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

AS any action or poſture long conti⯑nued, will diſtort and disfigure the limbs; ſo the mind likewiſe is crip⯑pled 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 quick⯑ly 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 fur⯑niſh [2] 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 igno⯑rance 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 educa⯑tion, 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 de⯑livered from reſtraint.

[3] PEDANTRY is the unſeaſonable oſtenta⯑tion 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 diſ⯑coveries upon thoſe whom he believes unable to judge of his proficiency, and from whom as he cannot fear contradiction, he cannot pro⯑perly expect applauſe.

TO this error the ſtudent is ſometimes be⯑trayed, 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 fail⯑ings, this deviation from politeneſs is imputed always to vanity; and the harmleſs collegiate, who, perhaps, intended entertainment and in⯑ſtruction, or at worſt only ſpoke without ſuffi⯑cient reflection upon the character of his [4] hearers, is commonly cenſured as arrogant or overbearing, and eager to extend the reputa⯑tion of his own accompliſhments, in contempt of the convenience of ſociety, and the laws of converſation.

ALL diſcourſe of which others cannot par⯑take, is not only an irkſome uſurpation of the time devoted to pleaſure and entertainment, but, what never fails to excite very keen re⯑ſentment, an inſolent aſſertion of ſuperiority, and a triumph over leſs enlightened under⯑ſtandings. The pedant is, therefore, not on⯑ly 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 them⯑ſelves with too much haſte of their academical formality, and in their endeavours to accom⯑modate their notions and their ſtile to com⯑mon conceptions, talk rather of any thing than of that which they underſtand, and ſink [5] into inſipidity of ſentiment and meanneſs of expreſſion.

THERE prevails among men of letters an opinion, that all appearance of ſcience is par⯑ticularly hateful to women; and that there⯑fore whoever deſires to be well received in fe⯑male aſſemblies, muſt qualify himſelf by a to⯑tal rejection of all that is ſerious, rational, or important; muſt conſider argument or criti⯑ciſm 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 cen⯑tury, there is now no longer any danger leſt the ſcholar ſhould want an adequate audience at the tea-table, and whoever thinks it neceſ⯑ſary to regulate his converſation by antiquated [6] 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 com⯑plaiſance requires, that no man ſhould, with⯑out 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 ha⯑zard 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 le⯑vity, 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.

[7] IT is obſerved in the panegyrick on Fabri⯑cius the mechaniſt, that, though forced by publick employments into mingled converſa⯑tion, he never loſt the modeſty and ſeriouſneſs of the convent, nor drew ridicule upon him⯑ſelf 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 em⯑brace, the inſinuating accent and the general ſmile, he will loſe the reſpect due to the cha⯑racter of learning, without arriving at the en⯑vied honour of doing nothing with elegance and facility.

THEOPHRASTUS was diſcovered not to be a native of Athens, by ſo ſtrict an adhe⯑rence 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 be⯑haviour. It is poſſible to become pedantick by fear of pedantry, as to be troubleſome by ill⯑timed [8] civility. There is no kind of imperti⯑nence more juſtly cenſurable, than his who is always labouring to level his thoughts to in⯑tellects 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.

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

NONE of the axioms of wiſdom which recommend the ancient ſages to vene⯑ration, ſeems to have required leſs extent of knowledge or perſpicacity of penetration than the remark of Bias, that [...], the majority are wicked.

THE depravity of mankind is ſo eaſily diſ⯑coverable, that nothing but the deſert or the cell can exclude it from notice. The know⯑ledge of crimes intrudes uncalled and unde⯑ſired. They whom their abſtraction from [18] common occurrences hinders from ſeeing ini⯑quity, will quickly have their attention awakened by feeling it. Even he who ven⯑tures not into the world, may learn its cor⯑ruption in his cloſet. For what are treatiſes of morality, but perſuaſives to the practice of duties, for which no arguments would be ne⯑ceſſary, 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, maſ⯑ſacres and wars?

BUT, perhaps, the excellence of aphoriſms conſiſts not ſo much in the expreſſion of ſome rare or abſtruſe ſentiment, as in the compre⯑henſion 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 there⯑fore 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 fre⯑quent recollection to recur habitually to the mind.

[19] 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 ma⯑ny 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 igno⯑rance, and flattered into pride. He comes forth with all the confidence of a ſpirit un⯑acquainted with ſuperiors, and all the bene⯑volence of a mind not yet irritated by oppo⯑ſition, alarmed by fraud, or imbittered by cru⯑elty. He loves all, becauſe he imagines him⯑ſelf the univerſal favourite. Every exchange of ſalutation produces new acquaintance, and every acquaintance kindles into friend⯑ſhip.

EVERY ſeaſon brings a new flight of beau⯑ties into the world, who have hitherto heard [20] 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 incul⯑cates 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 imagina⯑tion 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 igno⯑rant of the force of paſſion and intereſt, who never obſerved the arts of ſeduction, the con⯑tagion [21] of example, the gradual deſcent from one crime to another, or the inſenſible depra⯑vation of the principles by looſe converſation, naturally expect to find integrity in every bo⯑ſom, 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 no⯑thing more than the murmurs of peeviſhneſs, or the dreams of dotage; and notwithſtand⯑ing 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 unexpe⯑rienced virtue; and that he who is ſpontane⯑ouſly 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?

[22] 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 ex⯑poſed to the arts of them who live only for themſelves, unleſs he is taught by timely pre⯑cepts the caution required in common tranſ⯑actions, 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 ſteer⯑age, and to hope, that every wind will be proſperous, and that every coaſt will afford a harbour.

TO ennumerate the various motives to de⯑ceit and injury, would be to count all the de⯑ſires 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 influ⯑ence of virtue. Many there are, who openly and almoſt profeſſedly regulate all their con⯑duct [23] by their love of money; who have no reaſon for action or forbearance, for com⯑pliance 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 pe⯑ſtiferous 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. Hap⯑pineſs 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 [24] cauſe diſpoſes to perſue every injury with un⯑wearied 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 inat⯑tention to himſelf; or with him whoſe incon⯑ſtancy 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 rea⯑ſon 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.

THERE are many vexatious accidents and uneaſy ſituations which raiſe lit⯑tle compaſſion for the ſufferer, and which no man but thoſe whom they immediately di⯑ſtreſs, can regard with ſeriouſneſs. Petty miſchiefs, that have no influence on futu⯑rity, 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 irre⯑ſiſtible laughter. Some circumſtances of mi⯑ſery 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 mer⯑riment.

[26] AMONG the principal of comick calami⯑ties, may be reckoned the pain which an au⯑thor, 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 cha⯑racter, and anxious for the juſtification of every ſyllable, ſtarts and kindles at the ſlighteſt attack; the critick, eager to eſta⯑bliſh his ſuperiority, triumphing in every diſ⯑covery 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 contro⯑verſy, tries every art of ſubterfuge and de⯑fence; maintains modeſtly what he reſolves never to yield, and yields unwillingly what [27] 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 ra⯑ther 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 bene⯑volence 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 ani⯑mals, becauſe for the moſt part he comes vo⯑luntarily to the ſtake, furniſhed, as he ima⯑gines, by the patron powers of literature with reſiſtleſs weapons and impenetrable ar⯑mour, with the mail of the boar of Ery⯑manth, and the paws of the lion of Nemea.

[28] 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 impu⯑dence. It may therefore be neceſſary to con⯑ſider by what meaſures they whom the pub⯑lication of their names lays open to the in⯑ſults of ſuch as their obſcurity ſecures againſt repriſals, may extricate themſelves from un⯑expected 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 ad⯑vice 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 inſi⯑pidity ſuppreſſed. But when the book has once been diſmiſſed into the world, and can [29] be no more retouched, I know not whether a very different conduct ſhould not be pre⯑ſcribed, and whether firmneſs and ſpirit may not ſometimes be of uſe to overpower arro⯑gance and repel brutality. Softneſs, diffidence and moderation will often be miſtaken for imbecillity and dejection; they lure cow⯑ardice to the attack by the hopes of eaſy vic⯑tory, 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 com⯑monly ſuch as may eaſily provoke the ſedateſt writer to ſome quickneſs of reſentment and aſperity of reply. A man who by long con⯑ſideration 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 infatua⯑tion they have been led away from the ob⯑vious [30] ſenſe, and upon what peculiar princi⯑ples of judgment they decide againſt him.

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

SOME ſeem always to read with the mi⯑croſcope 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, [31] 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 mean⯑ing, ſome remote alluſion, ſome artful al⯑legory, 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 co⯑lours of diction, or the flowery embelliſh⯑ments of fancy; of all that engages the at⯑tention 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 [32] 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.

IT is natural to feel grief or indignation, when any thing, neceſſary or uſeful, is wan⯑tonly 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, ſome⯑what molliſy his anger to reflect, that per⯑haps, none of the aſſembly which he de⯑ſcribes, was capable of any nobler employ⯑ment, and that he who does his beſt, how⯑ever little, is always to be diſtinguiſhed from [40] him who does nothing. Whatever buſies the mind without corrupting it, has at leaſt this uſe, that it reſcues the day from idle⯑neſs, and he that is never idle will not often be vitious.

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

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 pre⯑ſence of their maſter, as is more probable, it was ſufficient to diſcover the pupil's diſ⯑poſition; to try whether he was willing to pay the price of learning, or whether he was one of thoſe whoſe ardour was rather violent [41] than laſting, and who expected to grow wiſe on other terms than thoſe of patience and obedience.

MANY of the bleſſings univerſally de⯑ſired, are very frequently wanted, be⯑cauſe 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 hu⯑man 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 un⯑derſtand, 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 [42] but by receding from the other; by long de⯑liberation 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 en⯑deavour to elevate your minds to the illumina⯑tions of Heaven, conſider yourſelves as repre⯑ſented in this fable; for he that is once ſo far overcome as to turn back his eyes towards the [43] infernal caverns, loſes at the firſt ſight all that influence which attracted him on high.

IT may be obſerved in general, that the future is purchaſed by the preſent. It is not poſſible to ſecure diſtant or permanent hap⯑pineſs but by the forbearance of ſome imme⯑diate 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 ob⯑tained in another ſtate.

[44] 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 exhila⯑rate the following years. The heat of youth may ſpread happineſs into wild luxuriance, but the radical vigour requiſite to make it peren⯑nial 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 me⯑thod of wearing out the day is more eligible than the uſe of books, and who are more [45] 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 wi⯑thering 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 gratifica⯑tions 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 [46] 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 al⯑lowed to groans extorted by inevitable miſe⯑ry, no man has a right to repine at evils which, againſt warning, againſt experience, [47] 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 ma⯑nagement 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 de⯑ceived.

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

EVERY man, ſays Tully, has two cha⯑racters; one which he partakes with all mankind, and by which he is diſtinguiſhed from brute animals; another which diſcrimi⯑nates 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 cha⯑racter, [49] and an attempt at ſomething for which nature or education have left him unqua⯑lified.

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 ſprightli⯑neſs 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 ac⯑quaintance with the modes of life, and to conſciouſneſs of unfailing propriety of beha⯑viou [...] ▪ Deformity itſelf is regarded with ten⯑derne [...], 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 [50] the appearances that thus powerfully excite his merriment, he will find among them nei⯑ther poverty nor diſeaſe, nor any involuntary or painful defect. The diſpoſition to deriſion and inſult is awakened by the ſoftneſs of fop⯑pery, the ſwell of inſolence, the livelineſs of levity, or the ſolemnity of grandeur; by the ſprightly trip, the ſtately ſtalk, the for⯑mal 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.

[51] IT ſeems to be determined by the general ſuffrage of mankind that he who decks him⯑ſelf 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 incon⯑teſtable 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 attain⯑ment. We are conſcious of our own de⯑fects, 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 ob⯑ſervation.

[52] GELASIMUS paſſed the firſt part of his life in academical privacy and rural retire⯑ment, without any other converſation than that of ſcholars grave, ſtudious, and ab⯑ſtracted as himſelf. He cultivated the mathe⯑matical 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 ex⯑plained 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 coun⯑try, 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 [53] 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 ta⯑bles and elegant acquaintance, but he did not find himſelf always qualified to join in the converſation. He was diſtreſſed by civi⯑lities, which he knew not how to repay, and entangled in many ceremonial perplexi⯑ties, 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 theo⯑ries 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 [54] 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 newſ⯑paper.

LAUGHTER, he knew, was a token of alacrity, and, therefore, whatever he ſaid, [55] 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, re⯑moved his chair or ſnuffed a candle, he al⯑ways 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 ſuſpect⯑ing any weakneſs or miſtake. He wondered that his wit was ſo little underſtood, but ex⯑pected 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 li⯑mits of their own province.

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

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 an⯑ſwered the merchant's purpoſe; he glutted them with delicacies, cheared them with wine, and ſoftened them with careſſes, till [57] by degrees, he prevailed upon one after ano⯑ther to open his boſom, and make a full diſ⯑covery 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 edu⯑cating his ſon, and went away fully con⯑vinced, that a ſcholaſtic life has no other tendency than to vitiate the morals, and con⯑tract the underſtanding. Nor could he after⯑wards hear with patience the praiſes of the ancient authors, being perſuaded that ſcho⯑lars 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 im⯑perfection 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 ima⯑gine to be conferred by learning. A man [58] of ſcience is expected to excel the unlet⯑tered 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 re⯑moter provinces, the ruſticks are ſaid ſome⯑times 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 diſ⯑appointed 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 diſadvan⯑tages. 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.

[59] THE learned, however, might generally ſupport their dignity with more ſucceſs, if they ſuffered not themſelves to be miſled by the de⯑ſire of ſuperfluous attainments, of qualifica⯑tion which few can underſtand or value, and of ſkill which they may ſink into the grave without any conſpicuous opportunities of ex⯑erting. 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 watch⯑ing motions which he has no power to regu⯑late, 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 de⯑votes himſelf wholly to retired ſtudy, natu⯑rally ſinks from omiſſion to forgetfulneſs of ſo⯑cial duties, from which he muſt be ſometimes awakened, and recalled to the general condi⯑tion of mankind.

[60] I AM far from any intention to limit curi⯑oſity, or conſine the labours of learning to arts of immediate and neceſſary uſe. It is on⯑ly from the various eſſays of experimental in⯑duſtry, 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 in⯑ſpire emulation, and their miſcarriages taught others the way to ſucceſs.

BUT the diſtant hope of being one day uſe⯑ful or eminent, ought not to miſlead us too far from that knowledge, which is equally requi⯑ſite 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 [61] than of themſelves, and have never conde⯑ſcended to obſerve what paſſes daily before their eyes: Many who toil through the intri⯑cacy of complicated ſyſtems, but are inſupera⯑bly 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 en⯑croach 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 im⯑mure themſelves at ſunſet, and accuſtomed to no other weapon than ſyllogiſm, may be al⯑lowed to feel terror at perſonal danger, and to be diſconcerted by tumult and alarm. But why ſhould he whoſe life is ſpent in contempla⯑tion, and whoſe buſineſs is only to diſcover truth, be unable to rectify the fallacies of ima⯑gination, or contend ſucceſsfully againſt preju⯑dice and paſſion? To what end has he read [62] 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 great⯑neſs, are collected from ſeminaries appropri⯑ated to the ſtudy of wiſdom and the contem⯑plation 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 [63] 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 duc⯑tility by an expeditious compliance with fa⯑ſhions, 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 imagi⯑nation; and he ſoon ceaſes to have any other wiſh than to be well received, or any mea⯑ſure of right and wrong but the opinion of his patron.

A MAN flattered and obeyed, ſoon learns to exact groſſer adulation, and enjoin lower ſub⯑miſſion. 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 con⯑currence [64] 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 down⯑caſt look, and hears the ſoft addreſs of awe and ſervility. To the folly of thoſe who are wil⯑ling to purchaſe favour and preferment by cringes and compliance, is to be imputed that general haughtineſs of power that leaves no⯑thing to be hoped by firmneſs and integrity.

IF inſtead of wandering after the meteors of philoſophy which fill the world with ſplen⯑dor for a while, and then ſink and are forgot⯑ten, 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 hap⯑pineſs. A little plauſibility of diſcourſe, and a little acquaintance with unneceſſary ſpecula⯑tions, is dearly purchaſed when it excludes thoſe inſtructions which fortify the heart with reſolu⯑tion and exalt the ſpirit to independence.

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

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

IT has been obſerved in a late paper, that we are unreaſonably deſirous to ſeparate the goods of life from thoſe evils which pro⯑vidence 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 ne⯑ceſſary to raiſe a ſudden fortune, by new diſcoveries, or ſuperiority of ſkill in any neceſſary employment; and among low⯑er underſtandings many want the firmneſs and induſtry requiſite to regular gain and gra⯑dual acquiſitions.

FROM the hope of enjoying affluence by methods more compendious than thoſe of la⯑bour, and more generally practicable than thoſe of genius, proceeds the common incli⯑nation to experiment and hazard, and that willingneſs to ſnatch all opportunities of [75] 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 vi⯑ſionary 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 plen⯑ty 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 them⯑ſelves 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 [76] 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 ena⯑moured 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, conſent⯑ed 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 [77] laſt ſtanzas of faſhionable ſongs, talked with familiarity of high play, boaſted of his at⯑chievements upon drawers and coachmen, was often brought to his lodgings at mid⯑night in a chair, told with negligence and jo⯑cularity 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 ci⯑vilities to Flavilla, the only daughter of a wealthy merchant, who not being accuſtomed to amorous blandiſhments, or reſpectful ad⯑dreſſes, was delighted with the novelty of love, and eaſily ſuffered him to conduct her to the play, and to meet her where ſhe vi⯑ſited. 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-in⯑law, and was in haſte to conclude the af⯑fair. But the lady liked better to be courted than married, and kept him three years in [78] 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 neigh⯑bourhood, 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 conten⯑tion. They hovered round her with ſuch jea⯑lous officiouſneſs, as ſcarcely left a moment vacant for a lover. Leviculus, nevertheleſs, diſ⯑covered his paſſion in a letter, and Altilia could not withſtand the pleaſure of hearing vows and ſighs, and flatteries, and prote⯑ſtations. She admitted his viſits, enjoy⯑ed, for five years, the happineſs of keep⯑ing all her expectants in perpetual alarms, and amuſed herſelf with the various ſtrata⯑gems 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 [79] houſe. Many ſtories were ſpread to the diſ⯑advantage of Leviculus, by which ſhe com⯑monly 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 ſer⯑vices, 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 ac⯑quainted with Latronia, a lady diſtinguiſhed by the elegance of her equipage, and the re⯑gularity of her conduct. Her wealth was evi⯑dent in her magnificence, and her prudence in her oeconomy, and therefore Leviculus who had ſcarcely confidence to ſolicit her fa⯑vour, readily acquitted fortune of her former debts, when he found himſelf diſtinguiſhed by her with ſuch marks of preference as a wo⯑man of modeſty is allowed to give. He now grew bolder, and ventured to breathe out his impatience before her. She heard him with⯑out reſentment, in time permitted him to hope for happineſs, and at laſt fixed the nup⯑tial [80] day without any diſtruſtful reſerve of pin⯑money, 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 ſup⯑ported in her expence by the credit of his eſtate. Leviculus ſhuddered to ſee himſelf ſo near a precipice, and found that he was in⯑debted 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 diſ⯑conſolate, 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 counte⯑nance, he gueſſed to have lately buried ſome proſperous citizen. He followed her home, [81] 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 forma⯑lity 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 re⯑turned to the attack. He ſoon grew familiar to her dialect, and in a few weeks heard with⯑out any emotion, hints of gay cloaths with empty pockets; concurred in many ſage re⯑marks on the regard due to people of pro⯑perty; 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 mar⯑riage; but was always anſwered with a ſlap, a hoot, and a ſlounce. At laſt he began to [82] 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 ad⯑ventures, 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.

THE hoſtility perpetually exerciſed be⯑tween one man and another is cauſ⯑ed 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 con⯑ditions, which imply the obſcurity, depend⯑ance, 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 ex⯑tenſive [84] 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 kind⯑led 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 blame⯑leſs actions, or the obſtruction of honeſt en⯑deavours brings upon the world, is inflicted by men that propoſe no advantage to them⯑ſelves but the ſatisfaction of poiſoning the banquet which they cannot taſte, and blaſt⯑ing the harveſt which they have no right to reap.

INTEREST can diffuſe itſelf but to a nar⯑row compaſs. The number is never large of thoſe who can hope to fill the poſts of de⯑graded power, catch the fragments of ſhat⯑tered fortune, or ſucceed to the honours of depreciated beauty. But the empire of envy, [85] 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, cou⯑rage 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 invi⯑ſible aſſailants, and dies like him who is ſuf⯑focated by a poiſonous vapour, without know⯑ledge 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 [86] may act without expence, or danger. To ſpread ſuſpicion, to invent calumnies, to pro⯑pagate 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 al⯑ways to be dreaded.

IT is impoſſible to mention a name which any advantageous diſtinction has made emi⯑nent, 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 mo⯑deſty, provokes, whenever ſhe appears, a thouſand murmurs of detraction and whiſpers [87] 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 an⯑other enjoys.

THE frequency of envy makes it ſo fami⯑liar, 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 per⯑ſonal reſentment; when he perceives clamour and malice let looſe upon him as a publick enemy, and incited by every ſtratagem of de⯑famation; 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 ad⯑vanced [88] 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, conſide⯑rations, which if carefully implanted and di⯑ligently 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 ſa⯑crifices truth and kindneſs to very weak temp⯑tations. He that plunders a wealthy neigh⯑bour, gains as much as he takes away, and improves his own condition in the ſame pro⯑portion as he impairs another's; but he that blaſts a flouriſhing reputation, muſt be con⯑tent 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 [89] and deteſtable, ſo vile in its original, and ſo pernicious in its effects, that the predomi⯑nance 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 [90] 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.

AS every ſcheme of life, ſo every form of writing has its advantages and in⯑conveniencies, though not mingled in the ſame proportions. The writer of eſſays, eſcapes many embarraſſments to which a large work would have expoſed him; he ſel⯑dom harraſſes his reaſon with long trains of conſequence, dims his eyes with the peruſal of antiquated volumes, or burthens his me⯑mory with great accumulations of prepara⯑tory knowledge. A careleſs glance upon a favourite author, or tranſient ſurvey of the varieties of life, is generally ſufficient to ſup⯑ply [91] the firſt hint or ſeminal idea, which en⯑larged 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 prin⯑cipal 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.

[92] 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, eve⯑ry 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 of⯑ten happens that plenty is the cauſe of pe⯑nury; the judgment is diſtracted with bound⯑leſs multiplicity, the imagination ranges from one deſign to another, and the hours paſs im⯑perceptibly 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 delive⯑rance on any terms from perplexity and ſuſ⯑penſe, applies herſelf vigorouſly to the work before her, collects embelliſhments and illu⯑ſtrations, 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 ſub⯑ject to choice is to be attributed to accident, or ſome cauſe out of our own power, by [93] whatever name it be diſtinguiſhed. To cloſe tedious deliberations with haſty reſolves, and af⯑ter 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 concur⯑rence; 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 pre⯑vious meaſures; the moſt enlightened wiſ⯑dom muſt be ſatisfied with ſuch obſcure conjectures, as the compariſon of probabi⯑lities will afford; nor is it any wonder that [94] their time is paſt between elation and deſpon⯑dency, 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 vehe⯑ment 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 pri⯑vacy and embarraſs caution. No courſe of life is ſo preſcribed and limited, but that many actions muſt reſult from arbitrary elec⯑tion. 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, [95] or contract his beneficence to his family and dependents.

THIS is a queſtion which has long exer⯑ciſed the ſchools of philoſophy, but remains yet undecided; and what hope is there that a young man, unacquainted with the argu⯑ments 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 wo⯑men without any proof of ſuperior deſert, chance muſt again direct him in the edu⯑cation of his children; for who was ever able to convince himſelf by arguments, that he had choſen for his ſon that mode of in⯑ſtruction 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 occa⯑ſions, will find them ſuch, as his pride will ſcarcely ſuffer him to confeſs; ſome ſudden ardour of deſire, ſome uncertain glimpſe of [96] advantage, ſome trivial competition, ſome inaccurate concluſion, or ſome example im⯑plicitly 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 inquiſitive⯑neſs 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 tempe⯑ſtuous 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 [97] guilt, very few however they may reproach themſelves, can be certain that other mea⯑ſures 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 de⯑ſtruction, nothing can afford any rational tranquility, but the conviction, that, how⯑ever we amuſe ourſelves with unideal ſounds, nothing in reality is governed by chance, but that the univerſe is under the perpetual ſu⯑perintendence of him who created it; that 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.

NO vitious diſpoſitions of the mind more obſtinately reſiſt both the coun⯑ſels 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 ob⯑tained, or ſuffering from our own prejudices ſome imputation of puſillanimity.

FOR this reaſon ſcarcely any law of our re⯑deemer is more openly tranſgreſſed, or more in⯑duſtriouſly evaded, than that by which he com⯑mands his followers to forgive injuries, and [99] prohibits under the ſanction of eternal mi⯑ſery, 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 com⯑bat againſt pride, and purſue offences to ex⯑tremity of vengeance, leſt they ſhould be inſulted by the triumph of an enemy.

BUT certainly no precept could better be⯑come him, at whoſe birth peace was proclaim⯑ed to the earth. For what would ſo ſoon de⯑ſtroy all the order of ſociety, and deform life with violence and ravage, as a permiſ⯑ſion 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 ju⯑ſtice not to favour himſelf too much in the calmeſt moments of ſolitary meditation. Every one wiſhes for the diſtinctions for which thou⯑ſands 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 [100] unlikely to judge equitably when his paſſions are agitated by a ſenſe of wrong, and his attention wholly engroſſed by pain, in⯑tereſt, 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 ſtrong⯑ly incite its juſtification: and reſentment can never ſo exactly balance the puniſhment with the fault, but there will remain an over⯑plus of vengeance which even he who con⯑demns his firſt action will think himſelf en⯑titled to retaliate, What then can enſue but a continual exacerbation of hatred, an unex⯑tinguiſhable feud, and inceſſant reciprocation of miſchief, a mutual vigilance to entrap, and eagerneſs to deſtroy.

[101] SINCE then the imaginary right of ven⯑geance 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 poſſeſ⯑ſion 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, pleaſ⯑ed 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 [102] remembrance of vexation muſt ſtill enkindle rage, and irritate revenge.

A WISE man will make haſte to forgive, be⯑cauſe he knows the true value of time, and will not ſuffer it to paſs away in unneceſſary pain. He that willingly ſuffers the corroſions of in⯑veterate hatred, and gives up his days and nights to the gloom of malice, and perturba⯑tions 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 ex⯑aſperate his own rage; whoſe thoughts are employed only on means of diſtreſs and con⯑trivances 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 number⯑ed 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.

[103] WHOEVER conſiders the weakneſs both of himſelf and others will not long want per⯑ſuaſives 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, precipi⯑tance, 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 aggrava⯑tions. 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 do⯑meſtick 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 [104] and mean." It is always an ignorant, lazy, or cowardly acquieſcence in a falſe appearance of excellence, and proceeds not from conſci⯑ouſneſs of our attainments but inſenſibility of our wants.

NOTHING can be great which is not right. Nothing which reaſon condemns can be ſuit⯑able 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 opi⯑nion 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 pur⯑ſuit of virtue, without regard to preſent dan⯑gers 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 regu⯑late [105] 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 ſen⯑tence is therefore of no weight till it has received the ratification of our own con⯑ſcience.

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 ſeriouſ⯑neſs and reflection, he muſt become deſpica⯑ble 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 in⯑diſpenſibly required, that he forgive. It is [106] therefore ſuperfluous to urge any other mo⯑tive. On this great duty eternity is ſuſpend⯑ed, and to him that refuſes to practiſe it, the throne of mercy is inacceſſible, and the SA⯑VIOUR of the world has been born in vain.

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

OF the happineſs and miſery of our pre⯑ſent ſtate, part ariſes from our ſenſa⯑tions, and part from our opinions; part is di⯑ſtributed by nature, and part is in a great meaſure apportioned by ourſelves. Poſitive pleaſure we cannot always obtain, and poſi⯑tive 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 at⯑tention from wounds or diſeaſes. But the ne⯑gative [107] infelicity which proceeds, not from the preſſure of ſufferings, but the abſence of en⯑joyments, will always yield to the remedies of reaſon.

ONE of the great arts of eſcaping ſu⯑perfluous 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 imagi⯑nary ſtates of delight and ſecurity perhaps un⯑attainable by mortals. Few are placed in a ſituation ſo gloomy and diſtreſful, as not to ſee every day beings yet more forlorn and mi⯑ſerable 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 ex⯑erciſe 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 wan⯑der in the vales of Aſia, and ſport among woods that are always green, and ſtreams that always murmur; but if he turns his thoughts [108] 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 provi⯑dence, that he is not placed in Greenland or Siberia.

THE barrenneſs of the earth, and the ſeve⯑rity 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 pro⯑viding for the winter, and the winter in long⯑ing 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 hu⯑manity [109] can be found, perhaps exerts the ſame power in the Greenlander's hut, as in the pa⯑laces 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 inha⯑bitants 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 af⯑fection, 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 [110] 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 judi⯑cious 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 pur⯑ſue 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 hin⯑der 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 [111] 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, ex⯑pected the uſual forms of courtſhip; and before ſhe would confeſs herſelf conquer⯑ed, the ſun returned, the ice broke, and the ſeaſon of labour called all to their em⯑ployments.

ANNINGAIT and Ajut for a time al⯑ways went out in the ſame boat, and divided whatever was caught. Anningait, in the ſight of his miſtreſs, loſt no opportunity of ſigna⯑lizing 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 [112] 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 en⯑treated 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 en⯑titled 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 ex⯑pect 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 [113] year to year, with flocks of tame animals grazing in the fields about them; can tra⯑vel 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 build⯑ings. 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 de⯑licious 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.

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 mar⯑ble 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 overpower⯑ed 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, [115] nor the ſpirits of the rocks confine him in their caverns.

SHE ſtood a while to gaze upon the de⯑parting 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 en⯑deavoured to divert her thoughts by continual application to feminine employments, gather⯑ed 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."

[116] 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 cou⯑rage. 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 ex⯑preſſed 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, [117] love, art thou but a whirlpool, which we approach without knowledge of our dan⯑ger, 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 kin⯑dred; 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 ſenti⯑ments conſoled his grief and animated his in⯑duſtry, found that they had now coaſted the headland, and ſaw the whales ſpouting at a [118] diſtance. He therefore placed himſelf in his fiſhing boat, called his aſſociates to their ſe⯑veral 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, notwithſtand⯑ing 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 pe⯑riſhed 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 habita⯑tion, 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.

[119] NORNGSUK, thus rejected, had re⯑courſe to ſtratagem. He knew that Ajut would conſult an Angekkok, or diviner, con⯑cerning the fate of her lover, and the felicity of her future life. He therefore applied him⯑ſelf 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 fore⯑told 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 unſucceſſ⯑ful, applied himſelf to her parents with gifts and promiſes. The wealth of Greenland is too powerful for the virtue of a Greenlander; [120] they forgot the merit and the preſents of An⯑ningait, and decreed Ajut to the embrace of Norngſuk. She entreated; ſhe remonſtrated; ſhe wept, and raved; but finding riches irre⯑ſiſtible, fled away into the uplands, and lived in a cave upon ſuch berries as ſhe could ga⯑ther, 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 car⯑riage, 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 [121] 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 raſh⯑neſs, that ſhe was going in ſearch of An⯑ningait, 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 de⯑ſarts 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 de⯑clares, that they love like Anningait and Ajut.

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

NONE of the deſires dictated by vanity is more general or leſs blamable than that of being diſtinguiſhed for the arts of con⯑verſation. Other accompliſhments may be poſſeſſed without opportunity of exerting them, or wanted without danger that the de⯑ſect 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 con⯑ſidered as a promiſe of ſelicity, and whoſe de⯑parture is lamented, like the receſs of the ſun from northern climates, as a privation of all that enlivens fancy or inſpirits gaiety.

[123] IT is apparent, that to excellence in this valuable art ſome peculiar qualifications are neceſſary; for every one's experience will in⯑form 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 experi⯑ment 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 ſu⯑periority, 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 acqui⯑ſitions of ſtudy. The wit whoſe vivacity con⯑demns [...]lower tongues to ſilence, the ſcholar [124] 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 neg⯑ligence 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 entertain⯑ment of the company. Merriment extorted by ſallies of imagination, ſprightlineſs of re⯑mark, 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 nar⯑rative. He who has ſtored his memory with ſlight anecdotes, private incidents, and per⯑ſonal 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 [125] 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 him⯑ſelf to become a ſpeaker in another; for though he cannot comprehend a ſeries of ar⯑gument, 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 hap⯑pens, that they who attempt this method of [126] ingratiating themſelves, pleaſe only at the firſt interview, and, for want of new ſupplies of intelligence, wear out their ſtories by conti⯑nual repetition.

THERE would be, therefore, little hope of obtaining the praiſe of a good companion, were it not to be gained by more compen⯑dious methods; but ſuch is the kindneſs of mankind to all except thoſe who aſpire to real merit and rational dignity, that every under⯑ſtanding 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 re⯑gard, but oppoſe the worth or ſpirit that en⯑forces 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 [127] fellow to have in himſelf any fund of jocu⯑larity, or force of conception; it is ſufficient that he always appears in the higheſt exalta⯑tion of gladneſs, for the greater part of man⯑kind are gay or ſerious by infection, and fol⯑low without reſiſtance the attraction of ex⯑ample.

NEXT to the merry fellow is the good-natured man, a being generally without bene⯑volence or any other virtue than ſuch as in⯑dolence and inſenſibility confer. The cha⯑racteriſtick of a good-natured man is to bear a joke; to ſit unmoved and unaffected amidſt noiſe and turbulence, profaneneſs and obſceni⯑ty; 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 rudi⯑ments of raillery; for he never takes advan⯑tage of failings, nor diſconcerts a puny ſatiriſt with unexpected ſarcaſms, but while the glaſs continues to circulate contentedly bears the [128] expence of uninterrupted laughter, and re⯑tires rejoicing at his own importance.

THE modeſt man is a companion of a yet lower rank, whoſe only power of giving plea⯑ſure is not to interrupt it. The modeſt man ſatisfies himſelf with peaceful ſilence, which all his companions are candid enough to con⯑ſider 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 week⯑ly club, becauſe every night preciſely at ele⯑ven, he begins his favourite ſong, and during the vocal performance by correſpondent mo⯑tions 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 [129] hound, and calling to the drawers to drive out the dog.

SUCH are the arts by which cheerfulneſs is promoted, and ſometimes friendſhip eſta⯑bliſhed; 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.

THE world ſcarcely affords opportunities of making any obſervation more fre⯑quently, than on falſe claims to praiſe and re⯑putation. Almoſt every man waſtes part of his life in attempts to diſplay qualities which [130] 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 im⯑poſtures promote their intereſt or gratify their pride, from them who mean only to force into regard their latent excellencies and neg⯑lected virtues; who believe themſelves quali⯑fied 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 ſel⯑dom content with empty praiſe, but are inſti⯑gated by paſſions more pernicious than vanity. They conſider the reputation which they en⯑deavour to eſtabliſh as neceſſary to the accom⯑pliſhment of ſome ſubſequent deſign, and va⯑lue praiſe only as it may conduce to the ſucceſs of avarice or ambition.

[131] THE commercial world is very frequently put into confuſion by the bankrupcy of mer⯑chants, 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 ſupport⯑ed 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 happi⯑neſs in the favour of beings whom only high titles or large eſtates ſet above themſelves, no⯑thing is more common than to boaſt of con⯑fidence which they do not enjoy; to ſell pro⯑miſes 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 vo⯑latile for avarice or ambition, may be found [132] a ſpecies of falſhood more deteſtable than the levee or exchange can ſhew. There are men that boaſt of debaucheries, of which they ne⯑ver 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 ut⯑terly unworthy of an ingenuous mind, are yet not to be ranked with flagitious enormi⯑ties, nor is it neceſſary to incite the ven⯑geance 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 cook⯑maid, [133] are ſurely ſuch harmleſs animals as truth herſelf may be content to deſpiſe with⯑out 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 univer⯑ſal 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 par⯑ticular 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 de⯑pendance and expectation, and wherever there is dependance, there will be an emulation of ſervility.

[134] MANY of the follies which provoke gene⯑ral cenſure are the effects of ſuch vanity, as however it might have wantoned in the ima⯑gination, would ſcarcely have dared the pub⯑lick eye, had it not been animated and em⯑boldened by flattery. Whatever difficulty there may be in the knowledge of ourſelves, ſcarcely any one fails to ſuſpect his own im⯑perfections, 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 re⯑move 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 go⯑verneſs, whom misfortunes had reduced to accept any terms on which ſhe could be de⯑cently ſupported. The fondneſs of Turpicu⯑la'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 pur⯑chaſe. But how many things are neceſſary to happineſs which money cannot obtain? Being by this ſcheme of education, ſe⯑cluded [135] from all with whom ſhe might con⯑verſe 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 obſequi⯑ouſneſs, and heard nothing but commenda⯑tions; 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 wo⯑man's firſt wiſh is to be handſome, and that conſequently the readieſt method of obtain⯑ing her kindneſs is to praiſe her beauty. Tur⯑picula had a diſtorted ſhape and a dark com⯑plexion, yet the impudence of adulation ven⯑tured 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 neg⯑lected the culture of an underſtanding which might have ſupplied the defects of her form, and applied all her care to the decoration of [136] her perſon; for ſhe conſidered that more could judge of beauty than of wit, and was, like the reſt of human beings, in haſte to be ad⯑mired. The deſire of conqueſt naturally led her to the liſts in which beauty ſignalizes her power. She glittered at court, fluttered in the park, and talked loud in the front⯑box; but after a 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.

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 po⯑ſterity of Timur, the firſt place was long held by Morad the ſon of Hanuth. Morad having ſignalized himſelf in many battles and ſieges, [137] was rewarded with the government of a pro⯑vince, 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 proſpe⯑rity; 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 in⯑cenſe in the fire. The ſun grew weary of gilding the palaces of Morad, the clouds of ſorrow gathered round his head, and the tem⯑peſt of hatred roared about his dwelling.

MORAD ſaw ruin haſtily approaching. The firſt that forſook him were his poets; [138] their example was followed by all thoſe whom he had rewarded for contributing to his plea⯑ſures, and only a few, whoſe virtue had enti⯑tled 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 cla⯑mour. He was diveſted of his power, de⯑prived 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 flat⯑tery, 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 conſti⯑tution, and a ſlow diſeaſe ſeized upon him. [139] 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 aſſidui⯑ties, but finding that no officiouſneſs could ſooth nor exactneſs ſatisfy, ſoon gave way to negligence and ſloth, and he that once com⯑manded nations, often languiſhed in his cham⯑ber 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. Mo⯑rad 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 an⯑cient experience, let not my laſt inſtruc⯑tions iſſue forth in vain. Thou haſt ſeen me happy and calamitous, thou haſt beheld my exaltation and my fall. My power is [140] in the hands of my enemies, my treaſures have rewarded my accuſers; but my inhe⯑ritance 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 hap⯑pineſs. Aſpire not to publick honours, en⯑ter not the palaces of kings; thy wealth will ſet thee above inſult, let thy modera⯑tion 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. Abou⯑zaid, after the months of mourning, deter⯑mined [141] 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 at⯑tendants, and requited every exertion of un⯑common diligence by ſupernumerary gra⯑tuities. 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 alie⯑nated whom he diſappointed. He therefore [142] reſolved to aſſociate with a few equal compa⯑nions ſelected from among the chief men of the province. With theſe he lived happily for a time, till familiarity ſet them free from re⯑ſtraint, and every man thought himſelf at li⯑berty to indulge his own caprice, and ad⯑vance 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 con⯑currence, or both by indifference.

HE afterwards determined to avoid a cloſe union with beings ſo diſcordant in their na⯑ture, 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 re⯑jected 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 inti⯑macy, 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 [143] 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 gra⯑titude, he enquired for men of ſcience, whoſe merit was obſcured by poverty. His houſe was ſoon crouded with poets, ſculptors, pain⯑ters, and deſigners, who wantoned in unex⯑perienced 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. Abou⯑zaid 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 [144] have now learned the vanity of thoſe la⯑bours, which hope to be rewarded by hu⯑man 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.

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

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

WHATEVER is univerſally deſired, will be ſought by induſtry and arti⯑fice, by merit and crimes, by means good and bad, rational and abſurd, according to the prevalence of virtue or vice, of wiſdom or [162] 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 innumera⯑ble differences of temper, capacity, and know⯑ledge; ſome have no higher wiſh than for the applauſe of a club; ſome expect the ac⯑clamations of a county; and ſome have hoped to fill the mouths of all ages and na⯑tions 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 with⯑out regard to human cenſure or opinion.

TO be praiſed, therefore, every man re⯑ſolves, but reſolutions will not execute them⯑ſelves. [163] That which all think too parſimoni⯑ouſly 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 en⯑joyed.

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 at⯑tract the attention of mankind, and learning and bravery ſink into the grave without ho⯑nour 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 after⯑wards transferred for money; and that the man of wealth may partake all the acquiſi⯑tions of courage without hazard, and all the [164] 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 fe⯑renades, or waked in the morning by ſpright⯑ly gratulations.

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

[165] A CONTINUAL feaſt of commendation is only to be obtained by merit or by wealth; many are therefore obliged to content them⯑ſelves with ſingle morſels, and recompenſe the infrequency of their enjoyment by exceſs and riot, whenever fortune ſets the banquet be⯑fore 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 com⯑plains 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.

[166] 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 indepen⯑dence on external influences, exemption from hope or fear, and the power of ſupplying every want from the common ſtores of na⯑ture which can neither be exhauſted nor pro⯑hibited. 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 hu⯑man power can deprive the boaſter of his own encomiums. Infamy may hiſs, or contempt may growl, the hirelings of the great may ſol⯑low fortune, and the votaries of truth may at⯑tend on virtue; but his pleaſures ſtill remain the ſame; he can always liſten with rapture to [167] himſelf, and leave thoſe who dare not repoſe upon their own atteſtation, to be elated or depreſſed by chance, and toil on in the hope⯑leſs taſk of fixing caprice, and propitiating malice.

THIS art of happineſs has been long prac⯑tiſed by periodical writers, with little apparent violation of decency. When we think our excellencies overlooked by the world, or de⯑ſire 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 charac⯑ter we aſſume always addreſſes us with the deference due to a ſuperior intelligence; pro⯑poſes his doubts with a proper ſenſe of his own inability; offers an objection with trem⯑bling diffidence; and at laſt has no other pre⯑tenſions to our notice than his profundity of re⯑ſpect, and ſincerity of admiration, his ſubmiſ⯑ſion to our dictates, and zeal for our ſucceſs. To ſuch a reader it is impoſſible to refuſe re⯑gard, nor can it eaſily be imagined with how much alacrity we ſnatch up the pen which in⯑dignation or deſpair had condemned to inacti⯑vity, [168] when we find ſuch candour and judg⯑ment 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—unbound⯑ed genius—ſoul of Homer, Pythagoras, and Plato—ſolidity of thought—accuracy of di⯑ſtinction—elegance of combination—vigour of fancy—ſtrength of reaſon—and regula⯑rity of compoſition—that I had once deter⯑mined 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.

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

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

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 [186] world, time and experience diſpoſed him to change.

WHOEVER reviews the ſtate of his own mind from the dawn of manhood to its de⯑cline, and conſiders what he purſued or dread⯑ed, 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 ve⯑neration and obedience by the prerogative of longer life, are generally inclined to treat the notions of thoſe whoſe conduct they ſuperin⯑tend with ſuperciliouſneſs and contempt, for want of conſidering that the future and the [187] paſt have different appearances; that the diſ⯑proportion will always be great between ex⯑pectation and enjoyment, between new poſ⯑ſeſſion 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 diſap⯑pointments. The youth who has not diſco⯑vered 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 accu⯑mulate good, than to ſhun evil; he ſtands di⯑ſtracted 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.

[188] HE who has ſeen only the ſuperficies of life believes every thing to be what it ap⯑pears, and rarely ſuſpects that external ſplen⯑dor conceals any latent ſorrow or vexation. He never imagines that there may be greatneſs without ſafety, affluence without content, jol⯑lity 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 igno⯑rant. He is inclined to believe no man miſe⯑rable 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 mo⯑ment of openneſs and confidence his deſigns and expectations. Becauſe long life is poſſi⯑ble, 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 [189] 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 after⯑wards to engage in buſineſs, to diſſipate dif⯑ficulty, and over-power oppoſition; to climb by the mere force of merit to fame and great⯑neſs; and reward all thoſe who countenanced his riſe, or paid due regard to his early excel⯑lence. At laſt he will retire in peace and ho⯑nour; contract his views to domeſtick plea⯑ſures; form the manners of children like him⯑ſelf; 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 gaie⯑ty of youth ends in poverty or diſeaſe; that uncommon qualifications and contrarieties of [190] excellence, produce envy equally with ap⯑plauſe; that whatever admiration and fond⯑neſs 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 fol⯑lies, 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 influ⯑enced, 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 impor⯑tance. 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 there⯑fore lives in perpetual conſtraint, and conſiders [191] his fame as involved in the event of every action. Many of the virtues and vices of youth proceed from this quick ſenſe of repu⯑tation. This it is that gives firmneſs and conſtancy, fidelity and diſintereſtedneſs, and it is this that kindles reſentment for ſlight in⯑juries, and dictates all the principles of ſan⯑guinary 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 com⯑motion, 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 inte⯑reſt, and to loſe ſhame without ſubſtituting virtue.

[192] SUCH is the condition of life, that ſome⯑thing 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 re⯑gulate meaſures, but have not time remaining to bring them to completion.

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

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

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

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

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 di⯑rects 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 de⯑grees of kindneſs. Such improprieties often proceed rather from ſtupidity than malice. Thoſe who thus ſhine only to dazzle, are in⯑fluenced merely by cuſtom and example, and neither examine, nor are qualified to exa⯑mine, [226] 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 re⯑gard 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 over⯑look it, for folly ſcarcely can deſerve reſent⯑ment, and malice is puniſhed by neglect.

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

IT is obſerved in the writings of Boyle, that the excellency of manufactures, and the facility of labour, would be much pro⯑moted, if the various expedients and contri⯑vances which lie concealed in private hands, were by reciprocal communications made ge⯑nerally known; for there are few operations that are not performed by one or other with ſome peculiar advantages, which though ſing⯑ly of little importance, would by conjunction and concurrence open new inlets to know⯑ledge, 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 [228] which he was not inſtructed; and he that ſhall enquire after virtue with ardour and at⯑tention, will ſeldom find a man by whoſe example or ſentiments he may not be im⯑proved.

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 me⯑rit 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 ſet⯑tled 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 to⯑picks 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 ab⯑hor; [229] but he who is ſolicitous for his own im⯑provement, 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 ſcat⯑tered graces which ſhine ſingle in other men.

THE chief praiſe to which a trader gene⯑rally aſpires is that of punctuality, or an ex⯑act and rigorous obſervance of commercial promiſes and engagements; nor is there any vice of which he ſo much dreads the impu⯑tation, as of negligence and inſtability. This is a quality which the intereſt of mankind re⯑quires to be diffuſed through all the ranks of life, but which, however uſeful and valuable, many ſeem content to want; it is conſidered as a vulgar and ignoble virtue, below the am⯑bition of greatneſs or attention of wit, ſcarce⯑ly 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 [230] the reſtraints of truth, that promiſes and ap⯑pointments 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 ven⯑tures not on the violation of important en⯑gagements, 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 to⯑lerable 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, ſuſ⯑penſe, uncertainty, and reſentment, which are ſet aſide for the ſofter pleaſures of life, and from which we naturally hope for un⯑mingled enjoyment, and total relaxation. But he that ſuffers the ſlighteſt breach in his mo⯑rality, can ſeldom tell what ſhall enter it, or [231] how wide it ſhall be made; when a paſſage is opened, the influx of corruption is every mo⯑ment wearing down oppoſition, and by ſlow degrees deluges the heart.

ALIGER entered the world a youth of lively imagination, extenſive views, and un⯑tainted principles. His curioſity incited him to range from place to place, and try all the varieties of converſation; his elegance of ad⯑dreſs 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 man⯑kind, 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 reluc⯑tance that he once ſuffered himſelf to be drawn away from a feſtal engagement by the impor⯑tunity of another company.

[232] HE ſpent the evening, as is uſual in the rudiments of vice, with perturbation and im⯑perfect enjoyment, and met his diſappointed friends in the morning, with confuſion and excuſes. His companions not accuſtomed to ſuch ſcrupulous anxiety, laughed at his unea⯑ſineſs, 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 be⯑gan to think himſelf at liberty to follow the laſt invitation, and was no longer ſhocked at the turpitude of falſhood. He made no dif⯑ficulty 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 him⯑ſelf to careleſneſs and diſſipation, without any [233] 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 plea⯑ſure. The abſent were immediately forgotten, and the hopes or fears of others, had no in⯑fluence upon his conduct. He was in ſpecu⯑lation 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 pru⯑dent, 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 ſum⯑moned as an evidence in a cauſe of great im⯑portance, 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.

[234] HIS benevolence draws him into the com⯑miſſion of a thouſand crimes, which others leſs kind or civil, would eſcape. His courteſy invites application, his promiſes produce de⯑pendence; he has his pockets filled with pe⯑titions, which he intends ſome time to deliver and enforce, and his table covered with letters of requeſt, with which he purpoſes to com⯑ply; but time ſlips imperceptibly away, while he is either idle or buſy; his friends loſe their opportunities, and charge upon him their miſ⯑carriages 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 ſal⯑lies of caprice as make all their actions for⯑tuitous, 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.

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 under⯑ſtanding as vehicles of knowledge, they pro⯑duce 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 co⯑lours [236] of truth and falſhood; or the muſical compoſitions of poets, whoſe ſtile is profeſſed⯑ly 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 diſ⯑cover 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 bal⯑ſamick anodynes only on the cottage. Such are the bleſſings to be obtained by the reſigna⯑tion of riches, that kings might deſcend from their thrones, and generals retire from a tri⯑umph, only to ſlumber undiſturbed in the cly⯑ſium of poverty.

[237] IF theſe authors do not deceive us, nothing can be more abſurd than that perpetual con⯑teſt for wealth which keeps the world in com⯑motion, and fills almoſt every mind with ſtra⯑tagems and competition; nor can any com⯑plaints be more juſtly cenſured than thoſe which proceed from want of the gifts of for⯑tune, which we are taught by the great ma⯑ſters of moral wiſdom to conſider as golden ſhackles, by which the wearer is at once diſ⯑abled 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 phy⯑ſic, 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 imagi⯑nations [238] filled with ideas of magnificence; and being accuſtomed to contemplate the downfal of empires, or to contrive forms of lamenta⯑tion 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 be⯑come a philoſopher at a cheap rate, eaſily gra⯑tifies 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 ob⯑ſcurity, 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 exube⯑rant when we compare it with the expences of pride and luxury, but to which it little be⯑comes [239] a philoſopher to affix the name of po⯑verty, 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 co⯑veted, 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 ſenti⯑ments, as neceſſary to ſenſual enjoyment.

THE pleaſures of luxury, many have, without uncommon virtue, been able to de⯑ſpiſe, 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 in⯑nocence, has given no proof of eminent pa⯑tience. Eſteem and influence every man de⯑ſires, but they are equally pleaſing, and equal⯑ly [240] valuable, by whatever means they are ob⯑tained; 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 gene⯑rally comprehended under the name of po⯑verty, 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 venera⯑tion to the religious orders. When we be⯑hold a man abdicating the hope of terreſtrial poſſeſſions, and precluding himſelf by an ir⯑revocable vow from the purſuit and acquiſi⯑tion of all that his fellow beings conſider as worthy of wiſhes and endeavours, we are immediately ſtruck with the purity, abſtrac⯑tion, and firmneſs of his mind, and regard him as wholly employed in ſecuring the inte⯑reſts of futurity, and devoid of any other care [241] than to gain at whatever price the ſureſt paſ⯑ſage to eternal reſt.

YET what can the votary be juſtly ſaid to have loſt of his preſent happineſs. If he re⯑ſides 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 ad⯑mit any other care. All temptations to envy and competition are ſhut out from his re⯑treat; he is not pained with the ſight of un⯑attainable dignity, nor inſulted with the blu⯑ſter of inſolence, or the ſmile of forced fa⯑miliarity. If he wanders abroad, the ſancti⯑ty 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 ter⯑rify when it approaches the bed of ſickneſs in its natural horror; ſo poverty may eaſily [242] be endured, while aſſociated with dignity and reputation, but will always be ſhunned and dreaded, when it is accompanied with igno⯑miny and contempt.

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

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 imagi⯑nation with immediate enjoyment, and we are forced to ſupply its deficiences by recol⯑lection or anticipation.

EVERY one has ſo often detected the fal⯑laciouſneſs 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 en⯑deavour, [243] or wiſh, to find entertainment in the review of life, and to repoſe upon real facts, and certain experience. This is per⯑haps one reaſon among many, why age de⯑lights in narratives.

BUT ſo full is the world of calamity, that every ſource of pleaſure is polluted, and eve⯑ry 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 up⯑on 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 fro⯑lick, or nights of honeſt feſtivity will per⯑haps recur; he may revive lucky accidents, and pleaſing extravagancies; or, if he has been engaged in ſcenes of action, and ac⯑quainted with affairs of difficulty and viciſſi⯑tudes of fortune, may enjoy the nobler plea⯑ſure of looking back upon diſtreſs firmly ſup⯑ported, [244] danger reſolutely encountered, and oppoſition artfully defeated. Eneas properly comforts his companions, when after the hor⯑rors of a ſtorm they have landed on an un⯑known 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 ſur⯑mounted evils, when they were not incurred nor protracted by our fault, and neither re⯑proached 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 our⯑ſelves deprived of thoſe with whom we enter⯑ed the world, and whom the participation of pleaſures or fatigues endeared to our remem⯑brance. 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 [245] 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 what⯑ever 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 can⯑not compare the difference between want and poſſeſſion, or at leaſt can derive from it no conviction of our own abilities, nor any en⯑creaſe of ſelf eſteem; what we acquire by [246] bravery or ſcience, by mental or corporeal di⯑ligence, comes at laſt when we cannot com⯑municate, 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 ne⯑ceſſity 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 ſur⯑face 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 ex⯑iſtence: [247] Some amuſe themſelves with entails and ſettlements, provide for the encreaſe and perpetuation of families and honours, or con⯑trive to obviate the diſſipation of the fortunes, which it has been their buſineſs to accumu⯑late: Others more refined or exalted congra⯑tulate their own hearts upon the future ex⯑tent of their reputation, the reverence of di⯑ſtant nations, and the gratitude of unpreju⯑diced 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 atten⯑tive to remonſtrance, or flexible to argu⯑ments; but the votaries of fame are capa⯑ble 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 in⯑deed, to be long remembered, can happen to ſo ſmall a number, that the bulk of mankind has very little intereſt in the queſtion. There [248] is never room in the world for more than a certain quantity, or meaſure of renown. The neceſſary buſineſs of life, the immediate plea⯑ſures or pains of every condition, leave us not leiſure beyond a fixed proportion for contem⯑plations which do not forcibly influence our preſent welfare. When this vacuity is filled no characters can be admitted into the circu⯑lation 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 be⯑fore 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 [249] gloom of the laſt hour. But futurity has ſtill its proſpects; there is yet happineſs in re⯑ſerve, 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 pur⯑ſue 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.

SEGED lord of Ethiopia, to the inhabi⯑tants of the world: To the ſons of pre⯑ſumption, humility, and fear, and to the daugh⯑ters of ſorrow, content and acquieſcence.

[250] THUS in the twenty-ſeventh year of his reign, ſpoke Seged, the monarch of forty na⯑tions, 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 for⯑treſſes 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 peſti⯑lence. Thy magazines are ſtored with ammunition, thy treaſuries overflow with the tribute of conquered kingdoms. Plen⯑ty 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 mi⯑ſery [251] 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 cloud⯑ed 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 plea⯑ſure, 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 na⯑tions, but a ceſſation of ten days cannot be denied me. This ſhort interval of happi⯑neſs, may ſurely be ſecured from the inter⯑ruption of fear or perplexity, ſorrow on diſappointment. I will exclude all trouble from my abode, and remove from my thoughts whatever may confuſe the harmo⯑ny of the concert, or abate the ſweetneſs [252] of the banquet. I will fill the whole capa⯑city of my ſoul with enjoyment, and try what it is to live without a wiſh unſa⯑tisfied."

IN a few days the orders were performed, and Seged haſted to the palace of 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 foun⯑tains for repoſe at noon. All that could ſo⯑lace 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 emi⯑nently qualified to receive, or communicate pleaſure. His call was readily obeyed; the young, the fair, the vivacious, and the witty, [253] 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 re⯑jected, he reſolved and changed his reſolu⯑tion, till his faculties were harraſſed, and his thoughts confuſed; then returned to the ap⯑partment 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, [254] and was offended, for he found his vexation en⯑creaſed 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 ano⯑ther; 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: Be⯑fore 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, af⯑ter having endeavoured for the ſake of his attendants to force an air of gaiety, and ex⯑cite that mirth which he could not ſhare, he reſolved to refer his hopes to the next morn⯑ing, and lay down upon his bed, to partake with the ſlaves of labour and poverty the bleſ⯑ſing of ſleep.

HE roſe early the ſecond morning, and re⯑ſolved now to be happy. He therefore fixed [255] upon the gate of the palace an edict im⯑porting, that whoever, during nine days, ſhould appear in the preſence of the king with dejected countenance, or utter any ex⯑preſſion 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 en⯑gaged in the care of regulating their looks, that Seged might find his will punctually obey⯑ed, and ſee none among them liable to ba⯑niſhment.

SEGED now met every face ſettled in a ſmile; but a ſmile that betrayed ſolicitude, timidity, and conſtraint. He accoſted his fa⯑vourites 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, [256] who had no other deſire than to ſignalize themſelves by clamorous exultation. He of⯑fered various topics of converſation, but ob⯑tained only forced jeſts, and laborious laugh⯑ter, 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 diſappoint⯑ment.

HE at laſt relieved his companions from their terrors, and ſhut himſelf up in his cham⯑ber 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 pa⯑lace 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 abi⯑lity to move, fancied himſelf betrayed to his enemies, and again ſtarted up with horror and indignation.

[257] 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 diſ⯑turbed 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 pro⯑tract 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.

ON the fourth morning Seged roſe early, refreſhed with ſleep, vigorous with health, and eager with expectation. He en⯑tered 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 imagi⯑nation in flights of merriment; and ſome⯑times uttered grave reflections, and ſenten⯑tious maxims, and feaſted on the admiration with which they were received.

[259] THUS the day rolled on, without any ac⯑cident of vexation or intruſion of melancholy thoughts. All that beheld him caught glad⯑neſs from his looks, and the ſight of happi⯑neſs 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 wo⯑men, and turning back, ſaw the whole aſſem⯑bly 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 in⯑cloſed themſelves in the palace, and could yet ſcarcely believe themſelves in ſafety. Eve⯑ry attention was fixed upon the late danger and eſcape, and no mind was any longer at lei⯑ſure for gay ſallies or careleſs prattle.

SEGED had now no other employment than to contemplate the innumerable caſual⯑ties which lie in ambuſh on every ſide to in⯑tercept the happineſs of man, and break in [260] 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 diſtin⯑guiſh 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 imme⯑diately ſparkled, and every tongue was buſied in celebrating the bounty and magnificence of the emperor. But when Seged entered in [261] hopes of uncommon entertainment from uni⯑verſal 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 ar⯑dently wiſh to gain, we muſt in the ſame de⯑gree be afraid to loſe, and fear and pleaſure cannot dwell together.

ALL was now care and ſolicitude. No⯑thing was done or ſpoken, but with ſo viſible an endeavour at perfection, as always failed to delight, though it ſometimes forced admira⯑tion: 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, be⯑gan to diſcover the malignity of defeat, firſt by angry glances, and at laſt by contemptu⯑ous 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 [262] his time in balancing different kinds of me⯑rit, and adjuſting the claims of all the com⯑petitors.

AT laſt knowing, that no exactneſs could fatisfy thoſe whoſe hopes he ſhould diſappoint, and thinking that on a day ſet apart for hap⯑pineſs, 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 un⯑ſatisfied, becauſe they were honoured with no diſtinction, and wanted an opportunity to triumph in the mortification of their oppo⯑nents. "Behold here, ſaid Seged, the con⯑dition of him who places his happineſs in the happineſs of others." He then retired to meditate, and, while the courtiers were [263] 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 care⯑leſs aſſembly with equal careleſſneſs, he over⯑heard 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 [264] was ſpoken, without intention to be heard, was to be conſidered as only thought, and was perhaps but the ſudden burſt of caſu⯑al 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 de⯑liberation 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 cheer⯑ed the beginning of the ſeventh day, and no⯑thing 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 him⯑ſelf with his uſual pleaſures, when his tran⯑quillity was again diſturbed by jealouſies which the late conteſt for the prizes had produced, and which having in vain tried to pacify [265] them by perſuaſion, he was forced to ſilence by command.

ON the eighth morning Seged was awa⯑kened early by an unuſual hurry in the apart⯑ments, and enquiring the cauſe, was told, that the princeſs Balkis was ſeized with ſick⯑neſs. He roſe, and calling the phyſicians found that they had little hope of her reco⯑very. 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 Ethio⯑pia had appropriated to a ſhort reſpiration from the fatigues of war and the cares of government. This narrative he has bequeath⯑ed to future generations, that no man here⯑after may preſume to ſay, "This day ſhall be a day of happineſs."

NUMB. 206. SATURDAY, March 7, 1752.

WHEN Diogenes was once aſked, what kind of wine he liked beſt? He an⯑ſwered; "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. [267] He that uniformly purſues any purpoſe, whe⯑ther good or bad, has a ſettled principle of action, and as he may always find aſſociates who are travelling the ſame way, is counte⯑nanced by example, and ſheltered in the mul⯑titude; but he that is actuated at once by contrary deſires muſt move in a direction pe⯑culiar 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 pro⯑duces 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 rap⯑ture [268] the ſucceſſion of diſhes with which their cooks and caterers ſupply them; and expect⯑ing 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 know⯑ledge 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 plen⯑ty, growled away their latter years in diſcon⯑tented competence.

NONE enter the regions of luxury with higher expectations than men of wit, who imagine, that they ſhall never want a wel⯑come to that company whoſe ideas they can [269] enlarge, or whoſe imaginations they can ele⯑vate, 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 dread⯑ed 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 un⯑controverted preſcription his claim to partake of every entertainment, and whoſe preſence they who aſpire to the praiſe of a ſumptuous table, are careful to procure on a day of im⯑portance, by ſending the invitation a fortnight before.

GULOSULUS entered the world with⯑out any eminent degree of merit; but was careful to frequent houſes, where perſons of rank reſorted. By being often ſeen, he be⯑came in time known; and from ſitting in the ſame room, was ſuffered to mix in idle con⯑verſation, [270] or aſſiſted to fill up a vacant hour, when better amuſement was not readily to be had. From the coffee-houſe he was ſome⯑times 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 ta⯑bles, 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 un⯑common accompliſhments he did not find neceſſary to his deſign; for he had already ſeen that they whoſe merit is allowed ra⯑ther 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 poſſeſ⯑ſors [271] 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 gene⯑rally 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 ſome⯑times produced by the rage of defeat or petu⯑lance of triumph.

GULOSULUS was never embarraſſed but when he was required to declare his ſen⯑timents before he had been able to diſcover to which ſide the maſter of the houſe in⯑clined, [272] 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 Gulo⯑ſulus ſeldom fails of being ſingled out on ſuch emergencies, as one on whom any experi⯑ment of ribaldry may be ſafely tryed. Some⯑times his lordſhip finds himſelf inclined to ex⯑hibit a ſpecimen of raillery for the diverſion of his gueſts, and Guloſulus always ſupplies him with a ſubject of merriment. But he has learned to conſider rudeneſs and indignities as familiarities that entitle him to greater free⯑dom: He comforts himſelf, that thoſe who treat and inſult him pay for their laughter, and 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 dicta⯑torial authority; his taſte becomes the ſtand⯑ard of pickles and ſeaſoning, and he is vene⯑rated by the profeſſors of epicuriſm, as the only man who underſtands the niceties of cookery.

[273] 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 communi⯑cating 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 under⯑ſtood.

BY this method of life Guloſulus has ſo im⯑preſſed on his imagination the dignity of feaſt⯑ing that he has no other topic of talk, or ſub⯑ject of meditation. Others may prate of tro⯑picks and the zodiac, his calendar is a bill of fare; he meaſures the year by ſucceſſive dain⯑ties. The only common places of his memo⯑ry 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 veni⯑ſon. He knows, indeed, that thoſe who va⯑lue 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.

SUCH is the emptineſs of human enjoy⯑ment, that we are always impatient of the preſent. Attainment is followed by neg⯑lect, and poſſeſſion by diſguſt; and the mali⯑cious 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 execu⯑tion, all is improvement and progreſs, tri⯑umph and felicity. Every hour brings addi⯑tions 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 ely⯑ſian proſpects, and the heart dances to the ſong of hope.

SUCH is the pleaſure of projecting, that many content themſelves with a ſucceſſion of [275] 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 imagina⯑tion 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 conſulta⯑tions, are ſnatched away by death, as they ſtand in procinctu waiting for a proper oppor⯑tunity 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 de⯑preſſes. We proceed, becauſe we have be⯑gun; we complete our deſign, that the labour already ſpent may not be vain: but as expec⯑tation gradually dies away, the gay ſmile of [276] alacrity diſappears, we are neceſſitated to im⯑plore ſeverer powers, and truſt the event to patience and conſtancy.

WHEN once our labour has begun, the comfort that enables us to endure it is the proſpect of its end; for though in every long work there are ſome joyous intervals of ſelf⯑applauſe, when the attention is recreated by unexpected facility, and the imagination ſooth⯑ed by incidental excellencies not compriſed in the firſt plan, yet the toil with which perform⯑ance ſtruggles after idea, is ſo irkſome and diſguſting, and ſo frequent is the neceſſity of reſting below that perfection which we ima⯑gined within our reach, that ſeldom any man obtains more from his endeavours than a pain⯑ful 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 him⯑ſelf with the hope of change. He that has made his way by aſſiduity and vigilance to pub⯑lick employment, talks among his friends of nothing but the delight of retirement: He, whom the neceſſity of ſolitary application ſe⯑cludes [277] from the world, liſtens with a beating heart to its diſtant noiſes, longs to mingle with living beings, and reſolves, when he can regu⯑late 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 natu⯑ral, 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 open⯑ing bloſſom, and pleaſed himſelf with compu⯑ting how much every ſun and ſhower added to its growth, ſcarcely ſtays till the fruit has ob⯑tained 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 ſud⯑denly conclude that no more is to be done.

ALL attraction is encreaſed by the approach of the attracting body. We never find our⯑ſelves [278] 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 diſ⯑content 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 can⯑not 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 ad⯑mitted. 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.

[279] 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 obſcu⯑rity, cannot afterwards deſiſt but with infamy and reproach. He, whom a doubtful promiſe of diſtant good, could encourage to ſet diffi⯑culties at defiance, ought not to remit his vi⯑gour, when he has almoſt obtained his recom⯑pence. 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 lat⯑ter part of an oration, leſt they ſhould be ef⯑faced 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. [280] Admiration muſt be continued by that novelty which firſt produced it, and how much ſoever is given, there muſt always be reaſon to ima⯑gine that more remains.

WE not only are naturally moſt ſenſible of the laſt impreſſions, but ſuch is the unwilling⯑neſs of mankind to admit ſupereminent and tranſcendent merit, that, though it be difficult to obliterate the reproach of faults or miſcar⯑riages by any ſubſequent atchievement, how⯑ever illuſtrious, or any courſe of virtue, how⯑ever uniform, yet the reputation, which a long courſe of ſucceſs has contributed to raiſe, may be finally ruined by a ſingle failure, for weak⯑neſs 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.

[281] BUT if the taſk conſiſts in the repetition of ſingle acts, no one of which derives its effi⯑cacy from the reſt, it may be attempted with leſs ſcruple, becauſe there is always opportu⯑nity 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 liſtleſſ⯑neſs 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 cen⯑ſure, or obſtinately crowd the ſtage till a ge⯑neral hiſs commands him to depart.

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

TIME, which puts an end to all human pleaſures and ſorrows, has likewiſe con⯑cluded the labours of the RAMBLER. Having ſupported for two years the anxious employ⯑ment of a periodical writer, and multiplied my eſſays to ſix volumes, I have now deter⯑mined to deſiſt.

THE reaſons of this reſolution it is of lit⯑tle 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 un⯑dertaking, I have been animated by the re⯑wards 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 [283] 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, with⯑out any attempt to add a moment to their du⯑ration; 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 paſ⯑ſions 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 en⯑couragement, 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 there⯑fore felt little dejection from the want of po⯑pularity.

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 [284] 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 op⯑portunity of appearing, are the four billets in the tenth paper, the ſecond letter in the fif⯑teenth, 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 ex⯑cuſes 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 with⯑out ſubterfuge to the cenſures of criticiſm, which, however, I ſhall not endeavour to ſof⯑ten 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 ſome⯑times ſheltered guilt, it can afford no protection to ignorance or dulneſs. Having hitherto at⯑tempted only the propagation of truth, I will [285] not at laſt violate it by the confeſſion of terrors which I do not feel: Having laboured to main⯑tain the dignity of virtue, I will not now de⯑grade it by the meanneſs of dedication.

THE ſeeming vanity with which I have ſometimes ſpoken of myſelf, would perhaps re⯑quire an apology, were it not extenuated by the example of thoſe who have publiſhed eſſays before me, and by the privilege which a name⯑leſs 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 ri⯑gorouſly 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 pre⯑paring [286] for my future life either ſhame or repen⯑tance. That all are happily imagined, or ac⯑curately poliſhed, that the ſame ſentiments will not ſometimes recur, or the ſame expreſ⯑ſions 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 at⯑tention diſſipated, a memory overwhelmed, an imagination embarraſſed, a mind diſtracted with anxieties, a body languiſhing with diſ⯑eaſe: He will ſometimes labour on a barren topic, till it is too late to change it; and ſome⯑times, in the ardour of invention, diffuſe his thoughts into wild exuberance, which the preſſing hour of publication cannot ſuffer judg⯑ment to examine or reduce.

WHATEVER ſhall be the final ſentence of mankind, I have at leaſt endeavoured to de⯑ſerve their kindneſs. I have laboured to refine our language to grammatical purity, and to clear it from colloquial barbariſms, licentious idioms, and irregular combinations. Some⯑thing perhaps I have added to the elegance of its conſtruction, and ſomething to the har⯑mony of its cadence. When common words were leſs pleaſing to the ear or leſs diſtinct in their ſignification, I have familiarized the terms [287] of philoſophy by applying them to known objects and popular ideas, but have rarely ad⯑mitted 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 incul⯑cate wiſdom or piety, I have allotted few pa⯑pers 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 ſtern⯑neſs 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 eſta⯑bliſhing all my principles of judgment on un⯑alterable and evident truth.

IN the pictures of life I have never been ſo ſtudious of novelty or ſurprize, as to depart [288] wholly from all reſemblance; a fault which writers deſervedly celebrated frequently com⯑mit, that they may raiſe, as the occaſion re⯑quires, either mirth or abhorrence. Some en⯑largement 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 ap⯑plication. The mind of the reader is carried away from the contemplation of his own man⯑ners; 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 ob⯑tain in any other cauſe, if I can be numbered among the writers, who have given ardour to virtue, and confidence to truth.