANSLATED.

- CONTENTS OF THE THIRD VOLUME.

- MOTTOS AND QUOTATIONS IN THE THIRD VOLUME TRANSLATED.

- CONTENTS OF THE FOURTH VOLUME.

- MOTTOS AND QUOTATIONS IN THE FOURTH VOLUME TRANSLATED.

- CONTENTS OF THE FIFTH VOLUME.

- MOTTOS AND QUOTATIONS IN THE FIFTH VOLUME TRANSLATED.

- CONTENTS OF THE SIXTH VOLUME.

- MOTTOS AND QUOTATIONS IN THE SIXTH VOLUME TRANSLATED.

- Lately Published, Printed for J. PAYNE, at Pope's Head, in Pater-noster Row.

- I. A TREATISE on VIRTUE and HAP PINESS.

- II. MANNERS: A Correct and Elegant Translation of Les Moeurs. With the original Frontispiece.

THE RAMBLER.

FINIS.

THE RAMBLER.

VOLUME THE SIXTH.

Nullius addictus jurare in verba magistri,

Quo me cunque rapit tempestas, deferor hospes.

HOR.

LONDON: Printed for J. PAYNE, at POPE'S-HEAD, IN PATER-NOSTER-ROW. M.DCC.LII.

NUMB. 173. TUESDAY, Nov. 12, 1751.

Quo Virtus, quo ferat Error.

HOR.

AS any action or posture long continued, will distort and disfigure the limbs; so the mind likewise is crippled and contracted by perpetual application to the same set of ideas. It is easy to guess the trade of an artizan by his knees, his fingers, or his shoulders; and there are few among men of the more liberal professions, whose minds do not carry the brand of their calling, or whose conversation does not quickly discover to what class of the community they belong.

THESE peculiarities have been of great use, in the general hostility which every part of mankind exercises against the rest, to furnish insults and sarcasms. Every art has its dialect, uncouth and ungrateful to all whom custom has not reconciled to its sound, and which therefore becomes ridiculous by a slight misapplication, or unnecessary repetition.

THE general reproach with which ignorance revenges the superciliousness of learning, is that of pedantry; a censure which every man incurs, who has at any time the misfortune to talk to those who cannot understand him, and by which the modest and timorous are sometimes frighted from the display of their acquisitions, and the exertion of their powers.

THE name of a pedant is so formidable to young men when they first fally from their colleges, and is so liberally scattered by those who mean to boast their elegance of education, easiness of manners, and knowledge of the world, that it seems to require particular consideration; since perhaps if it were once understood, many a heart might be freed from painful apprehensions, and many a tongue delivered from restraint.

PEDANTRY is the unseasonable ostentation of learning. It may be discovered either in the choice of a subject, or in the manner of treating it. He is undoubtedly guilty of pedantry, who, when he has made himself master of some abstruse and uncultivated part of knowledge, obtrudes his remarks and discoveries upon those whom he believes unable to judge of his proficiency, and from whom as he cannot fear contradiction, he cannot properly expect applause.

TO this error the student is sometimes betrayed, by the natural recurrence of the mind to its common employment, by the pleasure which every man receives from the recollection of pleasing images, and the desire of dwelling upon topicks, on which he knows himself able to speak with justness. But, because we are seldom so far prejudiced in favour of each other as to search out for palliations of failings, this deviation from politeness is imputed always to vanity; and the harmless collegiate, who, perhaps, intended entertainment and instruction, or at worst only spoke without sufficient reflection upon the character of his hearers, is commonly censured as arrogant or overbearing, and eager to extend the reputation of his own accomplishments, in contempt of the convenience of society, and the laws of conversation.

ALL discourse of which others cannot partake, is not only an irksome usurpation of the time devoted to pleasure and entertainment, but, what never fails to excite very keen resentment, an insolent assertion of superiority, and a triumph over less enlightened understandings. The pedant is, therefore, not only heard with weariness, but malignity; and those who conceive themselves insulted by his knowledge, never fail to tell with acrimony how injudiciously it was exerted.

TO avoid this dangerous imputation, and recommend themselves more effectually to the gay world, scholars sometimes divest themselves with too much haste of their academical formality, and in their endeavours to accommodate their notions and their stile to common conceptions, talk rather of any thing than of that which they understand, and sink into insipidity of sentiment and meanness of expression.

THERE prevails among men of letters an opinion, that all appearance of science is particularly hateful to women; and that therefore whoever desires to be well received in female assemblies, must qualify himself by a total rejection of all that is serious, rational, or important; must consider argument or criticism as perpetually interdicted; and devote all his attention to trifles, and all his eloquence to compliment.

STUDENTS often form their notions of the present generation from the writings of the past, and are not very early informed of those changes which the gradual diffusion of knowledge, or the sudden caprice of fashion produces in the world. Whatever might be the state of female literature in the last century, there is now no longer any danger lest the scholar should want an adequate audience at the tea-table, and whoever thinks it necessary to regulate his conversation by antiquated rules, will be rather despised for his futility than caressed for his politeness.

TO talk intentionally in a manner above the comprehension of those whom we address, is unquestionable pedantry; but surely complaisance requires, that no man should, without proof, conclude his company incapable of following him to the highest elevation of his fancy, or the utmost extent of his knowledge. It is always safer to err in favour of others than of ourselves, and therefore we seldom hazard much by endeavouring to excel.

IT ought at least to be the care of learning when she quits her exaltation, to descend with dignity. Nothing is more despicable than the airiness and jocularity of a man bred to severe science, and solitary meditation. To trifle agreeably, is a secret which schools cannot impart; that gay negligence and vivacious levity, which charm down resistance wherever they appear, are never attainable by him who having spent his first years among the dust of libraries, enters late into the living world with an unpliant attention and established habits.

IT is observed in the panegyrick on Fabricius the mechanist, that, though forced by publick employments into mingled conversation, he never lost the modesty and seriousness of the convent, nor drew ridicule upon himself by an affected imitation of fashionable life. To the same praise every man devoted to learning ought to aspire. If he attempts the softer arts of pleasing, and endeavours to learn the graceful bow and the familiar embrace, the insinuating accent and the general smile, he will lose the respect due to the character of learning, without arriving at the envied honour of doing nothing with elegance and facility.

THEOPHRASTUS was discovered not to be a native of Athens, by so strict an adherence to the Attic dialect as shewed that he had learned it not by custom but by rule. A man not early formed to habitual elegance, betrays in like manner the defects of his education, by an unnecessary anxiety of behaviour. It is possible to become pedantick by fear of pedantry, as to be troublesome by illtimed civility. There is no kind of impertinence more justly censurable, than his who is always labouring to level his thoughts to intellects higher than his own; who apologizes for every word which his own narrowness of converse inclines him to think unusual; keeps the exuberance of his faculties under visible restraint; is solicitous to anticipate enquiries by needless explanations; and endeavours to shade his own abilities, lest weak eyes should be dazzled with their lustre.

NUMB. 174. SATURDAY, Nov. 15, 1751.

Foenum habet in cornu, longe fuge, dummodo risum

Excutiat sibi, non hic cuiquam parcet amico.

HOR.

To the RAMBLER.

Mr. RAMBLER,

THE laws of social benevolence require, that every man should endeavour to assist others by his experience. He that ha• at last escaped into port from the fluctuations of chance, and the gusts of opposition, ought to make some improvements in the chart of life, by marking the rocks on which he has been dashed, and the shallows where he has been stranded.

THE error into which I was betrayed, when custom first gave me up to my own direction, is very frequently incident to the quick, the sprightly, the fearless and the gay; to all whose ardour hurries them into precipitate execution of their designs, and imprudent declaration of their opinions; who seldom count the cost of pleasure, or examine the distant consequences of any practice that flatters them with immediate gratification.

I CAME forth into the crouded world with the usual juvenile ambition, and desired nothing beyond the title of a wit. Money I considered as below my care; for I saw such multitudes grow rich without understanding, that I could not forbear to look on wealth as an acquisition easy to industry directed by genius, and therefore threw it aside as a secondary convenience, to be procured when my principal wish should be satisfied, and my claim to intellectual excellence universally acknowledged.

WITH this view, I regulated my behaviour in publick, and exercised my meditations in solitude. My life was divided between the care of providing topicks for the entertainment of my company, and that of collecting company worthy to be entertained; for I soon found, that wit like every other power, has its boundaries; that its success depends upon the aptitude of others to receive impressions; and that as some bodies, indissoluble by heat, can set the furnace and crucible at defiance, there are minds upon which the rays of fancy may be pointed without effect, and which no fire of sentiment can agitate or exalt.

IT was, however, not long before I sitted myself with a set of companions, who knew how to laugh, and to whom no other recommendation was necessary than the power of striking out a jest. Among those, I fixed my residence, and for a time enjoyed the felicity of disturbing the neighbours every night, with the obstreperous applause which my sallies forced from the audience. The reputation of our club every day increased, and as my flights and remarks were circulated by my admirers, every day brought new solicitations for admission into our society.

TO support this perpetual fund of merriment, I frequented every place of concourse, cultivated the acquaintance of all the fashionable race, and passed the day in a continual succession of visits, in which I collected a treasure of pleasantry for the expences of the evening. Whatever error of conduct I could discover, whatever peculiarity of manner I could observe, whatever weakness was betrayed by confidence, whatever lapse was suffered by neglect, all was drawn together for the diversion of my wild companions, who, when they had been taught the art of ridicule, never failed to signalize themselves by a zealous imitation, and filled the town on the ensuing day, with scandal and vexation, with merriment and shame.

I CAN scarcely believe, when I recollect my own practice, that I could have been so far deluded with trivial praise, as to divulge the secrets of consultation, and to expose the levities of frankness; to waylay the walks of the cautious, and surprize the security of the thoughtless. Yet it is certain, that for many years I heard nothing but with design to tell it, and saw nothing with any other curiosity than after some failure that might furnish out a jest.

MY heart, indeed, acquits me of deliberate malignity, or interested insidiousness. I had no other purpose than to heighten the pleasure of laughter by communication, nor ever raised any pecuniary advantage from the calamities of others. I led weakness and negligence into difficulties, only that I might divert myself with their perplexities and distresses; and violated every law of friendship with no other hope, than that of gaining the reputation of smartness and waggery.

I WOULD not be understood to charge myself with any crimes of the atrocious or destructive kind. I never betrayed an heir to gamesters, or a girl to debauchees, never intercepted the kindness of a patron, or sported away the reputation of innocence. My delight was only in petty mischief, and momentary vexations; and my acuteness was employed not upon fraud and oppression which it had been meritorious to detect, but upon harmless ignorance or absurdity, prejudice or mistake.

THIS enquiry I pursued with so much diligence and sagacity, that I was able to relate of every man whom I knew some blunder or miscarriage; to betray the most circumspect of my friends into follies, by a judicious flattery of his predominant passion; or expose him to contempt, by placing him in circumstances which put his prejudices into action, brought to view his natural defects, or drew the attention of the company on his airs of affectation.

THE power had been possessed in vain if it had never been exerted; and it was not my custom to let any arts of jocularity remain unemployed. My impatience of applause brought me always early to the place of entertainment; and I seldom failed to lay a scheme with the small knot that first gathered round me, by which some of those whom we expected might be made subservient to our sport. Every man has some favourite topick of conversation, on which, by a feigned seriousness of attention, he may be drawn to expatiate without end. Every man has some habitual contortion of body, or established mode of expression, which never fails to raise mirth if it be pointed out to notice. By premonitions of these particularities I secured our pleasantry. Our companion entered with his usual gaiety, and began to partake of our noisy chearfulness, when the conversation was imperceptibly diverted to a subject which pressed upon his tender part, and extorted the expected shrug, the customary exclamation, or the predicted remark. A general clamour of joy then burst from all that were admitted to the stratagem. Our mirth was often encreased by the triumph of him that occasioned it; for as we do not hastily sorm conclusions against ourselves, seldom any one suspected, that he had exhilarated us otherwise than by his wit.

YOU will hear I believe with very little surprize, that by this conduct I had in a short time united mankind against me, and that every tongue was diligent in prevention or revenge. I soon perceived myself regarded with malevolence or distrust, but wondered what had been discovered in me either terrible or hateful. I had invaded no man's property; I had rivalled no man's claims; not had ever engaged in any of those attempts which provoke the jealousy of ambition, or the rage of faction. I had lived but to laugh, and make others laugh; and believed that I was loved by all who caressed, and favoured by all who applauded me. I never imagined, that he who in the mirth of a nocturnal revel, concurred in ridiculing his friend, would consider in a cooler hour, that the same trick might be played against himself; or that, even where there is no sense of danger, the natural pride of human nature rises against him, who by general censures lays claim to general superiority.

I WAS convinced by a total desertion, of the impropriety of my conduct; every man avoided and cautioned others to avoid me. Wherever I came, I found silence and dejection, coldness and terror. No one would venture to speak, lest he should lay himself open to unfavourable representations; the company however numerous dropped off at my entrance upon various pretences; and if I retired to avoid the shame of being left, I heard confidence and mirth revive at my departure.

IF those whom I had thus offended, could have contented themselves with repaying one insult for another, and kept up the war only by a reciprocation of sarcasms, they might have perhaps vexed, but would never much have hurt me; for no man heartily hates him at whom he can laugh. But these wounds which they give me as they fly, are without cure; this alarm which they spread by their solicitude to escape me, excludes me from all friendship and from all pleasure: I am condemned to pass a long interval of my life in solitude, as a man suspected of infection is refused admission into cities; and must linger in obscurity, till my conduct shall convince the world, that I may be approached without hazard.

I am, &c. DICACULUS.

NUMB. 175. TUESDAY, Nov. 19, 1751.

Rari quippe boni, numero vix sunt totidem quot

Thebarum portae, vel divitis ostia Nili.

JUV.

NONE of the axioms of wisdom which recommend the ancient sages to veneration, seems to have required less extent of knowledge or perspicacity of penetration than the remark of Bias, that 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉, the majority are wicked.

THE depravity of mankind is so easily discoverable, that nothing but the desert or the cell can exclude it from notice. The knowledge of crimes intrudes uncalled and undesired. They whom their abstraction from common occurrences hinders from seeing iniquity, will quickly have their attention awakened by feeling it. Even he who ventures not into the world, may learn its corruption in his closet. For what are treatises of morality, but persuasives to the practice of duties, for which no arguments would be necessary, but that we are continually tempted to violate or neglect them? What are all the records of history, but narratives of successive villanies, of treasons and usurpations, massacres and wars?

BUT, perhaps, the excellence of aphorisms consists not so much in the expression of some rare or abstruse sentiment, as in the comprehension of some obvious and useful truth in a few words. We frequently fall into error and folly, not because the true principles of action are not known, but because, for a time, they are not remembered; and he may therefore be justly numbered among the benefactors of mankind, who contracts the great rules of life into short sentences, that may be easily impressed on the memory, and taught by frequent recollection to recur habitually to the mind.

HOWEVER those who have passed through half the life of man, may now wonder that any should require to be cautioned against corruption, they will find, that they have themselves purchased their conviction by many disappointments and vexations, which an earlier knowledge would have spared them; and may see on every side some intangling themselves in perplexities, and some sinking into ruin, by ignorance or neglect of the maxim of Bias.

EVERY day sends out, in quest of pleasure and distinction, some heir fondled in ignorance, and flattered into pride. He comes forth with all the confidence of a spirit unacquainted with superiors, and all the benevolence of a mind not yet irritated by opposition, alarmed by fraud, or imbittered by cruelty. He loves all, because he imagines himself the universal favourite. Every exchange of salutation produces new acquaintance, and every acquaintance kindles into friendship.

EVERY season brings a new flight of beauties into the world, who have hitherto heard only of their own charms, and imagine that the heart feels no passion but that of love. They are soon surrounded by admirers whom they credit, because they tell them only what is heard with delight. Whoever gazes upon them is a lover; and whoever forces a sigh, is pining in despair.

HE surely is an useful monitor, who inculcates to these thoughtless strangers, that the majority are wicked; who informs them, that the train which wealth and beauty draw after them, is lured only by the scent of prey; and that, perhaps, among all those who croud about them with professions and flatteries, there is not one who does not hope for some opportunity to devour or betray them, to glut himself by their destruction, or to share their spoils with a stronger savage.

VIRTUE presented singly to the imagination or the reason, is so well recommended by its own graces, and so strongly supported by arguments, that a good man wonders how any can be bad; and they who are yet ignorant of the force of passion and interest, who never observed the arts of seduction, the contagion of example, the gradual descent from one crime to another, or the insensible depravation of the principles by loose conversation, naturally expect to find integrity in every bosom, and veracity on every tongue.

IT is indeed impossible not to hear from those who have lived longer, of wrongs and salshoods, of violence and circumvention; but such narratives are commonly regarded by the young, the heady, and the confident, as nothing more than the murmurs of peevishness, or the dreams of dotage; and notwithstanding all the documents of hoary wisdom, we commonly plunge into the world fearless and credulous, without any foresight of danger, or apprehension of deceit.

I HAVE remarked in a former paper, that credulity is the common failing of unexperienced virtue; and that he who is spontaneously suspicious, may be justly charged with radical corruption; for if he has not known the preval•nce of dishonesty by information, no• had ••me to observe it with his own eyes, whence can he take his measures of judgment but from himself?

THEY who best deserve to escape the snares of artifice, are most likely to be entangled. He that endeavours to live for the good of others, must always be exposed to the arts of them who live only for themselves, unless he is taught by timely precepts the caution required in common transactions, and shown at a distance the pitfals of treachery.

TO youth, therefore, it should be carefully inculcated, that to enter the road of life without caution or reserve, in expectation of general fidelity and justice, is to laucnh on the wide ocean without the instruments of steerage, and to hope, that every wind will be prosperous, and that every coast will afford a harbour.

TO ennumerate the various motives to deceit and injury, would be to count all the desires that prevail among the sons of men; since there is no ambition however petty, no wish however absurd, that by indulgence will not be enabled to overpower the influence of virtue. Many there are, who openly and almost professedly regulate all their conduct by their love of money; who have no reason for action or forbearance, for compliance or refusal, than that they hope to gain more by one than by the other. These are indeed the meanest and cruelest of human beings, a race with whom, as with some pestiferous animals, the whole creation seems to be at war; but who, however detested or scorned, long continue to add heap to heap, and when they have reduced one to beggary are still permitted to fasten on another.

OTHERS, yet less rationally wicked, pass their lives in mischief because they cannot bear the sight of success, and mark out every man for hatred, whose same or fortune they believe encreasing.

MANY, who have not advanced to these degrees of guilt, are yet wholly unqualified for friendship, and unable to maintain any constant or regular course of kindness. Happiness may be destroyed not only by union with the man who is apparently the slave of interest, but with him whom a wild opinion of the dignity of perseverance in whatever cause disposes to persue every injury with unwearied and perpetual resentment; with him whose vanity inclines him to consider every man as a rival in every pretension; with him whose airy negligence puts his friend's affairs or secrets in continual hazard, and who thinks his forgetfulness of others excused by his inattention to himself; or with him whose inconstancy ranges without any settled rule of choice through varieties of friendship, and who adopts and dismisses favourites by the sudden impulse of caprice.

THUS numerous are the difficulties to which the converse of mankind exposes us, and which can be avoided only by prudent distrust. He therefore that remembering this salutary maxim learns early to withold his fondness from fair appearances, will have reason to pay some honours to Bias of Priene, who enabled him to become wise without the cost of experience.

NUMB. 176. SATURDAY, Nov. 23, 1751.

—Naso suspendere adunco.

HOR.

THERE are many vexatious accidents and uneasy situations which raise little compassion for the sufferer, and which no man but those whom they immediately distress, can regard with seriousness. Petty mischiefs, that have no influence on futurity, nor extend their effects to the rest of life, are always seen with a kind of malicious pleasure. A mistake or embarrasment, which for the present moment fills the face with blushes, and the mind with confusion, will have no other effect upon those who observe it than that of convulsing them with irresistible laughter. Some circumstances of misery are so powerfully ridiculous, that neither kindness nor duty can withstand them; they bear down love, interest, and reverence, and force the friend, the dependent or the child, to give way to instantaneous motions of merriment.

AMONG the principal of comick calamities, may be reckoned the pain which an author, not yet hardened into insensibility, feels at the onset of a furious critick, whose age, rank or fortune gives him confidence to speak without reserve; who heaps one objection upon another, and obtrudes his remarks, and enforces his corrections without tenderness or awe.

THE author, full of the importance of his work, alarmed at the danger of his character, and anxious for the justification of every syllable, starts and kindles at the slightest attack; the critick, eager to establish his superiority, triumphing in every discovery of failure, and zealous to impress the cogency of his arguments, pursues him from line to line without cessation or remorse. The critick, who hazards little, proceeds with vehemence impetuosity and fearlessness; the author whose quiet and fame, and life and immortality are involved in the controversy, tries every art of subterfuge and defence; maintains modestly what he resolves never to yield, and yields unwillingly what cannot be maintained. The critick's purpose is to conquer, the author only hopes to escape; the critick therefore knits his brow, and raises his voice, and rejoyces whenever he perceives any tokens of pain excited by the pressure of his assertions, or the point of his sarcasms. The author, whose endeavour is at once to mollify and elude his persecutor, composes his features, and softens his accent, breaks the force of assault by retreat, and rather steps aside than flies or advances.

AS it very seldom happens that the rage of extemporary criticism inflicts fatal or lasting wounds, I know not that the Laws of benevolence entitle this distress to much sympathy. The diversion of baiting an author has the sanction of all ages and nations, and is more lawful than the sport of teizing other animals, because for the most part he comes voluntarily to the stake, furnished, as he imagines, by the patron powers of literature with resistless weapons and impenetrable armour, with the mail of the boar of Erymanth, and the paws of the lion of Nemea.

BUT the works of genius are sometimes produced by other motives than vanity; and he whom necessity or duty enforces to write, is not always so well satisfied with himself as not to be discouraged by censorious impudence. It may therefore be necessary to consider by what measures they whom the publication of their names lays open to the insults of such as their obscurity secures against reprisals, may extricate themselves from unexpected encounters.

VIDA, a man of considerable skill in the politicks of literature, directs his pupil wholly to abandon his defence, and even when he can irrefragably refute all objections, to suffer tamely the exultations of his antagonist.

THIS rule may perhaps be just, when advice is asked and severity solicited, because no man tells his opinion so freely as when he imagines it received with implicit veneration; and critics ought never to be consulted but while errors may yet be rectified or insipidity suppressed. But when the book has once been dismissed into the world, and can be no more retouched, I know not whether a very different conduct should not be prescribed, and whether firmness and spirit may not sometimes be of use to overpower arrogance and repel brutality. Softness, diffidence and moderation will often be mistaken for imbecillity and dejection; they lure cowardice to the attack by the hopes of easy victory, and it will soon be found that he whom every man thinks he can conquer, shall never be at peace.

THE animadversions of criticks are commonly such as may easily provoke the sedatest writer to some quickness of resentment and asperity of reply. A man who by long consideration has familiarised a subject to his own mind, carefully survey'd the series of his thoughts, and planned all the parts of his composition into a regular dependance on each other, will often start at the sinistrous interpretations, or absurd remarks of haste and ignorance, and wonder by what infatuation they have been led away from the obvious sense, and upon what peculiar principles of judgment they decide against him.

THE eye of the intellect, like that of the body, is not equally perfect in all, nor equally adapted in any to all objects; the end of criticism is to supply its defects; rules are the instruments of mental vision, which may indeed assist our faculties when properly used, but produce confusion and obscurity by unskilful application.

SOME seem always to read with the microscope of criticism, and employ their whole attention upon minute elegance, or faults scarcely visible to common observation. The dissonance of a syllable, the recurrence of the same sound, the repetition of a particle, the smallest deviation from propriety, the slightest defect in construction or arrangement, swell before their eyes into enormities. As they discern with great exactness, they comprehend but a narrow compass, and know nothing of the justness of the design, the general spirit of the performance, the artifice of connection, or the harmony of the parts; they never conceive how small a proportion that which they are busy in contemplating bears to the whole, or how the trivial inaccuracies with which they are offended, are absorbed and lost in general excellence.

OTHERS are furnished by criticism with a telescope. They see with great clearness whatever is too remote to be discovered by the rest of mankind, but are totally blind to all that lies immediately before them. They discover in every passage some secret meaning, some remote allusion, some artful allegory, or some occult imitation which no other reader ever suspected; but they have no perception of the cogency of arguments, the contexture of narrations, the various colours of diction, or the flowery embellishments of fancy; of all that engages the attention of others, they are totally insensible, while they pry into worlds of conjecture, and amuse themselves with phantoms in the clouds.

IN criticism, as in every other art, we fail sometimes by our weakness, but more frequently by our fault. We are sometimes bewildered by ignorance, and sometimes by prejudice, but we seldom deviate far from the right, but when we deliver ourselves up to the direction of vanity.

NUMB. 177. TUESDAY, Nov. 26, 1751.

Turpe est difficiles haberc nugas.

MART.

To the RAMBLER.

SIR,

WHEN, after the usual time spent at the university, I was about to enter upon the profession to which my friends had destined me, being summoned by the death of my father, into the country, I found myself master of an unexpected sum of money, and of an estate, which, though not large, was, in my opinion, sufficient to support me in a condition far preferable to the fatigue, dependence, and uncertainty of any gainful occupation. I therefore, resolved to devote the rest of my life wholly to curiosity, and without any confinement of my excursions or termination of my views, to wander over the boundless regions of general knowledge.

THIS scheme of life seemed pregnant with inexhaustible variety, and therefore, I could not forbear to congratulate myself upon the wisdom of my choice. I furnish'd a large room with all conveniencies for study; collected books of every kind; quitted every science at the first perception of disgust; returned to it again as soon as my former ardour happened to revive; and having no rival to depress me by comparison, nor any critic to alarm me with objections, I spent day after day in profound tranquility, with only so much complacence in my own improvements, as served to excite and animate my application.

THUS I lived for some years with complete acquiescence in my own plan of conduct, rising early to read, and dividing the latter part of the day between oeconomy, exercise and reflection. But in time, I began to find my mind contracted and stiffened by solitude. My ease and elegance were sensibly impaired; I was no longer able to accommodate myself with readiness to the accidental current of conversation; my notions grew particular and paradoxical; and my phraseology formal and unfashionable; I spoke, on common occasions, the language of books. My quickness of apprehension, and celerity of reply had entirely deserted me: When I delivered my opinion, or detailed my knowledge, I was bewildered by an unseasonable interrogatory, disconcerted by any trivial objection, and overwhelmed, and lost in dejection when the smallest advantage was gained against me in dispute. I became decisive and dogmatical, impatient of contradiction, perpetually jealous of my character, insolent to such as acknowledged my superiority, and sullen and malignant to all who refused to receive my dictates.

THIS I soon discovered to be one of those intellectual diseases which a wise man should make haste to cure. I therefore resolved for a time to shut my books, and learn again the art of conversation; to defecate and clear my mind by brisker motions and stronger impulses; and to unite myself once more to the living generation.

FOR this purpose I hasted to London, and entreated one of my academical acquaintances, to introduce me into some of the little societies of literature which are formed in taverns and coffee-houses. He was pleased with an opportunity of shewing me to his friends, and soon obtained me admission among a select company of curious men, who met once a week to exhilarate their studies and compare their acquisitions.

THE eldest and most venerable of this society was Hirsutus, who after the first civilities of my reception, sound means to introduce the mention of his favourite studies, by a severe censure of those who want the due regard for their native country. He informed me, that he had early withdrawn his attention from foreign trifles, and that since he begun to addict his mind to serious and manly studies, he had very carefully amassed all the English books that were printed in the black character. This search he had pursued so diligently, that he was able to show the deficiencies of the best catalogues. He had long since completed his Caxton, had three sheets of Treveris unknown to the antiquaries, and wanted to a perfect Pynson but two volumes, of which one was promised him as a legacy by its present possessor, and the other he was resolved to buy, at whatever price, when Quisquilius's library should be sold. Hirsutus had no other reason for the valuing or slighting a book, than that it was printed in the Roman or the Gothick letter, nor any ideas but such as his favourite volumes had supplied; when he was serious, he expatiated on the narratives of Johan de Trevisa, and, when he was merry, regaled us with a quotation from the Shippe of Foles.

WHILE I was listening to this hoary student, Ferratus entered in a hurry, and informed us with the abruptness of extasy, that his set of half-pence was now complete; he had just received in a handful of change, the piece that he had so long been seeking, and could now defy mankind to outgo his collection of English copper.

CHARTOPHYLAX then observed how fatally human sagacity was sometimes baffled, and how often the most valuable discoveries are made by chance. He had employed himself and his emissaries seven years at great expence, to perfect his series of Gazettes, but had long wanted a single paper, which, when he despaired of obtaining it, was sent him wrapped round a parcel of tobacco.

CANTILENUS turned all his thoughts upon old ballads, for he considered them as the genuine records of the national taste. He offered to shew me a copy of The Children in the Wood, which he firmly believed to be of the first edition, and by the help of which, the text might be freed from several corruptions, if this age of barbarity had any claim to such favours from him.

MANY were admitted into this society, as inferior members, because they had collected old prints and neglected pamphlets, or possessed some fragment of antiquity, as the seal of an antient corporation, the charter of a religious house, the genealogy of a family extinct, or a letter written in the reign of Elizabeth.

EVERY one of these virtuosos looked on all his associates as wretches of depraved taste and narrow notions. Their conversation was, therefore, fretful and waspish, their behaviour brutal, their merriment bluntly sarcastick, and their seriousness gloomy and suspicious. They were totally ignorant of all that passes, or has lately passed, in the world; unable to discuss any question of religious, political, or military knowledge; equally strangers to science and politer learning, and without any wish to improve their minds, or any other pleasure than that of displaying rarities, of which they would not suffer others to make the proper use.

HIRSUTUS graciously informed me, that the number of their society was limited, but that I might sometimes attend as an auditor. I was pleased to find myself in no danger of an honour, which I could not have willingly accepted, nor gracefully refused, and left them without any intention of returning, for I soon found, that the suppression of those habits with which I was vitiated, required association with men very different from this solemn race.

I am, SIR, &c. VIVACULUS.

IT is natural to feel grief or indignation, when any thing, necessary or useful, is wantonly wasted, or negligently destroyed; and therefore, my correspondent cannot be blamed for looking with uneasiness on the waste of life. Leisure and curiosity might soon make great advances in useful knowledge, were they not diverted by trivial emulation and laborious trifles. It may, however, somewhat mollisy his anger to reflect, that perhaps, none of the assembly which he describes, was capable of any nobler employment, and that he who does his best, however little, is always to be distinguished from him who does nothing. Whatever busies the mind without corrupting it, has at least this use, that it rescues the day from idleness, and he that is never idle will not often be vitious.

NUMB. 178. SATURDAY, Nov. 30, 1751.

Pars Sanitatis velle sanari fuit.

SENECA.

PYTHAGORAS is reported to have required from those whom he instructed in philosophy a probationary silence of five years. Whether this prohibition of speech extended to all the parts of this time, as seems generally to be supposed, or was to be observed only in the school or in the presence of their master, as is more probable, it was sufficient to discover the pupil's disposition; to try whether he was willing to pay the price of learning, or whether he was one of those whose ardour was rather violent than lasting, and who expected to grow wise on other terms than those of patience and obedience.

MANY of the blessings universally desired, are very frequently wanted, because most men, when they should labour, content themselves to complain, and rather linger in a state in which they cannot be at rest, than improve their condition by vigour and resolution.

PROVIDENCE has fixed the limits of human enjoyment by immoveable boundaries, and has set different gratifications at such a distance from each other, that no art or power can bring them together. This great law it is the business of every rational being to understand, that life may not pass away in an attempt to make contradictions consistent, to combine opposite qualities, and to unite things which the nature of their being must always keep asunder.

OF two objects tempting at a distance on contrary sides it is impossible to approach one but by receding from the other; by long deliberation and dilatory projects, they may be both lost, but can never be both gained. It is, therefore, necessary to compare them, and when we have determined the preference, to withdraw our eyes and our thoughts at once from that which reason directs us to reject. This is more necessary, if that which we are forsaking has the power of delighting the senses, or firing the fancy. He that once turns aside to the allurements of unlawful pleasure, can have no security that he shall ever regain the paths of virtue.

THE philosophick goddess of Boethius, having related the story of Orpheus, who, when he had recovered his wife from the dominions of death, lost her again by looking back upon her in the consines of of light, concludes, with a very elegant and forcible application, Whoever you are that endeavour to elevate your minds to the illuminations of Heaven, consider yourselves as represented in this fable; for he that is once so far overcome as to turn back his eyes towards the infernal caverns, loses at the first sight all that influence which attracted him on high.

Vos haec fabula respicit,

Quicunque in superum diem

Mentem ducere quaeritis.

Nam qui Tartareum in specus

Victus lumina flexerit,

Quidquid praecipuum trahit,

Perdit, dum videt inferos.

IT may be observed in general, that the future is purchased by the present. It is not possible to secure distant or permanent happiness but by the forbearance of some immediate gratification. This is so evidently true with regard to the whole of our existence, that all the precepts of theology have no other tendency than to enforce a life of faith; a life regulated not by our senses but our belief; a life in which pleasures are to be refused for fear of invisible punishments, and calamities sometimes to be fought and always endured in hope of rewards that shall be obtained in another state.

EVEN if we take into our view only that particle of our duration which is terminated by the grave, it will be found that we cannot enjoy one part of life beyond the common limitations of pleasure, but by anticipating some of the satisfaction which should exhilarate the following years. The heat of youth may spread happiness into wild luxuriance, but the radical vigour requisite to make it perennial is exhausted, and all that can be hoped afterwards is languor and sterility.

THE reigning error of manking is, that we are not content with the conditions on which the goods of life are granted. No man is insensible of the value of knowledge, the advantages of health, or the convenience of plenty, but every day shews us those on whom their conviction is without effect.

KNOWLEDGE is praised and desired by multitudes whom her charms could never rouse from the couch of sloth; whom the faintest invitation of pleasure draws away from their studies; to whom any other method of wearing out the day is more eligible than the use of books, and who are more easily engaged by any conversation than such as may rectify their notions or enlarge their comprehension.

EVERY man that has felt pain knows how little all other comforts can gladden him to whom health is denied. Yet who is there does not sometimes hazard it for the enjoyment of an hour? All assemblies of jollity, all places of publick entertainment exhibit examples of strength wasting in riot, and beauty withering in irregularity; nor is it easy to enter a house in which part of the family is not groaning in repentance of past intemperance, and part admitting discase by negligence, or soliciting it by luxury.

THERE is no pleasure which men of every age and sect have more generally agreed to mention with contempt, than the gratifications of the palate; an entertainment so far removed from intellectual happiness that scarcely the most shameless of the sensual herd have dared to defend it; yet even to this, the lowest of our delights, to this, though neither quick nor lasting, is health with all its activity and sprightliness daily sacrificed; and for this are half the miseries endured which urge impatience to call on death.

THE whole world is put in motion by the wish for riches, and the dread of poverty. Who, then, would not imagine that such conduct as will inevitably destroy what all are thus labouring to acquire, must generally be avoided? That he who spends more than he receives, must in time become indigent cannot be doubted; but how evident soever this consequence may appear, the spendthrist moves in the whirl of pleasure with too much rapidity to keep it before his eyes, and in the intoxication of gaiety grows every day poorer without any such sense of approaching ruin as is sufficient to wake him into caution.

MANY complaints are made of the misery of life; and indeed it must be confessed that we are subject to calamities by which the good and bad, the diligent and slothful, the vigilant and heedless are equally afflicted. But surely though some indulgence may be allowed to groans extorted by inevitable misery, no man has a right to repine at evils which, against warning, against experience, he deliberately and leisurely brings upon his own head; or to consider himself as debarred from happiness by such obstacles as resolution may break, or dexterity may put aside.

GREAT numbers who quarrel with their condition have wanted not the power but the will to obtain a better state. They have never contemplated the difference between good and 〈◊〉 sufficiently to quicken aversion or invigorate desire; they have indulged a drowsy thoughtlessness or giddy levity; have committed the balance of choice to the management of caprice; and when they have long accustomed themselves to receive all that chance offered them without examination, lament at last that they find themselves deceived.

NUMB. 179. TUESDAY, Dec. 3, 1751.

Perpetuo risu pulmonem agitare solebat.

JUV.

EVERY man, says Tully, has two characters; one which he partakes with all mankind, and by which he is distinguished from brute animals; another which discriminates him from the rest of his own species, and impresses on him a manner and temper peculiar to himself; this particular character, if it be not repugnant to the laws of general humanity, it is always his business to cultivate and preserve.

EVERY hour furnishes some confirmation of Tully's precept. It seldom happens, that any assembly of pleasure is so happily selected, but that some one finds admission, with whom the rest are deservedly offended; and it will appear on a close inspection, that scarce any man becomes eminently disagreeable but by affectation, by a departure from his real character, and an attempt at something for which nature or education have left him unqualified.

IGNORANCE or dulness have indeed no power of affording delight, but they never give disgust except when they assume the dignity of knowledge, or ape the sprightliness of wit. Aukwarkness and inelegance, have none of those attractions by which ease and politeness take possession of the heart; but ridicule and censure seldom rise against them, unless they appear associated with that confidence which belongs only to long acquaintance with the modes of life, and to consciousness of unfailing propriety of behaviou•▪ Deformity itself is regarded with tenderne••, rather than aversion, when it does not attempt to deceive the sight by dress and decoration, and to seize upon fictitious claims the prerogatives of beauty.

HE that stands to contemplate the crouds that fill the streets of a populous city, will see many •assengers whose air and motion it will be difficult to behold without contempt and laughter; but if he examines what are the appearances that thus powerfully excite his merriment, he will find among them neither poverty nor disease, nor any involuntary or painful defect. The disposition to derision and insult is awakened by the softness of foppery, the swell of insolence, the liveliness of levity, or the solemnity of grandeur; by the sprightly trip, the stately stalk, the formal strut, and the lofty mein; by gestures intended to catch the eye, and by looks ela¦borately formed as evidences of importance.

IT has, I think, been sometimes urged in favour of affectation, that it is only a mis¦take of the means to a good end, and that the Intention with which it is practised is al¦ways to please. If all attempts to innovate the constitutional or habitual character have really proceeded from public spirit and from love of others, the world has hitherto been sufficiently ungrateful, since no return but aversion and scorn has yet been made to the most difficult of all enterprizes, a contest with nature; nor has any pity been shown to the fatigues of labour which never succeeded, and the uneasiness of disguise by which nothing was concealed.

IT seems to be determined by the general suffrage of mankind that he who decks himself in adscititious qualities rather purposes to command applause than impart pleasure; and he is therefore treated as a man unreasonably ambitious of distinction who usurps a place in society to which he has no right. Praise is seldom paid with willingness even to incontestable merit, and it can be no wonder that he who calls for it without desert is repulsed with universal indignation.

AFFECTATION naturally counterfeits those excellencies which are placed at the greatest distance from possibility of attainment. We are conscious of our own defects, and eagerly endeavour to supply them by counterfeited excellence; nor would such efforts be wholly without excuse, were they not often excited by ornamental trifles, and unessential accomplishments, which he, that thus anxiously struggles for the reputation of possessing them, would not have been thought to want, had not his industry quickened observation.

GELASIMUS passed the first part of his life in academical privacy and rural retirement, without any other conversation than that of scholars grave, studious, and abstracted as himself. He cultivated the mathematical sciences with undesatigable diligence, discovered many useful theorems, discussed with great accuracy the resistance of fluids, and, though his priority was not generally acknowledged, was the first who fully explained all the properties of the catenarian curve.

LEARNING, when it rises to eminence, will be observed in time, whatever mists may happen to surround it. Gelasimus, in his forty-ninth year being distinguished by those who have the rewards of knowledge in their hands, was called out of his obscurity to dis¦play his acquisitions for the honour of his country, and add dignity by his presence to phi¦losophical assemblies. As he did not suspect his unfitness for common affairs, he felt no reluctance to obey the invitation, and what he did not feel he had yet too much honesty to seign. He entered into the world as a larger and more populous college, where his performances would be more public, and his renown farther extended; and imagined that he should find his reputation universally prevalent, and the influence of learning every where the same.

HIS merit introduced him to splendid tables and elegant acquaintance, but he did not find himself always qualified to join in the conversation. He was distressed by civilities, which he knew not how to repay, and entangled in many ceremonial perplexities, from which his books and diagrams could not extricate him. He was sometimes unluckily engaged in disputes with ladies, with whom algebraick axioms had no great weight; and saw many whose favour and esteem he could not but desire, to whom he was very little recommended by his theories of the tides, or his approximations to the quadrature of the circle.

GELASIMUS did not want penetration to discover that no charm was more generally irresistible than that of easy facetiousness and flowing hilarity. He saw that diversion was more frequently welcome than improvement, that authority and seriousness were rather feared than loved, and that the grave scholar was a kind of imperious ally, hastily dismissed when his assistance was no longer necessary. He therefore came to a sudden resolution of throwing off those cumbrous ornaments of learning, which, as he imagined, hindred his reception, and commenced a man of wit and jocularity. Utterly unacquainted with every topic of merriment, ignorant of the modes and follies, the vices and virtues of mankind, and unfurnished with any ideas but such as Pappus and Archimedes had given him, he began to silence all enquiries with a jest instead of a solution, extended his face with a grin, which he mistook for a smile, and in the place of a scientifick discourse, retailed in a new language formed between the college and the tavern, the intelligence of the newspaper.

LAUGHTER, he knew, was a token of alacrity, and, therefore, whatever he said, or heard, he was careful not to fail in that great duty of a wit. If he asked or told the hour of the day, if he complained of heat or cold, stirred the fire, or filled a glass, removed his chair or snuffed a candle, he always found some occasion to laugh. The jest was indeed, generally a secret to all but himself, but his habitual confidence in his own discernment, hindered him from suspecting any weakness or mistake. He wondered that his wit was so little understood, but expected that his audience would comprehend it by degrees, and persisted all his life to show by gross buffoonery, how little the strongest faculties can perform beyond the limits of their own province.

NUMB. 180. SATURDAY, Dec. 7, 1751.

‘ 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 ’ AUTOMEDOM.

IT is somewhere related by Le Clerc, that a wealthy trader of good understanding, having the common ambition to breed his son a scholar, carried him to an university, resolving to make use of his own judgment in the choice of a tutor. He had been taught, by whatever intelligence, the nearest way to the heart of an academick, and soon after his arrival opened his purse with so little reserve, and entertained all who came about him with such prosusion of plenty, that the professors were lured by the smell of his table from their books, and flocked round him with all the importunity of aukward complaisance. This eagerness completely answered the merchant's purpose; he glutted them with delicacies, cheared them with wine, and softened them with caresses, till by degrees, he prevailed upon one after another to open his bosom, and make a full discovery of his competitions, jealousies, and resentments. After having thus learned each man's character, partly from himself, and partly from his acquaintances, he at last resolved to find some other method of educating his son, and went away fully convinced, that a scholastic life has no other tendency than to vitiate the morals, and contract the understanding. Nor could he afterwards hear with patience the praises of the ancient authors, being persuaded that scholars of all ages must have been the same, and that Xenophon and Cicero were nothing more than professors of some former university, and were therefore mean and selfish, ignorant and servile, like those whom he had lately visited and forsaken.

ENVY, curiosity, and our sense of the imperfection of our present state, inclines us always to estimate the advantages which are in the possession of others above their real value. Every one must have remarked, what powers and prerogatives the vulgar imagine to be conferred by learning. A man of science is expected to excel the unlettered and unenlightened, even on occasions where literature is of no use, and among weak minds, loses part of his reverence by discovering no superiority in those parts of life, in which all are unavoidably equal; as when a monarch makes a progress to the remoter provinces, the rusticks are said sometimes to wonder that they find him of the same size with themselves.

THESE demands of prejudice and folly can never be satisfied, and therefore, many of the imputations which learning suffers from disappointed ignorance, are without reproach. Yet it cannot be denied, that there are some failures to which men of study are peculiarly exposed. Every condition has its disadvantages. The circle of knowledge is too wide for the most active and diligent intellect, and while science is persued with ardour, other accomplishments of equal use, are necessarily neglected; as a small garrison must leave one part of an extensive fortress naked when an alarm calls them to another.

THE learned, however, might generally support their dignity with more success, if they suffered not themselves to be misled by the desire of superfluous attainments, of qualification which few can understand or value, and of skill which they may sink into the grave without any conspicuous opportunities of exerting. Raphael in return to Adam's enquiries into the courses of the stars and the revolutions of heaven, counsels him to withdraw his mind from idle speculations, and instead of watching motions which he has no power to regulate, to employ his faculties upon nearer and more interesting objects, the survey of his own life, the subjection of his passions, the knowledge of duties which must daily be performed, and the detection of dangers which must daily be incurred.

THIS angelick counsel every man of letters should always have before him. He that devotes himself wholly to retired study, naturally sinks from omission to forgetfulness of social duties, from which he must be sometimes awakened, and recalled to the general condition of mankind.

I AM far from any intention to limit curiosity, or consine the labours of learning to arts of immediate and necessary use. It is only from the various essays of experimental industry, and the vague excursions of minds sent out upon discovery, that any advancement of knowledge can be expected; and though many must be disappointed in their labours, yet they are not to be charged with having spent their time in vain; their example contributed to inspire emulation, and their miscarriages taught others the way to success.

BUT the distant hope of being one day useful or eminent, ought not to mislead us too far from that knowledge, which is equally requisite to the great and mean, to the celebrated and obscure; the art of moderating the desires, of repressing the appetites, and of conciliating, or retaining the favour of mankind.

NO man can imagine the conduct of his own life unworthy his attention; yet among the sons of learning many may be found who seem to have thought of every thing rather than of themselves, and have never condescended to observe what passes daily before their eyes: Many who toil through the intricacy of complicated systems, but are insuperably embarrassed with the least perplexity in common affairs; and while they compare the actions, and ascertain the characters of ancient heroes, let their own days glide away without examination, and suffer vicious habits to encroach upon their minds without resistance or detection.

ONE of the most frequent reproaches of the scholastick race is the want of fortitude, of fortitude not martial but philosophick. Men bred in shades and silence, taught to immure themselves at sunset, and accustomed to no other weapon than syllogism, may be allowed to feel terror at personal danger, and to be disconcerted by tumult and alarm. But why should he whose life is spent in contemplation, and whose business is only to discover truth, be unable to rectify the fallacies of imagination, or contend successfully against prejudice and passion? To what end has he read and meditated if he gives up his understanding to false appearances, and suffers himself at last, like the meanest of the vulgar, to be enslaved by fear of evils to which only folly or vanity can expose him, or elated by advantages which can add nothing to a wise man, and to which, as they are equally conferred upon the good and bad, no real dignity is annexed.

SUCH however is the state of the world, that the most obsequious of the slaves of pride, the most raptuous of the gazers upon wealth, the most officious of the whisperers of greatness, are collected from seminaries appropriated to the study of wisdom and the contemplation of virtue, where it was intended, that appetite should learn to be content with little, and that hope should aspire only to honours which no human power can give or take away.

THE student, when he comes forth into the world, instead of congratulating himself upon his exemption from the errors and failures to which he sees those liable whose opinions have been formed by accident or custom, and who live without any certain principles of conduct, is commonly in haste to shake from him all that distinguishes him from the rest of mankind, to mingle on equal terms with the multitude, and shew his sprightliness and ductility by an expeditious compliance with fashions, pleasures, or vices. The first smile of a man whose rank or fortune gives him power to reward his dependents commonly enchants him beyond resistance; the glare of equipage, the sweets of luxury, the liberality of general promises, the softness of habitual affability, strike his senses and fill his imagination; and he soon ceases to have any other wish than to be well received, or any measure of right and wrong but the opinion of his patron.

A MAN flattered and obeyed, soon learns to exact grosser adulation, and enjoin lower submission. Neither our virtues nor vices are all our own. If there were no cowardice, there would be little insolence; a man cannot grow proud to any great degree, but by the concurrence of blandishment or the sufferance of tameness. The wretch that would shrink and crouch before those that should dart their eyes upon him with the spirit of natural equality, quickly becomes capricious and tyrannical when he sees himself approached with a downcast look, and hears the soft address of awe and servility. To the folly of those who are willing to purchase favour and preferment by cringes and compliance, is to be imputed that general haughtiness of power that leaves nothing to be hoped by firmness and integrity.

IF instead of wandering after the meteors of philosophy which fill the world with splendor for a while, and then sink and are forgotten, the candidates of learning would fix their eyes only upon the permanent and immutable lustre of moral and religious truth, they would find a more certain direction to honour and happiness. A little plausibility of discourse, and a little acquaintance with unnecessary speculations, is dearly purchased when it excludes those instructions which fortify the heart with resolution and exalt the spirit to independence.

NUMB. 181. TUESDAY, Dec. 10, 1751.

—Neu fluitem dubiae spe pendulus horae.

HOR.

To the RAMBLER.

SIR,

AS I have passed much of my life in disquiet and suspense, and lost many opportunities of advantage by a passion which I have reason to believe prevalent in different degrees over a great part of mankind, I cannot but think myself well qualified to warn those who are yet uncaptivated, of the danger which they incur by placing themselves within its influence.

I SERVED an apprenticeship to a linen-draper with uncommon reputation for diligence and fidelity; and at the age of three and twenty opened a shop for myself with a large stock, and such credit among all the merchants who were acquainted with my master that I could command whatever was imported curious or valuable. For five years I proceeded with success proportionate to close application and untainted integrity; was a daring bidder at every sale; always paid my notes before they were due; and advanced so fast in commercial reputation, that I was proverbially marked out as the model of young traders, and every one expected that a few years would make me an alderman.

IN this course of even prosperity, I was one day persuaded to buy a ticket in the lottery. The sum was inconsiderable, the greater part was to be repaid though fortuen might fail to favour me, and therefore my established maxims of frugality did not restrain me from so trifling an experiment. The ticket lay almost forgotten till the time at which every man's fate was to be determined; nor did the affair even then seem of any importance, till I discovered by the publick papers that the number next to mine had conferred the great prize.

MY heart leaped at the thought of such an approach to sudden riches, which I considered myself, however contrarily to the laws of computation, as having missed by a single chance; and I could not forbear to revolve the consequences which such a bounteous allotment would have produced, if it had happened to me. This dream of felicity, by degrees took possession of my imagination. The great delight of my solitary hours was to purchase an estate, and form plantations with money which once might have been mine, and I never met my friends but I spoiled all their merriment by perpetual complaints of my ill luck.

AT length another lottery was opened, and I had now so heated my imagination with the prospect of a prize, that I should have pressed among the first purchasers, had not my ardour been with-held by deliberation upon the probability of success from one ticket rather than another. I hesitated long between even and odd; considered the square and cubick numbers through the lottery; examined all those to which good luck had been hitherto annexed; and at last fixed upon one which by some secret relation to the events of my life I thought predestined to make me happy. Delay in great affairs is often mischievous; the ticket was sold, and its possessor could not be found.

IRETURNED to my conjectures, and after many arts of prognostication, fixed upon another chance, but with less confidence. Never did captive, heir, or lover feel so much vexation from the slow pace of time, as I suffered between the purchase of my ticket and the distribution of the prizes. I solaced my uneasiness as I could, by frequent contemplations of approaching happiness; when the sun rose I knew it would set, and congratulated myself at night that I was so much nearer to my wishes. At last the day came, my ticket appeared, and rewarded all my care and sagacity with a despicable prize of fifty pounds.

MY friends, who honestly rejoiced upon my success were very coldly received; I hid myself a fortnight in the country, that my chagrine might fume away without observation, and then returning to my shop began to listen after another lottery.

WITH the news of a lottery I was soon gratified, and having now found the vanity of conjecture and inefficacy of computation, I resolved to take the prize by violence, and therefore bought forty tickets, not omitting however to divide them between the even and odd numbers that I might not miss the lucky class. Many conclusions did I form, and many experiments did I try to determine from which of those tickets I might most reasonably expect riches. At last, being unable to satisfy myself by any modes of reasoning, I wrote the numbers upon dice, and allotted five hours every day to the amusement of throwing them in a garret, and, examining the event by an exact register, found, on the evening before the lottery was drawn, that one of my numbers had been turned up five times more than any of the rest in three hundred and thirty thousand throws.

THIS experiment was fallacious; the first day presented the hopeful ticket, a detestable blank. The rest came out with different fortune, and in conclusion I lost thirty pounds by this great adventure.

I HAD now wholly changed the cast of my behaviour and the conduct of my life. The shop was for the most part abandoned to my servants, and, if I entered it, my thoughts were so engrossed by my tickets, that I scarcely heard or answered a question, but considered every customer as an intruder upon my meditations whom I was in haste to dispatch. I mistook the price of my goods, committed blunders in my bills, forgot to file my receipts, and neglected to regulate my books. My acquaintances by degrees began to fall away, but I perceived the decline of my business with little emotion, because whatever deficiency there might be in my gains I expected the next lottery to supply.

MISCARRIAGE naturally produces diffidence; I began now to seek assistance against ill luck, by an alliance with those that had been more successful. I enquired diligently, at what office any prize had been sold, that I might purchase of a propitious vender; solicited those who had been fortunate in former lotteries, to partake with me in my new tickets; and, whenever I met with one that had in any event of his life been eminently prosperous, I invited him to take a larger share. I had, by this rule of conduct, so diffused my interest, that I had a fourth part of fifteen tickets, an eighth of forty, and a sixteenth of ninety.

I WAITED for the decision of my fate with my former palpitations, and looked upon the business of my trade with the usual neglect. The wheel at last was turned, and its revolutions brought me a long succession of sorrows and disappointments. I indeed often partook of a small prize, and the loss of one day was generally balanced by the gain of the next; but my desires yet remained unsatisfied, and when one of my chances had failed, all my expectation was suspended on those which remained yet undetermined. At last a prize of five thousand pounds was proclaimed; I caught fire at the cry, and enquiring the number found it to be one of my own tickets, which I had divided among those on whose luck I depended, and of which I had retained only a sixteenth part.

YOU will easily judge, with what detestation of himself, a man thus intent upon gain reflected that he had sold a prize which was once in his possession. It was to no purpose, that I represented to my mind, the impossibibility of recalling the past, or the folly of condemning an act, which only its event, an event which no human intelligence could foresee, proved to be wrong. The prize which though put in my hands had been suffered to slip from me filled me with anguish; and knowing that complaint would only expose me to ridicule, I gave myself up silently to grief, and lost by degrees my appetite and my rest.

MY indisposition soon became visible; I was visited by my friends, and among them by Eumathes a clergyman whose piety and learning gave him such an ascendant over me, that I could not refuse to open my heart. There are, said he, few minds sufficiently firm to be trusted in the hands of chance. Whoever finds himself inclined to anticipate futurity, and exalt possibility to certainty, should avoid every kind of casual adventure, since his grief must be always proportionate to his hope. You have long wasted that time, which by a proper application, would have certainly though moderately encreased your fortune, in a laborious and anxious persuit of a species of gain, which no labour or anxiety, no art or expedient can secure or promote. You are now fretting away your life in repentance of an act, against which repentance can give no caution, but to avoid the occasion of committing it. Rouse from this lazy dream of fortuitous riches, which, if obtained you could scarcely have enjoyed, because they could confer no consciousness of desert; return to rational and manly industry, and consider the meer gift of luck as below the care of a wise man.

NUMB. 182. SATURDAY, Dec. 14, 1751.

—Dives qui fieri vult,

Et cito vult fieri.

JUV.

IT has been observed in a late paper, that we are unreasonably desirous to separate the goods of life from those evils which providence has connected with them, and to catch advantages without paying the price at which they are offered us. Every man wishes to be rich, but very few have the powers necessary to raise a sudden fortune, by new discoveries, or superiority of skill in any necessary employment; and among lower understandings many want the firmness and industry requisite to regular gain and gradual acquisitions.

FROM the hope of enjoying affluence by methods more compendious than those of labour, and more generally practicable than those of genius, proceeds the common inclination to experiment and hazard, and that willingness to snatch all opportunities of growing rich by chance, which, when it has once taken possession of the mind, is seldom driven out either by time or argument, but continues to waste life in perpetual delusion, and generally ends in wretchedness and want.

THE folly of untimely exultation and visionary prosperity, is by no means peculiar to the purchasers of tickets; there are multitudes whose life is nothing but a continual lottery; who are always within a few months of plenty and happiness, and how often soever they are mocked with blanks, expect a prize from the next adventure.

AMONG the most resolute and ardent of the votaries of chance, may be numbered the mortals whose hope is to raise themselves by a wealthy match; who lay out all their industry on the assiduities of courtship, and sleep and wake with no other ideas than of treats, compliments, guardians, and rivals.

ONE of the most indefatigable of this class, is my old friend Leviculus, whom I have never known for thirty years without some matrimonial project of advantage. Leviculus was bred under a merchant, and by the graces of his person, the sprightliness of his prattle, and the neatness of his dress, so much enamoured his master's second daughter, a girl of sixteen, that she declared her resolution to have no other husband. Her father, after having chidden her for undutifulness, consented to the match, not much to the satisfaction of Leviculus, who was sufficiently elated with his conquest to think himself entitled to a larger fortune. He was, however, soon rid of his perplexity, for his mistress died before their marriage.

LEVICULUS was so well satisfied with his own accomplishments, that he determined to commence fortune-hunter, and when his apprenticeship expired, instead of beginning, as was expected, to walk the exchange with a face of importance, or associating himself with those who were most eminent for their knowledge of the stocks, he at once threw off the solemnity of the counting-house, equipped himself with a modish wig, listned to wits in coffee houses, passed his evenings behind the scenes in the theatres, learned the names of beauties of quality, hummed the last stanzas of fashionable songs, talked with familiarity of high play, boasted of his atchievements upon drawers and coachmen, was often brought to his lodgings at midnight in a chair, told with negligence and jocularity of bilking a taylor, and now and then let fly a shrewd jest at a sober citizen.

THUS furnished with irresistible artillery, he turned his batteries upon the female world, and in the first warmth of self-approbation proposed no less than the possession of riches and beauty united. He therefore paid his civilities to Flavilla, the only daughter of a wealthy merchant, who not being accustomed to amorous blandishments, or respectful addresses, was delighted with the novelty of love, and easily suffered him to conduct her to the play, and to meet her where she visited. Leviculus did not doubt but her father, however offended by a clandestine marriage, would soon be reconciled by the tears of his daughter, and the merit of his son-inlaw, and was in haste to conclude the affair. But the lady liked better to be courted than married, and kept him three years in uncertainty and attendance. At last she fell in love with a young ensign at a ball, and having danced with him all night, married him in the morning.

LEVICULUS, to avoid the ridicule of his companions, took a journey to a small estate in the country, where, after his usual enquiries concerning the nymphs in the neighbourhood, he found it proper to fall in love with Altilia, a maiden lady, twenty years older than himself, for whose favour fifteen nephews and nieces were in perpetual contention. They hovered round her with such jealous officiousness, as scarcely left a moment vacant for a lover. Leviculus, nevertheless, discovered his passion in a letter, and Altilia could not withstand the pleasure of hearing vows and sighs, and flatteries, and protestations. She admitted his visits, enjoyed, for five years, the happiness of keeping all her expectants in perpetual alarms, and amused herself with the various stratagems which were practised to disengage her affections. Sometimes she was advised with great earnestness to travel for her health, and sometimes entreated to keep her brother's house. Many stories were spread to the disadvantage of Leviculus, by which she commonly seemed affected for a time, but took care soon afterwards to express her conviction of their falshood. But being at last satiated with this ludicrous tyranny, she told her lover when he pressed for the reward of his services, that she was very sensible of his merit, but was resolved not to impoverish an ancient family.

LEVICULUS then returned to the town, and soon after his arrival became acquainted with Latronia, a lady distinguished by the elegance of her equipage, and the regularity of her conduct. Her wealth was evident in her magnificence, and her prudence in her oeconomy, and therefore Leviculus who had scarcely confidence to solicit her favour, readily acquitted fortune of her former debts, when he found himself distinguished by her with such marks of preference as a woman of modesty is allowed to give. He now grew bolder, and ventured to breathe out his impatience before her. She heard him without resentment, in time permitted him to hope for happiness, and at last fixed the nuptial day without any distrustful reserve of pinmoney, or sordid stipulations for jointure, and settlements.

LEVICULUS was triumphing on the eve of marriage, when he heard on the stairs the voice of Latronia's maid, whom frequent bribes had secured in his service. She soon burst into his room, and told him, that she could not suffer him to be longer deceived; that her mistress was now spending the last payment of her fortune, and was only supported in her expence by the credit of his estate. Leviculus shuddered to see himself so near a precipice, and found that he was indebted for his escape to the resentment of the maid, who having assisted Latronia to gain the conquest, quarrelled with her at last about the plunder.

LEVICULUS was now hopeless and disconsolate, till one sunday he saw a lady in the mall, whom her dress declared a widow, and whom, by the jolting prance of her gait, and the broad resplendence of her countenance, he guessed to have lately buried some prosperous citizen. He followed her home, and found her to be no less than the relict of Prune, the grocer, who, having no children, had bequeathed to her all his debts and dues, and his estates real and personal. No formality was necessary in addressing madam Prune, and therefore Leviculus went next morning without an introductor. His declaration was received with a loud laugh; she then collected her countenance, wondered at his impudence, asked if he knew to whom he was talking, then showed him the door, and again laughed to find him confused. Leviculus discovered that this coarseness was nothing more than the coquetry of Cornhill, and next day returned to the attack. He soon grew familiar to her dialect, and in a few weeks heard without any emotion, hints of gay cloaths with empty pockets; concurred in many sage remarks on the regard due to people of property; and agreed with her in detestation of the ladies at the other end of the town, who pinched their bellies to buy fine laces, and then pretended to laugh at the city.

HE sometimes presumed to mention marriage; but was always answered with a slap, a hoot, and a slounce. At last he began to press her closer, and thought himself more favourably received; but going one morning, with a resolution to trifle no longer, he found her gone to church with a young journey-man from the neighbouring shop, of whom she had become enamoured at her window.

IN these, and a thousand intermediate adventures, has Leviculus spent his time, till he is now grown grey with age, fatigue, and disappointment. He begins at last to find, that success is not to be expected, and being unfit for any employment that might improve his fortune, and unfurnished with any arts that might amuse his leisure, is condemned to wear out a tasteless life in narratives which few will hear, and complaints which none will pity.

NUMB. 183. TUESDAY, Dec. 17, 1751.

Nulla fides regni sociis, omnisque Potestas

Impatiens consortis erat.

LUCAN.

THE hostility perpetually exercised between one man and another is caused by the desire of many for that which only few can possess. Every man would be rich, powerful, and famous; yet same, power, and riches, are only the names of relative conditions, which imply the obscurity, dependance, and poverty of greater numbers.

THIS universal and incessant competition, produces injury and malice by two motives, interest, and envy; the prospect of adding to our possessions what we can take from others, and the hope of alleviating the sense of our disparity by lessening others, though we gain nothing to ourselves.

OF these two malignant and destructive powers, it seems probable at the first view, that interest has the strongest and most extensive influence. It is easy to conceive that opportunities to seize what has been long wanted, may excite desires almost irresistible; but surely, the same eagerness cannot be kindled by an accidental power of destroying that which gives happiness to another. It must be more natural to rob for gain, than to ravage only for mischief.

YET I am inclined to believe, that the great law of mutual benevolence is oftener violated by envy than by interest, and that most of the misery which the defamation of blameless actions, or the obstruction of honest endeavours brings upon the world, is inflicted by men that propose no advantage to themselves but the satisfaction of poisoning the banquet which they cannot taste, and blasting the harvest which they have no right to reap.

INTEREST can diffuse itself but to a narrow compass. The number is never large of those who can hope to fill the posts of degraded power, catch the fragments of shattered fortune, or succeed to the honours of depreciated beauty. But the empire of envy, has no limits, as it requires to its influence very little help from external circumstances. Envy may always be produced by idleness and pride, and in what place will not they be found?

INTEREST requires some qualities not universally bestowed. The ruin of another will produce no profit to him, who has not discernment to mark his advantage, courage to seize, and activity to pursue it; but the cold malignity of envy may be exerted in a torpid and quiescent state, amidst the gloom of stupidity, in the coverts of cowardice. He that falls by the attacks of interest, is torn by hungry tigers; he may discover and resist his enemies. He that perishes in the ambushes of envy, is destroyed by unknown and invisible assailants, and dies like him who is suffocated by a poisonous vapour, without knowledge of his danger, or possibility of contest.

INTEREST is seldom pursued but at some hazard. He that hopes to gain much, has commonly something to lose, and when he ventures to attack superiority, if he fails to conquer, is irrecoverably crushed. But envy may act without expence, or danger. To spread suspicion, to invent calumnies, to propagate scandal, requires neither labour nor courage. It is easy for the author of a lye however malignant to escape detection, and infamy needs very little industry to assist its circulation.

ENVY is almost the only vice which is practicable at all times, and in every place, the only passion which can never lie quiet for want of irritation; its effects therefore are every where discoverable, and its attempts always to be dreaded.

IT is impossible to mention a name which any advantageous distinction has made eminent, but some latent animosity will burst out. The wealthy trader, however he may abstract himself from publick affairs, will never want those who hint with Shylock, that ships are but boards, and that no man can properly be termed rich whose fortune is at the mercy of the winds. The beauty, adorned only with the unambitious graces of innocence and modesty, provokes, whenever she appears, a thousand murmurs of detraction and whispers of suspicion. The genius, even when he endeavours only to entertain with pleasing images of nature, or instruct by uncontested principles of science, yet suffers persecution from innumerable criticks, whose acrimony is excited merely by the pain of seeing others pleased, and of hearing applauses which another enjoys.

THE frequency of envy makes it so familiar, that it escapes our notice; nor do we often reflect upon its turpitude or malignity, till we happen to feel its influence. When he that has given no provocation to malice, but by attempting to excel in some useful art, finds himself pursued by multitudes whom he never saw with all the implacability of personal resentment; when he perceives clamour and malice let loose upon him as a publick enemy, and incited by every stratagem of defamation; when he hears the misfortunes of his family, or the follies of his youth exposed to the world; and every failure of conduct, or desect of nature aggravated and ridiculed; he then learns to abhor those artifices, at which he only laughed before, and discovers how much the happiness of life would be advanced by the eradication of envy from the human heart.

ENVY is, indeed, a stubborn weed of the mind, and seldom yields to the culture of philosophy. There are, however, considerations, which if carefully implanted and diligently propagated, might in time over power and repress it, since no one can nurse it for the sake of pleasure, as its effects are only shame, anguish, and perturbation.

IT is above all other vices inconsistent with the character of a social being, because it sacrifices truth and kindness to very weak temptations. He that plunders a wealthy neighbour, gains as much as he takes away, and improves his own condition in the same proportion as he impairs another's; but he that blasts a flourishing reputation, must be content with a small dividend of additional fame, so small as can afford very little consolation to balance the guilt by which it is obtained.

I HAVE hitherto avoided that dangerous and empirical morality, which cures one vice by means of another. But envy is so base and detestable, so vile in its original, and so pernicious in its effects, that the predominance of almost any other quality is to be desired. It is one of those lawless enemies of society, against which poisoned arrows may honestly be used. Let it, therefore, be constantly remembered, that whoever envies another, confesses his superiority, and let those be reformed by their pride who have lost their virtue.

IT is no slight aggravation of the injuries which envy incites, that they are committed against those, who have given no intentional provocation; and that the sufferer is marked out for ruin, not because he has failed in any duty, but because he has dared to do more than was required.

ALMOST every other crime is practised by the help of some quality which might have produced esteem or love, if it had been well employed; but envy is mere unmixed and genuine evil; it pursues a hateful end by despicable means, and desires not so much its own happiness as another's misery. To avoid depravity like this, it is not necessary that any one should aspire to heroism or sanctity, but only, that he should resolve not to quit the rank which nature assigns him, and wish to maintain the dignity of a human being.

NUMB. 184. SATURDAY, Dec. 21, 1751.

Permittes ipsis expendere Numinibus, quid

Conveniat nobis, Rebusque sit utile nostris.

JUV.

AS every scheme of life, so every form of writing has its advantages and inconveniencies, though not mingled in the same proportions. The writer of essays, escapes many embarrassments to which a large work would have exposed him; he seldom harrasses his reason with long trains of consequence, dims his eyes with the perusal of antiquated volumes, or burthens his memory with great accumulations of preparatory knowledge. A careless glance upon a favourite author, or transient survey of the varieties of life, is generally sufficient to supply the first hint or seminal idea, which enlarged by the gradual accretion of matter stored in the mind, is by the warmth of fancy easily expanded into flowers, and sometimes ripened into fruit.

THE most frequent difficulty, by which the authors of these petty compositions are distressed, arises from the perpetual demand of novelty and change. The compiler of a system of science lays his invention at rest, and employs only his judgment, the faculty exerted with least fatigue. Even the relator of feigned adventures, when once the principal characters are established, and the great events regularly connected, finds incidents and episodes crouding upon his mind; every change opens new views, and the latter part of the story grows without labour out of the former. But he that attempts to entertain his reader with unconnected pieces, finds the irksomeness of his task rather encreased than lessened by every production. The day calls a fresh upon him for a new topick, and he is again obliged to choose without any principle to regulate his choice.

IT is indeed true, that there is seldom any necessity of looking far, or enquiring long for a proper subject. Every diversity of art or nature, every public blessing or calamity, every domestick pain or gratification, every sally of caprice, blunder of absurdity, or stratagem of affectation may supply matter to him whose only rule is to avoid uniformity. But it often happens that plenty is the cause of penury; the judgment is distracted with boundless multiplicity, the imagination ranges from one design to another, and the hours pass imperceptibly away till the composition can be no longer delayed, and necessity enforces the use of those thoughts which then happen to be at hand. The mind rejoicing at deliverance on any terms from perplexity and suspense, applies herself vigorously to the work before her, collects embellishments and illustrations, and sometimes finishes with great elegance and happiness what in a state of ease and leisure she never had begun.

IT is not commonly observed, how much, even of actions considered as particularly subject to choice is to be attributed to accident, or some cause out of our own power, by whatever name it be distinguished. To close tedious deliberations with hasty resolves, and after long consultations with reason to refer the question to caprice, is by no means peculiar to the essayist. Let him that peruses this paper, review the series of his life, and enquire how he was placed in his present condition. He will find that of the good or ill which he has experienced, a great part came unexpected, without any visible gradations of approach; that every event has been influenced by causes acting without his intervention or concurrence; and that whenever he pretended to the prerogative of foresight, he was mortified with new conviction of the shortness of his views.

THE busy, the ambitious, the inconstant, and the adventurous, may be said to throw themselves by design into the arms of fortune, and voluntarily to quit the power of governing themselves; they engage in a course of life in which little can be ascertained by previous measures; the most enlightened wisdom must be satisfied with such obscure conjectures, as the comparison of probabilities will afford; nor is it any wonder that their time is past between elation and despondency, hope and disappointment.

SOME there are who appear to walk the road of life with more circumspection, and make no step till they think themselves secure from the hazard of a precipice; when neither pleasure nor profit can tempt them from the beaten path; who refuse to climb lest they should fall, or to run lest they should stumble, and move slowly forward without any compliance with those passions by which the heady and vehement are seduced and betrayed.

YET even the timorous prudence of this judicious class is far from exempting them from the dominion of chance, a subtle and insidious power, who will intrude upon privacy and embarrass caution. No course of life is so prescribed and limited, but that many actions must result from arbitrary election. Every one must form the general plan of his conduct by his own reflections; he must resolve whether he will endeavour at riches or at content; whether he will exercise private or publick virtues; whether he will labour for the general benefit of mankind, or contract his beneficence to his family and dependents.

THIS is a question which has long exercised the schools of philosophy, but remains yet undecided; and what hope is there that a young man, unacquainted with the arguments on either side, should determine his own destiny otherwise than by chance.

WHEN chance has given him a partner of his bed, whom he prefers to all other women without any proof of superior desert, chance must again direct him in the education of his children; for who was ever able to convince himself by arguments, that he had chosen for his son that mode of instruction to which his understanding was best adapted, or by which he would most easily be made wise or virtuous?

WHOEVER shall enquire by what motives he was determined on these important occasions, will find them such, as his pride will scarcely suffer him to confess; some sudden ardour of desire, some uncertain glimpse of advantage, some trivial competition, some inaccurate conclusion, or some example implicitly reverenced. Such are often the first causes of our resolves; for it is necessary to act, but impossible to know the consequences of action, or to discuss all the reasons which offer themselves on every part to inquisitiveness and solicitude.

SINCE life itself is uncertain, nothing which has life for its basis, can boast much stability. Yet this is but a small part of our perplexity. We set out on a tempestuous sea, in quest of some port, where we expect to find rest, but where we are not sure of admission; we are not only in danger of sinking in the way, but of being misled by meteors mistaken for stars, of being driven from our course by the changes of the wind, and of losing it by unskilful steerage; yet it sometimes happens, that cross winds blow us to a safer coast, that meteors draw us aside from whirlpools, and that negligence or error contributes to our escape from mischiefs to which a direct course would have exposed us. Of those that by precipitate conclusions, involve themselves in calamities, without guilt, very few however they may reproach themselves, can be certain that other measures would have been more successful.

IN this state of universal uncertainty, where a thousand dangers hover about us, and none can tell whether the good that he pursues is not evil in disguise, or whether the next step will lead him to safety or destruction, nothing can afford any rational tranquility, but the conviction, that, however we amuse ourselves with unideal sounds, nothing in reality is governed by chance, but that the universe is under the perpetual superintendence of him who created it; that our being is in the hands of omnipotent goodness, by whom what appears casual to us is directed for ends ultimately kind and merciful; and that nothing can finally hurt him who debars not himself from the divine favour.

NUMB. 185. TUESDAY, Dec. 24, 1751.

At vindicta bonum vita jucundius ipsa,

Nempe hoc indocti.—

Chrysippus non dicit idem, nec mite Thaletis

Ingenium, dulcique senex vicinus Hymetto,

Qui partem acceptae saeva inter vincla Cicutae

Accusatori nollet dare.—Quippe minuti

Semper, & infirmi est Animi, exiguique Voluptas

Ultio.

JUV.

NO vitious dispositions of the mind more obstinately resist both the counsels of philosophy and the injunctions of religion, than those which are complicated with an opinion of dignity; and which we cannot dismiss without leaving in the hands of opposition some advantage iniquitously obtained, or suffering from our own prejudices some imputation of pusillanimity.

FOR this reason scarcely any law of our redeemer is more openly transgressed, or more industriously evaded, than that by which he commands his followers to forgive injuries, and prohibits under the sanction of eternal misery, the gratification of the desire which every man feels to return pain upon him that inflicts it. Many who could have conquered their anger, are unable to combat against pride, and pursue offences to extremity of vengeance, lest they should be insulted by the triumph of an enemy.

BUT certainly no precept could better become him, at whose birth peace was proclaimed to the earth. For what would so soon destroy all the order of society, and deform life with violence and ravage, as a permission to every one to judge his own cause, and to apportion his own recompence for imagined injuries.

IT is difficult for a man of the strictest justice not to favour himself too much in the calmest moments of solitary meditation. Every one wishes for the distinctions for which thousands are wishing at the same time, in their own opinion, with better claims. He that, when his reason operates in its full force, can thus, by the mere prevalence of self-love, prefer himself to his fellow beings, is very unlikely to judge equitably when his passions are agitated by a sense of wrong, and his attention wholly engrossed by pain, interest, or danger. Whoever arrogates to himself the right of vengeance shows how little he is qualified to decide his own claims, since he certainly demands what he would think unfit to be granted to another.

NOTHING is more apparent than that, however injured or however provoked, some must at last be contented to forgive. For it can never be hoped, that he who first commits an injury, will contentedly acquiesce in the penalty required: the same haughtiness of contempt and vehemence of desire, that prompt the act of injustice, will more strongly incite its justification: and resentment can never so exactly balance the punishment with the fault, but there will remain an overplus of vengeance which even he who condemns his first action will think himself entitled to retaliate, What then can ensue but a continual exacerbation of hatred, an unextinguishable feud, and incessant reciprocation of mischief, a mutual vigilance to entrap, and eagerness to destroy.

SINCE then the imaginary right of vengeance must be at last remitted, because it is impossible to live in perpetual hostility, and equally impossible that of two enemies, either should first think himself obliged by justice to submission, it is surely eligible to forgive early. Every passion is more easily subdued before it has been long accustomed to possession of the heart; every idea is obliterated with less difficulty as it has been more slightly impressed, and less frequently renewed. He who has often brooded over his wrongs, pleased himself with schemes of malignity, and glutted his pride with the fancied supplications of humbled enmity, will not easily open his bosom to amity and reconciliation, or indulge the gentle sentiments of benevolence and peace.

IT is easiest to forgive, while there is yet little to be forgiven. A single injury may be soon dismissed from the memory; but a long succession of ill offices by degrees associates itself with every idea, a long contest involves so many circumstances, that every place and action will recal it to the mind, and fresh remembrance of vexation must still enkindle rage, and irritate revenge.

A WISE man will make haste to forgive, because he knows the true value of time, and will not suffer it to pass away in unnecessary pain. He that willingly suffers the corrosions of inveterate hatred, and gives up his days and nights to the gloom of malice, and perturbations of stratagem, cannot surely be said to consult his ease. Resentment is a union of sorrow with malignity, a combination of a passion which all endeavour to avoid, with a passion which all concur to detest. The man who retires to meditate mischief, and to exasperate his own rage; whose thoughts are employed only on means of distress and contrivances of ruin; whose mind never pauses from the remembrance of his own sufferings, but to indulge some hope of enjoying the calamities of another, may justly be numbered among the most miserable of human beings, among those who are guilty without reward, who have neither the gladness of prosperity, nor the calm of innocence.

WHOEVER considers the weakness both of himself and others will not long want persuasives to forgiveness. We know not to what degree of malignity any injury is to be imputed; or how much its guilt, if we were to inspect the mind of him that committed it, would be extenuated by mistake, precipitance, or negligence; we cannot be certain how much more we feel than was intended to be inflicted, or how much we encrease the mischief to ourselves by voluntary aggravations. We may charge to design the effects of accident; we may think the blow violent only because we have made ourselves delicate and tender; we are on every side in danger of error and of guilt, which we are certain to avoid only by speedy forgiveness.

FROM this pacifick and harmless temper, thus propitious to others and ourselves, to domestick tranquility and to social happiness, no man is with-held but by pride, by the fear of being insulted by his adversary or despised by the world.

IT may be laid down as an unfailing and universal axiom, that, "all pride is abject and mean." It is always an ignorant, lazy, or cowardly acquiescence in a false appearance of excellence, and proceeds not from consciousness of our attainments but insensibility of our wants.

NOTHING can be great which is not right. Nothing which reason condemns can be suitable to the dignity of the human mind. To be driven by external motives from the path which our own heart approves, to give way to any thing but conviction, to suffer the opinion of others to rule our choice, or over-power our resolves, is to submit tamely to the lowest and most ignominious slavery, and to resign the right of directing our own lives.

THE utmost excellence at which humanity can arrive, is a constant and determinate pursuit of virtue, without regard to present dangers or advantage; a continual reference of every action to the divine will; an habitual appeal to everlasting justice; and an unvaried elevation of the intellectual eye to the reward which perseverance only can obtain. But that pride which many who presume to boast of generous sentiments, allow to regulate their measures, has nothing nobler in view than the approbation of men, of beings whose superiority we are under no obligation to acknowledge, and who, when we have courted them with the utmost assiduity, can confer no valuable or permanent reward; of beings who ignorantly judge of what they do not understand, or partially determine what they never have examined; and whose sentence is therefore of no weight till it has received the ratification of our own conscience.

HE that can descend to bribe suffrages like these at the price of his innocence; he that can suffer the delight of such acclamations to with-hold his attention from the commands of the universal sovereign, has little reason to congratulate himself upon the greatness of his mind; whenever he awakes to seriousness and reflection, he must become despicable in his own eyes, and shrink with shame from the remembrance of his cowardice and folly.

OF him that hopes to be forgiven it is indispensibly required, that he forgive. It is therefore superfluous to urge any other motive. On this great duty eternity is suspended, and to him that refuses to practise it, the throne of mercy is inaccessible, and the SAVIOUR of the world has been born in vain.

NUMB. 186. SATURDAY, Dec. 28, 1751.

Pone me, pigris ubi nulla campis

Arbor aestivâ recreatur Aurâ—

Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,

Dulce loquentem.

HOR.

OF the happiness and misery of our present state, part arises from our sensations, and part from our opinions; part is distributed by nature, and part is in a great measure apportioned by ourselves. Positive pleasure we cannot always obtain, and positive pain we often cannot remove. No man can give to his own plantations the fragrance of the Indian groves; nor will any precepts of philosophy enable him to withdraw his attention from wounds or diseases. But the negative infelicity which proceeds, not from the pressure of sufferings, but the absence of enjoyments, will always yield to the remedies of reason.

ONE of the great arts of escaping superfluous uneasiness is to free our minds from the habit of comparing our condition with that of others on whom the blessings of life are more bountifully bestowed, or with imaginary states of delight and security perhaps unattainable by mortals. Few are placed in a situation so gloomy and distresful, as not to see every day beings yet more forlorn and miserable from whom they may learn to rejoice in their own lot.

No inconvenience is less superable by art or diligence than the inclemency of climates, and therefore, none affords more proper exercise for this philosophical abstraction. A native of England, pinched with the frosts of December, may lessen his affection for his own country, by suffering his imagination to wander in the vales of Asia, and sport among woods that are always green, and streams that always murmur; but if he turns his thoughts towards the polar regions, and considers the nations to whom a great portion of the year is darkness, and who are condemned to pass weeks and months amidst mountains of snow, he will soon recover his tranquility, and while he stirs his fire, or throws his cloak about him, reflect how much he owes to providence, that he is not placed in Greenland or Siberia.

THE barrenness of the earth, and the severity of the skies in these dreary countries are such as might be expected to confine the mind wholly to the contemplation of necessity and distress, so that the care of escaping death from cold and hunger, should leave no room for those passions, which, in lands of plenty, fluence conduct, or diversify characters; but the summer should be spent only in providing for the winter, and the winter in longing for the summer.

YET learned curiosity is known to have found its way into these abodes of poverty and gloom: Lapland and Iceland have their historians, their criticks, and their poets, and love, that extends his dominion wherever humanity can be found, perhaps exerts the same power in the Greenlander's hut, as in the palaces of eastern monarchs.

IN one of the large caves to which the families of Greenland retire together to pass the cold months, and which may be termed their villages or cities, a youth and maid who came from different parts of the country, were so much distinguished for their beauty, that they were called by the rest of the inhabitants Anningait and Ajut, from a supposed resemblance to their ancestors of the same names, who had been transformed of old into the sun and moon.

ANNINGAIT, for some time heard the praises of Ajut with little emotion, but at last by frequent interviews became sensible of her charms, and first made a discovery of his affection, by inviting her with her parents to a feast, where he placed before Ajut the tail of a whale. Ajut seemed not much delighted by this gallantry, yet, however, from that time, was observed rarely to appear, but in a vest made of the skin of a white deer; she used frequently to renew the black dye upon her hands and forehead, to adorn her sleeves with coral and shells, and to braid her hair with great exactness.

THE elegance of her dress, and the judicious disposition of her ornaments, had such an effect upon Anningait, that he could no longer be restrained from a declaration of his love. He therefore composed a poem in her praise, in which, among other heroick and tender sentiments he protested, that "She was beautiful as the vernal willow, and fragrant as thyme upon the mountains; that her fingers were white as the teeth of the morse, and her smile grateful as the dissolution of the ice; that he would pursue her, though she should pass the snows of the midland cliffs, or seek shelter in the caves of the eastern canibals; that he would tear her from the embraces of the genius of the rocks, snatch her from the paws of Amarce, and rescue her from the ravine of Hafgufa;" he concluded with a wish, that, "whoever shall attempt to hinder his union with Ajut, might be buried without his bow, and that in the land of souls his skull might serve for no other use than to catch the droppings of the starry lamps."

THIS ode being universally applauded, it was expected that Ajut would soon yield to such fervour and accomplishments; but Ajut, with the natural haughtiness of beauty, expected the usual forms of courtship; and before she would confess herself conquered, the sun returned, the ice broke, and the season of labour called all to their employments.

ANNINGAIT and Ajut for a time always went out in the same boat, and divided whatever was caught. Anningait, in the sight of his mistress, lost no opportunity of signalizing his courage; he attacked the sea-horses on the ice; pursued the seals into the water; and leaped upon the back of the whale, while he was yet struggling with the remains of life. Nor was his diligence less to accumulate all that could be necessary to make winter comfortable; he dried the roe of fishes, and the flesh of seals; he entrapped deer and foxes, and dressed their skins to adorn his bride; he feasted her with eggs from the rocks; and strewed her tent with flowers.

IT happened that a tempest drove the fish to a distant part of the coast before Anningait had compleated his store; he therefore entreated Ajut, that she would at last grant him her hand, and accompany him to that part of the country, whither he was now summoned by necessity. Ajut thought him not yet entitled to such condescension, but proposed, as a trial of his constancy, that he should return at the end of summer to the cavern where their acquaintance commenced, and there expect the reward of his assiduities. "O virgin, beautiful as the sun shining on the water, consider," said Anningait, "what thou hast required. How easily may my return be precluded by a sudden frost or unexpected fogs; then must the night be past without my Ajut. We live not, my fair, in those fabled countries, which lying strangers so wantonly describe; where the whole year is divided into short days and nights; where the same habitation serves for summer and winter; where they raise houses in rows above the ground; dwell together from year to year, with flocks of tame animals grazing in the fields about them; can travel at any time from one place to another through ways enclosed with trees, or over walls raised upon the inland waters; and direct their course through wide countries by the sight of green hills or scattered buildings. Even in summer we have no means of crossing the mountains, whose snows are never dissolved; nor can remove to any distant residence, but in our boats coasting the bays. Consider, Ajut; a few summer days, and a few winter nights, and the life of man is at an end. Night is the time of ease, and festivity, of revels and gaiety; but what will be the flaming lamp, the delicious seal, or the soft oil, without the smile of Ajut?"

THE eloquence of Anningait was vain; the maid continued inexorable, and they parted with ardent promises to meet again before the night of winter.

NUMB. 187. TUESDAY, Dec. 31, 1751.

Non illum nostri possunt mutare Labores,

Non si Frigoribus mediis Hebrumque bibamus,

Sithoniasque Nives Hiemis subeamus aquosae—

Omnia vincit Amor.

VIRG.

ANNINGAIT, however discomposed by the dilatory coyness of Ajut, was yet resolved to omit no tokens of amorous respect, and therefore, presented her at his departure with the skins of seven white fawns, of five swans and eleven seals, with three marble lamps, ten vessels of seal oil, and a large kettle of brass, which he had purchased from a ship, at the price of half a whale and two horns of sea unicorns.

AJUT was so much affected by the fondness of her lover, or so much overpowered by his magnificence, that she followed him to the seaside, and, when she saw him enter the boat, wished aloud, that he might return with plenty of skins and oil; that neither the mermaids might snatch him into the deeps, nor the spirits of the rocks confine him in their caverns.

SHE stood a while to gaze upon the departing vessel, and then returning to her hut silent and dejected, laid aside, from that hour, her white deer skin, suffered her hair to spread unbraided on her shoulders, and forbore to mix in the dances of the maidens. She endeavoured to divert her thoughts by continual application to feminine employments, gathered moss for the winter lamps, and dried grass to line the boots of Anningait. Of the skins which he had bestowed upon her she made a fishing coat, a small boat, and tent, all of exquisite manufacture, and while she was thus busied, solaced her labours with a song, in which she prayed, "that her lover might have hands stronger than the paws of the bear, and feet swifter than the feet of the raindeer; that his dart might never err, and that his boat might never leak; that he might never stumble on the ice, nor faint in the water; that the seal might rush on his harpoon, and the wounded whale might dash the waves in vain."

THE large boats in which the Greenlanders transport their families are always rowed by women, for a man will not debase himself by work, which requires neither skill nor courage. Anningait was therefore exposed by idleness to the ravages of passion. He went thrice to the stern of the boat, with an intent to leap into the water, and swim back to his mistress; but recollecting the misery which they must endure in the winter without oil for the lamp, or skins for the bed, he resolved to employ the weeks of absence in provision for a night of plenty and felicity. He then composed his emotions as he could, and expressed in wild numbers and uncouth images, his hopes, his sorrows, and his fears. "O life," says he, "srail and uncertain! where shall wretched man find thy resemblance but in ice floating on the ocean? It towers on high, it sparkles from afar, while the storms drive and the waters beat it, the sun melts it above and the rocks shatter it below. What art thou deceitful pleasure, but a sudden blaze streaming from the north, which plays a moment on the eye, mocks the traveller with the hopes of light, and then vanishes forever? What, love, art thou but a whirlpool, which we approach without knowledge of our danger, drawn on by imperceptible degrees, till we have lost all power of resistance and escape? Till I fixed my eyes on the graces of Ajut, while I had yet not called her to the banquet, I was careless as the sleeping morse, I was merry as the singers in the stars. Why, Ajut, did I gaze upon thy graces? why, my fair, did I call thee to the banquet? Yet, be faithful, my love, remember Anningait, and meet my return with the smile of virginity. I will chase the deer, I will subdue the whale, resistless as the frost of darkness, and unwearied as the summer sun. In a few weeks, I shall return prosperous and wealthy; then shall the rocfish and the porpoise, feast thy kindred; the fox and hare shall cover thy couch; the tough hide of the seal shall shelter thee from cold; and the fat of the whale illuminate thy dwelling."

ANNINGAIT having with these sentiments consoled his grief and animated his industry, found that they had now coasted the headland, and saw the whales spouting at a distance. He therefore placed himself in his fishing boat, called his associates to their several employments, plied his oar and harpoon with incredible courage and dexterity, and, by dividing his time between the chace and fishery, suspended the miseries of absence and suspicion.

AJUT, in the mean time, notwithstanding her neglected dress, happened as she was drying some skins in the sun, to catch the eye of Norngsuk, on his return from hunting. Norngsuk was of birth truly illustrious. His mother had died in childbirth, and his father, the most expert fisher of Greenland, had perished by too close pursuit of the whale. His dignity was equalled by his riches; he was master of four mens and two womens boats, had ninety tubs of oil in his winter habitation, and five and twenty seals buried in the snow against the season of darkness. When he saw the beauty of Ajut, he immediately threw over her the skin of a deer that he had taken, and soon after presented her with a branch of coral. Ajut refused his gifts, and determined to admit no lover in the place of Anningait.

NORNGSUK, thus rejected, had recourse to stratagem. He knew that Ajut would consult an Angekkok, or diviner, concerning the fate of her lover, and the felicity of her future life. He therefore applied himself to the most celebrated Angekkok of that part of the country, and by a present of two seals and a marble kettle, obtained a promise that when Ajut should consult him, he would declare that her lover was in the land of souls. Ajut, in a short time, brought him a coat made by herself, and enquired what events were to befal her, with assurances of a much larger reward at the return of Anningait if the prediction should flatter her desires. The Angekkok knew the way to riches, and foretold that Anningait, having already caught two whales, would soon return home with a large boat laden with provisions.

THIS prognostication she was ordered to keep secret, and Norngsuk depending upon his artifice renewed his addresses with greater confidence; but finding his suit still unsuccessful, applied himself to her parents with gifts and promises. The wealth of Greenland is too powerful for the virtue of a Greenlander; they forgot the merit and the presents of Anningait, and decreed Ajut to the embrace of Norngsuk. She entreated; she remonstrated; she wept, and raved; but finding riches irresistible, fled away into the uplands, and lived in a cave upon such berries as she could gather, and the birds or hares which she had the fortune to ensnare, taking care at an hour when she was not likely to be found, to view the sea every day, that her lover might not miss her at his return.

AT last she saw the great boat in which Anningait had departed, stealing slow and heavy laden along the coast. She ran with all the impatience of affection to catch her lover in her arms, and relate her constancy and sufferings. When the company reached the land they informed her, that Anningait, after the fishery was ended, being unable to support the slow passage of the vessel of carriage, had set out before them in his fishing boat, and they expected at their arrival to have found him on shore.

AJUT, distracted at this intelligence, was about to fly again into the hills without knowing why, though she was now in the hands of her parents, who forced her back to their own hut, and endeavoured to comfort her; but when at last they retired to rest, Ajut went down to the beach, where finding a fishing boat, she entered it without hesitation, and telling those who wondered at her rashness, that she was going in search of Anningait, rowed away with great swiftness, and was seen no more.

THE fate of these lovers gave occasion to various fictions and conjectures. Some are of opinion that they were changed into stars; others imagine that Anningait was seized in his passage by the genius of the rocks, and that Ajut was transformed into a mermaid, and still continues to seek her lover in the desarts of the sea. But the general persuasion is, that they are both in that part of the land of souls where the sun never sets, where oil is always fresh, and provisions always warm. The virgins sometimes throw a thimble, and a needle into the bay, from which the hapless maid departed; and when a Greenlander would praise any couple for virtuous affection, he declares, that they love like Anningait and Ajut.

NUMB. 188. SATURDAY, Jan. 4, 1752.

—Si te colo, Sexte, non amabo.

MART.

NONE of the desires dictated by vanity is more general or less blamable than that of being distinguished for the arts of conversation. Other accomplishments may be possessed without opportunity of exerting them, or wanted without danger that the desect can often be remarked; but as no man can live otherwise than in an hermitage, without hourly pleasure or vexation from the fondness or neglect of those about him, the faculty of giving pleasure is of continual use. Few are more frequently envied than those who have the power of forcing attention wherever they come, whose entrance is considered as a promise of selicity, and whose departure is lamented, like the recess of the sun from northern climates, as a privation of all that enlivens fancy or inspirits gaiety.

IT is apparent, that to excellence in this valuable art some peculiar qualifications are necessary; for every one's experience will inform him, that the pleasure which men are able to give in conversation, holds no stated proportion to their knowledge or their virtue. Many find their way to the tables and the parties of those who never consider them as of the least importance in any other place; we have all, at one time or other, been content to love those whom we could not esteem, and been persuaded to try the dangerous experiment of admitting him for a companion, whom we knew to be too ignorant for a counsellor, and too treacherous for a friend.

I QUESTION whether some abatement of character is not almost necessary to general acceptance. Few spend their time with much satisfaction under the eye of uncontested superiority, and therefore, among those who are received with universal welcome, and whose presence is courted at assembles of jollity, there are seldom •ound men eminently distinguished for powers of nature or acquisitions of study. The wit whose vivacity condemns •lower tongues to silence, the scholar whose knowledge allows no man to fansy that he instructs him, the critick who suffers no fallacy to pass undetected, the reasoner who condemns idleness to thought and negligence to attention, are generally praised and seared, reverenced and avoided.

HE that would please must rarely aim at such excellence as depresses his hearers in their own opinion, or debars them from the hope of contributing reciprocally to the entertainment of the company. Merriment extorted by sallies of imagination, sprightliness of remark, or quickness of reply, is too often what the Latins call, the Sardinian Laughter, a distortion of the face without gladness of heart.

FOR this reason, no stile of conversation is more extensively acceptable than the narrative. He who has stored his memory with slight anecdotes, private incidents, and personal particularities, seldom fails to find his audience favourable. Almost every man listens with eagerness to contemporary history; for almost every man has some real or imaginary connection with a celebrated character, some desire to advance, or oppose a rising name. Vanity often co-operates with curiosity. He that is a hearer in one place qualifies himself to become a speaker in another; for though he cannot comprehend a series of argument, or transport the volatile spirit of wit with evaporation, he yet thinks himself able to treasure up the various incidents of a story, and pleases his hopes with the information which he shall give to some inferior society.

NARRATIVES are for the most part heard without envy, because they are not supposed to imply any intellectual qualities above the common rate. To be acquainted with facts not yet ecchoed by plebeian mouths, may happen to one man as well as to another, and to relate them when they are known, has in appearance so little difficulty, that every one concludes himself equal to the task.

BUT it is not easy, and in some situations not possible, to accumulate such a stock of materials, as may support the expence of continual narration; and it frequently happens, that they who attempt this method of ingratiating themselves, please only at the first interview, and, for want of new supplies of intelligence, wear out their stories by continual repetition.

THERE would be, therefore, little hope of obtaining the praise of a good companion, were it not to be gained by more compendious methods; but such is the kindness of mankind to all except those who aspire to real merit and rational dignity, that every understanding may find some way to benevolence, and whoever is not envied may learn the art of procuring love. We are willing to be pleased, but we are not willing to admire; we favour the mirth or officiousness that solicits our regard, but oppose the worth or spirit that enforces it.

THE first place among those that please because they desire only to please, is due to the merry fellow, whose laugh is loud, and whose voice is strong; who is ready to eccho every jest with obstreperous approbation, and countenance every frolick with vociferations of applause. It is not necessary to a merry fellow to have in himself any fund of jocularity, or force of conception; it is sufficient that he always appears in the highest exaltation of gladness, for the greater part of mankind are gay or serious by infection, and follow without resistance the attraction of example.

NEXT to the merry fellow is the good-natured man, a being generally without benevolence or any other virtue than such as indolence and insensibility confer. The characteristick of a good-natured man is to bear a joke; to sit unmoved and unaffected amidst noise and turbulence, profaneness and obscenity; to hear every tale without contradiction; to endure insult without reply; and to follow the stream of folly whatever course it shall happen to take. The good-natured man is commonly the darling of the petty wits, with whom they exercise themselves in the rudiments of raillery; for he never takes advantage of failings, nor disconcerts a puny satirist with unexpected sarcasms, but while the glass continues to circulate contentedly bears the expence of uninterrupted laughter, and retires rejoicing at his own importance.

THE modest man is a companion of a yet lower rank, whose only power of giving pleasure is not to interrupt it. The modest man satisfies himself with peaceful silence, which all his companions are candid enough to consider as proceeding not from inability to speak, but willingness to hear.

MANY without being able to attain any general character of excellence, have some single art of entertainment which serves them as a passport through the world. One I have known for fifteen years the darling of a weekly club, because every night precisely at eleven, he begins his favourite song, and during the vocal performance by correspondent motions of his hand chalks out a giant upon the wall. Another has endeared himself to a long succession of acquaintances by sitting among them with his wig reversed; another by contriving to smut the nose of any stranger who was to be initiated in the club; another by purring like a cat, and then pretending to be frighted; and another by yelping like a hound, and calling to the drawers to drive out the dog.

SUCH are the arts by which cheerfulness is promoted, and sometimes friendship established; arts, which those who despise them, should not rigorously blame, except when they are practised at the expence of innocence; for it is always necessary to be loved, but not always necessary to be reverenced.

NUMB. 189. TUESDAY, Jan. 7, 1752.

Quod tam grande sophos clamat tibi Turba togata,

Non tu, Pomponi, coena diserta tua est.

MART.

THE world scarcely affords opportunities of making any observation more frequently, than on false claims to praise and reputation. Almost every man wastes part of his life in attempts to display qualities which he does not possess, and to gain applause which he cannot keep; nor is it possible to enter any assembly without seeing one part offended or diverted by the ostentation of the other.

OF these pretenders it is fit to distinguish those who endeavour to deceive from them who are deceived; those who by designed impostures promote their interest or gratify their pride, from them who mean only to force into regard their latent excellencies and neglected virtues; who believe themselves qualified to instruct or please, and therefore invite the notice of mankind.

THE artful and fraudulent usurpers of distinction deserve greater severities than ridicule and contempt, since they are seldom content with empty praise, but are instigated by passions more pernicious than vanity. They consider the reputation which they endeavour to establish as necessary to the accomplishment of some subsequent design, and value praise only as it may conduce to the success of avarice or ambition.

THE commercial world is very frequently put into confusion by the bankrupcy of merchants, that assumed the splendour of wealth only to obtain the privilege of trading with the stock of other men, and of contracting debts which nothing but lucky casualties could enable them to pay; till after having supported their appearance awhile by a tumultuary magnificence of boundless traffick, they sink at once, and drag down into poverty those whom their equipages had induced to trust them.

AMONG wretches that place their happiness in the favour of beings whom only high titles or large estates set above themselves, nothing is more common than to boast of confidence which they do not enjoy; to sell promises which they know their interest unable to perform; and to reimburse the tribute which they pay to some prosperous slave, from the contributions of meaner dependents, whom they can amuse with tales of their influence and hopes of their solicitation.

YET among some too thoughtless or volatile for avarice or ambition, may be found a species of falshood more detestable than the levee or exchange can shew. There are men that boast of debaucheries, of which they never had address to be guilty; ruin by lewd tales the characters of women to whom they are scarcely known, or by whom they have been rejected; destroy in a drunken frolick the happiness of families; blast the bloom of beauty; and intercept the reward of virtue.

OTHER artifices of falshood, though utterly unworthy of an ingenuous mind, are yet not to be ranked with flagitious enormities, nor is it necessary to incite the vengeance of sanguinary justice against them, since they may be adequately punished by detection and laughter. The traveller who describes cities which he has never seen; the squire who at his return from London, tells of his intimacy with nobles to whom he has only bowed in the park or coffee-house; the author who entertains his admirers with stories of the assistance which he gives to wits of a higher rank; the city dame who is careful to introduce the mention of her visits at great houses where she happens to know the cookmaid, are surely such harmless animals as truth herself may be content to despise without desiring to hurt them.

BUT of the multitudes who struggle in vain for distinction, and display their own merits only to feel more acutely the sting of neglect, a great part are wholly innocent of deceit, and are betrayed by infatuation and credulity to that scorn with which the universal love of praise incites us all to drive feeble competitors out of our way.

FEW men survey themselves with so much severity, as not to admit prejudices in their own favour, which an artful flatterer may gradually strengthen, till wishes for a particular qualification are improved to hopes of attainment, and hopes of attainment to belief of possession. Such flatterers every one will find who has power to reward their assiduities. Wherever there is wealth, there will be dependance and expectation, and wherever there is dependance, there will be an emulation of servility.

MANY of the follies which provoke general censure are the effects of such vanity, as however it might have wantoned in the imagination, would scarcely have dared the publick eye, had it not been animated and emboldened by flattery. Whatever difficulty there may be in the knowledge of ourselves, scarcely any one fails to suspect his own imperfections, till he is elevated by others to confidence. Almost every man is naturally modest and timorous, but fear and shame are uneasy sensations, and whosoever helps to remove them is received with kindness.

TURPICULA was born the heiress of a large estate, and having lost her mother in her infancy, was committed to the care of a governess, whom misfortunes had reduced to accept any terms on which she could be decently supported. The fondness of Turpicula's father would not suffer him to trust her at a publick school, but he took care to hire domestick teachers, and bestowed on her all the accomplishments which wealth could purchase. But how many things are necessary to happiness which money cannot obtain? Being by this scheme of education, secluded from all with whom she might converse on terms of equality, she heard none of those intimations of her defects, which envy petulance or anger produce among children, where they are not afraid of telling what they think.

TURPICULA saw nothing but obsequiousness, and heard nothing but commendations; because few approached her who did not consider it as their interest to please. None are so little acquainted with the ruling passions of the heart, as not to know that woman's first wish is to be handsome, and that consequently the readiest method of obtaining her kindness is to praise her beauty. Turpicula had a distorted shape and a dark complexion, yet the impudence of adulation ventured to tell her of the commanding dignity of her motion, and the soft enchantment of her smile. She was easily convinced that she was the delight or torment of every eye, and that all who ventured to gaze upon her, felt the fire of envy or love. She therefore neglected the culture of an understanding which might have supplied the defects of her form, and applied all her care to the decoration of her person; for she considered that more could judge of beauty than of wit, and was, like the rest of human beings, in haste to be admired. The desire of conquest naturally led her to the lists in which beauty signalizes her power. She glittered at court, fluttered in the park, and talked loud in the frontbox; but after a thousand experiments of her charms, was at last convinced that she had been flattered, and that her glass was honester than her maid.

NUMB. 190. SATURDAY, Jan. 11, 1752.

Ploravere suis non respondere favorem

Quaesitum meritis.

HOR.

AMONG the emirs and visiers, the sons of valour and of wisdom, that stand at the corners of the Indian throne, to assist the counsels or conduct the wars of the posterity of Timur, the first place was long held by Morad the son of Hanuth. Morad having signalized himself in many battles and sieges, was rewarded with the government of a province, from which the fame of his wisdom and moderation was wafted to the pinacles of Agra, by the prayers of those whom his administration made happy. The emperor called him into his presence, and gave into his hand the keys of riches, and the sabre of command. The voice of Morad was heard from the cliffs of Taurus to the Indian ocean, every tongue faultered in his presence, and every eye was cast down before him.

MORAD lived many years in prosperity; every day encreased his wealth, and extended his influence. The sages repeated his maxims, the captains of thousands waited his commands. Competition withdrew into the cavern of envy, and discontent trembled at her own murmurs. But human greatness is short and transitory, as the odour of incense in the fire. The sun grew weary of gilding the palaces of Morad, the clouds of sorrow gathered round his head, and the tempest of hatred roared about his dwelling.

MORAD saw ruin hastily approaching. The first that forsook him were his poets; their example was followed by all those whom he had rewarded for contributing to his pleasures, and only a few, whose virtue had entitled them to favour, were now to be seen in his hall or chambers. He felt his danger, and prostrated himself at the foot of the throne. His accusers were confident and loud, his friends stood contented with frigid neutrality, and the voice of truth was overborn by clamour. He was divested of his power, deprived of his acquisitions, and condemned to pass the rest of his life on his hereditary estate.

MORAD had been so long accustomed to crouds and business, supplicants and flattery, that he knew not how to fill up his hours in solitude; he saw with regret the sun rise to force a new day on his eye for which he had no use; and envied the savage that wanders in the desart, because he has no time vacant from the calls of nature, but is always chasing his prey, or sleeping in his den.

HIS discontent in time vitiated his constitution, and a slow disease seized upon him. He refused physick, neglected exercise, and lay down on his couch peevish and restless, rather afraid to dye than desirous to live. His domesticks for a time redoubled their assiduities, but finding that no officiousness could sooth nor exactness satisfy, soon gave way to negligence and sloth, and he that once commanded nations, often languished in his chamber without an attendant.

IN this melancholy state, he commanded messengers to recal his eldest son Abouzaid from the army. Abouzaid was alarmed at the account of his father's sickness, and hasted by long journeys to his place of residence. Morad was yet living, and felt his strength return at the embraces of his son, then commanding him to sit down at his bedside, "Abouzaid," says he, "thy father has no more to hope or fear from the inhabitants of the earth, the cold hand of the angel of death is now upon him, and the voracious grave howls for his prey. Hear therefore the precepts of ancient experience, let not my last instructions issue forth in vain. Thou hast seen me happy and calamitous, thou hast beheld my exaltation and my fall. My power is in the hands of my enemies, my treasures have rewarded my accusers; but my inheritance the clemency of the emperor has spared, and my wisdom his anger could not take away. Cast thine eyes round thee, whatever thou beholdest will in a few hours be thine; apply thine ear to my dictates, and these possessions will promote thy happiness. Aspire not to publick honours, enter not the palaces of kings; thy wealth will set thee above insult, let thy moderation keep below envy. Content thyself with private dignity, diffuse thy riches among thy friends, let every day extend thy beneficence, and suffer not thy heart to be at rest till thou art loved by all to whom thou art known. In the height of my power, I said to defamation, who will hear thee? and to artifice, what canst thou perform? But my son, despise not thou the malice of the weakest, remember that venom supplies the want of strength, and that the lion may perish by the puncture of an asp."

MORAD expired in a few hours. Abouzaid, after the months of mourning, determined to regulate his conduct by his father's precepts, and cultivate the love of mankind by every art of kindness and endearment. He wisely considered, that domestick happiness was first to be secured, and that none have so much power of doing good or hurt, as those who are present in the hour of negligence, hear the bursts of thoughtless merriment, and observe the 〈◊〉 of unguarded passion. He therefore augmented the pay of all his attendants, and requited every exertion of uncommon diligence by supernumerary gratuities. While he congratulated himself upon the fidelity and affection of his family, he was in the night alarmed by robbers, who, being pursued and taken, declared, that they had been admitted by one of his servants; the servant immediately confessed, that he unbarred the door, because another not more worthy of confidence was entrusted with the keys.

ABOUZAID was thus convinced that a dependant could not easily be made a friend; and that while many were soliciting for the first rank of favour, all those would be alienated whom he disappointed. He therefore resolved to associate with a few equal companions selected from among the chief men of the province. With these he lived happily for a time, till familiarity set them free from restraint, and every man thought himself at liberty to indulge his own caprice, and advance his own opinions. They then disturbed each other with contrariety of inclinations, and difference of sentiments, and Abouzaid was necessitated to offend one party by concurrence, or both by indifference.

HE afterwards determined to avoid a close union with beings so discordant in their nature, and to diffuse himself in a larger circle. He practised the smile of universal courtesy, and invited all to his table, but admitted none to his retirements. Many who had been rejected in his choice of friendship now refused to accept his acquaintance; and of those whom plenty and magnificence drew to his table, every one pressed forward toward intimacy, thought himself overlooked in the croud, and murmured because he was not distinguished above the rest. By degrees all made advances, and all resented repulse. The table was then covered with delicacies in vain; the musick sounded in empty rooms; and Abouzaid was left to form in solitude some new scheme of pleasure or security.

RESOLVING now to try the force of gratitude, he enquired for men of science, whose merit was obscured by poverty. His house was soon crouded with poets, sculptors, painters, and designers, who wantoned in unexperienced plenty, and employed their powers in celebration of their patron. But in a short time they forgot the distress from which they had been rescued, and began to consider their deliverer as a wretch of narrow capacity, who was growing great by works which he could not perform, and whom they overpaid by condescending to accept his bounties. Abouzaid heard their murmurs and dismissed them, and from that hour continued blind to colours, and deaf to panegyrick.

AS the sons of art departed muttering threats of perpetual infamy, Abouzaid, who stood at the gate, called to him Hamet the poet. "Hamet," said he, "thy ingratitude has put an end to my hopes and experiments; I have now learned the vanity of those labours, which hope to be rewarded by human benevolence; I shall henceforth do good and avoid evil without respect to the opinion of men; and resolve to solicit only the approbation of that being whom alone we are sure to please by endeavouring to please him."

NUMB. 191. TUESDAY, Jan. 14, 1752.

Cercus in Vitium flecti, Monitoribus asper.

HOR.

To the RAMBLER.

Dear Mr. RAMBLER,

I HAVE been four days confined to my chamber by a cold, which has already kept me from three plays, nine sales, five shows, and six card-tables, and put me seventeen visits behind hand; and the doctor tells my mamma, that if I fret and cry, it will settle in my head, and I shall not be sit to be seen these six weeks. But, dear Mr. Rambler, how can I help it? at this very time Melissa is dancing with the prettiest gentleman;—she will breakfast with him to-morrow, and then run to two auctions, and hear compliments, and have presents; then she will be drest, and visit, and get a ticket to the play; then go to cards, and win, and come home with two flambeaus before her chair. Dear Mr. Rambler, who can bear it?

MY aunt has just brought me a bundle of your papers for my amusement. She says, you are a philosopher, and will teach me to moderate my desires, and look upon the world with indifference. But, dear sir, I do not wish nor intend to moderate my desires, nor can I think it proper to look upon the world with indifference, till the world looks with indifference on me. I have been forced, however, to sit this morning a whole quarter of an hour with your paper before my face; but just as my aunt came in, Phyllida had brought me a letter from Mr. Trip, which I put within the leaves, and read about absence and inconsolableness, and ardour, and irresistible passion, and eternal constancy, while my aunt imagined, that I was puzzling myself with your philosophy, and often cried out, when she saw me look confused, "If there is any word that you do not understand, child, I will explain it."

DEAR soul! how old people that think themselves wise may be imposed upon! But it is fit that they should take their turn, for I am sure, while they can keep poor girls close in the nursery, they tyrannise over our understanding in a very shameful manner, and fill our imaginations with tales of terror, only to make us live in quiet subjection, and fansy that we can never be fase but by their protection.

I HAVE a mamma and two aunts, who have all been formerly celebrated for wit and beauty, and are still generally admired by those that value themselves upon their understanding, and love to talk of vice and virtue, nature and simplicity, and beauty, and propriety; but if there was not some hope of meeting me, scarcely a creature would come near them that wears a fashionable coat. These ladies, Mr. Rambler, have had me under their government fifteen years and a half, and have all that time been endeavouring to deceive me by such representations of life as I cannot yet find to be true, but which I knew not whether I ought to impute to ignorance or malice, as it is possible the world may be much changed since they mingled in general conversation.

BEING desirous that I should love books, they told me, that nothing but knowledge could make me an agreeable companion to men of sense, or qualify me to distinguish the superficial glitter of vanity from the solid merit of understanding; and that a habit of reading would enable me to fill up the vacuities of life without the help of trivial or dangerous amusements, and preserve me from the snares of idleness and the inroads of temptation.

BUT their principal intention seems to have been to make me afraid of men, in which they succeeded so well for a time, that I durst not look in their faces, or be left alone with them in a parlour; for they made me fansy, that no man ever spoke but to deceive, or looked but to allure; that the girl who suffered him that had once squeezed her hand, to approach her a second time was on the brink of ruin; and that she who answered a billet, without consulting her relations, gave love such power over her, that she would certainly become either poor or infamous.

FROM the time that my leading-strings were taken off, I scarce heard any mention of my beauty but from the milliner, the mantua-maker, and my own maid; for my mamma never said more when she heard me commended, but "The girl is very well," and then endeavoured to divert my attention by some enquiry after my needle, or my book.

IT is now three months since I have been suffered to pay and receive visits, to dance at publick assemblies, to have a place kept for me in the boxes, and to play at lady Racket's rout; and you may easily imagine what I think of those who have so long cheated me with false expectations, disturbed me with sictitious terrors, and concealed from me all that I have found to make the happiness of woman.

I AM so far from perceiving the usefulness or necessity of books, that if I had not dropped all pretensions to learning I should have lost Mr. Trip, whom I once frighted into another box, by retailing some of Dryden's remarks upon a tragedy; for Mr. Trip declares that he hates nothing like hard words, and I am sure, there is not a better partner to be found; his very walk is a dance. I have talked once or twice among ladies about principles and ideas, but they put their fans before their faces, and told me, I was too wise for them, who for their part, never pretended to read any thing but the play-bill, and then asked me the price of my best head.

THOSE vacancies of time which are to be filled up with books, I have never yet obtained; for, consider, Mr. Rambler, I go to bed late, and therefore cannot rise early; as soon as I am up, I dress for the gardens; then walk in the park; then always go to some sale or show, or entertainment at the little theatre; then must be dressed for dinner; then must pay my visits; then walk in the park; then hurry to the play; and from thence to the card-table. This is the general course of the day when there happens nothing extraordinary; but sometimes I ramble into the country and come back again to a ball; sometimes I am engaged for a whole day and part of the night. If, at any time, I can gain an hour by not being at home, I have so many things to do, so many orders to give to the milliner, so many alterations to make in my cloaths, so many visitants names to read over, so many invitations to accept or refuse, so many cards to write, and so many fashions to consider, that I am lost in confusion, forced at last to let in company or step into my chair, and leave half my affairs to the direction of my maid.

THIS is the round of my day; and when shall I either stop my course, or so change it as to want a book? I suppose it cannot be imagined that any of these diversions will be soon at an end, There will always be gardens, and a park, and auctions, and shows, and playhouses, and cards; visits will always be paid, and cloaths always be worn; and how can I have time unemployed upon my hands.

BUT I am most at a loss to guess for what purpose they related such tragick stories of the cruelty, perfidy, and artifices of men, who, if they ever were so malicious and destructive, have certainly now reformed their manners. I have not since my entrance into the world found one who does not profess himself devoted to my service, and ready to live or die as I shall command him. They are so far from intending to hurt me, that their only contention is, who shall be allowed most closely to attend, and most frequently to treat me; when different places of entertainment or schemes of pleasure are mentioned, I can see the eyes sparkle and the cheeks glow of him whose proposals obtain my approbation; he then leads me off in triumph, adores my condescention, and congratulates himself that he has lived to the hour of felicity. Are these, Mr. Rambler, creatures to be seared? Is it likely that any injury will be done me by those who can enjoy life only while I favour them with my presence?

AS little reason can I yet find to suspect them of stratagems and fraud. When I play at cards, they never take advantage of my mistakes, nor exact from me a rigorous observation of the laws of the game. Even Mr. Shuffle, a grave gentleman, who has daughters older than myself, plays with me so negligently, that I am sometimes inclined to believe he loses his money by design, and yet he is so fond of play, that he says, he will one day take me to his house in the country; that we may try by ourselves who can conquer. I have not yet promised him, but when the town grows a little empty, I shall think upon it, for I want some trinkets, like Letitia's, to my watch. I do not doubt my luck, but must study some means of amusing my relations.

FOR all these distinctions I find myself indebted to that beauty which I was never suffered to hear praised, and of which therefore, I did not before know the full value. This concealment was certainly an intentional fraud, for my aunts have eyes like other people, and I am every day told, that nothing but blindness can escape the influence of my charms. Their whole account of that world which they pretend to know so well, has been only one fiction entangled with another; and though the modes of life oblige me to continue some appearances of respect, I cannot think that they, who have been so clearly detected in ignorance or imposture, have any right to the esteem, veneration, or obedience of,

SIR, Yours, BELLARIA.

NUMB. 192. SATURDAY, Jan. 18, 1752.

‘ 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 ’ ANACREON.

To the RAMBLER.

SIR,

I AM the son of a gentleman, whose ancestors, for many ages, held the first rank in the county; till at last one of them, too desirous of popularity, set his house open to all that would enter it, kept a table covered with continual profusion, and distributed his beef and ale to such as chose rather to live upon the folly of others than their own labour with such thoughtless liberality, that he left a third part of his estate mortgaged. His successor a man of spirit, scorned to impair his dignity by parsimonious retrenchments, or to admit by a sale of his lands any participation of the rights of his manor; he therefore made another mortgage to pay the interest of the former, and pleased himself with the reflection, that his son would have the hereditary estate without the diminution of an acre.

NEARLY resembling this, was the practice of my wise progenitors for many ages. Every man boasted the antiquity of his family, resolved to support the dignity of his birth, and lived in splendor and plenty at the expence of his heir, who, sometimes by a wealthy marriage, and sometimes by lucky legacies, discharged part of the incumbrances, and thought himself entitled to contract new debts, and to leave to his children the same inheritance of embarrasment and distress.

THUS the estate perpetually decayed; the woods were felled by one, the park ploughed by another, the fishery let to farmers by a third; at last the old hall was pulled down to spare the cost of reparation, and part of the materials sold to build a small house with the rest. We were now openly degraded from our original rank, and my father's brother was allowed with less reluctance to serve an apprenticeship, though we never reconciled ourselves heartily to the sound of haberdasher, but always talked of warehouses and a merchant, and when the wind happened to blow loud affected to pity the hazards of commerce, and to sympathize with the solicitude of my poor uncle, who had the true retailer's terror of adventure, and never exposed himself or his property to any wider water than the Thames.

IN time, however, by continual profit and small expences he grew rich, and began to turn his thoughts towards rank. He hung the arms of the family over his parlour-chimney; pointed at a chariot decorated only with a cypher; became of opinion that money could not make a gentleman; resented the petulance of upstarts; told stories of alderman Puff's grandfather the porter; wondered that there was no better method for regulating precedence; wished for some dress peculiar to men of fashion; and when his servant presented a letter, always enquired whether it came from his brother the esquire.

MY father was careful to send him game by every carrier, which, though the conveyance often cost more than the value, was well received, because it gave him an opportunity of calling his friends together, describing the beauty of his brother's seat, and lamenting his own folly, whom no remonstrances could with-hold from polluting his fingers with a shop-book.

THE little presents which we sent were always returned with great munificence. He was desirous of being the second founder of his family, and could not bear that we should be any longer outshone by those whom we considered as climbers upon our ruins, and usurpers of our fortune. He furnished our house with all the elegance of fashionable expence, and was careful to conceal his bounties, lest the poverty of his family should be suspected.

AT length it happened that by misconduct like our own, a large estate, which had been purchased from us, was again exposed to the best bidder. My uncle delighted with an opportunity of reinstating the family in their possessions, came down with treasures scarcely to be imagined in a place where commerce has not made large sums familiar, and at once drove all the competitors away, expedited the writings, and took possession. He now considered himself as superior to trade, disposed of his stock, and as soon as he had settled his oeconomy, began to show his rural sovereignty, by breaking the hedges of his tenants in hunting, and seizing the guns or nets of those whose fortunes did not qualify them for sportsmen. He soon afterwards solicited the office of sheriff, from which all his neighbours were glad to be reprieved, but which he regarded as a resumption of ancestral claims, and a kind of restoration to blood after the attainder of a trade.

MY uncle, whose mind was so filled with this change of his condition, that he found no want of domestick entertainment, declared himself too old to marry, and resolved to let the newly purchased estate fall into the regular channel of inheritance. I was therefore considered as heir apparent, and courted with officiousness and caresses, by the gentlemen who had hitherto coldly allowed me that rank which they could not refuse, depressed me with studied neglect, and irritated me with ambiguous insults.

I FELT not much pleasure from the civilities for which I knew myself indebted to my uncle's industry, till by one of the invitations which every day now brought me, I was induced to spend a week with Lucius, whose daughter Flavilla I had often seen, and admired like others, without any thought of nearer approaches. The inequality which had hitherto kept me at a distance being now levelled, I was received with every evidence of respect; Lucius told me the fortune which he intended for his favourite, his lady detailed her virtues, many odd accidents obliged us to be often together without company, and I soon began to find that they were spreading for me the nets of matrimony.

FLAVILLA was all softness and complaisance. I who had been excluded by a narrow fortune from much acquaintance with the world, and never been honoured before with the notice of so fine a lady, was easily enamoured. Lucius either perceived my passion, or Flavilla betrayed it; care was taken that our private meetings should be less frequent, and my charmer confessed by her eyes how much pain she suffered from our restraint. I renewed my visit upon every pretence, but was not allowed one interview without witness, at last I declared my passion to Lucius, who received me as a lover worthy of his daughter, and told me that nothing was wanting to his consent, but that my uncle should settle his estate upon me. I objected the indecency of encroaching on his life, and the danger of provoking him by such an unseasonable demand. Lucius seemed not to think decency of much importance, but admitted the danger of displeasing, and concluded that as he was now old, and sickly, we might without any inconvenience wait for his death.

WITH this resolution I was better contented, as it procured me the company of Flavilla, in which the days passed away amidst continual rapture; but in time, I began to be ashamed of sitting idle, in expectation of growing rich by the death of my benefactor, and proposed to Lucius many schemes of raising my own fortune by such assistance as I knew my uncle willing to give me. Lucius afraid lest I should change my affection in absence, diverted me from my design by dissuasives to which my passion easily listened. At last my uncle died, and considering himself as neglected by me, from the time that Flavilla took possession of my heart, left his estate to my younger brother, who was always hovering about his bed, and relating stories of my pranks and extravagance, my contempt of the commercial dialect, and my impatience to be selling stock.

MY condition was soon known, and I was no longer admitted by the father of Flavilla. I repeated the protestations of regard, which had been formerly returned with so much ardour, in a letter which she received privately, but returned by her father's footman. Contempt has driven out my love, and I am content to have purchased by the loss of fortune an escape from a harpy who has joined the artifices of age to the allurements of youth. I am now going to pursue my former projects with a legacy which my uncle bequeathed me, and if I succeed, shall expect to hear of the repentance of Flavilla. I am,

SIR, Yours, &c. CONSTANTIUS.

NUMB. 193. TUESDAY, Jan. 21, 1752.

Laudis amore tumes? sunt certa piacula quae te

Ter purè lecto poterunt recreare Libello.

HOR.

WHATEVER is universally desired, will be sought by industry and artifice, by merit and crimes, by means good and bad, rational and absurd, according to the prevalence of virtue or vice, of wisdom or folly. Some will always mistake the degree of their own desert, and some will desire that others may mistake it. The cunning will have recourse to stratagem, and the powerful to violence for the attainment of their wishes; some will stoop to theft, and others venture upon plunder.

PRAISE is so pleasing to the mind of man, that it is the original motive of almost all our actions. The desire of commendation, as of every thing else, is varied indeed by innumerable differences of temper, capacity, and knowledge; some have no higher wish than for the applause of a club; some expect the acclamations of a county; and some have hoped to fill the mouths of all ages and nations with their names. Every man pants for the highest eminence within his view; none, however mean, ever sinks below the hope of being distinguished by his fellow-beings, and very few have, by magnanimity or piety, been so raised above it, as to act wholly without regard to human censure or opinion.

TO be praised, therefore, every man resolves, but resolutions will not execute themselves. That which all think too parsimoniously distributed to their own claims, they will not gratuitously squander upon others, and some expedient must be tried by which praise may be gained before it can be enjoyed.

AMONG the innumerable bidders for praise some are willing to purchase at the highest rate, and offer ease and health, fortune and life. Yet even of these only a small part have gained what they so earnestly desired; the student wastes away in meditation, and the soldier perishes on the ramparts, but unless some accidental advantage co-operates with merit, neither perseverance nor adventure attract the attention of mankind, and learning and bravery sink into the grave without honour or remembrance.

BUT ambition and vanity generally expect to be gratified on easier terms. It has been long observed, that what is procured by skill or labour to the first possessor, may be afterwards transferred for money; and that the man of wealth may partake all the acquisitions of courage without hazard, and all the products of industry without fatigue. It was easily discovered, that riches would obtain praise among other conveniencies, and that he whose pride was unluckily associated with laziness, ignorance, or cowardice, needed only to pay the hire of a panegyrist, and he might be regaled with periodical eulogies; might determine, at leisure, what virtue or science he would be pleased to appropriate, and be lulled in the evening with soothing ferenades, or waked in the morning by sprightly gratulations.

THE happiness which mortals receive from the celebration of beneficence which never relieved, or eloquence which never persuaded, dignity which never awed, or elegance which never pleased, ought not to be envied or disturbed, when they are known honestly to pay for their entertainment. But there are unmerciful exactors of adulation, who with-hold the wages of venality; retain their encomiast from year to year by general promises and ambiguous blandishments; and when he has run through the whole compass of flattery dismiss him with contempt, because his vein of fiction is exhausted.

A CONTINUAL feast of commendation is only to be obtained by merit or by wealth; many are therefore obliged to content themselves with single morsels, and recompense the infrequency of their enjoyment by excess and riot, whenever fortune sets the banquet before them. Hunger is never delicate; they who are seldom gorged to the full with praise, may be safely fed with gross compliments, for the appetite must be satisfied before it is disgusted.

IT is generally easy to find the moment at which vanity is eager for sustenance, and all that impudence or servility can offer will be well received. When any one complains of the want of what he is known to possess in an uncommon degree, he certainly waits with impatience to be contradicted. When the trader pretends anxiety about the payment of his bills, or the beauty remarks how frightfully she looks, then is the lucky moment to talk of riches or of charms, of the death of lovers, or the honour of a merchant.

OTHERS there are yet more open and artless, who instead of suborning a flatterer are content to supply his place, and, as some animals impregnate themselves, swell with the praises which they hear from their own tongues. Recte is dicitur laudare sese cui nemo alius contigit laudator. "It is right, says Erasmus, that he, whom no one else will commend, should bestow commendations on himself." Of all the sons of vanity, these are sure the happiest and greatest; for what is greatness or happiness but independence on external influences, exemption from hope or fear, and the power of supplying every want from the common stores of nature which can neither be exhausted nor prohibited. Such is the wise man of the stoicks; such is the divinity of the epicureans; and such is the flatterer of himself. Every other enjoyment malice may destroy; every other panegyrick envy may with-hold; but no human power can deprive the boaster of his own encomiums. Infamy may hiss, or contempt may growl, the hirelings of the great may sollow fortune, and the votaries of truth may attend on virtue; but his pleasures still remain the same; he can always listen with rapture to himself, and leave those who dare not repose upon their own attestation, to be elated or depressed by chance, and toil on in the hopeless task of fixing caprice, and propitiating malice.

THIS art of happiness has been long practised by periodical writers, with little apparent violation of decency. When we think our excellencies overlooked by the world, or desire to recall the attention of the publick to some particular performance, we sit down with great composure and write a letter to ourselves. The correspondent whose character we assume always addresses us with the deference due to a superior intelligence; proposes his doubts with a proper sense of his own inability; offers an objection with trembling diffidence; and at last has no other pretensions to our notice than his profundity of respect, and sincerity of admiration, his submission to our dictates, and zeal for our success. To such a reader it is impossible to refuse regard, nor can it easily be imagined with how much alacrity we snatch up the pen which indignation or despair had condemned to inactivity, when we find such candour and judgment yet remaining in the world.

A LETTER of this kind I had lately the honour of perusing, in which, though some of the periods were negligently closed, and some expressions of familiarity were used, which I thought might teach others to address me with too little reverence, I was so much delighted with the passages in which mention was made of—universal learning—unbounded genius—soul of Homer, Pythagoras, and Plato—solidity of thought—accuracy of distinction—elegance of combination—vigour of fancy—strength of reason—and regularity of composition—that I had once determined to lay it before the publick. Three times I sent it to the printer, and three times I fetched it back. My modesty, with which I had hitherto contended, was on the point of yielding, when reflecting that I was about to waste panegyricks on myself which might be more profitably reserved for my patron, I locked it up for a better hour, in compliance with the farmer's principle, who never eats at home what he can carry to the market.

NUMB. 194. SATURDAY, Jan. 25, 1752.

Si damnosa Senem juvat alea, ludit et Haeres

Bullatus, parvoque eadem quatit arma Fritillo.

JUV.

To the RAMBLER.

SIR,

THAT vanity which keeps every man important in his own eyes, inclines me to believe, that neither you nor your readers have yet forgotten the name of Eumathes, who sent you a few months ago an account of his arrival at London with a young nobleman his pupil. I shall therefore continue my narrative without preface or recapitulation.

MY pupil, in a very short time, by his mother's countenance and direction, accomplished himself with all those qualifications which constitute puerile politeness. He became in a few days a perfect master of his hat, which with a careless nicety, he could put off or on without any need to adjust it by a second motion. This was not attained but by frequent consultations with his dancing-master, and constant practice before the glass, for he had some rustick habits to overcome; but what will not time and industry perform? A fortnight more furnished him with all the airs and forms of familiar and respectful salutation, from the clap on the shoulder to the humble bow; he practises the stare of strangeness, and the smile of condescension, the solemnity of promise, and the graciousness of encouragement, as if he had been nursed at a levee; and pronounces, with no less propriety than his father, the monosyllables of coldness, and sonorous periods of respectful profession.

HE immediately lost the reserve and timidity which solitude and study are apt to impress upon the most courtly genius; was able to enter a crouded room with airy civility; to meet the glances of a hundred eyes without perturbation; and address those whom he never saw before with ease and confidence. In less than a month, his mother declared her satisfaction at his proficiency by a triumphant observation, that she believed, nothing would make him blush.

THE silence with which I was contented to hear my pupil's praises, gave the lady reason to suspect me not much delighted with his acquisitions; but she attributed my discontent to the diminution of my influence, and my fears of losing the patronage of the family; and though she thinks favourably of my learning and morals, she considers me as wholly unacquainted with the customs of the polite part of mankind, and therefore not qualified to form the manners of a young nobleman, or communicate the knowledge of the world. This knowledge she comprises in the rules of visiting, the history of the present hour, an early intelligence of the change of fashions, an extensive acquaintance with the names and faces of persons of rank, and a frequent appearance in places of resort.

ALL this my pupil persues with great application. He is twice a day in the mall, where he studies the dress of every man splendid enough to attract his notice, and never comes home without some observation upon sleeves, button-holes, and embroidery. At his return from the theatre, he can give an account of the gallantries, glances, whispers, smiles, sighs, flirts, and blushes of every box, so much to his mother's satisfaction, that when I attempted to resume my character, by enquiring his opinion of the sentiments and diction of the tragedy, she at once repressed my criticism, by telling me, that she hoped he did not go to lose his time in attending to the creatures on the stage.

BUT his acuteness was most eminently signalized at the masquerade, where he discovered his acquaintance through their disguises, with such wonderful facility, as has afforded the family an inexhaustible topick of conversation. Every new visitor is informed how one was detected by his gait, and another by the swing of his arms, a third by the toss of his head, and another by his favourite phrase; nor can you doubt but these performances receive their just applause, and a genius thus hastening to maturity, is promoted by every art of cultivation.

SUCH have been his endeavours, and such his assistances, that every trace of literature was soon obliterated. He has changed his language with his dress, and instead of endeavouring at purity or propriety, has no other care than to catch the reigning phrase and current exclamation, till by copying whatever is peculiar in the talk of all whose birth or fortune entitle them to imitation, he has collected every fashionable barbarism of the present winter, and speaks a dialect not to be understood among those who form their stile by poring upon authors.

TO this copiousness of ideas, and felicity of language, he has joined such eagerness to lead the conversation, that he is celebrated among the ladies as the prettiest gentleman that the age can boast of, except that some who love to talk themselves think him too forward, and others lament that with so much wit and knowledge he is not taller.

HIS mother listens to his observations with her eyes sparkling and her heart beating, and can scarcely contain in the most numerous assemblies the expectations which she has formed of his future eminence. Women, by whatever fate; always judge absurdly of the intellects of boys. That vivacity and confidence which attract female admiration, are seldom produced in the early part of life, but by ignorance at least, if not by stupidity; for they proceed not from confidence of right, but fearlesness of wrong. Whoever has a clear apprehension, must have quick sensibility, and where he has no sufficient reason to trust his own judgment, will proceed with doubt and caution, because he perpetually dreads the disgrace of error. The pain of miscarriage is naturally proportionate to the defire of excellence, and, therefore, till men are hardened by long familiarity with reproach, or have attained by frequent struggles the art of concealing or suppressing their emotions, diffidence is found the inseparable associate of understanding.

BUT so little distrust has my pupil of his own abilities, that he has for some time professed himself a wit, and tortures his imagination all occasions for burlesque and jocularity. How he supports a character, which, perhaps, no man ever assumed without repentance, may be easily conjectured. Wit, you know, is the unexpected copulation of ideas, the discovery of some occult relation between images in appearance remote from each other; an effusion of wit therefore presupposes an accumulation of knowledge; a memory stored with notions, which the imagination may cull out to compose new assemblages. Whatever may be the native vigour of the mind, she can never form many combinations from few ideas, as many changes can never be rung upon a few bells. Accident may indeed, sometimes produce a luckly parallel or a striking contrast; but these gifts of chance are not frequent, and he that has nothing of his own, and yet condemns himself to needless expences, must live upon loans or theft.

THE indulgence which his youth has hitherto obtained, and the respect which his rank secures, have hitherto supplied the want of intellectual qualifications, and he imagines, that all admire who applaud, and that all who laugh are pleased. He therefore returns every day to the charge with encrease of courage, though not of strength, and practises all the tricks by which wit is counterfeited. He lays trains for a quibble; he contrives blunders for his footman; he adapts old stories to present characters; he mistakes the question, that he may return a smart answer; he anticipates the argument, that he may plausibly object; when he has nothing to reply, he repeats the last words of his antagonist, then says, "your humble servant," and concludes with a laugh of triumph.

THESE mistakes I have honestly attempted to correct, but what can be expected from reason unsupported by fashion, splendour, or authority. He hears me indeed, or appears to hear me, but is soon rescued from the lecture by more pleasing avocations; and shows, diversions and caresses drive my precepts from his remembrance.

HE at last imagines himself qualified to enter the world, and has met with adventures in his first sally, which I shall by your paper communicate to the publick.

I am, &c. EUMATHES.

NUMB. 195. TUESDAY, Jan. 28, 1752.

—Nescit equo rudis

Haerere ingenuus Puer,

Venarique timet; ludere doctior

Seu Graeco jubeas trocho,

Seu malis vetità legibus aleâ.

HOR.

To the RAMBLER.

SIR,

FAVOURS of every kind are doubled when they are speedily conferred. This is particularly true of the gratification of curiosity: He that long delays any story which he has promised, and suffers his auditor to torment himself with expectation, will seldom be able to recompense the uneasiness, or equal the hope which he suffers to be raised.

FOR this reason, I have already sent you the continuation of my pupil's history, which, though it contains no events very uncommon, may be of use to other young men who are in too much haste to trust their own prudence, and quit the wing of protection before they are able to shift for themselves.

WHEN he first settled in London, he was so much bewildered in the enormous extent of the town, so confounded by incessant noise, and crowds, and hurry, and so terrified by rural narratives of the arts of sharpers, the rudeness of the populace, malignity of porters, and treachery of coachmen, that he was afraid to go beyond the door without an attendant, and imagined his life in danger if he was obliged to pass the streets at night in any vehicle but his mother's chair.

HE was therefore contented for a time, that I should accompany him in all his excursions. But his fear abated as he grew more familiar with its objects, and the contempt to which his rusticity exposed him from such of his companions as had accidentally known the town longer, obliged him to dissemble his remaining terrors.

HIS desire of liberty made him now willing to spare me the trouble of observing his motions, but knowing how much his ignorance exposed him to mischief, I thought it cruel to abandon him to the fortune of the town. We went together every day to a coffee-house, where he met wits, heirs, and fops, airy, ignorant, and thoughtless as himself, with whom he had become acquainted at card tables, and whom he considered as the only beings to be envied or admired. What were their topics of conversation I could never discover, for so much was their vivacity depressed by my intrusive seriousness, that they seldom proceeded beyond the exchange of nods and shrugs, an arch grin, or a broken hint, except when they could retire, while I was looking on the papers, to a corner of the room, where they seemed to disburden their imaginations, and commonly vented the superfluity of their sprightliness in a peal of laughter. When they had tittered themselves into negligence, I could sometimes overhear a few syllables, such as,—solemn rascal;—academical airs;—smoke the tutor;—company for gentlemen!—and other broken phrases, by which I did not suffer my quiet to be disturbed, for they never proceeded to avowed indignities, but contented themselves to murmur in secret, and, whenever I turned my eye upon them, shrunk into stilness.

HE was, however, desirous of withdrawing from the subjection which he could not venture to break, and made a secret appointment to assist his companions in the persecution of a play. His footman privately procured him a catcal, on which he practised in a backgarret for two hours in the afternoon. At the proper time, a chair was called; he pretended an engagement at lady Flutter's, and hastened to the place where his critical associates had assembled. They hurried away to the theatre, full of malignity and denunciations against a man whose name they had never heard, and a performance which they could not understand; for they were resolved to judge for themselves, and would not suffer the town to be imposed upon by scribblers. In the pit they exerted themselves with great spirit and vivacity; called out for the tunes of obscene songs, talked loudly at intervals of Shakespear and Johnson, played on their catcals a short prelude of terror, clamoured vehemently for the prologue, and clapped with great dexterity at the first entrance of the players.

TWO scenes they heard without attempting interruption, but being no longer able to restrain their impatience, they then began to exert themselves in groans and hisses, and plied their catcals with incessant diligence; so that they were soon considered by the audience as disturbers of the house, and some who sat near them, either provoked at the obstruction of their entertainment, or desirous to preserve the author from the mortification of seeing his hopes destroyed by children, snatched away their instruments of criticism, and by the seasonable vibration of a stick, subdued them instantaneously to decency and silence.

TO exhilarate themselves after this vexatious deseat they posted to a tavern, where they recovered their alacrity, and, after two hours of obstreperous jollity, burst out big with enterprize, and panting for some occasion to signalize their prowess. They proceeded vigorously through two streets, and with very little opposition dispersed a rabble of drunkards less daring than themselves, then rolled two watchmen in the kennel, and broke the windows of a tavern in which the fugitives took shelter. At last it was determined to march up to a row of chairs, and demolish them for standing on the pavement; the chairmen formed a line of battle, and blows were exchanged for a time with equal courage on both sides. At last the assailants were overpowered, and the chairmen when they knew their captives, brought them home by force.

THE young gentleman next morning hung his head, and was so much ashamed of his outrages and defeat, that perhaps he might have been checked in his first follies, had not his mother, partly in pity of his dejection, and partly in approbation of his spirit, relieved him from his perplexity, by paying the damages privately, and discouraging all animadversion and reproof.

THIS indulgence could not wholly preserve him from the remembrance of his disgrace, nor at once restore his confidence and elation. He was for three days silent, modest, and compliant, and thought himself neither too wise for instruction, nor too manly for restraint. But his levity overcame this salutary sorrow; he began to talk with his former raptures of masquerades, taverns and frolicks; blustered when his wig was not combed with exactness; and threatened destruction to a taylor who had mistaken his directions about the pocket.

I KNEW that he was now rising again above controul, and that this inflation of spirits would burst out into some mischievous absurdity. I therefore watched him with great attention, but one evening, having attended his mother at a visit, he withdrew himself, unsuspected, while the company was engaged at cards. His vivacity and officiousness were soon missed, and his return impatiently expected; supper was delayed, and conversation suspended; every coach that rattled through the street was expected to bring him, and every servant that entered the room was examined concerning his departure. At last the lady returned home, and was with great difficulty preserved from fits by spirits and cordials. The family was dispatched a thousand ways without success, and the house was filled with distraction, till, as we were deliberating what farther measures to take, he returned from a petty gaming-table, with his coat torn, and his head broken; without his sword, snuff-box, sleeve-buttons, and watch.

OF this loss or robbery, he gave little account; but, instead of sinking into his former shame, endeavoured to support himself by surliness and asperity, "He was not the first that had played away a few trifles, and of what use were birth and fortune if they would not admit some sallies and expences." His mamma was so much provoked by the cost of this prank, that she would neither palliate nor conceal it, and his father, after some threats of rustication which his fondness would not suffer him to execute, reduced the allowance of his pocket, that he might not be tempted by plenty to prosusion. This method would have succeeded in a place where there are no pandars to folly and extravagance, but was now likely to have produced pernicious consequences; for we have discovered a treaty with a broker, whose daughter he seems disposed to marry, on condition that he shall be supplied with present money, for which he is to repay thrice the value at the death of his father.

THERE was now no time to be lost. A domestick consultation was immediately held, and he was doomed to pass two years in the country; but his mother, touched with his tears, declared, that she thought him too much a man to be any longer confined to his book, and he therefore begins his travels tomorrow under a French governor.

I am, &c. EUMATHES.

NUMB. 196. SATURDAY, Feb. 1, 1752.

Multa ferunt anni venientes commoda secum

Multa recedentes adimunt.—

HOR.

BAXTER, in the narrative of his own life, has enumerated several opinions, which, though he thought them evident and incontestable at his first entrance into the world, time and experience disposed him to change.

WHOEVER reviews the state of his own mind from the dawn of manhood to its decline, and considers what he pursued or dreaded, slighted or esteemed at different periods of his age, will have no reason to imagine such changes of sentiment peculiar to any station or character. Every man, however careless and inattentive, has conviction forced upon him; the lectures of time obtrude themselves upon the most unwilling or dissipated auditor; and by comparing our past with our present thoughts, we perceive that we have changed our minds, though perhaps we cannot discover when the alteration happened, or by what causes it was produced.

THIS revolution of sentiments occasions a perpetual contest between the old and young. They who imagine themselves entitled to veneration and obedience by the prerogative of longer life, are generally inclined to treat the notions of those whose conduct they superintend with superciliousness and contempt, for want of considering that the future and the past have different appearances; that the disproportion will always be great between expectation and enjoyment, between new possession and satiety; that the truth of many maxims of age, gives too little pleasure to be allowed till it is felt; and that the miseries of life would be encreased beyond all human power of endurance, if we were to enter the world with the same opinions as we carry from it.

WE naturally indulge those ideas that please us. Hope will predominate in every mind, till it has been suppressed by frequent disappointments. The youth who has not discovered how many evils are continually hovering about us, when he is set free from the shackles of discipline looks abroad into the world with rapture; he sees an elysian region open before him, so variegated with beauty, and so stored with pleasure, that his care is rather to accumulate good, than to shun evil; he stands distracted by different forms of delight, and has no other doubt than which path to follow of those which all lead equally to the bowers of happiness.

HE who has seen only the superficies of life believes every thing to be what it appears, and rarely suspects that external splendor conceals any latent sorrow or vexation. He never imagines that there may be greatness without safety, affluence without content, jollity without friendship, and solitude without peace. He fancies himself permitted to cull the blessings of every condition, and to leave its inconveniencies to the idle and the ignorant. He is inclined to believe no man miserable but by his own fault, and seldom looks with much pity upon failings or miscarriages, because he thinks them willingly admitted or negligently incurred.

IT is impossible without pity and contempt, to hear a youth of generous sentiments and warm imagination, declaring in the moment of openness and confidence his designs and expectations. Because long life is possible, he considers it as certain, and therefore promises himself all the changes of happiness, and provides gratifications for every desire. He is, for a time, to give himself wholly to frolick and diversion, to range the world in search of pleasure, to delight every eye, to gain every heart, and to be celebrated equally for his pleasing levities and solid attainments, his deep reflections, and his sparkling repartees. He then elevates his views to nobler enjoyments, and finds all the scattered excellencies of the female world united in a woman, who prefers his addresses to wealth and titles; he is afterwards to engage in business, to dissipate difficulty, and over-power opposition; to climb by the mere force of merit to fame and greatness; and reward all those who countenanced his rise, or paid due regard to his early excellence. At last he will retire in peace and honour; contract his views to domestick pleasures; form the manners of children like himself; observe how every year expands the beauty of his daughters, and how his sons catch ardour from their father's history; he will give laws to the neighbourhood; dictate axioms to posterity; and leave the world an example of wisdom and of happiness.

WITH hopes like these, he sallies jocund into life; to little purpose is he told, that the condition of humanity admits no pure and unmingled happiness; that the exuberant gaiety of youth ends in poverty or disease; that uncommon qualifications and contrarieties of excellence, produce envy equally with applause; that whatever admiration and fondness may promise him, he must marry a wife like the wives of others, with some virtues and some faults, and be as often disgusted by her vices, as delighted by her elegance; that if he adventures into the circle of action, he must expect to encounter men as artful, as daring, as resolute as himself; that of his children, some may be deformed, and others vicious; some may disgrace him by their follies, some offend him by their insolence, and some exhaust him by their profusion. He hears all this with obstinate incredulity, and wonders by what malignity old age is influenced, that it cannot forbear to fill his ears with predictions of misery.

AMONG other pleasing errors of young minds, is the opinion of their own importance. He that has not yet remarked, how little attention his contemporaries can spare from their own affairs, conceives all eyes turned upon himself, and imagines every one that approaches him to be an enemy or a follower, an admirer or a spy. He therefore lives in perpetual constraint, and considers his fame as involved in the event of every action. Many of the virtues and vices of youth proceed from this quick sense of reputation. This it is that gives firmness and constancy, fidelity and disinterestedness, and it is this that kindles resentment for slight injuries, and dictates all the principles of sanguinary honour.

BUT as time brings him forward into the world, he soon discovers that he only shares fame or reproach with innumerable partners; that he is left unmarked in the obscurity of the croud; and that what he does, whether good or bad, though it may produce a short commotion, soon gives way to new objects of regard. He then easily sets himself free from the anxieties of reputation, and considers praise or censure as a transient breath, which, while he hears it, is passing away, without any lasting mischief or advantage.

IN youth, it is common to measure right and wrong by the opinion of the world, and in age to act without any measure but interest, and to lose shame without substituting virtue.

SUCH is the condition of life, that something is always wanting to happiness. In youth we have warm hopes which are soon blasted by rashness and negligence, and great designs which are defeated by inexperience. In age we have knowledge and prudence without spirit to exert, or motives to prompt them; we are able to plan schemes and regulate measures, but have not time remaining to bring them to completion.

NUMB. 197. TUESDAY, Feb. 4, 1752.

Cujus Vulturis hoc erit cadaver?

MART.

To the RAMBLER.

SIR,

I BELONG to an order of mankind, considerable at least for their number, to which your notice has never been formally extended, though we seem equally entitled to regard with those triflers, who have supplied you with topicks of amusement or instruction. I am, Mr. Rambler, a legacy-hunter; and as every man is willing to think well of the tribe in which his name is registered, you will forgive my vanity if I remind you that the legacy-hunter, however degraded by an illcompounded appellation in our barbarous language, was known, as I am told, in ancient Rome, by the sonorous titles of Captator and Haeredipeta.

MY father was an attorney in the country, who married his master's daughter, in hopes of a fortune which he did not obtain, having been, as he afterwards discovered, chosen by her only because she had no better offer, and was afraid of service. I was the first offspring of a marriage thus reciprocally fraudulent, and therefore could not be expected to inherit much dignity or generosity, and if I had not from nature, was not likely ever to attain them; for in the years which I spent at home I never heard any reason for action or forbearance but that we should gain money or lose it, nor was taught any other stile of commendation, than that Mr. Sneaker is a warm man, Mr. Gripe has done his business and needs care for no-body.

MY parents, though otherwise not great philosophers, knew the force of early education, and took care that the blank of my understanding should be filled with impressions of the value of money. My mother, used, upon all occasions, to inculcate some salutary axioms, such as might incite me to keep what I had, and get what I could; she informed me that we were in a world, where all must catch that catch can; and as I grew up, stored my memory with deeper observations; restrained me from the usual puerile expences, by remarking that many a little made a mickle; and, when I envied the finery of any of my neighbours, told me, that brag was a good dog, but holdfast was a better.

I WAS soon fagacious enough to discover that I was not born to great wealth, and, having heard no other name for happiness, was sometimes inclined to repine at my condition. But my mother always relieved me, by saying, that there was money enough in the family, that it was good to be of kin to means, that I had nothing to do but to please my friends and I might come to hold up my head with the best squire in the country.

THESE splendid expectations arose from our alliance to three persons of considerable fortune. My mother's aunt had attended on a lady, who, when she died, rewarded her officiousness and fidelity with a large legacy. My father had two relations, of whom one had broken his indentures and ran to sea, from whence after an absence of thirty years, he returned with ten thousand pounds; and the other had lured an heiress out of a window, who dying of her first child, had left him her estate, on which he lived without any other care than to collect his rents, and preserve from poachers that game which he could not kill himself.

THESE hoarders of money were visited and courted by all who had any pretence to approach them, and received presents and compliments from cousins who could scarcely tell the degree of their relation. But we had peculiar advantages which encouraged us to hope, that we should by degrees easily supplant our competitors. My father, by his profession, made himself necessary in their affairs; for the sailor and the chambermaid, he enquired out mortgages and securities, and wrote bonds and contracts; and had endeared himself to the old woman, who once rashly lent a hundred pounds without consulting him, by informing her, that her debtor was on the point of bankrupcy, and posting so expeditiously with an execution, that all the other creditors were defrauded.

TO the squire he was a kind of steward, and had distinguished himself in his office by his address in raising the rents, his inflexibility in distressing the tardy tenants, and his acuteness in fetting the parish free from burthensome inhabitants, by shifting them off to some other settlement.

BUSINESS made frequent attendance necessary; trust soon produced intimacy; and success gave a claim to kindness; so that we had opportunity to practise all the arts of flattery and endearment. My mother, who could not support the thought of losing any thing, determined, that all their fortunes should center in me; and in the prosecution of her schemes took care to inform me that nothing costs less than good words, and that it is comfortable to leap into an estate which another has got.

SHE trained me by these precepts to the utmost ductility of obedience, and the closest attention to profit. At an age when other boys are sporting in the fields, or murmuring in the school, I was contriving some new method of paying my court; enquiring the age of my future benefactors; or considering how I should employ their legacies.

IF our eagerness of money could have been satisfied with the possessions of any one of my relations, they might perhaps have been obtained; but as it was impossible to be always present with all three, our competitors were busy to efface any trace of affection which we might have left behind; and since there was not on any part such superiority of merit as could enforce a constant and unshaken preference, whoever was the last that flattered or obliged had for a time the ascendant.

MY relations maintained a regular exchange of courtesy, took care to miss no occasion of condolence or congratulation, and sent presents at stated times, but had in their hearts not much esteem for one another. The seaman looked with contempt upon the squire as a milksop and a landman, who had lived without knowing the points of the compass, or seeing any part of the world beyond the county-town; and, whenever they met, would talk of longitude and latitude, and circles and tropicks, would scarcely tell him the hour without some mention of the horizon and meridian, nor shew him the news without detecting his ignorance of the situation of other countries.

THE squire considered the sailor as a rude uncultivated savage with little more of human than his form, and diverted himself with his ignorance of all common objects and affairs; when he could persuade him to go into the field, he always exposed him to the sportsmen, by sending him to look for game in improper places; and once prevailed upon him to be present at the races, only that he might show the gentlemen how a sailor sat upon a horse.

THE old gentlewoman thought herself wiser than both, for she lived with no servant but a maid, and saved her money. The others were indeed sufficiently frugal, but the squire could not live without dogs and horses, and the sailor never suffered the day to pass but over a bowl of punch, to which, as he was not critical in the choice of his company, every man was welcome that could roar out a catch, or tell a story.

ALL these, however, I was to please; an arduous task, but what will not youth and avarice undertake? I had an unresisting suppleness of temper, and an insatiable wish for riches; I was perpetually instigated by the ambition of my parents, and assisted occasionally by their instructions. What these advantages enabled me to perform, shall be told in the next letter of,

Yours, &c. CAPTATOR.

NUMB. 198. SATURDAY, Feb. 8, 1752.

Nil mihi das vivus, dicis post fata daturum,

Si non insanis, scis, Maro, quid cupiam.

MART.

To the RAMBLER.

SIR,

YOU, who must have observed the inclination which almost every man, however unactive or insignificant, discovers of representing his life as distinguished by extraordinary events,-will not wonder that Captator thinks his narrative important enough to be continued. Nothing is more common than for these to tease their companions with their history, who have neither done nor suffered any thing that can excite curiosity, or afford instruction.

AS I was taught to flatter with the first essays of speech, and had very early lost every other passion in the desire of money, I began my pursuit with omens of success; for I divided my officiousness so judiciously among my relations, that I was equally the favourite of all. When any of them entered the door, I went to welcome him with raptures, when he went away I hung down my head, and sometimes entreated to go with him with so much importunity, that I very narrowly escaped a consent which I dreaded in my heart. When at an annual entertainment they were all together I had a harder task, but plied them so impartially with caresses, that none could charge me with neglect, and when they were wearied with my fondness and civilities, I was always dismissed with money to buy playthings.

LIFE cannot be kept at a stand, the years of innocence and prattle were soon at an end, and other qualifications were necessary to recommend me to continuance of kindness. It luckily happened, that none of my friends had high notions of book-learning. The sailor hated to see tall boys shut up in a school, when they might more properly be seeing the world and making their fortunes; and was of opinion, that when the first rules of arithmetick were known, all that was necessary to make a man complete might be learned on ship-board. The squire only insisted, that so much scholarship was indispensably necessary, as might confer ability to draw a lease and read the court-hands; and the old chambermaid declared loudly her contempt of books, and her opinion that they only took the head off the main chance.

TO unite as well as we could all their systems, I was bred at home. Each was taught to believe, that I followed his directions, and I gained likewise, as my mother observed, this advantage that I was always in the way, for she had known many favourite children sent to schools or academies and forgotten.

AS I grew fitter to be trusted to my own discretion, I was often dispatched upon various pretences to visit my relations, which directions from my parents how to ingratiate myself and drive away competitors.

I WAS, from my infancy, considered by the sailor as a promising genius, because I liked punch better than wine; and I took care to improve this prepossession by continual enquiries about the art of navigation, the degree of heat and cold in different climates, the profits of trade, and the dangers of shipwreck. I admired the courage of the seamen, and gained his heart by importuning him for a recital of his adventures; and a sight of his foreign curiosities. I listened with an appearance of close attention to stories which I could already repeat, and at the close never failed to express my resolution to visit distant countries, and my contempt of the cowards and drones that spend all their lives in their native parish; though I had in reality no desire of any thing but money, nor ever felt the stimulations of curiosity or ardour of adventure, but would contentedly have passed the years of Nestor in receiving rents, and lending upon mortgages.

THE squire I was able to please with less hypocrisy, for I really thought it pleasant enough to kill the game and eat it. Some arts of falshood however the hunger of gold persuaded me to practise, by which, though no other mischief was produced, the purity of my thoughts was vitiated, and the reverence for truth gradually destroyed. I sometimes purchased fish and pretended to have caught them; I hired the countrymen to show me partridges, and then gave my uncle intelligence of their haunt; I learned the seats of hares at night, and discovered them in the morning with sagacity that raised the wonder and envy of old sportsmen. One only obstruction to the advancement of my reputation I could never fully surmount; I was naturally a coward, and was therefore always left shamefully behind, when there was a necessity to leap a hedge, to swim a river, or force the horses to their utmost speed; but as these exigencies did not frequently happen, I maintained my honour with sufficient success, and was never left out of a hunting party.

THE old chambermaid was not so certainly nor so easily pleased, for she had no predominant passion but avarice, and was therefore cold and inaccessible. She had no conception of any virtue in a young man but that of saving his money. When she heard of my exploits in the field, she would shake her head, and enquire how much I should be the richer for all my performances, and lament, that so much should be spent upon dogs and horses. If the sailor told her of my inclination to travel, she was sure there was no place like England, and could not imagine why any man that can live in his own country should leave it. This sullen and frigid being I found means however to propitiate by frequent commendations of frugality, and perpetual care to avoid expence.

FROM the sailor was our first and most considerable expectation; for he was richer than the chambermaid, and older than the squire. He was so aukward and bashful among women, that we concluded him secure from matrimony, and the noisy fondness with which he used to welcome me to his house, made us imagine that he would look out for no other heir, and that we had nothing to do but wait patiently for his death. But in the midst of our triumph my uncle saluted us one morning with a cry of transport, and clapping his hand hard on my shoulder, told me, I was a happy fellow to have a friend like him in the world, for he came to fit me out for a voyage with one of his old acquaintances. I turned pale and trembled; my father told him, that he believed my constitution not fitted to the sea; and my mother bursting into tears, cried out, that her heart would break if she lost me. All this had no effect, the sailor was wholly insusceptive of the softer passions, and without regard to tears or arguments persisted in his resolution to make me a man.

WE were obliged to comply in appearance, and preparations were accordingly made. I took leave of my friends, with great alacrity, proclaimed the beneficence of my uncle with the highest strains of gratitude; and rejoiced at the opportunity now put into my hands of gratifying my thirst of knowledge. But a week before the day appointed for my departure, I fell sick by my mother's direction, and refused all food but what she privately brought me; whenever my uncle visited me I was lethargick or delirious, but took care in my raving fits to talk incessantly of travel and merchandize. The room was kept dark; the table was filled with vials and gallipots; my mother was with difficulty persuaded not to endanger her life with nocturnal attendance; my father lamented the loss of the profits of the voyage; and such superfluity of artifice was employed, as perhaps might have discovered the cheat to a man of penetration. But the sailor unacquainted with subtilties and stratagems was easily deluded, and as the ship could not stay for my recovery, sold the cargo, and left me to reestablish my health at leisure.

I WAS sent to regain my flesh in a purer air lest it should appear never to have been wasted, and in two months returned to deplore my disappointment. My uncle pitied my dejection, and bid me prepare myself against next year, for no land-lubber should ever touch his money.

AREPRIEVE however was obtained, and perhaps some new stratagem might have succeeded another spring; but my uncle unhappily made amorous advances to my mother's maid, who to promote so advantageous a match, discovered the secret with which only she had been entrusted. He stormed, and raved, and declaring that he would have heirs of his own, and not give his substance to cheats and cowards, married the girl in two days, and has now four children.

COWARDICE is always scorned, and deceit universally detested. I found my friends, if not wholly alienated, at least cooled in their affection; the squire, though he did not wholly discard me, was less fond, and often enquired when I would go to sea. I was obliged to bear his insults, and endeavoured to rekindle his kindness by assiduity and respect, but all my care was vain; he died without a will, and the estate devolved to the legal heir.

THUS has the folly of my parents condemned me to spend in flattery and attendance those years in which I might have been qualified to place myself above hope or fear. I am arrived at manhood without any useful art or generous sentiment, and, if the old woman should likewise at last deceive me, am in danger at once of beggary and ignorance.

I am, &c. CAPTATOR.

NUMB. 199. TUESDAY, Feb. 11, 1752.

Decolor, obscurus, vilis, non ille repexam

Cesariem Regum, nec candida virginis ornat

Colla, nec insigni splendet per cingula morsu;

Sed nova si nigri videas miracula Saxi,

Tunc superat pulchros cultus, & quicquid Eois

Indus Littoribus rubra scrutatur in alga.

CLAUDIANUS.

To the RAMBLER.

SIR,

THOUGH you have seldom digressed from moral subjects, I suppose you are not so rigorous or cynical as to deny the value or usefulness of natural philosophy; or to have lived in this age of enquiry and experiment, without any attention to the wonders every day produced by the pokers of magnetism and the wheels of electricity. At least, I may be allowed to hope that since nothing is more contrary to moral excellence than Envy, you will not refuse to promote the happiness of others, merely because you cannot partake of their enjoyments.

IN confidence therefore that your ignorance has not made you an enemy to knowledge, I offer you the honour of introducing an adept to the notice of the publick; an adept, who having long laboured for the benefit of mankind is not willing, like too many of his predecessors, to conceal his secrets in the grave.

MANY have signalized themselves by melting their estates in crucibles. I was born to no fortune, and therefore had only my mind and body to devote to knowledge, and the gratitude of posterity will attest, that neither mind nor body have been spared. I have sat whole weeks without sleep by the side of an athanor, to watch the moment of projection; I have made the first experiment in nineteen diving engines of new construction; I have fallen eleven times speechless under the shock of electricity; I have twice dislocated my limbs, and once fractured my skull in essaying to fly; and four times endangered my life by submitting to the transfusion of blood.

IN the first period of my studies, I exerted the powers of my body more than those of my mind, and was not without hopes that fame might be purchased by a few broken bones without the toil of thinking; but having been shattered by some violent experiments, and constrained to confine myself to my books, I passed six and thirty years in searching the treasures of ancient wisdom, but am at last amply recompensed for all my perseverance.

THE curiosity of the present race of philosophers, after having been long exercised upon electricity, has been lately transferred to Magnetism; the qualities of the loadstone have been investigated, if not with much advantage, yet with great applause; and as the highest praise of art is to imitate nature, I hope no man will think the makers of artificial magnets celebrated or reverenced above their deserts.

I HAVE for some time employed myself in the same practice, but with deeper knowledge and more extensive views. While my contemporaries were touching needles and raising weights, or busying themselves with inclination and variation, I have been examining those qualities of magnetism which may be applied to the accommodation and happiness of common life. I have left to inferior Understandings the care of conducting the sailor through the hazards of the ocean, and reserved to myself the more difficult and illustrious province of preserving the connubial compact from violation, and setting mankind free for ever from the danger of supposititious children, and from the torments of fruitless vigilance and anxious suspicion.

TO defraud any man of his due praise is unworthy of a philosopher. I shall therefore openly confess, that I owe the first hint of this inestimable secret to the rabbi Abraham Ben Hannase, who in his treatise of precious stones, has left this account of the magnet 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉, &c. "The calamita or load-stone that attracts iron produces many bad fantasies in man. Women fly from this stone. If therefore any husband be disturbed with jealousy, and fear lest his wife converses with other men, let him lay this stone upon her while she is asleep. If she be pure, she will, when she wakes, clasp her husband fondly in her arms, but if she be guilty, she will fall out of bed and run away."

WHEN first I read this wonderful passage, I could not easily conceive why it had remained hitherto unregarded in such a zealous competition for magnetical fame. It would surely be unjust to suspect that any of the candidates are strangers to the name or works of rabbi Abraham, or to conclude from a late edict of the royal society in favour of the English language, that philosophy and literature are no longer to act in concert. Yet how should a quality so useful, escape promulgation but by the obscurity of the language in which it was delivered? Why are footmen, and chambermaids paid on every side for keeping secrets, which no caution nor expence could secure from the all-penetrating magnet? Or why are so many witnesses summoned, and so many artifices practised to discover what so easy an experiment would infallibly reveal?

FULL of this perplexity, I read the lines of Abraham to a friend, who advised me not to expose my life by a mad indulgence of the love of fame; he warned me by the fate of Orpheus, what knowledge or genius could give no protection to the invader of female prerogatives; assured me that neither the armour of Achilles, nor the antidote of Mithridates, would be able to preserve me; and counselled me, if I could not live without renown, to attempt the acquisition of universal empire, in which the honour would perhaps be equal, and the danger certainly be less.

I, a solitary student, pretend not to much knowledge of the world, but am unwilling to think it so generally corrupt, as that a scheme for the detection of incontinence, should bring any danger upon its inventor. My friend has indeed told me, that all the women will be my enemies, and that however I flatter myself with hopes of defence from the men, I shall certainly find myself deserted in the hour of danger. Of the young men, said he, some will be afraid of sharing the disgrace of their mothers; and some the danger of their mistresses, of those who are married, part are already convinced of the falshood of their wives, and part shut their eyes to avoid conviction; few ever sought for virtue in marriage, and therefore few will try whether they have found it. Almost every man is careless or timorous, and to trust is safer than to examine.

THESE observations discouraged me, till I began to consider what reception I was likely to find among the ladies, whom I have reviewed under the three classes of maids, wives, and widows, and cannot but hope that I may obtain some countenance among them. The single ladies I suppose universally ready to patronize my method, by which connubial wickedness may be detected, since no woman marries with a previous design to be unfaithful to her husband. And to keep them steady in my cause, I promise never to sell one of my magnets to a man who steals a girl from school; marries a woman forty years younger than himself; or employs the authority of parents to obtain a wife without her own consent.

AMONG the married ladies, notwithstanding the insinuations of slander, I yet resolve to believe, that the greater part are my friends, and am at least convinced, that they who demand the test and appear on my side, will supply by their spirit the deficiency of their numbers, and that their enemies will shrink and quake at the sight of a magnet, as the slaves of Scythia fled from the scourge.

THE widows will be confederated in my favour by their curiosity, if not by their virtue; for it may be observed, that women who have out-lived their husbands, always think themselves entitled to superintend the conduct of young wives; and as they are themselves in no danger from this magnetick trial, I shall expect them to be eminently and unanimously zealous in recommending it.

WITH these hopes I shall, in a short time, offer to sale magnets armed with a particular metallick composition, which concentrates their virtue, and determines their agency. It is known that the efficacy of the magnet in common operations depends much upon its armature, and it cannot be imagined, that, a stone, naked or cased only in the common manner, will discover the virtues ascribed to it by rabbi Abraham. The secret of this metal I shall carefully conceal, and, therefore, am not afraid of imitators, nor shall trouble the offices with solicitations for a patent.

I SHALL sell them of different sizes, and various degrees of strength. I have some of a bulk proper to be hung at the bed's head, as scare-crows, and some so small that they may be easily concealed. Some I have ground into oval forms to be hung at watches; and some for the curious, I have set in weddingrings, that ladies may never want an attestation of their innocence. Some I can produce so sluggish and inert, that they will not act before the third failure; and others so vigorous and animated, that they exert their influence against unlawful wishes, if they have been willingly and deliberately indulged. As it is my practice, honestly to tell my customers the properties of my magnets, I can judge by their choice of the delicacy of their sentiments. Many have been contented to spare cost by purchasing only the lowest degree of efficacy, and all have started with terror from those which operate upon the thoughts. One young lady only sitted on a ring of the strongest energy, and declared, that she scorned to separate her wishes from her acts, or allow herself to think what she was forbidden to practise.

I am, &c. HERMETICUS.

NUMB. 200. SATURDAY, Feb. 15, 1752.

Nemo petit modicis quae mittebantur amicis

A Seneca, quae Piso bonus, quae Cotta solebat

Largiri, nempe et titulis et fascibus olim

Major habebatur donandi gloria; solum

Poscimus ut caenes civiliter; hoc face, et esto

Esto, ut nunc multi, dives tibi, pauper amicis.

JUV.

To the RAMBLER.

Mr. RAMBLER,

SUCH is the tenderness or infirmity of many minds, that when any affliction oppresses them, they have immediate recourse to lamentation and complaint, which, though it can only be allowed reasonable when evils admit of remedy, and then only when addressed to those from whom the remedy is expected, yet seems even in hopeless and incurable distresses to be natural, since those by whom it is not indulged, imagine that they give a proof of extraordinary fortitude by suppressing it.

I AM one of those who, with the Sancho of Cervantes, leave to higher characters the merit of suffering in silence, and give vent without scruple to any sorrow that swells in my heart. It is therefore to me a severe aggravation of a calamity, when it is such as in the common opinion will not justify the acerbity of exclamation, or support the solemnity of vocal grief. Yet many pains are incident to a man of delicacy, which the unfeeling world cannot be persuaded to pity, and which, when they are separated from their peculiar and personal circumstances, will never be considered as important enough to claim attention, or deserve redress.

OF this kind will appear to gross and vulgar apprehensions, the miseries which I endured in a morning visit to Prospero, a man lately raised by a lucky project to wealth and grandeur, and too much intoxicated by sudden elevation, or too little polished by thought and conversation to enjoy his present fortune with elegance and decency.

WE set out in the world together; and for a long time mutually assisted each other in our exigencies, as either happened to have money or influence beyond his immediate necessities. You know that nothing generally endears men so much as participation of dangers and misfortunes, I therefore always considered Prospero as united with me in the strongest league of kindness, and imagined that our friendship was only to be broken by the hand of death. I felt at his sudden shoot of success an honest and disinterested joy, but as I want no part of his superfluities, am not willing to descend from that equality in which we hitherto have lived.

OUR intimacy was regarded by me as a dispensation from ceremonial visits; and it was so long before I saw him at his new house, that he gently complained of my neglect, and obliged me to come on a day appointed. I kept my promise, but found that the impatience of my friend arose not from any desire to communicate his happiness, but to enjoy his superiority.

WHEN I told my name at the door; the footman went to see if his master was at home, and, by the tardiness of his return, gave me reason to suspect that time was taken to deliberate. He then informed me, that Prospero desired my company and showed the staircase carefully secured by mats from the pollution of my feet. The best apartments were ostentatiously set open, that I might have a distant view of the magnificence which I was not permitted to approach, and my old friend receiving me with all the insolence of condescension at the top of the stairs, conducted me to a back room, where he told me he always breakfasted when he had not great company.

ON the floor where we sat, lay a carpet covered with a cloth, of which Prospero ordered his servant to lift up a corner, that I might contemplate the brightness of the colours, and the elegance of the texture, and asked me whether I had ever seen any thing so fine before. I did not gratify his folly with any outcries of admiration, but coldly bad the footman let down the cloth.

WE then sat down, and I began to hope that pride was glutted with persecution, when Prospero desired that I would give the servant leave to adjust the cover of my chair, which was slipt a little aside to show the damask; he informed me that he had bespoke ordinary chairs for common use, but had been disappointed by his tradesman. I put the chair aside with my foot, and drew another so hastily that I was entreated not to rumple the carpet.

BREAKFAST was at last set, and as I was not willing to indulge the peevishness that began to seize me, I commended the tea; Prospero then told me, that another time I should taste his sinest sort, but that he had only a very small quantity remaining, and reserved it for those whom he thought himself obliged to treat with particular respect.

WHILE we were conversing upon such subjects as imagination happened to suggest, he frequently digressed into directions to the servant that waited, or made a slight enquiry after the jeweller or silversmith; and once as I was pursuing an argument with some degree of earnestness, he started from his posture of attention, and ordered, that if lord Lofty called on him that morning, he should be shewn into the best parlour.

MY patience was not yet wholly subdued. I was willing to promote his satisfaction, and therefore observed, that the figures on the china were eminently pretty. Prospero had now an opportunity of calling for his Dresden china, which, says he, I always associate with my chased tea-kettle. The cups were brought; I was once disposed not to have looked upon them, but my curiosity prevailed. When I had examined them a little, Prospero desired me to set them down, for they who were accustomed only to common dishes, seldom handled china with much care. You will, I hope, commend my philosophy, when I tell you that I did not dash his baubles to the ground.

HE was now so much elevated with his own greatness, that he thought some humility necessary to avert the glance of envy, and therefore told me with an air of soft composure, that I was not to estimate life by external appearance, that all these shining acquisitions had added little to his happiness, that he still remembered with pleasure the days in which he and I were upon the level, and had often in the moment of reflection been doubtful, whether he should lose much by changing his condition for mine.

I BEGAN now to be afraid lest his pride should, by silence and submission, be emboldened to insults that could not easily be born, and, therefore, cooly considered, how I should repress it without such bitterness of repoof as I was yet unwilling to use. But he interrupted my meditation by asking leave to be dressed, and told me, that he had promised to attend some ladies in the park, and, if I was going the same way, would take me in his chariot. I had no inclination to any other favours, and, therefore, left him without any intention of seeing him again, unless some misfortune should restore his understanding.

I am, &c. ASPER.

THOUGH I am not wholly insensible of the provocations which my correspondent has received, I cannot altogether commend the keenness of his resentment, nor encourage him to persist in his resolution of breaking off all commerce with his old acquaintance. One of the golden precepts of Pythagoras directs that a friend should not be hated for little faults; and surely, he, upon whom nothing worse can be charged, than that he mats his stairs, and covers his carpet, and sets out his finery to show before those whom he does not admit to use it, has yet committed nothing that should exclude him from common degrees of kindness. Such improprieties often proceed rather from stupidity than malice. Those who thus shine only to dazzle, are influenced merely by custom and example, and neither examine, nor are qualified to examine, the motives of their own practice, or to state the nice limits between elegance and ostentation. They are often innocent of the pain which their vanity produces, and insult others when they have no worse purpose than to please themselves.

HE that too much refines his delicacy will always endanger his quiet. Of those with whom nature and virtue oblige us to converse, some are ignorant of the arts of pleasing, and offend when they design to caress; some are negligent, and gratify themselves without regard to the quiet of another; some, perhaps, are malicious, and feel no greater satisfaction in prosperity, than that of raising envy and trampling inferiority. But whatever be the motive of insult, it is always best to overlook it, for folly scarcely can deserve resentment, and malice is punished by neglect.

NUMB. 201. TUESDAY, Feb. 18, 1752.

—Sanctus haberi

Promissique tenax dictis factisque mercris?

Agnosco Procerem.

JUV.

IT is observed in the writings of Boyle, that the excellency of manufactures, and the facility of labour, would be much promoted, if the various expedients and contrivances which lie concealed in private hands, were by reciprocal communications made generally known; for there are few operations that are not performed by one or other with some peculiar advantages, which though singly of little importance, would by conjunction and concurrence open new inlets to knowledge, and give new powers to diligence.

THERE are in like manner several moral excellencies distributed among the various classes of mankind, which he that converses in the world should endeavour to assemble in himself. It was said by the learned Cujacius, that he never read more than one book, by which he was not instructed; and he that shall enquire after virtue with ardour and attention, will seldom find a man by whose example or sentiments he may not be improved.

EVERY profession has some effential and appropriate Virtue, without which there can be no hope of honour or success, and which as it is more or less cultivated, confers within its sphere of activity different degrees of merit and reputation. As the astrologers range the subdivisions of mankind under the planets which they suppose to influence their lives, the moralist may distribute them according to the virtues which they necessarily practise, and consider them as distinguished by prudence or fortitude, diligence or patience.

So much are the modes of excellence settled by time and place, that men may be heard boasting in one street of that which they would anxiously conceal in another. The grounds of scorn and esteem, the topicks of praise and satire are varied according to the several virtues or vices which the course of our lives has disposed us to admire or abhor; but he who is solicitous for his own improvement, must not suffer his endeavours to be limited by local reputation, but select from every tribe of mortals their characteristical virtues, and constellate in himself the scattered graces which shine single in other men.

THE chief praise to which a trader generally aspires is that of punctuality, or an exact and rigorous observance of commercial promises and engagements; nor is there any vice of which he so much dreads the imputation, as of negligence and instability. This is a quality which the interest of mankind requires to be diffused through all the ranks of life, but which, however useful and valuable, many seem content to want; it is considered as a vulgar and ignoble virtue, below the ambition of greatness or attention of wit, scarcely requisite among men of gaiety and spirit, and sold at its highest rate when it is sacrificed to a frolick or a jest.

EVERY man has daily occasion to remark what vexations and inconveniences arise from this privilege of deceiving one another. The active and vivacious have so long disdained the restraints of truth, that promises and appointments have lost their cogency, and both parties neglect their stipulations, because each concludes that they will be broken by the other.

NEGLIGENCE is first admitted in trivial affairs, and strengthened by petty indulgencies. He that is not yet hardened by custom ventures not on the violation of important engagements, but thinks himself bound by his word in cases of property or danger, though he allows himself to forget at what time he is to meet ladies in the park, or at what tavern his friends are expecting him.

THIS laxity of honour would be more tolerable if it could be restrained to the play-house, the ball-room, or the card-table; yet even there it is sufficiently troublesome, and darkens those moments with expectation, suspense, uncertainty, and resentment, which are set aside for the softer pleasures of life, and from which we naturally hope for unmingled enjoyment, and total relaxation. But he that suffers the slightest breach in his morality, can seldom tell what shall enter it, or how wide it shall be made; when a passage is opened, the influx of corruption is every moment wearing down opposition, and by slow degrees deluges the heart.

ALIGER entered the world a youth of lively imagination, extensive views, and untainted principles. His curiosity incited him to range from place to place, and try all the varieties of conversation; his elegance of address and fertility of ideas, gained him friends wherever he appeared; or at least he found the general kindness of reception always shown to a young man whose birth and fortune give him a claim to notice, and who has neither by vice or folly destroyed his privileges. Aliger was pleased with this general smile of mankind, and being naturally gentle and flexible was industrious to preserve it by compliance and officiousness, but did not suffer his desire of pleasing to vitiate his integrity. It was his established maxim, that a promise is never to be broken; nor was it without long reluctance that he once suffered himself to be drawn away from a festal engagement by the importunity of another company.

HE spent the evening, as is usual in the rudiments of vice, with perturbation and imperfect enjoyment, and met his disappointed friends in the morning, with confusion and excuses. His companions not accustomed to such scrupulous anxiety, laughed at his uneasiness, compounded the offence for a bottle, gave him courage to break his word again, and again levied the penalty. He ventured the same experiment upon another society, and found them equally ready to consider it as a venial fault, always incident to a man of quickness and gaiety; till by degrees, he began to think himself at liberty to follow the last invitation, and was no longer shocked at the turpitude of falshood. He made no difficulty to promise his presence at distant places, and if listlesness happened to creep upon him, would sit at home with great tranquility, and has often, while he sunk to sleep in a chair, held ten tables in continual expectations of his entrance.

HE found it so pleasant to live in perpetual vacancy, that he soon dismissed his attention as an useless incumbrance, and resigned himself to carelesness and dissipation, without any regard to the future or the past, or any other motive of action than the impulse of a sudden desire, or the attraction of immediate pleasure. The absent were immediately forgotten, and the hopes or fears of others, had no influence upon his conduct. He was in speculation compleatly just, but never kept his promise to a creditor; he was benevolent, but always deceived those friends whom he undertook to patronize or assist; he was prudent, but suffered his affairs to be embarrassed for want of settling his accounts at stated times. He courted a young lady, and when the settlements were drawn, took a ramble into the country on the day appointed to sign them. He resolved to travel, and sent his chests on shipboard, but delayed to follow them till he lost his passage. He was summoned as an evidence in a cause of great importance, and loitered on the way till the trial was past. It is said, that when he had with great expence formed an interest in a borough, his opponent contrived by some agents, who knew his temper, to lure him away on the day of election.

HIS benevolence draws him into the commission of a thousand crimes, which others less kind or civil, would escape. His courtesy invites application, his promises produce dependence; he has his pockets filled with petitions, which he intends some time to deliver and enforce, and his table covered with letters of request, with which he purposes to comply; but time slips imperceptibly away, while he is either idle or busy; his friends lose their opportunities, and charge upon him their miscarriages and calamities.

THIS character however contemptible, is not peculiar to Aliger. They whose activity of imagination is often shifting the scenes of expectation, are frequently subject to such sallies of caprice as make all their actions fortuitous, destroy the value of their friendship, obstruct the efficacy of their virtues, and set them below the meanest of those that persist in their resolutions, execute what they design, and perform what they have promised.

NUMB. 202. SATURDAY, Feb. 22, 1752.

‘ 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 ’ CALLIMACHUS.

AMONG those who have endeavoured the promotion of learning, and the rectification of judgment, it has been long customary to complain of the abuse of words, which are often admitted to signify things so different, that, instead of assisting the understanding as vehicles of knowledge, they produce error, dissention, and perplexity, because what is affirmed in one sense, is received in another.

IF this ambiguity sometimes embarrasses the most solemn controversies, and obscures the demonstrations of science, it may well be expected to infest the pompous periods of declaimers, whose purpose is often only to amuse with fallacies, and change the colours of truth and falshood; or the musical compositions of poets, whose stile is professedly figurative, and whose art is imagined to consist in distorting words from their original meaning.

THERE are few words, of which more readers believe themselves to know the import than of poverty, yet whoever studies the poets and philosophers, will find such an account of the condition expressed by that term as his experience or observation will not easily discover to be true. Instead of the meanness, distress, complaint, anxiety, and dependance which have hitherto been combined in his ideas of poverty, he will read of content, innocence, and chearfulness, of health, and safety, tranquility, and freedom; of pleasures not known but to men unencumbered with possessions; and of sleep that sheds his balsamick anodynes only on the cottage. Such are the blessings to be obtained by the resignation of riches, that kings might descend from their thrones, and generals retire from a triumph, only to slumber undisturbed in the clysium of poverty.

IF these authors do not deceive us, nothing can be more absurd than that perpetual contest for wealth which keeps the world in commotion, and fills almost every mind with stratagems and competition; nor can any complaints be more justly censured than those which proceed from want of the gifts of fortune, which we are taught by the great masters of moral wisdom to consider as golden shackles, by which the wearer is at once disabled and adorned; as luscious poisons which may for a time please the palate, but soon betray their malignity by languor and by pain.

IT is the great privilege of poverty to be happy unenvied, to be healthful without physic, and secure without a guard; to obtain from the bounty of nature, what the great and wealthy are compelled to procure by the help of artists and attendants, of flatterers and spies.

BUT it will be found upon a nearer view, that they who extol the happiness of poverty, do not mean the same state with those who deplore its miseries. Poets have their imaginations filled with ideas of magnificence; and being accustomed to contemplate the downfal of empires, or to contrive forms of lamentation for monarchs in distress, rank all the classes of mankind in a state of poverty, who make no approaches to the dignity of crowns. To be poor in the epick language, is only not to command the wealth of nations, not to have fleets and armies in pay.

VANITY has perhaps contributed to this impropriety of stile. He that wishes to become a philosopher at a cheap rate, easily gratifies his ambition by submitting to poverty when he does not feel it, and by boasting his contempt of riches, when he has already more than he enjoys. He who would show the extent of his views, and grandeur of his conceptions, or discover his acquaintance with splendor and magnificence, may talk like Cowley of an humble station and quiet obscurity, of the paucity of nature's wants, and the inconveniencies of superfluity, and at last, like him, limit his desires to five hundred pounds a year: A fortune indeed not exuberant when we compare it with the expences of pride and luxury, but to which it little becomes a philosopher to affix the name of poverty, since no man can with any propriety be termed poor, who does not see the greater part of mankind richer than himself.

AS little is the general condition of human life understood by panegyrists and historians, who amuse us with accounts of the poverty of heroes and sages. Riches are of no value in themselves, their use is discovered only in that which they procure. They are not coveted, unless by a few narrow understandings which confound the means with the end, but for the sake of power, influence, and esteem; or, by some of less elevated and refined sentiments, as necessary to sensual enjoyment.

THE pleasures of luxury, many have, without uncommon virtue, been able to despise, even when affluence and idleness have concurred to tempt them; and therefore he who feels nothing from indigence but the want of gratifications which he could not in any other condition make consistent with innocence, has given no proof of eminent patience. Esteem and influence every man desires, but they are equally pleasing, and equally valuable, by whatever means they are obtained; and whoever has found the art of securing them without the help of money, ought, in reality, to be accounted rich, since he has all that riches can purchase to a wise man. Cincinnatus, though he lived upon a few acres cultivated by his own hand, was sufficiently removed from all the evils generally comprehended under the name of poverty, when his reputation was such that the voice of his country called him from his farm to take absolute command into his hand; nor was Diogenes much mortified by his residence in a tub, where he was honoured with the visit of Alexander the great.

THE same fallacy has conciliated veneration to the religious orders. When we behold a man abdicating the hope of terrestrial possessions, and precluding himself by an irrevocable vow from the pursuit and acquisition of all that his fellow beings consider as worthy of wishes and endeavours, we are immediately struck with the purity, abstraction, and firmness of his mind, and regard him as wholly employed in securing the interests of futurity, and devoid of any other care than to gain at whatever price the surest passage to eternal rest.

YET what can the votary be justly said to have lost of his present happiness. If he resides in a convent, he converses only with men whose condition is the same with his own; he has from the munificence of the founder all the necessaries of life, and is safe from that destitution, which Hooker declares to be such an impediment to virtue as, till it be removed, suffereth not the mind of man to admit any other care. All temptations to envy and competition are shut out from his retreat; he is not pained with the sight of unattainable dignity, nor insulted with the bluster of insolence, or the smile of forced familiarity. If he wanders abroad, the sanctity of his character amply compensates all other distinctions, he is never seen but with reverence, nor heard but with obedience.

IT has been remarked, that death, though often desied in the field, seldom fails to terrify when it approaches the bed of sickness in its natural horror; so poverty may easily be endured, while associated with dignity and reputation, but will always be shunned and dreaded, when it is accompanied with ignominy and contempt.

NUMB. 203. TUESDAY, Feb. 25, 1752.

Cum volet illa dies, quae nil nisi corporis hujus

Jus habet, incerti Spatium mihi finiat aevi.

OVID.

IT seems to be the fate of man to seek all his consolations in futurity. The time present is seldom able to fill desire or imagination with immediate enjoyment, and we are forced to supply its deficiences by recollection or anticipation.

EVERY one has so often detected the fallaciousness of hope, and the inconvenience of teaching himself to expect what a thousand accidents may preclude, that, when time has abated the confidence with which youth rushes out to take possession of the world, we endeavour, or wish, to find entertainment in the review of life, and to repose upon real facts, and certain experience. This is perhaps one reason among many, why age delights in narratives.

BUT so full is the world of calamity, that every source of pleasure is polluted, and every retirement of tranquillity disturbed. When time has supplied us with events sufficient to employ our thoughts, it has mingled them with so many disasters, that we shrink from their remembrance, dread their intrusion upon our minds, and fly from them to company and diversions.

No man past the middle point of life can sit down to feast upon the pleasures of youth without finding the banquet imbittered by the cup of sorrow. Many days of harmless frolick, or nights of honest festivity will perhaps recur; he may revive lucky accidents, and pleasing extravagancies; or, if he has been engaged in scenes of action, and acquainted with affairs of difficulty and vicissitudes of fortune, may enjoy the nobler pleasure of looking back upon distress firmly supported, danger resolutely encountered, and opposition artfully defeated. Eneas properly comforts his companions, when after the horrors of a storm they have landed on an unknown and desolate country, with the hope that their miseries will be at some distant time recounted with delight. There are few higher gratifications than that of reflection on surmounted evils, when they were not incurred nor protracted by our fault, and neither reproached us with cowardice, nor guilt.

BUT this felicity is almost always abated by the reflection, that they, with whom we should be most pleased to share it, are now in the grave. A few years make such havock in human generations, that we soon see ourselves deprived of those with whom we entered the world, and whom the participation of pleasures or fatigues endeared to our remembrance. The man of enterprise, recounts his adventures and expedients, but is forced at the close of the relation to pay a sign to the names of those that contributed to his success; he that passes his life among the gayer part of mankind, has quickly his remembrance stored with remarks and repartees of wits, whose sprightliness and merriment are now lost in perpetual silence; the trader whose industry has supplied the want of inheritance, when he sits down to enjoy his fortune, repines in solitary plenty at the absence of companions with whom he had planned out amusements for his latter years; and the scholar whose merit, after a long series of efforts raises him from obscurity, looks round in vain from his exaltation for his old friends or enemies, whose applause or mortification would heighten his triumph.

AMONG Martial's requisites to happiness is, Res non parta labore sed relicta, an estate not gained by industry but left by inheritance. It is necessary to the completion of every good, that it be timely obtained, for whatever comes at the close of life, will come too late to give much delight. Yet all human happiness, has its imperfections. Of what we do not gain for ourselves we have only a faint and imperfect fruition, because we cannot compare the difference between want and possession, or at least can derive from it no conviction of our own abilities, nor any encrease of self esteem; what we acquire by bravery or science, by mental or corporeal diligence, comes at last when we cannot communicate, and therefore cannot enjoy it.

THUS every period of life is obliged to borrow its happiness from the time to come. In youth we have nothing past to entertain us, and in age, we derive little from retrospect but hopeless sorrow. Yet the future likewise has its limits, which the imagination dreads to approach, but which we know to be not far distant. The loss of our friends and companions, impresses hourly upon us the necessity of our own departure: We know that the schemes of man are quickly at an end, that we must soon lie down in the grave with the forgotten multitudes of former ages, and yield our place to others, who, like us, shall be driven awhile by hope or fear about the surface of the earth, and then like us be lost in the shades of death.

BEYOND this termination of our corporeal existence, we are therefore obliged to extend our hopes, and almost every man indulges his imagination with something, which is not to happen till he has changed his manner of existence: Some amuse themselves with entails and settlements, provide for the encrease and perpetuation of families and honours, or contrive to obviate the dissipation of the fortunes, which it has been their business to accumulate: Others more refined or exalted congratulate their own hearts upon the future extent of their reputation, the reverence of distant nations, and the gratitude of unprejudiced posterity.

THEY whose souls are so chained down to coffers and tenements, that they cannot conceive a state in which they shall look upon them with less solicitude, are seldom attentive to remonstrance, or flexible to arguments; but the votaries of fame are capable of reflection, and, therefore, may be fitly called to reconsider the probability of their expectations.

WHETHER to be remembered in remote times be worthy of a wise man's wish, has not yet been satisfactorily decided, and indeed, to be long remembered, can happen to so small a number, that the bulk of mankind has very little interest in the question. There is never room in the world for more than a certain quantity, or measure of renown. The necessary business of life, the immediate pleasures or pains of every condition, leave us not leisure beyond a fixed proportion for contemplations which do not forcibly influence our present welfare. When this vacuity is filled no characters can be admitted into the circulation of fame, but by occupying the place of some that must be thrust into oblivion. The eye of the mind, like that of the body, can only extend its view to new objects, by losing sight of those which are now before it.

REPUTATION is therefore a meteor which blazes a while and disappears for ever; and if we except a few transcendent and invincible names, which no revolutions of opinion or length of time is able to suppress; all those that engage our thoughts, or diversify our conversation, are every moment hasting to obscurity, as new favourites are adopted by fashion.

IT is not therefore from this world that any ray of comfort can procede, to cheer the gloom of the last hour. But futurity has still its prospects; there is yet happiness in reserve, which, if we transfer our attention to it, will support us in the pains of disease, and the languor of decay. This happiness we may expect with confidence, because it is out of the power of chance, and may be attained by all that sincerely desire and earnestly pursue it. On this therefore every mind ought finally to rest. Hope is the chief blessing of man, and that hope only is rational, of which we are certain that it cannot deceive us.

NUMB. 204. SATURDAY, Feb. 29, 1752.

Nemo tam divos habuit faventes,

Crastinum ut possit sibi polliceri.

SENECA.

SEGED lord of Ethiopia, to the inhabitants of the world: To the sons of presumption, humility, and fear, and to the daughters of sorrow, content and acquiescence.

THUS in the twenty-seventh year of his reign, spoke Seged, the monarch of forty nations, the distributer of the waters of the Nile. "At length, Seged, thy toils are at an end, thou hast reconciled disaffection, thou hast suppressed rebellion, thou hast pacified the jealousies of thy courtiers, thou hast chased war from thy confines, and erected fortresses in the lands of thy enemies. All who have offended thee, tremble in thy presence, and wherever thy voice is heard, it is obeyed. Thy throne is surrounded by armies, numerous as the locusts of the summer, and resistless as the blasts of pestilence. Thy magazines are stored with ammunition, thy treasuries overflow with the tribute of conquered kingdoms. Plenty waves upon thy fields, and opulence glitters in thy cities. Thy nod is as the earthquake that shakes the mountains, and thy smile as the dawn of the vernal day. In thy hand is the strength of thousands, and thy health is the health of millions. Thy palace is gladdened by the song of praise, and thy path perfumed by the breath of benediction. Thy subjects gaze upon thy greatness, and think of danger or misery no more. Why, Seged, wilt not thou partake the blessings thou bestowest? Why shouldst thou only forbear to rejoice in this general felicity? Why should thy heart be heavy with fear, or thy face clouded with anxiety, when the meanest of those who call thee sovereign, gives the day to festivity, and the night to peace. At length, Seged, reflect and be wise. What is the gift of conquest but safety, why are riches collected but to purchase happiness?"

SEGED then ordered his house of pleasure, built in an island of the lake Dambia to be prepared for his reception. "I will retire, says he, for ten days from tumult and care, from counsels and decrees. Long quiet is not the lot of the governors of nations, but a cessation of ten days cannot be denied me. This short interval of happiness, may surely be secured from the interruption of fear or perplexity, sorrow on disappointment. I will exclude all trouble from my abode, and remove from my thoughts whatever may confuse the harmony of the concert, or abate the sweetness of the banquet. I will fill the whole capacity of my soul with enjoyment, and try what it is to live without a wish unsatisfied."

IN a few days the orders were performed, and Seged hasted to the palace of Dambia, which stood in an island cultivated only for pleasure, planted with every flower that spreads its colours to the sun, and every shrub that sheds fragrance in the air. In one part of this extensive garden, were open walks for excursions in the morning, in another, thick groves, and silent arbours, and bubbling fountains for repose at noon. All that could solace the sense, or flatter the fancy, all that industry could extort from nature, or wealth furnish to art, all that conquest could seize, or beneficence attract, was collected together, and every perception of delight was excited and gratified.

INTO this delicious region Seged summoned all the persons of his court, who seemed eminently qualified to receive, or communicate pleasure. His call was readily obeyed; the young, the fair, the vivacious, and the witty, were all in haste to be sated with felicity. They sailed jocund over the lake, which seemed to smooth its surface before them: Their passage was cheered with musick, and their hearts dilated with expectation.

SEGED landing here with his band of pleasure, determined from that hour to break off all acquaintance with discontent, to give his heart for ten days to ease and jollity, and then fall back to the common state of man, and suffer his life to be diversified, as before, with joy and sorrow.

HE immediately entered his chamber, to consider where he should begin his circle of happiness. He had all the artists of delight before him, but knew not whom to call, since he could not enjoy one, but by delaying the performance of another. He chose and rejected, he resolved and changed his resolution, till his faculties were harrassed, and his thoughts confused; then returned to the appartment where his presence was expected, with languid eyes and clouded countenance, and spread the infection of uneasiness over the whole assembly. He observed their depression, and was offended, for he found his vexation encreased by those whom he expected to dissipate and relieve it. He retired again to his private chamber, and sought for consolation in his own mind; one thought flowed in upon another; a long succession of images seized his attention; the moments crept imperceptibly away through the gloom of pensiveness, till having recovered his tranquility, he lifted up his head, and saw the lake brightened by the setting sun. "Such, said Seged sighing, is the longer day of human existence: Before we have learned to use it, we find it at an end."

THE regret, which he felt for the loss of so great a part of his first day, took from him all inclination to enjoy the evening; and, after having endeavoured for the sake of his attendants to force an air of gaiety, and excite that mirth which he could not share, he resolved to refer his hopes to the next morning, and lay down upon his bed, to partake with the slaves of labour and poverty the blessing of sleep.

HE rose early the second morning, and resolved now to be happy. He therefore fixed upon the gate of the palace an edict importing, that whoever, during nine days, should appear in the presence of the king with dejected countenance, or utter any expression of discontent or sorrow, should be driven for ever from the palace of Dambia.

THIS edict was immediately made known in every chamber of the court, and bower of the gardens. Mirth was frighted away, and they who were before dancing in the lawns, or singing in the shades, were at once engaged in the care of regulating their looks, that Seged might find his will punctually obeyed, and see none among them liable to banishment.

SEGED now met every face settled in a smile; but a smile that betrayed solicitude, timidity, and constraint. He accosted his favourites with familiarity and softness; but they durst not speak without premeditation, lest they should be convicted of discontent or sorrow. He proposed diversions, to which no objection was made, because objection would have implied uneasiness; but they were regarded with indifference by the courtiers, who had no other desire than to signalize themselves by clamorous exultation. He offered various topics of conversation, but obtained only forced jests, and laborious laughter, and after many attempts to animate them to confidence and alacrity, was obliged to confess to himself the impotence of command, and resign another day to grief and disappointment.

HE at last relieved his companions from their terrors, and shut himself up in his chamber to ascertain, by some different measures, the felicity of the succeeding days. At length, he threw himself on the bed and closed his eyes, but imagined in his sleep, that his palace and gardens were overwhelmed by an inundation, and waked with all the terrors of a man struggling in the water. He composed himself again to rest, but was disturbed by an imaginary irruption into his kingdom, and striving, as is usual in dreams, without ability to move, fancied himself betrayed to his enemies, and again started up with horror and indignation.

IT was now day, and fear was so strongly impressed on his mind, that he could sleep no more. He rose, but his thoughts were filled with the deluge and invasion, nor was he able to disengage his attention, or mingle with vacancy or ease in any amusement. At length his perturbation gave way to reason, and he resolved no longer to be harrassed by a dream; but before this resolution could be completely formed, half the day had elapsed: He felt a new conviction of the uncertainty of all human schemes, and could not forbear to bewail the frailty and weakness of that being, whose quiet could be interrupted by vapours of the fancy. Having been first disturbed by a dream, he was afterwards grieved that a dream could disturb him. He at last discovered, that his terrors and grief were equally vain, and, that to lose the present in lamenting the past, was voluntarily to protract a melancholy vision. The third day was now declining, and Seged again resolved to be happy on the morrow.

NUMB. 205. TUESDAY, March 3, 1752.

—Volat ambiguis

Mobilis alis hora, nec ulli

Praestat velox Fortuna fidem.

SEN.

ON the fourth morning Seged rose early, refreshed with sleep, vigorous with health, and eager with expectation. He entered the garden attended by the princes and ladies of his court, and seeing nothing about him but airy cheerfulness, began to say to his heart, "This day shall be a day of pleasure." The sun played upon the water, the birds warbled in the groves, and the gales quivered among the branches. He roved from walk to walk as chance directed him, and sometimes listened to the songs, sometimes mingled with the dancers, sometimes let loose his imagination in flights of merriment; and sometimes uttered grave reflections, and sententious maxims, and feasted on the admiration with which they were received.

THUS the day rolled on, without any accident of vexation or intrusion of melancholy thoughts. All that beheld him caught gladness from his looks, and the sight of happiness conferred by himself filled his heart with satisfaction: But having passed three hours in this harmless luxury, he was alarmed on a sudden by an universal scream among the women, and turning back, saw the whole assembly flying in confusion. A young crocodile had risen out of the lake, and was ranging the garden in wantonness or hunger. Seged beheld him with indignation, as a disturber of his felicity, and chased him back into the lake, but could not persuade his retinue to stay, or free their hearts from the terror which had seized upon them. The princesses inclosed themselves in the palace, and could yet scarcely believe themselves in safety. Every attention was fixed upon the late danger and escape, and no mind was any longer at leisure for gay sallies or careless prattle.

SEGED had now no other employment than to contemplate the innumerable casualties which lie in ambush on every side to intercept the happiness of man, and break in upon the hour of delight and tranquility. He had however, the consolation of thinking, that he had not been now disappointed by his own fault, and that the accident, which had blasted the hopes of the day, might easily be prevented by future caution.

THAT he might provide for the pleasure of the next morning, he resolved to repeal his penal edict, since he had already found that discontent and melancholy were not to be frighted away by the threats of authority, and that pleasure would only reside where she was exempted from control. He therefore invited all the companions of his retreat to unbounded pleasantry, by proposing prizes for those who should on the following day distinguish themselves by any festive performances; the tables of the antichamber were covered with gold and pearls, and robes and garlands, decreed the rewards of those who could refine elegance or heighten pleasure.

AT this display of riches every eye immediately sparkled, and every tongue was busied in celebrating the bounty and magnificence of the emperor. But when Seged entered in hopes of uncommon entertainment from universal emulation, he found that any passion too strongly agitated, puts an end to that tranquility which is necessary to mirth, and that the mind, that is to be moved by the gentle ventilations of gaiety, must be first smoothed by a total calm. Whatever we ardently wish to gain, we must in the same degree be afraid to lose, and fear and pleasure cannot dwell together.

ALL was now care and solicitude. Nothing was done or spoken, but with so visible an endeavour at perfection, as always failed to delight, though it sometimes forced admiration: And Seged could not but observe with sorrow, that his prizes had more influence than himself. As the evening approached, the contest grew more earnest, and those who were forced to allow themselves excelled, began to discover the malignity of defeat, first by angry glances, and at last by contemptuous murmurs. Seged likewise shared the anxiety of the day, for considering himself as obliged to distribute with exact justice the prizes which had been so zealously sought, he durst never remit his attention, but passed his time in balancing different kinds of merit, and adjusting the claims of all the competitors.

AT last knowing, that no exactness could fatisfy those whose hopes he should disappoint, and thinking that on a day set apart for happiness, it would be cruel to oppress any heart with sorrow, he declared that all had pleased him alike, and dismissed all with presents of equal value.

SEGED saw that his caution had not been able to avoid offence. They who had believed themselves secure of the highest prizes, were not pleased to be levelled with the crowd; and though by the liberality of the king, they received more than his promise had intitled them to expect, they departed unsatisfied, because they were honoured with no distinction, and wanted an opportunity to triumph in the mortification of their opponents. "Behold here, said Seged, the condition of him who places his happiness in the happiness of others." He then retired to meditate, and, while the courtiers were repining at his distributions, saw the fifth sun go down in discontent.

THE next dawn renewed his resolution to be happy. But having learned how little he could effect by settled schemes or preparatory measures, he thought it best to give up one day entirely to chance, and left every one to please and be pleased his own way.

THIS relaxation of regularity diffused a general complacence through the whole court, and the emporor imagined, that he had at last found the secret of obtaining an interval of felicity. But as he was roving in this careless assembly with equal carelessness, he overheard one of his courtiers in a close arbour murmuring to himself: "What merit has Seged above us, that we should thus fear and obey him, a man, whom, whatever he may have formerly performed, his luxury now shews to have the same weakness with ourselves." This charge affected him the more, as it was uttered by one whom he had always observed among the most abject of his flatterers. At first his indignation prompted him to severity; but reflecting that what was spoken, without intention to be heard, was to be considered as only thought, and was perhaps but the sudden burst of casual and temporary vexation, he invented some decent pretence to send him away, that his retreat might not be tainted with the breath of envy, and after the struggle of deliberation was past, and all desire of revenge utterly suppressed, passed the evening not only with tranquillity, but triumph, though none but himself was conscious of the victory.

THE remembrance of this clemency cheered the beginning of the seventh day, and nothing happened to disturb the pleasure of Seged till looking on the tree that shaded him, he recollected, that under a tree of the same kind he had passed the night after his defeat in the kingdom of Goiama. The reflection on his loss, his dishonour, and the miseries which his subjects suffered from the invader, filled him with sadness. At last he shook off the weight of sorrow, and began to solace himself with his usual pleasures, when his tranquillity was again disturbed by jealousies which the late contest for the prizes had produced, and which having in vain tried to pacify them by persuasion, he was forced to silence by command.

ON the eighth morning Seged was awakened early by an unusual hurry in the apartments, and enquiring the cause, was told, that the princess Balkis was seized with sickness. He rose, and calling the physicians found that they had little hope of her recovery. Here was an end of jollity: All his thoughts were now upon his daughter, whose eyes he closed on the tenth day.

SUCH were the days which Seged of Ethiopia had appropriated to a short respiration from the fatigues of war and the cares of government. This narrative he has bequeathed to future generations, that no man hereafter may presume to say, "This day shall be a day of happiness."

NUMB. 206. SATURDAY, March 7, 1752.

—Propositi nondum pudet, atque eadem est mens,

Ut bona summa putes, aliena vivere quadra.

JUV.

WHEN Diogenes was once asked, what kind of wine he liked best? He answered; "That which is drunk at the cost of others."

THOUGH the character of Diogenes has never excited any general zeal of imitation, there are many who resemble him in his taste of wine; many who are frugal, though not abstemious; whose appetites, though too powerful for reason, are kept under restraint by avarice; and to whom all delicacies lose their flavour, when they cannot be obtained but at their own expence.

NOTHING produces more singularity of manners and inconstancy of life, than the conslict of opposite vices in the same mind. He that uniformly pursues any purpose, whether good or bad, has a settled principle of action, and as he may always find associates who are travelling the same way, is countenanced by example, and sheltered in the multitude; but he that is actuated at once by contrary desires must move in a direction peculiar to himself, and suffer that reproach which we are naturally inclined to bestow on those who differ from the rest of the world, even without enquiring whether they are worse or better.

YET this conflict of desires sometimes produces wonderful efforts. To riot in far-setch'd dishes, or surfeit with unexhausted variety, and yet practise the most rigid oeconomy, is surely an art which may justly draw the eyes of mankind upon them whose industry or judgment, has enabled them to attain it. To him, indeed, who is content to break open the chests, or mortgage the manors of his ancestors, that he may hire the ministers of excess at the highest price, gluttony is an easy science; yet we often hear the votaries of luxury, boasting of the elegance which they owe to the taste of others, relating with rapture the succession of dishes with which their cooks and caterers supply them; and expecting their share of praise with the discoverers of arts and the civilizers of nations. But to shorten the way to convivial happiness, by eating without cost, is a secret hitherto in few hands, but which certainly deserves the curiosity of those whose principal enjoyment is their dinner, and who see the sun rise with no other hope than that they shall fill their bellies before it sets.

OF them that have within my knowledge attempted this scheme of happiness, the greater part have been immediately obliged to desist; and some, whom their first attempts flattered with success, were reduced by degrees to a few tables, from which they were at last chased to make way for others, and having long habituated themselves to superfluous plenty, growled away their latter years in discontented competence.

NONE enter the regions of luxury with higher expectations than men of wit, who imagine, that they shall never want a welcome to that company whose ideas they can enlarge, or whose imaginations they can elevate, and believe themselves able to pay for their wine with the mirth which it qualifies them to produce. Full of this opinion they crowd, with little invitation, wherever the smell of a feast allures them, but are seldom encouraged to repeat their visits, being dreaded by the pert as rivals, and hated by the dull as disturbers of the company.

No man has been so happy in gaining and keeping the privilege of living at luxurious houses as Gulosulus, who, after thirty years of continual revelry, I as now established by uncontroverted prescription his claim to partake of every entertainment, and whose presence they who aspire to the praise of a sumptuous table, are careful to procure on a day of importance, by sending the invitation a fortnight before.

GULOSULUS entered the world without any eminent degree of merit; but was careful to frequent houses, where persons of rank resorted. By being often seen, he became in time known; and from sitting in the same room, was suffered to mix in idle conversation, or assisted to fill up a vacant hour, when better amusement was not readily to be had. From the coffee-house he was sometimes taken away to dinner; and, as no man refuses the acquaintance of him, whom he sees admitted to familiarity by others of equal dignity, when he had been met at a few tables, he with less difficulty found the way to more, till at last he was regularly expected to appear wherever preparations are made for a feast, within the circuit of his acquaintance.

WHEN he was thus by accident initiated in luxury, he felt in himself no inclination to retire from a life of so much pleasure, and therefore very seriously considered how he might continue it. Great qualities or uncommon accomplishments he did not find necessary to his design; for he had already seen that they whose merit is allowed rather enforce respect than attract fondness; and as he thought no folly greater than that of losing a dinner for any other gratification, he often congratulated himself, that he had none of that disgusting excellence which impresses awe upon greatness, and condemns its possessors to the society of those who are wise or brave and indigent as themselves.

GULOSULUS having never allotted much of his time to books or meditation had no opinion in philosophy or politicks, and was not in danger of injuring his interest by dogmatical positions or violent contradiction. If a dispute arose, he took care to listen with earnest attention, and when either speaker grew vehement and loud turned towards him with eager quickness, and uttered a short phrase of admiration, as if surprised by such cogency of argument as he had never known before. By this silent concession, he generally preserved in either controvertist such a conviction of his own superiority as inclined him rather to pity than irritate his adversary, and prevented those outrages which are sometimes produced by the rage of defeat or petulance of triumph.

GULOSULUS was never embarrassed but when he was required to declare his sentiments before he had been able to discover to which side the master of the house inclined, for it was his invariable rule to adopt the notions of those that invited him.

IT sometimes happens that the insolence of wealth breaks into contemptuousness, or the turbulence of wine requires a vent; and Gulosulus seldom fails of being singled out on such emergencies, as one on whom any experiment of ribaldry may be safely tryed. Sometimes his lordship finds himself inclined to exhibit a specimen of raillery for the diversion of his guests, and Gulosulus always supplies him with a subject of merriment. But he has learned to consider rudeness and indignities as familiarities that entitle him to greater freedom: He comforts himself, that those who treat and insult him pay for their laughter, and observes that he keeps his money, and they enjoy their jest.

HIS chief policy consists in selecting some dish from every course, and recommending it to the company, with an air so decisive, that no one ventures to contradict him. By this practice he acquires at a feast a kind of dictatorial authority; his taste becomes the standard of pickles and seasoning, and he is venerated by the professors of epicurism, as the only man who understands the niceties of cookery.

WHENEVER a new sauce is imported, or any innovation made in the culinary system, he procures the earliest intelligence, and the most authentick receipt; and, by communicating his knowledge under proper injunctions of secrecy, gains a right of tasting his own dish whenever it is prepared, that he may tell whether his directions have been fully understood.

BY this method of life Gulosulus has so impressed on his imagination the dignity of feasting that he has no other topic of talk, or subject of meditation. Others may prate of tropicks and the zodiac, his calendar is a bill of fare; he measures the year by successive dainties. The only common places of his memory are his meals; and if you ask him at what time an event happened, he considers whether he heard it after a dinner of turbot, or venison. He knows, indeed, that those who value themselves upon sense, learning, or piety, speak of him with contempt; but he considers them as wretches envious or ignorant, who do not know his happiness, or wish to supplant him, and declares to his friends, that he is fully satisfied with his own conduct, since he has fed every day on twenty dishes, and yet doubled his estate.

NUMB. 207. TUESDAY, March 10, 1752.

Solve senescentem mature sanus equum, ne

Peccet ad extrenum ridendus.

HOR.

SUCH is the emptiness of human enjoyment, that we are always impatient of the present. Attainment is followed by neglect, and possession by disgust; and the malicious remark of the Greek epigrammatist on marriage may be applied to every other course of life, that its two days of happiness are the first and the last.

FEW moments are more pleasing than those in which the mind is concerting measures for a new undertaking. From the first hint that wakens the fancy to the hour of actual execution, all is improvement and progress, triumph and felicity. Every hour brings additions to the original scheme, suggests some new expedient to secure success, or discovers consequential advantages not hitherto foreseen. While preparations are made and materials accumulated, day glides after day through elysian prospects, and the heart dances to the song of hope.

SUCH is the pleasure of projecting, that many content themselves with a succession of visionary schemes, and wear out their allotted time in the calm amusement of contriving what they never attempt or hope to execute.

OTHERS, not able to feast their imagination with pure ideas, advance somewhat nearer to the grossness of action, with great diligence collect whatever is requisite to their design, and, after a thousand researches and consultations, are snatched away by death, as they stand in procinctu waiting for a proper opportunity to begin.

IF there were no other end of life, than to find some adequate solace for every day, I know not whether any condition could be preferred to that of the man who involves himself in his own thoughts, and never suffers experience to shew him the vanity of speculation; for no sooner are notions reduced to practice, than tranquility and confidence forsake the breast; every day brings its task, and often without bringing abilities to perform it: Difficulties embarrass, uncertainty perplexes, opposition retards, censure exasperates, or neglect depresses. We proceed, because we have begun; we complete our design, that the labour already spent may not be vain: but as expectation gradually dies away, the gay smile of alacrity disappears, we are necessitated to implore severer powers, and trust the event to patience and constancy.

WHEN once our labour has begun, the comfort that enables us to endure it is the prospect of its end; for though in every long work there are some joyous intervals of selfapplause, when the attention is recreated by unexpected facility, and the imagination soothed by incidental excellencies not comprised in the first plan, yet the toil with which performance struggles after idea, is so irksome and disgusting, and so frequent is the necessity of resting below that perfection which we imagined within our reach, that seldom any man obtains more from his endeavours than a painful conviction of his defects, and a continual resuscitation of desires which he feels himself unable to gratify.

SO certainly is weariness and vexation the concomitant of our undertakings, that every man, in whatever he is engaged, consoles himself with the hope of change. He that has made his way by assiduity and vigilance to publick employment, talks among his friends of nothing but the delight of retirement: He, whom the necessity of solitary application secludes from the world, listens with a beating heart to its distant noises, longs to mingle with living beings, and resolves, when he can regulate his hours by his own choice, to take his fill of merriment and diversions, or to display his abilities on the universal theatre, and enjoy the pleasure of distinction and applause.

EVERY desire, however innocent or natural, grows dangerous as by long indulgence it becomes ascendent in the mind. When we have been much accustomed to consider any thing as capable of giving happiness, it is not easy to restrain our ardour, or to forbear some precipitation in our advances, and irregularity in our persuits. He that has long cultivated the tree, watched the swelling bud, and opening blossom, and pleased himself with computing how much every sun and shower added to its growth, scarcely stays till the fruit has obtained its maturity, but defeats his own cares by eagerness to reward them. When we have diligently laboured for any purpose, we are willing to believe that we have attained it, and, because we have already done much, too suddenly conclude that no more is to be done.

ALL attraction is encreased by the approach of the attracting body. We never find ourselves so desirous to finish, as in the latter part of our work, or so impatient of delay, as when we know that delay cannot be long. Part of this unseasonable importunity of discontent may be justly imputed to languor and weariness, which must always oppress us more as our toil has been longer continued; but the greater part usually proceeds from frequent contemplation of that ease which we now consider as near and certain, and which, when it has once flattered our hopes, we cannot suffer to be longer withheld.

THE criticks remark, that in some of the noblest compositions of with the conclusion falls below the vigour and spirit of the first books; and as a genius is not to be degraded by the imputation of human failings, the cause of this declension is commonly sought in the structure of the work, and plausible reasons are given why in the defective part less ornament was necessary, or less could be admitted. But, perhaps, if the author had been consulted, he would have confessed, that his fancy was tired, and his perseverance broken; that he knew his design to be unfinished, but that, when he saw the end so near, he could no longer refuse to be at rest.

AGAINST the instillations of this frigid opiate, it is necessary to secure the heart by all the considerations which once concurred to kindle the ardour of enterprise. Whatever motive first incited action, has still greater force to stimulate resolution; since he that might have lain still at first in blameless obscurity, cannot afterwards desist but with infamy and reproach. He, whom a doubtful promise of distant good, could encourage to set difficulties at defiance, ought not to remit his vigour, when he has almost obtained his recompence. To faint or loiter, when only the last efforts are required, is to steer the ship through tempests, and abandon it to the winds in sight of land; it is to break the ground and scatter the seed, and at last to neglect the harvest.

THE masters of rhetorick direct, that the most forcible arguments be produced in the latter part of an oration, lest they should be effaced or perplexed by supervenient images. This precept may be justly extended to the series of life: Nothing is ended with honour, which does not conclude better than it begun. It is not sufficient to maintain the first vigour; for excellence loses its effect upon the mind by custom, as light after a time ceases to dazzle. Admiration must be continued by that novelty which first produced it, and how much soever is given, there must always be reason to imagine that more remains.

WE not only are naturally most sensible of the last impressions, but such is the unwillingness of mankind to admit supereminent and transcendent merit, that, though it be difficult to obliterate the reproach of faults or miscarriages by any subsequent atchievement, however illustrious, or any course of virtue, however uniform, yet the reputation, which a long course of success has contributed to raise, may be finally ruined by a single failure, for weakness or error will be always remembered by that malice vanity and envy which it gratifies.

FOR the prevention of that disgrace, which lassitude and negligence may bring at last upon the greatest performances, it is necessary to proportion carefully our labour to our strength. If the design consists of many parts, equally essential, and therefore not to be separated, the only time for caution is before we engage; we must then impartially estimate our powers, and remember, that not to complete our plan, is not to have begun it; and, that nothing is done, while any thing is omitted.

BUT if the task consists in the repetition of single acts, no one of which derives its efficacy from the rest, it may be attempted with less scruple, because there is always opportunity to retreat with honour. The danger is only lest we may expect from the world the indulgence with which most are disposed to treat themselves, and, in the hour of listlessness imagine that the diligence of one day will attone for the idleness of another, and that applause begun by approbation will be continued by habit.

HE that is himself weary, will soon weary the public. Let him therefore lay down his employment, whatever it be, who can no longer exert his former activity or attention; let him not endeavour to struggle with censure, or obstinately crowd the stage till a general hiss commands him to depart.

NUMB. 208. SATURDAY, Mar. 14, 1752.

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
DIOG. LAERT.

TIME, which puts an end to all human pleasures and sorrows, has likewise concluded the labours of the RAMBLER. Having supported for two years the anxious employment of a periodical writer, and multiplied my essays to six volumes, I have now determined to desist.

THE reasons of this resolution it is of little importance to declare, since justification is unnecessary when no objection is made. I am far from supposing, that the cessation of my performances will raise any inquiry, for I have never been much a favourite of the publick, nor can boast that, in the progress of my undertaking, I have been animated by the rewards of the liberal, the caresses of the great, or the praises of the eminent.

I HAVE however no intention to gratify pride by submission, or malice by lamentation; nor think it reasonable to complain of neglect from those whose regard I never solicited. If I have not been distinguished by the distributers of literary honours, I have seldom descended to the arts by which favour is obtained. I have seen the meteros of fashion rise and fall, without any attempt to add a moment to their duration; I have never complied with temporary curiosity, nor enabled my readers to discuss the topic of the day; I have rarely exemplified my assertions by living characters, so that in my papers no man could look either for censures of his enemies, or praises of himself, and they only were expected to peruse them, whose passions left them leisure for the contemplation of abstracted truth, and whom virtue could please by her native dignity.

TO some, however, I am indebted for encouragement, and to others for assistance; the number of my friends was never great, but they have been such as would not suffer me to think that I was writing in vain, and I therefore felt little dejection from the want of popularity.

MY obligations having not been frequent, my acknowledgements may be soon dispatched. I can restore to all my correspondents their productions, with little diminution of the bulk of my volumes, though not without the loss of some pieces to which particular honours have been paid.

THE parts from which I claim no other praise than that of having given them an opportunity of appearing, are the four billets in the tenth paper, the second letter in the fifteenth, the thirtieth, the forty-fourth, the ninety-seventh, and the hundredth papers, and the second letter in the hundred and seventh.

HAVING thus deprived myself of many excuses which candor might have admitted for the inequality of my compositions, being no longer able to allege the necessity of gratifying correspondents, the importunity with which publication was solicited, or obstinacy with which correction was rejected, I must remain accountable for all my faults, and submit without subterfuge to the censures of criticism, which, however, I shall not endeavour to soften by a formal deprecation, or to overbear by the influence of a patron. The supplications of an author never yet reprieved him a moment from oblivion; and, though greatness has sometimes sheltered guilt, it can afford no protection to ignorance or dulness. Having hitherto attempted only the propagation of truth, I will not at last violate it by the confession of terrors which I do not feel: Having laboured to maintain the dignity of virtue, I will not now degrade it by the meanness of dedication.

THE seeming vanity with which I have sometimes spoken of myself, would perhaps require an apology, were it not extenuated by the example of those who have published essays before me, and by the privilege which a nameless writer has been hitherto allowed. "A mask," says Castiglione, "confers a right of acting and speaking with less restraint, even when the wearer happens to be known." He that is discovered without his own consent, may claim some indulgence, and cannot be rigorously called to justify those sallies or frolicks which his disguise may prove him desirous to conceal.

BUT I have been cautious lest this offence should be frequently or grossly committed; for as one of the philosophers directs us to live with a friend, as with one that is sometime to become an enemy, I have always thought it the duty of an anonymous author to write, if he expected to be hereafter known.

I AM willing to flatter my self with hopes, that, by collecting these papers, I am not preparing for my future life either shame or repentance. That all are happily imagined, or accurately polished, that the same sentiments will not sometimes recur, or the same expressions be too frequently repeated, I have not confidence in my abilities sufficient to promise. He that condemns himself to compose on a stated day, will often bring to his task an attention dissipated, a memory overwhelmed, an imagination embarrassed, a mind distracted with anxieties, a body languishing with disease: He will sometimes labour on a barren topic, till it is too late to change it; and sometimes, in the ardour of invention, diffuse his thoughts into wild exuberance, which the pressing hour of publication cannot suffer judgment to examine or reduce.

WHATEVER shall be the final sentence of mankind, I have at least endeavoured to deserve their kindness. I have laboured to refine our language to grammatical purity, and to clear it from colloquial barbarisms, licentious idioms, and irregular combinations. Something perhaps I have added to the elegance of its construction, and something to the harmony of its cadence. When common words were less pleasing to the ear or less distinct in their signification, I have familiarized the terms of philosophy by applying them to known objects and popular ideas, but have rarely admitted any word not authorized by former writers; for I believe that whoever knows the English tongue in its present extent, will be able to express his thoughts without farther help from other nations.

AS it has been my principal design to inculcate wisdom or piety, I have allotted few papers to the idle sports of imagination; and though some, perhaps, may be found, of which the highest excellence is harmless merriment, yet scarcely any man is so steadily serious, as not rather to complain, that the severity of dictatorial instruction is too seldom relieved, and that he has been often driven by the sternness of my philosophy to more chearful and airy companions.

NEXT to the excursions of fancy are the disquisitions of criticism, which, in my opinion, is only to be ranked among the subordinate and instrumental arts. Arbitrary decision and general exclamation I have carefully avoided by asserting nothing without a reason, and establishing all my principles of judgment on unalterable and evident truth.

IN the pictures of life I have never been so studious of novelty or surprize, as to depart wholly from all resemblance; a fault which writers deservedly celebrated frequently commit, that they may raise, as the occasion requires, either mirth or abhorrence. Some enlargement may be allowed to declamation, and some exaggeration to burlesque; but as they deviate farther from reality they become less useful, because their lessons will fail of application. The mind of the reader is carried away from the contemplation of his own manners; he finds in himself no likeness to the phantom before him, and though he laughs or rages is not reformed.

THE essays professedly serious, if I have been able to execute my own intentions, will be found exactly conformable to the precepts of christianity, without any accommodation to the licentiousness and levity of the present age. I therefore look back on this part of my work with pleasure, which no blame or praise of man shall diminish or augment; I shall never envy the honours which wit and learning obtain in any other cause, if I can be numbered among the writers, who have given ardour to virtue, and confidence to truth.

‘ 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 ’

CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

- NUMB. 1 Difficulty of the first address. Practice of the epic poets. Convenience of periodical performances. Page 1

- NUMB. 2 The necessity and danger of looking into futurity. Writers naturally sanguine. Their hopes liable to disappointment. Page 10

- NUMB. 3 An allegory on criticism. Page 19

- NUMB. 4 The modern form of romances preferable to the ancient. The necessity of characters morally good. Page 27

- NUMB. 5 A meditation on the spring. Page 36

- NUMB. 6 Happiness not local. Page 44

- NUMB. 7 Retirement natural to a great mind. Its religious use. Page 53

- NUMB. 8 The thoughts to be brought under regulation; as they respect the past, present, and future. Page 61

- NUMB. 9 The fondness of every man for his profession. The gradual improvement of manufactures. Page 70

- NUMB. 10 Four billets with their answers. Remarks on masquerades. Page 77

- NUMB. 11 The folly of anger. The misery of a peevish old-age. Page 87

- NUMB. 12 The history of a young woman that came to London for a service. Page 96

- NUMB. 13 The duty of secresy, The invalidity of all excuses for betraying secrets. Page 107

- NUMB. 14 The difference between an author's writings and his conversation. Page 116

- NUMB. 15 The folly of cards. A letter from a lady that has lost her money. Page 126

- NUMB. 16 The dangers and miseries of literary eminence. Page 137

- NUMB. 17 The frequent contemplation of death necessary to moderate the passions. Page 145

- NUMB. 18 The unhappiness of marriage caused by irregular motives of choice. Page 153

- NUMB. 19 The danger of ranging from one study to another. The importance of the early choice of a profession. Page 165

- NUMB. 20 The folly and inconvenience of affectation. Page 173

- NUMB. 21 The anxieties of literature not less than those of public stations. The inequality of author's writings. Page 182

- NUMB. 22 An allegory on wit and learning. Page 191

- NUMB. 23 The contrariety of criticism. The vanity of objection. An author obliged to depend upon his own-judgment. Page 199

- NUMB. 24 The necessity of attending to the duties of common life. The natural character not to be forsaken. Page 206

- NUMB. 25 Rashness preferable to cowardice. Enterprize not to be repressed. Page 214

- NUMB. 26 The mischief of extravagance, and misery of dependance. Page 223

- NUMB. 27 An author's treatment from six patrons. Page 232

- NUMB. 28 The various arts of self delusion. Page 239

- NUMB. 29 The folly of anticipating misfortunes Page 249

- NUMB. 30 The observance of Sunday recommended; an allegory. Page 257

- NUMB. 31 The defence of a known mistake-highly culpable. Page 264

- NUMB. 32 The vanity of stoicism The necessity of patience. Page 274

- NUMB. 33 An allegorical history of rest and labour. Page 283

- NUMB. 34 The uneasiness and disgust of female cowardice. Page 291

MOTTOS AND QUOTATIONS IN THE FIRST VOLUME TRANSLATED.

- GENERAL MOTTO.

Sworn to no master's arbitrary sway,

I range where-e'er occasion points the way.

[*] EDINBURGH EDITION.

- NUMB. 1

Why to expatiate in this beaten field,

Why arms, oft us'd in vain, I mean to wield;

If time permit, and candour will attend,

Some satisfaction this essay may lend.

EDINB. EDIT.

The battle joins, and, in a moment's flight,

Death, or a joyful conquest, ends the fight.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 2

Th' impatient courser pants in ev'ry vein,

And pawing seems to beat the distant plain;

Hills, vales, and floods, appear already crost,

And, e'er he starts, a thousand steps are lost.

POPE.

Is fame your passion? Wisdom's pow'rful charm,

If thrice read over, shall its force disarm,

FRANCIS.

Go now, and mediate thy tuneful lays.

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 3

Undisappointed in designs,

With native honours virtue shines;

Nor takes up pow'r, nor lays it down,

As giddy rabbles smile or frown.

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 4

And join both profit and delight in one.

CREECH.

- NUMB. 5

Now ev'ry field, now ev'ry tree is green;

Now genial nature's fairest face is seen.

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 6

Active in indolence, abroad we roam

In quest of happiness, which dwells at home:

With vain persuits fatigu'd, at length you'll find,

No place excludes it from an equal mind.

EDINB. EDIT.

‘’

- NUMB. 7 ‘’

- NUMB. 8

For he that but conceives a crime in thought,

Contracts the danger of an actual fault.

CREECH.

‘’

- NUMB. 9

Chuse what you are; no other state preferr'd

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 10 ‘’

- NUMB. 11

Yet O! remember, nor the god of wine,

Nor Pythian Phoebus from his inmost shrine,

Nor Dindymenc, nor her priests possest,

Can with their sounding cymbals shake the breast,

Like furious anger.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 11 ‘’

- NUMB. 13

And let not wine or anger wrest

Th' intrusted secret from your breast.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 14

Sure such a various creature ne'er was known.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 15

What age so large a crop of vices bore,

Or when was avarice extended more?

When were the dice with more profusion thrown?

DRYDEN.

- NUMB. 16

Some who the depths of eloquence have found,

In that unnavigable stream were drown'd.

DRYDEN.

The gates of hell are open night and day;

Smooth the descent, and easy is the way.

DRYDEN.

- NUMB. 17

Let those weak minds, who live in doubt and fear,

To juggling priests for oracles repair;

One certain hour of death to each decreed,

My fixt, my certain soul from doubt has freed.

ROWE.

‘’

- NUMB. 18

Not there the guiltless step-dame knows

The baleful draught for orphans to compose;

No wife high-portion'd rules her spouse,

Or trusts her essenc'd lover's faithless vows:

The lovers there for dow'ry claim,

The father's virtue, and the spotless fame,

Which dares not break the nuptial tie.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 19

To rhetoric now, and now to law inclin'd,

Uncertain where to fix thy changing mind;

Old Priam's age or Nestor's may be out,

And thou, O Taurus, still go on in doubt.

Come then, how long such wav'ring shall we see?

Thou may'st doubt on: thou now can'st nothing be.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 20

Such pageantry be to the people shown;

There boast thy horse's trappings and thy own:

I know thee to thy bottom; from within

Thy shallow centre, to thy utmost skin.

DRYDEN.

- NUMB. 21 ‘’

But no frail man, however great or high,

Can be concluded blest before he die.

ADDISON.

- NUMB. 22

Without a genius learning soars in vain;

And without learning genius sinks again:

Their force united crowns the sprightly reign.

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 23

Three guests I have, dissenting at my feast,

Requiring each to gratify his taste

With different food.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 24

None, none descends into himself.

DRYDEN.

- NUMB. 25

For they can conquer who believe they can.

DRYDEN.

- NUMB. 26

Each mighty lord, big with a pompous name,

And each high house of fortune and of fame,

With caution fly: contract thy ample sails,

And near the shore improve the gentle gales.

EDIN. EDIT.

- NUMB. 27

So he, who poverty with horror views,

Who sells his freedom in exchange for gold,

(Freedom for mines of wealth too cheaply sold)

Shall make eternal servitude his fate,

And feel a haughty master's galling weight.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 28

To him, alas, to him, I fear,

The face of death will terrible appear,

Who in his life, flatt'ring his senseless pride,

By being known to all the world beside,

Does not himself, when he is dying know,

Nor what he is, nor whither he's to go.

COWLEY.

- NUMB. 29

But God has wisely hid from human sight

The dark decrees of future fate,

And sown their seeds in depth of night;

He laughs at all the giddy turns of state,

When mortals search too soon, and fear too late.

DRYDEN.

- NUMB. 30

Whene'er thy countenance divine

Th' attendant people cheers,

The genial suns more radiant shine,

The day more glad appears.

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 31

Corrupted manners I shall ne'er defend,

Nor, falsely witty, for my faults contend.

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 32

Of all the woes that load the mortal state,

Whate'er thy portion, mildly meet thy fate;

But ease it as thou can'st—

EDIN. EDIT.

‘’

- NUMB. 33 ‘’

- NUMB. 34

Alarm'd with ev'ry rising gale,

In ev'ry wood, in ev'ry vale.

EDIN. EDIT.

Notes

*
The translations that are taken from the Edinburgh Edition, are done by the ingenious Mr. James Elphinstone of Edinburgh.
↵

CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

- NUMB. 35 A marriage of prudence without affection. Page 1

- NUMB. 36 The reasons why pastorals delight. Page 10

- NUMB. 37 The true principles of pastoral poetry. Page 18

- NUMB. 38 The advantages of mediocrity. An Eastern fable. Page 26

- NUMB. 39 The unhappiness of women, whether single or married. Page 36

- NUMB. 40 The difficulty of giving advice without offending. Page 43

- NUMB. 41 The advantages of memory. Page 54

- NUMB. 42 The misery of a modish lady in solitude. Page 60

- NUMB. 43 The inconveniences of precipitation and confidence Page 68

- NUMB. 44 Religion and superstition, a vision. Page 77

- NUMB. 45 The causes of disagreement in marriage. Page 86

- NUMB. 46 The mischiefs of rural faction. Page 94

- NUMB. 47 The proper means of regulating sorrow. Page 102

- NUMB. 48 The miseries of an infirm constitution. Page 110

- NUMB. 49 A disquisition upon the value of fame. Page 117

- NUMB. 50 A virtuous old age always reverenced Page 125

- NUMB. 51 The employments of a housewife in the country. Page 133

- NUMB. 52 The contemplation of the calamities of others, a remedy for grief. Page 143

- NUMB. 53 The folly and misery of a spendthrift. Page 150

- NUMB. 54 A death-bed the true school of wisdom. The effects of death upon the survivors. Page 158

- NUMB. 55 The gay widow's impatience of the growth of her daughter. The history of miss May-pole. Page 167

- NUMB. 56 The necessity of complaisance. The Rambler's grief for offending his correspondents. Page 175

- NUMB. 57 Sententious rules of frugality. Page 184

- NUMB. 58 The desire of wealth moderated by philosophy. Page 192

- NUMB. 59 An account of Suspirius the human screech-owl. Page 200

- NUMB. 60 The dignity and usefulness of biography. Page 207

- NUMB. 61 A Londoner's visit to the country. Page 215

- NUMB. 62 A young lady's impatience to see London. Page 225

- NUMB. 63 Inconstancy not always a weakness. Page 233

- NUMB. 64 The requisites to true friendship. Page 241

- NUMB. 65 Obidah and the hermit, an Eastern story. Page 249

- NUMB. 66 Passion not to be eradicated. The views of women ill directed. Page 257

- NUMB. 67 The garden of hope, a dream. Page 264

- NUMB. 68 Every man chiefly happy or miserable at home. The opinion of servants not to be despised. Page 272

- NUMB. 69 The miseries and prejudices of old-age. Page 280

- NUMB. 70 Different men virtuous in different degrees. The vicious not always abandoned. Page 287

MOTTOS AND QUOTATIONS IN THE SECOND VOLUME TRANSLATED.

- NUMB. 35

Without connubial Juno's aid they wed;

Nor Hymen nor the Graces bless the bed.

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 36

—Piping on their reeds, the shepherds go,

Nor fear an ambush, nor suspect a foe.

POPE.

- NUMB. 37

Such strains I sing as once Amphion play'd,

When list'ning flocks the pow'rful call obey'd.

EDINB. EDIT.

I know thee, love, in desarts thou wert bred,

And at the dugs of savage tygers fed:

Alien of birth, usurper of the plains.

DRYDEN.

- NUMB. 38

The man within the golden mean,

Who can his boldest wish contain,

Securely views the ruin'd cell,

Where sordid want and sorrow dwell;

And, in himself serenely great,

Declines an envied room of state.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 39 ‘’

- NUMB. 40

Nor say, for trifles why should I displease

The man I love? For trifles such as these

To serious mischiefs lead the man I love,

If once the flatterer's ridicule he prove.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 41

No day's remembrance shall the good regret,

Nor wish one bitter moment to forget;

They stretch the limits of this narrow span,

And, by enjoying, live past life again.

F. LEWIS.

Be fair or foul or rain or shine,

The joys I have possess'd in spite of fate are mine.

Not heav'n itself upon the past has pow'r,

But what has been has been, and I have had my hour.

DRYDEN.

Life's span forbids thee to extend thy cares,

And stretch thy hopes beyond thy years.

CREECH.

Seek here, ye young, the anchor of your mind;

Here, suff'ring age, a bless'd provision find.

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 42

How heavily my time revolves along!

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 43

In course impetuous soon the torrent dr'es,

The brook a constant peaceful stream supplies.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 44

—Dreams descend from Jove.

POPE.

- NUMB. 45 ‘’

- NUMB. 46 ‘’

- NUMB. 47
These proceedings have afforded me some comfort in my distress; notwithstanding which, I am still dispirited, and unhinged by the same motives of humanity, that induced me to grant such indulgences. However, I by no means wish to become less susceptible of tenderness. I know these kind of misfortunes would be estimated by other persons only as common losses, and from such sensations they would conceive themselves great and wise men. I shall not determine either their greatness or their wisdom; but I am certain they have no humanity. It is the part of a man to be affected with grief; to feel sorrow, at the same time, that he is to resist it, and to admit of comfort.
Earl of ORRERY.

'Tis long e'er time can mitigate your grief;

To wisdom fly, she quickly brings relief.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 48

For life is not to live, but to be well.

EDINB. EDIT.

‘’

- NUMB. 49

Whole Horace shall not die; his songs shall save

The greatest portion from the greedy grave.

CREECH.

- NUMB. 50

And had not men the hoary head rever'd,

And boys paid rev'rence when a man appear'd,

Both must have died, tho' richer skins they wore,

And saw more heaps of acorns in their store.

CREECH.

You've had your share of mirth, of meat and drink:

'Tis time to quit the scene—'tis time to think.

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 51

How foolish is the toil of trifling cares!

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 52

How oft in vain the son of Theseus said,

Thy stormy: sorrows be with patience laid:

Nor are thy fortunes to be wept alone;

Weigh other's woes, and learn to bear thy own:

CATCOTT.

- NUMB. 53 ‘’

- NUMB. 54

Day presses on the heels of day,

And moons increase to their decay;

But you, with thoughtless pride elate,

Unconscious of impending fate,

Command the pillar'd dome to rise,

When lo! thy tomb forgotten lies.

FRANCIS.

‘’

- NUMB. 55

Now near to death that comes but slow,

Now thou art stepping down below;

Sport not amongst the blooming maids,

But think on ghosts and empty shades:

What suits with Pholoe in her bloom,

Gray Chloris will not thee become;

A bed is different from a tomb.

CREECH.

- NUMB. 56

Farewell the stage; for humbly I disclaim

Such fond persuits of pleasure, or of fame,

If I must sink in shame, or swell with pride,

As the gay palm is granted or denied.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 57 ‘’

- NUMB. 58

But, while in heaps his wicked wealth ascends,

He is not of his wish possess'd;

There's something wanting still to make him bless'd.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 59

Complaining oft, gives respite to our grief;

From hence the wretched Progne sought relief;

Hence the Paeantian chief his fate deplores,

And vents his sorrow to the Lemnian shores:

In vain by secresy we wou'd assuage

Our cares; conceal'd they gather tenfold rage.

F. LEWIS.

His outward smiles conceal'd his inward smart.

DRYDEN.

- NUMB. 60

Whose works the beautiful and base contain;

Of vice and virtue more instructive rules,

Than all the sober sages of the schools.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 61

False praise can charm, unreal shame controul—

Whom, but a vicious or a sickly soul?

FRANCIS

- NUMB. 62

Now would I mount his car, whose bounteous hand

First sow'd with teeming seed the furrow'd land:

Now to Medaea's dragons fix my reins,

That swiftly bore her from Corinthian plains;

Now on Daedalian waxen pinions stray,

Or those which wafted Perseus on his way.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 63

Now with two hundred slaves he crowds his train;

Now walks with ten. In high and haughty strain

At morn, of kings and governors he prates:

At night—A frugal table, O ye fates,

"A little shell the sacred salt to hold,

"And clothes, though coarse, to keep me from the cold."

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 64 ‘’

- NUMB. 65

The chearful sage, when solemn dictates fail,

Conceals the moral council in a tale.

Work'd into sudden rage by wintry show'rs

Down the steep hill the roaring torrent pours;

The mountain shepherd hears the distant noise.

- NUMB. 66

—How few

Know their own good; or, knowing it, pursue?

How void of reason are our hopes and fears?

DRYDEN.

- NUMB. 67 ‘’

- NUMB. 68

Let us live well: were it alone for this,

The baneful tongues of servants to dispise:

Slander, that worst of poisons ever finds

An easy entrance to ignoble minds.

HARVEY.

- NUMB. 69

The dreaded wrinkles when poor Helen spy'd,

Ah! why this second rape?—with tears she cry'd.

Time, thou devourer, and thou envious age,

Who all destroy with keen corroding rage,

Beneath your jaws, whate'er have pleas'd or please,

Must sink, consum'd by swift or slow degrees.

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 70

Succeeding times a silver age behold,

Excelling brass, but more excell'd by gold.

DRYDEN.

CONTENTS OF THE THIRD VOLUME.

- NUMB. 71 No man believes that his own life will be short. Page 1

- NUMB. 72 The necessity of good-humour. Page 8

- NUMB. 73 The lingering expectation of an heir. Page 17

- NUMB. 74 Peevishness equally wretched and offensive. The character of Tetrica Page 26

- NUMB. 75 The world never known but by a change of fortune. The history of Melissa. Page 35

- NUMB. 76 The arts by which bad men are reconciled to themselves. Page 45

- NUMB. 77 The learned seldom despised but when they deserve contempt. Page 52

- NUMB. 78 The power of novelty. Mortality too familiar to raise apprehensions. Page 62

- NUMB. 79 A suspicious man justly suspected. Page 71

- NUMB. 80 Variety necessary to happiness. A winter scene. Page 80

- NUMB. 81 The great rule of action. Debts of justice to be distinguished from debts of charity. Page 88

- NUMB. 82 The virtuoso's account of his rarities. Page 96

- NUMB. 83 The virtuoso's curiosity justified Page 105

- NUMB. 84 A young lady's impatience of controul. Page 115

- NUMB. 85 The mischiefs of total idleness. Page 125

- NUMB. 86 The danger of succeeding a great author. An introduction to a criticism on Milton's versification. Page 134

- NUMB. 87 The reasons why advice is generally ineffectual. Page 144

- NUMB. 88 A criticism on Milton's versification. Elisions dangerous in English poetry. Page 152

- NUMB. 89 The luxury of vain imagination. Page 161

- NUMB. 90 The pauses in English, poetry adjusted. Page 170

- NUMB. 91 The conduct of patronage, an allegory. Page 181

- NUMB. 92 The accommodation of sound to sense often chimerical. Page 190

- NUMB. 93 The prejudices and caprices of criticism. Page 202

- NUMB. 94 An inquiry how far Milton has accommodated the sound to the sense. Page 210

- NUMB. 95 The history of Pertinax the sceptic. Page 222

- NUMB. 96 Truth, falshood, and fiction, an allegory. Page 231

- NUMB. 97 Advice to unmarried ladies. Page 240

- NUMB. 98 The necessity of cultivating politeness. Page 252

- NUMB. 99 The pleasures of private friendship. The necessity of similar dispositions. Page 261

- NUMB. 100 Modish pleasures. Page 269

MOTTOS AND QUOTATIONS IN THE THIRD VOLUME TRANSLATED.

- NUMB. 71

True, sir, to live I haste, your pardon give,

For tell me, who makes haste enough to live?

F. LEWIS.

‘’

- NUMB. 72

Yet Aristippus ev'ry dress became;

In ev'ry various change of life the same:

And though he aim'd at things of higher kind,

Yet to the present held an equal mind.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 73

Why thinks the fool with childish hope to see

What neither is, nor was, nor e'er shall be.

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 74

For nought tormented, she for nought torments.

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 75

When smiling fortune spreads her golden ray,

All crowd around to flatter and obey;

But when she thunders from an angry sky,

Our friends, our flatterers, our lovers fly.

Miss A. W.

- NUMB. 76

While mazy error draws mankind astray

From truth's sure path, each takes his devious way:

One to the right, one to the left recedes,

A like deluded, as each fancy leads.

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 77

A golden statue such a wit might claim,

Had God and virtue rais'd the noble flame;

But ah! how lewd a subject has he sung,

What vile obscenity profanes his tongue.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 78

Death only thie mysterious truth unfolds,

The mighty soul how small a body holds.

DRYDEN.

- NUMB. 79

You wonder I've so little wit,

Friend John, so often to be bit,—

None better guard against a cheat

Than he who is a knave compleat.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 80

Behold you mountain's hoary height,

Made higher with new mounts of snow;

Again behold the winter's weight

Oppress the lab'ring woods below.

DRYDEN.

- NUMB. 81 ‘’

- NUMB. 82 ‘’

- NUMB. 83 ‘’

—Whoso tastes,

Infatiate riots in the sweet repasts;

Nor other home nor other care intends,

But quits his house, his country, and his friends.

POPE.

- NUMB. 84

You rock'd my cradle, were my guide

In youth, still tending at my side:

But now, dear sir, my beard is grown,

Still I'm a child to you alone.

Our steward, butler, cook and all

You fright, nay e'en the very walk;

You pry, and frown, and growl, and chide,

And scarce will lay the rod aside.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 85 ‘’

He that's unskilful will not toss a ball,

Nor run, nor wrestle, for he fears the fall;

He justly fears to meet deserv'd disgrace,

And that the ring will hiss the baffled ass.

CREECH.

- NUMB. 86

By fingers, or by ear, we numbers scan.

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 87

The slave to envy, anger, wine or love,

The wretch of sloth, its excellence shall prove:

Fierceness itself shall hear its rage away,

When list'ning calmly to th' instructive lay.

FRANCIS.

New ways I must attempt, my groveling name

To raise aloft, and wing my flight to fame.

DRYDEN.

- NUMB. 88

But he that hath a curious piece design'd,

When he begins must take a censor's mind,

Severe and honest; and what words appear

Too light and trivial, or too weak to bear

The weighty sense, nor worth the reader's care,

Shake off; tho' stubborn, they are loth to move,

And tho' we fancy, dearly tho' we love.

CREECH.

- NUMB. 89 ‘’

- NUMB. 88 ‘’

- NUMB. 91

To court the great ones, and to sooth their pride,

Seems a sweet task to those that never tried;

But those that have, know well that danger's near.

CREECH.

- NUMB. 92

Lo! now the clarion's voice I hear,

Its threatning murmurs pierce mine ear;

And in thy lines with brazen breath

The trumpet sounds the charge of death.

FRANCIS.

Mean time the Cyclop, raging with his wound,

Spreads his wide arms, and searches round and round.

POPE.

So oft the surge, in watry mountains spread,

Beats on his back, or bursts upon his head.

Yet dauntless still the adverse flood he braves,

And still indignant bounds above the waves.

Tir'd by the tides, his knees relax with toil;

Wash'd from beneath him, slides the slimy soil.

POPE.

—His bloody hand

Snatch'd two, unhappy! of my martial band,

And dash'd like dogs against the stony floor:

The pavement swims with brains and mingled gore.

POPE.

Tremendous Gorgon frown'd upon its field,

And circling terrors fill'd th' expressive shield.

POPE.

'Tis not enough his verses to compleat,

In measure, number, or determin'd feet.

To all, proportion'd terms he must dispense,

And make the sound a picture of the sense;

The correspondent words exactly frame,

The look, the features, and the mien the same.

With rapid feet and wings, without delay,

This swiftly flies, and smoothly skims away:

This blooms with youth and beauty in his face,

And Venus breathes on ev'ry limb a grace:

That, of rude form, his uncouth members shows,

Looks horrible, and frowns with his rough brows;

His monstrous tail in many a fold and wind,

Voluminous and vast, curls up behind:

At once the image and the lines appear

Rude to the eye and frightful to the ear.

Lo! when the sailors steer the pond'rous ships,

And plough, with brazen beaks, the foamy deeps,

Incumbent on the main that roars around;

Beneath the lab'ring oars the waves resound;

The prows wide-ecchoing thro' the dark profound:

To the loud call each distant rock replies;

Tost by the storm the tow'ring surges rise;

While the hoarse ocean beats the sounding shore,

Dash'd from the strand, the flying waters roar,

Flash at the shock, and gath'ring in a heap,

The liquid mountains rise, and over-hand the deep.

But when blue Neptune from his car surveys,

And calms at one regard the raging seas;

Stretch'd like a peaceful lake the deep subsides,

And the pitch'd vessel o'er the surface glides.

When things are small, the terms should still be so;

For low words please us, when the theme is low.

But when some giant, horrible and grim,

Enormous in his gait, and vast in ev'ry limb,

Stalks tow'ring on; the swelling words must rise

In just proportion to the monster's size.

If some large weight his huge arms strive to shove,

The verse too labours; the throng'd words scarce move.

When each stiff clod beneath the pond'rous plough

Crumbles and breaks, th' encumber'd lines must flow.

Nor less, when pilots catch the friendly gales,

Unfurl their shrouds, and hoist the wide-stretch'd sails.

But if the poem suffers from delay,

Let the lines fly precipitate away,

And when the viper issues from the brake,

Be quick; with stones, and brands, and fire, attack

His rising crest, and drive the serpent back.

When night descends, or stun'd by num'rous strokes,

And groaning, to the earth drops the vast ox;

The line too sinks with correspondent sound,

Flat with the steer, and headlong to the ground.

When the wild waves subside, and tempests cease,

And hush the roarings of the sea to peace;

So oft we see the interrupted strain

Stop'd in the midst—and with the silent main

Pause for a space—at last it glides again.

When Priam strains his aged arms, to throw

His unavailing jav'lin at the foe;

(His blood congeal'd, and ev'ry nerve unstrung)

Then with the theme complies the artful song;

Like him, the solitary numbers flow,

Weak, trembling, melancholy, stiff, and slow.

Not so young Pyrrhus, who with rapid force

Beats down embattled armies in his course.

The raging youth on trembling Ilion-falls,

Bursts her strong gates, and shakes her lofty walls;

Provokes his flying courser to the speed,

In full career to charge the warlike steed:

He piles the field with mountains of the slain;

He pours, he storms, he thunders thro' the plain.

PITT.

- NUMB. 93 ‘’

- NUMB. 94

Perpetual magistrate is he,

Who keeps strict justice full in sight;

Who bids the crowd at awful distance gaze,

And virtue's arms victoriously displays.

FRANCIS.

Here sacred pomp, and genial feast delight,

And solemn dance, and hymeneal rite;

Along the street the new made brides are led,

With torches flaming to the nuptial bed:

The youthful dancers in a circle bound

To the soft flute, and cittern's silver sound.

POPE.

The Trojan chief appear'd in open sight,

August in visage, and serenely bright.

His mother goddess, with her hands divine,

Had form'd his curling locks, and made his temples shine;

And giv'n his rolling eyes a sparkling grace,

And breath'd a youthful vigor on his face.

DRYDEN.

Th' impetuous arrow whizzes on the wing.

POPE.

Mean time the rapid heav'ns rowl'd down the light,

And on the shaded ocean rush'd the night.

DRYDEN.

Down drops the beast, nor needs a second wound;

But sprawls in pangs of death, and spurns the ground.

DRYDEN.

The mountains labour, and a mouse is born.

ROSCOMMON.

- NUMB. 95

A fugitive from heav'n and prayer,

I mock'd at all religious fear,

Deep scienc'd in the mazy lore

Of mad philosophy; but now

Hoist sail, and back my voyage plow

To that blest harbour, which I left before.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 96 ‘’

- NUMB. 97

Fruitful of crimes, this age first stain'd

Their hapless offspring, and profan'd

The nuptial bed; from whence the woes,

Which various and unnumber'd rose

From this polluted fountain head,

O'er Rome and o'er the nations spread.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 98

Which not Sarmentus brook'd at Caesar's board,

Nor grov'ling Gabba from his haughty lord.

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 99

Congenial passions souls together bind,

And ev'ry calling mingles with its kind;

Soldier unites with soldier, swain with swain,

The mariner with him that roves the main.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 100

Horace, with sly insinuating grace,

Laugh'd at his friend, and look'd him in the face;

Would raise a blush where secret vice he found,

And ticlcle while he gently prob'd the wound.

With seeming innocence the crowd beguil'd;

But made the desperate passes, when he smil'd.

DRYDEN.

CONTENTS OF THE FOURTH VOLUME.

- NUMB. 101 A proper audience necessary to a wit. Page 1

- NUMB. 102 The voyage of life. Page 10

- NUMB. 103 The prevalence of curiosity. The character of Nugaculus. Page 19

- NUMB. 104 The original of flattery. The meanness of venal praise. Page 29

- NUMB. 105 The universal register, a dream. Page 37

- NUMB. 106 The vanity of an author's expectations. Reasons why good authors are sometimes neglected. Page 46

- NUMB. 107 Properantia's hopes of a year of confusion. The misery of prostitutes. Page 55

- NUMB. 108 Life sufficient to all purposes if well employed. Page 64

- NUMB. 109 The education of a fop. Page 72

- NUMB. 110 Repentance stated and explained. Retirement and abstinence useful to repentance. Page 82

- NUMB. 111 Youth made unfortunate by its haste and eagerness. Page 91

- NUMB. 112 Too much nicety not to be indulged. The character of Eriphile. Page 99

- NUMB. 113 The history of Hymenaeus's courtship. Page 108

- NUMB. 114 The necessity of proportioning punishments to crimes. Page 117

- NUMB. 115 The sequel of Hymenaeus's courtship. Page 127

- NUMB. 116 The young trader's attempt at politeness. Page 137

- NUMB. 117 The advantages of living in a garret: Page 147

- NUMB. 118 The narrowness of fame. Page 157

- NUMB. 119 Tranquilla's account of her lovers opposed to Hymenaeus. Page 165

- NUMB. 120 The history of Almamoulin, the son of Nouradin. Page 175

- NUMB. 121 The dangers of imitation. The impropriety of imitating Spenser. Page 185

- NUMB. 122 A criticism on the English historians. Page 195

- NUMB. 123 The young trader turned gentleman. Page 203

- NUMB. 124 The ladies misery in a summer-retirement. Page 212

- NUMB. 125 The difficulty of defining comedy. Tragic and comic sentiments confounded. Page 220

- NUMB. 126 The universality of cowardice. The impropriety of extorting praise. The impertinence of an astronomer. Page 230

- NUMB. 127 Diligence too soon relaxed. Necessity of perseverance. Page 240

- NUMB. 128 Anxiety universal. The unhappiness of a wit and a fine lady. Page 248

- NUMB. 129 The folly of cowardice and inactivity. Page 256

- NUMB. 130 The history of a beauty. Page 264

- NUMB. 131 Desire of gain the general passion Page 274

- NUMB. 132 The difficulty of educating a young nobleman. Page 282

- NUMB. 133 The miseries of a beauty defaced. Page 291

- NUMB. 134 Idleness an anxious and miserable state. Page 300

- NUMB. 135 The folly of annual retreats into the country. Page 308

- NUMB. 136 The meanness and mischiefs of indiscriminate dedication. Page 316

MOTTOS AND QUOTATIONS IN THE FOURTH VOLUME TRANSLATED.

- NUMB. 101

Alas! dear Sir, you try in vain,

Impossibilities to gain;

No bee from Corsica's rank juice,

Hybloean honey can produce.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 102

With constant motion as the moments glide,

Behold in running life the rolling tide!

For none can stem by art, or stop by pow'r,

The flowing ocean, or the fleeting hour;

But wave by wave pursu'd arrives on shore,

And each impell'd behind impels be ore:

So time on time revolving we descry;

So minutes follow, and so minutes fly.

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 103

They search the secrets of the house, and so

Are worshipp'd there, and fear'd for what they know.

DRYDEN.

- NUMB. 104 ‘’

- NUMB. 105 ‘’

- NUMB. 106 ‘Time obliterates the fictions of opinion, and confirms the decisions of nature.’‘’

- NUMB. 107

On themes alternate now the swains recite:

The muses in alternate themes delight.

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 108

Begin, be bold, and venture to be wise;

He who defers this work from day to day,

Does on a river's bank expecting stay,

Till the whole stream, which stop'd him, should be gone,

That runs, and as it runs, for ever will run on.

COWLEY.

- NUMB. 109

Grateful the gift! a member to the state,

If you that member useful shall create;

Train'd both to war, and when the war shall cease,

As fond, as fit t'improve the arts of peace.

For much it boots which way you train your boy,

The hopeful object of your future joy.

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 110

We thro' this maze of life one lord obey;

Whose light and grace unerring, lead the way.

By hope and faith secure of future bliss,

Gladly the joys of present life we miss:

For baffled mortals still attempt in vain,

Present and future bliss at once to gain.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 111 ‘’

- NUMB. 112

Of strength pernicious to myself I hoast;

The pow'rs I have were giv'n me to my cost.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 113

A sober man like thee to change his life!

What fury wou'd possess thee with a wife?

DRYDEN.

- NUMB. 114

—When man's life is in debate,

The judge can ne'er too long deliberate.

DRYDEN.

- NUMB. 115

Some faults, tho' small, intolerable grow.

DRYDEN.

- NUMB. 116

Thus the slow ox wou'd gaudy trappings claim;

The sprightly horse wou'd plough—

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 117

The gods they challenge, and affect the skies:

Heav'd on Olympus tott'ring Ossa stood;

On Ossa, Pelion nods with all his wood.

POPE.

‘’

—'Tis sweet thy lab'ring steps to guide

To virtue's heights, with wisdom well supply'd,

And all the magazines of learning fortify'd:

From thence to look below on human kind,

Bewilder'd in the maze of life, and blind.

DRYDEN.

The cause is secret, but th'effect is known.

ADDISON.

- NUMB. 118

In endless night thy sleep, unwept, unknown.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 119

Faults lay on either side the Trojan tow'rs.

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 120

True virtue can the croud unteach

Their false mistaken forms of speech;

Virtue, to crouds a foe profest,

Disdains to number with the blest

Phraates, by his slaves ador'd,

And to the Parthian crown restor'd.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 121

Away, ye imitators, servile herd!

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 122 ‘’

- NUMB. 123

What season'd first the vessel, keeps the taste.

CREECH.

- NUMB. 124

To range in silence thro' each healthful wood,

And muse what's worthy of the wise and good.

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 125

But if, through weakness, or my want of art,

I can't to every different style impart

The proper strokes and colours it may claim,

Why am I honour'd with a poet's name?

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 126

Sands form the mountain, moments make the year.

YOUNG.

- NUMB. 127 ‘’

- NUMB. 128 ‘’

- NUMB. 129 ‘’

- NUMB. 130

Not faster in the summer's ray

The spring's frail beauty fades away,

Than anguish and decay consume

The smiling virgin's rosy bloom.

Some beauty's snatch'd each day, each hour;

For beauty is a fleeting flow'r:

Than how can wisdom e'er confide

In beauty's momentary pride?

EDIN. EDIT.

- NUMB. 131

Still follow where auspicious fates invite;

Caress the happy, and the wretched slight.

Sooner shall jarring elements unite,

Than truth with gain, than interest with right.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 132 ‘’

- NUMB. 133

Let Stoies ethic's haughty rules advance,

To combat fortune, and to conquer chance:

Yet happy those, tho' not so learn'd, are thought,

Whom life instructs, who by experience taught,

For new to come from past misfortunes look,

Nor shake the yoke, which galls the more 'tis shook.

CREECH.

- NUMB. 134

Who knows if Heav'n, with ever-bounteous pow'r,

Shall add to-morrow to the present hour?

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 135 ‘’

- NUMB. 136

Who dares think one thing, and another tell,

My heart detests him as the gates of Hell.

POPE.

Thus much I will indulge thee for thy ease,

And mingle something of our times to please.

DRYDEN jun.

CONTENTS OF THE FIFTH VOLUME.

- NUMB. 137 The necessity of literary courage. Page 1

- NUMB. 138 Original characters to be found in the country. The character of Mrs. Busy. Page 9

- NUMB. 139 A critical examination of Samson Agonisles Page 18

- NUMB. 140 The criticism continued. Page 28

- NUMB. 141 The danger of attempting wit in conversation. The character of Papilius. Page 40

- NUMB. 142 An account of 'squire Bluster. Page 49

- NUMB. 143 The criterions of plagiarism. Page 58

- NUMB. 144 The difficulty of raising reputation. The various species of detractors. Page 63

- NUMB. 145 Petty writers not to be despised. Page 76

- NUMB. 146 An account of an author travelling in quest of his own character. The uncertainty of same. Page 84

- NUMB. 147 The courtier's esteem of assurance: Page 92

- NUMB. 148 The cruelty of parental tyranny. Page 100

- NUMB. 149 Benefits not always entitled to gratitude. Page 109

- NUMB. 150 Adversity useful to the acquisition of knowledge. Page 118

- NUMB. 151 The climacterics of the mind. Page 126

- NUMB. 152 Criticism on epistolary writings. Page 134

- NUMB. 153 The treatment incurred by loss of fortune. Page 142

- NUMB. 154 The inefficacy of genius without learning. Page 153

- NUMB. 155 The usefulness of advice. The danger of habits. The necessity of reviewing life. Page 161

- NUMB. 156 The laws of writing not always indisputable. A vindication of tragi-comedy. Page 170

- NUMB. 157 The scholar's complaint of his own bashfulness. Page 179

- NUMB. 158 Rules of writing drawn from examples. Those examples often mistaken. Page 188

- NUMB. 159 The nature and remedies of bashfulness. Page 195

- NUMB. 160 Rules for the choice of associates. Page 202

- NUMB. 161 The revolutions of a garret. Page 209

- NUMB. 162 Old men in danger of falling into pupillage. The conduct of Thrasybulus. Page 219

- NUMB. 163 The mischiefs of following a patron. Page 227

- NUMB. 164 Praise universally desired. The failings of eminent men often imitated. Page 237

- NUMB. 165 The impotence of wealth. The visit of Scrotinus to the place of his nativity. Page 244

- NUMB. 166 Favour not easily gained by the poor. Page 254

- NUMB. 167 The marriage of Hymenaeus and Tranquilla. Page 261

- NUMB. 168 Poetry debased by mean expressions. An example from Shakespear. Page 270

- NUMB. 169 Labour necessary to excellence. Page 277

- NUMB. 170 The history of Misella debauched by her relation. Page 285

- NUMB. 171 Misella's description of the life of a prostitute. Page 293

- NUMB. 172 The effect of sudden riches upon the manners. Page 304

MOTTOS AND QUOTATIONS IN THE FIFTH VOLUME TRANSLATED.

- NUMB. 137

—Whilst fools one vice condemn,

They run into the opposite extream.

CREECH.

- NUMB. 138 ‘’

- NUMB. 139 ‘’

- NUMB. 140 ‘’

- NUMB. 141 ‘’

- NUMB. 142

A giant shepherd here his flock maintains

Far from the rest, and solitary reigns,

In shelter thick of horrid shade reclin'd;

And gloomy mischiefs labour in his mind.

A form enormous! far unlike the race

Of human birth, in stature or in face.

POPE.

- NUMB. 143

Lest when the birds their various colours claim,

Stripp'd of his stolen pride, the crow forlorn

Should stand the laughter of the public scorn.

FRANCIS.

To tame the proud, the fetter'd slave to free:

There 〈◊〉 imperial arts, and worthy thee.

DRYDEN.

‘’ ‘Unless the Iliad had been published, his name had been lost in the tomb that covered his body.’

Before great Agamemnon reign'd.

Reign'd kings as great as he, and brave,

Whose huge ambition's now contain'd

In the small compass of a grave:

In endless night they sleep, unwept, unknown;

No bard had they to make all time their own.

FRANCIS.

‘Why in so small a circuit of life should we employ ourselves in so many fatigues?’

Why do we aim with eager strife

At things beyond the mark of life?

FRANCIS.

The pow'rs of vengeance while they hear,

Touch'd with compassion, drop a tear;

Ixion's rapid wheel is bound,

Fix'd in attention to the sound.

F. LEWIS.

Subdu'd at length, Hell's pitying monarch cry'd,

The song rewarding, let us yield the bride.

F. LEWIS.

Nor yet the golden verge of day begun,

When Orpheus, her unhappy lord,

Eurydice, to life restor'd,

At once beheld, and lost, and was undone.

F. LEWIS.

Quit, quit this barren trade, my father cry'd;

Ev'n Homer left no riches when he dy'd—

In verse spontaneous flow'd my native strain,

Forc'd by no sweat or labour of the brain.

F. LEWIS.

The age's miracle, his father's joy!

Nor old you wou'd pronounce him, nor a boy.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 144

The bow of Daphnis and the shafts you broke;

When the fair boy receiv'd the gift of right;

And but for mischief, you had dy'd for spight.

DRYDEN.

- NUMB. 145

What though the muse her Homer thrones

High above all th' immortal quire;

Nor Pindar's rapture she disowns,

Nor hides the plaintive Caean lyre:

Alcaeus strikes the tyrant's soul with dread,

Nor yet is grave Stesichorus unread.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 146

'Tis possible that one or two

These fooleries of mine may view;

But then the bettings must be o'er,

Nor Crab or Childers talk'd of more.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 147

—You are of too quick a sight,

Not to discern which way your talent lies.

ROSCOMMON.

- NUMB. 148

Me let my father load with chains,

Or banish to Numidia's farthest plains;

My crime, that I a loyal wife,

In kind compassion spar'd my husband's life.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 149

You wonder now that no man sees

Such friends as those of ancient Greece.

Here lay the point—Orestes' meat

Was just the same his friend did eat.

Nor can it yet be found, his wine

Was better, Pylads, than thine.

In home-spun russet I am drest,

Your cloth is always of the best.

But honest Marcus, if you please

To choose me for your Pylades,

Remember, words alone are vain;

Love—if you wou'd be lov'd again.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 150

—Thou chiefest good;

Bestow'd by Heav'n, but seldom understood.

ROWE.

Led by our stars, what tracts immense we trace!

From seas remote, what funds of science raise!

A pain to thought! but when th' heroic band

Returns applauded to their native land,

A life domestic you will then deplore,

And sigh, while I describe the various shore.

E. C.

- NUMB. 151

But wrapt in error is the human mind,

And human bliss is ever insecure:

Know we what fortune yet remains behind?

Know we how long the present shall endure?

WEST.

- NUMB. 152

Disastrous words can best disaster show;

In angry phrase the angry passions glow.

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 153 ‘’

- NUMB. 154

For thee my tuneful accents will I raise,

And treat of arts disclos'd in ancient days;

Once more unlock for thee the sacred spring.

DRYDEN.

- NUMB. 155

—Our barren years are past;

Be this of life the first, of sloth the last.

EDINB. EDIT.

The gates of Hell are open night and day;

Smooth the descent, and easy is the way:

But, to return, and view the chearful skies;

In this, the task and mighty labour lies.

DRYDEN.

- NUMB. 156 ‘’

- NUMB. 157

Shame greatly hurts or greatly helps mankind.

EDINB. EDIT.

- NUMB. 158

—Critics yet contend,

And of their vain disputings find no end.

FRANCIS.

But from a cloud of smoke he breaks to light,

And pours his specious miracles to sight;

Antiphates his hideous feast devours,

Charybais barks, and Polyphemus roars.

FRANCIS.

The man, for wisdom's various arts renown'd,

Long exercis'd in woes, O muse! resound.

Who, when his arms had wrought the desin'd fall

Of sacred Troy, and raz'd her heav'n built wall,

Wand'ring from clime to clime, observant stray'd,

Their manners noted, and their states survey'd.

On stormy seas unnumber'd toils he bore,

Safe with his friends to gain his natal shore:

Vain toils! the 〈◊〉 folly dar'd to prey

On herds devoted to the god of day;

The god vindictive doom'd them never more

(Ah men unbless'd) to touch that natal shore.

O snatch some port on of these acts from fate,

Celestial muse! and to our world relate.

POPE.

- NUMB. 159

The pow'r of words, and soothing sounds appease

The raging pain, and lessen the disease.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 160 ‘’

- NUMB. 161 ‘’

- NUMB. 162

What old, and rich, and childless too,

And yet believe your friends are true?

Truth might perhaps to those belong

To those who lov'd you poor and young;

But trust me, for the new you have,

They'll love you dearly—in your grave.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 163

Bow to no patron's insolence; rely

On no frail hopes, in freedom live and die.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 164 ‘’

- NUMB. 165

Young was I once and poor, now rich and old;

A harder case than mine was never told:

Blest with the pow'r to use them—I had none;

Loaded with riches now, the pow'r is gone.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 166.

Once poor, my friend, still poor you must remain,

The rich alone have all the means of gain.

E. C.

- NUMB. 167

The'r nuptial bed may smiling concord dress,

And Venus still the happy union bless!

Wrinkled with age, may mutual love and truth

To their dim eyes recall the bloom of youth.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 168 ‘’

- NUMB. 169

No blood from bitten nails, those poems drew;

But churn'd, like spittle from the lips they flew.

DRYDEN.

‘’

- NUMB. 170 ‘’

- NUMB. 171 ‘’

- NUMB. 172

Priscus, you've often ask'd me how I'd live,

Shou'd fate at once both wealth and honour give.

What soul his future conduct can foresee?

Tell me what sort of lion you wou'd be?

F. LEWIS.

Thou hast not known the giddy whirls of fate,

Nor servile flatteries which enchant the great.

Miss A. W.

CONTENTS OF THE SIXTH VOLUME.

- NUMB. 173 Unreasonable fears of pedantry. Page 1

- NUMB. 174 The mischiefs of unbounded raillery. History of Dicaculus. Page 8

- NUMB. 175 The majority are wicked. Page 17

- NUMB. 176 Directions to authors attacked by critics. The various degrees of critical perspicacity. Page 25

- NUMB. 177 An account of a club of antiquaries. Page 32

- NUMB. 178 Many advantages not to be enjoyed together. Page 40

- NUMB. 179 The aukward merriment of a student. Page 48

- NUMB. 180 The study of life not to be neglected for the sake of books. Page 56

- NUMB. 181 The history of an adventurer in lotteries. Page 65

- NUMB. 182 The history of Leviculus, the fortune-hunter. Page 74

- NUMB. 183 The influence of envy and interest compared. Page 83

- NUMB. 184 The subject of essays often suggested by chance. Chance equally prevalent in other affairs. Page 90

- NUMB. 185 The prohibition of revenge justifiable by reason. The meanness of regulating our conduct by the opinions of men. Page 98

- NUMB. 186 Anningait and Ajut, a Greenland history. Page 106

- NUMB. 187 The history of Anningait and Ajut concluded. Page 114

- NUMB. 188 Favour often gained with little assistance from understanding. Page 122

- NUMB. 189 The mischiefs of falshood. The character of Turpicula. Page 129

- NUMB. 190 The history of Abouzaid, the son of Morad Page 136

- NUMB. 191 The busy life of a young lady. Page 144

- NUMB. 192 Love unsuccessful without riches. Page 153

- NUMB. 193 The author's art of praising himself. Page 161

- NUMB. 194 A young nobleman's progress in politeness. Page 169

- NUMB. 195 A young nobleman's introduction to the knowledge of the town. Page 177

- NUMB. 196 Human opinions mutable. The hopes of youth fallacious Page 185

- NUMB. 197 The history of a legacy-hunter. Page 192

- NUMB. 198 The legacy-hunter's history concluded. Page 200

- NUMB. 199 The virtues of Rabbi Abraham's magnet. Page 209

- NUMB. 200 Asper's complaint of the insolence of Prospero. Unpoliteness not always the effect of pride. Page 218

- NUMB. 201 The importance of punctuality. Page 227

- NUMB. 202 The different acceptations of poverty. Cynics and Monks not poor. Page 255

- NUMB. 203 The pleasures of life to be sought in prospects of futurity. Future fame uncertain. Page 242

- NUMB. 204 The history of ten days of Seged, emperor of Ethiopia. Page 249

- NUMB. 205 The history of Seged concluded. Page 258

- NUMB. 206 The art of living at the cost of others. Page 266

- NUMB. 207 The folly of continuing too long upon the stage. Page 274

- NUMB. 208 The Rambler's reception. His design. Page 282

MOTTOS AND QUOTATIONS IN THE SIXTH VOLUME TRANSLATED.

- NUMB. 173 ‘’

- NUMB. 174

Yonder he drives—avoid that furious beast:

If he may have his jest, he never cares

At whose expence; nor friend, nor patron spares.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 175

Good men are scarce, the just are thinly sown;

They thrive but ill, nor can they last when grown.

And should we count them, and our store compile;

Yet Thobes more gates could shew, more mouths the Nile.

CREECH.

- NUMB. 176 ‘’

- NUMB. 177

Those things which now seem frivolous and slight,

Will be of serious consequence to you,

When they have made you once ridiculous.

ROSCOMMON:

- NUMB. 178 ‘’

- NUMB. 179

Democritus wou'd feed his spleen, and shake

His sides and shoulders till he felt them ake.

DRYDEN.

- NUMB. 180 ‘’

- NUMB. 181

Nor let me float in fortune's pow'r,

Dependant on the future hour.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 182 ‘’

- NUMB. 183 ‘’

- NUMB. 184

Intrust thy fortune to the pow'rs above:

Leave them to manage for thee, and to grant

What their unerring wisdom sees thee want.

DRYDEN.

- NUMB. 185

But O! revenge is sweet.

Thus think the crowd; who, eager to engage,

Take quickly fire and kindle into rage.

Not so mild Thales, nor Chrysippus thought,

Nor that good man, who drank the pois'nous draught

With mind serene; and could not wish to see

His vile accuser drink as deep as he:

Exalted Socrates! divinely brave!

Injur'd he fell, and dying he forgave,

Too noble for revenge; which still we find

The weakest frailty of a feeble mind.

DRYDEN.

- NUMB. 186

Place me, where never summer breeze

Unbinds the glebe, or warms the trees;

Where ever lowering clouds appear,

And angry Jove deforms th' inclement year:

Love and the nymph shall charm my toils;

The nymph, who sweetly speaks and sweetly smiles.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 187

Love alters not for us his hard decrees;

Not tho' beneath the Thracian clime we freeze,

Or the mild bliss of temperate skies forego,

And in mid winter tread Sithonian snow:

Love conquers all.—

DRYDEN.

- NUMB. 188 ‘’

- NUMB. 189

Resounding plaudits tho' the croud have rung;

Thy treat is eloquent, and not thy tongue.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 190

Henry and Alfred—

Clos'd their long glories with a sigh, to find

Th' unwilling gratitude of base mankind.

POPE.

- NUMB. 191

The youth—

Yielding like wax, th' impressive folly bears;

Rough to reproof, and slow to future cares.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 192

In vain the noblest birth would prove,

Nor worth nor wit avail in love;

'Tis gold alone succeeds—by gold

The venal sea is bought and sold.

Accurs'd be he who first of yore

Discover'd the pernicious oar!

This sets a brother's heart on fire.

And arms the son against the sire;

And what, alas! is worse thanall,

To this the lover owes is fail.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 193

Or art thou vain? Books yield a certain spell,

To stop thy tumour; you shall cease to swell

When you have read them thrice, and studied well.

CREECH.

- NUMB. 194

If gaming does an aged fire entice,

Then my young master swiftly learns the vice,

And shakes in hanging sleeves the little box and dice.

J. DRYDEN, jun.

- NUMB. 195

Nor knows our youth, of noblest race,

To mount the manag'd steed, or urge the chace:

More skill'd in the mean arts of vice,

The whirling troque, or law-forbidden dice.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 196

The blessing flowing in with life's full tide,

Down with our ebb of life decreasing glide.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 197

Say, to what vulture's share this carcase falls?

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 198

You've told me, Maro, whilst you live

You d not a single penny give,

But that whene'er you chanc'd to die,

You'd leave a handsome legacy;

You must be mad beyond redress,

If my next wish you cannot guess.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 199

Obscure, unpriz'd, and dark, the magnet lies,

Nor lures the search of avaricious eyes,

Nor binds the neck, nor sparkles in the hair,

Nor dignifies the great, nor decks the fair.

But search the wonders of the dusky stone,

And own all glories of the mine outdone,

Each grace of form, each ornament of state,

That decks the fair. or dignifies the great.

- NUMB. 200

No man expects (for who so much a sot,

Who has the times he lives in so forgot?)

What Seneca, what Piso us'd to send,

To raise, or to support a sinking friend.

Those godlike men, to wanting virtue kind,

Bounty well-plac'd preferr'd, and well design'd,

To all their titles, all that height of pow'r

Which turns the brains of fools, and fools alone adore,

When your poor client is condemn'd t'attend,

'Tis all we ask, receive him as a friend:

Descend to this, and then we ask no more;

Rich to yourself, to all beside be poor.

BOWLES.

- NUMB. 201

Convince the world that you're devout and tide,

Be just in all you say, and all you do;

Whatever be your birth, you're sure to be

A peer of the first magnitude to me.

STEPNEY.

- NUMB. 202

From no affliction is the poor exempt;

He thinks each eye surveys' him with contempt.

Unmanly poverty subdues the heart,

Cankers each wound, and sharpens ev'ry dart.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 203

Come, soon or late, death's undetermin'd day,

This mortal being only can decay.

WELSTED.

- NUMB. 204

Of heav'n's protection who can be

So confident to utter this—?

To-morrow I will spend in bliss.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 205

On fickle wings the minutes haste,

And fortune's favours never last.

F. LEWIS.

- NUMB. 206

But harden'd by asfronts, and still the same,

Lost to all sense of honour and of fame,

Thou yet can'st love to haunt the great man's board,

And think no supper good but with a lord.

BOWLES.

- NUMB. 207

The voice of reason cries with winning force,

Loose from the rapid car your aged horse,

Lest, in the race derided, left behind,

He drag his jaded limbs and burst his wind.

FRANCIS.

- NUMB. 208

Be gone ye blockheads, Heraclitus cries,

And leave my labours to the learn'd and wise,

By wit, by knowledge, studious to be read,

I scorn the multitude, alive and dead.

Celestial pow'rs! that piety regard,

From you my labours wait their last reward.

Lately Published, Printed for J. PAYNE, at Pope's Head, in Pater-noster Row.

I. A TREATISE on VIRTUE and HAPPINESS.

By Thomas Nettleton, M. D. and F. R. S.

—Rectius boc est:

Hoc faciens vivam melius; sic dulcis amicis

Occurram.

HOR.

The Third Edition, printed from a Copy in the Possession of the Author's Widow, prepared for the Press by himself.

Price bound 4s.

{inverted ⁂} This Edition is altered and improved throughout.

II. MANNERS: A Correct and Elegant Translation of Les Moeurs. With the original Frontispiece.

Respicere exemplar vitae morumpue.

HOR.

The Second Edition, 12mo. Price bound 3.s.

Information about this book

Title statement

The Rambler.: [pt.6]

Johnson, Samuel, 1709-1784.

Publication

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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/3435

ID [isbn10]

1106004345

ID [isbn13]

9781106004345

ID [TCP]

K008295.006

ID [BIBNO]

CW3316219148

ID [ECLL]

1098200106

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Source

— The Rambler., Johnson, Samuel, 1709-1784.. 6v. ; 12⁰. London :: printed for J. Payne and J. Bouquet,. 1752.. [Anonymous. By Samuel Johnson.] [The titlepages to vols. 5-6 bear the imprint: printed for J. Payne.] [Reproduction of original from the Bodleian Library (Oxford).] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCN13484.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).] [Reprint. Originally published semiweekly in 208 folio numbers: London : John Payne and J. Bouquet, 1750-1752.]

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