NUMB. 71. TUESDAY, Nov. 20, 1750.

MANY words and ſentences are ſo frequently heard in the mouths of men, that a ſuperficial obſerver is inclined to believe, that they muſt contain ſome primary principle, ſome great rule of action or maxim of prudence, which it is proper al⯑ways to have preſent to the attention, and by which the uſe of every hour is to be adjuſted. Yet, if we conſider the conduct of thoſe ſen⯑tentious philoſophers, it will often be found, that they repeat theſe aphoriſms, merely be⯑cauſe they have ſomewhere heard them, be⯑cauſe they have nothing elſe to ſay, or be⯑cauſe they conceive that ſome veneration is gained by ſuch appearances of wiſdom, but that no ideas are annexed to the words, and [2] that, according to the old blunder of the fol⯑lowers of Ariſtotle, their ſouls are mere pipes or organs, which tranſmit ſounds, but do not underſtand them.

OF this kind is that well known and well atteſted poſition, that life is ſhort, which may be heard among mankind by an attentive au⯑ditor, many times a day, but which never yet within my reach of obſervation left any im⯑preſſion upon the mind; and perhaps if my readers will turn their thoughts back upon their old friends, they will find it difficult to call a ſingle man to remembrance, who ap⯑peared to know that life was ſhort till he was about to loſe it.

IT is obſervable that Horace, in his ac⯑count of the characters of men, as they are diverſified by the various influence of time, remarks, that the old man is dilator, ſpe longus, given to procraſtination, and inclined to ex⯑tend his hopes to a great diſtance. So far are we, generally, from thinking what we often ſay of the ſhortneſs of life, that at the time when it is neceſſarily ſhorteſt, we form pro⯑jects which we delay to execute, indulge ſuch [3] expectations as nothing but a long train of events can gratify, and ſuffer thoſe paſſions to gain upon us, which are only excuſable in the prime of life.

THESE reflections were lately excited in my mind, by an evening's converſation with my friend Proſpero, who at the age of fifty⯑five, has bought an eſtate, and is now con⯑triving to diſpoſe and cultivate it with uncom⯑mon elegance. His great pleaſure is to walk among ſtately trees, and lye muſing in the heat of noon under their ſhade; he is there⯑fore maturely conſidering how he ſhall diſpoſe his walks and his groves, and has at laſt deter⯑mined to ſend for the beſt plans from Italy, and forbear planting till the next ſeaſon.

THUS is life trifled away in preparations to do what never can be done, if it be left unattempted till all the requiſites which ima⯑gination can ſuggeſt are gathered together. Where our deſign terminates only in our own ſatisfaction, the miſtake is of no great im⯑portance; for the pleaſure of expecting en⯑joyment, is often greater than that of obtain⯑ing it, and the completion of almoſt every [4] wiſh is found a diſappointment; but when many others are intereſted in an undertaking, when any deſign is formed, in which the improvement or ſecurity of mankind is in⯑volved, nothing is more unworthy either of wiſdom or benevolence, than to delay it from time to time, or to forget how much every day that paſſes over us, take away from our power, and how ſoon an idle purpoſe to do an action, ſinks into a mournful wiſh that it had once been done.

WE are frequently importuned, by the bac⯑chanalian writers, to lay hold on the preſent hour, to catch the pleaſures which are now within our reach, and remember that futurity is not at our command. ‘ [...]’

BUT ſurely theſe exhortations may, with equal propriety, be applied to better purpoſes; it may be at leaſt inculcated, that pleaſures are more ſafely poſtponed than virtues, and that greater loſs is ſuffered by miſſing an opportu⯑nity [5] of doing good, than an hour of giddy frolick and noiſy merriment.

WHEN Baxter had loſt a thouſand pounds, which he had laid up for the erection of a ſchool, he uſed frequently to mention the misfortune, as an incitement to be charitable while God gives the power of beſtowing, and conſidered himſelf as culpable in ſome degree, for having left a good action in the hands of chance, and ſuffered his benevolence to be defeated for want of quickneſs and diligence.

IT is lamented by Hearne, the learned an⯑tiquary of Oxford, that this general forgetful⯑neſs of the fragility of life, has remarkably infected the ſtudents of monuments and re⯑cords; as their employment conſiſts firſt in collecting and afterwards in arranging, or abſlracting what libraries afford them, they ought to amaſs no more than they can digeſt; but when they have undertaken a work, they go on ſearching and tranſcribing, call for new ſupplies, when they are already over-bur⯑dened, and at laſt leave their work un⯑finiſhed. It is, ſays he, the buſineſs of a good antiquary, as of a good man, to have mortality always before him.

[6] THUS, not only in the ſlumber of ſloth, but in the diſſipation of ill directed induſtry, is the ſhortneſs of life generally forgotten. As ſome men loſe their hours in lazineſs, becauſe they ſuppoſe, that there is time enough for the reparation of their negligence; others buſy themſelves in providing that no length of life may want employment; and it often hap⯑pens, that ſluggiſhneſs and activity are equal⯑ly ſurpriſed by the laſt ſummons, and periſh not more differently from each other, than the fowl that receives the ſhot in her flight, from her that is killed upon the buſh.

AMONG the many improvements, made by the laſt centuries in human knowledge, may be numbered the exact calculations of the value of life; but whatever may be their uſe in traffick, they ſeem very little to have advanced morality. They have hitherto been rather applied to the acquiſition of money, than of wiſdom; the computer refers none of his calculations to his own tenure, but per⯑ſiſts, in contempt of probability, to foretel long life to himſelf, and believes that he is marked out to reach the utmoſt verge of hu⯑man [7] exiſtence, and ſee thouſands and ten thouſands fall into the grave.

SO deeply is this ſallacy rooted in the heart, and ſo ſtrongly guarded by hope and fear againſt the approach of reaſon, that neither ſcience nor experience can ſhake it, and we act as if life were without end, though we ſee and confeſs its uncertainty and ſhortneſs.

DIVINES have, with great ſtrength and ardour, ſhewn the abſurdity of delaying refor⯑mation and repentance; a degree of folly in⯑deed, which ſets eternity to hazard. It is the ſame weakneſs, in proportion to the impor⯑tance of the neglect, to transfer any care, which now claims our attention, to a future time: we ſometimes ſubject ourſelves to need⯑leſs dangers from accidents which early dili⯑gence would have obviated, and ſometimes perplex our minds by vain precautions, and make proviſion for the execution of deſigns, for which the opportunity once miſſed never will return.

AS he that lives longeſt lives but a little while, every man may be certain that he has no [8] time to waſte. The duties of life are commen⯑ſurate to its duration, and every day brings its taſk, which if neglected, is doubled on the morrow. But he that has already trifled away thoſe months and years, in which he ſhould have laboured, muſt remember, that of what he has now only a part, the whole is little; and that ſince the few moments remaining are to be conſidered as the laſt truſt of hea⯑ven, not one is to be loſt.

NUMB. 72. SATURDAY, Nov. 24, 1750.

NUMB. 73. TUESDAY, Nov. 27, 1750.

NUMB. 74. SATURDAY, December 1, 1750.

MEN are ſeldom able to give pleaſure, where they are not pleaſed themſelves; it is neceſſary, therefore, to cultivate an habi⯑tual alacrity and chearfulneſs of mind, for man⯑kind are chiefly influenced by their affections, and in whatever ſtate we may be placed by providence, whether we are appointed to con⯑fer or receive benefits, to implore or to af⯑ford protection, we can proſecute our pur⯑poſes with ſucceſs, only by ſecuring the love of thoſe with whom we tranſact. For though it [27] is generally imagined, that he who grants fa⯑vours, may ſpare any farther attention to his behaviour, and that uſefulneſs will procure friends; yet it has been found that there is an art of granting requeſts, an art very difficult of attainment; and that officiouſneſs and libera⯑lity may be ſo adulterated, as to loſe the greater part of their effect; compliance may provoke, relief may harraſs, and liberality diſtreſs.

No diſeaſe of the mind can more fatally diſ⯑able it from that intercourſe of benevolence, which is one of the chief duties of ſocial be⯑ings, than ill humour or peeviſhneſs; for tho' it breaks not out in paroxyſms of outrage, nor burſts into clamour, and turbulence, and bloodſhed, it yet ſupplies the deficiency of vi⯑olence by its frequency, and wears out hap⯑pineſs by ſlow corroſion, and ſmall injuries in⯑ceſſantly repeated. It may be conſidered as the canker of life, that deſtroys its vigour, and checks its improvement, that creeps on with hourly depredations, and taints and vitiates what it cannot conſume.

[28] PEEVISHNESS, when it has been ſo far indulged, as to out-run the motions of the will, and diſcover itſelf without premeditation, is a ſpecies of depravity in the higheſt degree diſguſting and offenſive, becauſe no caution or regularity, no rectitude of intention, nor ſoft⯑neſs of addreſs, can enſure a moment's ex⯑emption from affront and indignity. While we are courting the favour of a peeviſh man, while we are making the warmeſt offers of ſervice, or exerting ourſelves in the moſt di⯑ligent civility, an unlucky ſyllable diſpleaſes, an unheeded circumſtance ruffles and exaſpe⯑rates; and in the moment when we congra⯑tulate ourſelves upon having gained a friend, we have the mortification of finding all our endeavours fruſtrated in a moment, and all our aſſiduity forgotten in the caſual tumult of ſome trifling irritation.

THIS troubleſome impatience is ſometimes nothing more than the ſymptom of ſome deeper malady. He that is angry without daring to confeſs his reſentment, or ſorrowful without the liberty of telling his grief, is too fre⯑quently inclined to give vent to the fermen⯑tations of his mind at the firſt paſſages that [29] are opened, and to let his paſſions boil over upon thoſe whom accident throws in his way. A painful and tedious courſe of ſick⯑neſs frequently produces ſuch a quick ſenſibi⯑lity, ſuch an alarming apprehenſion of any increaſe of uneaſineſs, as keeps the ſoul per⯑petually on the watch, to prevent or repel any thing from which inconvenience is felt or feared, ſuch a reſtleſs and inceſſant ſolicitude, as no care, no tenderneſs can appeaſe, and can only be pacified by the cure of the di⯑ſtemper, and the removal of that pain by which it is excited.

NEARLY approaching to this weakneſs, is the captiouſneſs of old age: when the ſtrength is cruſhed, the ſenſes dulled, and the common pleaſures of life become inſipid by repetition, we are willing to impute the uneaſineſs of our condition to cauſes not wholly out of our pow⯑er, and pleaſe ourſelves with fancying that we ſuffer by neglect, or unkindneſs, or want of ſkill, or any evil which admits a remedy, ra⯑ther than by the decays of nature which can⯑not be prevented, delayed, or repaired. We therefore revenge our pains upon thoſe on whom we reſolve to charge them; and too of⯑ten [30] drive mankind away at the time we have the greateſt need of kindneſs and aſſiſtance.

BUT though peeviſhneſs may ſometimes claim our compaſſion, as the conſequence or concomitant of miſery, it is very often ſound, where nothing can juſtify or excuſe its admiſ⯑ſion. It is often one of the attendants on proſperity, employed by inſolence in exacting homage, and by tyranny in harraſſing ſub⯑jection. It is frequently the offspring of idle⯑neſs and pride; of idleneſs anxious for trifles; and pride unwilling to endure the leaſt ob⯑ſtruction of her wiſhes. Thoſe who have long lived in ſolitude, indeed, naturally con⯑tract this unſocial quality; becauſe, having long had only themſelves to pleaſe, they do not readily depart from their own inclinations; their ſingularities therefore are only blameable, when they have imprudently or moroſely with⯑drawn themſelves from the world; but there are others, who have, without any neceſſity, nurſed up this habit in their minds, by making implicit ſubmiſſiveneſs, the condition of their favour, and ſuffering none to approach them, but thoſe who watch their eyes, and obſerve [31] their nods; who never ſpeak but to applaud, or move but to obey.

HE that gives himſelf up to his own fan⯑cy, and converſes with none but ſuch as he hires to lull him in the down of abſolute au⯑thority, to [...] him with obſequiouſneſs, and regale him with flattery, ſoon grows too [...]ful for the labour of conteſt, too tender for the aſperity of contradiction, and too de⯑licate for the coarſeneſs of truth. A little oppoſition offends, a little reſtraint enrages, and a little difficulty perplexes him: for a man, who has been accuſtomed to ſee every thing give way to his humour and his choice, ſoon forgets his own littleneſs, and expects to find the world rolling at his beck, and all mankind employed to accommodate and de⯑light him.

TETRICA had a very large fortune be⯑queathed to her by the ſondneſs of an aunt, which made her very early independent of her parents, and placed her in a ſtate of ſuperi⯑ority to all about her. She had naturally no ſuperfluity of underſtanding, and therefore was ſoon intoxicated by the flatteries of her maid, [32] who informed her that ladies, ſuch as ſhe, had nothing to do but take pleaſure their own way; that ſhe wanted nothing from others, and had therefore no reaſon to value their opinion; that money was every thing; and that they who thought themſelves ill-treated, ſhould look for better uſage among their e⯑quals.

WARM with theſe generous ſentiments, Tetrica came forth into the world, in which ſhe endeavoured to diſtinguiſh herſelf by an overbearing haughtineſs of mien and contemp⯑tuous vehemence of language; but having neither birth, nor beauty, nor wit in any uncommon degree, the frequent mortifications which ſhe underwent from thoſe who thought themſelves at liberty to return her inſults, re⯑duced her turbulence to more cool and ſecret malignity, and taught her to conſine her arts of vexation, to thoſe whom ſhe might hope to harraſs without controul. She conti⯑nued from her twentieth to her fiftyfifth year to torment all her inferiors with ſo much di⯑ligence, that ſhe has contracted a ſettled prin⯑ciple of diſapprobation, and finds in every [33] place ſomething to grate her mind, and di⯑ſturb her quiet.

IF ſhe takes the air, ſhe is always of⯑fended with the heat or cold, the glare of the ſun, or the gloom of the clouds; if ſhe makes a viſit, the room in which ſhe is to be received, is too light, or too dark, or furniſhed with ſomething which ſhe cannot ſee without averſion. Her tea is never of the right ſort; the figures on the China give her diſguſt. Where there are children ſhe hates the gabble of brats; where there are none ſhe cannot bear a place without ſome chearfulneſs and rattle. If many ſervants are kept in a houſe, ſhe never fails to tell how lord Laviſh was ruined by a numerous reti⯑nue; if few, ſhe relates the ſtory of a miſer that made his company wait on themſelves. She quarrelled with one family, becauſe ſhe had an unpleaſant view from their windows; with another, becauſe the ſquirrel leaped with⯑in two yards of her; and with a third, be⯑cauſe ſhe could not bear the noiſe of the par⯑rot.

[34] OF milliners and mantua-makers ſhe is the proverbial torment. She compels them to alter their work, then to unmake it, and contrive it after another faſhion, then changes her mind, and likes it better as it was at firſt, then will have a ſmall improvement. Thus ſhe proceeds till no profit can recom⯑penſe the vexation; they at laſt leave the work at her houſe, and refuſe to ſerve her at any price. Her maid, who is the only being that can endure her tyranny, profeſſes to take her own courſe, and hear her miſtreſs talk. Such is the conſequence of peeviſhneſs; it can be born only when it is deſpiſed.

IT ſometimes happens that too cloſe an attention to minute exactneſs, or too rigo⯑rous habits of examining every thing by the ſtandard of perfection, vitiates the temper, rather than improves the underſtanding, and teaches the mind to diſcern faults with un⯑happy penetration. It is incident likewiſe to men of vigorous imagination to pleaſe them⯑ſelves too much with ſuturities, and to fret becauſe thoſe expectations are diſappointed, which ought never to have been formed. Knowledge and genius are often enemies to [35] quiet, by ſuggeſting ideas of excellence, which men and the performances of men cannot at⯑tain: But let no man raſhly determine, that his unwillingneſs to be pleaſed, is a proof of underſtanding, unleſs his ſuperiority appears from leſs doubtful evidence; for though pee⯑viſhneſs may ſometimes juſtly boaſt its de⯑ſcent from learning or from wit, it is much oftener of baſe extraction, the child of vanity, and nurſling of ignorance.

NUMB. 75. TUESDAY, December 4, 1750.

NUMB. 76. SATURDAY, December 8, 1750.

IT is always very eaſy for every man, whatever may be his character with others, to find reaſons for eſteeming himſelf, and therefore cenſure, contempt, or the indubita⯑ble conviction of crimes, ſeldom deprive him of his own favour. Thoſe, indeed, who can ſee only external facts and appearances, may look upon him with abhorrence, but when he calls himſelf to his own tribunal, he finds every fault, if not abſolutely effaced by the goodneſs of the intention, and the cogen⯑cy of the motive, yet ſo much palliated by [46] concomittant circumſtances, that very little guilt or turpitude remains; and when he takes a ſur⯑vey of the whole complication of his charac⯑ter, he diſcovers ſo many latent excellencies, ſo many virtues, that want but an opportunity to exert themſelves in act, and ſo many kind wiſhes for general happineſs, that he cannot but look on himſelf as ſuffering unjuſtly un⯑der the infamy of ſingle failings, while the general temper of his mind is unknown or unregarded.

IT is natural to mean well, when only ge⯑neral ideas of virtue are propoſed to the mind, and when no particular paſſion or in⯑tereſt turns us aſide from rectitude; and ſo willing is every man to flatter himſelf, that the difference between approving laws, and obeying them, is frequently forgotten; he that acknowledges the obligations of morality, and pleaſes his vanity with enforcing them to others, concludes himſelf zealous in the cauſe of virtue, though he has no longer any regard to her precepts, than they con⯑form to his own deſires; and counts himſelf among her warmeſt lovers, becauſe he praiſes her beauty, though every rival ſteals away his heart.

[47] THERE are, however, great numbers who have little recourſe to the refinements of ſpe⯑culation, but who yet live at peace with them⯑ſelves, by means which require leſs under⯑ſtanding, or leſs attention. When they find their hearts burthened with the conſciouſneſs of a crime, inſtead of ſeeking for ſome remedy with⯑in themſelves, they look round upon the reſt of mankind, to find others tainted with the ſame guilt, and oppreſſed with the ſame igno⯑miny: they pleaſe themſelves with obſerving, that they have numbers on their ſide; that they do not bear any peculiar marks of de⯑pravity; and that though they are hunted out from the ſociety of good men, they are not likely to be condemned to ſolitude.

IT may be obſerved, perhaps without ex⯑ception, that none are ſo induſtrious to detect wickedneſs, or ſo ready to impute it, as they whoſe crimes are apparent and confeſſed. They envy the happineſs of an unblemiſhed reputa⯑tion, and what they envy they are buſy to deſtroy: they are unwilling to ſuppoſe them⯑ſelves meaner, and more corrupt than others, and therefore would willingly pull down from their elevations thoſe with whom they cannot [48] riſe to an equality. No man yet was wicked without ſecret diſcontent, and according to the different degrees of remaining virtue, or unex⯑tinguiſhed reaſon, he either endeavours to re⯑form himſelf, or corrupt others; either to regain the ſtation which he has quitted, or prevail on others to imitate his defection.

IT has been always conſidered as an alle⯑viation of miſery not to ſuffer alone, even when union and ſociety can contribute no⯑thing to reſiſtance or eſcape; ſome comfort of the ſame kind ſeems to incite wickedneſs to ſeek aſſociates, though indeed another rea⯑ſon may be given, for as guilt is propagated the power of reproach is at leaſt diminiſhed, and among numbers equally deteſtable every individual may be ſheltered from ſhame, though not from conſcience.

ANOTHER lenitive by which the throbs of the breaſt are ſometimes aſſuaged, is, the con⯑templation, not of the ſame, but of different crimes. He that cannot juſtify himſelf by his reſemblance to others, is ready to try ſome other expedient, and to enquire what will riſe to his advantage from oppoſition and diſſimilitude. He eaſily finds ſome fault or other in every human [49] being, and when he weighs them againſt his own, eaſily makes them preponderate while he keeps the balance in his own hand, and throws in or takes out at his pleaſure circum⯑ſtances that make them heavier or lighter. He then triumphs in his comparative purity, and ſets himſelf at eaſe, not becauſe he can refute the charges that are advanced againſt him, but becauſe he can cenſure his accuſers with equal juſtice, and no longer fears the arrows of re⯑proach, when he has ſtored his magazine of malice with weapons equally ſharp and equal⯑ly envenomed.

THIS practice, though never reaſonable, or juſt, is yet ſpecious and artful, when the cenſure is directed againſt deviations to the contrary extreme. The man who is branded with cowardice, may, with ſome appearance of propriety, turn all his force of argument againſt a ſtupid contempt of Life, and raſh precipitation into unneceſſary danger. Every receſſion from temerity is an approach towards cowardice, and though it be confeſſed that bravery, like other virtues, ſtands between faults on either hand, yet the place of the middle point may always be diſputed; he may therefore often impoſe upon careleſs [50] underſtandings, by turning the attention whol⯑ly from himſelf, and keeping it fixed invaria⯑bly on the oppoſite fault; by ſhewing how many evils are avoided by his behaviour, he may conceal for a time thoſe which are incurred.

BUT vice has not always opportunities or addreſs for ſuch artful ſubterſuges; and we often find men extenuating their own guilt, only by vague and general charges upon o⯑thers, or endeavouring to gain reſt to them⯑ſelves, by pointing ſome other prey to the purſuit of cenſure.

EVERY whiſper of infamy is induſtri⯑ouſly circulated, every hint of ſuſpicion ea⯑gerly improved, and every failure of con⯑duct joyfully publiſhed, by thoſe whoſe inte⯑reſt it is, that the eye and voice of the pub⯑lick ſhould be employed on any rather than on themſelves.

ALL theſe artifices, and a thouſand others equally vain and equally deſpicable, are incit⯑ed by that conviction from which none can ſet himſelf free, by a view of the deformity of wickedneſs, and by an abſurd deſire to ſepa⯑rate [51] the cauſe from the effects, and to enjoy the profit of crimes without ſuffering the ſhame. Men are willing to try all methods of reconciling guilt and quiet, and when their underſtandings are ſtubborn and uncomplying, raiſe their paſſions againſt them, and hope to overpower their own knowledge.

IT is generally not ſo much the deſire of men, oppreſſed with crimes, to deceive the world as themſelves, for when no particular circumſtances make them dependant on the kindneſs or favour of others, infamy will not much diſturb them but as it revives their remorſe, and is echoed to them from their own hearts. The ſentence which they moſt dread, is that of reaſon and conſcience, which they would engage on their ſide at any price but the labours of duty, and the ſorrows of repentance. For this purpoſe e⯑very ſeducement and fallacy is ſought, till life is too often at an end while the hopes reſt upon ſome new experiment, and the laſt hour ſteals on unperceived, while the facul⯑ties are engaged in counteracting providence, reſiſting the voice of reaſon, and repreſſing the ſenſe of the divine diſapprobation.

NUMB. 77. TUESDAY, December 11, 1750.

AMONG thoſe, whoſe hopes of ad⯑vancement, diſtinction, or riches, a⯑riſe from an opinion of their intellectual attainments, it has been, from age to age, an eſtabliſhed cuſtom to complain of the neglect of learning, of the ingratitude of mankind to their inſtructors, and the diſcou⯑ragement which men of genius and ſtudy ſuffer from the avarice of the wealthy, the ignorance of the great, the prevalence of falſe taſte, and the encroachment of bar⯑barity.

MEN are moſt powerfully affected by thoſe evils which themſelves feel, or which appear before their own eyes; and as there has never been a time of ſuch general feli⯑city, [53] but that many have miſcarried in their hopes, and failed to obtain the rewards to which they had, in their own judgment, a juſt claim, ſome offended writer has always declaim'd, in the rage of dliappointment, againſt the age, or nation, into which his fate has thrown him; nor is there one who has not fallen upon times more unfavoura⯑ble to learning than any former century, or who does not wiſh, that he had been reſerved in the inſenſibility of non-exiſtence to ſome happier hour, when the ſons of ſcience ſhall regain their antient honours, when literary merit ſhall no longer be de⯑ſpis'd, and all the gifts and careſſes of man⯑kind ſhall recompence the toils of ſtudy, and add luſtre to the charms of wit.

MANY of theſe clamours are undoubte to be conſidered only as the burſts of pride never to be ſatisfied, as the prattle of affec⯑tation mimicking diſtreſſes which are not felt, or as the common places of vanity ſolicitous for ſplendour of ſentences and acuteneſs of remark. Yet it cannot be denied that uni⯑verſal diſcontent muſt proceed from univer⯑ſal hardſhips, and though it is evident, that [54] not more than one age or people can deſerve the cenſure of being more averſe from learn⯑ing than any other, yet at all times knowledge has encountered impediments, and wit been mortified with contempt, or harraſſed with perſecution.

IT is not neceſſary, however, to join im⯑mediately in the general outcry, or to con⯑demn mankind as pleaſed with ignorance, or always envious of ſuperior abilities. The miſeries of the learned have been related by themſelves, and ſince they have not been hitherto found exempted by their knowledge from that partiality with which men gene⯑rally look upon their own actions and ſuffer⯑ings, we may conclude that they have not forgotten to deck their cauſe with their brighteſt ornaments, and ſtrongeſt colours. The logician has doubtleſs collected all his ſubtilties when they are to be employed in his own defence; and the maſter of rheto⯑ric exerted againſt his adverſary all the arts by which hatred is embittered. and indigna⯑tion inflamed.

TO believe no man in his own cauſe, is the ſtanding and perpetual rule of diſtribu⯑tive [55] juſtice; and, therefore, ſince, in the controverſy between the learned and their enemies, we have only the pleas of one party, of the party more able to delude our underſtandings by falſe repreſentations, and engage our paſſions by pleaſing narratives, pathetic lamentations, and ſoft addreſſes, we muſt determine our opinion by facts which remain unconteſted, and evidences which are, on each ſide allowed to be genuine.

BY this procedure, which muſt be ac⯑knowledged unexceptionably juſt, I know not whether the learned will find their cauſe promoted, or the compaſſion which they ſeem to expect much increaſed: for when their conduct is impartially ſurveyed, when they are allowed no longer to direct attention at their pleaſure, by expatiating on their own deſerts, when neither the dignity of know⯑ledge overawes the judgment, nor the graces of elegance ſeduce it, it will, perhaps, be found, that they have not been able to produce claims to kinder treatment, but have provoked the calamities which they ſuffered, and ſeldom wanted friends, but when they wanted virtue.

[56] THAT few men, celebrated for theore⯑tic wiſdom, live with conformity to their precepts, muſt be readily confeſſed; and we cannot wonder that the indignation of mankind riſes with great vehemence againſt thoſe, who neglect duties which they appear to know, with ſo ſtrong conviction, the neceſſity of performing. Yet ſince no man has the power of acting equal to that of thinking, I know not whether the ſpeculatiſt may not ſome⯑times incur cenſures too ſevere, and by thoſe, who form their ideas of his life from their knowledge of his books, be conſidered as worſe than others, only becauſe he was ex⯑pected to be better.

HE, by whoſe writings the heart is recti⯑fied, the appetites counteracted, and the paſ⯑ſions repreſſed, may be conſidered as not unprofitable to the great republick of huma⯑nity, even though his behaviour ſhould not always exemplify his rules. His inſtructions may diffuſe their influence to regions, in which it will not be enquired, whether the author be albus an ater, good or bad; to times, when all his faults and all his follies ſhall be loſt in forgetfulneſs, among things [57] of no concern or importance to the world; and he may kindle in thouſands and ten thou⯑ſands that flame which burnt but dimly in himſelf, through the fumes of paſſion, or the damps of cowardice. The vicious mo⯑raliſt may be conſidered as a taper, by which we are lighted through the labyrinth of com⯑plicated paſſions, he extends his radiance far⯑ther than his heat, and guides all that are within view, but burns only thoſe who make too near approaches.

YET, ſince good or harm muſt be re⯑ceived, for the moſt part, from thoſe to whom we are familiarly known, he whoſe vices overpower his virtues, in the compaſs to which his vices can extend, has ſurely no reaſon to complain that he meets not with affection or veneration, among thoſe who are more corrupted by his practice than enlightened by his ideas; that admiration be⯑gins where acquaintance ceaſes; and that his favourers are diſtant, but his enemies at hand.

BUT many have dared to boaſt of neglect⯑ed merit, and to challenge their age or coun⯑try [58] for cruelty and folly, of whom it can⯑not be alleged that they have endeavoured to increaſe the wiſdom or virtue of their readers. They have often been at once profligate in their lives, and licentious in their compoſitions; have not only forſaken the paths of virtue, but have attempted to lure others after them. They have ſmoothed the road of perdition, covered with flowers the thorns of guilt, and taught temptation ſweeter notes, ſofter blandiſhments, and ſtronger allurements.

IT has been apparently the ſettled pur⯑poſe of many writers whoſe powers, in⯑duſtry, and acquiſitions, place them high in the ranks of literature, to ſet faſhion on the ſide of wickedneſs; to recommend de⯑bauchery, and lewdneſs, by aſſociating them with thoſe qualities, which are moſt likely to dazzle the diſcernment, and attract the affections; and to ſhow innocence and good⯑neſs with ſuch attendant weakneſſes and fol⯑lies, as neceſſarily expoſe them to contempt and deriſion.

[59] SUCH men naturally found intimates and companions among the corrupt, the thought⯑leſs, and the intemperate; paſſed their lives amidſt the gay levities of ſportive idleneſs, or the warm profeſſions of drunken friend⯑ſhip; and fed their hopes with the promi⯑ſes of wretches, whom themſelves had taught to ſcoff at truth. But when fools had laugh⯑ed away their ſprightlineſs, and the lan⯑guors of exceſs could no longer be relieved, they ſaw their favourers hourly drop away, and wondered and ſtormed to find themſelves abandoned. Whether their companions per⯑ſiſted in wickedneſs, or returned to virtue, they were equally without aſſiſtance; for de⯑bauchery is ſelfiſh and negligent, and from virtue the virtuous only can expect regard.

IT is ſaid by Florus of Catiline, who died in the midſt of ſlaughtered enemies, that his death had been illuſtrious, had it been ſuf⯑fered for his country. Of the wits, who have languiſhed away life under the preſſures of poverty, or in the reſtleſsneſs of ſuſpenſe, who have been careſſed and rejected, flat⯑tered and deſpiſed, as they were of more or leſs uſe to thoſe who ſtiled themſelves their patrons, it might be obſerved, that [60] their miſeries would enforce compaſſion, had they been brought upon them by honeſty and religion.

THE wickedneſs of a profane or libidi⯑nous writer is more atrocious and deteſtable than that of the giddy libertine, or drunken raviſher, not only becauſe it extends its ef⯑fects wider; as a peſtilence that taints the air is more deſtructive than poiſon infuſed in a draught, but becauſe it is committed with cool deliberation. By the inſtantane⯑ous violence of deſire, a good man may ſometimes be ſurpriſed before reflection can come to his reſcue; and when the appetites have ſtrengthened their influence by habit they are not eaſily reſiſted or ſuppreſs'd; But for the frigid villainy of ſtudious lewd⯑neſs, for the calm and mediated malignity of laboured impiety, what plea can be in⯑vented? What puniſhment can be adequate to the crime of him who retires to ſoli⯑tudes for the refinement of debauchery, who tortures his fancy, and ranſacks his memory, only that he may leave the world leſs vir⯑tuous than he found it, that he may inter⯑cept the hopes of the riſing generation, and [61] ſpread ſnares for the ſoul with more dex⯑terity?

WHAT were their motives, or what their excuſes, is below the dignity of reaſon to examine. If they had extinguiſhed in them⯑ſelves the diſtinction of right and wrong, and were inſenſible of the miſchief which they pro⯑moted, they deſerved to be hunted down by general hatred, as apparent nuſances to ſocial beings; if they were influenced by the corrup⯑tion of their patrons, or their readers, and ſa⯑crificed their own convictions to vanity or in⯑tereſt, they were at leaſt to be abhorred with more acrimony than he that robs by profeſ⯑ſion, or murders for pay, ſince they commit⯑ted greater crimes without greater tempta⯑tions.

Of him, to whom much is given, much ſhall be required. Thoſe, to whom God has grant⯑ed ſuperior faculties, and more extenſive ca⯑pacities, and made eminent for quickneſs of intuition, and accuracy of diſtinction, will certainly be regarded as culpable in his eye, for defects and deviations which, in ſouls leſs exalted and enlightened, may be guiltleſs.

[62] But, ſurely, none can think without horror on that man's condition, who has been more wicked in proportion as he has had more means of excelling in virtue, and uſed the light imparted from heaven only to embelliſh folly, and to palliate crimes.

NUMB. 78. SATURDAY, Decem. 15, 1750.

CORPORAL ſenſation is known to depend ſo much upon novelty, that cuſtom takes away from many things their power of giving pleaſure or pain. Thus a new dreſs becomes eaſy by wearing it, and the Palate is reconciled by degrees to diſhes which at firſt diſguſted it. That by long ha⯑bit of carrying a burden we loſe, at leaſt in a great part, our ſenſibility of its weight, any man may be convinced by putting on, for an hour, the armour of our anceſtors; for he will ſcarcely believe that men would have had much inclination to marches and battles, en⯑cumbered [63] and oppreſſed, as he will find him⯑ſelf with the ancient panoply. Yet the heroes that over-run regions, and ſtormed towns in iron accoutrements, he knows not to have been bigger, and has no reaſon to imagine them ſtronger than the preſent race of men; he therefore muſt conclude, that their pe⯑culiar powers were conferred only by pecu⯑liar habits, and that their familiarity with the dreſs of war enabled them to move in it with eaſe, vigour and agility.

YET it ſeems to be the condition of our pre⯑ſent ſtate, that pain ſhould be more fixed and permanent than pleaſure. Uneaſineſs gives way by ſlow degrees, and is long before it quits its poſſeſſion of the ſenſory; but all our gratifica⯑tions are volatile, vagrant, and eaſily diſſipat⯑ed. The fragrance of the jeſſamine bower is loſt after the enjoyment of a few moments, and the Indian wanders among his native odours without any ſenſe of their exhalations. It is, indeed, not neceſſary to ſhew by many inſtances what every change of place is ſuffi⯑cient to prove, and what all mankind confeſs, by an inceſſant call for variety, and a reſtleſs [64] purſuit of enjoyments, which they value only becauſe unpoſſeſſed.

SOMETHING ſimilar, or analogous, may be obſerved in thoſe effects which are pro⯑duced immediately upon the mind; nothing can ſtrongly ſtrike or affect us, but what is rare or ſudden; the moſt important events, when they become familiar, are no longer conſidered with wonder or ſolicitude, and that which at firſt filled up our whole attention, and left no place for any other thought, is ſoon thruſt aſide into ſome remote repoſitory of the Mind, and lies among other lumber of the memory, over-looked and neglected.

THE manner in which external force acts upon the body is very little ſubject to the re⯑gulation of the will; no man can at pleaſure obtund, or invigorate his ſenſes, prolong the agency of any impulſe, or continue the pre⯑ſence of any image traced upon the eye, or any ſound infuſed into the ear. But our ideas are more ſubjected to choice, we can call them before us, and command their ſtay, we can facilitate and promote their recurrence, we can either repreſs their intruſion, or [65] haſten their retreat. It is therefore the buſi⯑neſs of wiſdom and virtue, to ſelect among the numberleſs objects which are every mo⯑ment ſtriving for our notice, ſuch as may afford uſeful employment to the mind, by en⯑abling us to exalt our reaſon, extend our views, and ſecure our happineſs. But this choice is to be made with very little regard to rareneſs or frequency; for nothing is valuable merely becauſe it is either rare or common, but becauſe it is adapted to ſome uſeful purpoſe, and enables us to ſupply ſome deficiency of our nature.

MILTON has very judiciouſly repreſented the father of mankind ſeized with horror and aſtoniſhment at the ſight of death, exhibited to him on the mount of viſion. For ſurely, nothing can ſo much diſturb the paſſions, or perplex the intellects of man, as the diſruption of his union with viſible nature; a ſeparation from all that has hitherto delighted or engaged him; a change, not only of the place, but the manner of his being; an entrance into a ſlate, not ſimply which he knows not, but which perhaps he has not faculties to know; an immediate and perceptible communication [66] with the ſupreme being, and, what is above all diſtreſsful and alarming, the final ſen⯑tence, and unalterable allotment.

YET we to whom the ſhortneſs of life has given frequent occaſions of contemplat⯑ing mortality, can, without emotion, ſee generations of men paſs away, and are at leiſure to eſtabliſh modes of ſorrow, and adjuſt the ceremonial of death. We can look upon funereal pomp as a common ſpec⯑tacle in which we have no concern, and turn away from it to trifles and amuſements, without dejection of look, or inquietude of heart.

IT is, indeed, apparent from the conſti⯑tution of the world, that there muſt be a time for other thoughts; and a perpetual me⯑ditation upon the laſt hour, however it may become the ſolitude of a monaſtery, is in⯑conſiſtent with many duties of common life. But ſurely the remembrance of death ought to predominate in our minds, as an habi⯑tual and ſettled principle, always operating, though not always perceived; and our at⯑tention ſhould ſeldom wander ſo far from [67] our own condition, as not to be recalled and fixed by ſight of an event, which muſt ſoon, we know not how ſoon, happen likewiſe to ourſelves, and of which, tho' we cannot appoint the time, we may ſecure the conſequence.

YET, though every inſtance of death may juſtly awaken our fears, and quicken our vigilance, it ſeldom happens that we are much alarmed, unleſs ſome cloſe connexion is broken, ſome ſcheme fruſtrated, or ſome hope defeated. Many therefore ſeem to paſs on from youth to decrepitude without any reflection on the end of life, becauſe they are wholly involved within themſelves, and look on others only as inhabitants of the common earth, without any expectation of receiving good, or intention of beſtow⯑ing it.

IT is indeed impoſſible, without ſome mor⯑tification of that deſire which every man feels of being remembered and lamented, to remark how little concern is cauſed by the eternal de⯑parture even of thoſe who have paſſed their lives with publick honours, and been diſtin⯑guiſhed by ſuperior qualities, or extraordinary [68] performances. It is not poſſible to be regard⯑ed with tenderneſs except by a few. That merit which gives greatneſs and renown, dif⯑fuſes its influence to a wide compaſs, but acts weakly on every ſingle breaſt; it is placed at a diſtance from common ſpectators, and ſhines like one of the remote ſtars, of which the light reaches us, but not the heat. The wit, the hero, the philoſopher, whom either their tempers or their fortunes have hindered from intimate relations and tender intercourſes, die often without any other effect than that of adding a new Topic to the converſation of the day. They impreſs none with any freſh conviction of the fragility of our nature, be⯑cauſe none had any particular intereſt in their lives, or was united to them by a reciprocation of benefits and endearments.

THUS we find it often happens, that thoſe who in their lives have excited applauſe and admiration, are laid at laſt in the ground with⯑out the common honour of a ſtone; becauſe by thoſe excellencies with which many have been delighted, none have been obliged, and, though they had many to celebrate, they had none to love them.

[69] CUSTOM ſo far regulates the ſentiments at leaſt of common minds, that I believe men may be generally obſerved to grow leſs tender as they advance in age. He, who, when life was new, melted at the loſs of every compa⯑nion, can look in time without concern, upon the grave into which his laſt friend was thrown, and into which himſelf is ready to fall; not that he is more willing to die than formerly, but that he is more familiar to the death of o⯑thers, and therefore is not alarmed ſo far as to conſider how much nearer he approaches to his end. But this is to ſubmit tamely to the tyranny of accident, and to ſuffer our reaſon to lie uſeleſs. Every funeral may juſtly be conſidered as a ſummons to prepare for that ſtate, into which it ſhews us that we muſt ſometime enter; and the ſummons is more loud and piercing, as the event of which it warns us is at leſs diſtance. To neglect at any time preparation for death, is to ſleep on our poſt at a ſiege, but to omit it in old age, is to ſleep at an attack.

IT has always appeared to me one of the moſt ſtriking paſſages in the viſions of Quevedo, which ſtigmatiſes thoſe as fools who complain [70] that they failed of happineſs by ſudden death. "How, ſays he, can death be ſudden to a be⯑ing who always knew that he muſt die, and that the time of his death was uncertain?"

SINCE buſineſs and gaiety are always drawing our attention away from a future ſtate, ſome admonition is frequently neceſſary to recall it to our minds, and what can more properly renew the impreſſion than the exam⯑ples of mortality which every day ſupplies? The great incentive to virtue is the reflection that we muſt die, it will therefore be uſeful to accuſtom ourſelves, whenever we ſee a fu⯑neral, to conſider how ſoon we may be add⯑ed to the number of thoſe whoſe probation is paſt, and whoſe happineſs or miſery ſhall en⯑dure for ever.

NUMB. 79. TUESDAY, Decemb. 18, 1750.

SUSPICION, however neceſſary it may be to our ſafe paſſage through ways beſet on all ſides by fraud and malice, has been always conſidered, when it exceeds the common meaſures of prudent caution, as a token of depravity and corruption; and an old Greek writer of ſententious precepts has laid down as a ſtanding maxim, that he who believes not another on his oath, knows himſelf to be perjured.

WE can form our opinions of that which we know not, only by placing it in com⯑pariſon with ſomething that we know: whoever therefore is over-run with ſuſpicion, and detects artifice and ſtratagem in every propoſal, muſt either have learned by expe⯑rience the wickedneſs of mankind, and been taught to avoid fraud by having often been deceived; or he muſt derive his judgment [72] from the conſciouſneſs of his own diſpoſition, and impute to others the ſame inclinations which he feels predominant in himſelf.

TO learn caution by turning our eyes upon life, and obſerving the arts by which negligence is ſurpriſed, timidity overborn, and credulity amuſed, requires either great latitude of converſe and long acquaintance with buſineſs, or uncommon activity of vigilance, and acuteneſs of penetration. When therefore a young man, not diſtin⯑guiſhed by ſuperior vigour of intellect, comes into the world full of ſcruples apd diffidence; makes a bargain with many proviſional li⯑mitations; heſitates in his anſwer to a com⯑mon queſtion, leſt more ſhould be intended than he can immediately diſcover; has a long reach in detecting the projects of his acquaintance; conſiders every careſs as an act of hypocriſy, and feels neither gratitude nor affection from the tenderneſs of his friends, becauſe he believes no one to have any real tenderneſs but for himſelf; what⯑ever expectations this early ſagacity may raiſe of his future eminence or riches, I can ſeldom forbear to conſider him as a wretch incapable of generoſity or bene⯑volence, [73] as a villain early completed beyond the need of common opportunities and gra⯑dual temptations.

UPON men of this claſs inſtruction and admonition are generally thrown away, be⯑cauſe they conſider artifice and deceit as proofs of underſtanding; they are miſled at the ſame time by the two great ſeducers of the world, vanity and intereſt, and not only look upon thoſe, who act with openneſs and confidence, as condemned by their princi⯑ples to obſcurity and want, but as con⯑temptible for narrowneſs of comprehenſion, ſhortneſs of views, and ſlowneſs of con⯑trivance.

THE world has been long amuſed with the mention of policy in publick tranſactions, and of art in private affairs; they have been conſidered as the effects of great qualities, and as unattainable by men of the com⯑mon level: yet I have not found many performances either of art, or policy, that required ſuch ſtupendous efforts of intellect, [74] or might not have been effected by falſhood and impudence, without the aſſiſtance of any other powers. To profeſs what he does not mean, to promiſe what he cannot per⯑form, to flatter ambition with proſpects of promotion, and miſery with hopes of relief, to ſooth pride with appearances of ſubmiſ⯑ſion, and appeaſe enmity by blandiſhments and bribes, can ſurely imply nothing more or greater than a mind devoted wholly to its own purpoſes, a face that cannot bluſh, and a heart that cannot feel.

THESE practices are ſo mean and baſe, that he who finds in himſelf no tendency to uſe them, cannot eaſily believe that they are conſidered by others with leſs deteſta⯑tion; he therefore ſuffers himſelf to ſlumber in falſe ſecurity, and becomes a prey to thoſe who applaud their own ſubtilty be⯑cauſe they know how to ſteal upon his ſleep, and exult in the ſucceſs which they could never have obtained had they not at⯑tempted a man better than themſelves, who [75] was hindered from obviating their ſtratagems, not by folly, but by innocence.

SUSPICION is, indeed, a temper ſo un⯑eaſy and reſtleſs, that it is very juſtly ap⯑pointed the concomitant of guilt. It is ſaid, that no torture is equal to the inhibition of ſleep long continued; a pain, to which the ſtate of that man bears a very exact analogy, who dares never give reſt to his vigilance and circumſpection, but conſiders himſelf as ſur⯑rounded by ſecret foes, and fears to entruſt his children, or his friend, the ſecret that throbs in his breaſt, and the anxieties that break into his face. To avoid, at this ex⯑pence, thoſe evils to which eaſineſs and friend⯑ſhip might have expoſed him, is ſurely to buy ſafety at too dear a rate, to die leſt he ſhould be killed, and, in the language of the Roman ſatiriſt, to ſave life by loſing all for which a wiſe man would live.

IN the diet of the German empire, as we are told by Camerarius, the princes were once diſplaying their riches and felicity, and each boaſting the particular advantages of his own [76] dominions. One of them who poſſeſſed a country not remarkable for the grandeur of its cities, or the fertility of its ſoil, roſe in his turn to ſpeak: the reſt liſtened between pity and contempt, till he declared, in honour of his territories, that he could travel through them without a guard, and if he was weary, ſleep in ſafety upon the lap of the firſt man whom he ſhould meet; a commendation which would have been ill exchanged for the boaſt of palaces, paſtures, or ſtreams.

SUSPICION is not leſs an enemy to virtue than to happineſs: he that is already corrupt is naturally ſuſpicious, and he that becomes ſuſpicious will quickly be corrupt. It is too common for men to learn the frauds by which themſelves have ſuffered, and when they are once perſuaded that deceit will be employed againſt them, they ſometimes think the ſame arts juſtified by the neceſſity of defence. Even they whoſe virtue is too well eſtabliſhed to give way to example, or be ſhaken by ſophi⯑ſtry, muſt yet find their love of mankind di⯑miniſhed with their eſteem, and will grow leſs zealous for the ſafety and happineſs of [77] thoſe by whom they ſuſpect their own ſafety or happineſs endangered.

THUS we find old age, upon which ſuſ⯑picion has for the moſt part been ſtrongly im⯑preſſed by long intercourſe with the world, inflexible and ſevere, not eaſily ſoftened by ſubmiſſion, melted by complaint, or ſubdued by ſupplication. Frequent experience of counterfeited miſeries, and diſſembled virtue, have in time overcome that diſpoſition to ten⯑derneſs and ſympathy, which is ſo powerful in our younger years, and they that happen to petition late for compaſſion or aſſiſtance are doomed to languiſh without regard, and ſuffer for the crimes of men who have formerly been found undeſerving or ungrateful.

HISTORIANS are certainly chargeable with the depravation of mankind, when they relate without cenſure thoſe ſtratagems of war by which the virtues of an enemy are engaged to his deſtruction. A ſhip comes be⯑fore a port, weather-beaten and ſhattered, and the crew implore the liberty of repairing [78] their breaches, ſupplying themſelves with ne⯑ceſſaries, or burying their dead. The huma⯑nity of the inhabitants inclines them to con⯑ſent, the ſtrangers enter the town with weapons concealed, fall ſuddenly upon their benefactors, deſtroy thoſe that make reſiſtance, and become maſters of the place; they return home rich with plunder, and their ſucceſs is recorded to encourage imitation.

BUT ſurely war has its laws, and ought to be conducted with ſome regard to the uni⯑verſal intereſt of Man. Thoſe may juſtly be purſued as enemies to the general community of the world, who ſuffer hoſtility to vacate the eternal and unalterable laws of right, and purſue their private advantages by means, which, if once eſtabliſhed and allowed, muſt deſtroy all benevolence, cut off from every man all hopes of aſſiſtance from another, and fill the world with implacable hoſtility. What⯑ever is thus gained ought to be reſtored, and thoſe who have conquered by ſuch treachery may be juſtly denied the protection of their native country.

[79] WHOEVER commits a fraud is guilty not only of the particular injury to him whom he deceives, but of the diminution of that confidence which conſtitutes not only the eaſe but the exiſtence of ſociety. He that ſuffers by impoſture has too often his virtue more impaired than his fortune; but as it is neceſſary not to invite robbery by ſupineneſs, ſo it is our duty not to ſuppreſs ten⯑derneſs by ſuſpicion; it is better to ſuffer wrong than to do it, and happier to be ſometimes cheated than not to truſt.

NUMB. 80. SATURDAY, Dec. 22, 1750.

AS providence has made the human ſoul an active being, always impatient for novelty, and ſtruggling for ſomething yet un⯑enjoyed with reſtleſs deſire and unwearied progreſſion, the world ſeems to have been eminently adapted to this diſpoſition of the mind: it is formed to raiſe new expectations by conſtant viciſſitudes, and to obviate ſatie⯑ty by perpetual change.

WHEREVER we turn our eyes, we find ſomething to revive our curioſity, and engage our attention. In the duſk of the morning we watch the riſing of the ſun, and ſee the day diverſify the clouds, and open new pro⯑ſpects in its gradual advance. After a few hours, we ſee the ſhades lengthen, and the light decline, till the ſky is reſigned to a mul⯑titude [81] of ſhining orbs different from each other in magnitude and ſplendour. The earth has a new appearance as we move upon it; the woods offer their ſhades, and the fields their harveſts; the hill flatters with an extenſive view, and the valley invites with ſhelter, fra⯑grance and flowers.

THE poets have numbered among the fe⯑licities of the golden age, an exemption from the change of ſeaſons, and a perpetuity of ſpring; but I am not certain that in this ſtate of imaginary happineſs they have made ſufficient proviſion for that inſatiable demand of new gratifications, which ſeems particular⯑ly to characterize the nature of man. Our ſenſe of delight is in a great meaſure compa⯑rative, and ariſes at once from the ſenſations which we feel, and thoſe which we remember: Thus eaſe after torment is pleaſure for a time, and we are very agreeably recreated, when the body, chilled with the weather, is gradual⯑ly recovering its natural tepidity; but the joy ceaſes when we have forgot the cold, we muſt fall below eaſe again, if we deſire to riſe above it, and purchaſe new ſelicity by vo⯑luntary [82] pain. It is therefore not unlikely that however the fancy may be amuſed with the deſcription of regions in which no wind is heard but the gentle zephir, and no ſcenes are diſplayed, but vallies enamelled with unfading flowers, and woods waving their perennial verdure, we ſhould ſoon grow weary of uni⯑formity, find our thoughts languiſh for want of other objects and employment, call on hea⯑ven for our wonted round of ſeaſon, and think ourſelves liberally recompenſed for the inconveniencies of ſummer and winter, by new perceptions of the calmneſs and mildneſs of the intermediate variations.

EVERY ſeaſon has its particular power of ſtriking the mind. The nakedneſs and aſpe⯑rity of the wintry world always fills the be⯑holder with penſive and profound aſtoniſh⯑ment; as the variety of the ſcene is leſſened, its grandeur is increaſed; and the mind is ſwelled at once by the mingled ideas of the preſent and the paſt, of the beauties which have vaniſhed from the eyes, and the waſte and deſolation that are now before them.

[83] IT is obſerved by Milton, that he who neg⯑lects to viſit the country in ſpring, and rejects the pleaſures that are then in their firſt bloom and fragrance, is guilty of ſullenneſs againſt na⯑ture. If we allot different duties to different ſeaſons, he may be charged with equal diſobe⯑dience to the voice of nature, who looks on the bleak hills and leafleſs woods, without ſe⯑riouſneſs and awe. Spring is the ſeaſon of gaie⯑ty, and winter of terror; in ſpring the heart of tranquillity dances to the melody of the groves, and the eye of benevolence ſparkles at the ſight of happineſs and plenty: In the win⯑ter, compaſſion melts at univerſal calamity, and the tear of ſoftneſs ſtarts at the wailings of hunger, and the cries of the creation in diſtreſs.

THERE is indeed in moſt minds very lit⯑tle inclination to indulge heavineſs and ſorrow, nor do I recommend them beyond the degree neceſſary to maintain in its full vigour that habitual ſympathy and tenderneſs, which, in a world of ſo much miſery, is neceſſary to the ready diſcharge of our moſt important du⯑ties. The winter therefore is generally cele⯑brated [84] as the proper ſeaſon for domeſtick mer⯑riment and gaiety. We are ſeldom invited by the votaries of pleaſure to look abroad for any other purpoſe, than that we may ſhrink back with more ſatisfaction to our coverts, and when we have heard the howl of the tempeſt, and felt the gripe of the froſt, con⯑gratulate each other with more gladneſs upon a cloſe room, an eaſy chair, a high piled fire, and a ſmoaking dinner.

THERE are indeed now natural incite⯑ments to jollity and converſation. Differ⯑ences, we know, are never ſo effectually laid aſleep, as by ſome common calamity; an enemy unites all to whom he threatens dan⯑ger. The rigour of winter brings generally to the ſame fire-ſide thoſe, who, by the op⯑poſition of their inclinations, or the diffe⯑rence of their employments, moved in various directions through the other parts of the year; and when they have met, and find it their mu⯑tual intereſt to remain together, they endear each other by mutual compliances, and often wiſh for the continuance of the ſocial ſeaſon with all its bleakneſs and all its ſeverities.

[85] TO the men of ſtudy and imagination the winter is generally the chief time of labour. Gloom and ſilence produce compoſure of mind, and concentration of ideas; and the privation of external pleaſure naturally cauſes an effort to find entertainment within. This is the time in which thoſe, whom literature enables to find amuſements for themſelves, have more than common con⯑victions of their own happineſs, When they are condemned by the elements to retirement, and debarred from moſt of the diverſions which are called in to aſſiſt the flight of time, they can always find new ſubjects of enquiry, engage their paſſions in new purſuits, and pre⯑ſerve themſelves from that wearineſs which hangs always flagging upon the vacant mind.

IT cannot indeed be expected of all to be poets and philoſophers, deeply verſed in ſci⯑ences, or much engaged in reſearches in⯑to paſt or diſtant tranſactions; it is neceſſary that the greater part of mankind ſhould be employed in the trivial buſineſs of common life; trivial, indeed, not with reſpect to its influence upon our happineſs, but of the abi⯑lities [86] requiſite to conduct it. Theſe muſt ne⯑ceſſarily be more dependent on accident for the means of ſpending agreeably thoſe hours which their occupations leave unengaged, or which the imbecillity of nature obliges them to allow to relaxation and diverſion. Yet even on theſe I would willingly impreſs ſuch a ſenſe of the value of time, as may incline them to find out for their moſt careleſs hours ſome amuſement of more uſe and dignity than the common games, which not only weary the mind without im⯑proving it, but ſtrengthen the paſſions of en⯑vy and avarice, and often lead to fraud and to profuſion, to corruption and to ruin. It is unworthy of a reaſonble being to ſpend any of the little time allotted us, without ſome tendency, either direct or oblique, to the end of our exiſtence. And though every moment cannot be laid out on the formal and regular improvement of our knowledge, or in the ſta⯑ted practice of a moral or religious duty, yet none ſhould be ſo ſpent as to exclude wiſdom or virtue, or paſs without poſſibility of quali⯑fying us more or leſs for the better employ⯑ment of thoſe which are to come.

[87] IT is ſcarcely poſſible to paſs an hour in ho⯑neſt converſation, without being able when we riſe from it, to pleaſe ourſelves with hav⯑ing given or received ſome advantages; but a man may ſhuffle cards, or rattle dice, from noon to midnight, without tracing any new idea in his mind, or being able to recollect the day by any other token than his gain or loſs, and a confuſed remembrance of agitated paſſions, and clamorous altercations.

HOWEVER, as experience is always of more weight than precept, any of my readers, who are contriving how to ſpend the dreary months before them, may conſider which of their paſt amuſements fill them now with greateſt ſatisfaction, and reſolve to repeat thoſe gratifications of which the pleaſure is moſt durable.

NUMB. 81. TUESDAY, Decem. 25, 1750.

AMONG queſtions which have been long diſcuſſed in the world, without any approach to deciſion, may be numbered the precedency or ſuperior exeellence of one virtue to another, which has long furniſhed a ſubject of debate to men whoſe leiſure ſent them out into the intellectual world in ſearch of employment, and who have, perhaps, been ſometimes with-held from attending to the practice of their favourite duty, by their zeal for its advancement, and diligence in its celebration.

THE intricacy of this diſpute may be al⯑ledged as a proof of that tenderneſs for man⯑kind which providence has, I think, univer⯑ſally diſplayed, by making attainments eaſy in proportion as they are neceſary. That all the duties of morality ought to be practiſed, is without difficulty diſcoverable, becauſe igno⯑rance or uncertainty would immediately in⯑volve the world in confuſion and diſtreſs; but [89] which duty ought to be moſt eſteemed or praiſed, we may continue to debate, without much inconvenience, ſo all be diligently per⯑formed as there is opportunity or need: for upon practice, not upon opinion, depends the happineſs of mankind; and controver⯑ſies, merely ſpeculative, are of ſmall impor⯑tance in themſelves, however they may have ſometimes heated a diſputant, or provoked a faction.

OF the divine author of our religion it is impoſſible to peruſe the evangelical hiſto⯑ries, without obſerving how little he fa⯑voured the vanity of inquiſitiveneſs; how much more rarely he condeſcended to ſatisfy curioſity, than to relieve diſtreſs; and how much he deſired that his followers ſhould ra⯑ther excel in goodneſs than in knowledge. His precepts tend immediately to the rectifica⯑tion of the moral principles, and the direction of daily conduct, without oſtentation, with⯑out art, at once irrefragable and plain, ſuch as well-meaning ſimplicity may readily con⯑ceive, and of which we cannot miſtake the meaning, but when we are afraid to find it.

[90] THE meaſure of juſtice preſcribed to us, in our tranſactions with others, is remarka⯑bly clear and comprehenſive: Whatſoever ye would that men ſhould do unto you, even ſo do unto them. A law by which every claim of right may be immediately adjuſted, as far as the private conſcience requires to be inform⯑ed; a law, of which every man may find the expoſition in his own breaſt, and which may always be obſerved without any other qualifi⯑cations than honeſty of intention, and purity of will.

OVER this Law, indeed, ſome ſons of ſo⯑phiſtry have been ſubtile enough to throw miſts, which have darkened their own eyes. To find means of perplexing that univerſal principle upon which every queſtion of ju⯑ſtice, between one man and another, is to be decided, they have enquired whether a man, conſcious to himſelf of unreaſonable wiſhes, be bound to gratify them in another. But ſurely there needed no long delibera⯑tion to conclude, that the deſires, which are to be conſidered by us as the meaſure of right, [91] muſt be ſuch as we approve, and that we ought to pay no regard to thoſe expectations in others which we condemn in ourſelves, and which, however they may intrude upon our imagination, we know it our duty to re⯑ſiſt and ſuppreſs.

ONE of the moſt celebrated caſes which have been produced as requiring ſome ſkill in the direction of conſcience to adapt them to this great rule, is that of a criminal aſking mercy of his judge, who cannot but know that if he was in the ſtate of the ſupplicant, he ſhould deſire that pardon which he now denies. The difficulty of this ſophiſm will vaniſh, if we remember that the parties are in reality on one ſide criminal, and on the o⯑ther the community of which the magiſtrate is only the miniſter, and by which he is in⯑truſted with the publick ſafety. The magi⯑ſtrate therefore in pardoning a man unwor⯑thy of pardon, betrays the truſt with which he is inveſted, gives away what is not his own, and, apparently, does to others what he would not that others ſhould do to him. Even the community, whoſe right is ſtill great⯑er to arbitrary grants of mercy, is bound [92] by thoſe laws which regard the great republick of mankind, and cannot juſtify ſuch forbear⯑ance as may promote wickedneſs, and leſſen the general confidence and ſecurity in which all have an equal intereſt, and which all are therefore bound to maintain. For this rea⯑ſon the ſtate has not a right to erect a gene⯑ral ſanctuary for fugitives, or give protec⯑tion to ſuch as have forfeited their lives by crimes againſt the laws of common morality equally acknowledged by all nations, becauſe no people can, without infraction of the uni⯑verſal league of ſocial beings, incite, by proſpects of impunity and ſafety, thoſe practi⯑ces in another dominion, which they would themſelves puniſh in their own.

ONE occaſion of uncertainty and heſita⯑tion, in thoſe by whom this great rule has been commented and dilated, is the confuſion of what the caſuiſts are careful to diſtinguiſh, debts of juſtice and debts of charity. The im⯑mediate and primary intention of this pre⯑cept, is to eſtabliſh a rule of juſtice for the tribunal of conſcience; and I know not whether invention, or ſophiſtry, can ſtart a ſingle difficulty to retard its application, when [93] it is thus expreſſed and explained, let every man allow the claim of right in another which he ſhould think himſelf entitled to make in the like circumſtances.

THE diſcharge of the debts of charity, or duties which we owe to others not merely as required by juſtice, but as dictated by benevo⯑lence, admits in its own nature greater com⯑plication of circumſtances and greater latitude of choice. Juſtice is indiſpenſably and uni⯑verſally neceſſary, and what is neceſſary muſt always be limited, uniform, and diſtinct. But beneficence though in general equally en⯑joined by our religion, and equally needful to the conciliation of the divine favour, is yet, for the moſt part, with regard to its ſin⯑gle acts, elective and voluntary. We may cer⯑tainly, without injury to our fellow beings, allow in the diſtribution of kindneſs ſome⯑thing to our affections, and change the mea⯑ſure of our liberality according to our opini⯑ons and proſpects, our hopes and fears. This rule therefore is not equally determinate and abſolute with reſpect to offices of kindneſs, and acts of liberality, becauſe liberality and kindneſs, abſolutely determined, would loſe their nature; for how could we be called ten⯑der, [94] or charitable, for giving that which we are poſitively forbidden to withhold.

YET even in adjuſting the extent of our beneficence no other meaſure can be taken than this precept affords us, for we can only know what others ſuffer or want, by con⯑ſidering how we ſhould be affected in the ſame ſtate; nor can we proportion our aſſiſt⯑ance by any other rule than that of doing what we ſhould then expect from others. It indeed generally happens that the giver and receiver differ in their opinions of generoſity; the ſame partiality to his own intereſt inclines one to large expectations, and the other to ſparing diſtributions. Perhaps the infirmity of hu⯑man nature will ſcarcely ſuffer a man groan⯑ing under the preſſure of diſtreſs, to judge rightly of the kindneſs of his friends, or to think they have done enough till his deliver⯑ance is compleated; it is therefore apparent that not what we might wiſh, but what we could demand from others, we are obliged to grant, ſince, though we can eaſily know how much we might claim, it is impoſſible to de⯑termine what we ſhould hope.

BUT in all enquiries concerning the prac⯑tice of voluntary and occaſional virtues, it is [95] ſafeſt for minds not oppreſſed with ſuperſti⯑tious fears to determine againſt their own in⯑clinations, and ſecure themſelves from defici⯑ency by being more than they believe ſtrictly neceſſary. For of this every man may be certain that, if he were to exchange condi⯑tions with his dependent, he ſhould expect more than, with the utmoſt exertion of his ardour, he now will prevail upon himſelf to perform; and when our reaſon has no ſettled rule, and our paſſions are ſtriving to miſlead us, it is ſurely the part of a wiſe man to err on the ſide of ſafety.

NUMB. 82. SATURDAY, Decem. 29, 1750.

NUMB. 83. TUESDAY, Jan. 1, 1750.

THE publication of the letter in my laſt paper has naturally led me to the con⯑ſideration [106] of that thirſt after curioſities, which often draws contempt and ridicule upon itſelf, but which is perhaps no otherwiſe blameable, than as it wants thoſe circumſtantial recom⯑mendations which have long been obſerved to add luſtre even to moral excellencies, and are abſolutely neceſſary to the grace and beauty of indifferent actions.

LEARNING confers ſo much ſuperiority on thoſe who poſſeſs it, that they might pro⯑bably have eſcaped all cenſure, had they been able to agree among themſelves: but as envy and competition have divided the republick of letters into factions, they have neglected the common intereſt; each has called in foreign aid, and endeavoured to ſtrengthen his own cauſe by the frown of power, the hiſs of ig⯑norance, and the clamour of popularity. They have all been ſo much engaged in deſtruction, that they have neglected defence, till by mu⯑tual hoſtilities they demoliſhed thoſe outworks which veneration had raiſed for their ſecurity, and laid themſelves open to invaders, by whom every region of ſcience is equally laid waſte.

[107] THERE paſſes between men of different ſtudies and profeſſions a conſtant reciproca⯑tion of reproaches. The collector of ſhells and ſtones, wonders at the folly of him who paſtes leaves and flowers upon paper, pleaſes himſelf with colours that are perpetually fad⯑ing, and amaſſes with care what cannot be preſerved. The hunter of inſects ſtands a⯑mazed that any man can waſte much of his ſhort time upon lifeleſs matter, while many tribes of animals are yet neglected. Every one is inclined not only to promote his own ſtudy, but to exclude all others from regard, and having heated his imagination with ſome favourite purſuit, wonders that the reſt of mankind are not ſeized with the ſame paſſion.

THERE are, indeed, many ſubjects of ſtudy which ſeem but remotely allied to uſe⯑ful knowledge, and are of little importance to happineſs or virtue; nor is it eaſy to for⯑bear ſome ſallies of merriment, or expreſ⯑ſions of pity, when we ſee a man wrinkled with attention, and emaciated with ſolici⯑tude in the inveſtigation of queſtions never to be reſolved, and of which, without any [108] viſible harm, the world may expire in ig⯑norance. Yet it is dangerous to diſcourage any well intended labours, or ſuppreſs any innocent curioſity; for he who is employ⯑ed in ſearches, which by any deduction of conſequences tend to the benefit of life, is ſurely laudable, in compariſon of thoſe who ſpend their time in counteracting happineſs, and filling the world with wrong and dan⯑ger, confuſion and remorſe. No man can perform ſo little, as not to have reaſon to congratulate himſelf on his merits, when he beholds the multitudes that live in total idleneſs, and have never yet endeavoured to be uſeful.

IT is impoſſible to determine the limits of any enquiry, or to foreſee what conſequen⯑ces a new diſcovery may produce. He who ſuffers not his faculties to lie torpid, has a chance, whatever be his employment, of doing good to his fellow-creatures. There are probably in every part of nature pow⯑ers and qualities yet undiſcovered, which might be applied to the advantage of man⯑kind, but which can never be known with⯑out the labour of experiment. He who firſt ranged the woods in ſearch of medicinal ſprings, or climbed the mountains for ſalu⯑tary [109] plants, has undoubtedly merited the gratitude of poſterity, how much ſoever his frequent miſcarriages might excite the ſcorn of his contemporaries. If what appears lit⯑tle be univerſally deſpiſed, nothing greater can be attained, for whatever is great was at firſt little, and roſe to its preſent bulk by gradual acceſſions, ſucceſſive improvements, and accumulated labours.

THOSE who lay out their time or their money in aſſembling matter for contempla⯑tion, and forming repoſitories of natural or ar⯑tificial rarities, are ſurely entitled to ſome de⯑gree of reſpect, though in a flight of gaiety it be eaſy to ridicule their treaſure, or in a fit of fullenneſs to deſpiſe it. A man goes not a⯑way much illuminated by having enjoyed the privilege of handling the tooth of a ſhark, or the paw of a white bear; yet though ſome particular curioſities may be rated by their owners beyond their value, there is nothing more worthy of admiration to a philoſophical eye than the ſtructure of ani⯑mals, by which they are qualified to ſup⯑port life in the particular elements or cli⯑mates to which they are appropriated; and [110] of all natural productions it muſt be con⯑feſſed, that they exhibit evidences of infi⯑nite wiſdom, bear their teſtimony to the ſupreme reaſon, and excite in the mind new raptures of admiration, and new incentives to piety.

TO collect the productions of art and ex⯑amples of mechanical ſcience or manual a⯑bility is unqueſtionably uſeful, even when the things themſelves are of ſmall impor⯑tance, becauſe it is always advantageous to know how far the human powers have pro⯑ceeded, and how much experience has ſhewn to be within the reach of diligence. It is natural for idleneſs and timidity to deſpair without being overcome, and to forbear attempts for fear of being defeated; and we may promote the invigoration of faint en⯑deavours, by being able to prove what has been already performed; for though it may ſometimes happen that the greateſt inſtances of ingenuity have been exerted in trifles, yet the ſame principles and the ſame expedients may be applied to more important purpoſes, and the movements which put into action machines of no other uſe but to raiſe the [111] wonder of ignorance, may be employed to drain fens, or manufacture metals, to aſſiſt the architect, or preſerve the ſailor.

FOR the utenſils, arms, or dreſſes of foreign nations, which make the greateſt part of many collections, I have no great regard when they are valuable only becauſe they are foreign, and can ſuggeſt no im⯑provement of our own practice. Yet they are not all equally uſeleſs, nor can it be always ſafely determined, which ſhould be rejected or retained, for they may ſometimes unex⯑pectedly contribute to the illuſtration of hi⯑ſtory, to the knowledge of the natural com⯑modities of the country, or of the genius and cuſtoms of its inhabitants.

THERE IS one ſort of rarities of a yet lower rank, which owe their value merely to accident, and which can convey no in⯑formation, nor ſatisfy any rational deſire. Such are many fragments of antiquity, as urns and pieces of pavement; and things which are held in veneration only for hav⯑ing been once the property of ſome eminent perſon, as the armour of king Henry; or for having been uſed on ſome remarkable oc⯑caſion, [112] as the lanthorn of Guy Faux. The loſs or preſervation of theſe ſeems to be a thing indifferent, nor can I perceive why the poſ⯑ſeſſion of them ſhould be coveted. Yet, perhaps, even this curioſity is implanted by nature; and when I find Tully confeſſing of himſelf, that he could not forbear at Athens to viſit the walks and houſes which the old philoſophers had frequented or inhabited, and recollect the reverence which every nation, civil and barbarous, has paid to the ground where merit has been buried, I am afraid to declare againſt the general voice of mankind, and am inclined to believe, that this regard, which we involuntarily pay to the meaneſt relique of a man great and illuſtrious, is in⯑tended as an incitement to labour, and an encouragement to expect the ſame renown, if it be ſought by the ſame virtues.

THE virtuoſo therefore cannot be cenſured, as contributing nothing to the encreaſe of knowledge, but perhaps he may be ſometimes juſtly culpable for conſining himſelf to buſi⯑neſs below his genius, for loſing in trifling amuſements and petty ſpeculations, thoſe hours which he might have ſpent in nobler ſtudies, and in which he might have given [113] new light to the intellectual world. It is in⯑deed never without grief, that I find a man capable of ratiocination or invention enliſt⯑ing himſelf in this ſecondary claſs of learning; for when he has once diſcovered a method of gratifying his deſire of eminence by expence rather than by labour, and known the ſweets of a life bleſt at once with the eaſe of idleneſs, and the reputation of knowledge, he will not eaſily be brought to undergo again the toil of thinking, or leave his toys and his trinkets for arguments and ideas, arguments which re⯑quire circumſpection and vigilance, and ideas which cannot be obtained but by the drudgery of meditation. He will gladly ſhut himſelf up forever with his ſhells and medals, like the companions of Ulyſſes, who having taſted the fruit of Lotos, would not even by the hope of ſeeing their own country, be tempt⯑ed again to the dangers of the ſea. ‘ [...]’

COLLECTIONS of this kind are of uſe to the learned, as heaps of ſtone and piles of timber are neceſſary to the architect. But to dig the quarry or to ſearch the field, requires [114] not much of any quality, beyond ſtubborn per⯑ſeverance; and though genius muſt often lye inactive without this humble and neglected aſſiſtance, yet this can claim little praiſe be⯑cauſe every man can afford it.

TO mean underſtandings, it is indeed ſuf⯑ficient honour to be numbered amongſt the loweſt labourers of learning; but ſurely dif⯑ferent abilities muſt find different taſks. To hew ſtone would have been unworthy of Pal⯑ladio, and to have rambled in ſearch of ſhells and flowers, had but ill ſuited with the capa⯑city of Newton.

NUMB. 84. SATURDAY, Jan. 5, 1751.

NUMB. 85. TUESDAY, January 8, 1751.

MANY writers of eminence in phy⯑ſick have laid out their diligence up⯑on the conſideration of thoſe diſtempers to which men are more remarkably expoſed by particular ſtates of life, and very learned treatiſes have been produced upon the mala⯑dies of the camp, the ſea, and the mines. There is, indeed, ſcarcely any employment which a man accuſtomed to anatomical en⯑quiries, and medical refinements, would not find reaſons for declining as dangerous to health, did not his learning or experience in⯑form him, that almoſt every occupation, however inconvenient or formidable, is hap⯑pier and ſafer than a life of ſloth.

THE neceſſity of action is not only de⯑monſtrable from the fabrick of the body, but evident from obſervation of the univerſal practice of mankind, who for the preſerva⯑tion [126] of health, in thoſe whoſe rank or wealth exempts them from the neceſſity of lucrative labour, have invented ſports and diverſions, though not of equal uſe to the world with manual trades, yet of equal fa⯑tigue to thoſe that practiſe them, and differ⯑ing only from the drudgery of the huſband⯑man or manufacturer, as they are acts of choice, and therefore performed without the painful ſenſe of compulſion. The huntſman riſes early, perſues his game through all the dangers and obſtructions of the chaſe, ſwims rivers, and ſcales precipices, till he returns home no leſs harraſſed than the ſoldier, and has, perhaps, ſometimes incurred as great hazard of wounds or death: Yet he has no motive to incite his ardour; he is neither ſubject to the commands of a general, nor dreads any penalties for neglect and diſobe⯑dience; he has neither profit or honour to expect from his perils and his conqueſts, but toils without the hope either of mutal or civick garlands, and muſt content himſelf with the praiſe of his tenants and compa⯑nions.

BUT ſuch indeed is the conſtitution of man, that labour may be with great juſtice [127] ſtiled its own reward; nor will any external incitements be requiſite, if it be conſidered how much happineſs is gained, and how much miſery eſcaped by frequent and violent agita⯑tion of the body.

EASE is the utmoſt that can be hoped from a ſedentary and unactive habit; eaſe a neutral ſtate between pain and pleaſure. The dance of ſpirits, the bound of vigour, readineſs of enterprize, and defiance of fatigue, are reſerved for him that braces his nerves, and hardens his fibres, that keeps his limbs pliant with motion, and by frequent expoſure fortifies his frame againſt the com⯑mon accidents of cold and heat.

WITH eaſe, however, if it could be ſe⯑cured, many would be content; but nothing terreſtrial can be kept at a ſtand. Eaſe, if it is not riſing into pleaſure, will be falling to⯑wards pain, and whatever hope the dreams of ſpeculation may ſuggeſt of obſerving the proportion between nutriment and labour, and keeping the body in a healthy ſtate by ſupplies exactly equal to its waſte, we know that, in effect, the vital powers unexcited by motion, grow gradually languid; that as [128] their vigour fails obſtructions are generated; and that from obſtructions proceed moſt of thoſe pains which wear us away ſlowly with periodical tortures, and which though they ſometimes ſuffer life to be long, condemn it to be uſeleſs, chain us down on the couch of miſery, and mock us with the hopes of death.

EXERCISE, indeed, cannot ſecure us from that diſſolution to which we are de⯑creed; but while the ſoul and body conti⯑nue united, it can make the aſſociation plea⯑ſing, and can give probable hopes that they ſhall be disjoined by an eaſy ſeparation. It was a principle among the ancients, that acute diſeaſes are from heaven, and chronical from ourſelves; the dart of death indeed falls from heaven, but we poiſon it by our own miſconduct; to dye is the fate of man, but to dye with lingering anguiſh is generally his folly.

IT is neceſſary to that perfection of which our preſent ſtate is capable, that the mind and body ſhould both be kept in action; that neither the faculties of the one nor of the other be ſuffered to grow lax or torpid [129] for want of uſe; that neither health be pur⯑chaſed by voluntary ſubmiſſion to ignorance, nor knowledge cultivated at the expence of that health, which muſt enable it either to give pleaſure to its poſſeſſor or aſſiſtance to others. It is too frequently the pride of ſtudents to deſpiſe thoſe amuſements and re⯑creations which give to the reſt of mankind ſtrength of limbs and cheerfulneſs of heart. Solitude and contemplation are indeed ſeldom conſiſtent with ſuch ſkill in common exerciſes or ſports as is neceſſary to make them practi⯑ſed with delight, and no man is willing to do that of which the neceſſity is not preſ⯑ſing and immediate, when he knows that his aukwardneſs muſt make him ridiculous.

THUS the man of learning is often re⯑ſigned, almoſt by his own conſent, to lan⯑guor and to pain; and while in the proſe⯑cution of his ſtudies he ſuffers the wearineſs of labour, is ſubject by his courſe of life to the maladies of idleneſs.

[130] IT was, perhaps, from the obſervation of this miſchievous omiſſion in thoſe who are employed about intellectual objects, that Locke has, in his Syſtem of Education, ſo warmly urged the neceſſity of a manual trade to men of all ranks and profeſſions, that when the mind is weary with its proper taſk, it may be relaxed by a ſlighter attention to ſome mechanical operation; and that while the vital functions are reſuſcitated and awa⯑kened by vigorous motion, the underſtanding may be reſtrained from that vagrance and diſſipation by which it too often relieves it⯑ſelf after a long intenſeneſs of thought, un⯑leſs ſome allurement be preſented that may engage application without anxiety.

THERE is ſo little reaſon for expecting any frequent conformity to Locke's precept, that it is not neceſſary to enquire whether the practice of manual arts might not give occa⯑ſion to petty emulation, and trivial ambition; and whether, if our divines and phyſicians were taught the lathe and the chizzel, they would not think more of their tools than their books; as Nero neglected the care of his empire for his chariot and his fiddle. It is certainly dangerous to be too much pleaſed [131] with little things; but what is there which may not be perverted? let us, remember how much worſe employment might have been found for thoſe hours, which a manual occupation appears to engroſs; let us com⯑pute the profit with the loſs, and when we reflect how often a genius is allured from his ſtudies, conſider likewiſe that perhaps by the ſame attractions he is ſometimes withheld from debauchery, or recalled from malice, from ambition, from envy, and from luſt.

I HAVE always admired the wiſdom of thoſe by whom our female education was in⯑ſtituted, for having contrived, that every woman of whatever condition ſhould be taught ſome arts of manufacture, by which the vacuities of recluſe and domeſtick leiſure may always be filled up. Theſe arts are more neceſſary as the weakneſs of their ſex and the general ſyſtem of life debar ladies from many employments which by diverſifying the circumſtances of men, preſerve them from being cankered by the ruſt of their own thoughts. I know not how much of the virtue and happineſs of the world may be the conſequence of this judicious regulation. Perhaps, the moſt powerful fancy might be [132] unable to figure the confuſion and ſlaughter that would be produced by ſo many piercing eyes and vivid underſtandings, turned looſe at once upon mankind, with no other buſi⯑neſs than to ſparkle and intrigue, to perplex and to deſtroy.

FOR my part, whenever chance brings within my obſervation a knot of miſſes buſy at their needles, I conſider myſelf as in the ſchool of virtue; and though I have no ex⯑traordinary ſkill in plain work or embroide⯑ry, look upon their operations with, at leaſt, as much ſatisfaction as their governeſs, be⯑cauſe I regard them as providing a ſecurity againſt the moſt dangerous enſnarers of the ſoul, by enabling themſelves to exclude idle⯑neſs from their ſolitary moments, and with idleneſs her attendant train of paſſions, fan⯑cies, and chimeras, fears, ſorrows and de⯑ſires. Ovid and Cervantes will inform them that love has no power but over thoſe whom he catches unemployed; and Hector, in the Iliad, when he ſees Andromache overwhelmed with terrors, ſends her for conſolation to the loom and the diſtaff.

[133] IT is certain that any wild wiſh or vain imagination never takes ſuch firm poſſeſſion of the mind, as when it is found empty and unoccupied; for the old peripatetick princi⯑ple, that Nature abhors a Vacuum, may be properly applied to the intellect, which will embrace any thing however abſurd or crimi⯑nal rather than be wholly without an object. Perhaps every man may date the predomi⯑nance of thoſe deſires that diſturb his life and contaminate his conſcience, from ſome un⯑happy hour when too much leiſure expoſed him to their incurſions; for he has lived with little obſervation either on himſelf or others, who does not know that to be idle is to be vicious.

NUMB. 86. SATURDAY, Jan. 12, 1751.

IT has been obſerved by one of the an⯑cients, that the burthen of government is encreaſed upon princes by the virtues of their immediate predeceſſors. It is, indeed, always dangerous to be placed in a ſtate of unavoidable compariſon with excellence, and the danger is ſtill greater when that excellence is conſecrated by death, when envy and in⯑tereſt ceaſe to act againſt it, and thoſe paſ⯑ſions by which it was at firſt vilified and op⯑poſed, now ſtand in its defence, and turn their vehemence againſt honeſt emulation.

HE that ſucceeds a celebrated writer, has the ſame difficulties to encounter; he ſtands under the ſhade of exalted merit, and is hindered from riſing to his natural height, by the interception of thoſe beams which ſhould invigorate and quicken him. He ap⯑plies to that attention which is already en⯑gaged, [135] and unwilling to be drawn off from certain ſatisfaction; or perhaps to an attention already wearied, and not to be recalled to the ſame object. One of the old poets congratu⯑lates himſelf that he has the untrodden regi⯑ons of Parnaſſus before him, and that his garland will be gathered from plantations which no writer had yet culled. But the imi⯑tator treads a beaten walk, and with all his diligence can only hope to find a few flow⯑ers or branches untouched by his predeceſſor, the refuſe of contempt, or the omiſſions of negligence. The Macedonian conqueror, when he was once invited to hear a man that ſung like a nightingale, replied with con⯑tempt, "that he had heard the nightingale herſelf;" and the ſame treatment muſt every man expect, whoſe praiſe is, that he imitates another.

YET, in the midſt of theſe diſcouraging reflections, I am about to offer to my reader ſome obſervations upon Paradiſe Loſt, and hope, that however I may fall below the illu⯑ſtrious writer who ſo long dictated to the commonwealth of learning, my attempt may not be wholly uſeleſs. There are in every [136] age, new errors to be rectify'd, and new pre⯑judices to be oppoſed. Falſe taſte is always buſy to miſlead thoſe that are entering upon the regions of learning; and the traveller, uncertain of his way, and forſaken by the ſun, will be pleaſed to ſee a fainter orb ariſe on the horizon, that may reſcue him from total darkneſs, though with weak and bor⯑rowed luſtre.

ADDISON, though he has conſidered this poem under moſt of the general topicks of criticiſm, has barely touched upon the ver⯑ſification; not probably becauſe he thought the art of numbers unworthy of his notice, for he knew with how minute attention the ancient criticks conſidered the diſpoſition of ſyllables, and had himſelf given hopes of ſome metrical obſervations upon that great Roman poet; but being the firſt who under⯑took to diſplay the beauties, and point out the defects of Milton, he had many objects at once before him, and paſſed willingly over thoſe which were moſt barren of ideas, and required labour, rather than genius.

[137] YET verſification, or the art of modulat⯑ing his Numbers, is indiſpenſably neceſſary to a poet. Every other power by which the at⯑tention is fixed, the underſtanding enlighten⯑ed, or the imagination enchanted, may be exerciſed in proſe. But the poet has this pe⯑culiar ſuperiority, that to all the powers which the perfection of every other compoſition can require, he adds the faculty of joining muſick with reaſon, and of acting at once upon the ſenſes and the paſſions. I ſuppoſe there are few who do not feel themſelves touched by poetical melody, and who will not confeſs that they are more or leſs moved by the ſame thoughts, as they are conveyed by dif⯑ferent ſounds, and more affected by the ſame words in one order, than in another. The perception of harmony is indeed conſerred upon men in degrees very unequal, but there are none who do not perceive it, or to whom a regular ſeries of proportionate ſounds can⯑not give delight.

IN treating on the verſification of Mil⯑ton I am deſirous to be generally underſtood, and ſhall therefore ſtudiouſly decline the dia⯑lect of grammarians; though, indeed, it is [138] always difficult and ſometimes ſcarcely poſſi⯑ble to deliver the precepts of an art without the terms by which the peculiar ideas of that art are expreſſed, and which had not been invented but becauſe the language already in uſe, was inſufficient. If therefore I ſhall ſometimes ſeem obſcure, may it be imputed to this voluntary interdiction, and to a de⯑ſire of avoiding that offence which is always given by unuſual words.

THE heroic meaſure of the Engliſh lan⯑guage may be properly conſidered as pure or mixed. It is pure when the accent reſts up⯑on every ſecond ſyllable through the whole line.

[139] The accent may be obſerved in the ſecond line of Dryden, and the ſecond and fourth of Mil⯑ton, to repoſe upon every ſecond ſyllable.

THE repetition of this ſound or percuſ⯑ſion at equal times is the moſt complete har⯑mony of which a ſingle verſe is capable, and ſhould therefore be exactly kept in di⯑ſtichs, and generally in the laſt line of a paragraph, that the ear may reſt without any ſenſe of imperfection.

BUT, to preſerve the ſeries of ſounds un⯑tranſpoſed in a long compoſition, is not only very difficult but tireſome and diſguſting; for we are ſoon wearied with the perpetual re⯑currence of the ſame cadence. Neceſſity has therefore enforced the mixed meaſure, in which ſome variation of the accents is allow⯑ed; this, though it always injures the har⯑mony of the line conſidered by itſelf, yet compenſates the loſs by relieving us from the continual tyranny of the ſame ſound, and makes us more ſenſible of the harmony of the pure meaſure.

OF theſe mixed numbers every poet affords us innumerable inſtances, and Milton ſeldom [140] has two pure lines together, as will appear if any of his paragraphs be read with attention merely to the muſick.

In this paſſage it will be at firſt obſerved, that all the lines are not equally harmonious, and upon a nearer examination it will be found that only the fifth and ninth lines are regular, and the reſt are more or leſs licentious with [141] reſpect to the accent. In ſome the accent is equally upon two ſyllables together, and in both ſtrong. As

In others the accent is equally upon two ſyllables, but upon both weak.

In the firſt pair of ſyllables the accent may deviate from the rigour of exactneſs without any unpleaſing diminution of harmony, as may be obſerved in the lines already cited, and more remarkably in this

But, excepting in the firſt pair of ſyllables, which may be conſidered as arbitrary, a poet who, not having the invention or knowledge of Milton, has more need to allure his audi⯑ence by muſical cadences, ſhould ſeldom ſuf⯑fer more than one aberration from the rule in any ſingle verſe.

[142] THERE are two lines in this paſſage more remarkably unharmonious.

Here the third pair of ſyllables in the firſt, and fourth pair in the ſecond verſe, have their accents retrograde or inverted; the firſt ſyl⯑lable being ſtrong or acute, and the ſecond weak. The detriment which the meaſure ſuffers by this inverſion of the accents is ſometimes leſs perceptible, when the verſes are carried one into another, but is remarkably ſtriking in this place, where the vicious verſe concludes a period; and is yet more offen⯑ſive in rhyme, when we regularly attend to the flow of every ſingle line. This will ap⯑pear by reading a couplet in which Cowley, an author not ſufficiently ſtudious of harmony, has committed the ſame fault.

In theſe the law of metre is very groſsly vio⯑lated by mingling combinations of ſound di⯑rectly oppoſite to each other, as Milton ex⯑preſſes it in his ſonnet, by committing ſhort [143] and long, and ſetting one part of the meaſure as variance with the reſt. The ancients, who had a language more capable of variety than ours, had two kinds of verſe, the lam⯑bick, conſiſting of ſhort and long ſyllables al⯑ternately, from which our heroick meaſure is derived, and the Trochaick, conſiſting in a like alternation of long and ſhort. Theſe were conſidered as oppoſites, and conveyed the contrary images of ſpeed and ſlowneſs; to confound them, therefore, as in theſe lines, is to deviate from the eſtabliſhed practice. But where the ſenſes are to judge, authori⯑ty is not neceſſary, the ear is ſufficient to detect diſſonance, nor ſhould I have ſought auxiliaries on ſuch an occaſion againſt any name but that of Milton.

NUMB. 87. TUESDAY, Jan. 15, 1751.

THAT few things are ſo liberally be⯑ſtowed, or ſquandered with ſo little effect, as good advice, has been generally obſerved; and many ſage poſitions have been advanced concerning the reaſons of this com⯑plaint, and the means of removing it. It is, indeed, an important and noble enquiry, for little would be wanting to the happineſs of life, if every man could conform to the right as ſoon as he was ſhown it.

THIS perverſe neglect of the moſt ſalutary precepts, and ſtubborn reſiſtance of the moſt pathetic perſuaſion, is uſually imputed to him by whom the counſel is received, and we therefore often hear it mentioned as a ſign of hopeleſs and abandoned depravity, that tho' good advice was given, it has wrought no re⯑formation.

[145] OTHERS who imagine themſelves to have quicker ſagacity and deeper penetration, have found out, that the inefficacy of advice is u⯑ſually the fault of the counſellor, and rules have therefore been laid down, by which this important duty may be ſucceſsfully per⯑formed: We are directed by what tokens to diſcover the favourable moment at which the heart is diſpoſed for the operation of truth and reaſon, with what addreſs to adminiſter and with what vehicles to diſguiſe the catharticks of the ſoul.

BUT, notwithſtanding this ſpecious ex⯑pedient, we find the world yet in the ſame ſtate; advice is ſtill given, but ſtill received with diſguſt; nor has it appeared that the bitterneſs of the medicine has been yet abated, or its power encreaſed by any methods of preparing it.

IF we conſider the manner in which thoſe who aſſume the office of directing the con⯑duct of others execute their undertaking, it will not be very wonderful that their labours, however zealous or affectionate, are fre⯑quently uſeleſs. For what is the advice that is commonly given? A few general max⯑ims, [146] enforced with vehemence and inculcated with importunity, but failing for want of particular reference, and immediate appli⯑cation.

IT is not often that any man can have ſo much knowledge of another, as is neceſſary to make inſtruction uſeful. We are ſome⯑times not ourſelves conſcious of the original motives of our actions, and when we know them, our firſt care is to hide them from the ſight of others, and often from thoſe moſt di⯑ligently, whoſe ſuperiority either of power or underſtanding may intitle them to in⯑ſpect our lives; it is therefore very probable that he who endeavours the cure of our intel⯑lectual maladies, miſtakes their cauſe; and that his preſcriptions avail nothing, becauſe he knows not which of the paſſions or deſires is vitiated.

ADVICE, as it always gives a temporary appearance of ſuperiority, can never be very grateful, even when it is moſt neceſſary or moſt judicious. But for the ſame reaſon every one is eager to inſtruct his neighbours. To be wiſe or to be virtuous, is to buy dignity [147] and importance at a high price; but when nothing is neceſſary to elevation but detec⯑tion of the follies or the faults of others, no man is ſo inſenſible to the voice of fame as to linger on the ground.

VANITY is ſo frequently the apparent motive of advice, that we, for the moſt part, ſummon our powers to oppoſe it with⯑out any very accurate enquiry whether it is right. It is ſufficient that another is grow⯑ing great in his own eyes at our expence, and that he aſſumes an authority over us without our permiſſion; for many would be content⯑ed to ſuffer the conſequences of their own miſtakes, rather than the inſolence of him who triumphs as their deliverer.

IT is, indeed, ſeldom found that any ad⯑vantages are enjoyed with that moderation which the uncertainty of all human good ſo powerfully enforces; and therefore the ad⯑viſer may juſtly ſuſpect, that he has inflamed [148] the oppoſition which he laments by arrogance and ſuperciliouſneſs, though, indeed, he can rarely be certain, that the ſofteſt language or moſt humble diffidence would have eſcaped reſentment; for ſcarcely any degree of cir⯑cumſpection can prevent or obviate the rage with which the ſlothful, the impotent, and the unſucceſsful, vent their diſcontent upon thoſe that excel them, endeavour to eclipſe the beauties which they cannot outſhine, and to retard the ſpeed which they cannot over⯑take. Modeſty itſelf, if it is praiſed, will be envied; and there are minds ſo impatient of inferiority, that their gratitude is a ſpecies of revenge, and they return benefits, not be⯑cauſe recompence is a pleaſure, but becauſe obligation is a pain.

THE number of thoſe whom the love of themſelves has thus far corrupted, is perhaps not great; but there are few ſo free from vanity as not to dictate to thoſe who will hear their inſtructions with a viſible ſenſe of their own beneficence; and few to whom it is not un⯑pleaſing to receive documents, however ten⯑derly and cautiouſly delivered, or who are [149] not willing to raiſe themſelves from pupillage, by diſputing the propoſitions of their teacher.

IT was the maxim, I think, of Alphonſus of Arragon, that dead counſellors are ſafeſt. The grave puts an end to flattery and arti⯑fice, and the information that we receive from books is pure from intereſt, fear, or am⯑bition. Dead counſellors are likewiſe moſt inſtructive; becauſe they are heard with pa⯑tience and with reverence. We are not un⯑willing to believe that man wiſer than our⯑ſelves, from whoſe abilities we may receive advantage, without any danger of rivalry or oppoſition, and who affords us the light of his experience, without hurting our eyes by flaſhes of inſolence,

BY the conſultation of books, whether of dead or living authors, many temptations to petulance and oppoſition, which occur in oral conferences, are avoided. An author can⯑not obtrude his advice unaſked, nor can be often ſuſpected of any malignant intention to inſult his readers with his knowledge or his wit. Yet ſo prevalent is the habit of com⯑paring [150] ourſelves with others, while they re⯑main within the reach of our paſſions, that books are ſeldom read with complete impar⯑tiality, but by thoſe from whom the writer is placed at ſuch a diſtance that his life or death is indifferent.

WE ſee that volumes may be peruſed, and peruſed with attention, to little effect; and that maxims of prudence, or principles of vir⯑tue, may be treaſured in the memory without influencing the conduct. Of the numbers that paſs their lives among books, very few read to be made wiſer or better, apply any ge⯑neral reproof of vice to themſelves, or try their own manners by axioms of juſtice. They pur⯑poſe either to conſume thoſe hours for which they can find no other amuſement; to gain or preſerve that reſpect which the learned have always obtained; or to gratify their curioſity with knowledge, which, like treaſure buried and forgotten, is of no uſe to others or them⯑ſelves.

"THE preacher, (ſays a French author) may ſpend an hour in explaining and en⯑forcing a precept of religion, without feel⯑ing [151] any impreſſion from his own perform⯑ance, becauſe he may have no further de⯑ſign than to fill up his hour." A ſtudent may eaſily exhauſt his life in comparing di⯑vines and moraliſts, without any practical regard to morality or religion; he may be learning not to live but to reaſon; he may regard only the elegance of ſtile, juſtneſs of argument, and accuracy of method; and may enable himſelf to criticiſe with judgment, and diſpute with ſubtilty, while the chief uſe of his volumes is unthought of, his mind is unaf⯑fected, and his life is unreformed.

BUT though truth and virtue are thus frequently defeated by pride, obſtinacy, or folly, we are not allowed to deſert them, for whoever can furniſh arms which they have not hitherto employed, may enable them to gain ſome hearts which would have reſiſted any other method of attack. Every man of genius has ſome arts of fixing the at⯑tention peculiar to himſelf, by which, honeſt⯑ly exerted, he may benefit mankind; for the arguments for purity of life fail of their due influence, not becauſe they have been conſi⯑dered and confuted, but becauſe they have [152] been paſſed over without conſideration. To the poſition of Tully, that if Virtue could be ſeen ſhe muſt be loved, may be added, that if Truth could be heard, ſhe muſt be obeyed.

NUMB. 88. SATURDAY, Jan. 19. 1751.

[] CONFIRMED and animated by this illu⯑ſtrious precedent, I ſhall continue my inquiries into Milton's art of verſification. Since, how⯑ever minute and trivial the employment may appear, of analyſing lines into ſyllables, and whatever ridicule may be incurred by a ſo⯑lemn deliberation upon accents and pauſes, it is certain that without this petty knowledge no man can be a poet; and that from the pro⯑per diſpoſition of ſingle ſounds reſults that harmony that adds force to reaſon, and gives grace to ſublimity; that ſhackles attention, and governs paſſion.

THAT verſe may be melodious and pleaſ⯑ing, it is neceſſary, not only that the words be ſo ranged as that the accent may fall on its proper place, but that the ſyllables themſelves be ſo choſen as to flow ſmoothly into one an⯑other. This is to be effected by a propor⯑tionate mixture of vowels and conſonants, and by tempering the mute conſonants with liquids and ſemivowels. The Hebrew grammarians have obſerv'd, that it is impoſſible to pronounce two conſonants without the intervention of a vowel, or without ſome emiſſion of the breath between one and the other; this is longer and more perceptible, as the ſounds of the [154] conſonants are leſs harmonically conjoined, and, by conſequence, the flow of the verſe is longer interrupted.

IT is pronounced by Dryden, that a line of monoſyllables is almoſt always harſh. This, with regard to our language, is evi⯑dently true, not becauſe monoſyllables cannot compoſe harmony, but becauſe our monoſyl⯑lables being of Teutonic original, or formed by contraction, commonly begin and end with conſonants, as,

THE difference of harmony ariſing princi⯑pally from the collocation of vowels and con⯑ſonants, will be ſufficiently conceived by at⯑tending to the following paſſages.

THE ſame compariſon that I propoſe to be made between the fourth and ſixth verſes of this paſſage, may be repeated between the laſt lines of the following quotations.

MILTON, whoſe ear had been accu⯑ſtomed, not only to the muſick of the antient tongues, which, however vitiated by our pronunciation, excel all that are now in uſe, but to the ſoftneſs of the Italian, the moſt mellifluous of all modern poetry, ſeems fully convinced of the unfitneſs of our language for ſmooth verſification, and is therefore [156] pleaſed with an opportunity of calling in a ſofter word to his aſſiſtance; for this reaſon, and I believe for this only, he ſometimes in⯑dulges himſelf in a long ſeries of proper names, and introduces them where they add little but muſick to his poem.

HE has indeed, been more attentive to his ſyllables than to his accents, and does not of⯑ten offend by colliſions of conſonants, or openings of vowels upon each other, at leaſt not more often than other writers who have had leſs important or complicated ſubjects to take off their care ftom the cadence of their lines.

THE great peculiarity of Milton's verſifi⯑cation, compared with that of later poets, is [157] the eliſion of one vowel before another, or the ſuppreſſion of the laſt ſyllable of a word ending with a vowel, when a vowel begins the following word. As

THIS licence, though now diſuſed in Eng⯑liſh poetry, is yet allowed in many other languages antient and modern, and therefore the critics on Paradiſe Loſt have, without much deliberation, commended Milton for continuing it. But one language cannot communicate its rules to another. We have already tried and rejected the hexameter of the antients, the double cloſe of the Italians, and the Alex⯑andrine of the French; and therefore the eliſion of vowels, however graceful it may ſeem to other nations, is not conſequently ſuitable to the genius of the Engliſh Tongue.

THERE is, indeed, reaſon to believe that we have negligently loſt part of our vowels, and that the ſilent e which our anceſtors added to moſt of our monoſyllables, was once vocal. By this detruncation of our ſyllables, our [158] language is over-ſtocked with conſonants, and it is more neceſſary to add vowels to the be⯑ginning of words, than to cut them off from the end.

MILTON therefore ſeems to have ſome⯑what miſtaken the nature of our language, of which the chief defect is ruggedneſs and aſperity, and has left our harſh cadences yet harſher. But his eliſions are not all equally to be cenſured; in ſome ſyllables they may be allowed, and perhaps in a few days may be ſafely imitated. The abſciſion of a vowel is undoubtedly vicious when it is ſtrongly ſounded, and makes, with its aſſociate conſo⯑nant, a full and audible ſyllable.

I BELIEVE every reader will agree that in all thoſe paſſages, though not equally in all, the muſic is injured, and in ſome the meaning obſcured. There are other lines in which the vowel is cut off, but it is ſo faintly pronounced in common ſpeech, that the loſs of it in poetry is ſcarcely perceived; and therefore ſuch com⯑pliance with the meaſure may be allowed.

YET even theſe contractions encreaſe the roughneſs of a language too rough already; and though in long Poems they may be ſome⯑times ſuffered, yet it never can be faulty to forbear them.

MILTON frequently uſes in his poems the hypermetrical or redundant line of eleven ſyllables.

VERSES of this kind occur almoſt in every page; but though they are not unpleaſing or diſſonant, they ought not to be admitted into heroic poetry, ſince the narrow limits of our language allow us no other diſtinction of epic and tragic meaſures, than is afforded by the liberty of changing at will the terminiation [161] of the dramatic lines, and bringing them by that relaxation of metrical rigour nearer to proſe.

NUMB. 89. TUESDAY, Jan. 22, 1751.

LOCKE, whom there is no reaſon to ſuſpect of being a favourer of idleneſs or libertiniſm, has advanced, that whoever hopes to employ any part of his time with efficacy and vigour, muſt allow ſome of it to paſs in trifles. It is beyond the powers of humanity to ſpend a whole life in profound ſtudy and intenſe meditation, and the moſt ri⯑gorous exacters of induſtry and ſeriouſneſs, have appointed hours for relaxation and a⯑muſement.

IT is certain, that, with or without our conſent, many of the few moments allotted us will ſlide imperceptibly away, and that the mind will break, from confinement to it; ſtated taſk, into ſudden excurſions. Severe and con⯑nected [162] attention is preſerved but for a ſhort time, and when a man ſhuts himſelf up in his cloſet, and bends his thoughts to the diſcuſſion of any abſtruſe queſtion, he will find his fa⯑culties continually ſtealing away to more pleaſ⯑ing entertainments. He often perceives him⯑ſelf tranſported, he knows not how, to diſtant tracts of thought, and return to his firſt object as from a dream, without knowing when he forſook it, or how long he has been abſtracted from it.

IT has been obſerved that the moſt ſtudious are not always the moſt learned. There is, indeed, no great difficulty in diſcovering that this difference of proficiency may ariſe from the difference of intellectual powers, of the choice of books, or the convenience of infor⯑mation. But I believe it likewiſe frequently happens that the moſt recluſe are not the moſt vigorous proſecutors of ſtudy. Many impoſe upon the world, and many upon themſelves, by an appearance of ſevere and exemplary di⯑ligence, when they, in reality, give them⯑ſelves up to the luxury of fancy, pleaſe their minds with regulating the paſt, or planning out the future; place themſelves at will in varied ſituations of happineſs, and ſlumber away their [163] days in voluntary viſions. In the journey of life ſome are left behind, becauſe they are natu⯑rally feeble and ſlow; ſome becauſe they miſs the way, and many becauſe they leave it by choice, and inſtead of preſſing onward with a ſteady pace, delight themſelves with momen⯑tary deviations, turn aſide to pluck every flower, and repoſe in every ſhade.

THERE is nothing more fatal to a man whoſe buſineſs is to think, than to have learned the art of regaling his mind with thoſe airy gratifications. Other vices or follies are re⯑ſtrained by fear, reformed by admonition, or rejected by the conviction which the compa⯑riſon of our conduct with that of others, may in time produce. But this inviſible riot of the mind, this ſecret prodigality of being is ſecure from detection, and fearleſs of reproach. The dreamer retires to his apartments, ſhuts out the cares and interruptions of mankind, and abandons himſelf to his own fancy; new worlds riſe up before him, one image is fol⯑lowed by another, and a long ſucceſſion of delights dances round him. He is at laſt called back to life by nature, or by cuſtom, and enters peeviſh into ſociety, becauſe he [164] cannot model it to his own will. He returns from his idle excurſions with the aſperity, tho' not with the knowledge, of a ſtudent, and haſtens again to the ſame felicity with the eagerneſs of a man bent upon the advance⯑ment of ſome favourite ſcience. The inſatu⯑ation ſtrengthens by degrees, and, like the poiſon of opiates, weakens his powers with⯑out any external ſymptom of malignity.

IT happens, indeed, that theſe hypocrites of learning are in time detected, and con⯑vinced by diſgrace and diſappointment of the difference between the labour of thought, and the ſport of muſing. But this diſcovery is of⯑ten not made till it is too late to recover the time that has been fooled away. A thou⯑ſand accidents may, indeed, awaken drones to a more early ſenſe of their danger and their ſhame. But they who are con⯑vinced of the neceſſity of breaking from this habitual drowſineſs, too often relapſe in ſpite of their reſolution; for theſe ideal ſeducers are always near, and neither any particularity of time nor place is neceſſary to their influ⯑ence; they invade the ſoul without warning, and have often charmed down reſiſtance be⯑fore their approach is perceived or ſuſpected.

[165] THIS captivity, however, it is neceſſary for every man to break, who has any deſire to be wiſe or uſeful, to paſs his life with the eſteem of others, or to look back with ſatis⯑faction from his old age upon his earlier years. In order to regain liberty, he muſt find the means of flying from himſelf; he muſt, in oppoſition to the Stoick precept, teach his deſires to fix upon external things; he muſt adopt the joys and the pains of others, and excite in his mind the want of ſocial pleaſures and amicable communi⯑cation.

IT is perhaps, not impoſſible to promote the cure of this mental malady, by cloſe ap⯑plication to ſome new ſtudy, which may pour in freſh ideas, and keep curioſity in per⯑petual motion. But ſtudy requires ſolitude, and ſolitude is a ſtate dangerous to thoſe who are too much accuſtomed to ſink into themſelves. Active employment, or publick pleaſure, is generally a neceſſary part of this intellectual regimen, without which, though ſome remiſſion may be ob⯑tained, a compleat cure will ſcarcely be effected.

[166] THIS is a formidable and obſtinate diſeaſe of the intellect, of which, when it has once become radicated by time, the remedy is one of the hardeſt taſks of reaſon and of virtue. Its ſlighteſt attacks, therefore, ſhould be watchfully oppoſed; and he that finds the frigid and narcotick infection beginning to ſeize him, ſhould turn his whole attention againſt it, and check it at the firſt diſcovery by proper counteraction.

THE great reſolution to be formed, when happineſs and virtue are thus formidably in⯑vaded, is, that no part of life be ſpent in a ſtate of neutrality or indifference; but that ſome pleaſure be found for every moment that is not devoted to labour; and that, when⯑ever the neceſſary buſineſs of life grows irk⯑ſome, or diſguſting, an immediate tranſition be made to diverſion and gaiety.

AFTER the exerciſes which the health of the body requires, and which have themſelves a natural tendency to actuate and invigorate the mind, the moſt eligible amuſement of a rational being ſeems to be that interchange of thoughts which is practiſed in free and [167] eaſy converſation; where ſuſpicion is baniſh⯑ed by experience, and emulation by benevo⯑lence; where every man ſpeaks with no other reſtraint than unwillingneſs to offend, and hears with no other diſpoſition than deſire to be pleaſed.

THERE muſt be a time in which every man trifles; and the only choice that nature offers us, is, to trifle in company or alone. To join profit with pleaſure, has been an old precept among men who have had very dif⯑ferent conceptions of profit. All have agreed that our amuſements ſhould not terminate whol⯑ly in the preſent moment, but contribute more or leſs to future advantage. He that amuſes himſelf among well choſen companions, can ſcarcely fail to receive, from the moſt careleſs and obſtreperous merriment which virtue can allow ſome uſeful hints; nor can converſe on the moſt familiar topics, without ſome caſual information. The looſe ſparkles of thought⯑leſs wit may give new light to the mind, and the gay contention for paradoxical poſitions rectify the opinions.

[168] THIS is the time in which thoſe friend⯑ſhips that give happineſs or conſolation, re⯑lief or ſecurity, are generally formed. A wiſe and good man is never ſo amiable as in his unbended and familiar intervals. Heroic generoſity, or philoſophical diſcoveries may compel veneration and reſpect, but love al⯑ways implies ſome kind of natural or volun⯑tary equality, and is only to be excited by that levity and chearfulneſs which diſencum⯑bers all minds from awe and ſolicitude, invites the modeſt to freedom, and exalts the timo⯑rous to confidence. This eaſe and frankneſs is certain to pleaſe, whatever be the character of him that exerts it; if our ſuperiors deſcend from their elevation, we love them for leſſen⯑ing the diſtance at which we are placed below them; and inferiors, from whom we can re⯑ceive no laſting advantage, will always keep our affections while their ſprightlineſs and mirth contributes to our pleaſure.

EVERY man finds himſelf differently af⯑fected by the ſight of fortreſſes of war, and palaces of pleaſure; we look on the height and ſtrength of the bulwarks with a kind of [169] gloomy ſatisfaction, for we cannot think of defence without admitting images of danger; but we range delighted and jocund through the gay apartments of the palace, becauſe nothing is impreſſed by them on the mind but joy and feſtivity. Such is the difference between great and amiable characters; with protectors we are ſafe, with companions we are happy.

NUMB. 90. SATURDAY, Jan. 26, 1751.

IT is very difficult to write on the minuter parts of literature without failing either to pleaſe or inſtruct. Too much nicety of detail diſguſts the greateſt part of readers, and to throw a multitude of particulars under ge⯑neral heads, and lay down rules of extenſive comprehenſion, is to common underſtandings of little uſe. They who undertake theſe ſub⯑jects are therefore always in danger, as one or other inconvenience ariſes to their imagi⯑nation, of frighting us with rugged ſcience, or amuſing us with empty ſound.

IN criticiſing the work of Milton, there is, indeed, opportunity to interſperſe paſſages that can hardly fail to relieve the langours of attention; and ſince, in examining the va⯑riety and choice of the pauſes with which he has diverſified his numbers, it will be neceſ⯑ſary to exhibit the lines in which they are to be found, perhaps the remarks may be well [171] compenſated by the examples, and the irk⯑ſomeneſs of grammatical diſquiſitions ſome⯑what alleviated.

MILTON formed his ſcheme of verſifica⯑tion by the poets of Greece and Rome, whom he propoſed to himſelf for his models ſo far as the difference of his language from theirs would permit the imitation. There are in⯑deed many inconveniencies inſeparable from our heroick meaſure compared with that of Homer and Virgil; inconveniencies, which, it is no reproach to Milton not to have overcome, becauſe they are in their own nature inſuperable; but againſt which he has ſtruggled with ſo much art and diligence, that he may at leaſt be ſaid to have deſerved ſucceſs.

THE hexameter of the ancients may be conſidered as conſiſting of fifteen ſyllables, ſo melodiouſly diſpoſed, that, as every one knows who has examined the poetical au⯑thors, very pleaſing and ſonorous lyrick mea⯑ſures are formed from the fragments of the heroick. It is, indeed, ſcarce poſſible to break them in ſuch a manner but that in⯑venias [172] etiam disjecti membra poetae, ſome har⯑mony will ſtill remain, and the due propor⯑tions of ſound will always be diſcovered. This meaſure therefore allowed great variety of pauſes, and great liberties of connecting one verſe with another, becauſe wherever the line was interrupted, either part ſingly was muſical. But the ancients ſeem to have con⯑fined this privilege to hexameters; for in their other meaſures, though frequently longer than the Engliſh heroick, thoſe who wrote after the refinements of verſification venture ſo ſeldom to change their pauſes, that every variation may be ſuppoſed rather a compliance with neceſſity than the choice of judgment.

MILTON, was conſtrained within the nar⯑row limits of a meaſure not very harmonious in the utmoſt perfection; the ſingle parts, therefore, into which it was to be ſometime; broken by pauſes, were in danger of loſing the very form of verſe. This has, perhaps, notwithſtanding all his care, ſometimes hap⯑pened.

AS harmony is the end of poetical mea⯑ſures, no part of a verſe ought to be ſo ſepa⯑rated from the reſt as not to remain ſtill [173] more harmonious than proſe, or to ſhew, by the diſpoſition of the tones, that it is part of a verſe. This rule in the old hexameter might be eaſily obſerved, but in Engliſh will very frequently be in danger of violation; for the order and regularity of accents cannot well be perceived in a ſucceſſion of fewer than three ſyllables, which will confine the Engliſh poet to only five pauſes; it being ſuppoſed, that, when he connects one line with another, he ſhould never make a full pauſe at leſs diſtance than that of three ſyl⯑lables from the beginning or end of a verſe.

THAT this rule ſhould be univerſally and indiſpenſably eſtabliſhed, perhaps cannot be granted; ſomething may be allowed to variety, and ſomething to the adaptation of the numbers to the ſubject; but it will be found generally neceſſary, and the ear will ſeldom fail to ſuffer by its neglect.

THUS when a ſingle ſyllable is cut off from the reſt, it muſt either be united to the line with which the ſenſe connects it, or be ſounded alone. If it be united to the other line, it corrupts its harmony; if disjoined, [174] it muſt, with regard to muſick, be ſuper⯑fluous; for there is no harmony in a ſingle ſound, becauſe it has no proportion to an⯑other.

WHEN two ſyllables likewiſe are abſcind⯑ed from the reſt, they evidently want ſome aſſociate ſounds to make them harmonious.

THE ſame defect is perceived in the fol⯑lowing lines where the pauſe is at the ſe⯑cond ſyllable from the beginning.

WHEN the pauſe falls upon the third ſyl⯑lable or the ſeventh, the harmony is better preſerved, but as the third and ſeventh are weak ſyllables, the period leaves the ear un⯑ſatisfied, and in expectation of the remaining part of the verſe.

IT may be, I think, eſtabliſhed as a rule, that a pauſe which concludes a period ſhould be made for the moſt part upon a ſtrong ſyllable, as the fourth and ſixth; but thoſe pauſes which only ſuſpend the Senſe may be placed upon the weaker. Thus the reſt in the third line of the firſt paſſage ſatisfies the ear better than in the fourth, and the cloſe of the ſecond quotation better than of the third.

THE reſt in the fifth place has the ſame inconvenience as in the ſeventh and third, that the ſyllable is weak.

THE nobleſt and moſt majeſtic pauſes which our verſification admits, are upon the fourth and ſixth ſyllables, which are both ſtrongly ſounded in a pure and regular verſe, and at either of which the line is ſo divid⯑ed, that both members participate of har⯑mony.

BUT far above all others, if I can give any credit to my own ear, is the reſt upon the ſixth ſyllable, which taking in a complete compaſs of ſound, ſuch as is ſufficient to con⯑ſtitute one of our lyrick meaſures, makes a full and ſolemn cloſe. Some paſſages which conclude at this ſtop, I could never read with⯑out [179] ſome ſtrong emotions of delight or ad⯑miration.

[180] IF the poetry of Milton be examined, with regard to the pauſes and flow of his verſes into each other, it will appear, that he has per⯑formed all that our language would admit; and the compariſon of his numbers with thoſe who have cultivated the ſame manner of writing, will ſhow that he excelled as much in the lower as the higher parts of his art, and that his ſkill in harmony was not leſs than his invention or his learning.

NUMB. 91. TUESDAY, January 29, 1751.

THE SCIENCES having long ſeen their votaries labouring for the benefit of man⯑kind without reward, put up their petition to Jupiter for a more equitable diſtribution of riches and honours. Jupiter was moved at their complaints, and touched with the ap⯑proaching miſeries of Men, whom the SCIEN⯑CES, wearied with perpetual ingratitude, were now threatening to forſake, and who would have been reduced by their departure to feed in dens upon the maſt of trees, to hunt their prey in deſarts, and to periſh under the paws of animals ſtronger and fiercer than themſelves.

A SYNOD of the celeſtials was therefore convened, in which it was reſolved, that PA⯑TRONAGE ſhould deſcend to the aſſiſtance of the SCIENCES. PATRONAGE was the Daughter of ASTREA, by a mortal father, and had been educated in the ſchool of TRUTH, by the Goddeſſes, whom ſhe was now appointed to protect. She had from her [182] mother that dignity of aſpect, which ſtruck terror into falſe merit, and from her miſtreſs that reſerve, which made her only acceſſible to thoſe whom the SCIENCES brought into her preſence.

SHE came down, with the general acclama⯑tion of all the powers that favour learning. HOPE danced before her, and LIBERALI⯑TY ſtood at her ſide, ready to ſcatter by her direction the gifts which FORTUNE, who fol⯑lowed her, was commanded to ſupply. As ſhe advanced towards Parnaſſus, the cloud which had long hung over it, was immediately diſpelled. The ſhades, before withered with drought, ſpread their original verdure, and the flowers that had languiſhed with chilneſs brightened their colours, and invigorated their ſcents; the Muſes tuned their harps and ex⯑erted their voices; and all the conceit of nature welcomed her arrival.

ON Parnaſſus ſhe fixed her reſidence, in a palace raiſed by the SCIENCES, and adorned with whatever could delight the eye, elevate the imagination, or enlarge the underſtand⯑ing. Here ſhe diſperſed the gifts of FOR⯑TUNE, with the impartiality of JUSTICE, [183] and the diſcernment of TRUTH. Her gate ſtood always open, and HOPE ſat at the portal, inviting to entrance all whom the SCIENCES numbered in their train. The court was therefore thronged with innumera⯑ble multitudes, of whom, though many returned diſappointed, ſeldom any had confidence to complain; for PATRONAGE was univerſally known to neglect few, but for want of the due claims to her regard. Thoſe, therefore, who had ſolicited her favour without ſucceſs, generally withdrew from publick notice, and either diverted their attention to meaner em⯑ployments, or endeavoured to ſupply their deficiencies by cloſer application.

IN time, however, the number of thoſe who had miſcarried in their pretenſions grew ſo great, that they became leſs aſhamed of their repulſes; and inſtead of hiding their diſgrace in retirement, began to be⯑ſiege the gates of the palace, and obſtruct the entrance of ſuch as they thought likely to be more ſucceſsful. The deciſions of PA⯑TRONAGE, who was but half a Goddeſs, had been ſometimes erroneous; and though ſhe always made haſte to rectify her miſtakes, a few inſtances of her fallibility encouraged [184] every one to appeal from her judgment to his own and that of his companions, who were always ready to clamour in the common cauſe, and elate each other with reciprocal applauſe.

HOPE was a ſteady friend to the diſap⯑pointed, and IMPUDENCE incited them to accept a ſecond invitation, and lay their claim again before PATRONAGE. They were again, for the moſt part, ſent back with igno⯑miny, but found HOPE not alienated, and IMPUDENCE more reſolutely zealous; they therefore, contrived new expedients, and hoped at laſt to prevail by their multitudes which were always encreaſing, and their per⯑ſeverance which HOPE and IMPUDENCE forbad them to relax.

PATRONAGE having been long a ſtranger to the heavenly aſſemblies, began to degene⯑rate towards terreſtrial nature, and forget the precepts of JUSTICE and TRUTH. Inſtead of confining her friendſhip to the SCI⯑ENCES, ſhe ſuffered herſelf, by little and lit⯑tle, to contract an acquaintance with PRIDE, the ſon of FALSEHOOD, by whoſe embraces ſhe had two daughters, FLATTERY and CAPRICE. FLATTERY was nurſed by LI⯑BERALITY, and CAPRICE by FORTUNE, [185] without any aſſiſtance from the leſſons of the SCIENCES.

PATRONAGE began openly to adopt the ſentiments and imitate the manners of her huſband, by whoſe opinion ſhe now directed her deciſions with very little heed to the precepts of TRUTH; and, as her daughters continually gained upon her affections, the SCIENCES loſt their influence, till none found much reaſon to boaſt of their reception, but thoſe whom CAPRICE or FLATTERY conducted to her throne.

THE throngs who had ſo long waited, and ſo often been diſmiſſed for want of recommen⯑dation from the SCIENCES, were delighted to ſee the power of thoſe rigorous Goddeſſes, tending to its extinction. Their patroneſſes now renewed their encouragements. HOPE ſmiled at the approach of CAPRICE, and IMPUDENCE was always at hand to intro⯑duce her clients to FLATTERY.

PATRONAGE had now learned to pro⯑cure herſelf reverence by ceremonies and formalities, and inſtead of admitting her pe⯑titioners to an immediate audience, ordered [184] [...] [185] [...] [186] the antichamber to be erected, called among mortals, the Hall of Expectation. Into this hall the entrance was eaſy to thoſe whom IM⯑PUDENCE had conſigned to FLATTERY, and it was therefore crouded with a promiſ⯑cuous throng, aſſembled from every corner of the earth, preſſing forward with the utmoſt eagerneſs of deſire, and agitated with all the anxieties of competition.

THEY entered this general receptacle with ardour and alacrity, and made no doubt of ſpeedy acceſs under the conduct of FLAT⯑TERY to the preſence of PATRONAGE. But it generally happened that they were here left to their deſtiny, for the inner doors were committed to CAPRICE, who opened and ſhut them, as it ſeemed, by chance, and rejected or admitted without any ſettled rule of diſtinction. In the mean time, the miſe⯑rable attendants, were left to wear out their lives in alternate exultation and dejection, delivered up to the ſport of SUSPICION who was always whiſpering into their ear deſigns againſt them which were never formed, and of ENVY who diligently pointed out the good fortune of one or other of their competitors. [187] INFAMY flew round the hall, and ſcat⯑tered mildews from her wings, with which every one was ſtained; REFUTATION fol⯑lowed her with ſlower flight, and endea⯑voured to hide the blemiſhes with paint, which was immediately bruſhed away, or ſeparated of itſelf, and left the ſtains more viſible; nor were the ſpots of INFAMY ever effaced, but with limpid water effuſed by the hand of TIME from the well of TRUTH.

IT frequently happened that SCIENCE, unwilling to loſe the antient prerogative of recommending to PATRONAGE, would lead her followers into the Hall of Expecta⯑tion; but they were ſoon diſcouraged from attending, for not only ENVY and SUS⯑PICION inceſſantly tormented them, but IM⯑PUDENCE conſidered them as intruders, and incited INFAMY to blacken them. They therefore quickly retired, but ſeldom without ſome ſpots which they could never waſh away, and which ſhewed that they had once waited in the Hall of Expectation.

THE reſt continued to expect the happy moment, at which CAPRICE ſhould beckon them to approach; and endeavoured to pro⯑pitiate [188] her not with Homerical harmony, the repreſentation of great actions, or the recital of noble ſentiments, but with ſoft and volup⯑tuous melody, intermingled with the praiſes of PATRONAGE and PRIDE, by whom they were heard at once with pleaſure and contempt.

SOME were indeed admitted by CAPRICE, when they leaſt expected it, and heaped by PATRONAGE with the gifts of FORTUNE, but they were from that time chained to her foot-ſtool, end condemned to regulate their lives by her glances and her nods; they ſeemed proud of their manacles, and ſeldom com⯑plained of any drudgery, however ſervile, or any affront, however contemptuous; yet they were often, notwithſtanding their obedience, ſeized on a ſudden by CAPRICE, diveſted of their ornaments, and thruſt back into the Hall of Expectation.

HERE they mingled again with the tumult, and all, except a few whom experience had taught to ſeek happineſs in the regions of li⯑berty, continued to ſpend hours, and days, and years, courting the ſmile of CAPRICE with the arts of FLATTERY; till at length [189] new crouds preſſed in upon them, and drove them forth at different outlets into the habita⯑tions of DISEASE, and SHAME, and PO⯑VERTY, and DESPAIR, where they paſſed the reſt of their lives in narratives of promiſes and breaches of faith, of joys and ſorrows, of hopes and diſappointments.

THE SCIENCES, after a thouſand indigni⯑ties, retired from the palace of PATRONAGE, and having long wandered over the world in grief and diſtreſs, were led at laſt to the cot⯑tage of INDEPENDANCE, the daughter of FORTITUDE; where they were taught by PRUDENCE and PARSIMONY to ſupport themſelves in dignity and quiet.

NUMB. 92. SATURDAY, Feb. 2, 1751.

IT has been long obſerved that the idea of beauty is vague and undefined, different in different minds, and diverſified by time or place. It has been a term hitherto uſed to ſignify that which pleaſes us we know not why, and in our approbation of which we can juſtify ourſelves only by the concurrence of numbers, without much power of enforc⯑ing our opinion upon others by any argu⯑ment, but example and authority. It is, in⯑deed, ſo little ſubject to the examinations of reaſon, that Paſchal ſuppoſes it to end where demonſtration begins, and maintains that without incongruity and abſurdity we cannot ſpeak of geometrical beauty

TO trace all the ſources of that various pleaſure which we aſcribe to the agency of beauty, or to diſentangle all the perceptions involved in its idea, would, perhaps, require [191] a very great part of the life of Ariſtotle or Plato. It is, however, in many caſes, ap⯑parent that this quality is merely relative and comparative; that we pronounce things beau⯑tiful, becauſe they have ſomething which we agree, for whatever reaſon, to call beauty, in a greater degree than we have been accuſ⯑tomed to find it in other things of the ſame kind; and that we transfer the epithet as our knowledge encreaſes, and appropriate it to higher excellence, when higher excellence comes within our view.

MUCH of the beauty of writing is of this kind; and therefore Boileau juſtly remarks, that the books which have ſtood the teſt of time, and been admired through all the changes which the mind of man has ſuffered from the various revolutions of knowledge, and the prevalence of contrary cuſtoms, have a better claim to our regard than any modern can boaſt, becauſe the long continuance of their reputation proves that they are adequate to our faculties, and agreeable to nature.

IT is, however, the taſk of criticiſm to eſtabliſh principles; to improve opinion into [192] knowledge; and to diſtinguiſh thoſe means of pleaſing which depend upon known cauſes and rational deduction, from the nameleſs and inexplicable elegancies which appeal wholly to the fancy, from which we feel delight but know not how they produce it, and which may well be termed the enchan⯑treſſes of the ſoul. Criticiſm reduces thoſe regions of literature under the dominion of ſcience, which have hitherto known only the anarchy of ignorance, the caprices of fancy, and the tyranny of preſcription.

THERE is nothing in the art of verſifying ſo much expoſed to the power of imagination as the accommodation of the ſound to the ſenſe, or the repreſentation of particular images, by the flow of the verſe in which they are expreſſed. Every ſtudent has innu⯑merable paſſages, in which he, and perhaps he alone, diſcovers ſuch reſemblances; and ſince the attention of the preſent race of poetical readers ſeems particularly turned up⯑on this ſpecies of elegance, I ſhall endeavour to examine how much theſe in conformity have been obſerved by the poets, or directed by the criticks, how far they can be eſtabliſhed upon [193] nature and reaſon, and on what occaſions they have been practiſed by Milton.

HOMER, the father of all poetical beauty, has been particularly celebrated by Dionyſius of Halicarnaſſus, as he that, of all the poets, exhi⯑bited the greateſt variety of ſound; for there are, ſays he, innumerable paſſages, in which length of time, bulk of body, extremity of paſ⯑ſion, and ſtillneſs of repoſe; or, in which, on the contrary, brevity, ſpeed, and eagerneſs, are evidently marked out by the ſound of the ſyllables. Thus the anguiſh and ſlow pace with which the blind Polypheme groped out with his hands the entrance of his cave, are perceived in the ca⯑dence of the verſes which deſcribe it. ‘ [...]’

THUS the efforts of Achilles ſtruggling in his armour againſt the current of a river, ſometimes reſiſting and ſometimes yielding, may be perceived in the eliſions of the ſylla⯑bles, the ſlow ſucceſſion of the feet, and the ſtrength of the conſonants. ‘[194] [...]’

WHEN he deſcribes the cruſh of men daſhed againſt a rock, he collects the moſt unpleaſing and harſh ſounds. ‘ [...]’

And when he would place before the eyes ſomething dreadful and aſtoniſhing, he makes choice of the ſtrongeſt vowels, and the letters of moſt difficult utterance. ‘ [...]’

MANY other examples Dionyſius produces, but theſe will ſufficiently ſhew that either he was fanciful, or we have loſt the genuine pro⯑nunciation; for I know not whether in any one of theſe inſtances ſuch ſimilitude can be diſcovered. It ſeems, indeed, probable, that the veneration with which Homer was read, produced many ſuppoſitious beauties; for though it is certain, that the ſound of many of his verſes very juſtly correſponds with the [195] things expreſſed, yet when the force of his imagination, which gave him full poſſeſſion of every object, is conſidered together with the flexibility of his language, of which the ſyl⯑lables might be often contracted or dilated at pleaſure, it will ſeem unlikely that ſuch con⯑formity ſhould happen leſs frequently even without deſign.

IT is not however to be doubted, that Virgil who wrote amidſt the light of criticiſm, and who owed ſo much of his ſucceſs to art and labour, endeavoured among other excel⯑lencies to exhibit this ſimilitude; nor has he been leſs happy in this than in the other graces of verſification. This felicity of his numbers was at the revival of learning diſplayed with great elegance by Vida in his art of poetry.

FROM the Italian Gardens Pope ſeems to have tranſplanted this flower, the growth of happier climates, into a ſoil leſs adapted to its nature, and leſs favourable to its increaſe.

FROM theſe lines laboured with great at⯑tention, and celebrated by a rival wit, may be judged what can be expected from the [200] moſt diligent endeavours after this imagery of ſound. The verſe intended to repreſent the whiſper of the vernal breeze, muſt be confeſſed not much to excel in ſoftneſs or volubility; and the ſmooth ſtream, runs with a perpetual claſh of jarring conſonants. The noiſe and turbulence of the torrent, is, in⯑deed, diſtinctly imaged, for it requires very little ſkill to make our language rough; but in theſe lines, which mention the effort of Ajax, there is no particular heavineſs, obſtruction, or delay. The ſwiftneſs of Camilla is rather contraſted than exemplified; why the verſe ſhould be lengthened to expreſs ſpeed, will not eaſily be diſcovered. In the dactyls uſed for that purpoſe by the ancients, two ſhort ſyl⯑lables were pronounced with ſuch rapidity, as to be equal only to one long; they, therefore, naturally exhibit the act of paſſing through a long ſpace in a ſhort time. But the Alexan⯑drine, by its pauſe in the midſt, is a tardy and ſtately meaſure; and the word unbending, one of the moſt ſluggiſh and ſlow which our language affords, cannot much accelerate its motion.

[201] THESE rules and theſe examples have taught our preſent criticks to enquire very ſtudiouſly and minutely into ſounds and ca⯑dences. It is, therefore, uſeful to examine with what ſkill they have proceeded; what diſcoveries they have made; and whether any rules can be eſtabliſhed, which may guide us hereafter in ſuch reſearches.

NUMB. 93. TUESDAY, February. 5, 1751.

THERE are few books on which more time is ſpent by young ſtudents, than on treatiſes which deliver the characters of au⯑thors; nor any which oftener deceive the ex⯑pectation of the reader, or fill his mind with more opinions which the progreſs of his ſtudies and the encreaſe of his knowledge oblige him to reſign.

BAILLET has introduced his collec⯑tion of the deciſions of the learned, by an enumeration of the prejudices which miſlead the critick, and raiſe the paſſions in rebellion againſt the judgment. His catalogue, though large, is imperfect; and who can hope to complete it? The beauties of writing have been obſerved to be often ſuch as cannot in the preſent ſtate of human knowledge be evinced by evidence, or drawn out into demon⯑ſtrations; they are therefore wholly ſubject to the imagination, and do not force their ef⯑fects [203] upon a mind preoccupied by unfavour⯑able ſentiments, nor overcome the counter⯑action of a falſe principle or of ſtubborn par⯑tiality.

TO convince any man againſt his will is hard, but to pleaſe him againſt his will is juſtly pronounced by Dryden to be above the reach of human abilities. Intereſt and paſſion will hold out long againſt the cloſeſt ſiege of diagrams and ſyllogiſms, but they are abſo⯑lutely impregnable to imagery and ſentiment; and will for ever bid defiance to the moſt powerful ſtrains of Virgil or Homer, though they may give way in time to the batteries of Euclid or Archimedes.

IN truſting therefore to the ſentence of a critick, we are in danger not only from that vanity which exalts writers too often to the dignity of teaching what they are yet to learn, from that negligence which ſometimes ſteals upon the moſt vigilant caution, and that fal⯑libility to which the condition of nature has ſubjected every human underſtanding; but from a thouſand extrinſick and accidental cauſes, from every thing which can excite kindneſs or malevolence, veneration or con⯑tempt.

[204] MANY of thoſe who have determined with great boldneſs, upon the various degrees of literary merit, may be juſtly ſuſpected of hav⯑ing paſſed ſentence, as Seneca remarks of Claudius,

without much knowledge of the cauſe before them; for it will not eaſily be imagined of Langbaine, Borrichitus or Rapin, that they had very accurately peruſed all the books which they praiſe or cenſure; or that, even if nature and learning had qualified them for judges, they could read for ever with the at⯑tention neceſſary to juſt criticiſm. Such per⯑formances, however, are not wholly without their uſe; for they are commonly juſt echoes to the voice of fame, and tranſmit the general ſuffrage of mankind when they have no par⯑ticular motives to ſuppreſs it.

CRITICKS, like all the reſt of mankind, are very frequently miſled by intereſt. The bigotry with which editors regard the authors whom they illuſtrate or correct, has been generally remarked. Dryden was known to have writ⯑ten [205] moſt of his critical diſſertations only to recommend the works, upon which he then happened to be employed; and Addiſon is ſuſpected to have denied the expediency of poetical juſtice, becauſe his own Cata was condemned to periſh in a good cauſe.

THERE are prejudices which authors, not otherwiſe weak or corrupt, have indulged without ſcruple; and perhaps ſome of them are ſo complicated with our natural affections, that they cannot eaſily be diſintangled from the heart. Scarce any can hear with impar⯑tiality a compariſon between the writers of his own and another country; and though it cannot, I think, be charged equally on all nations, that they are blinded with this li⯑terary patriotiſm, yet there are none that do not look upon their authors with the fondneſs of affinity, and eſteem them as well for the place of their birth, as for their know⯑ledge or their wit. There is, therefore, ſel⯑dom much reſpect due to comparative criti⯑ciſm, when the competitors are of different countries, unleſs the judge is of a nation equally indifferent to both. The Italians could not for a long time believe, that there was any learning beyond the mountains; and [206] the French ſeem generally perſuaded, that there are no wits or reaſoners equal to their own. I can ſcarcely believe that if Scaliger had not conſidered himſelf as allied to Virgil, by being born in the ſame country, he would have found his works ſo much ſuperior to thoſe of Homer, or have thought the contro⯑verſy worthy of ſo much zeal, vehemence, and acrimony.

THERE is, indeed, one prejudice, and only one, by which it may be doubted whe⯑ther it is any diſhonour to be ſometimes miſ⯑guided. Criticiſm has ſo often given occa⯑ſion to the envious and ill-natured of gratify⯑ing their malignity, that ſome have thought it neceſſary to recommend the virtue of can⯑dour without limits or reſtriction, and to pre⯑clude all future ages from the liberty of cen⯑ſure. Writers poſſeſſed with this opinion are continually enforcing the duties of civility and decency, recommending to criticks the proper diffidence of themſelves, and inculcat⯑ing the veneration due to celebrated names.

I AM not of opinion that theſe profeſſed enemies of arrogance and ſeverity, have much [207] more benevolence or modeſty than the reſt of mankind; or that they feel in their own hearts, any other intention than to diſtinguiſh themſelves by their ſoftneſs and delicacy. Some are modeſt becauſe they are timorous, and ſome are laviſh of praiſe becauſe they hope to be repaid.

THERE is indeed ſome tenderneſs due to living writers, when they attack none of thoſe truths which are of importance to the happi⯑neſs of mankind, and have committed no other offence than that of betraying their own igno⯑rance or dulneſs. I ſhould think it cruelty to cruſh an inſect who had provoked me only by buzzing in my ear; and would not willingly interrupt the dream of harmleſs ſtupidity, or deſtroy the jeſt which makes its author laugh. Yet I am far from thinking this tenderneſs univerſally neceſſary; for he that writes may be conſidered as a kind of general challenger, whom every one has a right to attack; ſince he quits the common rank of life, ſteps for⯑ward beyond the liſts, and offers his merit to the publick judgment. To commence au⯑thor is to claim praiſe, and no man can juſtly [208] aſpire to honour, but at the hazard of diſ⯑grace.

BUT whatever be decided concerning con⯑temporaries, whom he that knows the trea⯑chery of the human heart, and conſiders how often we gratify our own pride or envy under the appearance of contending for elegance and propriety, will find himſelf not much in⯑clined to diſturb; there can ſurely be no ex⯑emptions pleaded to ſecure them from criti⯑ciſm, who can no longer ſuffer by reproach, and of whom nothing now remains but their writings and their names. Upon theſe au⯑thors the critick is, undoubtedly, at full li⯑berty to exerciſe the ſtricteſt ſeverity, ſince he endangers only his own fame, and, like Aeneas when he drew his ſword in the infernal re⯑gions, encounters phantoms which cannot be wounded. He may indeed pay ſome regard to eſtabliſhed reputation; but he can by that ſhew of reverence conſult only his own ſecu⯑rity, for all other motives are now at an end.

THE faults of a writer of acknowledged excellence are more dangerous, becauſe the influence of his example is more extenſive; [209] and the intereſt of learning requires that they ſhould be diſcovered and ſtigmatized, before they have the ſanction of antiquity conferred upon them, and become precedents of indiſ⯑putable authority.

IT has, indeed, been advanced by Addiſon, as one of the characteriſticks of a true critick, that he points out beauties rather than faults. But it is rather natural to a man of learning and genius, to apply himſelf chiefly to the ſtudy of writers who have more beauties than faults to be diſplayed; for the duty of criti⯑ciſm is neither to depreciate, nor dignify by partial repreſentations; but to hold out the light of reaſon, whatever it may diſcover; and to promulgate the determinations of truth, whatever ſhe ſhall dictate.

NUMB. 94. SATURDAY, Feb. 9, 1751.

THE reſemblance of poetick numbers to the ſubject which they mention or deſcribe, may be conſidered as general or par⯑ticular; as conſiſting in the flow and ſtructure of a whole paſſage taken together, or as com⯑priſed in the ſound of ſome emphatical and de⯑ſcriptive words, or in the cadence and harmo⯑ny of ſingle verſes.

THE general reſemblance of the ſound to the ſenſe is to be found in every language which admits of poetry, in every author whoſe force of fancy enables him to impreſs images ſtrongly on his own mind, and whoſe choice and variety of language readily ſup⯑plies him with juſt repreſentations. To ſuch a writer it is natural to change his meaſures with his ſubject, even without any effort of [211] the underſtanding, or intervention of the judgment. To revolve jollity and mirth ne⯑ceſſarily tunes the voice of a poet to gay and ſprightly notes, as it fires his eye with vi⯑vacity; and reflection on gloomy ſituations and diſaſtrous events, will ſadden his num⯑bers, as it will cloud his countenance. But in ſuch paſſages there is only the ſimilitude of pleaſure to pleaſure, and of grief to grief, without any immediate application to parti⯑cular images. The ſame flow of joyous ver⯑ſification will celebrate the jollity of marriage, and the exultation of triumph; and the ſame languor of melody will ſuit the complaints of an abſent lover, as of a conquered king.

IT is ſcarcely to be doubted, that on many occaſions we make the muſick which we ima⯑gine ourſelves to hear; that we modulate the poem by our own diſpoſition, and a⯑ſcribe to the numbers the effects of the ſenſe. We may obſerve in life, that it is not eaſy to deliver a pleaſing meſſage in an un⯑pleaſing manner, and that we readily aſſo⯑ciate beauty and deformity with thoſe whom for any reaſon we love or hate. Yet it would be too daring to declare that all the celebrat⯑ed [212] adaptations of harmony are chimerical; that Homer had no extraordinary attention to the melody of his verſe when he deſcribed a nuptial feſtivity; ‘ [...]’ that Vida was merely fanciful, when he ſup⯑poſed Virgil endeavouring to repreſent by un⯑common ſweetneſs of numbers the adventi⯑tious beauty of Aeneas;

or that Milton did not intend to exemplify the harmony which he mentions:

[213] THAT Milton underſtood the force of ſounds well adjuſted, and knew the compaſs and variety of the ancient meaſures, cannot be doubted, ſince he was both a muſician and a critick; but he ſeems to have conſidered theſe conformities of cadence, as either not often attainable in our language, or as petty excellencies unworthy of his ambition; for it will not be found that he has always aſ⯑ſigned the ſame caſt of numbers to the ſame ſubjects. He has given in two paſſages very minute deſcriptions of angelick beauty; but though the images are nearly the ſame, the numbers will be found upon compariſon very different.

[214] Some of the lines of this deſcription are re⯑markably defective in harmony, and therefore by no means correſpondent with that ſym⯑metrical elegance and eaſy grace which they are intended to exhibit. The failure, how⯑ever, is fully compenſated by the repreſenta⯑tion of Raphael which equally delights the ear and imagination.

[215] THE adumbration of particular and diſtinct images by an exact and perceptible reſem⯑blance of ſound, is ſometimes ſtudied, and ſometimes caſual. Every language has many words formed in imitation of the noiſes which they ſignify. Such are Stridor, Balo, and Boatus, in Latin; and in Engliſh to growl, to buzz, to hiſs, and to jarr. Words of this kind give to a verſe the proper ſimi⯑litude of ſound without much labour of the writer, and ſuch happineſs is therefore to be attributed rather to fortune than ſkill; yet they are ſometimes combined with great pro⯑priety, and undeniably contribute to enforce the impreſſion of the idea. We hear the paſſing arrow in this line of Virgil; ‘Et fugit horrendum ſtridens elapſa ſagitta;’ and the creaking of hell gates, in the de⯑ſcription by Milton;

[216] BUT many beauties of this kind, which the moderns, and perhaps the ancients have obſerved, ſeem to be the product of blind reverence acting upon fancy. Dionyſius him⯑ſelf tells us, that the ſound of Homer's verſes ſometimes exhibits the idea of corporeal bulk: is not this a diſcovery nearly approaching to that of the blind man, who after long en⯑quiry into the nature of the ſcarlet colour, found that it repreſented nothing ſo much as the clangor of a trumpet? the repreſentative power of poetick harmony conſiſts of ſound and meaſure; of the force of the ſyllables ſingly conſidered, and of the time in which they are pronounced. Sound can reſemble nothing but ſound, and time can meaſure no⯑thing but motion and duration.

THE criticks, however, have ſtruck out other ſimilitudes; nor is there any irregu⯑larity of numbers which credulous admira⯑tion cannot diſcover to be eminently beautiful. Thus the propriety of each of theſe lines has been celebrated by writers whoſe opinion the world has reaſon to regard,

If all theſe obſervations are juſt, there muſt be ſome remarkable conformity between the ſud⯑den ſucceſſion of night to day, the fall of an ox under a blow, and the birth of a mouſe from a mountain; ſince we are told of all theſe images, that they are very ſtrongly im⯑preſſed by the ſame form and termination of the verſe.

WE may, however, without giving way to enthuſiaſm, admit that ſome beauties of this kind may be produced. A ſudden ſtop at an unuſual ſyllable may image the ceſſation of action, or the pauſe of diſcourſe; and Milton has very happily imitated the repeti⯑tions of an echo,

[218] THE meaſure or time of pronouncing may be varied ſo as very ſtrongly to repre⯑ſent, not only the modes of external motion, but the quick or ſlow ſucceſſion of ideas, and conſequently the paſſions of the mind. This at leaſt was the power of the ſpondaick and dactylick harmony, but our language can reach no eminent diverſities of ſound. We can indeed ſometimes, by encumbering and retarding the line, ſhew the difficulty of a progreſs made by ſtrong efforts and with frequent interruptions, or mark a ſlow and heavy motion. Thus Milton has imaged the toil of Satan ſtruggling through chaos,

thus he has deſcribed the leviathans or whales. ‘Wallowing, unweildy, enormous in their gait.’ But he has at other times neglected ſuch re⯑preſentations, as may be obſerved in the vo⯑lubility and levity of theſe lines, which ex⯑preſs an action tardy and reluctant.

IN another place, he deſcribes the gentle glide of ebbing waters in a line remarkably rough and halting.

IT is not indeed to be expected, that the ſound ſhould always aſſiſt the meaning, but it ought never to counteract it; and therefore Milton has here certainly committed a fault like that of the player, who looked on the earth when he implored the heavens, and to the heavens when he addreſſed the earth.

THOSE who are determined to find in Milton an aſſemblage of all the excellencies [220] which have enobled all other poets, will perhaps be offended that I do not celebrate his verſification in higher terms; for there are readers who diſcover that in this paſſage, ‘So ſtretch'd out huge in length the arch⯑fiend lay,’ a long form is deſcribed in a long line; but the truth is, that length of body is only men⯑tioned in a ſlow line, to which it has only the reſemblance of time to ſpace, of an hour to a maypole.

THE ſame turn of ingenuity might per⯑form wonders upon the deſcription of the ark;

In theſe lines the poet apparently deſigns to fix the attention upon bulk; but this is effect⯑ed by the enumeration, not by the meaſure; for what analogy can there be between modu⯑lations of ſound, and corporeal dimenſions.

[221] MILTON, indeed, ſeems only to have re⯑garded this ſpecies of embelliſhment ſo far as not to reject it when it came unſought; which would often happen to a mind ſo vigo⯑rous, employed upon a ſubject ſo various and extenſive. He had, indeed, a greater and a nobler work to perform; a ſingle ſentiment of moral or religious truth, a ſingle image of life or nature, would have been cheaply loſt for a thouſand echoes of the cadence to the ſenſe; and he who had undertaken to vindi⯑cate the ways of God to man, might have been accuſed of neglecting his cauſe, had he laviſh⯑ed much of his attention upon ſyllables and ſounds.

NUMB. 95. TUESDAY, Feb. 12, 1751.

NUMB. 96. SATURDAY, Feb. 16, 1751.

IT is reported of the Perſians, by an an⯑cient writer that the ſum of their education conſiſted in teaching youth to ride, to ſhoot with the bow, and to ſpeak truth.

THE bow and the horſe were eaſily ma⯑ſtered, but it would have been happy if we had been informed by what arts veracity was cultivated, and by what preſervatives a Per⯑ſian mind was ſecured againſt the temptations to falſehood.

THERE are, indeed, in the preſent cor⯑ruption of mankind, many incitements to forſake truth; the need of palliating our own faults, and the convenience of impoſing on the ignorance or credulty of others ſo fre⯑quently occur, ſo many immediate evils are to be avoided, and ſo many preſent gratifica⯑tions obtained by craft and deluſion, that very [232] few of thoſe who are much entangled in life, have ſpirit and conſtancy ſufficient to ſup⯑port them in the ſteady practice of open veracity.

IN order that all men may be taught to ſpeak truth, it is neceſſary that all likewiſe ſhould learn to hear it; for no ſpecies of falſe⯑hood is more frequent than flattery, to which the coward is betrayed by fear, the dependent by intereſt, and the friend by tenderneſs: Thoſe who are neither ſervile nor timorous, are yet deſirous to beſtow pleaſure; and while unjuſt demands of praiſe continue to be made, there will always be ſome whom hope, fear or kindneſs will diſpoſe to pay them.

THE guilt of falſehood is very widely ex⯑tended, and many whom their conſcience can ſcarcely charge with ſtooping to a lye, have vitiated the morals of others by their vanity, and patronized the vice which they believe themſelves to abhor.

TRUTH is, indeed, not often welcome for its own ſake; it is generally unpleaſing becauſe contrary to our wiſhes and oppoſite to our practice; and as our attention naturally [233] follows our intereſt, we very unwillingly hear what we are afraid to know, and very ſoon forget what we have no inclination to impreſs upon our memories.

FOR this reaſon many arts of inſtruction have been invented, by which the reluctance againſt Truth may be overcome, and as phy⯑ſick is given to children in confections, pre⯑cepts have been hidden under a thouſand ap⯑pearances, that mankind may be bribed by pleaſure to eſcape deſtruction.

WHILE the world was yet in its infancy TRUTH came among mortals from above, and FALSEHOOD from below. TRUTH was the daughter of JUPITER and WISDOM; FALSEHOOD was the progeny of FOLLY impregnated by the wind. They advanced with equal confidence to ſeize the dominion of the new creation, and as their enmity and their force were well known to the celeſtials, all the eyes of heaven were turned upon the conteſt.

TRUTH ſeemed conſcious of ſuperior power and juſter claim, and therefore came on towering and majeſtick, unaſſiſted and [234] alone; REASON indeed always attended her, but appeared her follower, rather than com⯑panion. Her march was ſlow and ſtately, but her motion was perpetually progreſſive, and when once ſhe had grounded her foot, neither gods nor men could force her to retire.

FALSEHOOD always endeavoured to copy the mien and attitudes of TRUTH, and was very ſucceſsful in the arts of mimickry. She was ſurrounded, animated, and ſupported by innumerable legions of appetites and paſ⯑ſions, but, like other ſeeble commanders, was obliged often to receive law from her allies. Her motions were ſudden, irregular, and violent; for ſhe had no ſteadineſs nor con⯑ſtancy. She often gained conqueſts by haſty incurſions, which ſhe never hoped to keep by her own ſtrength, but maintained by the help of the paſſions, whom ſhe generally found reſolute and faithful.

IT ſometimes happened that the antagoniſts met in full oppoſition. In theſe encounters, FALSEHOOD always inveſted her head with clouds, and commanded FRAUD to place ambuſhes about her. In her left hand ſhe [235] bore the ſhield of IMPUDENCE, and the quiver of SOPHISTRY rattled on her ſhoul⯑der. All the paſſions attended at her call; VA⯑NITY clapped her wings before, and OB⯑STINACY ſupported her behind. Thus guarded and aſſiſted, ſhe ſometimes advanced againſt TRUTH, and ſometimes waited the attack; but always endeavoured to ſkirmiſh at a diſtance, perpetually ſhifted her ground, and let fly her arrows in different directions; for ſhe certainly found that her ſtrength fail⯑ed, whenever the eye of TRUTH darted full upon her.

TRUTH had the awful aſpect though not the thunder of her father, and when the long continuance of the conteſt brought them near to one another, FALSEHOOD let the arms of SOPHISTRY fall from her graſp, and, hold⯑ing up the ſhield of IMPUDENCE with both her hands, ſheltered herſelf amongſt the paſſions.

TRUTH, though ſhe was often wounded, always recovered in a ſhort time; but it was common for the ſlighteſt hurt, received by FALSEHOOD, to ſpread its malignity to the [236] neighbouring parts, and to burſt open again when it ſeemed to have been cured.

FALSEHOOD, in a ſhort time, found by experience that her ſuperiority conſiſted only in the celerity of her courſe, and the changes of her poſture. She therefore ordered SUSPI⯑CION to beat the ground before her, and a⯑voided with great care to croſs the way of TRUTH, who, as ſhe never varied her point, but moved conſtantly upon the ſame line, was eaſily eſcaped by the oblique and deſultory movements, the quick retreats and active doubles which FALSEHOOD always practiſed, when the enemy began to raiſe terror by her approach.

BY this procedure FALSEHOOD every hour encroached upon the world, and extend⯑ed her empire through all climes and regions. Wherever ſhe carried her victories ſhe left the PASSIONS in full authority behind her; who were ſo well pleaſed with command, that they held out with great obſtinacy when TRUTH came to ſeize their poſts, and ne⯑ver failed to retard her progreſs though they could not always ſtop it: They yielded at [237] laſt with great reluctance, frequent rallies, and ſullen ſubmiſſion; and always inclined to revolt when TRUTH ceaſed to awe them by her immediate preſence.

TRUTH who, when ſhe firſt deſcended from the heavenly palaces, expected to have been received by univerſal acclamation, che⯑riſhed with kindneſs, heard with obedience, and invited to ſpread her influence from pro⯑vince to province, now found that, wherever ſhe came, ſhe muſt force her paſſage. Every intellect was precluded by PREJUDICE, and every heart preoccupied by PASSION. She indeed advanced, but ſhe advanced ſlowly, and often loſt the conqueſts which ſhe left behind her, by ſudden inſurrections of the appetites, that ſhook off their allegiance, and ranged themſelves again under the banner of her enemy.

TRUTH, however, did not grow weaker by the ſtruggle, for her vigour was uncon⯑querable, yet ſhe was provoked to ſee herſelf thus baffled and impeded by an enemy, whom ſhe looked on with contempt, and who had no advantage but ſuch as ſhe owed to incon⯑ſtancy, [238] weakneſs, and artifice. She there⯑fore, in the anger of diſappointment, called upon her father JUPITER to re-eſtabliſh her in the ſkies, and leave mankind to the diſor⯑der and miſery which they deſerved by ſub⯑mitting willingly to the uſurpation of FALSE⯑HOOD.

JUPITER compaſſionated the world too much to grant her requeſt, yet was willing to eaſe her labours and mitigate her vexation. He commanded her to conſult the muſes by what methods ſhe might obtain an eaſier re⯑ception, and reign without the toil of inceſ⯑ſant war. It was then diſcovered, that ſhe obſtructed her own progreſs by the ſeverity of her aſpect, and the ſolemnity of her dic⯑tates; and that men would never willingly admit her, till they ceaſed to fear her, ſince by giving themſelves up to FALSEHOOD they ſeldom made any ſacrifice of their eaſe or pleaſure, becauſe ſhe took the ſhape that was moſt engaging, and always ſuffered her⯑ſelf to be dreſſed and painted by DESIRE. The muſes wove in the loom of Pallas, a looſe and changeable robe, like that in which FALSEHOOD captivated her admirers; with this they inveſted TRUTH, and named her [239] FICTION. She now went out again to conquer with more ſucceſs; for when ſhe de⯑manded entrance of the PASSIONS, they of⯑ten miſtook her for FALSEHOOD, and deli⯑vered up their charge; but when ſhe had once taken poſſeſſion, ſhe was ſoon diſrobed by REASON, and ſhone out, in her original form, with native effulgence and reſiſtleſs dignity.

NUMB. 97 TUESDAY, Feb. 19, 1751.

THE reader is indebted for this day's en⯑tertainment, to an author from whom the age has received greater favours, who has enlarged the knowledge of human nature, and taught the paſſions to move at the command of virtue.

NUMB. 98. SATURDAY, Feb. 23, 1751.

NUMB. 99. TUESDAY, February. 26, 1751.

IT has been ordained by providence, for the conſervation of order in the im⯑menſe variety of created nature, and for the regular propagation of the ſeveral claſſes of life with which the elements are peopled, that every creature ſhould be drawn by ſome ſecret attraction to thoſe of his own kind; and that not only the gentle and domeſtick animals which naturally unite into companies or cohabit by pairs, ſhould continue faithful to their ſpecies, but even thoſe ravenous and ferocious ſavages which Ariſtotle obſerves never to be gregarious, ſhould range moun⯑tains and deſarts in ſearch of one another, rather than pollute the world with a mon⯑ſtrous birth.

[262] As the perpetuity and diſtinction of the lower tribes of the creation require that they ſhould be determined to proper mates by ſome uniform motive of choice, or ſome co⯑gent principle of inſtinct; it is neceſſary likewiſe, that man whoſe wider capacity de⯑mands more gratifications, and who feels in himſelf innumerable wants, which a life of ſolitude cannot ſupply, and innumerable pow⯑ers to which it cannot give employment, ſhould be led to ſuitable companions by particular in⯑fluence; that among many beings of the ſame nature with himſelf, he may ſelect ſome for intimacy and tenderneſs, and improve the condition of his exiſtence, by ſuperadding friendſhip to humanity, and the love of indi⯑viduals to that of the ſpecies.

OTHER animals are ſo formed, that they ſeem to contribute very little to the happi⯑neſs of each other, and know neither joy, nor grief, nor love, nor hatred, but as they are urged by ſome deſire immediately ſub⯑ſervient either to the ſupport of their own lives, or to the continuation of their race; they therefore ſeldom appear to regard any of the minuter diſcriminations which diſtinguiſh [263] creatures of the ſame kind from one ano⯑ther.

BUT if man were to feel no incentives to kindneſs, more than his general tendency to congenial nature, Babylon or London, with all their multitudes, would have to him the deſolation of a wilderneſs; his affections, not compreſſed into a narrower compaſs, would vaniſh like elemental fire, in boundleſs eva⯑poration, he would languiſh in perpetual in⯑ſenſibility, ſuſpended between different im⯑pulſes; and though he might, perhaps, in the firſt vigour of youth, amuſe himſelf with the freſh enjoyments of life, yet, when cu⯑rioſity ſhould ceaſe, and alacrity ſubſide, he would abandon himſelf to the fluctuations of chance, without expecting help againſt any calamity, or feeling any wiſh for the happineſs of others.

TO love all men is our duty, ſo far as it includes a general habit of benevolence, and readineſs of occaſional kindneſs; but to love all equally is impoſſible, at leaſt impoſſible without the extinction of thoſe paſſions which now produce all our pains and all our plea⯑ſures, without the diſuſe, if not the aboli⯑tion [264] of ſome of our faculties, and the ſup⯑preſſion of all our hopes and fears in apathy and indifference.

THE neceſſities of our condition require a thouſand offices of tenderneſs, which mere regard for the ſpecies will never dictate. E⯑very man has frequent grievances which only the ſolicitude of friendſhip will diſcover and remedy, and which would remain for ever unheeded in the mighty heap of human cala⯑mity, were it only ſurveyed by the eye of ge⯑neral benevolence equally attentive to every miſery.

THE great community of mankind is therefore, neceſſarily broken into ſmaller in⯑dependent ſocieties; theſe form diſtinct inte⯑reſts, which are too frequently oppoſed to each other, and which they who have entered into the league of particular governments falſely think it virtue to promote, however deſtructive to the happineſs of the reſt of the world.

SUCH unions are again ſeparated into ſubordinate claſſes and combinations, and ſo⯑cial [265] life is perpetually branched out into mi⯑nuter ſubdiviſions, till it terminates in the laſt ramifications of private friendſhip.

THAT friendſhip may at once be fond and laſting, it has been already obſerved in theſe papers, that a conformity of inclinations is neceſſary. No man can have much kind⯑neſs for him by whom he does not believe himſelf eſteemed, and nothing ſo evidently proves eſteem as imitation.

THAT benevolence is always ſtrongeſt which ariſes from participation of the ſame pleaſures, ſince we are naturally moſt willing to revive in our minds the memory of perſons, with whom the idea of enjoyment is con⯑nected.

IT is commonly, therefore, to little pur⯑poſe that any one endeavours to ingratiate himſelf with ſuch as he cannot accompany in their amuſements and diverſions. Men have been known to riſe to favour and to fortune, only by being ſkilful in the ſports with which their patron happened to be de⯑lighted, by concurring with his taſte for ſome particular ſpecies of curioſities, by reliſh⯑ing [266] the ſame wine, or applauding the ſame cookery.

EVEN thoſe whom their wiſdom or their virtue have placed above regard to ſuch petty recommendations, muſt nevertheleſs be gained by ſimilitude of manners. The higheſt and nobleſt enjoyment of familiar life, the com⯑munication of knowledge and reciprocation of ſentiments, muſt always preſuppoſe a diſ⯑poſition to the ſame inquiry, and delight in the ſame diſcoveries.

WITH what ſatisfaction could the politi⯑cian lay his ſchemes for the reformation of laws, or his compariſons of different forms of government, before the chemiſt, who has never accuſtomed his thoughts to any other object than ſalt and ſulphur; or how could the aſtronomer, in explaining his calculations and conjectures, endure the coldneſs of a grammarian, who would loſe ſight of Jupiter and all his ſatellites, for a happy etymology of an obſcure word, or a better explication of a controverted line.

EVERY man loves merit of the ſame kind with his own, when it is not likely to hin⯑der [267] his advancement or his reputation; for he not only beſt underſtands the worth of thoſe qualities which he labours to cultivate, or the uſefulneſs of the art which he practiſes with ſucceſs, but always feels a reflected plea⯑ſure from the praiſes, which, though given to another, belong equally to himſelf.

THERE is indeed no need of reſearch and refinement to diſcover that men muſt generally ſelect their companions from their own ſtate of life, ſince there are not many minds furniſhed for great variety of converſation, or adapted to multiplicity of intellectual entertainments.

THE ſailor, the academick, the lawyer, the mechanick, and the courtier, have all a caſt of talk peculiar to their own fraternity, have fixed their attention upon the ſame events, have been engaged in affairs of the ſame ſort, and make uſe of alluſions and illuſtrations which themſelves only can underſtand.

TO be infected with the jargon of a particu⯑lar profeſſion, and to know only the language of a ſingle rank of mortals, is indeed ſuffi⯑ciently deſpicable. But as limits muſt be always ſet to the excurſions of the human [268] mind, there will be ſome ſtudy which every man more zealouſly proſecutes, ſome darling ſubject on which he is principally pleaſed to converſe, and he that can moſt inform or beſt underſtand him, will certainly be wel⯑comed with particular regard.

SUCH partiality is not wholly to be avoided, nor is it culpable unleſs ſuffered ſo far to pre⯑dominate as to produce averſion from every other kind of excellence, and to ſhade the luſtre of diſſimilar virtues. Thoſe, therefore, whom the lot of life has conjoined, ſhould endeavour conſtantly to approach towards the inclination of each other, invigorate every motion of concurrent deſire, and fan every ſpark of kindred curioſity.

IT has been juſtly obſerved, that diſcord generally operates in little things; it is in⯑flamed to its utmoſt vehemence by contra⯑riety of taſte, oftener than of principles; and might therefore commonly be avoided by in⯑nocent conformity, which, if it was not at firſt the motive, ought always to be the con⯑ſequence of indiſſoluble union.

NUMB. 100. SATURDAY, March 2. 1751.