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THE HISTORY 
 
 OF RASSELAS 
 
 PRINCE OF ABYSSINIA 
 
 By SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. 
 
 WITH A LIFE OF THE AUTHOR 
 
 By LESLIE STEPHEN 
 
 "Happiness is like the mirase in the desert; she tantalises us with Q 
 delusion that distance creates and that contiguity destroys.** 
 
 A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, 
 52-58 DUANE STREET, NEW YORK ^ 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGES 
 
 Life of Samuel Johnson by Leslie Stephen 5 
 
 Childhood and Early Life 5 
 
 Literary Career 23 
 
 Johnson and His Friends 65 
 
 The Closing Years of Johnson's Life 113 
 
 Johnson's Writings 141 
 
 History of Rasselas, Peince of Abyssinia 175 
 
LIFE OE SAMUEL JORNSON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND EAELY LIFE. 
 
 Samuel Johnson was born in J^ichfield in 1709. 
 His father, Michael Johnson, was a bookseller, highly- 
 respected by the cathedral clergy, and for a time 
 sufficiently prosperous to be a magistrate of the town, 
 and, in the year of his son's birth, sheriff of the 
 county. He opened a bookstall on market-days at 
 neighboring towns, including Birmingham, which 
 was as yet unable to maintain a separate bookseller. 
 The tradesman often exaggerates the prejudices of 
 the class whose wants he supplies, and Michael 
 Johnson was probably a more devoted High Church- 
 man and Tory than many of thsPcathedral clergy 
 themselves. He reconciled himself with difficulty 
 to taking the oaths against the exiled dynasty. He 
 was a man of considerable mental and physical 
 power, but tormented by hypochondriacal tendencies. 
 His son inherited a share both of his constitution and 
 of his principles. Long afterwards Samuel associated 
 with his childish days a faint but solemn recollec- 
 tion of a lady in diamonds and long black hood. 
 
 5 
 
,", EASSELAS. 
 
 The lady was Queen Anne, to whom, in compliance 
 with a superstition just dying a natural death, he 
 had been taken by his mother to be touched for the 
 king's evil. The touch was ineffectual. Perhaps, 
 as Boswell suggested, he ought to have been presented 
 to the genuine heirs of the Stuarts in Rome. Disease 
 and superstition had thus stood by his cradle, and 
 they never quitted him during life. The demon of 
 liypochondria was always lying in wait for him, and 
 could be exorcised for a time only by hard work or 
 social excitement. Of this we shall hear enough; 
 but it may be as well to sum up at once some of the 
 physical characteristics which marked him through 
 life and greatly influenced his career. 
 
 The disease had scarred and disfigured features 
 otherwise regular and always impressive. It had 
 seriously injured his eyes, entirely destroying, it 
 seems, the sight of one. He could not, it is said, 
 distinguish a friend's face half a yard off, and 
 pictures were to him meaningless patches, in which 
 he could never see the resemblance to their objects. 
 The statement is perhaps exaggerated ; for he could 
 see enough to condemn a portrait of himself. He 
 expressed some annoyance when Reynolds had 
 painted him with a pen held close to his eye ; and 
 protested that he would not be handed down to 
 posterity as " blinking Sam." It seems that habits 
 of minute attention atoned in some degree for this 
 natural defect. Boswell tells us how Johnson once 
 corrected him as to the precise shape of a mountain ; 
 and Mrs. Thrale says that he was a close and 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 7 
 
 exacting critic of ladies' dress, even to the accidental 
 position of a ribbon. He could even lay down 
 aesthetical canons upon such matters. He reproved 
 her for wearing a dark dress as unsuitable to a " little 
 creature." " What," he asked, " have not all insects 
 gay colors ? " His insensibility to music was even 
 more pronounced than his dulness of sight. On 
 hearing it said, in praise of a musical performance, 
 that it was in any case difficult, his feeling comment 
 was, " I wish it had been impossible ! " 
 
 The queer convulsions by which he amazed all 
 beholders were probably connected with his disease, 
 though he and Reynolds ascribed them simply to 
 habit. When entering a doorway with his blind 
 companion, Miss Williams, he would suddenly desert 
 her on the step in order to " whirl and twist about " 
 in strange gesticulations. The performance partook 
 of the nature of a superstitious ceremonial. He 
 would stop in a street or the middle of a room to go 
 through it correctly. Once he collected a laughing 
 mob in Twickenham meadows by his antics ; his 
 hands imitating the motions of a jockey riding at 
 full speed and his feet twisting in and out to make 
 heels and toes touch alternately. He presently sat 
 down and took out a Grrotius De Veritate, over 
 which he " seesawed " so violently that the mob ran 
 back to see what was the matter. Once in such a fit 
 he suddenly twisted off the shoe of a lady who sat by 
 him. Sometimes he seemed to be obeying some 
 hidden impulse, which commanded him to touch 
 every post in a street or tread on the centre of every 
 
8 EASSELAS. 
 
 paving-stone, and would return if his task had not 
 been accurately peiformed. 
 
 In spite of such oddities, he was not only possessed 
 of physical power corresponding to his great height 
 and massive stature, but was something of a proficient 
 at athletic exercises. He was conversant with the 
 theoi-y, at least, of boxing; a knowledge probably 
 acquired from an uncle who kept the ring at Smith- 
 field for a year, and was never beaten in boxing or 
 wrestling. His constitutional fearlessness would have 
 made him a formidable antagonist. Hawkins describes 
 the oak staff, six feet in length and increasing from 
 one to three inches in diameter, wliich lay readjr to 
 his hand when he expected an attack from Mac- 
 pherson of Ossian celebrity. Once he is said to have 
 taken up a chair at the theatre upon which a man 
 had seated himself during his temporary absence, 
 and to have tossed it and its occupant bodily into 
 the pit. He would swim into pools said to be 
 dangerous, beat huge dogs into peace, climb trees, 
 and even run races and jump gates. Once at least 
 he went out foxhunting, and though he despised the 
 amusement, was deeply touched by the complimentary 
 assertion that he rode as well as the most illiterate 
 fellow in England. Perhaps the most whimsical of 
 his performances Avas when, in his fifty-fifth year, he 
 went to the top of a high hill with his friend Langton. 
 " I have not had a roll for a long time," said the 
 great lexicograplier suddenly, and, after deliberately 
 emptying his pockets, he laid himself parallel to the 
 edge of the hill, and descended, turning over and 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON, Q 
 
 over till he came to the bottom. We may believe, 
 as Mrs. Thrale remarks upon his jumping over a stool 
 to show that he was not tired by his hunting, that his 
 performances in this kind were so strange and un- 
 couth that a fear for the safety of his bones quenched 
 the spectator's tendency to laugh. 
 
 In such a strange case was imprisoned one of the 
 most vigorous intellects of the time. Vast strength 
 hampered by clumsiness and associated with grievous 
 disease, deep and massive powers of feeling limited 
 by narrow though acute perceptions, were charac- 
 teristic both of soul and body. These peculiarities 
 were manifested from his early infancy. Miss 
 Seward, a typical specimen of the provincial precjeitse, 
 attempted to trace them in an epitaph which he was 
 said to have written at the age of three. 
 
 Here lies good master duck 
 
 Whom Samuel Johnson trod on ; 
 
 If it had lived, it had been good luck, 
 For then we had had an odd one. 
 
 The verses, however, were really made by his 
 father, who passed them off as the child's, and il- 
 lustrate nothing but the paternal vanity. In fact the 
 boy was regarded as something of an infant prodigy. 
 His great powers of memory, charactei'istic of a mind 
 singularly retentive of all impressions, were early 
 developed. He seemed to learn by intuition. In- 
 dolence, as in his after life, alternated with brief 
 efforts of strenuous exertion. His want of sight pre- 
 vented him fi'om sharing in the ordinary childish 
 
10 RASSELAS. 
 
 spoi'bs ; and one of his great pleasures was in reading 
 old romances — a taste which he retained through 
 life. Boys of this temperament are generally de- 
 spised by their fellows ; but Johnson seems to have 
 had the power of enforcing the respect of his com- 
 panions. Three of the lads used to come for him in 
 the morning and carry him in triumph to school, 
 seated upon the shoulders of one and supported on 
 each side by his companions. 
 
 After learning to read at a dame-school, and from a 
 certain Tom Brown, of whom it is only recorded that 
 he published a spelling-book and dedicated it to the 
 Universe, young Samuel was sent to the Lichfield 
 Grammar School, and was afterwards, for a short time, 
 apparently in the character of pupil-teacher, at the 
 school of Stourbridge, in Worcestershire. A good 
 deal of Latin was " whipped into him," and though 
 he complained of the excessive severity of two of his 
 teachers, he was always a believer in the virtues of 
 the rod. A child, he said, who is flogged, " gets 
 liis task, and there's an end on't ; whereas b}'' excit- 
 ing emulation and comparisons of superiority, you 
 la}' the foundations of lasting mischief; j'ou make 
 brothers and sisters hate each other." In practice, 
 indeed, this stern disciplinarian seems to have been 
 specially indulgent to children. The memory of his 
 own soiTows made lum value their happiness, and he 
 rejoiced greatly when he at last persuaded a school- 
 master to remit the old-fashioned holiday-task. 
 
 Johnson left school at sixteen and spent two years 
 at home, probably in learning his father's business. 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. H 
 
 This seems to have been the chief period of his 
 studies. Long afterwards he said that he knew al- 
 most as much at eighteen as he did at the age of fifty- 
 three — the date of the remark. His father's shop 
 would give him many opportunities, and he devoured 
 what came in his way with the undiscriminating 
 eagerness of a young student. His intellectual re- 
 sembled his physical appetite. He gorged books. He 
 tore the hearts out of them, but did not study 
 systematically. Do you read books through? he 
 asked indignantly of some one who expected from 
 him such supererogatory labor. His memory en- 
 able him to accumulate great stores of a desultory 
 and unsystematic knowledge. Somehow he became a 
 fine Latin scholar, though never first-rate as a Grecian. 
 The direction of his studies was partly determined 
 by the discovery of a folio of Petrarch, lying on a 
 shelf where he was looking for apples ; and one of his 
 earliest literary plans, never carried out, was an ed- 
 ition of Politian, with a history of Latin poetry from 
 the time of Petrarch. When lie went to tlie Uni- 
 versity at the end of this period, he was in posses- 
 sion of a very unusual amount of reading. 
 
 Meanwhile he was beginning to feel the pressure 
 of poverty. His father's affairs were probably get- 
 ting into disorder. One anecdote — it is one which 
 it is difficult to read without emotion — refers to this 
 period. Many years afterwards, Johnson, worn by 
 disease and the hard struggle of life, was staying at 
 Lichfield, where a few old friends still survived, but 
 in which every street must have revived the memories 
 
12 EASSELAS. 
 
 of tbe many who liad long since gone over to the 
 majority. He was missed one morning at breakfast, 
 and did not return till supper-time. Then he told 
 how his time had been passed. On that day fifty 
 years before, his father, confined by illness, had 
 begged him to take his place to sell books at a stall at 
 Uttoxeter. Pride made him refuse. " To do away 
 with the sin of this disobedience, I this day went in 
 a post-chaise to Uttoxeter, and going into the mar- 
 ket at the time of high business, uncovered my head 
 and stood with it bare an hour before the stall which 
 my father had formerly used, exposed to the sneers 
 of the standers-by and the inclemency of the weather ; 
 a penance by which I trust I have propitiated Heaven 
 for this only instance, I believe, of contumacy to my 
 father." If the anecdote illustrates the touch of 
 superstition in Johnson's mind, it reveals too that 
 sacred depth of tenderness which ennobled his char- 
 acter. No repentance can ever wipe out the past or 
 make it be as though it had not been ; but the re- 
 morse of a fine character may be transmuted into a 
 permanent source of nobler views of life and the 
 world. 
 
 There are difficulties in determining the circum- 
 stances and duration of Johnson's stay at Oxford. 
 He began residence at Pembroke College in 1728. 
 It seems probable that he received some assistance 
 from a gentleman whose son took him as companion, 
 and from the clergy of Lichfield, to whom his father 
 was known, and who were aware of the son's talents. 
 Possibly his college assisted him during part of the 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 13 
 
 time. It is certain that he left without taking a 
 degree, though he probably resided for nearly three 
 years. It is certain, also, that his father's bankruptcy 
 made his stay difficult, and that the period must have 
 been one of trial. 
 
 The effect of the Oxford residence upon Johnson's 
 mind was characteristic. The lad already suffered 
 from the attacks of melancholy, which sometimes 
 drove him to the borders of insanity. At Oxford, 
 Laws's Serious Call gave him the strong religious im- 
 pressions which remained through life. But he does 
 not seem to have been regarded as a gloomy or a re- 
 ligious youth by his contemporaries. When told in 
 after years that he had been described as a " gay and 
 frolicsome fellow," he replied, " Ah ! sir, I was mad 
 and violent. It was bitterness which they mistook 
 for frolic. I was miserably poor, and I thought to 
 fight my way by my literature and my wit ; so I dis- 
 regarded all power and all authority." Though a 
 hearty supporter of authority in principle, Johnson 
 was distinguished through life by the strongest spirit 
 of personal independence and self-respect. He held, 
 too, the sound doctrine, deplored by his respectable 
 biographer Hawkins, that the scholar's life, like 
 the Christian's, levelled all distinctions of rank. 
 When an officious benefactor put a pair of new shoes 
 at his door, he threw them away with indignation. 
 He seems to have treated his tutors with a contempt 
 which Boswell politely attributed to " great fortitude 
 of mind," but Johnson himself set down as " stark 
 insensibility." The life of a poor student is not, one 
 
14 EASSELAS. 
 
 may fear, even yet exempt from much bitterness, and 
 in those days the position was far more servile than 
 at present. The servitors and sizars had much to 
 bear from richer companions. A proud melancholy 
 lad, conscious of great powers, had to meet with hard 
 rebuffs, and tried to meet them by returning scorn 
 for scorn. 
 
 Such distresses, however, did not shake Johnson's 
 rooted Toryism. He fully imbibed, if he did not 
 already share, the strongest prejudices of the place, 
 and his misery never produced a revolt against the 
 system, though it may have fostered insolence to 
 individuals. Three of the most eminent men with 
 whom Johnson came in contact in later life, had also 
 been students at Oxford. Wesley, his senior by six 
 years, was a fellow of Lincoln whilst Johnson was an 
 undergraduate, and was learning at Oxford the neces- 
 sity of rousing his countrymen from the religious 
 lethargy into which they had sunk. " Have not 
 pride and haughtiness of spirit, impatience, and 
 peevishness, sloth and indolence, gluttony and sen- 
 suality, and even a proverbial uselessness been ob- 
 jected to us, perhaps not always by our enemies nor 
 wholly without ground ? " So said Wesley, preaching 
 before the University of Oxford in 1744, and the 
 words in his mouth imply more than the preacher's 
 formality. Adam Smith, Johnson's junior by four- 
 teen yep-vs, was so impressed by the utter indifference 
 of Oxford authorities to their duties, as to find in it 
 an admirable illustration of llie consequences of the 
 neglect of the true principles of suppl}'- and demand 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 15 
 
 implied in the endowment of learning. Gibbon, his 
 junior by twenty-eight years, passed at Oxford the 
 " most idle and unprofitable " months of his whole 
 life; and was, he said, as willing to disclaim the 
 university for a mother, as she could be to renounce 
 him for a son. Oxford, as judged by these men, was 
 remarkable as an illustration of the spiritual and in- 
 tellectual decadence of a body which at other times 
 has been a centre of great movements of thought. 
 Johnson, though he had a rougher experience than 
 any of the three, loved Oxford as though she had not 
 been a harsh stepmother to his youth. Sir, he said 
 fondly of his college, " we are a nest of singing-birds." 
 Most of the strains are now pretty well forgotten, 
 and some of them must at all times have been such as 
 ■we scarcely associate with the nightingale. Johnson , 
 however, cherished his college friendships, delighted 
 in paying visits to his old university, and was deeply 
 touched by the academical honors by which Oxford 
 long afterwards recognized an eminence scarcely 
 fostered by its protection. Far from sharing tlie 
 doctrines of Adam Smith, he only regretted that the 
 universities were not richer, and expressed a desire 
 which will be understood by advocates of the " en- 
 dowment of research," that there were many places 
 of a thousand a year at Oxford. 
 
 On leaving the University, in 1731, the world was 
 all before him. His father died in the end of tlie 
 year, and Johnson's whole immediate inheritance was 
 twenty pounds. Where was he to turn for daily 
 bread ? Even in those days, most gates were barred 
 
16 RASSELAS. 
 
 with gold and opened but to golden keys. Tlie 
 greatest chance for a poor man was probably through 
 the Church. The career of Warburton, who rose 
 from a similar position to a bishopric might have 
 been rivalled by Johnson, and his connections with 
 Lichfield might, one would suppose, have helped him 
 to a start. It would be easy to speculate upon causes 
 which might have hindered such a career. In later 
 life, he more than once refused to take orders upon 
 the promise of a living. Johnson, as we know him, 
 was a man of the world ; though a religious man of 
 the world. He represents the secular rather than the 
 ecclesiastical type. So far as his mode of teaching 
 goes, he is rather a disciple of Socrates than of St. 
 Paul or Wesley. According to him, a " tavern-chair " ' 
 was " the throne of human felicity," and supplied a 
 better arena than the pulpit for the utterance of his 
 message to mankind. And, though his external cir- 
 cumstances doubtless determined his method, there 
 was much in his character which made it congenial. 
 Johnson's religious emotions were such as to make 
 habitual reserve almost a sanitary necessity. They 
 were deeply colored by his constitutional melancholy. 
 Fears of death and hell were prominent in his personal 
 creed. To trade upon his feelings like a charlatan 
 would have been abhorrent to his masculine character ; 
 and to give them full and frequent utterance like a 
 genuine teacher of mankind would have been to 
 imperil his sanity. If he had gone through the ex- 
 citement of a Methodist conversion, he would probably 
 have ended his days in a madhouse. 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 17 
 
 Such considerations, however, were not, one may 
 guess, distinctly present to Johnson himself; and the 
 offer of a college fellowship or of private patronage 
 might probahly have altered his career. He might 
 have become a learned recluse or a struggling Parson 
 Adams. College fellowships were less open to talent 
 then than now, and patrons were never too propitious 
 to the uncouth giant, who bad to force his way by 
 sheer labor, and fight for his own hand. Accordinglj', 
 the young scholar tried to coin his brains into money 
 by the most depressing and least hopeful of employ- 
 ments. Bj' becoming an usher in a school, he could 
 at least turn his talents to account with little delay, 
 and that was the most pressing consideration. By 
 one schoolmaster he was rejected on the ground that 
 his infirmities would excite the ridicule of the boys. 
 Under another he passed some months of " compli- 
 cated misery," and could never think of the school 
 without horror and aversion. Finding this situation 
 intolerable, he settled in Birmingham, in 1733, to 
 be near an old schoolfellow, named Hector, who 
 was apparently beginning to practise as a surgeon. 
 Johnson seems to have had some acquaintances 
 among the comfortable families in the neighborhood ; 
 but his means of living are obscure. Some small 
 literary work came in his way. He contributed 
 essays to a local paper, and translated a book of 
 Travels in Abyssinia. For this, his first publication, 
 he received five guineas. In 1734 he made certain 
 overtures to Cave, a London publisher, of tlie result 
 of which I shall have to speak presently. For the 
 3 
 
18 RASSELAS. 
 
 present it is pretty clear that the great problem of 
 self-support had been very inadequately solved. 
 
 Having no money and no prospects, Johnson natu- 
 rally married. The attractions of the lady were not 
 very manifest to others than her husband. She was 
 the widow of a Birmingham mercer named Porter. 
 Her age at the time (1735) of the second marriage 
 was forty-six, the bridegroom being not quite tweu t.y- 
 six. The biographer's eye was not fixed upon John- 
 son till after his wife's death, and we have little in 
 the way of authentic description of her person and 
 character. Garrick, who had known her, said that 
 she was very fat, with cheeks colored both by paint 
 and cordials, flimsy and fantastic in dress and affected 
 in her manners. She is said to have treated her 
 husband with some contempt, adopting the airs of an 
 antiquated beauty, which he returned by elaborate 
 deference. Garrick used his wonderful powers of 
 mimicry to make fun of tlie uncouth caresses of the 
 husband, and the courtly Beauclerc used to provoke 
 the smiles of his audience by repeating Johnson's 
 assertion that " it was a love-match on both sides." 
 One incident of the wedding-day was ominous. As 
 the newly-married couple rode back from church, 
 Mrs. Johnson showed her spirit by reproaching her 
 husband for riding too fast, and then for lagging 
 behind. Resolved " not to be made the slave of ca- 
 price," he pushed on briskly till he was fairly out of 
 sight. When she rejoined him, as he, of course, took 
 care that she should soon do, she was ia tears. Mrs. 
 Johnson apparently knew how to regain supremacy, 
 
LIFE OP JOHNSON. 19 
 
 but, at any rate, Johnson loved her devotedly during 
 life, and clung to her memory during a widowhood 
 of more than thirty years, as fondly as if they had 
 been the most pattern hero and heroine of romantic 
 fiction. 
 
 Whatever Mrs. Johnson's charms, she seems to 
 have been a woman of good sense and some literary 
 judgment. Johnson's grotesque appearance did not 
 prevent her from saying to her daughter on their 
 first introduction, " This is the most sensible man I 
 ever met." Her praises were, we may believe, 
 sweeter to him than those of the severest critics, or 
 the most fervent of personal flatterers. Like all 
 good men, Johnson loved good women, and liked to 
 have on hand a flirtation or two, as warm as might 
 be within the bounds of due decorum. But nothing 
 affected his fidelity to his Tetty or displaced her 
 image in his mind. He remembered her in many 
 solemn prayers, and such words as " this was dear 
 Tetty's book : " or, " this was a prayer which dear 
 Tetty was accustomed to say," were found written 
 by him in many of her books of devotion. 
 
 Mrs. Johnson had one other recommendation — a 
 fortune, namely, of .£800 — little enough, even then, 
 as a provision for the support of the married pair, but 
 enough to help Johnson to make a fresh start. In 
 1736, there appeared an advertisement in the G-entle- 
 man's Mugazine. " At Edial, near Lichfield, in 
 Staffordshire, young gentlemen are boarded and 
 taught the Latin and Greek languages by Samuel 
 Johnson." If, as seems probable, Mrs. Johnson's 
 
20 RASSELAS. 
 
 money supplied the funds for this venture, it was an 
 unlucky speculation. 
 
 Johnson was not fitted to be a pedagogue. Suc- 
 cess in that profession implies skill in the manage- 
 ment of pupils, but perhaps still more decidedly in 
 the management of parents. Johnson had little 
 qualifications in either way. As a teacher he would 
 probably have been alternately despotic and over- 
 indulgent; and, on the other hand, a single glance 
 at the rough Dominie Sampson would be enough to 
 frighten the ordinary parent off his premises. Very 
 few pupils came, and they seem to have profited 
 little, if a story as told of two of his pupils refers to 
 this time. After some months of instruction in 
 English history, he asked them who had destroyed 
 the monasteries ? One of them gave no answer ; the 
 other replied "Jesus Christ." Johnson, however, 
 could boast of one eminent pupil in David Garrick, 
 though, by Garrick's account, his master was of little 
 service except as affording an excellent mark for his 
 early powers of ridicule. The school, or " academy," 
 failed after a year and a half ; and Johnson, once 
 more at a loss for emplo3''ment, resolved to try the 
 great experiment, made so often and so often unsuc- 
 cessfully. He left Lichfield to seek liis fortune in 
 London. Garrick accompanied him, and the two 
 brought a common letter of introduction to the 
 master of an acadeni)'- from Gilbert Walmslev, reg- 
 istrar of the Prerogative Court in Liclifield. Long 
 afterwards Johnson took an opportunity in the Lives 
 of the Poets, of expressing his warm regard for the 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 21 
 
 memory of his early friend, to whom he had been 
 recommended by a community of literary tastes, in 
 spite of .party differences and great inequality of age. 
 "Walmsley says in his letter, that " one Johnson " is 
 about to accompany Garrick to London, in order to 
 try his fate with a tragedy and get himself employed 
 in translation. Johnson, he adds, " is a very good 
 scholar and poet, and I have great hopes will turn 
 out a fine tragedy writer." 
 
 The letter is dated March 2d, 1737. Before 
 recording what is known of his early career thus 
 started, it will be well to take a glance at the general 
 condition of the profession of Literature in England 
 at this period. 
 
22 EASSELAS. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 LITEEAKY CAEEBE. 
 
 " No man but a blockhead," said Jolinson, " ever 
 wrote except for money." The doctrine is, of couise, 
 perfectly outrageous, and specially calculated to 
 shock people who like to keep it for their private 
 use, instead of proclaiming it in public. But it is 
 a good expression of that huge contempt for the 
 foppery of high-flown sentiment which, as is not 
 uncommon with Johnson, passes into something 
 which would be cynical if it were not half-humorous. 
 In this case it implies also the contempt of the pro- 
 fessional for the amateur. Johnson despised gentle- 
 men who dabbled in his craft, as a man whose life 
 is devoted to music or painting despises the ladies 
 and gentlemen who treat those arts as fashionable 
 accomplishments. An author was, according to him, 
 a man who turned out books as a bricklayer turns 
 out houses or a tailor coats. So long as he supplied 
 a good article and got a fair price, he was a fool to 
 grumble, and a humbug to affect loftier motives. 
 
 Johnson was not the first professional author, in 
 this sense, but perhaps the first man who made the 
 profession respectable. The principal habitat of 
 authors, in his age, was Grub Street — a region which, 
 in later years, has ceased to be ashamed of itself. 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 23 
 
 and has adopted the more pretentious name Bohemia. 
 The original Grub Street, it is said, first became 
 associated with authorship during the increase of 
 pamphlet literature, produced by the civil wars. Fox, 
 the martyrologist, was one of its original inhabitants. 
 Another of its heroes was a certain Mr. Welby, of 
 whom the sole record is, that he " lived there forty 
 years without being seen of any." In fact, it was a 
 region of holes and corners, calculated to illustrate 
 that great advantage of London life, which a friend 
 of Boswell's described by saying, that a man could 
 there be always "close to his burrow." The "burrow" 
 which received the luckless wight, was indeed no 
 pleasant refuge. Since poor Green, in the earliest 
 generation of dramatists, bought his " groat'sworth 
 of wit with a million of repentance," too many of 
 his brethren had trodden tlie path which led to 
 hopeless misery or death in a tavern brawl. The 
 history of men who had to support themselves by 
 their , pens, is a record of almost universal gloom. 
 The names of Spenser, of Butler, and of Otway, are 
 enough to remind us that even warm contemporary 
 recognition was not enough to raise an author above 
 the fear of dying in want of necessaries. The two 
 great dictators of literature, Ben Jonson in the 
 earlier and Dryden in the later part of the century, 
 only kept their heads above water by help of the 
 laureate's pittance, though reckless imprudence, 
 encouraged by the precarious life, was the cause of 
 much of their sufferings. Patronage gave but a 
 fitful resource, and the author could hope at most 
 
24: EASSELAS. 
 
 but an occasional crust, flung to him from better 
 provided tables. 
 
 In the happy days of Queen Anne, it is true, there 
 had been a gleam of prosperity. Many authors, 
 Addison, Congreve, Swift, and others of less name, 
 had won by their pens not only temporary profits but 
 permanent places. The class which came into power 
 at the Revolution was willing for a time, to share 
 some of the public patronage with men distingiiislied 
 for intellectual eminence. Patronage was liberal 
 when the funds came out of other men's pockets. 
 But, as the system of party government developed, it 
 soon became evident that this involved a waste of 
 power. There were enough political partisans to 
 absorb all the comfortable sinecures to be had ; and 
 such money as was still spent upon literature, was 
 given in return for services equally degrading to 
 giver and receiver. Nor did the patronage of liter- 
 ature reach the poor inhabitants of Grub Street. 
 Addison's poetical power might suggest or justify 
 the gift of a place from his elegant friends ; but a 
 man like De Foe, who really looked to his pen for 
 great part of his daily subsistence, was below the 
 region of such prizes, and was obliged in later years 
 not only to write inferior books for money, but to 
 sell himself and act as a spy upon his fellows. One 
 great man, it is true, made an independence by liter- 
 ature. Pope received some .£8000 for his translation 
 of Homer, by the then popular mode of subscrip- 
 tion — a kind of compromise between the systems 
 of patronage and public support. But his success 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 25 
 
 caused little pleasure in Grub Street. No love was 
 lost between the poet and the dwellers in this dis- 
 mal region. Pope was its deadliest enemy, and 
 carried on an internecine warfare with its inmates, 
 which has enriched our language with a great satire, 
 but which wasted his powers upon low objects, and 
 tempted him into disgraceful artifices. The life of 
 the unfortunate victims, pilloried in the Dunciad and 
 accused of the unpardonable sins of poverty and de- 
 pendence, was too often one which might have extorted 
 sympathy even from a thin-skinned poet and critic. 
 
 Illustrations of the manners and customs of that 
 Grub Street of which Johnson was to become an 
 inmate are only too abundant. The best wiiters of 
 the day could tell of hardships endured in tliat dismal 
 region. Richardson went on the sound principle of 
 keeping his shop that his shop might keep him. But 
 the other great novelists of the century have painted 
 from life the miseries of an author's existence. Field- 
 ing, Smollett, and Goldsmith have described the 
 poor wretches with a vivid force which gives sadness 
 to the reflection that each of those great men was 
 drawing upon his own experience, and that they 
 each died in distress. The Case of Authors hy Pro- 
 fession to quote the title of a pamphlet by Ralph, was 
 indeed a wretched one, when the greatest of their 
 number had an incessant struggle to keep the wolf 
 from the door. The life of an author resembled tlie 
 proverbial existence of the flying-fish, chased by 
 enemies in sea and in air ; he only escaped from the 
 slavery of the bookseller's garret, to fly from the 
 
26 RASSELAS. 
 
 bailiff or rot in the debtor's ward or the spunging- 
 house. Many strange half-pathetic and half ludi- 
 crous anecdotes survive to recall the sorrows and the 
 recklessness of the luckless scribblers who, like one 
 of Johnson's acquaintance, " lived in London and 
 hung loose upon society." 
 
 There was Samuel Boyse, for example, whose 
 poem on the Deity is quoted with high praise by 
 Fielding. Once Johnson had generously exerted 
 himself for his comrade in misery, and collected 
 enough money by sixpences to get the poet's clothes 
 out of pawn. Two days afterwards, Boyse had spent 
 the money and was found in bed, covered only witli 
 a blanket, through two holes in which he passed his 
 arms to write. Boyse, it appears, when still in this 
 position would lay out his last half-guinea to buy 
 truffles and mushrooms for his last scrap of beef. Of 
 another scribbler Johnson said, " I honor Derrick for 
 his strength of mind. One night when Floyd (an- 
 other poor author) was wandering about the streets 
 at night, he found Derrick fast asleep upon a bulk. 
 Upon being suddenly awaked. Derrick started up ; 
 ' My dear Floyd, I am sorry to see you in this des- 
 titute state ; will you go home with me to my loilg- 
 ings?'" Authors in such circumstances might be 
 forced into such a wonderful contract as that which 
 is reported to have been drawn up by one Gardner 
 with Rolt and Christopher Smart. They v.'ere to 
 write a monthly miscellany, sold at sixpence, and to 
 have a third of the profits ; but they were to write 
 nothing else, and the contract was to last for ninety- 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 27 
 
 nine years. Johnson himself summed up the trade 
 upon earth by the lines in which Virgil describes 
 the entrance to hell ; thus translated by Dryden: — 
 
 Just in the gate and in the jaws of hell, 
 Revengeful cares and sullen sorrows dwell. 
 And pale diseases and repining age, 
 Want, fear, and famine's unresisted rage : 
 Here toils and Death and Death's half brother, Sleep- 
 Forms, terrible to view, their sentry keep. 
 
 " Now," said Johnson, " almost all these apply ex- 
 actly to an author ; these are the concomitants of a 
 printing-house." 
 
 Judicious authors, indeed, were learning how to 
 make literature pay. Some of them belonged to the 
 class who understood the great truth that the scissors 
 are a very superior implement to the pen considered 
 as a tool of literary trade. Such, for example, was 
 that respectable Dr. John Campbell, whose parties 
 Johnson ceased to frequent lest Scotchmen should 
 say of any good bits of work, " Ay, ay, he has learnt 
 this of Cawmell." Campbell, he said quaintly, was a 
 good man, a pious man. " I am afraid he has not been 
 in the inside of a church for many years ; but he never 
 passes a church without pulling off his hat. This 
 shows he has good principles," — of which in fact there 
 seems to be some less qiiestionable evidence. Camp- 
 bell supported himself by writings chiefly of the En- 
 cyclopedia or Gazetteer kind; and became, still in 
 Jolnison's phrase, " tlie richeHt author that ever grazed 
 tlie common' of literature." A inoi'e siiii^ular and 
 
28 RASSELAS. 
 
 less reputable character was that impudent quack, 
 Sir John Hill, who, witli his insolent attacks upon 
 the Royal Society, pretentious botanical and medical 
 compilations, plays, novels, and magazine articles, 
 has long sunk into utter oblivion. It is said of him 
 that he pursued every branch of literary quackery 
 with greater contempt of character than any man of 
 his time, and that he made as much as £1500 in a 
 year ; — three times as much, it is added, as any one 
 writer ever made in the same period. 
 
 The political scribblers — the Arnalls, Gordons, 
 Trenchards, Guthries, Ralphs, and Amhersts, whose 
 names meet us in the notes to the Bunciad and in 
 contemporary pamphlets and newspapers — form an- 
 other variety of the class. Their general character 
 may be estimated from Johnson's classification of the 
 " Scribbler for a Party " with the " Commissioner of 
 Excise," as the " two lowest of all human beings." 
 " Ralph," says one of the notes to the Dunciad, 
 "ended in the common sink of all such writers, a 
 political newspaper." The prejudice against such 
 employment has scarcely died out in our own day, 
 and may be still traced in the account of Pendennis 
 and his friend Warrington. People who do dirty 
 work must be paid for it ; and the Secret Committee 
 which inquired into Walpole's administration re- 
 ported that in ten years, from 1731 to 1741, a sum of 
 £50,077 18s. had been paid to writers and printers of 
 newspapers. Aniall, now remembered chiefly by 
 Pope's line, — 
 
 Spirit of Arnall, aid me whilst I lie ! 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 29 
 
 had received, in four years, ^E 10,997 6s. 8d. of this 
 amount. The more successful writers might look to 
 pensions or preferment. Francis, for example, the 
 translator of Horace, and the father, in all probabil- 
 ity, of the most formidable of the whole tribe of such 
 literary gladiators, received, it is said, 900Z. a year for 
 his work, besides being appointed to a rectory and 
 the chaplaincy of Chelsea. 
 
 It must, moreover, be observed that the price of 
 literary work was rising during the century, and 
 that, in the latter half, considerable sums were re- 
 ceived by successful writers. Eeligious as well as 
 dramatic literature had begun to be commercially 
 valuable. Baxter, in the previous century, made 
 from 601. to 80?. a year by his pen. The copyright 
 of Tillotson's Sermons was sold, it is said, upon his 
 death for £2500. Considerable sums were made by 
 the plan of publishing by subscription. It is said that 
 4600 people subscribed to the two posthumous volumes 
 of Conybeare's Sermons. A few poets trod in Pope's 
 steps. Young made more than £3000 for the Satires 
 called the Universal Passion, published, I think, on 
 the same plan ; and the Duke of Wharton is said, 
 though the report is doubtful, to have given him 
 £2000 for the same work. Gay make £1000 by his 
 Poems / £400 for the copyright of the Beggar'' s 
 Opera, and three times as much for its second part, 
 Polly. Among historians, HT.meseemsto have re- 
 ceived £700 a volume; Smollett made £2000 by his 
 catchpenny rival publication ; Henry made £3300 by 
 his history; and Kobertson, after the booksellers had 
 
30 EASSELAS. 
 
 made £6000 by his History of Scotland, sold his 
 Charles V. for ^£4500. Amongst the novelists, 
 Fielding received £700 for Tom Jones and £1000 for 
 Amelia ; Sterne, for the second edition of the first 
 part of Tristram Shandy and for two additional vol- 
 umes, received £650 ; besides which Lord Faucon- 
 berg gave him a living (naost inappropriate acknowl- 
 edgment, one would say !), and Warburton a purse of 
 gold. Goldsmith received 60 guineas for the immor- 
 tal Yican^t a fair price, according to Johnson, for a 
 work by a then unknown author. By each of his 
 plays he made about £500, and for the eight volumes 
 of his Natural History he received 800 guineas. 
 Towards the end of the century, Mrs. Radcliffe got 
 £500 for the J/ys^eWes of Udolpho, and £800 for her 
 last work, the Italian. Perhaps the largest sum given 
 for a single book was £6000 paid to Hawkesworth for 
 his account of the South Sea Expeditions. Horne 
 Tooke received from £4000 to £5000 for the Diver- 
 sions of Hurley / and it is added by his biographer, 
 though it seems to be incredible, that Hayley re- 
 ceived no less than £11,000 for the Life of Cowper. 
 This was, of course, in the present century, when we 
 are already approaching the period of Scott and 
 Byron. 
 
 Such sums prove that some few authors might 
 achieve independence by a successful work; and it is 
 well to remember them in considering Johnson's life 
 from the business point of view. Though he never 
 grumbled at the booksellers, and on the conti'ar}'^, was 
 always ready to defend them as liberal men, he cer- 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 3I 
 
 tainly failed, whether from carelessness or want of 
 skill, to turn them to as much profit as many less 
 celebrated rivals. Meanwhile, pecuniary success of 
 tliis kind was beyond any reasonable hopes. A man 
 who has to work like his own dependent Levett, and 
 to make the " modest toil of every day " supply " the 
 wants of every day," must discount his talents until 
 he can secure leisure for some more sustained effort. 
 Johnson, coming up from the country to seek for 
 work, could have but a slender prospect of rising 
 above the ordinary level of his Grub Street compan- 
 ions and rivals. One publisher to whom he applied 
 suggested to him that it would be his wisest course 
 to buy a porter's knot and carry trunks ; and, in the 
 struggle which followed, Johnson must sometimes 
 have been tempted to regret that the advice was not 
 taken. 
 
 The details of the ordeal through which he was 
 now to pass have naturally vanished. Johnson, long 
 afterwards, burst into tears on recalling the trials of 
 this period. But, at the time, no one was interested 
 in noting the history of an obscure literary drudge, 
 and it has not been described by the sufferer himself. 
 What we know is derived from a few letters and in- 
 cidental references of Johnson in later days. On first 
 arriving in London he was almost destitute, and had 
 to join with Garrick in raising a loan of five pounds, 
 which, we are glad to say, was repaid. He dined for 
 eightpence at an ordinary: a cut of meat for six- 
 pence, bread for a penny, and a penny to the waiter, 
 jnaking out the charge. One of his acquaintance 
 
32 RASSELAS. 
 
 had told him that a man might live in London for 
 thirty pounds a year. Ten pounds would pay for 
 clothes ; a garret might be hired for eighteen -pence a 
 week ; if any one asked for an address, it was easy to 
 reply, " I am to be found at such a place." Three- 
 pence laid out at a coffee-house would enable him to 
 pass some hours a , day in good company ; dinner 
 might be had for sixpence, a bread-and-milk break- 
 fast for a penny, and supper was superfluous. On 
 clean shirt day you might go abroad and pay visits. 
 This leaves a surplus of nearly one pound from the 
 thirty. 
 
 Johnson, however, had a wife to support ; and to 
 raise funds for even so ascetic a mode of existence 
 required steady labor. Often, it seems, his purse 
 was at the very lowest ebb. One of his letters to 
 his employer is signed imfransus; and whether or 
 not the dinnerless condition was in this case acciden- 
 tal, or significant of absolute impecuniosity, the less 
 pleasant interpretation is not improbable. He would 
 walk the streets all night with his friend. Savage, 
 when their combined funds could not pay for a 
 lodging. One night, as he told Sir Joshua Reynolds 
 in later years, they thus perambulated St. James's 
 Square, warming themselves by declaiming against 
 Walpole, and nobly resolved that they would stand 
 by their country. 
 
 Patriotic enthusiasm, however, as no one knew 
 better than Johnson, is a j^oor substitute for bed and 
 supper. Johnson suffered acutely and made some at- 
 tempts to escape from his misery. To the end of his 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 88 
 
 life, he was grateful to those who had lent him a, 
 helping hand. " Harry Hervey," he said of one of 
 them shortly before his death, " was a vicious man, 
 hut very kind to me. .If you call a dog Hervey, I 
 wliall love him." Pope was impressed by the excel-, 
 lence of his first poem, Loudon, and induced Lord 
 Grower to write to a friend to beg Swift to obtain a 
 degree for Johnson from the University of Dublin. 
 The terms of this circuitous application, curious, as 
 bringing into connection three of the most eminent 
 men of letters of the day, prove that the youngest of 
 them was at the time (1739) in deep distress. The 
 object of the degree was to qualify Johnson for a 
 mastership of ^60 a year, which would make him 
 happy for life. He would rather, said Lord Gower, 
 die upon the road to Dublin if an examination were 
 necessary, " than be starved to death in translating 
 for booksellers, which has been his only subsistence 
 for some time past." The application failed, how- 
 ever, and the want of a degree was equally fatal to 
 another application to be admitted to practise at 
 Doctor's Commons. 
 
 Literature was thus perforce Johnson's sole support ; 
 and by literature was meant, for the most part, 
 drudgery of the kind indicated by the phrase, " trans 
 lating for booksellers." While still in Lichfield, 
 Johnson had, as I have said, written to Cave, propos- 
 ing to become a contributor to the Gentleman's Maga- 
 sine. The letter was one of those which a modern 
 editor receives by the dozen, and answers as perfunc- 
 torily as his conscience will allow. It seems, how- 
 
34 itASSBLAS*. 
 
 ever, to have made some impression upon Cave, and 
 possibly led to Johnson's employment by him on his. 
 first arrival in London. From 1738 he was employed 
 both on the Magazine and in some jobs of translation. 
 Edward Cave, to whom we are thus introduced, was 
 a man of some mark in the history of literature. 
 Johnson always spoke of him with affection and after- 
 wards wrote his life in complimentary terms. Cave, 
 though a clumsy, phlegmatic person of little cultiva- 
 tion, seems to have been one of those men who, whilst 
 destitute of real critical powers, have a certain instinct 
 for recognizing the commercial value of literary 
 wares. He had become by this time well-known as 
 the publisher of a magazine which survives to this 
 day. Journals containing summaries of passing 
 events had already been started. Boyer's Political 
 Stats of Great Britain began in 1711. The Historical 
 Register, which added to a chronicle some literary 
 notices, was started in 1716. Ths Orub Street Journal 
 was another journal with fuller critical notices, which 
 first appeared in 1730; and these two seem to have 
 been superseded by the Oentleman's Magazine started 
 by Cave in the next year. Johnson saw in it an open- 
 ing for the employment of his literary talents ; and 
 regarded its contributors with that awe so natural in 
 youthful aspirants, and at once so comic and pathetic 
 to writers of a little experience. The names of many 
 of Cave's staff are preserved in a note to Hawkins. 
 One or two of them, such as Birch and Akenside, 
 have still a certain interest for students of literature; 
 but few have heard of the great Moses Browne, whg 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 35 
 
 was regarded as the great poetical light of the magar 
 zine. Johnson looked up to him as a leader in his 
 craft, and was graciously taken by Cave to an ale- 
 house in Clerkenwell, where, wrapped in a horse- 
 man's coat, and " a great bushy uncombed wig," he 
 saw Mr. Browne sitting at the end of a long table, in 
 a cloud of tobacco-smoke, and felt the satisfaction of 
 a true hero-worshipper. 
 
 It is needless to describe in detail the literary 
 task-work done by Johnson at this period, the Latin 
 poems which he contributed in praise of Care, and of 
 Cave's friends, or the Jacobite squibs by which he 
 relieved his anti-ministerialist feelings. One incident 
 of the period doubtless refreshed the soul of many 
 authors, who have shared Campbell's gratitude to 
 Napoleon for the sole redeeming action of his life — 
 the shooting of a bookseller. Johnson was employed 
 by Osborne, a rough specimen of the trade, to make 
 a catalogue of the Harleian Library. Osborne of- 
 fensiveiy reproved him for negligence, and Johnson 
 knocked him down with a folio. The book with 
 which the feat was performed (^Bihlia Grroeea Septuor 
 ginta, fol. 1594 Frankfort) was in existence in a book- 
 seller's shop at Cambridge in 1812, and should surely 
 have been placed in some safe author's museum. 
 
 The most remarkable of Johnson's performances 
 as a hack writer deserves a brief notice. He was 
 one of the first of reporters. Cave published such 
 reports of the debates in Parliament as were then 
 allowed by the jealousy of the Legislature, under 
 the title of The Senate of LilUput. Johnson was the 
 
36 RASSELAS. 
 
 author of the debates from Nov. 1740 to February 
 1742. Persons were employed to attend in the two 
 Houses, who brought home notes of the speeches 
 which were then put into shape by Johnson. Long 
 afterwards, at a dinner at Foote's, Francis (the father 
 of Junius) mentioned a speech of Pitt's as the best 
 he had ever read, and superior to anything in Demos- 
 thenes. Hereupon Johnson replied, "I wrote that 
 speech in a garret in Exeter Street." When the 
 company applauded not only his eloquence but his 
 impartiality, Johnson replied, " That is not quite 
 true ; I saved appearances tolerably well, but I took 
 care that the Whig dogs should not have the 
 best of it." The speeches passed for a time as ac- 
 curate ; though, in truth, it has been proved and it 
 is easy to observe, that they are, in fact, very vague 
 reflections of the original. The editors of Chester- 
 field's Works published two of the speeches, and, to 
 Johnson's considerable amusement, declared that 
 one of them resembled Demosthenes and the other 
 Cicero. It is plain enough to the modem reader that, 
 if so, both of the ancient orators must have written 
 true Johnsonese ; and, in fact, the style of the true 
 author is often as plainly marked in many of these 
 compositions as in the jRamhler or Rasselas. For this 
 deception, such as it was, Johnson expressed penitence 
 at the end of his life, though he said that he liad 
 ceased to write when he found that they were taken 
 as genuine. He would not be "accessorj' to the 
 propagation of falsehood." 
 
 Another of Johnson's works which appeared in 1744 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 37 
 
 requires notice both for its intrinsic merit, and its auto- 
 biographical interest. The most remarkable of his 
 Grub-Street companions was the Richard Savage 
 already mentioned. Johnson's life of him written 
 soon after his death, is one of his most forcible per- 
 formances, and the best extant illustration of the life 
 of the struggling authors of the time. Savage claimed 
 to be the illegitimate son of the Countess of Maccles- 
 field, who was divorced from her husband in the year 
 of his bir'h on account of her connection with his 
 supposed father, Lord Rivers. According to the 
 story, belij^gd by Johnson, and published without her 
 contradiction in the mother's lifetime, she not only 
 disavowed her sori^but cherished an unnatural hatred 
 for him. She toi^ his father that he was dead, in 
 order that he migui; not be benefitted by the father's 
 will ; she tried to have him kidnapped and sent to 
 the plantations ; and she did her best to prevent him 
 from receiving a pardon when he had been sentenced 
 to death for killinsr a man in a tavern brawl. How- 
 ever this may be, and there aie reasons for doubt, the 
 story was generally believed, and caused much sym- 
 pathy for the supposed victim. Savage was at one 
 time protected by the kindness of Steele, who pub- 
 lished his story, and sometimes employed him as a 
 literary assistant. When Steele became disgusted 
 with him, he received generous help from the actor 
 Wilks and from Mrs. Oldfield, to whom he had been 
 introduced by some dramatic efforts. Then he was 
 taken up by Lord Tyrconnel, but abandoned by him 
 after a violent quarrel; he afterwards called himself 
 
88 feASSELAS. 
 
 a volunteer laureate, and received a pension of 501. a 
 year from Queen Caroline ; on her death he was 
 thrown into deep distress, and helped by a subscrip- 
 tion to which Pope was the chief contributor, on con- 
 dition of retiring to the country. Ultimately he 
 quarrelled with his last protectors, and ended by 
 dying in a debtor's prison. Various poetical worts, 
 now utterly forgotten, obtained for him scanty profit. 
 This career sufficiently reveals the character. Sav- 
 age belonged to the very common type of men, who 
 seem to employ their whole talents to throw away 
 their chances in life, and to disgust evj^'^one who 
 offers them a helping hand. He was, however, a man 
 of some talent, though his poems a^ now hopelessly 
 unreadable, and seems to have hadj singular attrac- 
 tion for Johnson. The biography is curiously marked 
 by Johnson's constant effort to put the best face upon 
 faults, which he has too much love of truth to con- 
 ceal. The explanation is, partly, that Johnson con- 
 ceived himself to be avenging a victim of cruel 
 oppression. " This mother," he says, after recording 
 her vindictiveness, " is still alive, and may perhaps 
 even yet, though her malice was often defeated, en- 
 joy the pleasure of reflecting that the life, which she 
 often endeavored to destroy, was at last shortened by 
 her maternal offices ; that though she could not trans- 
 port her sou to the plantations, bury him in the shop 
 of a mechanic, or hasten the hand of the public exe- 
 cutioner, she has yet had the satisfaction of embitter- 
 ing" all his hours, and forcing him into exigencies 
 that hurried on his death." 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 39 
 
 But it is also probable that Savage had a strong 
 influence upon Johnson's mind at a very impressible 
 part of his career. The young man, still ignorant of 
 life and full of reverent enthusiasm for the literary 
 magnates of his time, was impressed by the varied 
 experience of his companion, and, it may be, flattered 
 by his intimacy. Savage, he says admiringly, had 
 enjoyed great opportunities of seeing the most con- 
 spicuous men of the day in their private life. He 
 was shrewd and inquisitive enough to use his oppor- 
 tunities Yell. " More circumstances to constitute a 
 critic on /luman life could not easily concur." The 
 only phrase which survives to justify this remark is 
 Savage's statement about Walpole, that " the whole 
 range of his min.d^ was from obscenity to politics, and 
 from politics to obscenity." We may, however, guess 
 what was the special charm of the intercourse to 
 Johnson. Savage was an expert in that science of 
 human nature, learnt from experience not from 
 books, upon which Johnson set so high a value, and 
 of which he was destined to become the authorized 
 expositor. There were, moreover, resemblances be- 
 tween the two men. They were both admired and 
 sought out for their conversational powers. Savage, 
 indeed, seems to have lived chiefly by the people who 
 entertained him for talk, till he had disgusted them 
 by his insolence and his utter disregard of time and 
 propriety. He would, like Johnson, sit up talking 
 beyond midnight, and next day decline to rise till 
 dinner-time, though his favorite drink was not, like 
 Johnson's, free from intoxicating properties. Both 
 
40 EASSELAS, 
 
 of them had a lofty pride, which Johnson heartily 
 commends in Savage, though he has difficulty in 
 palliating some of its manifestations. One of the 
 stories reminds us of an anecdote already related of 
 Johnson himself. Some clothes had been left for 
 Savage at a coffeehouse by a person who, out of delir 
 cacy, concealed his name. Savage, however, resented 
 some want of ceremony, and refused to enter the 
 house again till the clothes had been removed. 
 
 "What was honorable pride in Johnson was, indeed, 
 simple arrogance in Savage. He asked |avors, his 
 biographer says, without submission, and resented 
 refusal as an insult. He had too much pride to ac- 
 knowledge, but not too much to receive, obligations ; 
 enough to quarrel with his charitable benefactors, but 
 not enough to make him rise to independence of 
 their charity. His pension would have sufficed to 
 keep him, only that as soon as he received it he re- 
 tired from the sight of all his acquaintance, and 
 came back before long as penniless as before. This 
 conduct, observes his biographer, was " very particu- 
 lar.'' It was hardly so singular as objectionable ; 
 and we are not surprised to be told that he was 
 rather a " friend of goodness " than himself a good 
 man. In short, we may say of him as Beauclerk said 
 of a friend of Boswell's that, if he had excellent 
 principles, he did not wear them out in practice. 
 
 There is sometliing quaint about this picture of a 
 thorough-paced scamp, admiringly painted by a vir- 
 tuous man ; forced, in spite of himself, to make it a 
 likeness, and striving in vain to make it attractive. 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 41 
 
 $ut it is also pathetic when we remember that John- 
 eon shared some part at least of his hero's miseries. 
 " On a bulk, in a cellar, or in a glass-house, among 
 thieves and beggars, was to be found the author of 
 The Wanderer, the man of exalted sentiments, ex- 
 tensive views, and curious observations ; the man 
 whose remarks on life might have assisted the states- 
 man, whose ideas of virtue might have enlightened 
 the moralist, whose eloquence might have influenced 
 senators, and whose delicacy might have polished 
 courts." Very shocking, no doubt, and yet hardly 
 surprising under the circumstances! To us it is 
 more interesting to remember that the author of the 
 Rambler was not only a sympathizer, but a fellow- 
 sufferer with the author of the Wanderer, and shared 
 the queer " lodgings " of his friend, as Floyd shared 
 the lodgings of Derrick. Johnson happily came un- 
 scathed through the ordeal which was too much for 
 poor Savage, and could boast with perfect truth in 
 later life that " no man, who ever lived by literature, 
 had lived more independently than I have done." It 
 was in so strange a school, and under such question- 
 able teaching that Johnson formed his conception of 
 the world and of the conduct befitting its inmates. 
 One characteristic conclusion is indicated in the 
 opening passage of the life. It has always been ob- 
 served, he says, that men eminent by nature or for- 
 tune are not generally happy : " whether it be that 
 apparent superiority incites great designs, and great 
 designs are naturally liable to fatal miscarriages ; or 
 t,hat the general lot of mankind is misery, and thQ 
 
42 KASSteLAS. 
 
 misfortunes of those, whose eminence drew upon them 
 an universal attention, have been more carefully re- 
 corded because they were more generally observed, 
 and have in reality been only more conspicuous than 
 those of others, not more frequent or more severe." 
 
 The last explanation was that which really com- 
 mended itself to Johnson. Nobody had better reason 
 to know that obscurity might conceal a misery as 
 bitter as any that fell to the lot of the most eminent. 
 The gloom due to his constitutional temperament 
 was intensified by the sense that he and his wife 
 were dependent upon the goodwill of a narrow and 
 ignorant tradesman for the scantiest maintenance. 
 How was he to reach some solid standing-ground above 
 the hopeless mire of Grub Street? As a journeyman 
 author he could make both ends meet, but only on 
 condition of incessant labor. Illness and misfortune 
 would mean constant dependence upon charity or 
 bondage to creditors. To get ahead of the world it 
 was necessary to distinguish himself in some way 
 from the herd of needy competitors. He had come 
 up from Lichfield with a play in his pocket, but the 
 play did not seem at present to have much chance of 
 emerging. Meanwhile he published a poem which 
 did something to give him a general reputation. 
 
 London — an imitation of the Third Satire of 
 Juvenal — was published in May, 1738. The plan 
 was doubtless suggested by Pope's imitations of 
 Horace, which had recently appeared. Though 
 necessarily following the lines of Juvenal's poem, 
 and conforming to the conventional fashion of the 
 
LIFE OP JOHNSON. 4g 
 
 time, both in sentiment and versification, the poem 
 has a biographical significance. It is indeed odd to 
 find Johnson, who afterwards thought of London as 
 a lover of his mistress, and who despised nothing 
 more heartily than the cant of Rousseau and the 
 sentimentalists, adopting in this poem the ordinary 
 denunciations of the corruption of towns, and sing- 
 ing the praises of an innocent country life. Doubt- 
 less, the young writer was like other young men, 
 taking up a strain still imitative and artificial. He 
 has a quiet smile at Savage in the life, because in 
 his retreat to Wales, that enthusiast declared that 
 he " could not debar himself from the happiness 
 which was to be found in the calm of a cottage, 
 or lose the opportunity of listening without inter- 
 mission to the melody of the nightingale, which he 
 believed was to be heard from every bramble, and 
 which he did not fail to mention as a very impor- , 
 tant part of the happiness of a country life." In 
 London, this insincere cockney adopts Savage's view. 
 Thales, who is generally supposed to represent 
 Savage (and this coincidence seems to confirm the 
 opinion), is to retire " from the dungeons of the 
 Strand," and to end a healthy life in pruning walks 
 and twining bowers in his garden. 
 
 There every bush with nature's music rings, 
 There every breeze bears health upon its wings. 
 
 Johnson had not yet learnt the value of perfect 
 sincerity even in poetry. But it must also be ad- 
 mitted that London, as seen by the poor drudge from 
 
44 EASSELAS. 
 
 a Grub Street garret, probably presented a prospect 
 gloomy enough to make even Johnson long at times 
 for rural solitude. The poem reflects, too, the or- 
 dinary talk of the heterogeneous band of patriots, 
 Jacobites, and disappointed Whigs, who were begin- 
 ning to gather enough strength to threaten Walpole's 
 long tenure of power. Many references to contem- 
 porary politics illustrate Johnson's sympathy with 
 the inhabitants of the contemporary Cave of 
 AduUam. 
 
 This poem, as already stated, attracted Pope's 
 notice, who made a curious note on a scrap of paper 
 sent with it to a friend. Johnson is described as 
 " a man afflicted with an infirmity of the convulsive 
 kind, that attacks him sometimes so as to make him 
 a sad spectacle." This seems to have been the chief 
 information obtained by Pope about the anonymous 
 author, of whom he had said, on first reading the 
 poem, this man will soon be deterre. London made 
 a certain noise ; it reached a second edition in a 
 week, and attracted various patrons, among others, 
 General Oglethorpe, celebrated by Pope, and through 
 a long life the warm friend of Johnson. One line, 
 however, in the poem printed in capital letters, gives 
 the moral which was doubtless most deeply felt by 
 the author, and which did not lose its meaning in 
 the years to come. This mournful truth, he says, — 
 
 Is everywhere confess'd. 
 Slow rises worth by poverty depress'd. 
 
 Ten years later (in January, 1749) appeared the 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSOIir. 45 
 
 Ya/nity of Human Wishes, an imitation of the Tenth 
 Satire of Juvenal. The difference in tone shows 
 how deeply this and similar truths had been im- 
 pressed upon its author in the interval. Though 
 still an imitation, it is as significant as the most orig- 
 inal work could be of Johnson's settled views of life. 
 It was written at a white heat, as indeed Johnson 
 wrote all his best work. Its strong Stoical morality, 
 its profound and melancholy illustrations of the old 
 and ever new sentiment, Yanias Yanitatum, make it 
 perhaps the most impressive poem of the kind in the 
 language. The lines on the scholar's fate show that 
 the iron had entered his soul in the interval. Should 
 the scholar succeed beyond expectation in his labours 
 and escape melancholy and disease, yet, he says, — 
 
 Yet hope not life from grief and danger free, 
 Nor think the doom of man reversed on thee ; 
 Deign on the passing world . to turn thine eyes 
 And pause awhile from letters, to be wise ; 
 There mark what ills the scholar's life assail, 
 Toil, envy, want, the patron and the jail ; 
 See nations, slowly wise and meanly just. 
 To buried merit raise the tardy bust. 
 If dreams yet flatter, once again attend. 
 Hear Lydia's life and Galileo's end. 
 
 For the " patron," Johnson had originally written 
 the " garret." The change was made after an ex- 
 perience of patronage to be presently described in 
 connection with the Dictionary. 
 
 For London Johnson received ten guineas, and for 
 the Yamitj Human Wishes fifteen. Though in- 
 directly valuable, as increasing his reputation, such 
 
46 jrasseLas. 
 
 work was not very profitable. The most promising 
 career in a pecuniary sense was still to be found on 
 the stage. Novelists were not yet the livals of dram- 
 atists, and many authors had made enough by a suc- 
 cessful play to float them through a year or two. 
 Johnson had probably been determined by his knowl- 
 edge of this fact to write the tragedy of Irene. No other 
 excuse at least can be given for the composition of one 
 of the heaviest and most unreadable of dramatic per- 
 formances, interesting now, if interesting at all, solely 
 as a curious example of the result of bestowing great 
 powers upon a totally uncongenial task. Young men, 
 however, may be pardoned for such blunders if they 
 are not repeated, and Johnson, though he seems to 
 have retained a fondness for his unlucky performance, 
 never indulged in playwriting after leaving Lichfield. 
 The best thing connected with the play was Johnson's 
 retort to his friend Walmsley, the Lichfield registrar. 
 " How," asked Walmsley, " can you contrive to 
 plunge your heroine into deeper calamity ? " " Sir," 
 said Johnson, " I can put her into the spiritual court." 
 Even Boswell can only say for Irene that it is " enti- 
 tled to the praise of superior excellence," and admits 
 its entire absence of dramatic power. Garrick, who 
 had become manager, of Drury Lane, produced his 
 friend's work in 1749. The play was carried through 
 nine nights by Garrick's friendly zeal, so that the 
 author had his three nights' profits. For this he re- 
 ceived £195 17s. and for the copy he had £100. 
 People probably attended, as they attend modern 
 representations of legitimate drama, rather from a 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 47 
 
 sense of duty, than in the hope of pleasure. The 
 heroine originally had to speak two lines with a 
 bowstring round her neck. The situation produced 
 cries of murder, and she had to go off the stage alive. 
 The objectionable passage was removed, but Irene 
 was on the whole a failure, and has never, I imagine, 
 made another appearance. When asked how he felt 
 upon his ill-success, he replied " like the monument," 
 and indeed he made it a principle throughout life to 
 accept the decision of the public like a sensible man 
 without murmurs. 
 
 Meanwhile, Johnson was already embarked upon 
 an undertaking of a very different kind. In 1747 he 
 had put forth a plan for an English Dictionary, 
 addressed at the suggestion of Dodsley, to Lord Ches- 
 terfield, then Secretary of State, and the great con- 
 temporary Maecenas. Johnson had apparently been 
 maturing the scheme for some time. " I know," he 
 says in the " plan," that " the work in which I engaged 
 is generally considered as drudgery for the blind, 
 as the proper toil of artless industry, a book that 
 requires neither the light of learning nor the activity 
 of genius, but may be successfully performed without 
 any higher quality than that of bearing burdens with 
 dull patience, and beating the track of the alphabet 
 with sluggish resolution." He adds in a sub-sarcastic 
 tone, that although princes and statesmen had once 
 thought it honorable to patronize dictionaries, he 
 had considered such benevolent acts to be " prodigies, 
 recorded rather to raise wonder than expectation," 
 and he was accordingly pleased and surprised to find 
 
48 RASSELAS. 
 
 that Chesterfield took an interest in his undertaking. 
 He proceeds to lay down the general principles upon 
 which he intends to frame his work, in order to invite 
 timely suggestions and repress unreasonable expecta- 
 tions. At this time, humble as his aspirations might 
 be, he took a view of the possibilities open to him 
 which had to be lowered before the publication of the 
 dictionary. He shared the illusion that a language 
 might be " fixed " by making a catalogue of its words. 
 In the preface which appeared with the completed 
 work, he explains very sensibly the vanity of any 
 such expectation. Whilst all human affairs are chang- 
 ing, it is, as he says, absurd to imagine that the lan- 
 guage which repeats all human thoughts and feelings 
 can remain unaltered. 
 
 A dictionary, as Johnson conceived it, was in fact 
 work for a " harmless drudge," the definition of a 
 lexicographer given in the book itself. Etymology 
 in a scientific sense was as yet non-existent, and 
 Johnson was not in this respect ahead of his contem- 
 poraries. To collect all the words in the language, 
 to define their meanings as accurately as might be, to 
 give the obvious or whimsical guesses at Etymology 
 suggested by previous writers, and to append a good 
 collection of illustrative passages was the sum of his 
 ambition. Any systematic tracing of the historical 
 processes by which a particular language had been 
 developed was unknown, and of course the result 
 could not be anticipated. The work, indeed, required 
 a keen logical faculty of definition, and wide reading 
 of the English literature of the two preceding centu- 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 49 
 
 lies ; but it cotild of course give no play either for 
 the higher literary faculties or faculties of scientific 
 investigation. A dictionary in Johnson's sense was 
 the highest kind of work to which a literary journey- 
 man could be set, but it was still work for a journey- 
 man, not for an artist. He was not adding to litera- 
 ture, but providing a useful implement for future 
 men of letters. 
 
 Johnson had thus got on hand the biggest job that 
 could be well undertaken by a good workman in his 
 humble craft. He was to receive fifteen hundred 
 and seventy-five pounds for the whole, and he ex- 
 pected to finish it in three years. The money, it is 
 to be observed, was to satisfy not only Johnson but 
 several copyists employed in the mechanical part of 
 the work. It was advanced by instalments, and came 
 to an end before the conclusion of the book. Indeed, 
 it appeared when accounts were settled, that he had 
 received a hundred pounds more than was due. He 
 could, however, pay his way for the time, and would 
 gain a reputation enough to ensure work in future. 
 The period of extreme poverty had probably ended 
 when Johnson got permanent employment on the 
 Gentleman^s Magazine. He was not elevated above 
 the need of drudgery and economy, but he might at 
 least be free from the dread of neglect. He could 
 command his market — such, as it was. The necessity 
 of steady labour was probably useful in repelling his 
 fits of melancholy. His name was beginning to be 
 known, and men of reputation were seeking his 
 acquaintance. In the winter of 1749 he formed a 
 4 
 
gfv EASSELAS. 
 
 club, which met weekly at a "famous beef-steak 
 house" in Ivy Lane. Among its members were 
 Hawkins, afterwards his biographer, and two friends, 
 Bathurst a physician, and Ha wkes worth an author, 
 for the first of whom he entertained an unusually 
 strong affection. The Club, like its more famous 
 successor, gave Johnson an opportunity of displaying 
 and improving his great conversational powers. He 
 was already dreaded for his prowess in argument, his 
 dictatorial manners and vivid flashes of wit and 
 humor, the more effective from the habitual gloom 
 and apparent heaviness of the discourser. 
 
 The talk of this society probably suggested topics 
 for the Sanibler, which appeared at this time, and 
 caused Johnson's fame to spread further beyond the 
 literary circles of London. The wit and humor 
 have, indeed, left few traces upon its ponderous 
 pages, for the Ramhler marks the culminating period 
 of Johnson's worst qualities of style. The pompous 
 and involved language seems indeed to be a fit cloth- 
 ing for the melancholy reflections which are its chief 
 staple, and in spite of its unmistakable power it is as 
 heavy reading as the heavy class of lay-sermonizing 
 to which it belongs. Such literature, however, is 
 often strangely popular in England, and the Ramhler 
 though its circulation was limited, gave to Johnson 
 his position as a great practical moralist. He took 
 his literary title, one may say, from the Ramhler, as 
 the more familiar title was derived from the Dic- 
 tiona/ry. 
 The UamUer was published twjc^ Zt week from March 
 
LIFE OP JOHNSOlSf. 51 
 
 20th, 1750, to March 17th, 1752. In five numbers 
 alone he received assistance from friends, and one of 
 these, written by Richardson, is said to have been 
 the only number which had a large sale. The cir- 
 culation rarely exceeded 600, though ten English 
 editions were published in the author's lifetime, 
 besides Scotch and Irish editions. The payment, 
 however, namely, two guineas a number, must have 
 been welcome to Johnson, and the friendship of 
 many distinguished men of the time was a still more 
 valuable reward. A quaint story illustrates the 
 hero-worship of which Johnson now became the 
 object. Dr. Burney, afterwards an intimate friend, 
 had introduced himself to Johnson by letter in con- 
 sequence of the Samhler, and the plan of the Dic- 
 tiona/ry. The admiration was shared by a friend of 
 Burney's, a Mr. Bewley, known — in Norfolk at least 
 — as the " philosopher of Massingham." When 
 Burney at last gained the honor of a personal in- 
 terview, he wished to procure some " relic " of 
 Johnson for his friend. He cut off some bristles 
 from a hearth-broom in the doctor's chambers, and 
 sent them in a letter to his fellow-enthusiast. Long 
 afterwards Johnson was pleased to hear of this simple- 
 minded homage, and not only sent a copy of the 
 Lives of the Poets to the rural philosopher, but 
 deigned to grant him a personal interview. 
 
 Dearer than any such praise was the approval of 
 Johnson's wife. She told him that, well as she had 
 thought of him before, she had not considered him 
 equal to such a performance. The voice that so 
 
52 EASSELAS. 
 
 charmed, him was soon to be silenced for ever. Mrs. 
 Johnson died (March 17th, 1752) three days after 
 the appearance of the last Ramhler. The man who 
 has passed through such a trial knows well that, 
 whatever may be in store for him in the dark future, 
 fate can have no heavier blow in reserve. Though 
 Johnson once acknowledged to Boswell, when in 
 a placid humor, that happier days had come to him 
 in his old age than in his early life, he would probably 
 have added that though fame and friendship and 
 freedom from the harrowing cares of poverty might 
 cause his life to be more equably happy, yet their 
 rewards could, represent but a faint and mocking 
 reflection of the best moments of a happy marriage. 
 His strong mind and tender nature reeled, under the 
 blow. Here is one pathetic little note written to the 
 friend, Dr. Taylor, who had come to him in his 
 distress. That which first announced the calamity, 
 and which, said Taylor, " expressed grief in the 
 strongest manner he had ever read," is lost. 
 
 " Dear Sir, — Let me have your company and in- 
 struction. Do not live away from me. My distress 
 is great. 
 
 " Pray desire Mrs. Taylor to inform me what 
 mourning I should buy for my mother and Miss 
 Porter, and bring a note in writing with you. 
 
 " Remember me in your prayers, for vain is the 
 help of man. 
 
 " I am, dear sir, 
 
 " Sam. Johnson." 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 53 
 
 We need not regret that a veil is drawn over tHe 
 details of the bitter agony of his passage through the 
 valley of the shadow of death. It is enough to put 
 down the words which he wrote long afterwards 
 when visibly approaching the close of all human 
 emotions and interests : — 
 
 " This is the day on which, in 1752, dear Tetty 
 died. I have now uttered a prayer of repentance 
 and contrition ; perhaps Tetty knows that I prayed 
 for her. Perhaps Tetty is now praying for me. 
 God help me. Thou, God, art merciful, hear my 
 prayers and enable me to trust in Thee. 
 
 " We were married almost seventeen years, and 
 have now been parted thirty." 
 
 It seems half profane, even at this distance of time, 
 to pry into grief so deep and so lasting. Johnson 
 turned for relief to that which all sufferers know to 
 be the only remedy for sorrow — hard labor. He set 
 to work in his garret, an inconvenient room, " because," 
 he said, "in that room only I never saw Mrs. John- 
 son." He helped his friend Hawkesworth in the 
 Adventurer, a new periodical of the Mambler kind ; 
 but his main work was the Dictionary, which came 
 out at last in 1755. Its appearance was the occasion 
 of an explosion of wrath which marks an epoch in 
 our literature. Johnson, as we have seen, had 
 dedicated the Plan to Lord Chesterfield ; and his 
 language implies that they had been to some extent 
 in personal communication. Chesterfield's fame is 
 in curious antithesis to Johnson's. He was a man of 
 great abilities, and seems to have deserved high 
 
54 RASSELAS. 
 
 credit for some parts of his statesmanship. As a 
 Viceroy in Ireland in particular he showed qualities 
 rare in his generation. To Johnson he was known 
 as the nobleman who had a wide social influence 
 as an acknowledged obiter elegantiarv/m, and who 
 reckoned among his claims some of that literary 
 polish in which the earlier generation of nobles had 
 certainly been superior to their successors. The art 
 of life expounded in his Letters differs from Johnsoa's 
 as much as the elegant diplomatist differs from the 
 rough intellectual gladiator of Grub Street. Johnson 
 spoke his mind of his rival without reserve. "I 
 thought," he said, " that this man had been a Lord 
 among wits ; but I find he is only a wit among 
 Lords." And of the Letters he said more keenly 
 that they taught the morals of a harlot and the 
 manners of a dancing-master. Chesterfield's opinion 
 of Johnson is indicated by the description in his 
 Letters of a " respectable Hottentot, who throws his 
 meat anywhere but down his throat." This absurd 
 person, said Chesterfield, " was not only uncouth in 
 manners and warm in dispute, but behaved exactly 
 in the same way to superiors, equals, and inferiors ; 
 and therefore, by a necessary consequence, absurdly 
 to two of the three." Hinc illce lacrymm ! 
 
 Johnson, in my opinion, was not far wrong in his 
 judgment, though it would be a gross injustice to 
 regard Chesterfield as nothing but a fribble. But 
 men representing two such antithetic types were not 
 likely to admire each other's good qualities. What- 
 ever had been the intercourse between them, Johnson 
 
LlFfi Ot JOaNSON. 55 
 
 ^as naturally annoyed when the dignified noble 
 published two articles in the World — a periodical 
 supported by such polite personages as himself and 
 Horace Walpole — in which the need of a dictionary 
 was set forth, and various courtly compliments de- 
 scribed Johnson's fitness for a dictatorship over the 
 language. Nothing could be more prettily turned ; 
 but it meant, and Johnson took it to mean, I should 
 like to have the dictionary dedicated to me : such a 
 compliment would add a feather to my cap, and 
 enable me to appear to the world as a patron of 
 literature as well as an authority upon manners. 
 " After making great professions," as Johnson said, 
 " he had, for many years, taken no notice of me ; but 
 when my Dictionary was coming out, he fell a scrib- 
 bling in the World about it." Johnson therefore 
 bestowed upon the noble earl a piece of his mind in 
 a letter which was not published till it came out in 
 Bos well's biography. 
 
 " My Lord, — I have been lately informed by the 
 proprietor of the World that two papers, in which 
 my Dictionary is recommended to the public, were 
 written by your lordship. To be so distinguished 
 is an honor which, being very little accustomed to 
 favors from the great, I know not well how to 
 receive, or in what terms to acknowledge. 
 
 " When, upon some slight encouragement, I first 
 visited your Lordship, I was overpowered, like the 
 rest of mankind, by the enchantment of your address ; 
 and could not forbear to wish that I might boast my- 
 self, le vainquewr du vavnqueur de la terre — tha-t X 
 
56 
 
 RASSELAS, 
 
 mio-ht obtain that regard for which I saw the world 
 contending ; but I found my attendance so little en- 
 couraged that neither pride nor modesty would suffer 
 me to continue it. When I had once addressed your 
 Lordship in public, I had exhausted all the arts of 
 pleasing which a retired and uncourtly scholar can 
 possess. I had done all that I could ; and no man is 
 well pleased to have his all neglected, be it ever so 
 little. 
 
 " Seven years, my Lord, have now passed, since I 
 waited in your outward rooms and was repulsed from 
 your door ; during which time I have been pushing 
 on my work through difficulties of which it is useless 
 to complain, and have brought it at last to the verge 
 of publication without one act of assistance, one word 
 of encouragement, and one smile of favor. Such 
 treatment I did not expect, for I never had a patron 
 before. 
 
 " The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted 
 with Love, and found him a native of the rocks. 
 
 " Is not a patron, my Lord, one who looks with 
 unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, 
 and when he has reached the ground encumbers him 
 with help ? The notice which you have been pleased 
 to take of my labors, had it been early, had been 
 kind ; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, 
 and cannot enjoy it ; till I am solitary, and cannot 
 impart it ; till I am known, and do not want it. I 
 hope it is no very cynical asperity not to confess obli- 
 gations where no benefit has been received, or to be 
 unwilling that the public should consider me as owing 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 67 
 
 that to a patron wliich Providence has enabled me to 
 do for myself. 
 
 " Having carried on my work thus far with so lit- 
 tle obligation to any favorer of learning, I shall not 
 be disappointed though I should conclude it, should 
 less be possible, with less ; for I have been long 
 wakened from that dream of hope in which I once 
 boasted myself with so much exultation, my Lord, 
 
 "Your Lordship's most humble, most obedient 
 servant, 
 
 " Sam Johnson." 
 
 The letter is one of those knock-down blows to 
 which no answer is possible, and upon which com- 
 ment is superfluous. It was, as Mr. Carlyle calls it, 
 " the far-famed blast of doom proclaiming into the 
 ear of Lord Chesterfield and through him, of the 
 listening world, that patronage should be no more." 
 
 That is all that can be said ; yet perhaps it should 
 be added that Johnson remarked that he had once 
 received »610 from Chesterfield, though he thought 
 the assistance too inconsiderable to be mentioned in 
 such a letter. Hawkins also states that Chesterfield 
 sent overtures to Johnson through two friends, one 
 of whom, long Sir Thomas Robinson, stated that, if 
 he were rich enough (a judicious clause) he would 
 himself settle £500 a year upon Johnson. Johnson 
 replied that if the first peer of the realm made such 
 an offer, he would show him the way downstairs. 
 Hawkins is startled at this insolence, and at John- 
 son's uniform assertion that an offer of money was an 
 insult. We cannot tell what was the history of the 
 
58 RASSELAS. 
 
 £10 ; but Johnson, in spite of Hawkin's righteous, 
 indignation, was in fact too proud to be a beggar, 
 and owed to his pride his escape from the fate of 
 Savage. 
 
 The appearance of the Dictiona/ry placed Johnson 
 in the position described soon afterwards by Smollett. 
 He was henceforth " the great Cham of Literature " 
 — a monarch sitting in the chair previously occupied 
 by his namesake, Ben, by Dryden, and by Pope ; but 
 which has since that time been vacant. The world 
 of literature has become too large for such authority. 
 Complaints were not seldom uttered at the time. 
 Goldsmith has urged that Boswell wisjhed to make a 
 monarchy of what ought to be a republic. Gold- 
 smith, who would have been the last man to find 
 serious fault with the dictator, thought the dictator- 
 ship objectionable. Some time indeed was still to 
 elapse before we can say that Johnson was firmly 
 seated on the throne; but the Dictionary and the 
 Rambler had given him a position not altogether 
 easy to appreciate, now that the Dictionary has been 
 superseded and the Havfibler gone out of fashion. 
 His name was the highest at this time (1755) in the 
 ranks of pure literature. The fame of Warburton 
 possibly balked larger for the moment, and one of his 
 flatterers was comparing him to the Colossus which 
 bestrides the petty world of contemporaries. But 
 Warburton had subsided into episcopal repose, and 
 literature had been for him a stepping-stone rather 
 than an ultimate aim. Hume had written works of 
 far more enduring influence than Johnson ; but they 
 
LIFE OP JOHNSON. 59 
 
 ■were little read though generally abused, and scarcely 
 belong to the purely literary history. The first 
 volume of his History of England had appeared 
 (1754), but had not succeeded. The second was just 
 coming out. Richardson was still giving laws to his 
 little seraglio of adoring women ; Fielding had died 
 (1754), worn out by labor and dissipation ; Smollett 
 was active in the literary trade, but not in such a 
 way as to increase his own dignity or that of his em- 
 ployment; Gray was slowly writing a few lines of 
 exquisite verse in his retirement at Cambridge ; two 
 young Irish adventurers, Burke and Goldsmith, were 
 just coming to London to try their fortune ; Adam 
 Smith made his first experiment as an author by re- 
 viewing the Dictionary in the Edinburgh Heview / 
 Robertson had not yet appeared as a historian ; Gib- 
 bon was at Lausanne repenting of his old brief lapse 
 into Catholicism as an act of undergraduate's folly ; 
 and Cowper, after three years of " giggling and mak- 
 ing giggle " with Thurlow in an attorney's office, was 
 now entered at the Temple and amusing himself at 
 times with literature in company with such small men 
 of letters as Colman, Bonnell Thornton, and Lloyd. 
 It was a slack tide of literature ; the generation of 
 Pope had passed away and left no successors, and no 
 writer of the time could be put in competition with 
 the giant now known as " Dictionary Johnson." 
 
 When the last sheet of the Dictionary had been 
 carried to the publisher, Millar, Johnson asked the 
 messenger, " What did he say ? " " Sir," said the 
 messenger, " he said, ' Thank God I have done with 
 
CO RASSELAS. 
 
 liim.' " " I am glad," replied Jolmson, " that he 
 thanks God for anything." Thankfulness for relief 
 from seven years' toil seems to have been Johnson's 
 predominant feeling : and he was not anxious for a 
 time to take any new labors upon his shoulders. 
 Some years passed which have left few traces either 
 upon his personal or his literary history. He contrib- 
 uted a good many reviews in 1756-7 to the Litera/ry 
 Magazine, one of which, a review of Soame Jenyns, 
 is amongst his best performances. To a weekly 
 paper he contributed for two years, from April, 1758, 
 to April, 1760, a set of essays called the Idler, on the 
 old Manibler plan. He did some small literary cob- 
 bler's work, receiving a guinea for a prospectus to a 
 newspaper and ten pounds for correcting a volume of 
 poetry. He had advertised in 1756 a new edition of 
 Shakspeare which was to appear by Christmas, 1757 : 
 but he dawdled over it so unconscionably that it did 
 not appear for nine years ; and then only in conse- 
 quence of taunts from Churchill, who accused him 
 with too much plausibility of cheating his subscribers. 
 
 He for subscribers baits his hook ; 
 
 And takes your cash : but where's the book ? 
 
 No matter where ; wise fear, you know 
 
 Forbids the robbing of a foe ; 
 
 But what to serve our private ends 
 
 Forbids the cheating of our friends ? 
 
 In truth, his constitutional indolence seems to 
 have gained advantages over him, when the stimulus 
 of a heavy task was removed. In his meditations, 
 there are many complaints of his " sluggishness " and 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 61 
 
 resolutions of amendment. " A kind of strange ob- 
 livion has spread over me," he says in April, 1764, 
 "so that I know not what has become of the last 
 years, and perceive that incidents and intelligence 
 pass over me without leaving any impression." 
 
 It seems, however, that he was still frequently in 
 difficulties. Letters are preserved showing that in 
 the beginning of 1756, Richardson became surety for 
 him for a debt, and lent him six guineas to I'elease 
 him from arrest. An event which happened thiee 
 years later illustrates his position and character. In 
 January, 1759, his mother died at the age of ninety. 
 Johnson was unable to come to Lichfield, and some 
 deeply pathetic letters to her and her stepdaughter, 
 who lived with her, record his emotions. Here is the 
 last sad farewell upon the snapping of the most 
 sacred of human ties. 
 
 " Dear Honored Mother," he says in a letter en' 
 closed to Lucy Porter, the stepdaughter, " neither 
 your condition nor your character make it fit for me 
 to say much. You have been the best mother, and I 
 believe the best woman in the world. I thank you 
 for your indulgence to me, and beg forgiveness of 
 all that I have done ill, and of all that I have omitted 
 to do well. God grant you His Holy Spirit, and re- 
 ceive you to everlasting happiness for Jesus Christ's 
 sake. Amen. Lord Jesus receive your spirit. I am, 
 dear, dear mother, 
 
 " Your dutiful son, 
 
 "Samuel Johnson," 
 
62 RAS8ELAS. 
 
 Johnson managed to raise twelve guineas, six of 
 them borrowed from his printer, to send to his dying 
 mother. In order to gain money for her funeral ex- 
 penses and some small debts, he wrote the story of 
 Rasselas. It was composed in the evenings of a 
 single week, and sent to press as it was written. He 
 received £100 for this, perhaps the most successful 
 of his minor writings, and £25 for a second edition. 
 It was widely translated and universally admired. 
 One of the strangest of literary coincidences is the 
 contemporary appearance of this work and Voltaire's 
 Candide ; to which, indeed, it bears in some respects 
 so strong a resemblance that, but for Johnson's ap- 
 parent contradiction, we would suppose that he had 
 at least heard some description of its design. The 
 two stories, though widely differing in tone and 
 style, are among the most powerful expressions of the 
 melancholy produced in strong intellects by the sad- 
 ness and sorrows of the world. The literary excel- 
 lence of Candide has secured for it a wider and more 
 enduring popularity than has fallen to the lot of 
 Johnson's far heavier production. But Rasselas is a 
 book of singular force, and bears the most character- 
 istic impression of Johnson's peculiar temperament. 
 
 A great change was approaching in Johnson's cir- 
 cumstances. When George III. came to the throne, 
 it struck some of his advisers that it would be well, 
 as Boswell puts it, to open " a new and brighter 
 prospect to men of literary merit." This commend- 
 able design was carried out by offei'ing to Johnson a 
 pension of three hundred a year. Considering that 
 
LIPfi OF JOHNSON. 63 
 
 such men as Horace Walpole and his like were enjoy- 
 ing sinecures of more than twice as many thousands 
 for being their father's sons, the bounty does not 
 strike one as excessively liberal. It seems to have 
 been really intended as some set-off against other 
 pensions bestowed upon various hangers-on of the 
 Scotch prime minister, Bute. Johnson was coupled 
 with the contemptible scribbler, Shebbeare, who had 
 lately been in the pillory for a Jacobite libel (a " he- 
 bear " and a " she-bear," said the facetious news- 
 papers), and when a few months afterwards a pension 
 of £200 a year was given to the old actor, Sheridan, 
 Johnson growled out that it was time for him to re- 
 sign his own. Somebody kindly repeated the remark 
 to Sheridan, who would never afterwards speak to 
 Johnson. 
 
 The pension, though very welcome to Johnson, 
 who seems to have been in real distress at the time, 
 suggested some difficulty. Johnson had unluckily 
 spoken of a pension in his Dictionary as " generally 
 understood to mean pay given to a State hireling for 
 treason to his country." He was assured, however, 
 that he did not come within the definition ; and that 
 the reward was given for what he had done, not for 
 anything that he was expected to do. After some 
 hesitation, Johnson consented to accept the payment 
 thus offered without the direct suggestion of any 
 obligation, though it was probably calculated that he 
 would in case of need, be the moi'e ready, as actually 
 happened, to use his pen in defence of authority. He 
 had not compromised his independence and might 
 
64 RASSELAS, 
 
 fairly laugli at angry comments. " I wish," he said 
 afterwards, "that my pension were twice as large, 
 that they might make twice as much noise." " I 
 cannot now curse the House of HanoTcr," was his 
 phrase on another occasion : " but I think that the 
 pleasure of cursing the House of Hanover and drink- 
 ing King James's health, are amply overbalanced by 
 three hundred pounds a year." In truth, his Jacob- 
 itism was by this time, whatever it had once been, 
 nothing more than a humorous crotchet, giving 
 opportunity for the expression of Tory prejudice. 
 
 " I hope you will now purge and live cleanly like 
 a gentleman," was Beauclerk's comment upon hear- 
 ing of his friend's accession of fortune, and as John- 
 son is now emerging from Grub Street, it is desirable 
 to consider what manner of man was to be presented 
 to the wider circles that were opening to receive 
 him. 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON, 65 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 JOHNSON AND HIS FEIBNDS. 
 
 It is not till some time after Johnson had come inta 
 the enjoyment of his pension, that we first see him 
 through the eyes of competent observers. The John- 
 son of our knowledge, the most familiar figure to all 
 students of English literary history had already long 
 passed the prime of life, and done the greatest part 
 of his literary work. His character, in the common 
 phrase, had been " formed " years before ; as, indeed, 
 people's characters are chiefly formed in the cradle ; 
 and, not only his character, but the habits which are 
 learnt in the great schoolroom of the world were 
 fixed beyond any possibility of change. The strange 
 eccentricities which had now become a second nature, 
 amazed the society in which he was for over twenty 
 years a prominent figure. Unsympathetic observers, 
 those especially to whom the Chesterfield type rep- 
 resented the ideal of humanity, were simply dis- 
 gusted or repelled. The man, they thought, might 
 be in his place at a Grub Street pot-house ; but had 
 no business in a lady's drawing-room. If he had 
 been modest and retiring, they might have put up 
 with his defects ; but Johnson was not a person 
 whose qualities, good or bad, were of a kind to be 
 ignored. Naturally enough, the fashionable world 
 5 
 
66 KA8SELAS. 
 
 cared little for the rugged old giant. " The great," 
 said Johnson, " had tried him and given him up ; they 
 had seen enough of him ; " and his reason was pretty- 
 much to the purpose. " Great lords and great ladies 
 don't love to have their mouths stopped," especially 
 not, one may add, by an unwashed fist. 
 
 It is easy to blame them now. Everybody can 
 see that a saint in beggar's rags is intrinsically better 
 than a sinner in gold lace. But the principle is one 
 of those which serves us for judging the dead, much 
 more than for regulating our own conduct. Those, 
 at any rate, may throw the first stone at the Horace 
 Walpoles and Chesterfields, who are quite certain 
 that they would ask a modern Johnson to their 
 houses. The trial would be severe. Poor Mrs. Bos- 
 well complained grievously of her husband's idolatry. 
 " I have seen many a bear led by a man," she said ; 
 " but I never before saw a man led by a bear." The 
 truth is, as Boswell explains, that the sage's uncouth 
 habits, such as turning the candles' heads downwards 
 to mate them burn more brightly, and letting the 
 wax drop upon the carpet, " could not but be dis- 
 agreeable to a lady." 
 
 He had other habits still more annoying to people 
 of delicate perceptions. A hearty despiser of all 
 affectations, he diepised especially the affectation of 
 indifference to the pleasures of the table. " For my 
 part," he said, "I mind my belly very studiously 
 and very carefully, for I look upon it that he who 
 does not mind his belly will hardly mind anything 
 else." Avowing this principle he would innocently 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 67 
 
 give himself the airs of a scientific epicure. " I, 
 madam," he said to the terror of a lady with wboili 
 he was about to sup, " who live at a variety of good 
 tables, am a much better judge of cookery than any 
 person who has a very tolerable cook, but lives much at 
 home, for his palate is gradually adapted to the taste of 
 his cook, whereas, madam, in tiying by a wider I'ange, 
 I can more exquisitely judge." But his pretensions 
 to exquisite taste are by no means borne out by in- 
 dependent witnesses. "He laughs," said Tom Da- 
 vies, " like a rhinoceros," and he seems to have eaten 
 like a wolf — savagely, silently, and with undiscrim- 
 ating fury. He was not a pleasant object during 
 this performance. He was totally absorbed in the 
 business of the moment, a strong perspiration came 
 out, and the veins of his forehead swelled. He liked 
 coarse satisfying dishes — boiled pork and veal-pie 
 stuffed with plums and sugar ; and in regard to wine 
 he seems to have accepted the doctrines of the critic 
 of a certain fluid professing to be port, who asked, 
 " What more can you want ? It is black, and it is 
 thick, and it makes you drunk." Claret, as Johnson 
 put it, " is the liquor for boys, and port for men ; 
 but he who aspires to be a hero must drink brandy." 
 He could, however, refrain, though he could not be 
 moderate, and for all the latter part of his life, from 
 1766, he was a total abstainer. Nor, it should be 
 added, does he ever appear to have sought for more 
 than exhilaration from wine. His earliest intimate 
 friend. Hector, said that he had never but once seen 
 him drunk. 
 
68 RASSELAS. 
 
 His appetite for more innocent kinds of food was 
 equally excessive. He would eat seven or eight 
 peaches before breakfast, and declared that he had 
 only once in his life had as much wall-fruit as he 
 wished. His consumption of tea was prodigious, 
 beyond all precedent. Hawkins quotes Bishop 
 Burnet as having drunk sixteen large cups every 
 morning, a feat which would entitle him to be reck- 
 oned as a rival. "A hardened and shameless tea- 
 drinker," Johnson called himself, who " with tea 
 amuses the evenings, with tea solaces the midnights, 
 and with tea welcomes the mornings." One of his 
 teapots, preserved by a relic-hunter, contained two 
 quarts, and he professed to have consumed five and 
 twenty cups at a sitting. Poor Mrs. Thrale com- 
 plains that he often kept her up making tea for him 
 till four in the morning. His reluctance to go to 
 bed was due to the fact that his nights were periods 
 of intense misery ; but the vast potations of tea can 
 scarcely have tended to improve them. 
 
 The huge frame was clad in the raggedest of gar- 
 ments, until his acquaintance with the Thrales led to 
 a partial reform. His wigs were generally burnt in 
 front, from his shortsighted knack of reading with 
 his head close to the candle ; and at the Thrales, 
 the butler stood ready to effect a change of wigs as 
 he passed into the dining-room. Once or twice we 
 have accounts of his bursting into unusual splendor. 
 He appeared at the first representation of Irene in a 
 scarlet waistcoat laced with gold ; and on one of his 
 first interviews with Goldsmith he took the trouble to 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSOIT. 69 
 
 array himself decently, because Goldsmith was report- 
 ed to have justified slovenly habits by the precedent of 
 the leader of his craft. Goldsmith, judging by certain 
 famous suits, seems to have profited by the hint more 
 than his preceptor. As a rule, Johnson's appearance, 
 before he became a pensioner, was worthy of the 
 proverbial manner of Grub Street. Beauclerk used 
 to describe how he had once taken a French lady of 
 distinction to see Johnson in his chambers. On des- 
 cending the staircase they heard a noise like thunder. 
 Johnson was pursuing them, struck by a sudden 
 sense of the demands upon his gallantry. He brushed 
 in between Beauclerk and the lady, and seizing her 
 hand conducted her to her coach. A crowd of people 
 collected to stare at the sage, dressed in rusty brown, 
 with a pair of old shoes for slippers, a shrivelled wig 
 on the top of his head, and with shirtsleeves and the 
 knees of his breeches hanging loose. In those days 
 clergymen and physicians were only just abandoning 
 the use of their official costume in the streets, and 
 Johnson's slovenlj'- habits were even more marked 
 than they would be at present. " I have no passion 
 for clean linen," he once remarked, and it is to be 
 feared that he must sometimes have offended more 
 senses than one. 
 
 In spite of his uncouth habits of dress and man- 
 ners, Johnson claimed and, in a sense, with justice, 
 to be a polite man. " I look upon myself," he said 
 once to Boswell, " as a very polite man." He could 
 show the stately courtesy of a sound Tory, who cor- 
 dially accepts the principle of social distinction, but 
 
TO RASSELAS. 
 
 lias far too strong a sense of self-respect to fancy that 
 compliance with the ordinary conventions can pos- 
 sibly lower his own position. Rank of the spiritual 
 kind was especially venerable to him. " I should as 
 soon have thought of _ contradicting a bishop," was a 
 phrase which marked the highest conceivable degree 
 of deference to a man whom he respected. Nobody, 
 again, could pay more effective compliments, when he 
 pleased ; and the many female friends who have"writ- 
 ten of him agree, that he could be singularly attractive 
 to women. Women are, perhaps, more inclined than 
 men to forgive external roughness in consideration of 
 the great charm of deep tenderness in a thoroughly 
 masculine nature. A characteristic phrase was his re- 
 mark to Miss Monckton. She had declared, in opposi- 
 tion to one of Johnson's prejudices, that Sterne's writ- 
 ings were pathetic : " I am sure," she said, " they have 
 affected me." "Why," said Johnson, smiling and 
 rolling himself about, " that is because, dearest, you 
 are a dunce ! " When she mentioned this to him 
 some time afterwards he replied : " Madam, if I had 
 thought so, I certainly should not have said it." The 
 truth could not be more neatly put. 
 
 Boswell notes, with some surprise, that when 
 Johnson dined with Lord Monboddo he insisted upon 
 rising when the ladies left the table, and took occasion 
 to observe that politeness was " fictitious benevolence," 
 and equally useful in common intercourse. Boswell's 
 surprise seems to indicate that Scotchmen in those 
 days were even greater bears than Johnson. He al- 
 ways insisted, as Miss Reynolds tells us, upon show- 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 71 
 
 ing ladies to their carriages through Bolt Court, 
 though his dress was such that her readers would, 
 she thinks, be astonished that any man in his senses 
 should have shown himself in it abroad or even at 
 home. Another odd indication of Johnson's regard 
 for good manners, so far as his lights would take him, 
 was the extreme disgust with which he often referred 
 to a certain footman in Paris, who used his fingers in 
 place of sugar-tongs. So far as Johnson could rec- 
 ognize bad manners he was polite enough, though 
 unluckily the limitation is one of considerable im- 
 portance. 
 
 Johnson's claims to politeness were sometimes, it 
 is true, put in a rather startling form. " Every man 
 of any education," he once said to the amazement of 
 his hearers, " would rather be called a rascal than ac- 
 cused of deficiency in the graces." Gibbon, who was 
 present, slily inquired of a lady whether among all 
 her acquaintance she could not find one exception. 
 According to Mrs. Thrale, he went even further. 
 Dr. Barnard, he said, was the only man who had ever 
 done justice to his good breeding ; " and you may ob- 
 serve," he added, " that I am well-bred to a degree 
 of needless scrupulosity." He proceeded, according 
 to Mrs. Thrale, but the report a little taxes our faith, 
 to claim the virtues not only of respecting ceremony, 
 but of never contradicting or interupting his hearers. 
 It is rather odd that Dr. Barnard had once a sharp 
 altercation with Johnson, and avenged himself by a 
 a sarcastic copy of verses in which, after professing to 
 learn perfections from different friends, he says, — 
 
72 RASSELAS. 
 
 Johnson shall teach me how to place, 
 In varied light, each borrow'd grace ; 
 
 From him I'll learn to write ; 
 Copy his clear familiar style. 
 And by the roughness of his file, 
 
 Grow, like himself, polite. 
 
 Johnson, on this as on many occasions, repented 
 of the blow as soon as it was struck, and sat down by 
 Barnard, " literally smoothing down his arms and 
 knees, " and beseeching pardon. Barnard accepted 
 his apologies, but went home and wrote his little 
 copy of verses. 
 
 Johnson's shortcomings in civility were no doubt 
 due, in part, to the narrowness of his faculties of 
 perception. He did not know, for he could not see, 
 that his uncouth gestures and slovenly dress were 
 offensive; and he was not so well able to observe 
 others as to shake off the manners contracted in Grub 
 Street. It is hard to study a manual of etiquette 
 late in life, and for a man of Johnson's imperfect 
 faculties it was probably impossible. Errors of this 
 kind were always pardonable, and are now simply 
 ludicrous. But Johnson often shocked his com- 
 panions by more indefensible conduct. He was 
 irascible, overbearing, and, when angry, vehement 
 be3'ond all propriety. He was a " tremendous com- 
 panion," said Garrick's brother ; and men of gentle 
 nature, like Charles Fox, often shrank from his com- 
 pany, and perhaps exaggerated his brutality. 
 
 Johnson, who had long regarded conversation as 
 the chief amusement, came in later years to regard it 
 as almost the chief employment of life ; and he had 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 73 
 
 studied the art with the zeal of a man pursuing a 
 favorite hobby. He had always, as he told Sir 
 Joshua Reynolds, made it a principle to talk on all 
 occasions as well as he could. He had thus obtained 
 a mastery over his weapons which made him one of 
 the most accomplished of conversational gladiators. 
 He had one advantage which has pretty well dis- 
 appeared from modern society, and the disappear- 
 ance of which has been destructive to excellence of 
 talk. A good talker, even more than a good orator, 
 implies a good audience. Modern society is too vast 
 and too restless to give a conversationalist a fair 
 chance. For the formation of real proficiency in the 
 art, friends should meet often, sit long, and be 
 thoroughly at ease. A modern audience generally 
 breaks up before it is well warmed through, and in- 
 cludes enough strangers to break the magic circle of 
 social electricity. The clubs in which Johnson de- 
 lighted were excellently adapted to foster his pecuHar 
 talent. There a man could " fold his legs and have 
 his talk out " — a pleasure hardly to be enjoyed now. 
 And there a set of friends meeting regularly, and 
 meeting to talk, learnt to sharpen each other's skill 
 in all dialectic manoeuvres. Conversation may be 
 pleasantest, as Johnson admitted, when two friends 
 meet quietly to exchange their minds without any 
 thought of display. But conversation considered as 
 a game, as a bout of intellectual sword-play, has also 
 charms which Johnson intensely appreciated. His 
 talk was not of the encyclopsedia variety, like that of 
 some ipore modern celebrities ; but it was full of appos- 
 
^4t RASSELAS. 
 
 ite illustrations and unrivalled in keen argument, 
 rapid flashes of wit and humor, scornful retort and 
 dexterous sophistry. Sometimes he would fell his ad- 
 versary at a blow ; his sword, as Boswell said, would 
 be through your body in an instant without pre- 
 liminary flourishes ; and in the excitement of talking 
 for victory, he would use any device that came to 
 hand. "There is no arguing with Johnson," said 
 Goldsmith, quoting a phrase from Gibber, " for if his 
 pistol misses fire, he knocks you down with the butt- 
 end of it." 
 
 Johnson's view of conversation is indicated by his 
 remark about Burke. " That fellow," he said at a 
 time of illness, " calls forth all my powers. Were I 
 to see Burke now, it would kill me." " It is when 
 you come close to a man in conversation," he said on 
 another occasion, " that you discover what his real 
 abilities are. To make a speech in an assembly is a 
 knack. Now I honor Thurlow, sir ; Thurlow is a 
 fine fellow, he fairly puts his mind to yours." 
 
 Johnson's retorts were fair play under the con- 
 ditions of the game, as it is fair play to kick an 
 opponent's shins at football. But of course a man 
 who had, as it were, become the acknowledged 
 champion of the ring, and who had an irascible and 
 thoroughly dogmatic temper, was tempted to become 
 unduly imperious. In the companj' of which Savage 
 was a distinguished member, one may guess that the 
 conversational fervor sometimes degenerated into 
 horse-play. Want of arguments would be supplied 
 by personality, and the champion would avenge him- 
 
' LIFE OF JOHNSON. f5 
 
 self by brutality on an opponent who happened for 
 once to be getting the best of him. Johnson, as he 
 grew older and got into more polished society, 
 became milder in his manners ; but he bad enough 
 of the old spirit left in him to break forth at times 
 with ungovernable fury, and astonish the well-regu- 
 lated minds of respectable ladies and gentlemen. 
 
 Anecdotes illustrative of this ferocity abound, and 
 his best friends — except, perhaps, Reynolds and 
 Burke — had all to suffer in turn. On one occasion, 
 when he had made a rude speech even to Reynolds, 
 Boswell states, though with some hesitation, his 
 belief that Johnson actually blushed. The records 
 of his contests in this kind fill a large space in 
 Boswell's pages. That they did not lead to worse 
 consequences shows his absence of rancor. He was 
 alwaj'^s ready and anxious for a reconciliation, though 
 he w^ould not press for one if his first overtures 
 were rejected. There was no venom in the wounds 
 he inflicted, for there was no ill-nature; he was 
 rough in the heat of the struggle, and in such cases 
 careless in distributing blows ; but he never enjoyed 
 giving pain. None of his tiffs ripened into permanent 
 quarrels, and he seems scarcely to have lost a friend. 
 He is a pleasant contrast in this, as in much else, to 
 Horace Walpole, who succeeded, in the course of a 
 long life, in breaking with almost all his old friends. 
 No man set a higher value upon friendship than 
 Johnson. " A man," he said to Reynolds, " ought 
 to keep his friendship in constant repair ; " or he 
 would find himself left alone as he grew older. " I 
 
Y6 KASSELAS. 
 
 look upon a day as lost," he said later iu life, " in 
 which I do not make a new acquaintance." Making 
 new acquaintances did not involve dropping the old. 
 The list of his friends is a long one, and includes, as 
 it were, successive layers, superposed upon each 
 other, from the earliest period of his life. 
 
 This is so marked a feature in Johnson's character, 
 that it will be as well at this point to notice some 
 of the friendships from which he derived the greatest 
 part of his happiness. Two of his schoolfellows, 
 Hector and Taylor, remained his intimates through 
 life. Hector survived to give information to Boswell, 
 and Taylor, then a prebendary of "Westminster, read 
 the funeral service over his old friend in the Abbey. 
 He showed, said some of the bystanders, too little 
 feeling. The relation between the two men was not 
 one of special tenderness ; indeed they were so little 
 cpngenial that Boswell rather gratuitously suspected 
 his venerable teacher of having an eye to Taylor's 
 will. It seems fairer to regard the acquaintance as 
 an illustration of that curious adhesiveness which 
 made Johnson cling to less attractive persons. At 
 any rate, he did not show the complacence of the 
 proper will-hunter. Taylor was rector of Bosworth 
 and squire of Ashbourne. He was a fine specimen 
 of the squire-parson ; a justice of the peace, a warm 
 politician, and what was worse, a warm Whig. He 
 raised gigantic bulls, bragged of selling cows for 120 
 guineas and more, and kept a noble butler in purple 
 clothes and a large white wig. Johnson respected 
 Taylor as a sensible man, but was ready to have a 
 
Lli^ OF JOHNSON. 77 
 
 round with him on occasion. He snorted contempt 
 when Taylor talked of breaking some small vessels 
 if he took an emetic. " Bah," said the doctor, who 
 regarded a valetudinarian as a " scoundrel," " if you 
 have so many things that will break, you had better 
 break your neck at once, and there's an end on't." 
 Nay, if he did not condemn Taylor's cows, he 
 criticized his bulldog with cruel acuteness. " No, sir, 
 he is not well shaped ; for there is not the quick 
 transition from the thickness of the fore-part to the 
 tenuity — the thin part — behind, which a bulldog 
 ought to have." On the more serious topic of 
 politics his Jacobite fulminations roused Taylor " to 
 a pitch of bellowing." Johnson roared out that if 
 the people of England were fairly polled (this was 
 in 1777) the present king would be sent away to- 
 night, and his adherents hanged to-morrow. Johnson, 
 however, rendered Taylor the substantial service of 
 writing sermons for him, two volumes of which were 
 published after they were both dead ; and Taylor 
 must have been a bold man, if it be true, as has been 
 said, that he refused to preach a sermon written by 
 Johnson upon Mrs. Johnson's death, on the ground 
 that it spoke too favorably of the character of the 
 deceased. 
 
 Johnson paid frequent visits to Lichfield, to keep 
 up his old friends. One of them was Lucy Porter, 
 his wife's daughter, with whom, according to Miss 
 Seward, he had been in love before he married her 
 mother. He was at, least tenderly attached to her 
 through life. And, for the most part, the good 
 
Y8 RASSELAS. 
 
 people of Lichfield seem to have heen proud of their 
 fellow-townsman, and gave him a substantial proof of 
 their sympathy by continuing to him, on favorable 
 terms, the lease of a house originally granted to his 
 father. There was, indeed, one remarkable excep- 
 tion in Miss Seward, who belonged to a genus specially 
 contemptible to the old doctor. She was one of the fine 
 ladies who dabbled in poetry, and aimed at being the 
 centre of a small literary circle at Lichfield. Her 
 letters are amongst the most amusing illustrations of 
 the petty affectations and squabbles characteristic of 
 such a provincial clique. She evidently hated John- 
 son at the bottom of her small soul ; and, indeed, 
 though Johnson once paid her a preposterous com- 
 pliment — a weakness of which this stern moralist was 
 apt to be guilty in the company of ladies — he no doubt 
 trod pretty roughly upon some of her pet vanities. 
 By far the most celebrated of Johnson's Lichfield 
 friends was David Garrick, in regard to whom his 
 relations were somewhat peculiar. Reynolds said 
 that Johnson considered Garrick to be his own 
 property, and would never allow him to be praised or 
 blamed by any one else without contradiction. Rey- 
 nolds composed a pair of imaginary dialogues to 
 illustrate the proposition, in one of which Johnson 
 attacks Garrick in answer to Reynolds, and in the 
 other defends him in answer to Gibbon. The 
 dialogues seem to be veiy good reproductions of the 
 Joliiisonian manner, though perhaps the courteous 
 Reynolds was a little too much impressed by its 
 roughness ; and they probably include many genuine 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. >JQ 
 
 remarks of Johnson's. It is remarkable that the 
 praise is far more pointed and elaborate than the 
 blame, which turns chiefly upon the general in- 
 feriority of an actor's position. And, in fact, this 
 seems to have corresponded to Johnson's opinion 
 about Garrick as gathered from Boswell. 
 
 The two men had at bottom a considerable regard 
 for each other, founded upon old association, mutual 
 services, and reciprocal respect for talents of very 
 different orders. But they were so widely separated 
 by circumstances, as well as by a radical opposition 
 of temperament, that any close intimacy could hardly 
 be expected. The bear and the monkey are not likely 
 to be intimate friends. Garrick's rapid elevation in 
 fame and fortune seems to have produced a certain 
 degree of envy in his old scholmaster. A grave moral 
 philosopher has, of course, no right to look askance 
 at the rewards which fashion lavishes upon men of 
 lighter and less lasting merit, and which he professes 
 to despise. Johnson, however, was troubled with a 
 rather excessive allowance of human nature. More- 
 over he had the good old-fashioned contempt for 
 players, characteristic both of the Tory and the inar- 
 tistic mind. He asserted roundly that he looked 
 upon players as no better than dancing-dogs. "But, 
 sir, you will allow that some players are better than 
 others ? " " Yes, sir, as some dogs dance better than 
 others." So when Goldsmith accused Garrick of 
 grossly flattering the queen, Johnson exclaimed, 
 "And as to meanness — how is it mean in a player, a 
 showman, a fellow who exhibits himself for a shilling, 
 
80 RASSELAS. 
 
 to flatter his queen ? " At another time Boswell 
 suggested that we might respect a great player. 
 " What ! sir," exclaimed Johnson, " a fellow who claps 
 a hump upon his back and a lump on his leg and 
 cries, '■ I am Richard III.'' ? Nay, sir, a ballad-singer 
 is a higher man, for he does two things : he repeats 
 and he sings ; there is both recitation and music in 
 his performance — the player only recites." 
 
 Such sentiments were not very likely to remain 
 unknown to Garrick nor to put him at ease with 
 Johnson, whom, indeed, he always suspected of laugh- 
 ing at him. They had a little tiff on account of 
 Johnson's Edition of Shakspeare. From some mis- 
 understanding, Johnson did not make use of Garrick's 
 collection of old plays. Johnson, it seems, thought 
 that Garrick should have courted him more, and per- 
 haps sent the plays to his house ; whereas Garrick, 
 knowing that Johnson treated books with a roughness 
 ill-suited to their constitution, thought that he had 
 done quite enough by asking Johnson to come to his 
 library. The revenge — if it was revenge — taken by 
 Johnson was to say nothing of Garrick in his Preface, 
 and to glance obliquely at his non-communication of 
 his rarities. He seems to have thought that it would 
 be a lowering of Shakspeare to admit that his fame 
 owed anything to Garrick's exertions. 
 
 Boswell innocently communicated to Garrick a 
 criticism of Johnson's upon one of his poems — 
 
 I'd smile with the simple and feed with the poor. 
 
 " Let me smile with the wise, and feed with the 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 81 
 
 rich," was Johnson's tolerably harmless remark. 
 Garrick, however, did not like it, and when Boswell 
 tried to console him by saying that Johnson gored 
 everybody in turn, and added, '■^foenum habet in 
 cornuy " Ay," said Garrick vehement^, " he has a 
 whole mow of it." 
 
 The most unpleasant incident was when Garrick 
 proposed rather too freely to be a member of the 
 Club. Johnson said that the first duke in England 
 had no right to use such language, and said, accord- 
 ing to Mrs. Thrale, "If Garrick does apply, I'll 
 blackball him. Surely we ought to be able to sit in 
 a society like ours — 
 
 ' Unelbowed by a gamester, pimp, or player ! ' " 
 
 Nearly ten years afterwards, however, Johnson 
 favored his election, and when he died, declared 
 that the Club should have a year's widowhood. No 
 successor to Garrick was elected during that time. 
 
 Johnson sometimes ventured to criticise Garrick's 
 acting, but here Garrick could take his full revenge. 
 The purblind Johnson was not, we may imagine, 
 much of a critic in such matters. Garrick reports 
 him to have said of an actor at Lichfield, " There is 
 a courtly vivacity about the fellow "; when, in fact, 
 said Garrick, " he was the most vulgar ruf&an that 
 ever went upon boards." 
 
 In spite of such collisions of opinion and mutual 
 
 criticism, Johnson seems to have spoken in the highest 
 
 terms of Garrick's good qualities, and they had many 
 
 pleasant meetings. Garrick takes a prominent part 
 
 6 
 
82 EASSELAS. 
 
 in two or three of the best conversations in Boswell, 
 and seems to have put his interlocutors in specially 
 good temper. Johnson declared him to be " the first 
 man in the world for sprightly conversation." He 
 said that Dryden had written much better prologues 
 than any of Garrick's, but that Garrick had written 
 more good prologues than Dryden. He declared 
 that it was wonderful how little Garrick had been 
 spoilt by all the flattery that he had received. No 
 wonder if he was a little vain : " a man who is per- 
 petually flattered in every mode that can be con- 
 ceived : so many bellows have blown the fuel, that one 
 wonders he is not by this time become a cinder!" 
 " If all this had happened to me," he said on another 
 occasion, " I should have had a couple of fellows with 
 long poles walking before me, to knock down every- 
 body that stood in the way. Consider, if all this had 
 happened to Gibber and Quin, they'd have jumped 
 over the moon. Yet Garrick speaks to us," smiling. 
 He admitted at the same time that Garrick had raised 
 the profession of a player. He defended Garrick, 
 too, against the common charge of avarice. Garrick, 
 as he pointed out, had been brought up in a family 
 whose study it was to make fourpence go as far as 
 fourpence-halfpenny. Johnson remembered in early 
 days drinking tea with Garrick when Peg "Woffington 
 made it, and made it, as Garrick grumbled, " as red 
 as blood." But when Garrick became rich he became 
 liberal. He had, so Johnson declared, given away 
 more money than any man in England. 
 
 After Garrick's death, Johnson took occasion to 
 
LIFE OP JOHNSON. 88 
 
 say, in the Limes of the Poets, that the death " had 
 eclipsed the gaiety of nations and diminished the 
 public stock of harmless pleasures." Boswell ven- 
 tured to criticise the observation rather spitefully. 
 " Why nations f Did his gaiety extend further tliau 
 his own nation?" "Why, sir," replied Johnson, 
 " some exaggeration must be allowed. Besides, we 
 may &2ijnationsii we allow the Scotch to be a nation; 
 and to have gaiety — which they have not." On the 
 whole, in spite of various drawbacks, Johnson's re- 
 ported observations upon Garrick will appear to be 
 discriminative, and yet, on the whole, strongly 
 favorable to his character. Yet we are not quite 
 surprised that Mrs. Garrick did not respond to a hint 
 thrown out by Johnson, that he would be glad to 
 write the life of his friend. 
 
 At Oxford, Johnson acquired the friendship of Dr. 
 Adams, afterwards Master of Pembroke and author 
 of a once well-known reply to Hume's argument 
 upon miracles. He was an amiable man, and was 
 proud to do the honors of the university to his old 
 friend, when, in later years, Johnson revisited the 
 much-loved scenes of his neglected youth. The 
 warmth of Johnson's regard for old days is oddly il- 
 lustrated by an interview recorded by Boswell with 
 one Edwards, a fellow-student whom he met again in 
 1778, not having previously seen him since 1729. 
 They had lived in London for forty years without 
 once meeting, a fact more surprising then than now. 
 Boswell eagerly gathered up the little scraps of col- 
 lege anecdote which the meeting produced, but per- 
 
84 feASSELAS. 
 
 haps his best find was a phrase of Edwards himself, 
 " Tou are a philosopher, Dr. Johnson," he said ; " I 
 have tried, too, in my time to be a philosopher ; but, 
 I don't know how, cheerfulness was always breaking 
 in." The phrase, as Boswell truly says, records an 
 exquisite trait of character. 
 
 Of the friends who gathered round Johnson during 
 his period of struggle, many had vanished before he 
 became well known. The best loved of all seems to 
 have been Dr. Bathurst, a physician, who, failing to 
 obtain practice, joined the expedition to Havannah, 
 and fell a victim to the climate (1762). Upon him 
 Johnson pronounced a panegyric which has contrib- 
 uted a proverbial phrase to the language. " Dear 
 Bathurst," he said, " was a man to my very heart's 
 content : he hated a fool and he hated a rogue, and 
 he hated a Whig; he was a very good hater." 
 Johnson remembered Bathurst in his prayers for 
 years after his loss, and received from him a peculiar 
 legacy. Francis Barber had been the negro slave of 
 Bathurst's father, who left him his liberty by will. 
 Dr. Bathurst allowed him to enter Johnson's service ; 
 and Johnson sent him to school at considerable ex- 
 pense, and afterwards retained him in his service with 
 little interruption till his own death. Once Barber 
 ran away to sea, and was discharged, oddly enough, 
 by the good offices of Wilkes, to whom Smollett ap- 
 plied on Johnson's behalf. Barber became an im- 
 portant member of Johnson's family, some of whom 
 reproached him for his liberality to the nigger. No 
 one ever solved the great problem as to what services 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 85 
 
 were rendered by Barber to his master, whose wig 
 was " as impenetrable by a comb as a quickset hedge," 
 and whose clothes were never touched by the brush. 
 Among the other friends of this period must be 
 reckoned his biographer, Hawkins, an attorney who 
 was afterwards Chairman of the Middlesex Justices, 
 and knighted on presenting an address to the King. 
 Boswell regarded poor Sir John Hawkins with all 
 the animosity of a rival author, and with some spice 
 of wounded vanity. He was grievously offended, so 
 at least says Sir John's daughter, on being described 
 in the Life of Johnson as "Mr. James Boswell" 
 without a solitary epithet such as celebrated or well- 
 known. If that was really his feelings he had his 
 revenge ; for no one book ever so suppressed another 
 as Boswell's Life suppressed Hawkins's, In truth, 
 Hawkins was a solemn prig, remarkable chiefly for 
 the unusual intensity of his conviction that all virtue 
 consists in respectability. He had a special aversion 
 to " goodness of heart," which he regarded as another 
 name for a quality properly called extravagance or 
 vice. Johnson's tenacity of old acquaintance intro- 
 duced him into the Club, where he made himself so 
 disagreeable, especially, as it seems, by rudeness to 
 Burke, that he found it expedient to invent a pre- 
 text for resignation. Johnson called him a "very 
 unclubable man," and may perhaps have intended 
 him in the quaint description : " I really believe him 
 to be an honest man at the bottom ; though, to be 
 sure, he is rather penurious, and he is somewhat 
 mean ; and it must be owned he has some degree of 
 
86 EASSELAS. 
 
 brutality, and is not without a tendencj'' to savage- 
 ness that cannot well be defended." 
 
 In a list of Johnson's friends it is proper to mention 
 Richardson and Hawkesworth. Richardson seems to 
 have given him substantial help, and was repaid by 
 favorable comparisons with Fielding, scarcely bonie 
 out by the verdict of posterity. "Fielding," said 
 Johnson, " could tell the hour by looking at the 
 clock; whilst Richardson knew how the clock v.'a.s 
 made." " There is more knowledge of the heart," Lo 
 said at another time, " in one letter of Richardson's 
 than in all Tom Jones" Johnson's preference of the 
 sentimentalist to the man whose humor and strong 
 sense were so like his own, shows how much his 
 criticism was biassed by his prejudices; though, of 
 course, Richardson's external decency was a recom- 
 mendation to the moralist. Hawkesworth's intimacy 
 with Johnson seems to have been chiefly in the period 
 between the Dictionary and the pension. He was 
 considered to be Johnson's best imitator; and has 
 vanished like other imitators. His fate, if the veiy 
 doubtful story believed at the time be true, was a 
 curious one for a friend of Johnson's. He had made 
 some sceptical remarks as to the efficacy of prayer in 
 his preface to the South Sea Voyages ; and was so 
 bitterly attacked by a " Christian " in the papers, 
 that he destroyed himself by a dose of opium. 
 
 Two younger friends, who became disciples of the 
 sage soon after the appearance of the Mambler, are 
 prominent figures in the later circle. One of these 
 was Bennet Langton, a man of good family, fine 
 
LIFE Of JOHNSON. g? 
 
 Scholarship, and very amiable character. His exceed- 
 ingly tall and slender figure was compared by Best 
 to the stork in Raphael's cartoon of the Miraculous 
 Draught of Fishes. Miss Hawkins describes him 
 sitting with one leg twisted round the other as 
 though to occupy the smallest possible space, and 
 playing with his gold snuff-box with a mild counte- 
 nance and sweet smile. The gentle, modest creature 
 was loved by Johnson, who could warm into unusual 
 eloquence in singing his praises. The doctor, how- 
 ever, was rather fond of discussing with Boswell the 
 faults of his friend. They seem to have chiefly con- 
 sisted in a certain languor or sluggishness of tem- 
 perament which allowed his affairs to get into per- 
 plexity. Once, when arguing the delicate question 
 as to the propriety of telling a friend of his wife's 
 unfaithfulness, Boswell, after his peculiar fashion, 
 chose to enliven the abstract statement by the purely 
 imaginary hypothesis of Mr. and Mrs. Langton being 
 in this position. Johnson said that it would be use- 
 less to tell Langton, because he would be too slug- 
 gish to get a divorce. Once Langton was the uncon- 
 scious cause of one of Johnson's oddest performances. 
 Langton had employed Chambers, a common friend 
 of his and Johnson's, to draw his will. Johnson, 
 talking to Chambers and Boswell, was suddenly 
 struck by the absurdity of his friend's appearing in 
 the character of testator. His companions, however, 
 were utterly unable to see in what the joke consisted ; 
 but Johnson laughed obstreperously and irrepress- 
 ibly : he laughed till he reached the Temple Gate j 
 
88 UASSELAS. 
 
 and when in Fleet Street went almost into convul- 
 sions of hilarity. Holding on by one of the posts in 
 the street, he sent forth such peals of laughter that 
 they seemed in the silence of the night to resound 
 from Temple Bar to Fleet Ditch. 
 
 Not long before his death, Johnson applied to 
 Langton for spiritual advice. " I desired him to tell 
 me sincerely in what he thought my life was faulty." 
 Langton wrote upon a sheet of paper certain texts 
 recomniending Christian charity; and explained, 
 upon inquiry, that he was pointing at Johnson's 
 habit of contradiction. The old doctor began by 
 thanking him earnestly for his kindness ; but gradu- 
 ally waxed savage and asked Langton, " in a loud and 
 angry tone, What is your drift, sir?" He com- 
 plained of the well-meant advice to Boswell, with a 
 sense that he had been unjustly treated. It was a 
 scene for a comedy, as Reynolds observed, to see a 
 penitent get into a passion and belabor his confessor. 
 
 Through Langton, Johnson became acquainted 
 with the friend whose manner was in the strongest 
 contrast to his own. Topham Beauclerk was a man 
 of fashion. He was commended to Johnson by a 
 likeness to Charles H., from whom he was descended, 
 being the grandson of the first Duke of St. Alban's. 
 Beauclerk was a man of literary and scientific tastes. 
 He inherited some of the moral laxity which John- 
 son chose to pardon in his ancestor. Some years 
 after his acquaintance with Boswell he married Lady 
 Diana Spencer, a lady who had been divorced upon 
 his account from her husband. Lord Bolingbroke. 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 89 
 
 But he took care not to obtrude his faults of life^ 
 whatever they may have been, upon the old moralist, 
 who entertained for him a peculiar affection. He 
 specially admired Beauclerk's skill in the use of a 
 more polished, if less vigorous, style of conversation 
 than his own. He envied the ease with which Beau- 
 clerk brought out his sly incisive retorts. " No 
 man," he said, " ever was so free when he was going 
 to say a good thing, from a look that expressed that 
 it was coming ; or, when he had said it, from a look 
 that expressed that it had come." When Beauclerk 
 was dying (in 1780), Johnson said, with a faltering 
 voice, that he would walk to the extremity of the 
 diameter of the earth to save him. Two little anec- 
 dotes are expressive of his tender feeling for this in- 
 congruous friend. Boswell had asked him to sup at 
 Beauclerk's. He started, but on the way, recollect- 
 ing himself, said, " I cannot go ; but I do not love 
 BeamclerTc the lessP Beauclerk had put upon a por- 
 trait of Johnson the inscription, — 
 
 Ingeniura ingens 
 Inculto latet hoc sub corpore 
 
 Langton, who bought the portrait, had. the inscrip- 
 tion removed. " It was kind in you to take it off," 
 said Johnson ; and, after a short pause, " not unkind 
 in him to put it on." 
 
 Early in their acquaintance, the two young men, 
 Beau and Lanky, as Johnson called them, had sat up 
 one night at a tavern till three in the morning. The 
 courageous thought struck them that they would 
 
90 RASSELAS. 
 
 knock up the old philosopher. He came to the door 
 of his chambers, poker in hand, with an old wig for 
 a nightcap. On hearing their errand, the sage ex- 
 claimed, " What ! is it you, you dogs ? I'll have a 
 frisk with you." And so Johnson with the two 
 youths, his juniors by about thirty years, proceeded 
 to make a night of it. They amazed the fruiterers 
 in Covent Garden ; they brewed a bowl of bishop in 
 a tavern, while Johnson quoted the poet's address to 
 Sleep, — 
 
 " Short, O short, be then thy reign, 
 And give us to the world again ! " 
 
 They took a boat to Billingsgate, and Johnson, 
 with Beauclerk, kept up their amusement for the 
 following day, when Langton deserted them to go to 
 breakfast with some young ladies, and Johnson 
 scolded him for leaving his friends " to go and sit 
 with a parcel of wretched unidea^d girls." " I shall 
 have my old friend to bail out of the round-house," 
 said Garrick when he heard of this queer alliance ; and 
 he told Johnson that he would be in the Chronicle 
 for his frolic. " He durst not do such a thing. His 
 wife would not let him," was the moralist's retort. 
 
 Some friends, known to fame by other titles than 
 their connection with Johnson, had by this time 
 gathered round them. Among them was one, whose 
 art he was unable to appreciate, but whose f ne social 
 qualities and dignified equability of temper made him 
 a valued and respected companion. Reynolds had 
 settled in Loudon at the end of 1752. Johnson met 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 91 
 
 him at the house of Miss Cotterell. Reynolds had 
 specially admired Johnson's Life of Savage, and, on 
 their first meeting, happened to make a remark which 
 delighted Johnson. The ladies were regretting the 
 loss of a friend to whom they were under obligations. 
 "You have, however," said Reynolds, "the com- 
 fort of being relieved from a burden of gratitude." 
 The saying is a little too much like Rochefoucauld, 
 and too true to be pleasant ; but it was one of those 
 keen remarks which Johnson appreciated because 
 they prick a bubble of commonplace moralizing with- 
 out demanding too literal an acceptation. He went 
 home to sup with Reynolds and became his intimate 
 friend. On another occasion, Johnson was offended 
 by two ladies of rank at the same house, and by way 
 of taking down their pride, asked Reynolds in a loud 
 voice, " How much do you think you and I could get 
 in a week, if we both worked as hard as we could ? " 
 " His appearance," says Sir Joshua's sister. Miss 
 Reynolds, " might suggest the poor author ; as he 
 was not likely in that place to be a blacksmith or a 
 porter." Poor Miss Reynolds, who tells this story, 
 was another attraction to Reynolds' house. She was 
 a shy, retiring maiden lady, who vexed her famous 
 brother by following in his steps without his talents, 
 and was deeply hurt by his annoyance at the unin- 
 tentional mockery. Johnson was through life a kind 
 and judicious friend to her ; and had attra,cted her on 
 their first meeting by a significant indication of his 
 character. He said that when going home to his 
 lodgings at one or two in the morning, he often saw 
 
92 RASSBLAS. 
 
 poor children asleep on thresholds and stalls — the 
 wretched " street Arabs " of the day — and that he 
 used to put pennies into their hands that they might 
 buy a breakfast. 
 
 Two friends, who deserve to be placed beside Rey- 
 nolds, came from Ireland to seek their fortunes in 
 London. Edmund Burke, -incomparably the greatest 
 writer upon political philosophy in English litera- 
 ture, the master of a style unrivalled for richness, 
 flexibility, and vigor, was radically opposed to John- 
 son on party questions, though his language upon 
 the French Revolution, after Johnson's death, would 
 have satisfied even the strongest prejudices of his old 
 friend. But he had qualities which commended him 
 even to the man who called him a "bottomless 
 Whig," and who generally spoke of Whigs as rascals, 
 and maintained that the first Whig was the devil. 
 If his intellect was wider, his heart was as warm 
 as Johnson's, and in conversation he merited 
 the generous applause and warm emulation of his 
 friend. Johnson was never tired of praising the ex- 
 traordinary readiness and spontaneity of Burke's con- 
 versation. " If a man," he said, " went under a shed 
 at the same time with Burke to avoid a shower, he 
 would say, ' This is an extraordinary man.' Or if 
 Burke went into a stable to see his horse dressed, 
 the ostler would say, ' We have had an extraordinary 
 man here.' " When Burke was first going into Par- 
 liament, Johnson said in answer to Hawkins, who 
 wondered that such a man should get a seat, " We 
 who know Mr. Burke, know that he will be one of 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 93 
 
 the first men in the country." Speaking of certain 
 other members of Parliament, more after the heart of 
 Sir John Hawtins, he said that he grudged success 
 to a man who made a figure by a knowledge of a few 
 forms, though his mind was " as narrow as the neck 
 of a vinegar cruet;" but that he did not grudge 
 Burke's being the first man in the House of Commons, 
 for he would be the first man everywhere. And 
 Burke equally admitted Johnson's supremacy in con- 
 versation. " It is enough for me," he said to some 
 one who regretted Johnson's monopoly of the talk on 
 a particular occasion, " to have rung the bell for 
 him." 
 
 The other Irish adventurer, whose career was more 
 nearly moulded upon that of Johnson, came to Lon- 
 don in 1756, and made Johnson's acquaintance some 
 time afterwards (in or before 1761). Goldsmith, 
 like Johnson, had tasted the bitterness of an usher's 
 life, and escaped into the scarcely more tolerable 
 regions of Grub Street. After some years of trial, 
 he was becoming known to the booksellers as a serv- 
 iceable hand, and had two works in his desk des- 
 tined to lasting celebrity. His landlady (apparently 
 1764) one day arrested him for debt. Johnson, 
 summoned to his assistance, sent him a guinea and 
 speedily followed. The guinea had already been 
 changed, and Goldsmith was consoling himself with 
 a bottle of Madeira. Johnson corked the bottle, and 
 a discussion of ways and means brought out the 
 manuscript of the Vioar of Wakefield. Johnson 
 looked into it, took it to a bookseller, got sixty 
 
91- KASSELAS. I 
 
 pounds for it, and returned to Goldsmith, who paid 
 his rent and administered a sound rating to his land- 
 lady. 
 
 The relation thus indicated is characteristic; 
 Johnson was as a rough but helpful elder brother to 
 poor Goldsmith, gave him advice, sj^mpathy, and 
 applause, and at times criticised him pretty sharply, 
 or brought down his conversational bludgeon upon 
 his sensitive friend. " He has nothing of the bear 
 but his skin," was Goldsmith's comment upon bis 
 clumsy friend, and the two men appreciated each 
 other at bottom. Some of their readers may be in- 
 clined to resent Johnson's attitude of superiority. 
 The admirably pure and tender heart, and the ex- 
 quisite intellectual refinement implied in the Vicar 
 and the Traveller, force us to love Goldsmith in spite 
 of superficial foibles, and when Johnson prunes or 
 interpolates lines in the Traveller, we feel as though 
 a woodman's axe was hacking at a most delicate 
 piece of carving. The evidence of contemporaiy 
 observers, however, must force impartial readers to 
 admit that poor Goldsmith's foibles were real, how- 
 ever amply compensated by rare and admirable quali- 
 ties. Garrick's assertion, that he " wrote like an 
 angel but talked like poor Poll," expresses the unani- 
 mous opinion of all who had actually seen him. 
 Undoubtedly some of the stories of his childlike 
 vanity, his frankly expressed envy, and his general 
 capacity for blundering, owe something to Boswell's 
 feeling that he was a rival near the throne, and some- 
 times poor Goldsmith's humorous self-assertion may 
 
LIFE OF JOHlTSOl*. 95 
 
 have been taken too seriously by blunt English wits. 
 One may doubt, for example, whether he was really 
 jealous of a puppet tossing a pike, and unconscious 
 of his absurdity in saying, "Pshaw! I could do it 
 better mj'self ! " Boswell, however, was too good 
 an observer to misrepresent at random, and he has, 
 in fact, explained very well the true meaning of his 
 remarks. Goldsmith was an excitable Irishman of 
 genius, who tumbled out whatever came uppermost, 
 and revealed the feelings of the moment with utter 
 want of reserve. His self-controlled companions 
 wondered, ridiculed, misinterpreted, and made fewer 
 hits as well as fewer misses. His anxiety to " get in 
 and share " made him, according to Johnson, an 
 " unsocial " companion. Goldsmith, he said, had 
 not temper enough for the game he played. He 
 staked too much. A man might always get a fall 
 from his inferior in the chances of talk, and Gold- 
 smith felt his falls too keenly. He had certainly 
 some trials of temper in Johnson's company. " Stay, 
 stay," said a German, stopping him in the full flow 
 of his eloquence, " Toctor Johnson is going to say 
 something." An Eton Master called Graham, who 
 ■was supping with the two doctors, and had got to 
 the pitch of looking at one person and talking to 
 another, said, " Doctor, I shall be glad to see you at 
 Eton." " I shall be glad to wait on you," said Gold- 
 smith. " No," replied Graha,ra, " 'tis not you I mean. 
 Doctor Minor; 'tis Doctor Major there." Poor 
 Goldsmith said afterwards, " Graham is a fellow to 
 make one SQiamit suicide." 
 
96 RASSELAS. 
 
 Boswell, who attributes some of Goldsmith's say- 
 ings about Johnson to envy, said with probable truth 
 that Goldsmith had not more euA'y than others, but 
 only spoke of it more freely. Johnson argued that 
 we must be angry with a man who had so much of an 
 odious quality that he could not keep it to himself, 
 but let it " boil over." The feeling, at any rate, was 
 momentary and totally free from malice ; and Gold- 
 smith's criticisms upon Johnson and his idolators 
 seem to have been fair enough. His objection to 
 Boswell's substituting a monarchy for a republic has 
 already been mentioned. At another time he checked 
 Boswell's flow of panegyric by asking, " Is he like 
 Burke, who winds into a subject like a serpent ? " 
 To which Boswell replied with charming irrelevance, 
 " Johnson is the Hercules who strangled serpents in 
 his cradle." The last of Goldsmith's hits was sug- 
 gested by Johnson's shaking his sides with laughter 
 because Goldsmith admired the skill with which the 
 little fishes in the fable were made to talk in charac- 
 ter. " Why, Dr. Johnson, this is not so easy as you 
 seem to think," was the retort, " for if you were to 
 make little fishes talk, they would talk like whales." 
 
 In spite of sundry little sparrings, Johnson fully 
 appreciated Goldsmith's genius. Possibly his au- 
 thority hastened the spread of public appreciation, 
 as he seemed to claim, whilst repudiating Boswell's 
 too flattering theory tliat it had materially raised 
 Goldsmith's position. When Reynolds quoted the 
 authority of Fox in favor of the Traveller, saying 
 that his friends might suspect that they had been too 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. §f 
 
 partial, Johnson replied very truly that the Traveller 
 was beyond the need of Fox's praise, and that the 
 partiality of Goldsmith's friends had always been 
 against him. They would hardly give him a hear- 
 ing. " Goldsmith," he added, " was a man who, 
 whatever he wrote, always did it better than any 
 other man could do." Johnson's settled opinion in 
 fact was that embodied in the famous epitaph with its 
 " nihil tetigit quod non ornavit," and, though dedi- 
 cations are perhaps the only literary product more 
 generally insincere than epitaphs, we may believe that 
 Goldsmith too meant what he said in the dedication 
 of She Stoops to Conquer. " It may do me some 
 honor to inform the public that I have lived many 
 years in intimacy with you. It may serve the in- 
 terests of mankind also to inform them that the 
 greatest wit may be found in a character, without 
 impairing the most unaffected piety." 
 
 Though Johnson was thus rich in friendship, two 
 connections have still to be noticed which had an ex- 
 ceptional bearing upon his fame and happiness. In 
 January, 1765, he made the acquaintance of the 
 Thrales. Mr. Thrale was the proprietor of the brew- 
 ery which afterwards became that of Barclay and 
 Perkins. He was married in 1763 to a Miss Hester 
 Lynch Salisbury, who has become celebrated from 
 her friendship with Johnson.^ She was a woman of 
 great vivacity and independence of character. She 
 had a sensitive and passionate, if not a very tender 
 
 1 Mrs. Thrale was born in 1740 or 1741, probably the 
 Jatter. Thrale was bom in 1724. 
 
% uasselaS. 
 
 nature, and enough literary culture to appreciate 
 Johnson's intellectual power, and on occasion to play 
 a very respectable part in conversation. She had far 
 more Latin and English scholarship than fell to the 
 lot of most ladies of her day, and wit enough to 
 preserve her from degenerating like some of the 
 " blues," into that most offensive of beings — a femi- 
 nine prig. Her marriage had been one of convenience, 
 and her husband's want of sympathy, and jealousy of 
 any interference in business matters, forced her, she 
 says, to take to literature as her sole resource. " No 
 wonder," she adds, " if I loved my books and chil- 
 dren." It is, perhaps, more to be wondered at that 
 her children seem to have had a rather subordinate 
 place in her affections. The marriage, however, 
 through not of the happiest, was perfectly decorous. 
 Mrs. Thrale discharged her domestic duties irre- 
 proachably, even when she seems to have had some 
 real cause of complaint. To the world she eclipsed her 
 husband, a solid respectable man, whose mind, ac- 
 cording to Johnson, struck the hours very regularly, 
 though it did not mark the minutes. 
 
 The Thrales were introduced to Johnson by their 
 common friend, Arthur Murphy, an actor and dram- 
 atist, who afterwards became the editor of Johnson's 
 works. One day, when calling upon Johnson, they 
 found him in such a fit of despair that Thrale tried 
 to stop his mouth by placing his hand before it. 
 The pair then joined in begging Johnson to leave 
 his solitary abode, and come to them at their country- 
 bouse at Streatham. He complied, and for the 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 99 
 
 next sixteen years a room was set apart for him, 
 both at Streatham and in their house in Southwark. 
 He passed a large part of his time with them, and 
 derived from the intimacy most of the comfort of his 
 later years. He treated Mrs. Thrale with a kind of 
 paternal gallantry, her age at the time of their ac- 
 quaintance being about twenty-four, and his fifty-five. 
 He generally called her by the playful name of " my 
 mistress," addressed little poems to her, gave her solid 
 advice, and gradually came to confide to her his mis- 
 eries and ailments with rather surprising frankness. 
 She flattered and amused him, and soothed his suffer- 
 ings and did something towards humanizing his rug- 
 ged exterior. There was one little grievance between 
 them which requires notice. Johnson's pet virtue in 
 private life was a rigid regard for truth. He spoke, it 
 was said of him, as if he was always on oath. He would 
 not, for example, allow his servant to use the phrase 
 '■ not at home," and even in the heat of conversation re- 
 sisted the temptation to give point to an anecdote. 
 The lively Mrs. Thrale rather fretted against the 
 restraint, and Johnson admonished her in vain. He 
 complained to Boswell that she was willing to have 
 that said of her, which the best of mankind had died 
 rather than have said of them. Boswell, the faithful 
 imitator of his master in this respect, delighted in 
 taking up the parable. "Now, madam, give me 
 leave to catch you in the fact," he said on one oc- 
 casion ; " it was not an old woman, but an old man 
 whom I mentioned, as having told me this," and he 
 recounts his check to the " lively lady " with intense 
 
100 EASSELAS. 
 
 complacency. As may be imagined, Boswell and 
 Mrs. Thrale did not love each other, in spite of the 
 well-meant efforts of the sage to bring about a friend- 
 ly feeling between his disciples. 
 
 It is time to close this list of friends with the 
 inimitable Boswell. James Boswell, born in 1740, 
 was the eldest son of a Whig laird and lord of ses- 
 sions. He had acquired some English friends at tbe 
 Scotch universities, among whom must be mentioned 
 Mr. Temple, an English clergyman. Boswell's cor- 
 respondence with Temple, discovered years after his 
 death by a singular chance, and published in 1857, 
 is, after the Life of Johnson, one of the most curious 
 exhibitions of character in the language. Boswell 
 was intended for the Scotch bar, and studied civil 
 law at Utrecht in the winter of 1762. It was in the 
 following summer that he made Johnson's acquaint- - 
 ance. 
 
 Perhaps the fundamental quality in Boswell's 
 character was his intense capacity for enjoyment. 
 He was, as Mr. Carlyle puts it, "gluttonously fond 
 of whatever would yield him a little solacement, 
 were it only of a stomachic character." His love of 
 good living and good drink would have made him a 
 heartyadmirerof his countryman. Burns, had Burns 
 been famous in Boswell's youth. Nobody could 
 have joined with more thorough abandonment in the 
 chorus to the poet's liveliest songs in praise of love 
 and wine. He would have made an excellent fourth 
 when " Willie brewed a peck of maut, and Eab and 
 Allan cam to pree,'' and the drinking contest for 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 101 
 
 the Whistle commemorated in another lyric would 
 have excited his keenest interest. He was always 
 delighted when he could get Johnson to discuss the 
 ethics and statistics of drinking. " I am myself," 
 he says, " a lover of wine, and therefore curious to 
 hear whatever is remarkable concerning drinking." 
 The remark is d propos to a story of Dr. Campbell 
 drinking thirteen bottles of port at a sitting. Lest 
 this should seem incredible, he quotes Johnson's 
 dictum. " Sir, if a man drinks very slowly and lets 
 one glass evaporate before he takes another, I know 
 not how long he may drink." Boswell's faculty for 
 making love was as great as his power of drinking. 
 His letters to Temple record with amusing frankness 
 the vicissitudes of some of his courtships and the 
 versatility of his passions. 
 
 Boswell's tastes, however, were by no means limited 
 to sensual or frivolous enjoyments. His appreciation 
 of the bottle was combined with an equally hearty 
 sensibility to more intellectual pleasures. He had 
 not a spark of philosophic or poetic power, but with- 
 in the ordinary range of such topics as can be dis- 
 cussed at a dinner-party, he had an abundant share 
 of liveliness and intelligence. His palate was as 
 keen for good talk as for good wine. He was an 
 admirable recipient, if not an originator, of shrewd 
 or humorous remarks upon life and manners. What 
 in regard to sensual enjoyment was mere gluttony, 
 appeared in higher matters as an insatiable curiosity. 
 At times this faculty became intolerable to his neigh- 
 (jurs. " 1 will not be baited with what and why," 
 
102 RASSELAS. 
 
 said poor Johnson, one day in desperation. " Why 
 is a cow's tail long? Why is a fox's tail bushy? " 
 " Sir," said Johnson on another occasion, when Bos- 
 weU was cross-examining a third person about him 
 in his presence. " Tou have but two subjects, your- 
 self and me. I am sick of both." Boswell, howev'er, 
 was not to be repelled by such a retort as this, or 
 even hj ruder rebuffs. Once when discussing the 
 means of getting a friend to leave London, Johnson 
 said in revenge for a previous offence. " ^aj, sir, 
 we'll send you to him. If your presence doesn't 
 drive a man out of his house, nothing will." Bos- 
 well was " horribly shocked," but he still stuck to his 
 victim like a leech, and pried into the minutest 
 details of his life and manners. He observed with 
 conscientious accuracy that though Johnson abstained 
 from milk one fast-day, he did not reject it when put 
 in his cup. He notes the whistlings and puffings 
 the trick of saying " too-too-too " of his idol : and it 
 was a proud day when he won a bet by venturing to 
 ask Johnson what he did with certain scraped bits of 
 orange-peel. His curiosity was not satisfied on this 
 occasion ; but it would have made him the prince of 
 interviewers in these days. Nothing delighted him 
 so much as rubbing shoulders with any famous or 
 notorious person. He scraped acquaintance with 
 Yoltaire, Wesley, Eousseau, and Paoli, as well as 
 with Mrs. Kudd, a forgotten heroine of the Newgate 
 Calendar. He was as eager to talk to Hume the 
 sceptic, or Wilkes the demagogue, as to the orthodox 
 Tory, Johnson ; and, if repelled, it was from no de- 
 
1 LIFE OF JOHNSON. 103 
 
 ficiency in daring. In 1767, he took advantage of 
 his travels in Corsica to introduce himself to Lord 
 Chatham, then Prime Minister. The letter modestly 
 ends by asking, " Could your lordship find time to 
 honor me now and then with a letter ? I have been 
 told how favorably your lordship has spoken of me. 
 To correspond with a Paoli and with a Chatham is 
 enough to keep a young man ever ardent in the pur- 
 suit of virtuous fame." No other young man of the 
 day, we may be sure, would have dared to make such 
 a proposal to the majestic orator. 
 
 His absurd vanity, and the greedy craving for no- 
 toriety at any cost, would have made Boswell the 
 must offensive of mortals, had not his unfeigned 
 good-humor disarmed enmity. Nobody could help 
 laughing, or be inclined to take offence at his harm- 
 less absurdities. Burke said of him that he had so 
 much good-humor naturally, that it was scarcely a 
 virtue. His vanity, in fact, did not generate affecta- 
 tion. Most vain men are vain of qualities which 
 they do not really possess, or possess in a lower degree 
 than they fancy. They are always acting a part, and 
 become touchy from a half-conscious sense of the 
 imposture. But Boswell seems to have had few such 
 illusions. He thoroughly and unfeignedly enjoyed 
 his own peculiarities, and thought his real self much 
 too charming an object to be in need of any disguise. 
 No man, therefore, was ever less embarrassed by any 
 regard for his own dignity. He was as ready to join 
 in a laugh at himself as in a laugh at his neighbors. 
 He reveals his own absurdities to the world at large 
 
104 EASSELAS. 
 
 as frankly as Pepys confided them to a journal in 
 cypher. He tell us how drunk he got one night in 
 Skye, and how he cured his headache with brandy 
 next morning ; and what an intolerable fool he made 
 of himself at an evening party in London after a 
 dinner with the Duke of Montrose, and how Johnson 
 in vain did his best to keep him quiet. His motive 
 for the concession is partly the wish to illustrate 
 Johnson's indulgence, and, in the last case, to intro- 
 duce a copy of apologetic verses to the lady whose 
 guest he had been. He reveals other weaknesses 
 with equal frankness. One day, he says, " I owned 
 to Johnson that I was occasionally troubled with a 
 fit of narrowness." " Why, sir," said he, " so am I. 
 But I do not tell it.'" Boswell enjoys the joke far 
 too heartily to act upon the advice. 
 
 There is nothing, however, which Boswell seems 
 to have enjoyed more heartily than his own good 
 impulses. He looks upon his virtuous resolution 
 with a sort of aesthetic satisfaction, and with the glow 
 of a virtuous man contemplating a promising penitent. 
 Whilst suffering severely from the consequences of 
 imprudent conduct, he gets a letter of virtuous advice 
 from his friend Temple. He instantly sees himself 
 reformed for the rest of his days. " My warm imag- 
 ination," he says, " looks forward with great compla- 
 cency on the sobriety, the healthf ulness, and worth of 
 my future life." " Every instance of our doing those 
 things which we ought not to have done, and leaving 
 undone those things which we ought to have done, is 
 attended," as he elsewhere sagely observes, "with 
 
LIFE OP JOHNSOlif. l05 
 
 ilQore or less of what is truly remorse ; " but lie seems 
 rather to have enjoyed even the remorse. It is 
 needless to say that the complacency was its own 
 reward, and that the resolution vanished like other 
 more eccentric impulses. Music, he once told John- 
 son, affected him intensely, producing in his mind 
 " alternate sensations of pathetic dejection, so that I 
 was ready to shed tears, and of daring resolution so 
 that I was inclined to rush into the thickest of the 
 [purely hypothetical] battle." " Sir," replied John- 
 son, " I should never hear it, if it made me such a 
 fool." Elsewhere he expresses a wish to " fly to the 
 woods," or retire into a desert, a disposition which 
 Johnson checked by one of his habitual gibes at the 
 quantity of easily accessible desert in Scotland. 
 BosweU is equally frank in describing himself in 
 situations more provocative of contempt than even 
 drunkenness in a drawing-room. He tells us how 
 dreadfully frightened he was by a storm at sea in the 
 Hebrides, and how one of his companions, " with a 
 happy readiness," made him lay hold of a rope fast- 
 ened to the masthead, and told him to pull it when he 
 was ordered. BosweU was thus kept quiet in mind 
 and harmless in body. 
 
 This extreme simplicity of character makes poor 
 BosweU loveable in his way. If he sought notoriety, 
 he did not so far mistake his powers as to set up for 
 independent notoriety.^ He was content to shine in 
 
 1 The story is often told how Boswell appeared at the Strat- 
 ford Jubilee with "Corsica Boswell" in large letters on his 
 hat. The account given apparently by himself is suflBcieutly 
 
106 ttASSfeLAS. 
 
 reflected light : and the affectations with which he is 
 charged seem to have been unconscious imitations of 
 his great idol. Miss Burney traced some likeness 
 even in his dress. In the later part of the Life we 
 meet phrases in which Boswell is evidently aping the 
 true Johnsonian style. So, for example, when some- 
 body distinguishes between " moral " and " physical 
 necessity ; " Boswell exclaims, " Alas, sir, they come 
 both to the same thing. You may be as hard bound 
 by chains when covered by leather, as when the iron 
 appears." But he specially emulates the profound 
 melancholy of his hero. He seems to have taken 
 pride in his sufferings from hypochondria ; though, 
 in truth, his melancholy diverges from Johnson's by 
 as great a difference as that which divides any two 
 varieties in Jaques's classification. Boswell's was 
 the melancholy of a man who spends too much, 
 drinks too much, falls in love too often, and is forced 
 to live in the country in dependence upon a stern old 
 parent, when he is longing for a jovial life in London 
 taverns. Still he was excusably vexed when Johnson 
 refused to believe in the reality of his complaints, 
 and showed scant sympathy to his noisy would-be 
 fellow-sufferer. Some of Boswell's freaks were, in 
 fact, very trying. Once he gave up writing letters 
 for a long time, to see whether Johnson would be 
 induced to write first. Johnson became anxious, 
 
 amusing, but the statement is not quite fair. Boswell not 
 unnaturally appeared at a masquerade in the dress of a Cor- 
 sican chief, and the inscription on his hat seems to have been 
 *> Yiva la I^jiberta." 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSOIT. lOY 
 
 though he half-guessed the truth, and in reference to 
 Boswell's confession gave his disciple a piece of his 
 mind. " Remember that all tricks are either knavish 
 or childish, and that it is as foolish to make experi- 
 ments upon the constancy of a friend as upon the 
 chastity of a wife." 
 
 In other ways Boswell was more successful in 
 aping his friend's peculiarities. When in company 
 with Johnson, he became delightfully pious. " My 
 dear sir," he exclaimed once with unrestrained fer- 
 vor, " I would fain be a good man, and I am very 
 good now. I fear God and honor the king ; I wish 
 to do no ill and to be benevolent to all mankind." 
 Boswell hopes, " for the felicity of human nature," 
 that many experience this mood ; though Johnson 
 judiciously suggested that he should not trust too 
 much to impressions. In some matters Boswell 
 showed a touch of independence by outvying the 
 Johnsonian prejudices. He was a warm admirer of 
 feudal principles, and especially held to the pro- 
 priety of entailing property upon heirs male. John- 
 son had great difficulty in persuading him to yield 
 to his father's wishes, in a settlement of the estate 
 which contravened this theory. But Boswell takes 
 care to declare that his opinion was not shaken. 
 " Yet let me not be thought," he adds, " harsh or un- 
 kind to daughters ; for my notion is that they should 
 be treated with great affection and tenderness, and 
 always participate of the prosperity of the family." 
 His estimate of female rights is indicated in another 
 phrase. When Mrs. Knowles, the Quaker, expressed 
 
103 RASSELAS. 
 
 a hope that the sexes would be equal in another 
 world, Boswell replied, " That is too ambitious, 
 madam. We might as well desire to be equal with 
 the angels." Boswell, again, differed from Johnson 
 — who, in spite of his love of authority, had a 
 righteous hatred for all recognized tjranny — by 
 advocating the slave-trade. To abolish that trade 
 would, he says, be robbery of the masters and cruelty 
 to the African savages. Nay, he declares, to abolish 
 it would be 
 
 To shut the gates of mercy on mankind ! 
 
 Boswell was, according to Johnson, "the best 
 travelling companion in the world." In fact, for 
 such purposes, unfailing good-humor and readiness 
 to make talk at all hazards are high recommenda- 
 tions. " If, sir, you were shut up in a castle and a 
 new-born baby with you, what would you do ? " is 
 one of his questions to Johnson — a propos of nothing. 
 That is exquisitely ludicrous, no doubt ; but a man 
 capable of preferring such a remark to silence helps 
 at any rate to keep the ball rolling. A more ob- 
 jectionable trick was his habit not only of asking 
 preposterous or indiscreet questions, but of setting 
 people by the ears out of sheer curiosity. The ap- 
 pearance of so queer a satellite excited astonishment 
 among Johnson's friends. " Who is this Scotch cur 
 at Johnson's heels ? " asked some one. " He is not 
 a cur," replied Goldsmith ; " he is only a bur. Tom 
 Davis flung him at Johnson in sport, and he has the 
 faculty of sticking." The bur stuck till the end of 
 
LIFE OP JOHNSON. 109 
 
 Johnson's life. Boswell visited London whenever 
 he could, and soon began taking careful notes- of 
 Johnson's talk. His appearance, when engaged in 
 this task long afterwards, is described by Miss Bur- 
 ney. Boswell, she says, concentrated his whole 
 attention upon his idol, not even answering ques- 
 tions from others. When Johnson spoke, his eyes 
 goggled with eagerness ; he leant his ear almost on 
 the Doctor's shoulder; his mouth dropped open to 
 catch every syllable ; and he seemed to listen even 
 to Johnson's breathings as though they had some 
 mystical significance. He took eyery opportunity of 
 edging himself close to Johnson's side even at meal- 
 times, and was sometimes ordered imperiously back 
 to his place like a faithful but over-obtrusive spaniel. 
 It is hardly surprising that Johnsou should have 
 been touched by the fidelity of this queer follower. 
 Boswell, modestly enough, attributes Johnson's easy 
 welcome to his interest in all manifestations of the 
 human mind, and his pleasure in an undisguised dis- 
 play of its workings. The last pleasure was cer- 
 tainly to be obtained in Boswell's society. But in 
 fact Boswell, though his qualities were too much 
 those of the ordinary " good fellow," was not with- 
 out virtues, and still less without remarkable talents. 
 He was, to all appearance, a man of really generous 
 sympathies, and capable of appreciating proofs of a 
 warm heart and a vigorous understanding. Foolish, 
 vain, and absurd in every way, he was yet a far kind- 
 lier and more genuine man than many who laughed 
 at him. His singular gifts as an observer could only 
 
110 EASSELAS, 
 
 escape notice from a careless or inexperienced 
 reader. Boswell has a little of the true Shaksperian 
 secret. He lets his characters shovr themselves 
 without obtruding unnecessary comment. He never 
 misses the point of a story, though he does not osten- 
 tatiously call our attention to it. He gives just what 
 is wanted to indicate character, or to explain the full 
 meaning of a repartee. It is not till we compare his 
 reports with those of less skilful hearers, that we can 
 appreciate the skill with which the essence of a con- 
 versation is extracted, and the whole scene indicated 
 by a few telling touches. 'We are tempted to fancy 
 that we have heard the very thing, and rashly infer 
 that Boswell was simply the mechanical transmitter 
 of the good things uttered. Any one who will try 
 to put down the pith of a brilliant conversation 
 within the same space, may soon satisfy himself of 
 the absurdity of such an hypothesis, and will learn to 
 appreciate Boswell's powers not only of memory but 
 artistic representation. Such a feat implies not only 
 admirable quickness of appreciation, but a rare liter- 
 ary faculty. Boswell's accuracy is remarkable ; but 
 it is the least part of iiis merit. 
 
 The book which so faithfully reflects the pecu- 
 liarities of its hero and its autlior became the first 
 specimen of a new literary' type. Johnson himself 
 was a master in one kind of biography ; that which 
 sets forth a condensed and vigorous statement of the 
 essentials of a man's life and character. Other biog- 
 raphers had given excellent memoirs of men con- 
 sidered in relation to the chief historical currents of 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. HI 
 
 tlie time. But a full-length portrait of a man's 
 domestic life with enough picturesque detail to en- 
 able us to see him through the eyes of private friend- 
 ship did not exist in the language. Boswell's orig- 
 inality and merit may be tested by comparing his 
 book to the ponderous performance of Sir John 
 Hawking, or to the dreary dissertations, falsely called 
 lives, of which Dugald Stewart's Life of Robertson 
 may be taken for a type. The writer is so anxious 
 to be dignified and philosophical that the despairing 
 reader seeks in vain for a single vivid touch, and 
 discovers even the main facts of the hero's life by 
 some indirect allusion. Boswell's example has been 
 more or less followed by innumerable successors ; 
 and we owe it in some degree to his example that we 
 have such delightful books as Lockhart's Life of 
 Scott or Mr. Trevelyan's Life of Macaulay. Yet no 
 later biographer has been quite as fortunate in a 
 subject ; and Boswell remains as not only the first, 
 but the best of his class. 
 
 One special merit implies something like genius. 
 Macaulay has given to the usual complaint which 
 distorts the vision of most biographers the name of 
 lues Boswelliana. It is true that Boswell's adoration 
 of his hero is a typical example of the feeling. But 
 that which distinguishes Boswell, and renders the 
 phrase unjust, is that in him adoration never hindered 
 accuracy of portraiture. " I will not make my tiger 
 a cat to please anybody," was his answer to well- 
 meaning entreaties of Hannah More to soften his 
 accounts of Johnson's asperities. He saw in- 
 
112 RASSBLAS. 
 
 stinctively that a man who is worth anything loses 
 far more than he gains by such posthumous flattery. 
 The whole picture is toned down, and the lights are 
 depressed as well as the shadows. The truth is that 
 it is unscientific to consider a man as a bundle of 
 separate good and bad qualities, of which one half 
 may be concealed without injury to the rest. John- 
 son's fits of bad temper, like Goldsmith's blunder- 
 ing, must be unsparingly revealed by a biographer, 
 because they are in fact expressions of the whole 
 character. It is necessary to take them into account 
 in order really to understand either the merits or the 
 shortcomings. When they are softened or omitted, 
 the whole story becomes an enigma, and we are often 
 tempted to substitute some less creditable explana- 
 tion of errors for the true one. We should not do 
 justice to Johnson's intense tenderness, if we did not 
 see how often it was masked by an irritability pardon- 
 able in itself, and not affecting the deeper springs of 
 action. To bring out the beauty of a character by 
 means of its external oddities is the triumph of a 
 kindly humorist ; and Bos well would have acted as 
 absurdly in suppressing Johnson's weaknesses, as 
 Sterne would have done had he made Uncle Toby a 
 perfectly sound and rational person. But to see this 
 required an insight so rare that it is wanting in nearly 
 all the biographers who have followed Boswell's 
 steps, and is the most conclusive proof that Boswell 
 was a man of a higher intellectual capacity than has 
 been generally admitted. 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 113 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE CLOSING YEARS OF JOHNSON'S LIFE. 
 
 In following Boswell's guidance we have neces- 
 sarily seen only one side of Johnson's life ; and 
 probably that side which had least significance for 
 the man himself. 
 
 Boswell saw in him chiefly the great dictator of 
 conversation ; and though the reports of Johnson's 
 talk represent his character in spite of some qualifica- 
 tions with unusual fulness, there were many traits 
 very inadequately revealed at the Mitre or the Club, 
 at Mrs. Thrale's, or in meetings with Wilkes or 
 Reynolds. "We may catch some glimpses from his 
 letters and diaries of that inward life which consisted 
 generally in a long succession of struggles against 
 an oppressive and often paralysing melancholy. 
 Another most noteworthy side to his character is 
 revealed in his relations to persons too humble for 
 admission to the tables at which he exerted a des- 
 potic sway. Upon this side Johnson was almost 
 entirely loveable. "We often have to regret the 
 imperfection of the records of 
 
 That best portion of a good man's life, 
 His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
 Of feindness and of love. 
 
lU KASSBLAS. 
 
 Everywhere in Johnson's letters and in the occa- 
 sional anecdotes, we come upon indications of a 
 tenderness and untiring benevolence which would 
 make us forgive far worse faults than have ever been 
 laid to his charge. ISTaj, the very asperity of the 
 man's outside becomes endeared to us by the asso- 
 ciation. His irritability never vented itself against 
 the helpless, and his rough impatience of fanciful 
 troubles implied no want of sympathy for real sorrow. 
 One of Mrs. Thrale's anecdotes is intended to show 
 Johnson's harshness : — " When I one day lamented 
 the loss of a first cousin killed in America, ' Pr'ythee, 
 my dear,' said he, ' have done with canting ; how 
 would the world be the worse for it, T may ask, if all 
 your relations were at once spitted like larks and 
 roasted for Presto's supper ? ' Presto was the dog 
 that lay under the table while we talked." The 
 counter version, given by Boswell is, that Mrs. 
 Tlirale related her cousin's death in the midst of a 
 hearty supper, and that Johnson, shocked at her 
 want of feeling, said, " Madam, it would give you 
 very little concern if all your relations were spitted 
 like those larks, and roasted for Presto's supper." 
 Taking the most unfavorable version, we may judge 
 how much real indifference, to human sorrow was 
 implied by seeing how Johnson was affected by a 
 loss of one of his humblest friends. It is but one 
 case of many. In 1767, he took leave, as he notes in 
 his diary, of his " dear old friend, Catherine Cham- 
 bers," who had been for about forty-three years in 
 the service of his family. " I desired all to with- 
 
LIFE OP JOHNSON. II5 
 
 draw," he says, " then told her that we were to part 
 for ever, and, as Christians, we should part with 
 prayer, and that I would, if she was willing, say a 
 short prayer beside her. She expressed great desire 
 to hear me, and held up her poor hands as she lay in 
 bed, with great fei-vor, while I prayed, kneeling by 
 her, in nearly the following words "—which shall 
 not be repeated here — " I then kissed her," he adds. 
 " She told me that to part was the greatest pain that 
 she had ever felt, and that she hoped we should meet 
 again in a better place. I expressed, with swelled 
 eyes, and great emotion of kindness, the same hopes. 
 We kissed and parted — I humbly hope to meet again 
 and part no more." 
 
 A man with so true and tender a heart could say 
 sincerely, what with some men would be a mere 
 excuse for want of sympathy, that he " hated to hear 
 people whine about metaphysical distresses when 
 there was so much want and hunger in the world." 
 He had a sound and righteous contempt for all 
 affectation of excessive sensibility. Suppose, said 
 Boswell to him, whilst their common friend Baretti 
 was lying under a charge of murder, " that one of 
 your intimate friends were apprehended for an 
 offence for which he might be hanged." " I should 
 do what I could," replied Johnson, " to bail him, 
 and give him any other assistance ; but if he were 
 once fairly hanged, I should not suffer." " Would 
 you eat your dinner that day, sir ? " asks Boswell. 
 " Yes, sir ; and eat it as if he were eating with me. 
 Why there's Baretti, who's to be tried for his life to- 
 
116 RASSELAS. 
 
 morrow. Friends have risen up for him upon every 
 side ; yet if he should be hanged, none of them will 
 eat a slice of plum-pudding the less. Sir, that sym- 
 pathetic feeling goes a very little way in depressing 
 the mind." Boswell illustrated the subject by 
 saying that Tom Davies had just written a letter to 
 Foote, telling him that he could not sleep from con- 
 cern about Baretti, and at the same time recom- 
 mending a young man who kept a pickle-shop. 
 Johnson summed up by the remark: "You will 
 find these very feeling people are not very ready to 
 do you good. They pay you by feeling." Johnson 
 never objected to feeling, but to the waste of feeling. 
 In a similar vein he told Mrs. Thrale that a " surly 
 fellow" like himself had no compassion to spare for 
 "wounds given to vanity and softness," whilst 
 witnessing the common sight of actual want in great 
 cities. On Lady Tavistock's death, said to have 
 been caused by grief for her husband's loss, he 
 observed that her life might have been saved if she 
 had been put into a small chandler's shop, with a 
 child to nurse. When Mrs. Thrale suggested that a 
 lady would be grieved because her friend had lost 
 the chance of a fortune, " She will suffer as much, 
 perhaps," he replied, " as your horse did when your 
 cow miscarried." Mrs. Thrale testifies that he once 
 reproached her sternly for complaining of the dust. 
 When he knew, he said, how many poor families 
 would perish next winter for want of the bread which 
 the dionc;ht would deny, he could not bear to hear 
 ladies sighing for rain on account of their complexions 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 117 
 
 or their clothes. "While reporting such sayings, she 
 adds, that he loved the poor as she never saw any 
 one else love them, with an earnest desire to make 
 them happy. His charity was unbounded ; he pro- 
 posed to allow himself one hundred a year out of the 
 three hundred of his pension ; but the Thrales could 
 never discover that he really spent upon himself 
 more than 101., or at most 80Z. He had numerous 
 dependants, abroad as well as at home, who " did 
 not like to see him latterly, unless he brought 'em 
 money." He filled his pockets with small cash 
 which he distributed to beggars in defiance of political 
 economy. "When told that the recipients only laid 
 it out upon gin or tobacco, he replied that it was 
 savage to deny them the few coarse pleasures which 
 the richer disdained. Numerous instances are given 
 of more judicious charity. "When, for example, a 
 Benedictine monk, whom he had seen in Paris, 
 became a Protestant, Johnson supported him for 
 some months in London, till he could get a living. 
 Once coming home late at night, he found a poor 
 woman lying in the street. He carried her to his 
 house on his back, and found that she was reduced 
 to the lowest stage of want, poverty, and disease. 
 He took care of her at his own charge, with all 
 tenderness, until she was restored to health, and tried 
 to have her put into a virtuous way of living. His 
 house, in his later years, was filled with various waifs 
 and strays, to whom he gave hospitality and some- 
 times support, defending himself by saying that if 
 he did not help them nobody else would. The head 
 
118 EASSELAS. 
 
 of his liousehold was Miss Williams, who had been 
 a friend of his wife's, and after coming to stay with 
 him, in order to undergo an operation for cataract, 
 became a permanent inmate of his house. She had a 
 small income of some 40Z. a year, partly from the 
 charity of connections of her father's, and partly 
 arising from a little book of miscellanies published 
 by subscription. She was a woman of some sense 
 and cultivation, and when she died (in 1783) John- 
 son said that for thirty years she had been to him as 
 a sister. Boswell's jealousy was excited during the 
 first period of his acquaintance, when Goldsmith one 
 night went home with Johnson, crying " I go to 
 Miss Williams " — a phrase which implied admission 
 to an intimacy from which Bos well was as yet 
 excluded. Boswell soon obtained the coveted privi- 
 lege, and testifies to the respect with which Johnson 
 always treated the inmates of his family. Before 
 leaving her to dine with Boswell at the hotel, he 
 asked her what little delicacy should be sent to her 
 from the tavern. Poor Miss Williams, however, was 
 peevish, and, according to Hawkins, had been known 
 to drive Johnson out of the room by her reproaches, 
 and Boswell's delicacy was shocked by the supposi- 
 tion that she tested the fulness of cups of tea, by 
 putting her finger inside. We are glad to know 
 that this was a false impression, and, in fact, Miss 
 Williams, however unfortunate in temper and cir- 
 cumstances, seems to have been a lady by manners 
 and education. 
 
 The next inniate of this queer household was Rob- 
 
LIFE OP JOSNSON. 119 
 
 ert Levett, a man who had been a waiter at a coffee- 
 house in Paris frequented by surgeons. They had 
 enabled him to pick up some of their art, and he set 
 up as an "obscure practiser in physic amongst the 
 lower people " in London. He took from them such 
 fees as he could get, including provisions, sometimes, 
 unfortunately for him, of the potable kind. He was 
 once entrapped into a queer marriage, and Johnson 
 had to arrange a separation from his wife. Johnson, 
 it seems, had a good opinion of his medical skill, and 
 more or less employed his services in that capacity. 
 He attended his patron at his breakfast; breakfasting, 
 said Percy, " on the crust of a roll, which Johnson 
 threw to him after tearing out the crumb." The 
 phrase, it is said, goes too far ; Johnson always took 
 pains that Levett should be treated rather as a friend 
 than as a dependant. 
 
 Besides these humble friends, there was a Mrs. Des- 
 moulins, the daughter of a Lichfield physician. 
 Johnson had had some quarrel with the father in his 
 youth for revealing a confession of the mental dis- 
 ease which tortured him from early years. He sup- 
 ported Mrs. Desmoulins none the less, giving house- 
 room to her and her daughter, and making her an 
 allowance of half-a-guinea a week, a sum equal to a 
 twelfth part of his pension. Francis Barber has 
 already been mentioned, and we have a dim vision of 
 a Miss Carmichael, who completed what he faceti- 
 ously called his " seraglio." It was anything but a 
 happy family. He summed up their relations in a 
 letter to Mrs. Thrale. " Williams," he says, " hategi 
 
120 RASSfeLAS. 
 
 everybody; Levett hates DesmoulinS, and does not 
 love Williams ; Desmoulins hates them both ; Poll 
 (Miss Carmichael) loves none of them." Frank 
 Barber complained of Miss Williams's authority, and 
 Miss Williams of Frank's insubordination. Intrud- 
 ers who had taken refuge under his roof, brought 
 their children there in his absence, and grumbled if 
 their dinners -were ill-dressed. The old man bore it 
 all, relieving himself by an occasional growl, but re- 
 proaching any who ventured to join in the growl for 
 their indifference to the sufferings of poverty. Lev- 
 ett died in January, 1782 ; Miss Williams died, after 
 a lingering illness, in 1783, and Johnson grieved in 
 solitude for the loss of his testy companions. A 
 poem, composed upon Levett's death, records his 
 feelings in language which wants the refinement of 
 Goldsmith or the intensity of Cowper's pathos, but 
 which is yet so sincere and tender as to be more im- 
 pressive than far more elegant compositions. It will 
 be a fitting close to this brief indication of one side 
 of Johnson's character, too easily overlooked in Bos- 
 well's pages, to quote part of what Thackeray truly, 
 calls the " sacred verses " upon Levett : — 
 
 Well tried through many a varying year 
 
 See Levett to the grave descend, 
 Officious, innocent, sincere, 
 
 Of every friendless name the friend. 
 
 In misery's darkest cavern known, 
 
 His ready help was ever nigh ; 
 Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan. 
 
 And lonely want retired to die. 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 121 
 
 No summons mock'd by dull delay, 
 No petty gains disdain'd by pride; 
 
 The modest wants of every day, 
 The toil of every day supplied. 
 
 His virtues vsralk'd their narrow round, 
 Nor made a pause, nor left a void ; 
 
 And sure the eternal Master found 
 His single talent well employ'd. 
 
 The busy day, the peaceful night, 
 
 XJnfelt, uncounted, glided by ; 
 His frame was firm, his eye was bright, 
 
 Though now his eightieth year was nigh. 
 
 Then, with no throbs of fiery pain. 
 
 No cold gradations of decay, 
 Death broke at once the vital chain. 
 
 And freed his soul the easiest way. 
 
 The last stanza smells somewliat of the country 
 tombstone ; but to read the whole and to realize the 
 deep, manly sentiment which it implies, without 
 tears in one's eyes is to me at least impossible. 
 
 There is one little touch which may be added be- 
 fore we proceed to the closing years of this tender- 
 hearted old moralist. Johnson loved little children, 
 calling them " little dears," and cramming them with 
 sweetmeats, though we regret to add that he once 
 snubbed a little child rather severely for a want, of 
 acquaintance with the PilgrMs Progress. His cat, 
 Hodge, should be famous amongst the lovers of the 
 race. He used to go out and buy oysters for Hodge, 
 that the servants might not take a dislike to the 
 animal from having to serve it themselves. He re- 
 
122 RASSELAS. 
 
 proached his wife for beating a cat before the maid, 
 lest she should give a precedent for cruelty. Bos- 
 well, who cherished an antipathy for cats, suffered at 
 seeing Hodge scrambling up Johnson's breast, whilst 
 he smiled and rubbed the beast's back and pulled its 
 tail. Bozzy remarked that he was a fine cat. " Why, 
 yes, sir,'' said Johnson ; " but I have had cats whom 
 I liked better than this," and then, lest Hodge should 
 be put out of countenance, he added, " but he is a 
 very fine cat, a very fine cat indeed." He told 
 Langton once of a young gentleman who, when last 
 heard of, was " running about town shooting cats ; 
 but," he murmured in a kindly reverie, " Hodge 
 shan't be shot ; no, no, Hodge shall not be shot ! " 
 Once, when Johnson was staying at a house in 
 Wales, the gardener brought in a hare which had 
 been caught in the potatoes. The order was given 
 to take it to the cook. Johnson asked to have it 
 placed in his arms. He took it to the window and 
 let it go, shouting to increase its speed. When his 
 host complained that he had perhaps spoilt the din- 
 ner, Johnson replied by insisting that the rights of 
 hospitality included an animal which had thus placed 
 itself under the protection of the master of the 
 garden. 
 
 We must proceed, however, to a more serious 
 event. The year 1781 brought with it a catastrophe 
 which profoundly affected the brief remainder of 
 Johnson's life. Mr. Thrale, whose health had been 
 shaken by fits, died suddenly on the 4th of April. 
 The ultimate consequence was Johnson's loss of the 
 
IIPE OF JOHNSON. 123 
 
 second home, in which he had so often found refuge 
 from melancholy, alleviation of physical suffering, 
 and pleasure in social converse. The change did not 
 follow at once, but as the catastrophe of a little 
 social drama, upon the rights and wrongs of which 
 a good deal of controversy has been expended. 
 
 Johnson was deeply affected by the loss of a friend 
 whose face, as he said, " had never been turned upon 
 him through fifteen years but with respect and be- 
 nignity." He wrote solemn and affecting letters to 
 the widow, and busied himself strenuously in her 
 service. Thrale had made him one of his executors, 
 leaving him a small legacy; and Johnson took, it 
 seems, a rather simple-minded pleasure in dealing 
 with important commercial affairs and signing 
 cheques for large sums of money. The old man of 
 letters, to whom three hundred a year had been 
 superabundant wealth, was amused at finding himself 
 in the position of a man of business, regulating what 
 was then regarded as a princely fortune. The brew- 
 ery was sold after a time, and Johnson bustled about 
 with an ink-horn and pen in his button-hole. When 
 asked what was the value of the property, he replied 
 magniloquently, " We are not here to sell a parcel of 
 boilers and vats, but the potentiality of growing rich 
 beyond the dreams of avarice." The brewery was 
 in fact sold to Barclay, Perkins & Co. for the sum 
 of 135,000?., and some years afterwards it was the 
 largest concern of the kind in the world. 
 
 The first effect of the change was probably rather 
 to tighten than to relax the bond of union with the 
 
12!. RASSELAS. 
 
 Thrale family. During the winter of 1781-2, Jolin- 
 son's infirmities were growing upon him. In the 
 beginning of 1782 he was suffering from an illness 
 which excited serious apprehensions, and he went to 
 Mrs. Thrale's, as the only house where he could use 
 " all the freedom that sickness requires." She 
 nursed him carefully, and expressed her feelings with 
 characteristic vehemence in a curious journal which 
 he had encouraged her to keep. It records her 
 opinions about her affairs and her family, with a 
 frankness remarkable even in writing intended for 
 no eye but her own. " Here is Mr. Johnson very 
 ill," she writes on the 1st of February ; . . . " "What 
 shall we do for him ? If I lose him, I am more than 
 undone — friend, father, guardian, confidant ! God 
 give me health and patience ! What shall I do ? " 
 There is no reason to doubt the sincerity of these 
 sentiments, though they seem to represent a mood of 
 excitement. They show that for ten months after 
 Thrale's death Mrs. Thrale was keenly sensitive to 
 the value of Johnson's friendship. 
 
 A change, however, was approaching. Towards 
 the end of 1780 Mrs. Thrale^had made the acquaint- 
 iince of an Italian musician named Piozzi, a man of 
 ainiable and honorable character, making an in- 
 dependent income by his profession, but to the eyes of 
 most people rather inoffensive than specially attract- 
 ive. The friendship between Mrs. Thrale and Piozzi 
 rapidly became closer, and by the end of 1781 she 
 was on very intimate terms with the gentleman whom 
 she calls " my Piozzi." He had been making a pro- 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 125 
 
 fessional trip to the Continent during part of the 
 period since her husband's death, and upon his 
 return in November, Johnson congratulated her upon 
 having two friends who loved her,* in terms which 
 suggest no existing feeling of jealousy. During 1782 
 the mutual affection of the lady and the musician 
 became stronger, and in the autumn they had avowed 
 it to each other, and were discussing the question of 
 marriage. 
 
 No one who has had some experience of life will 
 be inclined to condemn Mrs. Thrale for her passion. 
 Rather the capacity for a passion not excited by an 
 intrinsically unworthy object should increase our 
 esteem for her. Her marriage with Thrale had been 
 as has been said, one of convenience ; and, though 
 she bore him many children and did her duty faith- 
 fully, she never loved him. Towards the end of his 
 life he had made her jealous by very marked attentions 
 to the pretty and sentimental Sophy .Streatfield, 
 which once caused a scene at his table ; and during 
 the last two years his mind had been weakened, and 
 his conduct had caused her anxiety and discomfort. 
 It is not surprising that she should welcome the warm 
 and simple devotion of her new lover, though she 
 was of a ripe age and the mother of grown-up 
 daughters. 
 
 It is, however, equally plain that an alliance with 
 a foreign fiddler was certain to shock British re- 
 spectability. It is the old story of the quarrel be- 
 tween Philistia and Bohemia. Nor was respectability 
 without much to say for itself. Piozzi was a Catholic 
 
126 RASSELAS. 
 
 as well as a foreigner ; to marry him was in all prob- 
 ability to break with daughters just growing into 
 womanhood, whom it was obviously her first duty to 
 protect. The marriage, therefore, might be regarded 
 as not merely a revolt against conventional morality, 
 but as leading to a desertion of country, religion, and 
 family. Her children, her husband's friends, and 
 her whole circle were certain to look upon the match 
 with feelings of the strongest disapproval, and she 
 admitted to herself that the objections were founded 
 upon something more weighty than a fear of the 
 world's censure. 
 
 Johnson, in particuliar, among whose virtues one 
 cannot reckon a superiority to British prejudice, 
 would inevitably consider the marriage as simply de- 
 grading Foreseeing this, and wishing to avoid the 
 pain of rejecting advice which she felt unable to ac- 
 cept, she refrained from retaining her " friend, father, 
 and guardian " in the position of " confidant." Her 
 situation in the summer of 1782 was therefore ex- 
 ceedingly trying. She was unhappy at home. Her 
 children, she complains, did not love her ; her serv- 
 ants " devoured " her ; her friends censured her ; 
 and her expenses were excessive, whilst the loss of 
 a lawsuit strained her resources. Johnson, sickly, 
 suffering and descending into the gloom of approach- 
 ing decay, was present like a charged thunder-cloud 
 ready to burst at any moment, if she allowed him to 
 approach the chief subject of her thoughts. Though 
 not in love with Mrs. Thrale, he had a very intel- 
 ligible feeling of jealousy towards any one who 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 127 
 
 threatened to distract her allegiance. Under such 
 circumstances we might expect the state of things 
 which Miss Burney described long afterwards (though 
 with some confusion of dates). Mrs. Thrale, she 
 says, was absent and agitated, restless in manner, and 
 hurried in speech, forcing smiles, and averting her 
 eyes from her friends ; neglecting every one, includ- 
 ing Johnson and excepting only Miss Burney herself, 
 to whom the secret was confided, and the situation 
 therefore explained. Gradually, according to Miss 
 Burney, she became more petulant to Johnson than 
 she was herself aware, gave palpable hints of 
 being worried by his company, and finally excited his 
 resentment and suspicion. In one or two utterances, 
 though he doubtless felt the expedience of reserve, 
 he intrusted his forebodings to Miss Burney, and 
 declared that Streatham was lost to him for ever. 
 
 At last, in the end of August, the crisis came. 
 Mrs. Thrale's lawsuit had gone against her. She 
 thought it desirable to go abroad and save money. 
 It had moreover been " long her dearest wish " to 
 see Italy, with Piozzi for a guide. The one difficulty 
 (as she says in her journal at the time), was that it 
 seemed equally hard to part with Johnson or to take 
 him with her till he had regained strength. At last, 
 however she took courage to confide to him her 
 plans for travel. To her extreme annoyance he fully 
 approved of them. He advised her to go ; anticipated 
 her return in two or three years; and told her 
 daughter that he should not accompany them, even 
 if invited. No behavior, it may be admitted, could 
 
128 HASSELaS. 
 
 "he more provoking than this unforeseen reasonable- 
 ness. To nerve oneself to part with a friend, and to 
 find the friend perfectly ready, and all your battery 
 of argument thrown away is most vexatious. The 
 poor man should have begged her to stay with him, 
 or to take him with her ; he should have made the 
 scene which she professed to dread, but which would 
 have been the best proof of her power. The only 
 conclusion which could really have satisfied her — 
 though she, in all probability, did not know it — 
 would have been an outburst which would have jus- 
 tified a rupture, and allowed her to protest against his 
 tyranny as she now proceeded to protest against his 
 complacency. 
 
 Johnson wished to go to Italy two years later ; and 
 his present willingness to be left was probably caused 
 by a growing sense of the dangers which threatened 
 their friendship. Mrs. Thrale's anger appears in her 
 journal. He had never really loved her, she declares ; 
 his affection for her had been interested, though even 
 in her wrath she admits that he really loved her hus- 
 band ; he cared less for her conversation, which she 
 had fancied necessary to his existence, than for her 
 " roast beef and plumb pudden," which he now de- 
 vours too "dirtily for endurance." She was fully 
 resolved to go, and yet she could not bear that her 
 going should fail to torture the friend whom for 
 eighteen years she had loved and cherished so kindly. 
 
 No one has a right at once to insist upon the com- 
 pliance of his friends, and to insist that it should be 
 a painful compliance. Still Mrs. Thrale's petulant 
 
LIFE a^ JOHNSON. 129 
 
 outburst was natural enough. It requires notice 
 because her subsequent account of the rupture has 
 given rise to attacks on Johnson's character. Her 
 " Anecdotes," written in 1785, show that her real 
 affection for Johnson was still colored by resentment 
 for his conduct at this and a later period. They 
 have an apologetic character which shows itself in a 
 statement as to the origin of the quarrel, curiously 
 different from the contemporary accounts in the 
 diary. She says substantially, and the whole book is 
 written so as to give probability to the assertion, that 
 Johnson's bearishness and demands upon her indul- 
 gence had become intolerable, when he was no longer 
 under restraint from her husband's presence. She 
 therefore " took advantage " of her lost lawsuit and 
 other troubles to leave London, and thus escape from 
 his domestic tyranny. He no longer, as she adds, 
 suffered from anything but " old age and general 
 infirmity " (a tolerably wide exception !), and did not 
 require her nursing. She therefore withdrew from 
 the 3'oke to which she had contentedly submitted 
 during her husband's life, but which was intolerable 
 when her " coadjutor was no more." 
 
 Johnson's society was, we may easily believe, very 
 trying to a widow in such a position ; and it seems 
 to be true that Thrale was better able than Mrs. 
 Thrale to restrain his oddities, little as the lady 
 shrunk at times from reasonable plain-speaking. But 
 the later account involves something more than a 
 bare suppression of the truth. The excuse about his 
 health is, perhaps, the worst part of her case, because 
 
130 RASSElLAS. 
 
 obviously insincere. Nobody could be more fully 
 aware than Mrs. Thrale that Johnson's infirmities 
 were rapidly gathering, and that another winter or 
 two must in all probability be fatal to him. She 
 knew, therefore, that he was never more in want of 
 the care which, as she seems to imply, had saved him 
 from the specific tendency to something like mad- 
 ness. She knew, in fact, that she was throwing him 
 upon the care of his other friends, zealous and affec- 
 tionate enough, it is true, but yet unable to supply 
 him with the domestic comforts of Streatham. She 
 clearly felt that this was a real injury, inevitable it 
 might be under the circumstances, but certainly not 
 to be extenuated by the paltry evasion as to his 
 improved health. So far from Johnson's health 
 being now established, she had not dared to speak 
 until his temporary recovery from a dangerous illness, 
 which had provoked her at the time to the strongest 
 expressions of anxious regret. She had (according 
 to the diary) regarded a possible breaking of the 
 yoke in the early part of 1782 as a terrible evil, 
 which would " more than ruin her." Even when re- 
 solved to leave Streatham, her one great difiSculty is 
 the dread of parting with Johnson, and the pecuniary 
 troubles are the solid and conclusive reason. In the 
 later account the money question is the mere pretext ; 
 the desire to leave Johnson the true motive ; and the 
 long-cherished desire to see Italy with Piozzi is 
 judiciously dropped out of notice altogether. 
 
 The truth is plain enough. Mrs. Thrale was torn 
 by conflicting feelings. She still loved Johnson, and 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 131 
 
 yet dreaded his certain disapproval of her strongest 
 wishes. She respected him, but was resolved not to 
 follow his advice. She wished to treat him with 
 kindness and to be repaid with gratitude, and yet his 
 presence and his affection were full of intolerable 
 inconveniences. When an old friendship becomes a 
 burden, the smaller infirmities of manner and temper 
 to which we once submitted willingly, become intol- 
 erable. She had borne with Johnson's modes of 
 eating and with his rough reproofs to herself and her 
 friends during sixteen years of her married life ; and 
 for nearly a year of her widowhood she still clung to 
 him as the wisest and kindest of monitors. His 
 manners had undergone no spasmodic change. They 
 became intolerable when, for other reasons, she re- 
 sented his possible interference, and wanted a very 
 different guardian and confidant ; and, therefore, she 
 wished to part, and yet wished that the initiative 
 should come from him. 
 
 The decision to leave Streatham was taken. John- 
 son parted with deep regret from the house ; he read 
 a chapter of the Testament in the library; he took 
 leave of the church with a kiss; he composed a 
 prayer commending the family to the protection of 
 Heaven ; and he did not forget to note in his journal 
 the details of the last dinner of which he partook. 
 This quaint observation may have been due to some 
 valetudinary motive, or, more probably, to some odd 
 freak of association. Once, when eating an ome- 
 lette, he was deeply affected because it recalled his 
 old friend Nugent. " Ah, my dear friend," he said 
 
132 RASSELAS. 
 
 " in an agony," " I shall never eat omelette witli thee 
 again ! " And in the present case there is an obscure 
 reference to some funeral connected in his mind with 
 a meal. The unlucky entry has caused some ridi- 
 cule, but need hardly convince us that his love of the 
 family in which for so many years he had been an 
 honored and honor-giving inmate was, as Miss Sew- 
 ard amiably suggests, in great measure "kitchen- 
 love." 
 
 No immediate rupture followed the abandonment 
 of the Streatham establishment. Johnson spent 
 some weeks at Brighton with Mrs. Thrale, during 
 which a crisis was taking place, without his knowl- 
 edge, in her relations to Piozzi. After vehement 
 altercations with her daughters, whom she criticizes 
 with great bitterness for their utter want of heart, 
 she resolved to break with Piozzi for at least a time. 
 Her plan was to go to Bath, and there to retrench 
 her expenses, in the hopes of being able to recall her 
 lover at some future period. Meanwhile he left her 
 and returned to Italy. After another winter in Lon- 
 don, during which Johnson was still a frequent 
 inmate of her house, she went to Bath with her 
 daughters in April, 1783. A melancholy period fol- 
 lowed for both the friends. Mrs. Thrale lost a 
 younger daughter, and Johnson had a paralytic 
 stroke in June. Death was sending prelimi- 
 nary warnings. A correspondence was kept up, 
 which implies that the old terms were not ostensibly 
 broken. Mrs. Thrale speaks tartly more than once ; 
 and Johnson's letters go into medical details with his 
 
LIFE OS' JOHNSON. 133 
 
 customary plainness of speech, and he occasionally 
 indulges in laments over the supposed change in her 
 feelings. The gloom is thickening, and the old 
 playful gallantry has died out. The old man evi- 
 dently felt himself deserted, and suffered from the 
 breaking-up of the asylum he had loved so well. The 
 final catastrophe came in 1784, less than six months 
 before Johnson's death. 
 
 After much suffering in mind and body, Mrs. Thrale 
 had at last induced her daughters to consent to her 
 marriage with Piozzi. She sent for him at once, and 
 they M'ere married in June, 1784. A painful corre- 
 spondence followed. Mrs. Thrale announced her 
 marriage in a friendly letter to Johnson, excusing her 
 previous silence on the ground that discussion could 
 only have caused them pain. The revelation, though 
 Johnson could not have been quite unprepared, 
 produced one of his bursts of fury. " Madam, if I 
 interpret your letter rightly," wrote the old man, 
 " you are ignominiously married. If it is yet undone, 
 let us once more talk together. If you have aban- 
 doned your children and your religion, God forgive 
 your wickedness ! If you have forfeited your fame 
 and your country, may your folly do no further mis- 
 chief ! If the last act is yet to do, I, who have loved 
 you, esteemed you, reverenced you, and served you — 
 I, who long thought you the first of womankind — 
 entreat that before your fate is irrevocable, I may once 
 more see you ! I was, I once was, madam, most truly 
 yours, Sam. Johnson." 
 
 Mrs. Thrale replied with spirit and dignity ]to this 
 
13-i RASSELAS. 
 
 cry of bliud indignation, speaking of her husband with 
 becoming pride, and resenting the unfortunate phrase 
 about her loss of " fame." She ended by declining 
 further intercourse till Johnson could change his 
 opinion of Piozzi. Johnson admitted in his reply that 
 he had no right to resent her conduct ; expressed his 
 gratitude for the kindness which had " soothed twenty 
 years of a life radically wretched," and implored her 
 ("superfluously," as she says) to induce Piozzi to 
 settle in England. He then took leave of her with 
 an expression of sad forebodings. Mrs. Thrale, now 
 Mrs. Piozzi, says that she replied affectionately ; but 
 the letter is missing. The friendship was broken off, 
 and during the brief remainder of Johnson's life, the 
 Piozzis were absent from England. 
 
 Of her there is little more to be said. After pass- 
 ing some time in Italy, where she became a light of 
 that wretched little Delia Cruscan society of which 
 some faint memory is preserved by Grifford's ridicule, 
 now pretty nearly forgotten with its objects, she re- 
 turned with her husband to England. Her anecdotes 
 of Johnson, published soon after his death, had a 
 success which, in spite of much ridicule, encouraged 
 her to some further literary efforts of a sprightly but 
 ephemeral kind. She lived happily with Piozzi, and 
 never had cause to regret her marriage. She was 
 reconciled to her daughters sufficiently to renew a 
 friendly intercourse ; but the elder ones set up a 
 separate establishment. Piozzi died not long after- 
 wards. She was still a vivacious old lady, who cele- 
 brated her 80th birthday by a ball, and is supposed at 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 135 
 
 that ripe age to have made an offer of marriage to a 
 young actor. She died in May, 1821, leaving all 
 that she could dispose of to a nephew of Piozzi's, who 
 had heen naturalised in England. 
 
 Meanwhile Johnson was rapidly approaching the 
 grave. His old inmates, Levett and Miss "Williams, 
 had gone before him ; Goldsmith and Garrick and 
 Beauclerk had become memories of the past ; and 
 the gloom gathered thickly around him. The old 
 man clung to life with pathetic earnestness. 
 Though life had been often melancholy, he never 
 affected to conceal the horror with which he re- 
 garded death. He frequently declared that death 
 must be dreadful to every reasonable man. " Death, 
 my dear, is very dreadful," he says simply in a letter 
 to Lucy Porter in the last year of his life. Still 
 later he shocked a pious friend by admitting that 
 the fear oppressed him. Dr. Adams tried the ordi- 
 nary consolation of the divine goodness, and went so 
 far as to suggest that hell might not imply much 
 positive suffering. Johnson's religious views were 
 of a different color. " I am afraid," he said, " I 
 may be one of those who shall be damned." " What 
 do you mean by damned ? " asked Adams. Johnson 
 replied passionately and loudly, " Sent to hell, sir, 
 and punished everlastingly." Remonstrances only 
 deepened his melancholy, and he silenced his friends 
 by exclaiming in gloomy agitation, " I'll have no 
 more on't ! " Often in these last years he was heard 
 muttering to himself the passionate complaint of 
 Claudio, "Ah, but to die and go we know not 
 
136 EASSELAS. 
 
 whither ! " At other times he was speaking of some 
 lost friend, and saying, " Poor man — and then he 
 died ! " The peculiar horror of death, which seems 
 to indicate a tinge of insanity, was combined with 
 utter fearlessness of pain. He called to the sur- 
 geons to cut deeper when performing a painful 
 operation, and shortly before his death inflicted such 
 wounds upon himself in hopes of obtaining relief as, 
 very erroneously, to suggest the idea of suicide. 
 Whilst his strength remained, he endeavored to 
 disperse melancholy by some of the old methods. 
 In the winter of 1783-4 he got together the few sur- 
 viving members of the old Ivy Lane Club, which had 
 flourished when he was composing the Dictionary ; 
 but the old place of meeting had vanished, most of 
 the original members were dead, and the gathering 
 can have been but melancholy. He started another 
 club at the Essex Head, whose members were to 
 meet twice a week, with the modest fine of three-, 
 pence for non-attendance. It appears to have in- 
 cluded a rather " strange mixture " of people, and 
 thereby to have given some scandal to Sir John 
 Hawkins and even to Reynolds. They thought 
 that his craving for society, increased by his loss of 
 Streatham, was leading him to undignified conces- 
 sions. 
 
 Amongst the members of the club, however, were 
 such men as Horsley and Windham. Windham 
 seems to have attracted more personal regard than 
 most politicians, by a generous warmth of enthusiasm 
 not too common in the class. In politics he was an, 
 
LIFE OP JOHNSOIT. ISY 
 
 ardent disciple of Burke's, whom he afterwards fol- 
 lowed in his separation from the new Whigs. But, 
 though adhering to the principles which Johnson de- 
 tested, he knew, like his preceptor, how to win 
 Johnson's warmest regard. He was the most emi- 
 nent of the younger generation who now looked up 
 to Johnson as a venerable relic from the past. 
 Another was young Burke, that very priggish and 
 silly young man as he seems to have been, whose 
 loss, none the less, broke the tender heart of his 
 father. Friendships, now more interesting, were 
 those with two of the most distinguished authoresses 
 of the day. One of them was Hannah More, who 
 was about this time coming to the conclusion that 
 the talents which had gained her distinction in the 
 literary and even in the dramatic world, should be 
 consecrated to less secular employment. Her vi- 
 vacity during the earlier years of their acquaint- 
 ance exposed her to an occasional rebuff. "She 
 does not gain upon me, sir; I think her empty- 
 headed," was one of his remarks ; and it was to her 
 that he said, according to Mrs. Thrale, though 
 Boswell reports a softened version of the remark, 
 that she should " consider what her flattery was 
 worth, before she choked him with it." More fre- 
 quently, he seems to have repaid it in kind. " There 
 was no name in poetry," he said, " which might not 
 be glad to own her poem " — the Bas Bleu. Cer- 
 tainly Johnson did not stick at trifles in intercourse 
 with his female friends. He was delighted, shortly 
 before his death, to " gallant it about " with her at 
 
138 JRASSELAS. 
 
 Oxford, and in Serious moments showed a respect- 
 ful regard for her merits. Hannah More, who thus 
 aat at the feet of Johnson, encouraged the juvenile 
 ambition of Macaulay, and did not die till the his- 
 torian had grown into manhood and fame. The 
 other friendship noticed was with Fanny Burney, 
 who also lived to our own time. Johnson's affec- 
 tion for this daughter of his friend seems to have ' 
 been amongst the tenderest of his old age. When 
 she was first introduced to him at the Thrales, she 
 was overpowered and indeed had her head a little 
 turned by flattery of the most agreeable^ kind that 
 an author can receive. The " great literary Levia- 
 than " showed himself to have the recently published 
 Evelina at his fingers' ends.. He quoted, and almost 
 acted passages. " La ! Polly ! " he exclaimed in a 
 pert feminine accent, " only think ! Miss has danced 
 with a lord ! " How many modern readers can as- 
 sign its place to that quotation, or answer the ques- 
 tion which poor Boswell asked in despair and amidst 
 general ridicule for his ignorance, " Wliat is a Brang- 
 ton ? " There is something pleasant in the enthusi- 
 asm with which men like Johnson and Burke wel- 
 comed the literary achievements of the young lady, 
 whose first novels seem to have made a sensation al- 
 most as lively as that produced by Miss Bronte, and 
 far superior to anything that fell to the lot of Miss 
 Austen. Johnson seems always to have regarded 
 her with personal affection. He had a tender inter- 
 view with her shortly before his death ; he begged 
 her with solemn energy to remember him in her 
 
LIFE OP JOHNSON, 139 
 
 prayers ; he apologized pathetically for being unable 
 to see her, as his weakness increased ; and sent her 
 tender messages from his deathbed. 
 
 As the end drew near, Johnson accepted the in- 
 evitable like a man. After spending most of the 
 latter months of 1784 in the country with the friends 
 who, after the loss of the Thrales, could give him 
 most domestic comfort, he came back to London to 
 die. He made his will, and settled a few matters of 
 business, and was pleased to be told that he would 
 be buried in "Westminster Abbey. He uttered a 
 few words of solemn advice to those who came near 
 him, and took affecting leave of his friends. Lang- 
 ton, so warmly loved, was in close attendance. 
 Johnson said to him tenderly, Te teneam moriens de- 
 ficiente manu. Windham broke from political occu- 
 pations to sit by the dying man. Once Langton 
 found Barke sitting by his bedside with three or four 
 friends. " I am afraid," said Burke, " that so many of 
 us must be oppressive to you." " No, sir, it is not so," 
 replied Johnson, " and I must be in a wretched state 
 indeed when your company would not be a delight 
 to me." " My dear sir," said Burke, with a breaking 
 voice, " you have always been too good to me ; " and 
 parted from his old friend for the last time. Of 
 Reynolds, he begged three things : to forgive a 
 debt of thirty pounds, to read the Bible, and never 
 to paint on Sundays. A few flashes of the old 
 humor broke through. He said of a man who sat 
 up with him : " Sir, the fellow's an idiot ; he's as awk- 
 ward as a turnspit when first put into the wheel, and 
 
140 EASSELAS. 
 
 as sleepy as a dormouse." His last recorded words 
 were to a young lady who had begged for his bless- 
 ing : " God bless you, my dear." The same day, 
 December 13th, 1784, he gradually sank and died 
 peacefully. He was laid in the Abbey, and the 
 playful prediction which he made to Goldsmith has 
 been amply fulfilled : — 
 
 Forsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur istis. 
 
 The names of many greater writers are inscribed 
 upon the walls of Westminster Abbey ; but scarcely 
 any one lies there whose heart was more acutely re- 
 sponsive during life to the deepest and tenderest of 
 human emotions. In visiting that strange gathering 
 of departed heroes and statesmen and philanthropists 
 and poets, there are many whose words and deeds 
 have a far greater influence upon our imaginations ; 
 but there are very few whom when all has been said, 
 we can love so heartily as Samuel Johnson. 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 141 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 JOHNSON'S -WRITINGS. 
 
 It remains to speak of Johnson's position in lit- 
 erature. For reasons sufficiently obvious, few men 
 whose lives have been devoted to letters for an equal 
 period, have left behind them such scanty and in- 
 adequate remains. Johnson, as we have seen, worked 
 only under the pressure of circumstances; a very 
 small proportion of his latter life was devoted to lit- 
 erary employment. The working hours of his earlier 
 years were spent for the most part in productions 
 which can hardly be called literary. Seven years 
 were devoted to the Dictionary, which, whatever its 
 merits, could be a book only in the material sense of 
 the word, and was of course destined to be soon su- 
 perseded. Much of his hack-work has doubtless 
 passed into oblivion, and though the ordinary relic- 
 worship has gathered together fragments enough to 
 fill twelve decent octavo volumes (to which may be 
 added the two volumes of parliamentary reports), 
 the part which can be called alive may be com- 
 pressed into very moderate compass. Johnson may 
 be considered as a poet, an essayist, a pamphleteer, 
 a traveller, a critic, and a biographer. Among his 
 poems, the two imitations of Juvenal, especially the 
 
142 RASSELAS. 
 
 Vanity of Human Wishes, and a minor fragment or 
 two, probably deserve more respect tban would be 
 conceded to them by adherents of modern schools. 
 His most ambitious work, Irene, can be read by men 
 in whom a sense of duty has been abnormally devel- 
 oped. Among the two hundred and odd essays of 
 the Barribler, there is a fair proportion which will 
 deserve, but will hardly obtain, respectful attention. 
 JRasselas, one of the philosophical tales popular in the 
 last century, gives the essence of much of the Ranv- 
 hler in a different form, and to these may be added 
 the essay upon Soame Jenyns, which deals with the 
 same absorbing question of human happiness. The 
 political pamphlets, and the Journey to the Hebrides, 
 have a certain historical interest ; but are otherwise 
 readable only in particular passages. Mucb of his 
 criticism is pretty nearly obsolete ; but the child of 
 his old age — the Lives of the Poets — a book in which 
 criticism and biography are combined, is an admirable 
 performance in spite of serious defects. It is the 
 work that best reflects his mind, and intelligent 
 readers who have once made its acquaintance, will 
 be apt to turn it into a familiar companion. 
 
 If it is easy to assign the causes which limited the 
 quantity of Johnson's work, it is more curious to in- 
 quire what was the quality which once gained for it 
 so much authority, and which now seems to have so 
 far lost its savor. The peculiar style which is as- 
 sociated with Johnson's name must count for some- 
 thing in both processes. The mannerism is strongly 
 marked, and of course offensive ; for by " mannerism," 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. I43 
 
 as I understand the word, is meant the repetition of 
 certain forms of language in obedience to blind habit 
 and without reference to their propriety in the par- 
 ticular case. Johnson's sentences seem to be con- 
 torted, as his gigantic limbs used to twitch, hj a kind 
 of mechanical spasmodic action. The most obvious 
 peculiarity is the tendency which he noticed himself, 
 to " use too big words and too many of them." He 
 had to explain to Miss Reynolds that tlie Shakes- 
 perian line, — 
 
 You must borrow me G-aragantua's mouth, 
 
 had been applied to him because he used " big words, 
 which require the mouth of a giant to pronounce 
 them." It was not, however, the mere bigness of the 
 words that distinguished his style, but a peculiar love 
 of putting the abstract for the concrete, of using 
 awkward inversions, and of balancing his sentences 
 in a monotonous rhythm, which gives the appear- 
 ance, as it sometimes corresponds to the reality, of 
 elaborate logical discrimination. With all its faults 
 the style has the merits of masculine directness. 
 The inversions are not such as to complicate the con- 
 struction. As Boswell remarks, he never uses a 
 parenthesis ; and his style, though ponderous and 
 wearisome, is as transparent as the smarter snip-snap 
 of Macaulay. 
 
 This singular mannerism appears in his earliest 
 writings ; it is most marked at the time of the Marn- 
 ier ,' whilst in the Idves of the Poets, although I 
 think that the trick of inversion has become com- 
 
144 EASSELAS. 
 
 moner, the other peculiarities have been so far 
 softened as (in my judgment, at least), to be in- 
 offensive. It is perhaps needless to give examples of 
 a tendency which marks almost every page of his 
 writing. A passage or two from the Rambler may 
 illustrate the quality of the style, and the oddity of 
 the effect produced, when it is applied to topics of a 
 trivial kind. The author of the Bamhler is snp- 
 posed to receive a remonstrance upon his excessive 
 gravity from the lively Flirtilla, who wishes him to 
 write in defence of masquerades. Conscious of his 
 own incapacity, he applies to a man of " high repu- 
 tation in gay life ; " who, on the fifth perusal of 
 Flirtilla's letter breaks into a rapture, and declares 
 that he is ready to devote himself to her service. 
 Here is part of the apostrophe put into the mouth of 
 this brilliant rake. " Behold, FlirtiUa, at thy feet a 
 man grown gray in the study of those noble arts by 
 which right and wrong may be confounded ; by which 
 reason may be blinded, when we have a mind to es- 
 cape from her inspection, and caprice and appetite 
 instated in uncontrolled command and boundless 
 dominion ! Such a casuist may surely engage with 
 certainty of success in vindication of an entertain- 
 ment which in an instant gives confidence to the 
 timorous and kindles ardor in the cold, an enter- 
 tainment where the vigilance of jealousy has so often 
 been clouded, and the virgin is set free from the 
 necessity of languishing in silence ; where all the 
 outworks of chastity are at once demolished ; where 
 the heart is laid open without a blush ; where bashful- 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. I45 
 
 ness may survive virtue, and no wish is crushed 
 under the frown of modesty." 
 
 Here is another passage, in which Johnson is 
 speaking upon a topic more within his proper prov- 
 ince ; and which contains sound sensed under its 
 weight of words. A man, he says, who reads a 
 printed hook, is often contented to be pleased with- 
 out critical examination. " But," he adds, " if the 
 same man be called to consider the merit of a pro- 
 duction yet unpublished, he brings an imagination 
 heated with objections to passages which he has never 
 yet heard ; he invokes all the powers of criticism 
 and stoi'es his memory with Taste and Grace, Purity 
 and Delicacy, Manners and Unities, sounds which 
 having been once uttered by those that understood 
 them, have been since re-echoed without meaning, 
 and kept up to the disturbance of the world by con- 
 stant repercussion from one coxcomb to another. 
 He considers himself as obliged to show by some 
 proof of his abilities, that he is not consulted to no 
 purpose, and therefore watches every opening for 
 objection, and looks round for every opportunity to 
 propose some specious alteration. Such opportuni- 
 ties a very small degree of sagacity will enable him 
 to find, for in every work of imagination, the disposi- 
 tion of parts, the insertion of incidents, and use of 
 decorations may be varied in a thousand ways with 
 equal propriety ; and, as in things nearly equal that 
 will always seem best to every man which he himself 
 produces, the critic, whose business is onljr to pro- 
 pose without the care of execution, can never want 
 10 
 
146 RASSELAS. 
 
 the satisfaction of believing that he has suggested 
 very important improvements, nor the power of en- 
 forcing his advice by arguments, which, as they ap- 
 pear convincing to himself, either his kindness or 
 his vanity will press obstinately and importunately, 
 v^ithout suspicion that he may possibly judge too 
 hastily in favour of his own advice or inquiry whether 
 the advantage of the new scheme be proportionate 
 to the labor." We may still notice a " repercussion " 
 of words from one coxcomb to another ; though 
 somehow the words have been changed or translated. 
 Johnson's style is characteristic of the individual 
 and of the epoch. The preceding generation had 
 exhibited the final triumph of common sense over 
 the pedantry of a decaying scholasticism. The move- 
 ments represented by Locke's philosophy, by the 
 rationalizing school in theology, and by the so-called 
 classicism of Pope and his followers, are different 
 phases of the same impulse. The quality valued 
 above all others in philosophy, literature, and art 
 was clear, bright, common sense. To expel the 
 mystery which had served as a cloak for charlatans 
 was the great aim of the time, and the method was 
 to appeal from the professors of exploded technical- 
 ities to the judgment of cultivated men of the world. 
 Berkeley places his Utopia in happy climes, — 
 
 Where nature guides, and virtue rules, 
 Where men shall not impose for truth and sense 
 The pedantry of courts and schools. 
 
 Simplicity, clearness, directness are, therefore, the 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 14,7 
 
 great virtues of thought and style. Berkeley, Ad- 
 dison, Pope, and Swift are the great models of such 
 excellence in various departments of literature. 
 
 In the succeeding generation we become aware of 
 a certain leaven of dissatisfaction with the aesthetic 
 and intellectual code thus inherited. The su- 
 premacy of common sense, the superlative importance 
 of clearness, is still fully acknowledged, but there is a 
 growing undertone of dissent in form and substance. 
 Attempts are made to restore philosophical conceptions 
 assailed by Locke and his followers ; the rationalism 
 of the deistic or semi-deistic writers is declared to be 
 superficial ; their optimistic theories disregard the dark 
 side of nature, and provide no sufficient utterance 
 for the sadness caused by the contemplation of human 
 suffering ; and the polished monotony of Pope's 
 verses begins to fall upon those who shall tread in 
 his steps. Some daring sceptics are even inquiring 
 whether he is a poet at all. And simultaneously, 
 though Addison is still a kind of sacred model, the 
 best prose writers are beginning to aim at a more 
 complex structure of sentence, fitted for the expres- 
 sion of a wider range of thought and emotion, 
 
 Johnson, though no conscious revolutionist, shares 
 this growing discontent. The Spectator is written 
 in the language of the drawing-room and the coffee- 
 house. Nothing is ever said which might not 
 pass in conversation between a couple of " wits," 
 with, at most, some graceful indulgence in passing 
 moods of solemn or tender sentiment. Johnson, 
 though devoted to society in his own way, was any- 
 
148 RASSELAS. 
 
 thing but a producer of small talk. Society meant 
 to him an escape from the gloom which beset him 
 whenever he was abandoned to his thoughts. Neither 
 his education nor the manners acquired in Grub 
 Street had qualified him to be an observer of those 
 lighter foibles which were touched by Addison with 
 so dexterous a hand. When he ventures upon such 
 topics he flounders dreadfully, and rather reminds us 
 of an artist who should attempt to paint miniatures 
 with a mop. No man, indeed, took more of interest 
 in what is called the science of human nature ; and, 
 when roused by the stimulus of argument, he could 
 talk, as has been shown, with almost unrivalled 
 vigor and point. But his favorite topics are the 
 deeper springs of character, rather than superficial 
 peculiarities ; and his vigorous sayings are concen- 
 trated essence of strong sense and deep feeling, not 
 dainty epigrams or graceful embodiments of delicate 
 observation. Johnson was not, like some contempo- 
 rarjj- antiquarians, a systematic student of the Eng- 
 lish literature of the preceding centuries, but he had 
 a strong affection for some of its chief masterpieces. 
 Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy was, he declared, 
 the only book which ever got him out of bed two 
 hours sooner than he wished. Sir Thomas Browne 
 was another congenial writer, who is supposed to 
 have had some influence upon his stjde. He never 
 seems to have directly imitated any one, though some 
 nonsense has been talked about his " forming a 
 style; " but it is probable that he felt a closer affinity 
 to those old scliolars, with their elaborate and ornate 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 149 
 
 language and their deep and solemn tone of senti- 
 ment, than to the brilliant but comparatively super- 
 ficial writers of Queen Anne's time. He was, one 
 may say, a scholar of the old type, forced by circum- 
 stances upon the world, but always retaining a sym- 
 pathy for the scholar's life and temper. Accordingly, 
 his style acquired something of the old elaboration, 
 though the attempt to conform to the canons of a 
 later age renders the structure disagreeably mon- 
 otonous. His tendency to pomposity is not re- 
 deemed by the naivete and spontaneity of his mas- 
 ters. 
 
 The inferiority of Johnson's written to his spoken 
 utterances is indicative of his divided life. There are 
 moments at which his writing takes the terse, 
 vigorous tone of his talk. In his letters, such as those 
 to Chesterfield and Macpherson and in occasional 
 passages of his pamphlets, we see that he could be 
 pithy enough when he chose to descend from his 
 Latinized abstractions to good concrete English ; but 
 that is only when he becomes excited. His face when 
 in repose, we are told, appeared to be almost imbecile ; 
 he was constantly sunk in reveries, from which he was 
 only roused by a challenge to conversation. In his 
 writings, for the most part, we seem to be listening 
 to the reverie rather than the talk ; we are overhear- 
 ing a soliloquy in his study, not a vigorous discussion 
 over the twentieth cup of tea ; he is not fairly put 
 upon his mettle, and is content to expound without 
 enforcing. We seem to see ■ a man, heavy-eyed, 
 ponderous in his gestures, like some huge mechanism 
 
150 RASSELAS. 
 
 which grinds out a ponderous tissue of verbiage as 
 heavy as it is certainly solid. 
 
 The substance corresponds to the style. Johnson 
 has something in common with the fashionable pessi- 
 mism of modern times. No sentimentalist of to-day 
 could be more convinced that life is in the main 
 miserable. It was his favorite theory, according to 
 Mrs. Thrale, that all human action was prompted by 
 the " vacuity of life." Men act solely in the hope 
 of escaping from themselves. Evil, as a follower of 
 Schopenhauer would assert, is the positive, and good 
 merely the negative of evil. All desire is at bottom 
 an attempt to,escape from pain. The doctrine neither 
 resulted from, nor generated, a philosophical theory 
 in Johnson's case, and was in the main a generaliza- 
 tion of his own experience. Not the less, the aim of 
 most of his writing is to express this sentiment in one 
 form or other. He differs, indeed, from most modern 
 sentimentalists, in having the most hearty contempt 
 for useless whining. If he dwells upon human misery 
 it is because he feels that it is as futile to join with 
 the optimist in ignoring, as with the pessimist in 
 howling over the evil. We are in a sad world, full 
 of pain, but we have to make the best of it. Stubborn 
 patience and hard work are the sole remedies, or 
 rather the sole means of temporary escape. Much of 
 the Rambler is occupied with variations upon this 
 theme, and expresses the kind of dogged resolution 
 with which he would have us plod through this weary 
 world. Take for example this passage : — " The 
 controversy about the reality of external evils is now 
 
LIFE OF JOaNSON. 151 
 
 at an end. That life has many miseries, and that 
 those miseries are sometimes at least equal to all the 
 powers of fortitude is now universally confessed ; and, 
 therefore, it is useful to consider not only how we 
 may escape them, but by what means those which 
 either the accidents of affairs or the infii'mities of 
 nature must bring upon us may be mitigated and 
 lightened, and how we may make those hours less 
 wretched which the condition of our present existence 
 will not allow to be very happy. 
 
 " The cure for the greatest part of human miseries 
 is not radical, but palliative. Infelicity is involved 
 in corporeal nature, and interwoven with our being i 
 all attempts, therefore, to decline it wholly are use- 
 less and vain ; the armies of pain send their arrows 
 against us on every side, the choice is only between 
 those which are more or less sharp, or tinged with 
 poison of greater or less malignity ; and the strongest 
 armor which reason can supply will only blunt their 
 points, but cannot repel them. 
 
 " The great remedy which Heaven has put in our 
 hands is patience, by which, though we cannot lessen 
 the torments of the body, we can in a great measure 
 preserve the peace of the mind, and shall suffer only 
 the natural and genuine force of an evil, without 
 heightening its acrimony or prolonging its effects." 
 
 It is hardly desirable for a moralist to aim at 
 originality in his precepts. We must be content if he 
 enforces old truths in such a manner as to convince 
 us of the depth and sincerity of his feeling. Johnson, 
 it must be confessed, rather abuses the moralist's 
 
152 rasselas. 
 
 privilege of being commonplace. He descants not 
 unfrequently upon propositions so trite that even the 
 most earnest enforcement can give them little interest. 
 With all drawbacks, however, the moralizing is the 
 best part of the Rambler. Many of the papers follow 
 the precedent set by Addison in the Spectator, but 
 without Addison's felicity. Like Addison, he indulges 
 in allegory, which, in his hands, becomes unendurably 
 frigid and clumsy ; he tries light social satire, and is 
 fain to confess that we can spy a beard under the 
 muffler of his feminine characters ; he treats us to 
 criticism which, like Addison's goes upon exploded 
 principles, but unlike Addison's, is apt to be almost 
 wilfully outrageous. His odd remarks upon Milton's 
 versification are the worst example of this weakness. 
 The result is what one might expect from the attempt 
 of a writer without an ear to sit in judgment upon 
 the greatest master of harmony in the language. 
 
 These defects have consigned the Rarribler to the 
 dustiest shelves of libraries, and account for the 
 wonder expressed by such a critic as M. Taine at the 
 English love of Johnson. Certainly if that love were 
 nourished, as he seems to fancy, by assiduous study 
 of the Rambler, it would be a curious phenomenon. 
 And yet with all its faults, the reader who can plod 
 through its pages will at least feel respect for the 
 author. It is not unworthy of the man whose great 
 lesson is " clear your mind of cant; ' " who felt most 
 
 ' Of this well-known sentiment it may be said, as of some 
 other familiar quotations, that its direct meaning has been 
 slightly modified in use. The emphasis is changed. John- 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 153 
 
 deeply the misery of the world, but from the bottom 
 of his heart despised querulous and sentimental com- 
 plaints on one side, and optimist glasses upon the 
 other. To him, as to some others of his temperament, 
 the affectation of looking at the bright side of things 
 seems to have presented itself as the bitterest of 
 mockeries ; and nothing would tempt him to let fine 
 words pass themselves off for genuine sense. Here 
 are some remarks upon the vanity in which some 
 authors seek for consolation, which may illustrate 
 this love of realities and conclude our quotations from 
 the Ramller. 
 
 " By such acts of voluntary delusion does every 
 man endeavor to conceal his own unimportance 
 from himself. , It is long before we are convinced of 
 the small proportion which every individual bears to 
 the collective body of mankind ; or learn how few 
 can be interested in the fortune of any single man ; 
 how little vacancy is left in the world for any new 
 object of attention ; to how small extent the brightest 
 blaze of merit can be spread amidst the mists of 
 business and of folly; and how soon it is clouded 
 by the intervention of other novelties. Not only 
 the writer of books, but the commander of armies, 
 and the deliverer of nations, will easily outlive all 
 noisy and popular reputation : he may be celebrated 
 
 son's words were " Clear your mind of cant. You may talk 
 as other people do ; you may say to a man, sir, I am your 
 humble servant ; you are not his most humble servant. . . . 
 You may talk in this manner ; it is a mode of talking in 
 society ; but don't think foolishly." 
 
154 RASSELAS. 
 
 for a time by the public voice, but his actions and 
 his name will soon be considered as remote and 
 unafEecting, and be rarely mentioned but by those 
 whose alliance gives them some vanity to gratify by 
 frequent commemoration. It seems not to be sufE- 
 ciently considered how little renown can be admitted 
 in the world. Mankind are kept perpetually busy by 
 their fears or desires, and have not more leisure from 
 their own affairs than to acquaint themselves with 
 the accidents of the current day. Engaged in con- 
 triving some refuge from calamity, or in shortening 
 their way to some new possession, they seldom suffer 
 their thoughts to wander to the past or future ; none 
 but a few solitary students have leisure to inquire 
 into the claims of ancient heroes or sages ; and names 
 which hoped to range over kingdoms and continents 
 shrink at last into cloisters and colleges. Nor is it 
 certain that even of these dark and narrow habita- 
 tions, these last retreats of fame, the possession will 
 be long kept. Of men devoted to literature very 
 few extend their views bej^ond some particular 
 science, and the greater part seldom inquire, even in 
 their own profession, for any authors but those 
 whom the present mode of study happens to foice 
 upon their notice ; they desire not to fill their minds 
 with unfashionable knowledge, but contentedly re- 
 sign to oblivion those books which they now find 
 censured or neglected." 
 
 The most remarkable of Johnson's utterances upon 
 his favorite topic of the Vanity of Human Wislies 
 is the story of Masselas. The plan of the book is 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 155 
 
 simple, and recalls certain parts of Voltaire's simul- 
 taneous but incomparably more brilliant attack upon 
 Optimism in Oamdide. There is supposed to be a 
 liappy valley in Abyssinia where the royal princes 
 are confined in total seclusion, but with ample sup- 
 plies for every conceivable want. Rasselas, who has 
 been thus educated, becomes curious as to the outside 
 world, and at last makes his escape with his sister, 
 her attendant, and the ancient sage and poet, Imlac. 
 Under Imlac's guidance they survey life and manners 
 in various stations ; they make the acquaintance of 
 philosophers, statesmen, men of the world, and re- 
 cluses ; they discuss the results of their experience 
 pretty much in the style of the Rambler / they agree 
 to pronounce the sentence " Vanity of Vanities ! " 
 and finally, in a " conclusion where nothing is con- 
 cluded," they resolve to return to the happy valley. 
 The book is little more than a set of essays upon 
 life, with just story enough to hold it together. It 
 is wanting in those brilliant flashes of epigram, which 
 illustrate Voltaire's pages so as to blind some readers 
 to its real force of sentiment, and yet it leaves a 
 peculiar and powerful impression upon the reader. 
 
 The general tone may be collected from a few 
 passages. Here is a fragment, the conclusion of 
 which is perhaps the most familiar of quotations 
 from Johnson's writings. Imlac in narrating his life 
 describes his attempts to become a poet. 
 
 " The business of a poet," said Imlac, "is to 
 examine not the individual, but the species ; to 
 remark general properties and large appearances ; he 
 
156 RASSELAS. 
 
 does not number the streaks of the tulip or describe 
 the different shades in the verdure of the forest. He 
 is to exhibit in his portraits of nature such prominent 
 and striking features as recall the original to every 
 mind ; and must neglect the minute discriminations 
 which one may have remarked, and another have 
 neglected for those characteristics which are alike 
 obvious to vigilance and carelessness." 
 
 " But the knowledge of nature is only half the 
 task of a poet ; he must be acquainted likewise with all 
 the modes of life. His character requires that he 
 estimate the happiness and misery of every condition ; 
 observe the power of all the passions in all their 
 combinations, and know the changes of the human 
 mind as they are modified by various institutions, 
 and accidental influences of climate or custom, from 
 the sprightliuess of infancy to the despondency of 
 decrepitude. He must divest himself of the prejudices 
 of his age or country ; he must consider right and 
 wrong in their abstracted and invariable state ; he 
 must disregard present laws and opinions, and rise 
 to general and transcendental truths, which will 
 always be the same ; he must therefore content him- 
 self with the slow pi'ogress of his name ; contemn 
 the applause of his own time, and commit his claims 
 to the justice of posterity. He must write as the 
 interpreter of nature and the legislator of mankind, 
 and consider himself as presiding over the thoughts 
 and manners of future generations, as a being superior 
 to time and place. 
 
 " His labors are not yet at an end ; he must know 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 157 
 
 many languages and many sciences ; and that his 
 style may be worthy of his thoughts, must by inces- 
 sant practice familiarize to himself every delicacy of 
 speech and grace of harmony." 
 
 Imlac now felt the enthusiastic fit and was pro- 
 ceeding to aggrandize his profession, when the prince 
 cried out, " Enough, thou hast convinced me that no 
 human being can ever be a poet." 
 
 Indeed, Johnson's conception of poetry is not the 
 one which is now fashionable, and which would rather 
 seem to imply that philosophical power and moral 
 sensibility are so far disqualifications to the true 
 poet. 
 
 Here, again, is a view of the superfine system of 
 moral philosophy. A meeting of learned men is 
 discussing the ever-recurring problem of happiness, 
 and one of them speaks as. follows : — 
 
 " The way to be happy is to live according to 
 nature, in obedience to that universal and unalterable 
 law with which every heart is originally impressed ; 
 which is not written on it by precept, but engraven 
 by destiny, not instilled by education, but infused at 
 our nativity. He that lives according to nature will 
 suffer nothing from the delusions of hope, or im- 
 portunities of desire ; he will receive and reject with 
 equability of temper, and act or suffer as the reason 
 of things shall alternately prescribe. Other men 
 may amuse themselves with subtle definitions or 
 intricate ratiocinations. Let him learn to be wise by 
 easier means : let him observe the hind of the forest, 
 and the linnet of the grove ; let him consider the 
 
153 EAS8ELAS. 
 
 life of animals whose motions are regulated by 
 instinct ; they obey their guide and are happy. 
 
 "Let us, therefore, at length cease to dispute, and 
 learn to live ; throw away the incumbrance of pre- 
 cepts, which they who utter them with so much pride 
 and pomp do not understand, and carry with us this 
 simple and intelligible maxim, that deviation from 
 nature is deviation from happiness." 
 
 The prince modestly inquires what is the precise 
 meaning of the advice just given. 
 
 " When I find young men so humble and so docile," 
 said the philosopher, " I can deny them no informa- 
 tion which my studies have enabled me to afford. To 
 live according to nature, is to act always with due 
 regard to the fitness arising from the relations and 
 qualities of causes and effects, to concur with the 
 great and unchangeable scheme of universal felicity ; 
 to co-operate with the general disposition and ten- 
 dency of the present system of things. 
 
 " The prince soon found that this was one of the 
 sages, whom he should understand less as he heard 
 him longer." 
 
 Here, finally, is a characteristic reflection upon the 
 right mode of meeting sorrow. 
 
 "The state of a mind oppressed with a sudden 
 calamity," said Imlac, " is like that of the fabulous 
 inhabitants of the new created earth, who, when the 
 first night came upon them, supposed that day would 
 never return. When the clouds of sorrow gather 
 over us, we see nothing beyond them, nor can imag- 
 ine how they will be dispelled ; yet a new day sue- 
 
LIFE OF JOHlsrsON. l59 
 
 ceeded to the night, and sorrow is never long without 
 a dawn of ease. But as they who restrain themselves 
 from receiving comfort, do as the savages would have 
 done, had they put out their eyes when it was dark. 
 Our minds, like our bodies, are in continual flux; 
 something is hourly lost, and something acquired. 
 To lose much at once is inconvenient to either, but 
 while the vital powers remain uninjured, nature will 
 find the means of reparation. 
 
 " Distance has the same effect on the mind as on 
 the eye, and while we glide along the stream of time, 
 whatever we leave behind us is always lessening, and 
 that which we approach increasing in magnitude. Do 
 not suffer life to stagnate ; it will grow muddy for 
 want of motion ; commit yourself again to the current 
 of the world ; Pekuah will vanish by degrees ; you 
 will meet in your way some other favorite, or learn 
 to diffuse yourself in general conversation." 
 
 In one lespect Mas selas is curiously contrasted with 
 Oandide. Voltaire^s story is aimed at the doctrine 
 of theological optimism, and, whether that doctrine 
 be well or ill understood, has therefore an openly 
 sceptical tendency. Johnson, to whom nothing could 
 be more abhorrent than an alliance with any assailant 
 of orthodoxy, draws no inference from his pessimism. 
 He is content to state the fact of human misery 
 without perplexing himself with the resulting prob- 
 lem as to the final cause of human existence. If the 
 question had been explicitly brought before him, he 
 would, doubtless, have replied that the mystery was 
 ii^soluble. To answer either in the sceptical or thq 
 
160 feASSELAS. 
 
 optimistic sense was equally presumptuous. Jolin 
 son's leligious beliefs in fact were not such as to 
 suggest that kind of comfort which is to be obtained 
 by explaining away the existence of evil. If he, too, 
 would have said that in some sense all must be for 
 the best in a world ruled by a perfect Creator, the 
 sense must be one which would allow of the eternal 
 misery of indefinite multitudes of his creatures. 
 
 But, in truth, it was characteristic of Johnson to 
 turn away his mind from such topics. He was inter- 
 ested in ethical speculations, but on the practical 
 side, in the application to life, not in the philosophy 
 on which it might be grounded. In that direction he 
 could see nothing but a " milking of the bull " — a 
 fruitless or rather a pernicious waste of intellect. An 
 intense conviction of the supreme importance of a 
 moral guidance in this difficult world, made him ab- 
 hor any rash inquiries by which the basis of existing 
 authority might be endangered. 
 
 This sentiment is involved in many of those preju- 
 dices which have been so much, and in some sense 
 justifiably ridiculed. Man has been wretched and 
 foolish since the race began, and will be till it ends ; 
 one chorus of lamentation has ever been rising, in 
 countless dialects but with a single meaning ; the 
 plausible schemes of philosophers give no solution to 
 the everlasting riddle ; the nostrums of politicians 
 touch only the surface of the deeply-rooted evil ; it is 
 folly to be querulous, and as silly to fancy that men 
 are growing worse, as that they are much better than 
 they used to be. The evils under which we suffer 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 161 
 
 are not skin-deep, to be eradicated by changing the 
 old physicians for new quacks. What is to be done 
 under such conditions, but to hold fast as vigorously 
 as we can to the rules of life and faith which have 
 served our ancestors, and which, whatever their jus- 
 tifications, are at least th« only consolation, because 
 they supply the only guidance through this labyrinth 
 of troubles? Macaulay has ridiculed Johnson for 
 what he takes to be the ludicrous inconsistency of 
 his intense political prejudice, combined with his 
 assertion of the indifference of all forms of govern- 
 ment. " If," says Macaulay, " the difference between 
 two forms of government be not worth half a guinea, 
 it is not easy to see how Whiggism can be viler than 
 Toryism, or the Crown can have too little power." 
 The answer is surely obvious. Whiggism is vile, 
 according to the doctor's phrase, because Whiggism 
 is a " negation of all principle ; " it is in his view, 
 not so much the preference of one form to another, as 
 an attack upon the vital condition of all government. 
 He called Burke a "bottomless Whig" in this sense, 
 implying that Whiggism meant anarchy ; and in the 
 next generation a good many people were led, rightly 
 or wrongly, to agree with him by the experience of 
 the French revolution. 
 
 This dogged conservatism has both its value and 
 its grotesque side. When Johnson came to write 
 political pamphlets in his later years, and to deal 
 with subjects little familiar to his mind, the results 
 were grotesque enough. Loving authority, and 
 holding one authority to be as good as another, he 
 
16^ ilASSELAS. 
 
 defended witli uncompromising zeal the most pre- 
 posterous and tyrannical measures. The pamphlets 
 against the Wilkite agitators and the American 
 rebels are little more than a huge " rhinoceros " snort 
 of contempt against all who are fools enough or 
 wicked enough to promote war and disturbance in 
 order to change one form of authority for another. 
 Here is a characteristic passage, giving his view of 
 the value of such demonstrators : — 
 
 " The progress of a petition is well known. An 
 ejected placeman goes down to his county or his 
 borough, tells his friends of his inability to serve 
 them and his constituents, of the corruption of the 
 government. His friends readily understand that he 
 who can get nothing, will have nothing to give. 
 They agree to proclaim a meeting. Meat and diink 
 are plentifully provided, a crowd is easily brought 
 together, and those who think that they know the 
 reason of the meeting undertake to tell those who 
 know it not. Ale and clamor unite their powers; 
 the crowd, condensed and heated, begins to ferment 
 with the leaven of sedition. All see, a thousand 
 evils, though they cannot show them, and grow 
 impatient for a remedy, though they know not what. 
 
 " A speech is then made by the Cicero of the day ; 
 he says much and suppresses more, and credit is 
 equally given to what he tells and what he conceals. 
 The petition is heard and universally approved. 
 Those who are sober enough to write, add their 
 names, and the rest would sign it if they could. 
 
 " Every man goes home and tells his neighbor of 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 163 
 
 the glories of the day ; how he was consulted, and 
 what he advised ; how he was invited into the great 
 room, where his lordship caressed him by his name ; 
 how he was caressed by Sir Eraneis, Sir Joseph, and 
 Sir George; how he ate turtle and venison, and 
 drank unanimity to the three brothers. 
 
 " The poor loiterer, whose shop had confined him 
 or whose wife had locked him up, hears the tale of 
 luxury with envy, and at last inquires what was 
 their petition. Of the petition notlii:ig is remem- 
 bered by the narrator, but that it spoke much of fears 
 and apprehensions and something very alarming, but 
 that he is sure it is against the government. 
 
 " The other is convinced that it must be right, and 
 wishes he had been there, for he loves wine and 
 venison, and resolves as long as he lives to be against 
 the government. 
 
 " The petition is then handed from town to town, 
 and from house to house ; and wherever it comes, 
 the inhabitants flock together that they may see that 
 which must be sent to the king. Names are easily 
 collected. One man signs because he hates the 
 papists ; another because he has vowed destruction 
 to the turnpikes ; one because it will vex the parson ; 
 another because he owes his landlord nothing ; one 
 because he is rich ; another because he is poor ; one 
 to show that he is not afraid ; and another to show 
 that he can write." 
 
 The only writing in which we see a distinct re- 
 flection of Johnson's talk is the Lives of the Poets. 
 The excellence of that book is of the same kind as 
 
164 EASSELAS. 
 
 the excellence of his conversation. Johnson wrote 
 it under pressure, and it has suffered from his char- 
 acteristic indolence. Modern authors would fill as 
 many pages as Johnson has filled lines, with the biog- 
 raphies of some of his heroes. By industriously 
 sweeping together all the rubbish which is in any 
 way connected with the great man, by elaborately 
 discussing the possible significance of infinitesimal 
 bits of evidence, and by disquisition upon general 
 principles or the whole mass of contemporary litera- 
 ture, it is easy to swell volumes to any desired extent. 
 The result is sometimes highly interesting and 
 valuable, as it is sometimes a new contribution to the 
 dust-heaps ; but in any ease the design is something 
 quite different from Johnson's. He has left much to 
 be supplied and corrected by later scholars. His aim 
 is simply to give a vigorous summary of the main 
 facts of his heroes' lives, a pithy analysis of their 
 character, and a short criticism of their productions. 
 The strong sense which is everywhere displayed, the 
 massive style, which is yet easier and less cumbrous 
 than in his earlier work, and the uprightness and in- 
 dependence of the judgments, make the book agree- 
 able even where we are most inclined to dissent from 
 ^its conclusions. 
 
 The criticism is that of a school which has died 
 out under the great revolution of modern taste. The 
 booksellers decided that English poetry began for 
 their purposes with Cowley, and Johnson has, there- 
 fore, nothing to say about some of the greatest names 
 in our literature. The loss is little to be regretted, 
 
LIFE OP JOHNSON. 165 
 
 since the biographical part of earlier memoirs must 
 have been scanty, and the criticism inappreciative. 
 Johnson, it may be said, like most of his contempo- 
 raries, considered poetry almost exclusively from the 
 didactic and logical point of view. He always in- 
 quires what is the moral of a work of art. If he does 
 not precisely ask " what it proves," he pays excess- 
 ive attention to the logical solidity and coherence of 
 its sentiments. He condemns not only insincerity 
 and affectation of feeling, but all such poetic im- 
 agery as does not correspond to the actual prosaic 
 belief of the writer. For the purely musical effects 
 of poetry he has little or no feeling, and allows little 
 deviation from the alternate long and short syllables 
 neatly bound in Pope's couplets. 
 
 To many readers this would imply that Johnson 
 omits precisely the poetic element in poetry. I must 
 be here content to say that in my opinion it implies 
 rather a limitation than a fundamental error. Johnson 
 errs in supposing that his logical tests are at all 
 adequate ; but it is, I think, a still greater error to 
 assume that poetry has no connection, because it has 
 not this kind of connection, with philosophy. His 
 criticism has always a meaning, and in the case of 
 works belonging to his own school a very sound 
 meaning. When he is speaking of other poetry, we 
 can only reply that his remarks may be true, but that 
 they are not to the purpose. 
 
 The remarks on the poetry of Dryden, Addison, 
 and Pope are generally excellent, and always give 
 the genuine expression of an independent judgment. 
 
166 bASSELAS. 
 
 Whoever thinks for himself, and says plainly what 
 he thinks, has some merit as a critic. This, it is true, 
 is about all that can be said for such criticism as that 
 on Lycidas, which is a delicious example of the 
 wrong way of applying strong sense to inappropriate 
 topics. Nothing can be truer in a sense, and nothing 
 less relevant. 
 
 " In this poem," he says, " there is no nature, for 
 there is no truth ; there is no art, for there is nothing 
 new. Its form is that of a pastoral, easy, vulgar, 
 and therefore disgusting ; whatever images it can 
 supply are easily exhausted, and its inherent im- 
 probability always forces dissatisfaction on the mind. 
 When Cowley tells of Hervey that they studied to- 
 gether, it is easy to suppose how much he must miss 
 the companion of his labors and the partner of his 
 discoveries ; but what image of tenderness can be 
 excited by these lines ? — 
 
 We drove afield, and both together heard 
 What time the gray fly winds her sultry horn, 
 Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night. 
 
 We know that they never drove afield and had no 
 flocks to batten ; and though it be allowed that the 
 representation may be allegorical, the true meaning 
 is so uncertain ' and remote that it is never sought, 
 because it cannot be known when it is found. 
 
 " Among the flocks and copses and flowers appear 
 the heathen deities : Jove and Phoebus, Neptune and 
 iEolus, with a long train of mythological imagery 
 such as a, college easily supplies. Nothing can less 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. l67 
 
 display knowledge or less exercise invention than to 
 tell how a shepherd has lost his companion, and must 
 now feed his flocks alone, without any judge of his 
 skill in piping ; how one god asks another god what 
 has become of Lycidas, and neither god can tell. He 
 •who thus grieves will excite no sympathy; he who 
 thus praises will confer no honor." 
 
 This is of course utterly outrageous, and yet much 
 of it is undeniably true. To explain why, in spite 
 of truth, Lycidas is a wonderful poem, would be to 
 go pretty deeply into the theoiy of poetic expression. 
 Most critics prefer simply to shriek, being at any 
 rate safe from the errors of independent judgment. 
 
 The general effect of the book, however, is not to 
 be inferred from this or some other passages of anti- 
 quated and eccentric criticism. It is the shrewd 
 sense everywhere cropping up which is really delight- 
 ful. The keen remarks upon life and character, 
 though, perhaps, rather too severe in tone, are 
 worthy of a vigorous mind, stored with much ex- 
 perience of many classes, and braced by constant 
 exercise in the conversational arena. Passages every- 
 where abound which, though a little more formal in 
 expression, have the forcible touch of his best con- 
 versational sallies. Some of the prejudices, which 
 are expressed more pithily in Boswell, are defended 
 by a reasoned exposition in the Lives. Sentence is 
 passed with the true judicial air ; and if he does not 
 convince us of his complete impartiality, he at least 
 bases his decisions upon solid and worthy grounds. It 
 would be too much, for example, to expect that 
 
168 RASSELAS. 
 
 Johnson should sympathize with the grand republic- 
 anism of Milton, or pardon a man who defended the 
 execution of the blessed Martyr. He failed, there- 
 fore, to satisfy the ardent admirers of the great poet. 
 Yet his judgment is not harsh or ungenerous, but, at 
 worst, the judgment of a man striving to be just, in 
 spite of some inevitable want of sympathy. 
 
 The quality of Johnson's incidental remarks may 
 be inferred from one or two brief extracts. Here is 
 an observation which Johnson must have had many 
 chances of verifying. Speaking of Dryden's money 
 difficulties, he says, " It is well known that he 
 seldom lives frugally who lives by chance. Hope is 
 always liberal, and they that trust her promises, make 
 little scruple of revelling to-day on the profits of 
 the morrow." 
 
 Here is another shrewd comment upon the com- 
 pliments paid to Halifax, of whom Pope says in the 
 character of Bufo, — 
 
 Fed with soft dedications all day long, 
 Horace and he went hand and hand in song. 
 
 " To charge all unmerited praise with the guilt of 
 flattery, or to suppose that the encomiast always 
 knows and feels the falsehoods of his assertions, is 
 surely to discover great ignorance of human nature 
 and of human life. In determinations depending not 
 on rules, but on reference and comparison, judgment 
 is always in some degree subject to affection. Very 
 near to admiration is the wish to admire. 
 
 " Every man willingly gives value to the praise 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 160 
 
 whicli he receives, and considers the sentence passed 
 in his favor as the sentence of discernment. We 
 admire in a friend that understanding that selected 
 us for confidence ; we admire more in a patron that 
 bounty which, instead of scattering bounty indis- 
 criminately, directed it to us ; and if the patron be 
 an author, those performances which gratitude for- 
 bids us to blame, affection will easily dispose us to 
 exalt. 
 
 " To these prejudices, hardly culpable, interest 
 adds a power always operating, though not always, 
 because not willingly, perceived. The modesty of 
 praise gradually wears away ; and, perhaps, the pride 
 of patronage may be in time so increased that modest 
 praise will no longer please. 
 
 " Many a blandishment was practised upon Halifax, 
 which he would never have known had he no other 
 attractions than those of his poetry, of which a short 
 time has withered the beauties. It would now be 
 esteemed no honor by a contributor to the monthly 
 bundles of verses, to be told that, in strains either 
 familiar or solemn, he sings like Halifax." 
 
 I will venture to make a longer quotation from 
 the life of Pope, which gives, I think, a good im- 
 pression of his manner : — 
 
 " Of his social qualities, if an estimate be made 
 from his letters, an opinion too favorable cannot 
 easily be formed ; they exhibit a perpetual and un- 
 clouded effulgence of general benevolence and par- 
 ticular fondness. There is nothing but liberality, 
 gratitude, constancy, and tenderness. It has been sq 
 
ITO KasseLAS. 
 
 long said as to be commonly believed, that the true 
 characters of men may be found in their letters, and 
 that he who writes to his friend lays his heart open 
 before him. 
 
 " But the truth is, that such were the simple 
 friendships of the Golden Age, and are now the 
 friendships only of children. Very few can boast of 
 hearts which they dare lay open to themselves, and 
 of which, by whatever accident exposed, they do not 
 shun a distinct and continued view ; and certainly 
 what we hide from ourselves, we do not show to our 
 friends. There is, indeed, no transaction which 
 offers stronger temptations to fallacy and sophistica- 
 tion than epistolary intercourse. 
 
 " In the eagerness of conversation, the first emotions 
 of the mind often burst out before they are considered. 
 In the tumult of business, interest and passion have 
 their genuine effect ; but a friendly letter is a calm 
 and deliberate performance in the cool of leisure, in 
 the stillness of solitude, and surely no man sits down 
 by design to depreciate his own character. 
 
 " Friendship has no tendency to secure veracity ; 
 for by whom can a man so much Mdsh to be thought 
 better than he is, as by him whose kindness he desires 
 to gain or keep ? Even in writing to the world there 
 is less constraint ; the author is not confronted -\vith 
 his reader, and takes his chance of approbation 
 among the different dispositions of mankind ; but a 
 letter is addressed to a single mind, of which the 
 prejudices and partialities are known, and must there- 
 fore please, if not by favoring them, by forbearing 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. Ifl 
 
 to oppose them. To charge those favorable repre- 
 sentations which men give of their own minds, with 
 the guilt of hypocritical falsehood, would show more 
 severity than knowledge. The writer commonly 
 believes himself. Almost every man's thoughts while 
 they are general are right, and most hearts are pure 
 while temptation is away. It is easy to awaken 
 generous sentiments in privacy; to despise death 
 when there is no danger ; to glow with benevolence 
 when there is nothing to be given. While such ideas 
 are formed they are felt, and self-love does not 
 suspect the gleam of virtue to be the meteor of fancy. 
 " If the letters of Pope are considered merelj^ as 
 compositions, they seem to be premeditated and 
 artificial. It is one thing to write, because there is 
 something which the mind wishes to discharge ; and 
 another to solicit the imagination, because ceremony 
 or vanity requires something to be written. Pope 
 confesses his early letters to be vitiated with affectation 
 and ambition. To know whether he disentangles 
 himself from these perverters of epistolary integrity, 
 his book and his life must be set in comparison. One 
 of his favorite topics is contempt of his own poetry. 
 For this, if it had been real, he would deserve no 
 commendation; and in this he was certainly not 
 sincere, for his high value of himself was sufficiently 
 observed , and of what could he be proud but of his 
 poetry ? He writes, he says, when ' he has just nothing 
 else to do,' yet Swift complains that he was never at 
 leisure for conversation, because he 'had always 
 some poetical scheme in his head.' It was punctually 
 
172 EASSELAS. 
 
 required that his writing-box should be set upon his 
 bed before he rose; and Lord Oxford's domestic 
 related that, in the dreadful winter of '40, she was 
 called from her bed by him four times in one night, 
 to supply him with paper lest he should lose a 
 thought. 
 
 " He pretends insensibility to censure and criticism, 
 though it was observed hj all who knew him that 
 eveiy pamphlet disturbed his quiet, and that his ex- 
 treme irritability laid him open to perpetual vexa- 
 tion ; but he wished to despise his critics, and there- 
 fore hoped he did despise them. As he happened to 
 live in two reigns when the court paid little atten- 
 tion to poetry, he nursed in his mind a foolish dis- 
 esteem of kings, and proclaims that ' he never sees 
 courts.' Yet a little regard shown him by the Prince 
 of Wales melted his obduracy ; and he had not 
 much to say when he was asked by his Royal High- 
 ness, ' How he could love a prince while he disliked 
 kings.' " 
 
 Johnson's best poetry is the versified expression of 
 the tone of sentiment with which we are already 
 familiar. The Vanity of Suman Wishes is, perhaps, 
 the finest poem written since Pope's time and in 
 Pope's manner, with the exception of Goldsmith's 
 still finer performances. Johnson, it need hardly be 
 said, has not Goldsmith's exquisite fineness of touch 
 and delicacy of sentiment. He is often ponderous 
 and verbose, and one feels that the mode of expres- 
 sion is not that which is most congenial ; and yet 
 the vigor of thought makes itself felt through rather 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. IY3 
 
 clumsy modes of utterance. Here is one of the best 
 passages, in which he illustrates the vanity of mili- 
 tary glory : — 
 
 On what foundation stands the warrior's pride, 
 
 How just his hopes let Swedish Charles decide ; 
 
 A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, 
 
 No dangers fright him and no labours tire ; 
 
 O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, 
 
 Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain ; 
 
 No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, 
 
 War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field ; 
 
 Behold surrounding kings their powers combine. 
 
 And one capitulate, and one resign : 
 
 Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain, 
 
 " Think nothing gain'd,"he cries, " till nought remain 
 
 On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly. 
 
 And all be mine beneath the polar sky ? " 
 
 The march begins in military state, 
 
 And nations on his eye suspended wait ; 
 
 Stern Famine guards the solitary coast. 
 
 And Winter barricades the realms of Frost. 
 
 He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay—' 
 
 Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa's day 1 
 
 The vanquish'd hero leaves his broken bands, 
 
 And shows his miseries in distant lands ; 
 
 Condemn'd a needy supplicant to wait, 
 
 While ladies interpose and slaves debate — 
 
 But did not Chance at length her error mend ? 
 
 Did no subverted empire mark his end ? 
 
 Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound ? 
 
 Or hostile millions press him to the ground ? 
 
 His fall was destined to a barren strand, 
 
 A petty fortress and a dubious hand ; 
 
 He left the name at which the world grew pale. 
 
 To point a moral and adorn a tale. 
 
 The concluding passage may also fitly conclude 
 this survey of Johnson's vrritings. The sentiment is 
 
174 KASSBLAS. 
 
 less glootny tlian is usual, but it gives the answer 
 which he would have given in his calmer moods to the 
 perplexed riddle of life ; and, in some form or other, 
 it is, perhaps, the best or the only answer that can 
 be given :— 
 
 Where, then, shall Hope and Fear their objects find 1 
 
 Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind ? 
 
 Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, 
 
 EoU darkling down the torrent of his fate ? 
 
 Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise ? 
 
 No cries inToke tlie mercies of the skies ? 
 
 Inquirer cease ; petitions yet remain 
 
 Which Heaven may hear, nor deem religion vain ; 
 
 Still raise for good tlie supplicating voice, 
 
 But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice 
 
 Safe in His power whose eyes discern afar 
 
 The secret ambush of a specious prayer. 
 
 Implore His aid, in His decisions rest, 
 
 Secure whate'er He gives — F gives the best 
 
 Yet when the scene of sacred presence fires, 
 
 And sti-ong devotion to the skies aspires. 
 
 Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind, 
 
 Obedient passions and a will resign'd ; 
 
 For Love, which scarce collective men can fill ; 
 
 For Patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill ; 
 
 For Faith, that panting for a happier seat. 
 
 Counts Death kind, nature's signal of retreat. 
 
 These goods for man the laws of Heaven ordain, 
 
 These goods He grants who grants the power to gain ; 
 
 With these Celestial Wisdom calms the mind, 
 
 And makes the happiness she does not find. 
 
^ ^HE HISTORY OP RASSELAS, 
 
 PRINCE OF ABYSSINIA. 
 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ^-^ DESCErPTIOKr OF A PALACE IIT A VALLEY 
 
 Te who listen with credulity to the whispers of 
 fancy, and pursue with eagerness the phantoms of 
 hope ; who expect that age will perform the promises 
 of youth, and that the deficiencies of the present day 
 will be supplied by the morrow ; attend to the history 
 of Rasselas, prince of Ab^^sinia. 
 — Rasselas was the fourth son of the mighty emperor, 
 in whose dominions the Father of Waters begins his 
 course ; whose bounty pours down the streams of 
 plenty, and scatters over half the world the harvests 
 of Egypt. 
 
 Acording to the custom which has descended from 
 age to age among the monarchs of the torrid zone, 
 Rasselas was confined in a private palace, with the 
 other sons and daughters of Abyssinian ro3'-alty, till 
 the order of succession should call him to the 
 throne. 
 
 The place, which the wisdom or policy of antiq- 
 uity had destined for the residence of the Abys- 
 sinian princes, was a, spacioug valley in the king- 
 
 175 
 
176 RASSELAS. 
 
 dom of Amhara, surrounded on every side by- 
 mountains, of which the summits overhang the 
 middle part. The only passage by which it could be 
 entered was a cavern that passed under a rock, of 
 which it has long been disputed whether it was the 
 work of nature or of human industry. The outlet 
 of the cavern was concealed by a thick wood, and the 
 mouth which opened into the valley was closed with 
 gates of iron forged by the artificers of ancient days, 
 somassivethat no man could without the help of 'en- 
 gines open or shut them. . _ — - -^ 
 
 From the mountains on every side, rivulets de- 
 scended that filled all the valley with verdure and 
 fertility, and formed a lake in the middle, inhabited 
 by fish of every species, and frequented by every 
 fowl whom nature has taught to dip the wing in 
 water. This lake discharged its superfluities by a 
 stream which entered a dark cleft of the mountain 
 on the northern side, and fell with dreadful noise 
 from precipice to precipice till it was heard no more. 
 
 The sides of the mountains were covered with trees, 
 the banks of the brooks were diversified with flowers ; 
 every blast shook spices from the rocks, and every 
 month dropped fruits upon the ground. All animals 
 that bite the grass or browse the shrub, whether wild 
 or tame, wandered in this extensive circuit, secured 
 from beasts of prey by the mountains which confined 
 them. On one part were flocks and herds feeding 
 in the pastures, on another all the beasts of chase 
 frisking in the lawns ; the sprightly kid was bound- 
 ing on rocks, the subtle monkey frolicking in the 
 
DESCRIPTION OF A PALACE IN A VALLEY. 177 
 
 trees, and the solemn elephant reposing in the shade. 
 All the diversities of the world were brought to- 
 gether, the blessings of nature were collected, and its 
 evils extracted and excluded. 
 
 The valley, wide and fruitful, supplied its inhabi- 
 tants with the necessaries of life, and all delights and 
 superfluities were added at the annual visit which 
 the emperor paid his children, when the iron gate 
 was opened to the sound of music ; and during eigh t 
 days every one that resided in the valley was r e quired 
 to propose whatever mi ght contribute t o make seclu- 
 sion pleasa nt, to fill up t he vacancie s of attention, 
 and lessen the tediousness of ti me. Every desire 
 was immediately granted. All the artificers of 
 pleasure were called to gladden the festivity ; the 
 musicians exerted the power of harmony, and the 
 dancers showed their activity before the princes, in 
 hope that they should pass their lives in this blissful 
 captivity ; to which those only were admitted whose 
 performance was thought able to add novelty to 
 luxury. Such was the appearance of security and 
 delight, which this retirement afforded, that they, to 
 whom it was new, always desired that it might be 
 perpetual ; and as those, on whom the iron gate had 
 once closed, were never suffered to return, the effect 
 of longer experience could not be known. Thus 
 every year produced new schemes of delight, and 
 new competitors for imprisonment. 
 
 The palace stood on an eminence raised about 
 thirty paces above the surface of the lake. It was 
 divided into many sq^uares or courts, built with 
 
I'J'8 RASSELAS. 
 
 greater or less magnificence, according to the rank 
 of those for whom they were designed. The roofs 
 were turned into arches of massy stone, joined by a 
 cement that grew harder by time, and the building 
 stood from century to century deriding the solstitial 
 rains and equinoctial hurricanes, without need of rep- 
 aration. 
 
 This house, which was so large as to be fully 
 known to none but some ancient officers who succes- 
 sively inherited the secrets of the place, was built as 
 if suspicion herself had dictated the plan. To every 
 room there was an open and secret passage, eveiy 
 square had a communication with the rest, either 
 from the upper storeys by private galleries, or by sub- 
 terranean passages from the lower apartments. Many 
 of the columns had unsuspected cavities, in which 
 a long race of monarchs had deposited their treas- 
 ures. They then closed up the opening with marble, 
 which was never to be removed but in the utmost ex- 
 igencies of the kingdom : and recorded their accumu- 
 lations in a book, which was itself concealed in a 
 tower not entered but by the emperor attended by 
 the prince who stood next in succession. 
 
THE DISCONTENT OF RASSELAS. It9 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE DISCONTENT OP EASSELAS IN THE UAPFt 
 VALLEY. 
 
 Heeb the sons and daughters of Abyssinia lived 
 only to know the soft vicissitudes of pleasure and 
 repose, attended by all that were skillful to delight, 
 and gratified with whatever the senses can enjoy. 
 They wandered in gardens of fragrance, and slept in 
 the fortresses of security. Every art was practiced 
 to make them pleased with their own condition. 
 _The sages w ; hq instruc ted them told them ofnothing 
 but the miser ies of public life, and d escribed a ll be- 
 yond the^ mountains as regio ns of calamity, where 
 discord was alway s ragin g, and where man preyed 
 upon m an. 
 
 To heighten their opinion of their own felicity, 
 they were daily entertained with songs, the subject of 
 which was the Jiappy valley. Their appetites were 
 excited by frequent enumerations of different enjoy- 
 ments; and revelry and merriment was the business 
 of every hour from the dawn of morning to the close 
 of even. 
 
 These methods were generally successful: few 
 of the princes had ever wished to enlarge their 
 bounds, but passed their lives in full conviction that 
 they had all within their reach that art or nature 
 
ISO EASSELAS. 
 
 could bestow, and pitied those whom fate had ex- 
 cluded from this seat of tranquillity, as the sport of 
 chance and the slaves of misery. 
 
 Thus they rose in the morning and lay down at 
 night, pleased with each other and with themselves ; 
 all but Rasselas, who in the twenty-sixth year of his age 
 began to withdraw himself from their pastimes and as- 
 semblies, and to delight in solitary walks and silent 
 meditation. He often sat before tables covered with 
 luxury, and forgot to taste the dainties that were 
 placed before him ; he rose abruptly in the midst of 
 the song and hastily retired beyond the sound of 
 music. His attendants observed the change and en- 
 deavored to renew his love of pleasure ; he neglected 
 their officiousness, and repulsed their invitations, and 
 spent day after day on the banks of rivulets sheltered 
 with trees, where he sometimes listened to the birds 
 in the branches, sometimes observed the fish playing 
 in the stream, and anon cast his eyes upon the pastures 
 and mountains filled with animals, of which some 
 were biting the herbage, and some sleeping among 
 the bushes. 
 
 This singularity of his humor made him much ob- 
 served. One of the sages, in whose conversation he 
 had formerly delighted, followed him secretly, in 
 hope of discovering the cause of his disquiet. Ras- 
 selas, who knew not that any one was near him, hav- 
 ing for some time fixed his eyes upon the goats, that 
 were browsing among the rocks, began to compare 
 their conrlition with his own, 
 
 '■Wliat," said he, "makes the difference between 
 
THE DISCONTENT OF RAS8ELAS. 181 
 
 man and all the rest of the animal creation ? Every 
 beast that strays besides me has the same corporal 
 necessities with myself ; he is hungry and crops the 
 grass, he is thirsty and drinks the stream, his thirst 
 and hunger are appeased, he is satisfied, and sleeps ; 
 he rises again and is hungry, he is again fed and is at 
 rest. I am hungry and thirsty like him, but when 
 thirst and hunger cease I am not at rest ; I am, like 
 him, pained with want, but am not, like him, satis- 
 fied with fulness. The intermediate hours are 
 tedious and gloomy ; I long again to b e h ungry, that 
 I may again quicken my attention . The birds pick 
 the berries or the corn, and fly away to the groves, 
 where they sit in seeming happiness on the branches, 
 and waste their lives in tuning one unvaried series 
 of sounds. I likewise can call the lutanist and the 
 singer, but the sounds that pleased me yesterday 
 weary me to-day, and will grow yet more wearisome 
 to-morrow. I can discover within me no power of 
 perception which is not glutted with its proper 
 pleasure, yet I do not feel myself delighted. Man 
 surely has some latent sense for which this place 
 affords no gratification ; or he has some desires, dis- 
 tinct from sense, which must be satisfied before he 
 can be happy." 
 
 After this he lifted up his head, and, seeing the 
 moon rising, walked towards the palace. As he 
 passed through the fields and saw the animals 
 around him, "Ye," said he, " are happy, and need 
 not envy me that walk thus among you, burdenetl 
 with myself ; nor do I, ye gentle beings, envy your 
 
182 EASSELAS. 
 
 felicity ; for it is not the felicity of man. I have 
 many distresses from which ye are free : I fear pain 
 when I do not feel it ; I sometimes shrink at evils 
 recollected, and sometimes start at evils anticipated. 
 Surely the equity of Providence has balanced pe- 
 culiar sufferings with peculiar enjoyments." 
 
 With observations like these the prince amused 
 himself as he returned ; uttering them with a plain- 
 tive voice, yet with a look that discovered him to feel 
 some complacence in his own perspicacity, and to re- 
 ceive some solace of the miseries of life from con- 
 sciousness of the delicacy with which he felt, artd 
 the eloquence with which he bewailed them. He 
 mingled cheerfully in the diversions of the evening, 
 and all rejoiced to find that his heart was lightened. 
 
THE WANTS OP HIM THAT WANTS NOTHING. 183 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE WANTS OF HIM THAT WANTS NOTHING. 
 
 On the next day his old instructor, imagining that 
 he had now made himself acquainted with his dis- 
 ease of mind, was in hope of curing it by counsel, 
 and ofSciously sought an opportunity of conference ; 
 w'^ich the prince having long considered him as one 
 whose intellects were exhausted, was not very will- 
 ing to afford : " Why," -said he, " does this man thus 
 intrude upon me ; jhall I be never suffered to for;_ 
 get those lectures which pleased only while they were 
 new, and to become new again must be for gotten ? " 
 He then walked into the wood, and composed him- 
 self to his usual meditations ; when, before his 
 thoughts had taken any settled form, he perceived 
 his pursuer at his side, and was at first prompted by 
 his impatience to go hastily away ; but being unwill- 
 ing to offend a man whom he had once reverenced 
 and still loved, he invited him to sit down with him 
 on the bank. 
 
 The old man, thus encouraged, began to lament 
 the change whiph had been lately observed in the 
 prince, and to inquire why he so often retired from 
 the pleasures of the palace, to loneliness and silence ? 
 " I fly from pleasures," said the prince, " because pleas- 
 i;ire has ceased to please ; I am lonely because I am 
 
]84: RASSELAS. 
 
 miserable, and am unwilling to cloud with my pres- 
 ence the happiness of others." " You, sir," said the 
 sage, " are the first who has complained of misery in 
 tlie happy valley. I hope to convince you that your 
 complaints have no real cause. You are here in full 
 possession of all that the emperor of Abyssinia can be- 
 stow ; here is neither labor to be endured nor danger 
 to be dreaded, yet here is all that labor or danger 
 can procure or purchase. Look round and tell me 
 which of your wants is without supply ; if you want 
 nothing how are you unhappy?" 
 
 " That I want nothing," said the prince, "nor tha t 
 I know not what I want, is the cause of my com- 
 plaint . If I had any known want, I should have a 
 
 certain wish ; that wish would excite endeavor, and 
 I should not then repine to see the sun move so 
 slowly towards the western mountain, or lament 
 when the day breaks, and sleep will no longer hide 
 me from myself. When I see the kids and the lambs 
 chasing one another , XJSBgy that I should be happy 
 if I had something to pursue. _jBut, possessing al l 
 that I can want I find Tone day and one hour e xactly 
 like ano ther, except that tj ie fl atter is stil l more ted- 
 ious than the former.^ Let your experience inform 
 me how the day may now seem as short as in my 
 cliildhood, while nature was yet fresh, and every 
 moment showed me what I never had observed be- 
 fore. I hav e al ready enjoyed too much ; giv e me 
 something to desire ." 
 
 The old man was surprised at this new species of 
 affliction, and knew not what to reply, yet was unwill- 
 
THE WANTS OF HIM THAT WANTS NOTHING. 185 
 
 ing to be silent. " Sir," said he, " if you had seen the 
 miseries of the world, you would know how to value 
 your present state." " Now ," said the prince, " you 
 have ^ivP.n me, sonfipthing t,n desirs ; T shall long tO 
 S £e the miseries of the world, since the siafht of them 
 is necessary to happiness." 
 
 tt. ^w« uft. «-^^ ^-^^-^ '^'^ 
 
136 RASSELAS. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE PETNCB CONTITJES TO GRIEVE AND MUSE. 
 
 At this time the sound of music proclaimed the 
 hour of repast, and the conversation was concluded. 
 The old man went away sufficiently discontented, 
 to find that his reasonings had produced the only 
 conclusion which they were intended to prevent. 
 But in the decline of life shame and grief are of 
 short duration ; whether it be that we bear easily 
 what we have borne long ; or that, finding ourselves 
 in age less regarded, we less regard others ; or, that 
 we look with slight regard upon afflictions to which 
 we know that the hand of death is about to put an 
 end. 
 
 The prince, whose views were extended to a wider 
 space, could not speedily quiet his emotions. He 
 had been before terrified at the length of life which 
 nature promised him, because he considered that in a 
 long time much must be endured : he now rejoiced 
 in his youth, because in many years much might be 
 done. 
 
 This first beam of hope, that had been ever darted 
 into his mind, rekindled youth in his cheeks, and 
 doubled the lustre of his eyes. He was fired with 
 the desire of doing something, though he knew not 
 yet with distinctness either end or means. 
 
PRINCE CONTINUES TO GRIEVE AND MtlSE. 187 
 
 He was now no longer gloomy and unsocial ; but, 
 considering himself as master of a secret stock of 
 happiness, which he could enjoy only by concealing 
 it, he affected to be busy in all schemes of diversion, 
 and endeavoring to make others pleased with the 
 state of which he himself was weary. But pleasures 
 never can be so multiplied or continued as not to 
 leave much of life unemployed; there were many 
 hours, both of the night and day, which he could 
 spend without suspicion in solitary thought. The 
 load of life was much lightened ; he went eagerly 
 into the assemblies, because he supposed the fre- 
 quency of his presence necessary to the success of his 
 purposes : he retired gladly to privacy, because h e 
 had now a subject of thought. 
 
 His chief amusement was to picture to himself that 
 world which he had never seen ; to place himself in 
 various conditions ; to be entangled in imaginary dif- 
 ficulties and to be engaged in wild adventures ; but 
 his benevolence always terminated his projects in the 
 relief of distress, the detection of fraud, the defeat of 
 oppression, and the diffusion of happiness. 
 
 Thus passed twenty months of the life of Rasselas. 
 He busied himself so intensely in visionary bustle 
 that he forgot his real solitude ; and, amidst hourly 
 preparations for the various incidents of human 
 affairs, neglected to consider by what means he should 
 mingle with mankind. 
 
 One day, as he was sitting on a bank, he feigned 
 to himself an orphan virgin robbed of her little por- 
 tion by a treacherous lover, and crying after him for 
 
1S8 RASSELAS. 
 
 restitution and redress. So strongly was the image 
 impressed upon his mind that he started up in the 
 maid's defence, and ran forward to seize the plunderer 
 with all the eagerness of real pursuit. Fear naturally 
 quickens the flight of guilt. Rasselas could not catch 
 the fugitive with his utmost efforts ; but, resolving 
 to weary, by perseverance, him whom he could not 
 surpass in speed, he pressed on till the foot of the 
 mountain stopped his course. 
 
 Here he recollected himself, and smiled at his own 
 useless impetuosity. Then, raising his eyes to the 
 mountain, " This," said he, " is the fatal obstacle 
 that hinders at once the enjoyment of pleasure, and 
 the exercise of virtue. How long is it that my 
 hopes and wishes have flown beyond this boundary 
 of my life, which yet I never have attempted to sur- 
 mount ! " 
 
 Struck with this reflection, he sat down to muse ; 
 and remembered, that since he first resolved to escape 
 from his confinement, the sun had passed twice over 
 him in his annual course. He now felt a degree of 
 regret with which he had never been before ac- 
 quainted. He considered how much might have 
 been done in the time which had passed, and left 
 nothing real behind it. He compared twenty months 
 with the life of man. " In life," said he, " is not to 
 be counted the ignorance of infancy, or imbecility of 
 age. We are long before we are able to think, and we 
 soon cease from the power of acting. The true 
 period of human existence may be reasonably esti- 
 mated at forty years, of which I have mused away the 
 
PRINCE CONTINUES TO GRIEVE AOSTD MUSE. 1S9 
 
 four and twentieth part. What I have lost was 
 certain, for 1 have certainly possessed it; but of 
 twenty months to come who can assure me ? " 
 
 The consciousness of his own folly pierced him 
 deeply, and he was long before he could be recon- 
 ciled to himself. " The rest of my time," said he, 
 " has been lost by the crime or folly of my ancestors 
 and the absurd institutions of my country ; I remem- 
 ber it with disgust, yet without remorse : but the 
 months that have passed since new light darted into 
 my soul, since I formed a scheme of reasonable feli- 
 city, have been squandered by my own fault. I 
 have lost that which can never be restored ; I have 
 seen the sun rise and set for twenty months, an idle 
 gazer on the light of heaven : in this time the birds 
 have left the nest of their mother, and committed them- 
 selves to the woods and to the skies : the kid has for- 
 saken the teat, and learned by degrees to climb the 
 rock in quest of independent sustenance. I only 
 have made no advances, but am still helpless and 
 ignorant. The moon, by more than twenty changes, 
 admonished me of the flux of life ; the stream that 
 rolled before my feet upbraided my inactivity. I sat 
 feasting on intellectual luxury, regardless alike of the 
 examples of the earth, aud of the instructions of the 
 planets. Twenty months are passed, who shall re- 
 store them ? " 
 
 These sorrowful meditations fastened upon his 
 mind ; hg^_gassed foarn3an. ^!gJjijes olyi ijgJo lose^^ 
 more time inidlej;esolves_; and was awakened to more 
 ^vig0ratis exertion by hearing a maid, who had broken 
 
190 RASSELAS. 
 
 a porcelain cup, remark, that what cannot hp. repairp fl 
 is not to be regret ted. 
 
 This was obvious ; and Rasselas reproached him- 
 self that he had not discovered it, having not known 
 or not considered how many useful hints are obtained 
 by chance, and how often the mind, hurried by her 
 own ardor to distant views, neglects the truths that 
 lie open before her. He, for a few hours, regretted 
 his regret, and from that time bent his whole mind 
 upon the means of escaping from the valley of happi- 
 ness. 
 
THE PRINCE MEDlTAtES HIS ESCAPE. 19l 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE PEINCE MEDITATES HIS ESCAPE. 
 
 He now found that it would be very diiScult to 
 effect that which it was very easy to suppose effected. 
 "When he looked round about him, he saw himself 
 confined by the bars of nature, which had never yet 
 been broken, and by the gate, through which none 
 that once had passed it were ever able to return. He 
 was now impatient as an eagle in the grate. He 
 passed week after week in clambering the mountains, 
 to see if there was any aperture which the bushes 
 might conceal, but found all the summits inacces- 
 sible by their prominence. The iron gate he de- 
 spaired to open ; for it was not only secured with all 
 the powers of art, but was always watched by suc- 
 cessive sentinels, and was by its position exposed to 
 the perpetual observation of all the inhabitants. 
 
 He then examined the cavern through which the 
 waters of the lake were discharged ; and, looking 
 down at a time when the sun shone strongly upon its 
 mouth, he discovered it to be full of broken rocks, 
 which, though they permitted the stream to flow 
 through many narrow passages, would stop anybody 
 of solid bulk. He returned discouraged and dejected ; 
 but, having now known the blessing of hope, resolved 
 never to despair. 
 
19^ RASSELAS. 
 
 In_J;hese_^Jruitle§s search es he s^gent ten mopths. 
 The time^ bQwever, passed^cheerfullg; awa y : ia. the 
 raorning_JbLe_j;ose^^,^mthjDewLhope,^ 
 "appTauHed his own diligencgj and in _the_. nigh±_slept_ 
 soundaftCT_his_fatigue;_ He met a thousand amjise- 
 ments which beguiled his labor and diversified his 
 thoughts. He discerned the various instincts of 
 animals and properties of plants, and found the place 
 replete with wonders, of which he purposed to solace 
 himself with the contemplation, if he should never 
 be able to accomplish his flight ; rejoicing that his 
 endeavors, though ye t unsuccess ful, had supplied him 
 with a source of i nexha ustible inquiry. 
 
 But his original curiosity was not yet abated ; he 
 resolved to obtain some knowledge of the ways of 
 men. His wish still continued, but his hope grew 
 less. He ceased to survey any longer the walls of 
 his prison, and spared to search by new toils for in- 
 terstices, which he knew could not be found yet 
 determined to keep his design always in view, and 
 lay hold on any expedient that time should offer. 
 
 
 .UtJ-l-oJ.^ U^*^3i 
 
A DISSEETATIOK ON THE ART OF FLYING. 193 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A DISSERTATION ON THE AET OP FLYING. 
 
 Among tlie artists that had been aUui-ed into the 
 happy valley, to labor for the accommodation and 
 pleasure of its inhabitants, was a man eminent for 
 his knowledge of the mechanic powers, who had con- 
 trived many engines both of use and recreation. By 
 a wheel which the stream turned he forced the water 
 into a tower, whence it was distributed to all the 
 apartments of the palace. He erected a pavilion in 
 the garden, around which he kept the air always cool 
 by artificial showers. One of the groves, appro- 
 priated to the ladies, was ventilated by fans, to which 
 the rivulet that ran through it gave a constant 
 motion ; the instruments of soft music were placed 
 at proper distances, of which some played by the 
 impulse of the wind and some by the power of the 
 stream. 
 
 This artist was sometimes visited by Rasselas, who 
 was pleased with every kind of knowledge, imagining 
 that the time would come when all his acquisitions 
 should be of use to hira in the open world. He came 
 one day to amuse himself in his usual manner, and 
 found the master busy in building a sailing chariot ; 
 he saw that the design was practicable upon a level 
 surface, and with expressions of great esteem solicited 
 13 
 
1§4 RASSELAS. 
 
 its completion. The workman was pleased to find 
 himself so much regarded by the prince, and resolved 
 to gain yet higher honors. " Sir," said he, " you 
 have seen but a small part of what the mechanic 
 sciences can perform. I have been long of opinion 
 that, instead of the tardy conveyance of ships and 
 chariots, man might use the swifter migration of 
 wings ; that the fields of air are open to knowledge, 
 and that only ignorance and idleness need crawl 
 upon the ground." 
 
 This hint rekindled the prince's desire of passing 
 the mountains : having seen what the mechanist had 
 already performed, he was willing to fancy that he 
 could do more ; yet resolved to inquire further, 
 before he suffered hope to afflict him by disappoint- 
 ment. " I am afraid," said he to the artist, " that 
 your imagination prevails over your skill, and that 
 you now tell me rather what you wish than what you 
 know. Every animal has his element assigned him ; 
 the birds have the air, and man and beasts the 
 earth." 
 
 " So," replied the mechanist, " fishes have the water, 
 in which yet beasts can swim by nature, and men by 
 art. He that can swi m needs not desp air to fly ; t o 
 swim is to fly in a grosser fluid, and to fly is to swim 
 in a 8u ^!ct !~~ We are onlyTo proportion our power 
 of resistance to the different density of matter 
 through which we are to pass. Tou will be neces- 
 sarily upborne by the air, if you can renew any im- 
 pulse upon it faster than the air can recede from the 
 pressure." 
 
A DISSERTATION ON THE ART OF FLYING. 195 
 
 "But the exercise of swimming," said the prince, 
 " is very laborious ; the strongest limbs are soon 
 wearied; I am afraid the act of flying will be yet 
 more violent ; and wings will be of no great use un- 
 less we can fly further than we can swim." 
 
 " The labor of rising from the ground," said the 
 artist, " will be great, as we see it in the heavier 
 domestic fowls, but as we mount higher, the eartli's 
 attraction and the body's gravity will be gradually 
 diminished, till we shall arrive at a region where the 
 man will float in the air without any tendency to 
 fall ; no care will then be necessary but to move for- 
 wards, which the gentlest impulse will effect. You, 
 sir, whose curiosity is so extensive, will easily con- 
 ceive with what pleasure a philosopher, furnished 
 with wings, and hovering in the sky, would see the 
 earth, and all its inhabitants, rolling beneath him, 
 and presenting to him successively, by its diurnal 
 motion, all the countries within the same parallel, 
 How must it amuse the pendent spectator to see the 
 moving scene of land and ocean, cities and deserts ! 
 To survey with equal serenity the marts of trade and 
 the fields of battle ; mountains infested by barbarians, 
 and fruitful regions gladdened by plenty and lulled 
 by peace ! How easily shall we then trace the Nile 
 through all his passage ; pass over to distant regions, 
 and examine the face of nature from one extremity 
 to the other ! " 
 
 " All this," said the prince, " is much to be desired ; 
 but I am afraid that no man will be able to breathe 
 in these regions of speculation and tranquillity. I 
 
196 EASSELAS. 
 
 have been told that respiration is difScult upon lofty 
 mountains, yet from these precipices, though so high 
 as to produce great tenuity of air, it is very easy to 
 fall : therefore I suspect, that, from any height where 
 life can be supported, there may be danger of too 
 quick descent." 
 
 " Nothing," replied the artist, " -will ever be at- 
 tempted, if all possible objections must be first over- 
 come. If you will favor my project, I will try the 
 first flight at my own hazard. I have considered the 
 structure of all volant animals, and find the folding 
 continuity of the bat's wings most easily accommo- 
 dated to the human form. Upon this model I shall 
 begin my task to-morrow, and in a year expect to 
 tower in the air beyond the malice and pursuit of 
 man. But I will work only on this condition, that 
 the art shall not be divulged, and that you shall not 
 require me to make wings for any but ourselves." 
 
 " Why," said Rasselas, " should you envy others 
 so great an advantage ? All skill ought to be exerted 
 for universal good ; every man has owed much to 
 others, and ought to repay the kindness that he has 
 received." 
 
 " If men were all virtuous," returned the artist, " I 
 should with great alacrity teach them all to fly. But 
 what would be the security of the good, if the bad 
 could at pleasure invade them from the sky ? Against 
 an army sailing through the clouds, neither walls, 
 nor mountains, nor seas could afford any security. 
 A flight of northern savages might hover in the wind, 
 and light at once with irresistible violence upon the 
 
A DISSERTATION ON THE ART OF FLYING. 19? 
 
 capital of a fruitful region that was rolling under 
 them. Even this valley, the retreat of princes, the 
 abode of happiness, might be violated by the sudden 
 descent of some of the naked nations that swarm on 
 the coast of the southern sea." 
 
 The prince promised secrecy, and waited for the 
 performance, not wholly hopeless of success. He 
 visited the work from time to time, observed its pro- 
 gress, and remarked many ingenious contrivances to 
 facilitate motion, and unite levity with strength. 
 The artist was every day more certain that he should 
 leave vultures and eagles behind him, and the conta- 
 gion of his confidence seized upon the prince. 
 
 In a year the wia gft-^p.rp. finished : and, on a morn- 
 ing appointed, the maker appeared furnished for 
 flight on a little promontory ; he waved his pinions 
 awhile to gather air, then leaped from his stand, and 
 in an instant dropped into the lake. His win gs, 
 which were of no use in th(f. a,\v^ pnafainf^d him 'P tha 
 TEaifil, and the prince drew him to land, half dead 
 with terror and vexation. 
 
198 RASSELAS. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE PKINCE FINDS A MAN OP LEAKNING. 
 
 The prince was not much afflicted by this disaster, 
 having suffered himself to hope for a happier event, 
 only because he had no other means of escape in view. 
 He still persisted in his design to leave the happy 
 valley by the first opportunity. 
 
 His i magination was now a t a stand j ^ he had no 
 prospecF^t entering into the world; and, notwith- 
 standing all his endeavors to support himself, discon- 
 tent by degrees preyed upon him, and he began again 
 to lose his thou ghts i n sadness, w hen the rainy season, 
 which in these countries is periodical, made it incon- 
 venient to wander in the woods. 
 
 The rain continued longer and with more violence 
 than had ever been known ; the clouds broke on the 
 surrounding mountains, and the torrents streamed 
 into the plain on every side, till the cavern was too 
 narrow to discharge the water. The lake overflowed 
 its banks, and all the level of the valley was covered 
 with the inundation. The eminence on which the 
 palace was built, and some other spots of rising 
 ground, were all that the eye could now discover. 
 The herds and flocks left the pastures, and both the 
 wild beasts and the tame retreated to the moun- 
 tains. 
 
THE PRINCE FINDS A MAN OF LEARNING. 199 
 
 This inundation confined all the princes to domes- 
 tic amusements, and the attention of Rasselas_was 
 particularly seized byapoem, which Imlac _r^^Tsed_ 
 upon t he various conditions of h umanit y. He com- 
 manded the poet to attend him in his apartment, and 
 recite his verses a second time ; then entering into 
 familiar talk, he thought himself happy in having 
 found a man who knew the world so well, and could 
 so skilfully paint the scenes of life. He asked a 
 thousand questions about things, to which, though 
 comnion to all other mortals, his confinement from 
 childhood had kept him a stranger. The poet pitied 
 his ignorance and loved his curiosity, and entertained 
 him from day to day with novelty and instruction, so 
 that the prince regretted the necessity of sleep, and 
 longed till the morning should renew his pleasure. 
 
 As they were sitting together the prince com- 
 manded Imlac to relate his history, and to tell by 
 what accident he was forced, or by what motive in- 
 duced, to close his life in the happy valley. As he 
 was going to begin his narrative, Rasselas was called 
 to a concert, and obliged to restrain his curiosity till 
 the evening. 
 
200 EASSELAS. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE HISTORY OP IMLAC. 
 
 The close of the day is, in the regions of the 
 torrid zone, the only season of diversion and enter- 
 tainment, and it was therefore midnight before the 
 music ceased, and the princes retired. Rasselas then 
 called for his companion and required him to begin 
 the story of his life. 
 
 " Sir," said Imlac, " my history will not be long : 
 the Wejti^mt Js^dgrotedjo knowledge pass es silentl y 
 away, and is very little diyersified_by jrronts. To 
 talk in public, to think in solitude, to read and to 
 hear, to inquire and answer inquiries, is the business 
 of a scholar. He^'ga nders abou t the world without 
 pom p or terror, and_is_neither known not valued but 
 
 by men like himself. ~ " 
 
 " I was born in the kingdom of Goiama, at no 
 great distance from the fountain of the Nile. My 
 father was a wealthy merchant who traded between 
 the inland countries of Afric and the ports of the 
 Red Sea. He was honest, frugal, and diligent, but 
 of mean sentiments and narrow comprehension ; he 
 desired only to be rich, and to conceal his riches, 
 lest he should be spoiled by the governors of the 
 province," 
 
THE HlSTOHY OF IMLAC. 201 
 
 "Surely," said the prince, "my father must be 
 negligent of his charge, if any man in his dominions 
 dares take that which belongs to. another. Does he 
 not know that kings are accountable for injustice 
 permitted as well as done ? If I were emperor, not 
 the meanest of my subjects should be oppressed with 
 impunity. My blood boils when I am told that a 
 merchant durst not enjoy his honest gains for fear of 
 losing them by the rapacity of power. Name the 
 governor who robbed the people that I may declare 
 his crimes to the emperor." 
 
 " Sir," said Imlac, " your ardor is the natural effect 
 of virtue animated by youth : the time will come 
 when you will acquit your father, and perhaps hear 
 with less impatience of the governor. Oppression is, 
 in the Abyssinian dominions, neither frequent nor 
 tolerated : but no form of government has vet b een 
 dJ RpnvRrftd bv which Cruelty can be whollv prevente d. 
 Subordination supposes power on the one part, and 
 s ubjection on the other, an d if power be in the hands 
 of men, it will sometimes be abused. The vigilance 
 of the supreme magistrate may do much, but much 
 will still remain undone. ' He can never know all 
 the crimes that are committed, and can seldom punish 
 all that he knows." 
 
 " This," said the prince, " I do not understand, but 
 I had rather hear thee than dispute. Continue thy 
 narration." 
 
 " My father," proceeded Imlac, " originally in- 
 tended that I should have no other education than 
 guch as might qualify me for commerce ; and, dis- 
 
202 RASSELAS. 
 
 covering in me great strength of memory and quick- 
 ness of apprehension, often declared his hope that I 
 should be some time the richest man in Abyssinia." 
 
 " Why," said the prince, " did thy father desire 
 the increase of his wealth, when it was already 
 greater than he durst discover or enjoy ? I am un- 
 willing to doubt thy veracity, yet inconsistencies 
 cannot both be trae." 
 
 " Inconsistencies," answered Imlac, " cannot both 
 be right ; but, imputed to man, they may both be 
 true. Yet diversity is not inconsistency. My father 
 might expect a time of greater security. However, 
 ^some desirejsjfiecessary to keep life in motion ; and 
 he whose real wants^ are supplied must admit those 
 of fancy." """ " '"" 
 
 " This," said the prince, " I can in some measure 
 conceive. I repent that I interrupted thee." 
 
 " With this hope," proceeded Imlac, " he sent me 
 to school ; but when I had once found tlie delight of 
 knowledge, and felt the pleasure of intelligence and 
 the pride of invention, I began silently to despise 
 riches, and determined to disappoint the purpose of 
 my father, whose grossness of conception raised my 
 pity. I was twenty years old before his tenderness 
 would expose me to the fatigue of travel, in which 
 time I had been instructed, by successive masters, in 
 all the literature of my native country. As every 
 hour taught me something new, I lived in a continual 
 course of gratifications ; but as I advanced towards 
 manhood, I Jost much of the T-p.vprp.Tif.R wit.h wb iph I 
 had been jjsed to look on my instructors ; because. 
 
THE HISTORY OF IMLAC. 203 
 
 wbeii_the lesso n was ended, I did not j&nd them wiser 
 or- hetter limn common rnRn. 
 
 " At length my father resolved to initiate me in 
 commerce : and, opening one of his subterranean 
 treasuries, counted out ten thousand pieces of gold. 
 ' This, young man,' said he, ' is the stock with which 
 you must negotiate. I began with less than the fifth 
 part, and you see how diligence and parsimony have 
 increased it. This is your own to waste or to im- 
 prove. If you squander it by negligence or caprice, 
 you must wait for death before you be rich ; if, in 
 four years, you double your stock, we will thence- 
 forward let subordination cease, and live together as 
 friends and partners ; for he shall be always equal 
 with me who is equally skilled in the art of growing 
 rich.' 
 
 " We laid our money upon camels, concealed in 
 bales of cheap goods, and travelled to the shore of 
 the Red Sea. When I cast my eye upon the expanse 
 of waters, my heart bounded like that of a prisoner 
 escaped. I felt an unextinguishable curiosity kindle 
 in my mind, and resolved to snatch this opportunity 
 of seeing the manners of other nations, and of learn- 
 ing sciences unknown in Abyssinia. 
 
 " I remember that my father had obliged me to the 
 improvement of my stock, not but a promise which I 
 ought not to violate, but by a penalty which I was at 
 liberty to incur; and therefore determined to gratify 
 my predominant desire, and, by drinking at the 
 fountains of knowledge, to quench the thirst of 
 curiosity. 
 
20 i RA8SELAS. 
 
 " As I was supposed to trade without connection 
 with my father, it was easy for me to become ac- 
 quainted with the master of a ship, and procure a 
 passage to some other country. I had no motives of 
 choice to regulate my voyage : it was sufficient for 
 me that, wherever I wandered, I should see a country 
 which I had not seen before. I therefore entered a 
 ship bound for Surat, having left a letter for my 
 father declaring my intention." 
 
THE HISTORY OP IMLAC. 205 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE HISTOEY OB" IMLAC CONTINTTED. 
 
 " When I first entered upon the world of waters, 
 and lost sight of land, I looked round about me with 
 pleasing terror, and, thinking my soul enlarged by 
 the boundless prospect, imagined that I could gaze 
 round without satiety, but, in a short time, I grew 
 weary of looking on barren uniformity, where I could 
 only see again what I had already seen. I then de- 
 scended into the ship, and doubted for a while whether 
 all my future pleasures would not end like this, in 
 disgust and disappointment. Yet, surely, said I, 
 the ocean and the land are very different ; the only 
 variety of water is rest and motion, but the earth has 
 mountains and valleys, deserts and cities : it is inhab- 
 ited by men of different customs and contrary opin- 
 ions ; and I may hope to find variety in life though 
 I should miss it in nature. 
 
 "With this _th£3ght_J,^fluieted__^y_3indi,_aj^ 
 amused_m2g;e]i_jdimng,^^^^^ 
 
 learning^ from th e sailo rs the art of navigation^jwh ich 
 I have_neyer practised, and someti mes hy forming 
 schemesfor_mycqnjAict_in_differeni^ in. 
 
 n6r^e of which I have been ever placed, 
 
^06 RASSELAS. 
 
 " I was almost weary of my naval amusements 
 when we landed safely at Surat. I secured my money, 
 and purchasing some commodities for show, joined 
 myself to a caravan that was passing into the inland 
 country. My companions, for some reason or other, 
 conjecturing that I was rich, and, by my inquiries 
 and admiration, finding that I was ignorant, con- 
 sidered me as a novice whom they had a right to 
 cheat, and who was to learn at the usual expense 
 the art of fraud. They exposed me to the theft of 
 servants and the exaction of officers, and saw me 
 plundered upon false pretences, without any advan- 
 tage to themselves, but that of rejoicing in the 
 superiority of their own knowledge." 
 
 " Stop a moment," said the prince. " Is there 
 such depravity in man as that he should injure an- 
 other without benefit to himself ? I can easily con- 
 ceive that all are pleased with superiority ; but your 
 ignorance was merely accidental, which, being neither 
 your crime nor your folly, could afford them no 
 reason to applaud themselves ; and the knowledge 
 which they had, and which you wanted, they might 
 as effectually have shown by warning as betraying 
 
 you." 
 
 "Pride," said Imlac, "is seldom delicate, it will 
 please itself with very mean advantages ; and envy 
 feels not its own happiness, but when it may be com- 
 pared with the misery of others. They were my 
 enemies, because they grieved to think me rich, and 
 my oppressors, because they delighted to find me 
 weak." 
 
THE HISTORY OF IMLAC. 207 
 
 " Proceed," said the prince ; " I doubt not of the 
 facts which you relate, but imagine that you impute 
 them to mistaken motives." 
 
 " In this company," said Imlac, " I arrived at 
 Agra, the capital of Indostan, the city in which the 
 Great Mogul commonly resides. I applied myself to 
 the language of the country, and in a few montlis 
 was able to converse with the learned men ; some of 
 whom I found morose and reserved and others easy 
 and communicative ; some were unwilling to teach 
 another what they had with difficulty -learned them- 
 selves, and some showed that the end of their 
 studies was to gain the dignity of instructing. 
 
 " To the tutor of the young princes I recom- 
 mended myself so much that I was presented to the 
 emperor as a man of uncommon knowledge. The 
 emperor asked me many questions concerning my 
 country and my travels ; and though I cannot now 
 recollect anything that he uttered above the power 
 of a common man, he dismissed me astonished at his 
 wisdom, and enamored of his goodness. 
 
 " M.J credit was now so high that the merchants 
 with whom I travelled applied to me for recommend- 
 ations to the ladies of the court. I was surprised at 
 their confidence of solicitation, and gently reproached 
 them with their practices on the road. They heard 
 me with cold indifference, and showed no tokens of 
 shame or sorrow. 
 
 " They then urged their request with the offer of 
 a bribe: but what I would not do for kindness, I 
 would not do for money ; and refused them, not be- 
 
208 EASSELAS. 
 
 cause they had injured me, but because I would not 
 enable them to injure others ; for I knew they would 
 have made use of my credit to cheat those who should 
 buy their wares. 
 
 " Having resided at Agra till there was no more 
 to be learned, I travelled into Persia, where I saw 
 many remains of ancient magnificence, and observed 
 many new accommodations of life. The Persians 
 are a nation eminently social, and their assemblies 
 afforded me daily opportunities of remarking charac- 
 ters and manners, and of tracing human nature 
 through all its variations. 
 
 " From Persia I passed into Arabia, where I saw a 
 nation at once pastoral and warlike ; who live with- 
 out any settled habitation ; whose only wealth is their 
 flocks and herds ; and who have yet carried on, 
 through all ages, an hereditary war with all mankind, 
 though they neither covet nor envy their possessions." 
 
 fT';*- 
 
A DISSEETATION ON POETRY. 209 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 IMLAC'S HISTORY CONTINUED. A DISSEETATION ON 
 POETRY. 
 
 " Wherever I wer t-., T fmiir ^ jt^^j- p»ofT.y ^r^^c^ con- 
 sirlArAij^ p.H t.Tip. Tiig hest learnin g, and regarded with a 
 veneration somewhat approaching to that which man 
 would pay to the Angelic Nature. And yet it fills 
 me with wonder, that, in almost all countries, the 
 most ancient poets are considere d— as th e bes t; 
 whether it be that every other kind of knowledge is 
 an acquisition gradually attained, and poetry is a 
 gift conferred at once ; or that the first poetry of 
 every nation surprised them as a novelty, and re- 
 tained the credit by consent, which it received by 
 accident at first: or whether, as the province of 
 poetry is to describe nature and passion, which are 
 always the same, the first writers took possession of 
 the most striking objects for description, and the 
 most probable occurrences for fiction, and left nothing 
 to those that followed them, but transcription of the 
 same events, and new combinations of the same 
 images. Whatever be the reason, it is commonly 
 observed that the e arly wr jt"^' '"•" ^v prtjaiqpgginr) of 
 nature, and t heir f i^llnwara nf a.jt. ■ that th e first exc el 
 i n strength and inventi on, and the l atter in elegranc e 
 and refinemen t. 
 
210 KASSELAS. 
 
 " I was desirous to add my name to this illustrious 
 fraternity. I read all the poets of Persia and Arabia, 
 and was able to repeat by memory the volumes that 
 are suspended in the mosque of Mecca. But I soon 
 fnnmL-that nn mari wag grrpf^,!, Ky i m ; ff,, j;^' r>Ti My desire 
 of excellence impelled me to transfer my attention to 
 nature and to life. Nature was to be my subject, 
 and men to be my auditors : I could never describe 
 what I had not seen : I could not hope to move 
 those with delight or terror, whose interests and 
 opinions I did not understand. 
 
 " Being now resolved to be a poet, I saw every- 
 thing with a new purpose ; my sphere of attention 
 was suddenly magnified : no kind of knowledge was 
 to be overlooked. I ranged mountains and deserts 
 for images and resemblances, and pictured upon my 
 mind every tree of the forest and flower of the valley. 
 I observed with equal care the crags of the rock and 
 the pinnacles of the palace. Sometimes I wandered 
 along the mazes of the rivulet, and sometimes 
 watched the changes of the summer clouds. To a 
 poet nothing can be u seless. Whatever is beautiful 
 and whatever is dreadful must be familiar to his 
 imagination : he must be conversant with all that is 
 awfully vast or elegantly little. The plants of the 
 garden, the animals of the wood, the minerals of the 
 earth, and meteors of the sky, must all concur to 
 store his mind with inexhaustible variety : for every 
 idea is useful for the enforcement or decoration of 
 moral or religious truth ; and he who knows most 
 will have most power of diversifying his scenes, and 
 
A DISSERTATION ON POETRY. gH 
 
 of gratifying his reader with remote allusions and 
 unexpected instruction. 
 
 " All the appearances of nature I was therefore 
 careful to study; and every country which I have 
 surveyed has contributed something to my poetical 
 powers." 
 
 " In so wide a survey," said the prince, " you must 
 surely have left much unobserved. I have lived, 
 till now, within the circuit of these mountains, and 
 yet cannot walk abroad without the sight of some- 
 thing which I had never beheld before or never 
 heeded." 
 
 " The hiipinogg nf o p"■:'^- " Said Imlac, " is to ex- 
 a mine, no + t-T^" mrji'tnt^nal^ fint the, spficies ; t,n Tcmar k 
 p-enRra,1 prnpArhips and la.i-gp appearances ; he does not 
 number the streaks of the tulip, or describe the differ- 
 ent shades in the verdure of the forest. TTp. ig in 
 t^ir\,\'hit in Tiifj p ortraits nf nature snp.h prmm'neri± -ajid 
 s triking;- fea tu res as recall the original tn PYery min d ; 
 and must neglect the minuter discriminations, which 
 one may have remarked, and another have neglected, 
 for those characteristics which are alike obvious to 
 vigilance and carelessness. 
 
 " But the knowledge of nature is only half the 
 task of a poet ; he must b e acquainted l ikewise with 
 all ihp. modes of li fe. His character requires that 
 he ^estimate the happiness and mi spry nf every n^n- 
 d it.inn ; observe the pow er of all th £„ passions in all 
 their combinations, and trace the chang es of the 
 hjuman mind -as they are modified by various institu- 
 tions and accidental influences of climate or custom, 
 
212 RASSELAS. 
 
 from the sprightliness of infancy to the despondence 
 of decrepitude. He must divest himse lf oftheprej- 
 udices of his age or country ; he must consid er 
 rigiit-and-wfong in their abstracted and invariable 
 state ; be must disregard present laws and opin ions, 
 and rise to general and transcendental truths, which 
 will always be the same ; he must j-^f^r-ofr.-nc' nnnif^-nt 
 ViimgpVf wifVi t-,j^ e slow pro p ;ress of his name ; con- 
 temn the applause of his own time, and commit his 
 claims to the iustice of posteri ty^. He must write as 
 the interpreter of nature, and the legislator of man- 
 kind, and consider himself as presiding over the 
 thoughts and manners of future generations; as a 
 bein,g superior to time and place. 
 
 " His labor is not yet at an end ; he must fa jow 
 many -Lan guages and many scien ces : and, that his 
 style may be worthy of his thoughts, must, by inces- 
 sant practice, familiarize to himself every delicacy of 
 speech and grace of harmony." 
 
A HINT ON PILGRIMAGE, 213 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 IMLAC'S NAERATIVE CONTINUED. A HINT ON 
 PrLGRQIAGE. 
 
 Imlao now felt the enthusiastic fit, and was pro- 
 ceeding to aggrandize his own profession, when the 
 prince cried out, " Enough ! thou hast convinced me 
 that no human being can ever be a poet. Proceed 
 with thy narration." 
 
 " To be a poet," said Imlac, " is indeed very diffi- 
 cult." 
 
 " So difficult," returned the prince, " that I will at 
 present hear no more of his labors. Tell me whither 
 you went when you had seen Persia." 
 
 " From Persia," said the poet, " I travelled through 
 Syria, and for three years resided in Palestine, where 
 I conversed with great numbers of the northern and 
 western nations of Europe ; the nations which are 
 now in possession of all power and all knowledge : 
 whose armies are irresistible, and whose fleets com- 
 mand the remotest parts of the globe. When I com- 
 pared these men with the natives of our own king- 
 dom, and those that surround us, they appeared 
 almost another order of beings. In their countries it 
 is difficult to wish for anything that may not be ob- 
 tained : a thousand arts, of which we never heard, 
 are continually laboring for their convenience and 
 
214 RASSELAS. 
 
 pleasure ; and whatever their own climate has denied 
 them is supplied by their commerce." 
 
 " By what means," said the prince, " are the Euro- 
 peans thus powerful; or why, since they can so 
 easily visit Asia or Africa for trade or conquest, can- 
 not the Asiatics and Africans invade their coasts, 
 plant colonies in their ports, and give laws to their 
 natural princes ? The same wind that carries them 
 back would bring us thither." 
 
 " They^are morejgowerful, sir, than we," answered 
 Imlac, "because they_are__2yserj Jkjjowle^e.wilLa^^ 
 wiiysj)redominaie_pTCr ignorance, as man governs the_ 
 other animals. But why their_&iowledge is more 
 than ours, I know notj^^J reason can be^iven,Jbut_. 
 the unsearch able will of the^ Supreme Being."__ 
 
 " When," said the prince with a sigh, " shall I be 
 able to visit Palestine, and mingle with this mighty 
 confluence of nations ? Till that happy moment shall 
 arrive, let me fill up the time with such representa- 
 tions as thou canst give me. I am not ignorant of 
 the motive that assembles such numbers in that place, 
 and cannot but consider it as the centre of wisdom 
 and piety, to which the best and vrisest of every land 
 must be continually resorting." 
 
 " There are some nations," said Imlac, " that send 
 few visitants to Palestine ; for many numerous and 
 learned sects in Europe concur to censure pilgrim- 
 age as superstitious or deride it as ridiculous." 
 
 "You know," said the prince, "how little my 
 life has made me acquainted with diversity of opin- 
 ions: it will be too long to hear the arguments on 
 
A HINT ON PILGRIMAGE. 215 
 
 both sides ; you, that have considered them, tell me 
 the result." \ 
 
 " Pilgjimage," said Imlac, " like many other acts of 
 piety, may be rpftgnnaKIp pT pinpoT-i^tit;.^iip^ according 
 to the principles upon which it is performed. Long 
 journeys in search of truth are not commanded. 
 Truth, such as is necessary to the regulation of life, 
 is always found where it is honestly sought. Change 
 of place is no natural cause of the increase of piety, 
 for it inevitably produces dissipation of mind. Yet, 
 since men go every day to view the fields where 
 great actions have been performed, and return with 
 stronger impressions of the event, curiosity of the 
 same kind may naturally dispose us to view that 
 country whence our religion had its beginning : and 
 I believe no man surveys those awful scenes without 
 some confirmation of holy resolutions. That the 
 Supreme Being may be more easily propitiated in 
 one place than in another is the dream of idle super- 
 stition ; but that some places may operate upon our 
 minds in an uncommon manner is an opinion which 
 hourly experience will justify. He who supposes 
 that his vices may be more successfully combated in 
 Palestine will, perhaps, find himself mistaken ; yet 
 he may go thither without folly : he who thinks they 
 will be more freely pardoned dishonors at once his 
 reason and religion." 
 
 " These," said the prince, " are European distinc- 
 tions. I will consider them another time. What 
 have you found to be the effect of knowledge? Are 
 those nations happier than we ? " 
 
216 RASSELAS, 
 
 " There is so much infelicity," said the poet, " in the 
 world, that scarce any man has leisure from his own 
 distresses to estimate the comparative happiness of 
 others. Knowledge, is certainly one of the means of 
 pleasure as is confessed by the natural desire which 
 every mind feels of increasing its ideas. Ignorance 
 is mere privation, by which nothing can be produced : 
 it is a vacuity in which the soul sits motionless and 
 torpid for want of attraction ; and, without knowing 
 why, we always rejoice when we learn, and grieve 
 when we forget. I ^m therefore inclin ed to con- 
 clude, that if nothing counteracts the natural conse- 
 quence of learning, w e ^row more happy as our minds 
 
 "In enumerating the particular comforts of life, 
 we shall find many advantages on the side of the 
 Europeans. They cure wounds and diseases with 
 which we languish and perish. We suffer inclem- 
 encies of weather which they can obviate. They 
 have engines for the despatch of many laborious 
 works which we must perform by manual industry. 
 There is such communication between distant places 
 that one friend can hardly be said to be absent from 
 another. Their policy removes all public inconve- 
 niences ; they have roads cut through their moun- 
 tains, and bridges laid upon their rivers. And, if we 
 descend to the privacies of life, their habitations are 
 more commodious, and their possessions are more 
 secure." 
 
 " They are surely happy," said the prince, " who 
 have all these conveniences'., of wliicli I envy none so 
 
A HINT ON PILGRIMAGE. 217 
 
 much as the facility with which separated friends 
 interchange their thoughts." 
 
 " The Europeans," answered Imlac, " are less un- 
 happy than we, but they are not happy. Human life 
 ia everywh ere a state in which m uch is to be e n- 
 dured, and iictie to be enjoyed." 
 
218 EASSELAS. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE STOET OF IMLAC CONTINtTED. 
 
 " I AM not yet willing," said the prince, " to sup- 
 pose that happiness is so parsimoniously distributed 
 to mortals ; nor can believe but that, if I had the 
 choice of life, I should be able to fill every day with 
 pleasure. I would injure no man, and should pro- 
 voke no resentment : I would relieve every distress, 
 and should enjoy the benedictions of gratitude. I 
 would choose my friends among the wise and my wife 
 among the virtuous ; and therefore should be in no 
 danger from treachery or unkindness. My children 
 should, by my care, be learned and pious, and would 
 repay to my age what their childhood had received. 
 What would dare to molest him who might call on 
 every side to thousands enriched by his bounty, or 
 assisted by his power? And why should not life 
 glide quietly away in the soft reciprocation of pro- 
 tection and reverence ? All this may be done without 
 the help of European refinements, which appear by 
 their effects to be rather specious than useful. Let 
 us leave them, and pursue our journey." 
 
 " From Palestine," said Imlac, " I passed through 
 many regions of Asia, in the more civilized kingdoms 
 as a trader, and among the barbarians of the moun- 
 tains as a pilgrim. At last I began to long for my 
 
THE STORY OF IMLAC CONTINUED. 219 
 
 native country, that I might repose, after my travels 
 and fatigues, in the places where T had spent my 
 earliest years, and gladden my old companions with 
 the recital of my adventures. Often did I figure to 
 myself those with whom I had sported away the gay 
 hours of dawning life, sitting round me in its even- 
 ing, wondering at my tales, and listening to my 
 counsels. 
 
 " When this thought had taken possession of my 
 mind, I considered every moment as wasted which 
 did not bring me nearer to Abyssinia. I hastened 
 into Egypt, and notwithstanding my impatience, was 
 detained ten months in the contemplation of its an- 
 cient magnificence, and in inquiries after the remains 
 of its ancient learning. I found in Cairo a mixture 
 of all nations ; some brought thither by the love of 
 knowledge, some by the hope of gain, and many by 
 the desire of living after their own manner without 
 observation, and of lying hid in the obscurity of mul- 
 titudes ; for in a city. popu 1r>ng a.a Cairn, it is possible 
 to obtain at the same tim e fhe gratifip.atipns nf snp.ij^ty 
 a nd the secrecy of solitude. 
 
 " From Cairo I travelled to Suez, and embarked on 
 the Red Sea, passing along the coast till I arrived at 
 the port from which I had departed twenty years 
 before. Here I joined myself to a caravan, and re- 
 entered my native country. 
 
 " I now expected the caresses of my kinsmen, and 
 the congratulations of my friends, and was not with- 
 out hope that my father, whatever value he had set 
 upon riches, would own with gladness and pride a son 
 
220 RasSELAS. 
 
 who was able to add to the felicity and honor of the 
 nation. But I was soon convinced that my thoughts 
 were vain. My father had been dead fourteen years, 
 having divided his wealth among my brothers, who 
 were removed to some other provinces. Of my com- 
 panions the greater part was in the grave ; of the rest, 
 some could with difficulty remember me, and some 
 considered me as one corrupted by foreign manners. 
 
 " A man used to vicissitudes is not easily dejected. 
 I forgot, after a time, my disappointment, and endeav- 
 ored to recommend myself to the nobles of the king- 
 dom ; they admitted me to their tables, heard my 
 story, and dismissed me. I opened a school, and was 
 prohibited to teach. I then resolved to sit down in 
 the quiet of domestic life, and addressed a lady that 
 was fond of my conversation, but rejected my suit 
 because my father was a merchant. 
 
 " Wearied at last with solicitations and repulses, I 
 resolved to hide myself forever from the world, and 
 depend no longer on the opinion or caprice of others. 
 I waited for the time when the gate of the happy 
 valley should open, that I might bid farewell to hope 
 and fear : the day came ; my performance was distin- 
 guished with favor, and I resigned myself with joy 
 to perpetual confinement." 
 
 " Hast thou here found happiness at last ? Tell 
 me without reserve ; art thou content with thy con- 
 dition ? or, dost thou wish to be again wandering and 
 inquiring ? All the inhabitants of this valley cele- 
 brate their lot, and at the annual visit of the emperor 
 invite others to partake of their felicity." 
 
THE STORY OF IMLAC CONTINUED. 221 
 
 " Great prince," said Imlac, " I shall speak the 
 truth ; I know not one of all your attendants who 
 does not lament the hour when he entered this re- 
 treat. I am iessjunhappy than the rest, because I 
 
 
 
 _ have a mindjreplatS— EJth -iia3.ges, which I can vary 
 and combine at pleasure. ^J^can amuse my solitu de 
 by the renovation of the knowledge which begins'To ~ 
 fade from my memory, and by recollections of the in- 
 cidents of my past life. Yet all this ends in the sor- 
 rowful consideration, that my acquirements are now 
 useless, and that none of my pleasures can be again 
 enjoyed. _ The rest,^ whose minds have no impression 
 but that of ^e present momen t, are eith er corroded 
 by^alignant_£assions_^r sit jtupidjnthe gloom of 
 ^gerpetualvacanc^." 
 
 " What passions can infest those," said the prince, 
 " who have no rivals ? We are in a place where im- 
 potence precludes malice, and where all envy is re- 
 pressed by community of enjoyments." 
 
 " There may be community," said Imlac, " of ma- 
 terial possessions, but there can never be community 
 of love or of esteem. It must happen that one will 
 please more than another : he that knows himself de- 
 spised will always be envious ; and still more envious 
 and malevolent, if he is condemned to live in the pres- 
 ence of those who despise him. The invitations by 
 which they allure others to a state which they feel to 
 be wretched, proceed from the natural malignity of 
 hopeless misery. They are weary of themselves and 
 of each other, and expect to find relief in new com- 
 panions. They envj'' the liberty which their folly has 
 
232 RASSELAS. 
 
 forfeited, and would gladly see all mankind impris- 
 oned like themselves. 
 
 " From, this crime, however, I am wholly free. No 
 man can say that he is wretched by my persuasion. 
 I look with pity on the crowds who are annually so- 
 liciting admission into captivity, and wish that it 
 ■were lawful for me to warn them of their danger." 
 
 " My dear Imlac," said the prince, " I will open to 
 thee my whole heart. I have long meditated an es- 
 cape from the ha/ppy valley. I have examined the 
 mountains on every side, and find myself insuperably 
 barred : teach me the way to break my prison : thou 
 shalt be the companion of my flight, the guide of my 
 rambles, the partner of my fortune, and my sole 
 director in the choice of life." 
 
 " Sir," answered the poet, " your escape will be 
 difficult; and, perhaps, you may soon repent your 
 curiosity. The world, which you figure to yourself 
 smooth and quiet as the lake in the valley, you will 
 find a sea foaming with tempests and boiling with 
 whirlpools : you will be sometimes overwhelmed with 
 the waves of violence, and sometimes dashed against 
 the rocks of treachery. Amidst wrongs and frauds, 
 competitions and anxieties, you will wish a thousand 
 times for these seats of quiet, and willingly quit hope 
 to be free from fear." 
 
 " Do not seek to deter me from my purpose," said 
 the prince ; " I am impatient to see what thou liast 
 seen ; and since thou art thyself weary of the valley, 
 it is evident that thy former state was better than 
 this. Whatever be the consequence of my experi- 
 
THE STORY OF IMLAC CONTINUED. 223 
 
 ment, I am resolved to judge with mine own eyes of 
 the various conditions of men, and then to make de- 
 liberately my choice of life." 
 
 " I am afraid," said Imlac, " you are hindered by 
 stronger restraints than my persuasions ; yet, if your 
 determination is fixed, I do not counsel you to de- 
 spair. Pew things, are impossible to diligence and 
 skill." 
 
2M liASSELAS. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 EASSELAS DISCOVEES THE MEANS OP ESCAPE. 
 
 The prince now dismissed his favorite to rest, but 
 the narrative of wonders and novelties filled his mind 
 with perturbation. He revolved all that he had heard, 
 and prepared innumerable questions for the morn- 
 ing. 
 
 Much of his uneasiness was now removed. He had 
 a friend to whom he could impart his thoughts, and 
 whose experience could assist him in his designs. 
 His heart was no longer condemned to swell in 
 silent vexation. He thought that even the happy 
 valley might be endured with such a companion; 
 and that Jf they could range, the worldtogether, he 
 should have nothing further to desire. 
 
 In a few days the water was discharged, and the 
 ground dried. The prince and Imlac then walked 
 out together to converse without the notice of the 
 rest. The prince, whose thoughts were always on 
 the wing, as he passed by the gate, said, with a coun- 
 tenance of sorrow, "Why art thou so strong, and why 
 is man so weak?" 
 
 " Man is not wea k," answered his companion ; 
 "knowledge is more than equivalent to force. The 
 master of mechanics laughs at strength. I can burst 
 
RASSELAS DISCOVEBS THE MEANS OF ESCAPE. 225 
 
 the gate, but cannot do it secretly. Some other ex- 
 pedient must be tried." 
 
 As they were walking on the side of the mountain, 
 they observed that the conies, which the rain had 
 driven from their burrows, had taken shelter among 
 the bushes, and formed holes behind them, tending 
 upwards in an oblique line. " It has been the opin- 
 ion of antiquity," said Imlac, " that human reason 
 borrowed many arts from the instinct of animals ; let 
 us, therefore, not think ourselves degraded by learn- 
 ing from the cony. We may escape by piercing the 
 mountain in the same direction. We will begin 
 where the summit hangs over the middle part, and 
 labor upward till we shall issue up beyond the prom- 
 inence." 
 
 The eyes of the prince, when he heard this pro- 
 posal, sparkled with joy. The execution was easy, 
 and the success certain. 
 
 No time was now lost. They hastened, early in 
 the morning, to choose a place proper for their mind. 
 They clambered with great fatigue among crags and 
 brambles, and returned without having discovered 
 any part that favored their design. The second and 
 third day were spent in the same manner, and with 
 the same frustration. But, on the fourth, they found 
 a small cavern, concealed by a thicket, where they 
 resolved to make their experiment. 
 
 Imlac procured instruments proper to hew stone 
 
 and remove earth, and they fell to their work the 
 
 next day with more eagerness than vigor. They 
 
 were presently exhausted by their efforts, and sat 
 
 ?5i 
 
226 RASSELaS. 
 
 down to pant upon the grass. The prince, for a 
 moment, appeared to be discouraged. " Sir," said 
 
 his companion, "prg.^t.^>^ft win 01^17]^ yg J-r. ,^nl^^•m^o 
 
 our I f i^"'- f"" % IfUKJP^^""" ; mark, however, how far 
 we have advanced, and you will find that our toil 
 will some time have an end. | Great works are p er- 
 formed, not by strength, but by perseveranc e^yonder 
 palace was raised by single stones, yet you see its 
 height and spaciousness. He that shall walk with 
 vigor three hours a day, will pass in seven years a 
 space equal to the circumference of the globe." 
 
 They returned to their work day after day ; and, 
 in a short time, found a fissure in the rock, which 
 enabled them to pass far with very little obstruction. 
 This Rasselas considered as a good omen. " Do 
 not disturb your mind," said Imlac, " with other 
 hopes and fears than reason may suggest : if you are 
 pleased with prognostics of good, you will be ter- 
 rified likewise with tokens of evil, and your whole 
 life will be a prey to superstition. Whatever facil- 
 itates our work is more than an omen, it is a cause of 
 success. This is one of those pleasing surprises 
 which often happen to active resolution. Many 
 things difficult to design prove easy to performance." 
 
EASSELAS AND IMLAC. 227 
 
 CHAPTEE XIV. 
 
 EASSELAS AND IMLAC BECEIVB AN UNEX- 
 PECTED VISIT. 
 
 They had now wrought their way to the middle, 
 and solaced their thoughts with the approach of lib- 
 erty, when the prince coming down to refresh him- 
 self with air, found his sister Nekayah standing be- 
 fore the mouth of the cavity. He started and stood 
 confused, afraid to tell his design, and yet hopeless 
 to conceal it. A few moments determined him to 
 repose on her fidelity, and secure her secrecy by a 
 declaration without reserve. 
 
 " Do not imagine," said the princess, " that I came 
 hither as a spy : I had long observed from my win- 
 dow, that you and Imlac directed your walk every 
 day towards the same point, but I did not suppose 
 you had any better reason for the preference than a 
 cooler shade, or more fragrant bank ; nor followed 
 you with any other design than to partake of your 
 conversation. Since, then, not suspicion but fond- 
 ness has detected you, let me not lose the advantage 
 of my discovery. I am equally weary of confine- 
 ment with yourself, and not less desirous of know- 
 ing what is done or suffered in the world. Permit 
 me to fly with you from this tasteless tranquillity, 
 
228 EASSBLAS. 
 
 which will yet grow more loathsome when you have 
 left me. You may deny me to accompany you, but 
 cannot hinder me from following." 
 
 The prince, who loved Nekayah above his other 
 sisters, had no inclination to refuse her request, and 
 grieved that he had lost an opportunity of showing 
 his confidence by a voluntary communication. It 
 was therefore agreed that she should leave the valley 
 with them : and that, in the mean time, she should 
 watch lest any other straggler should, by chance or 
 curiosity follow them to the mountain. 
 
 At length their labor was at an end: they saw 
 light beyond the prominence, and, issuing to the top 
 of the mountain, beheld the Nile, yet a narrow cur- 
 rent, wandering beneath them. 
 
 The prince looked round with rapture, anticipated 
 all the pleasure of travel, and in thought was already 
 transported beyond his father's dominions. Imlac, 
 though very joyful at his escape, had less expectation 
 of pleasure in the world, which he had before tried, 
 and of which he had been weary. 
 
 Rasselas was so much delighted with a wider hori- 
 zon that he could not soon be persuaded to return 
 into the valley. He informed his sister that the 
 way was open, and that nothing now remained but 
 to prepare for their departure. 
 
PRINCE AND PRINCESS LEAVE THE VALLEY. 229 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE PKINCE AND PRINCESS LEAVE THE VALLEY, AND 
 SEE MANY "WONDEES. 
 
 The prince and princess had jewels sufficient to 
 make them rich whenever they came into a place of 
 commerce, which, by Imlac's direction, they might 
 hide in their clothes ; and, on the night of the next 
 full moon, all left the valley. The princess was 
 followed only by a single favorite, who did not know 
 whither she was going. 
 
 They clambered through the cavity, and began to 
 go down on the other side. The princess and her 
 maid turned their eyes towards every part, and, see- 
 ing nothing to bound their prospect, considered them- 
 selves as in danger of being lost in a dreary vacuity. 
 Thej' stopped and trembled. " I am almost afrai d," 
 said the princess, " t o begin a iourney of which I 
 c annot per ceive an endj_and to venture into this im- 
 mense plain, where I may be approached on every 
 side by men whom I never saw." The prince felt 
 nearly the same emotions, though he thought it more 
 manly to conceal them. 
 
 Imlac smiled at their terrors, and encouraged 
 them to proceed : but the princess continued irresolute 
 
230 RASSELAS. 
 
 till she had been imperceptibly drawn forward too 
 far to return. 
 
 In the morning they found some shepherds in the 
 field, who set milk and fruits before them. The 
 princess wondered that she did not see a palace 
 ready for her reception, and a table spread with 
 delicacies ; but, being faint and hungry, she drank 
 the milk and ate the fruits, and thought them of a 
 higher flavor than the products of the yalley. 
 
 They travelled forward by easy journeys, being all 
 unaccustomed to toil or difBculty, and knowing that, 
 though they might be missed, they could not be pur- 
 sued. In a few days they came into a more populous 
 region, where Imlac was diverted with the admiration 
 which his companions expressed at the diversity of 
 manners, stations, and employments. 
 
 Their dress was such as might not bring upon 
 them the suspicion of having anything to conceal; 
 yet the prince, whenever he came, expected to be 
 obeyed, and the princess was frightened because those 
 that came into her presence did not prostrate them- 
 selves before her. Imlac was forced to observe them 
 with great vigilance, lest they should betray their 
 rank by their unusual behavior, and detained them 
 several weeks in the first village, to accustom them 
 to the sight of common mortals. 
 
 By degrees the royal wanderers were taught to 
 understand that they had for a time laid aside their 
 dignity, and were to expect only such regard as 
 liberality and courtesy could procure. And Imlac, 
 having, by many admonitions, prepared them to 
 
PRINCE AND PRINCESS LEAVE THE VALLEY. 231 
 
 endure the tumults of a port, and the ruggeduess of 
 the commercial race, brought them down to the sear 
 coast. 
 
 The prince and his sister, to whom everything was 
 new, were gratified equally at all places, and there- 
 fore remained for some months at the port without 
 any inclination to pass further. Imlac was content 
 with their stay, because he did not think it safe to 
 expose them, unpractised in the world, to the haz- 
 ards of a foreign country. 
 
 At last he began to fear least they should be dis. 
 covered, and proposed to fix a day for their departure. 
 They had no pretensions to judge for themselves, 
 and referred the whole scheme to his direction. He 
 therefore took passage in a ship to Suez ; and, when 
 the time came, with great difficulty prevailed on the 
 princess to enter the vessel. They had a quick 
 and prosperous voyage ; and from Suez travelled by 
 land to Cairo. 
 
232 RASSELAS. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THEY ENTER CAIRO, AND PINT) EVERY MAN HAPPY. 
 
 As they approached the city, which filled tlie 
 strangers with astonishment, " This," said Imlac to 
 the prince, " is the place where travellers and mer- 
 chants assemble from all the corners of the earth. 
 You will here find men of every character, and every 
 occupation. Commerce is here honorable : I will act 
 as a merchant who has no other end of travel than 
 curiosity ; it will soon be observed that we are rich ; 
 our reputation will procure us access to all whom we 
 shall desire to know ; you will see all the conditions 
 of humanity, and enable yourself at leisure to iri.-ike 
 your choice of life." 
 
 They now entered the town, stunned by the noise 
 and offended by the crowds. Instruction had not yet 
 so prevailed over habit, but that they wondei'ed to 
 see themselves pass undistinguished along the street, 
 and met by the lowest of the people without rever- 
 ence or notice. The princess could not at first bear 
 the thought of being levelled with the vulgar, and for 
 some days continued in her chamber, where she was 
 served by her favorite Pekuah as in the palace of the 
 valley. 
 
 Imlac, who understood traffic, sold part of the jew- 
 els the next day, and hired a house, which he adorned 
 
THEY ENTER CAIRO. 233 
 
 with such magnificence, that he was immediately con- 
 sidered as a merchant of great wealth. His polite- 
 ness attracted many acquaintances, and his generosity 
 made him courted by many dependents. His table 
 was crowded by men of every nation, who all admired 
 his knowledge, and solicited his favor. His compan- 
 ions, not being able to mix in the conversation, could 
 make no discovery of their ignorance or surprise, and 
 were gradually initiated in the world as they gained 
 knowledge of the language. 
 
 The prince had, by frequent lectures, been taught 
 the use and nature of money ; but the ladies could 
 not for a long time comprehend what the merchants 
 did with small pieces of gold and silver, or why 
 things of so little use should be received as equiv- 
 alent to the necessaries of life. 
 
 They studied the language two years, while Imlac 
 was preparing to set before them the various ranks 
 and conditions of mankind. He grew acquainted 
 with all who had anything uncommon in their for- 
 tune or conduct. He frequented the voluptuous and 
 the frugal, the idle and the busy, the merchant and 
 the men of learning. 
 
 The prince being now able to converse with 
 fluency, and having learned the caution necessary to 
 be observed in his intercourse with strangers, began 
 to accompany Imlac to places of resort, and to enter 
 into all assemblies, that he might make his choice of 
 life. ' 
 
 For some time he thought choice needless, because 
 iill appeared to him equally happy. Wherever he 
 
2S4 uassElaS. 
 
 •went he met gayety and kindness, and heard the song 
 of joy or the laughter of carelessness. He began to 
 believe that the world overflowed with universal 
 plenty, and that nothing was withheld either from 
 want or merit ; that ever}' hand showered liberality 
 and every heart melted with benevolence ; " and who, 
 then," says he, " will be suffered to be wretched ? " 
 
 Imlac permitted the pleasing delusion, and was un- 
 willing to crush the hope of inexperience, till one 
 day, having sat awhile silent, " I know not," said 
 the prince, " what can be the reason that I am more 
 unhappy than any of our friends. I see them perpet- 
 ually and unalterably cheerful, but feel my own 
 mind restless and uneasy. I am unsatisfied with 
 those pleasures which I seem most to court. I live 
 in the crowds of jollity, not so much to enjoy com- 
 pany as to shun myself, and am only loud and meriy 
 to conceal my sadness." 
 
 "Every man," said Imlac, "may by examining 
 his own mind guess what passes in the minds of 
 others : when you feel that your own gayety is 
 counterfeit, it may justly lead you to suspect that of 
 your companions not to be sincere. Envy is com- 
 monly reciprocal. "We are long before we are con- 
 vinced that happiness is never to be found, and each 
 believes it possessed by others to keep alive the 
 hope of obtaining it for himself. In the assembly 
 where you passed the last night, there appears such 
 sprightliness of air and volatility of fancy as might 
 have suited beings of a higher order, formed to in- 
 habit serener regions inaccessible to care or sorrow | 
 
■' THEY ENTEE CAIRO. 235 
 
 yet believe me, prince, there was not one who did not 
 dread the moment when solitude should deliver him 
 to the tyranny of reflection." 
 
 " This," said the prince, " may be true of others, 
 since it is true of me ; yet whatever be the general 
 infelicity of man, one condition is more happy than 
 another, and wisdom surely directs us to take the 
 least evil in the choice of life." 
 
 " The causes of good and evil," answered Imlac, 
 " are so various and uncertain, so often entangled with 
 each other, so diversified by various relations, and so 
 much subject to accidents which cannot be foreseen, 
 that he who would fix his condition upon incon- 
 testible reasons of preference must live and die in- 
 quiring and deliberating." 
 
 " But, surely," said Rasselas, " the wise men, to 
 whom we listen with reverence and wonder, chose 
 that mode of life for themselves which they thought 
 most likely to make them happy." 
 
 " Very few," said the poet, " live by choice. Every 
 man is placed in his present condition by causes which 
 acted without his foresight, and with which he did 
 not always willingly co-operate ; and therefore you 
 will rarely meet one who does not think the lot of his 
 neighbor better than his own." 
 
 " I am pleased to think," said the prince, " that my 
 birth has given me at least one advantage over others, 
 by enabling me to determine for myself. I have 
 here the world before me ; I will review it at leisure ; 
 surely happiness is somewhere to be found." 
 
236 RASSELAS. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE PEINCB ASSOCIATES WITH YOUNG MEN OP SPIRIT 
 AND GATBTY. 
 
 Rassblas rose next day, and resolved to begin his 
 experiments upon life. " Youth," cried he, " is the 
 time of gladness : I will join myself to the young 
 men, whose only business is to gratify their desires, 
 and whose time is all spent in a succession of enjoy- 
 ments." 
 
 To such societies he was readily admitted ; but a 
 few days brought him back weary and disgusted. 
 Their mirth was without images ; their laughter with- 
 out motive ; their pleasures were gross and sensual, 
 in which the mind had no part ; their conduct was at 
 once wild and mean ; they laughed at order and law : 
 but the frown of power dejected, and the eye of wis- 
 dom abashed them. 
 
 The prince soon concluded that he should never be 
 happy in a course of life of which he was ashamed. 
 He thought it unsuitable to a reasonable being to 
 act without a plan, and to be sad or cheerful only 
 by chance. " Happiness," said he, " must be some- 
 thing solid and permanent, without fear and without 
 uncertainty." 
 
 But his young companions had gained so much of 
 }iis regard by their frankness and courtesy that he 
 
PRINCE ASSOCIATES WITH YOUNG MEN. 33';' 
 
 could not leave them without warning and remon- 
 strance. " My friends," said he, " I have seriously 
 considered our manners and our prospects, and find 
 that we have mistaken our own interest. The first 
 years of man must make provision for the last. He 
 that never thinks never can be wise. Perpetual 
 levity must end in ignorance ; and intemperance, 
 though it may fire the spirits for an hour, will make 
 life short or miserable. Let us consider that youth 
 is of no long duration, and that in maturer age, when 
 the enchantments of fancy shall cease, and phantoms 
 of delight dance no more about us, we shall have no 
 comforts but the esteem of wise men, and the means 
 of doing good. Let us, therefore, stop while to stop 
 is in our power : let us live as men who are some 
 time to grow old, and to whom it will be the most 
 dreadful of all evils not to count their past years by 
 follies, and to be reminded of their former luxuriance 
 of health only by the maladies which riot has pro- 
 duced." 
 
 They stared awhile in silence one upon another, 
 and at last drove him away by a general chorus of 
 continued laughter. 
 
 The consciousness that his sentiments were just, 
 and his intentions kind, was scarcely sufficient to sup- 
 port him against the horror of derision. But he re- 
 covered his tranquillity and pursued his search. 
 
23g EASSELAS. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE PEINCE FI2SIDS A WISE AND HAPPT MAN. 
 
 As he was one day walking in the street, he saw a 
 spacious building, which all were, by the open doors, 
 invited to enter ; he followed the stream of people 
 and found it a hall or school of declamation, in which 
 professors read lectures to their auditory. He fixed 
 his eyes upon a sage raised above the rest, who dis- 
 coursed with great energy on the government of the 
 passions. His look was venerable, his action grace- 
 ful, his pronunciation clear, and his diction elegant. 
 He showed, with great strength of sentiment and 
 variety of illustration, that human nature is degraded 
 and debased when the lower faculties predominate 
 over the higher ; that when fancy, the parent of pas- 
 sion, usurps the dominion of the mind, nothing en- 
 sues but the natural effect of unlawful government, 
 perturbation, and confusion; that she betrays the 
 fortresses of the intellect to rebels, and excites her 
 children to sedition against reason, their lawful sover- 
 eign. He cdmpared reason to the sun, of which the 
 light is constant, uniform, and lasting; and fancy to 
 a meteor, of bright but transitory lustre, irregular in 
 its motion, and delusive in its direction. 
 
 He then communicated the various precepts given 
 
THE PRINCE FINDS A WISE AND HAPPY MAN. 23 D 
 
 from time to time for the conquest of passion, and dis- 
 played the happiness of those who had obtained the im- 
 portant victory, after which man is no longer the slave 
 of fear, nor the fool of hope ; is no more emaciated by 
 envy, inflamed by anger, emasculated by tenderness, 
 or depressed by grief ; but walks on calmly through 
 the tumults or privacies of life, as the sun pursues 
 alike his course though the calm or the stormy 
 sky. 
 
 He enumerated many examples of heroes immov- 
 able by pain or pleasure, who looked with indifference 
 on those modes or accidents to which the vulgar give 
 the names of good and evil. He exhorted his hearers 
 to lay aside their prejudices, and arm themselves 
 against the shafts of malice or misfortune, by invul- 
 nerable patience ; concluding, that this state only was 
 happiness, and that this happiness was in every one's 
 power. 
 
 Rasselas listened to him with the veneration due 
 to the instructions of a superior being ; and, waiting 
 for him at the door, humbly implored the liberty of 
 visiting so great a master of true wisdom. The lec- 
 turer hesitated a moment, when Rasselas put a 
 purse of gold into his hand, which he received with 
 a mixture of joy and wonder. 
 
 " I have found," said the prince, at his return to 
 Imlac, " a man who can teach all that is necessary to 
 to be known, who, from the unshaken throne of 
 rational fortitude, looks down on the scenes of life 
 changing beneath him. He speaks, and attention 
 watches his lips. He reasons, and conviction closes 
 
240 RASSELAS. 
 
 his periods. This man shall be my future guide : I 
 will learn his doctrines and imitate his life." 
 
 " Be not too hasty," said Imlac, " to trust, or to 
 admire, the teachers of morality ; they discourse like 
 angels, but they live like men." 
 
 Rasselas, who could not conceive how any man 
 could reason so forcibly without feeling the cogency 
 of his own arguments, paid his visit in a few days, 
 and was denied admission. He had now learned the 
 power of money, and made his way by a piece of gold 
 to the inner apartment, where he found the philoso- 
 pher in a room half darkened, with his eyes misty, 
 and his face pale. 
 
 " Sir," said he, " you are come at a time when all 
 human friendship is useless ; what I suffer cannot be 
 remedied, what I have lost cannot be supplied. My 
 daughter, my only daughter, from whose tenderness 
 I expected all the comforts of my age, died last night 
 of a fever. My views, my purposes, my hopes are at 
 an end : I am now a lonely being disunited from so- 
 ciety. 
 
 " Sir," said the prince, " mortality is an event by 
 which a wise man can never be surprised : we know 
 that death is always near, and it should therefore al- 
 waj's be expected." 
 
 " Young man," answered the philosopher, "you 
 speak like one that has never felt the pangs of sepa- 
 ration." 
 
 " Have you then forgot the precepts," said Rasselas, 
 " which you so powerfully enforced ? Has wisdom 
 no strength to arm the heart against calamity ? Con- 
 
THE PEINCE FINDS A WISE AND HAPPY MAN. 241 
 
 sider that external things are naturally variable, but 
 truth and reason are always the same." 
 
 " What comfort," said the mourner, " can truth 
 and reason afford me ? of what effect are they now, 
 but to tell me, that my daughter will not be re- 
 stored?" 
 
 The prince, whose humanity would not suffer him 
 to insult misery with reproof, went away convinced 
 of the emptiness of rhetorical sound, and the in- 
 efficacy of polished periods and studied sentences. 
 
2i2 RASSELAS. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A GLIMPSB OF PASTOKAL LIPB. 
 
 He was still eager upon the same inquiry; and 
 having heard of a hermit that lived near the lowest 
 cataract of the Nile, and filled the whole country 
 with the fame of his sanctity, resolved to visit his 
 retreat, and inquire whether that felicity, which 
 public life could not afford, was to be found in sol- 
 itude ; and whether a man whose age and virtue 
 made him venerable, could teach any peculiar art of 
 shunning evils or enduring them ? 
 
 Iralac and the princess agreed to accompany him ; 
 and, after the necessary preparations, they began 
 their journey. Their way lay through the fields, 
 where shepherds tended their flocks, and the lambs 
 were playing upon the pasture. " This," said the 
 poet, " is the life which has been often celebrated for 
 its innocence and quiet ; let us pass the heat of the 
 day among the shepherds' tents, and know whether 
 all our searches are not to terminate in pastoral sim- 
 plicity." 
 
 The proposal pleased them, and they induced the 
 shepherds, by small presents, and familiar questions, 
 to tell their opinion of their own state ; they were so 
 rude and ignorant, so little able to compare the good 
 
A GLIMPSE OF PASTORAL LIFE. 243 
 
 with the evil of the occupation, and so indistinct in 
 their narratives and descriptions, that very little 
 could he learned from them. But it was evident 
 that their hearts were cankered with discontent ; that 
 they considered themselves as condemned to lahor for 
 the luxury of the rich, and looked up with stupid 
 malevolence toward those that were placed above 
 them. 
 
 The princess pronounced with vehemence, that she 
 would never suffer these envious savages to be her 
 companions, and that she should not soon be desirous 
 of seeing any more specimens of rustic happiness ; but 
 could not believe that all the accounts of primeval 
 pleasures were fabulous ; and was yet in doubt, 
 whether life had anything that could be justly pre- 
 ferred to the placid gratifications of fields and woods. 
 She hoped that the time would come, when, with a 
 few virtuous and elegant companions, she should 
 gather flowers planted by her own hand, fondle the 
 lambs of her own ewe, and listen, without care, among 
 brooks and breezes, to one of her maidens reading in 
 the shade. 
 
24A RASSELAS. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE DANGBK OP PEOSPERITY. 
 
 On the next day they continued their journey, till 
 the heat compelled them to look round for shelter. 
 At a small distance they saw a thick wood, which 
 they no sooner entered than they perceived that they 
 were approaching the habitations of men. The shrubs 
 were diligently cut away to open walks where the 
 shades were darkest: the boughs of opposite trees 
 were artificially interwoven; seats of flowery turf 
 were raised in vacant spaces : and a rivulet that want- 
 oned along the side of a winding path, had its banks 
 sometimes opened into small basins, and its stream 
 sometimes obstructed by little mounds of stone 
 heaped together to increase its murmurs. 
 
 They passed slowly through the wood, delighted 
 with such unexpected accommodations, and enter- 
 tained each other with conjecturing what, or who he 
 could be, that, in those rude and unfrequented re- 
 gions, had leisure and art for such harmless luxury. 
 
 As tliey advanced, they heard the sound of music, 
 and saw youths and virgins dancing in the grove ; 
 and, going still further, beheld a statelj"- palace built 
 upon a hill surrounded with woods. The laws of 
 
THE DANGER OF PROSPERITY. 245 
 
 eastern hospitality allowed them to enter, and the 
 master welcomed them like a man liberal and 
 wealthy. 
 
 He was skilful enough in appearances soon to dis- 
 cern that they were no common guests, and spread 
 his table with magnificence. The eloquence of Imlac 
 caught his attention, and the lofty courtesy of the 
 princess excited his respect. When they offered to 
 depart he entreated their stay, and was the next day 
 still more unwilling to dismiss them than before. 
 They were easily persuaded to stop, and civility grew 
 up in time to freedom and confidence. 
 
 The prince now saw all the domestics cheerful, and 
 all the face of nature smiling round the place, and 
 could not forbear to hope he should find here what 
 he was seeking ; but when he was congratulating the 
 master upon his possessions, he answered with a sigh, 
 " My condition has indeed the appearance of happi- 
 ness, but appearances are delusive. My prosperity 
 puts my life in danger ; the Bassa of Egypt is my 
 enemy, incensed only by my wealth and popularity. 
 I have hitherto been protected against him by the 
 princes of the country ; but as the favor of the great 
 is uncertain, I know not how soon my defenders may 
 be persuaded to share the plunder with the Bassa. 
 I have sent my treasures into a distant country, and, 
 upon the first alarm, am prepared to follow them. 
 Then will my enemies riot in my mansion, and enjoy 
 the gardens which I have planted." 
 
 They all joined in lamenting his danger, and dep- 
 recating his exile ; and the princess was so much 
 
2ifl RASSELAS. 
 
 disturbed with the tumult of grief and indignation 
 that she retired to her apartment. 
 
 They continued with their kind inviter a few days 
 longer, and then went forward to find the hermit. 
 
THE HAPPINESS OF SOLITUDE. 247 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF SOLITUDE. THE HBRMIT'S 
 HISTORY. 
 
 They came on the third day, by the direction of 
 the peasants, to the hermit's cell : it was a cavern in 
 the side of a mountain overshadowed with palm trees ; 
 at such a distance from the cataract that nothing 
 more was heard than a gentle uniform murmur, such 
 as composed the mind to pensive meditation, espe- 
 cially when it was assisted by the wind whistling 
 among the branches. The first rude essay of nature 
 had been so much improved by human labor that 
 the cave contained several apartments appropriated 
 to different uses, and often afforded lodging to trav- 
 ellers, whom darkness or tempests happened to over- 
 take. 
 
 The hermit sat on a bench at the door to enjoy the 
 coolness of the evening. On one side lay a book 
 with pens and papers, on the other, mechanical in- 
 struments of various kinds. As they approached him 
 unregarded, the princess observed that he had not 
 the countenance of a man that had found, or could 
 teach the way to happiness. 
 
 They saluted him with great respect, which he re- 
 paid like a man not unaccustomed to the forms of 
 courts. " My children," said he, " if you have lost 
 
248 RASSELAS. 
 
 your way, you shall be willingly supplied with such 
 conveniences for the night as this cavern will afford. 
 I have all that nature requires, and you will not ex- 
 pect delicacies in a hermit's cell." 
 
 They thanked him; and, entering, were pleased 
 with the neatness and regularity of the place. The 
 hermit set flesh and wine before them, though he fed 
 only upon fruits and water. His discourse was cheer- 
 ful without levity, and pious without enthusiasm. 
 He soon gained the esteem of his guests, and the 
 princess repented of her hasty censure. 
 
 At last Imlac began thus : " I do not now wonder 
 that your reputation is so far extended: we have 
 heard at Cairo of your wisdom, and came hither to 
 implore your direction for this young man and maiden 
 in the choice of life." 
 
 " To him that lives well," answered the hermit, 
 " every form of life is good; nor can I give any other 
 rule for choice than to remove from all apparen-t 
 evil." 
 
 " He will remove most certainly from evil," said 
 the prince, " who shall devote himself to that soli- 
 tude which you have recommended by your ex- 
 ample." 
 
 "I have indeed lived fifteen years in solitude," 
 said the hermit, "but have no desire that ray ex- 
 ample should gain any imitators. In my youth I 
 professed arms, ahd was raised by degrees to the 
 highest military rank. I have traversed wide coun- 
 tries at the head of my troops, and seen many battles 
 and sieges. At last, being disgusted by the prefer-^ 
 
THE HAPPINESS OF SOLITUDE. 249 
 
 ments of a younger officer, and feeling that my vigor 
 was beginning to decay, I resolved to close my life 
 in peace, having found the world full of snares, dis- 
 cord, and misery. I had once escaped from the pur- 
 suit of the enemy by the shelter of this cavern, and 
 therefore chose it for my final lesidence. I employed 
 artificers to form it into chambers, and stored it with 
 all that I was likely, to want. 
 
 " For some time after my retreat, I rejoiced like 
 a tempest-beaten sailor at his entrance into the har- 
 bor, being delighted with the sudden change of the 
 noise and hurry of war to stillness and repose. When 
 the pleasures of novelty went away, I employed my 
 hours in examining the plants which grew in the 
 valley, and the minerals which I collected from the 
 rocks. But that inquiry is now grown tasteless and 
 irksome. I have been for some time unsettled and 
 distracted : my mind is disturbed with a thousand 
 
 'perplexities of doubt, and vanities of imagination, 
 which hourly prevail upon me, because I have no op- 
 portunities of relaxation or diversion. I am some- 
 times ashamed to think that I could not secure my- 
 self from vice, but by retiring from the exercise of 
 virtue, and begin to suspect that I was rather im- 
 pelled by resentment than led by devotion into soli- 
 tude. My fancy riots in scenes of folly, and I lament 
 
 ' that I have lost so much, and have gained so little. 
 In solitude, if I escape the example of bad men, I 
 want likewise the counsel and conversation of the 
 good. I have been long comparing the evils with 
 the advantages of society, and resolve to return into 
 
250 EASSELAS. 
 
 the world to-morrow. The life of a solitary man will 
 be certainly miserable, but not certainly devout." 
 
 They heard his resolution with surprise, but after 
 a short pause offered to conduct him to Cairo. He 
 dug up a considerable treasure which he had hid 
 among the rocks, and accompanied them to the city, 
 on which, as he approached it, he gazed with rapture. 
 
THE HAPPINESS OF A LIFE, 2ol 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF A LIFE LED ACCOEDINa 
 TO NATTJKE. 
 
 Rasselas went often to an assembly of learned 
 men, who met at stated times to unbend their minds, 
 and compare their opinions. Their manners were 
 somewhat coarse, but their conversation was instruc- 
 tive, and their disputations acute, though sometimes 
 too violent, and often continued till neither contro- 
 vertist remembered upon what question they began. 
 Some faults were almost general among them : every 
 one was desirous to dictate to the rest, and every 
 one was pleased to hear the genius or knowledge of 
 another depreciated. 
 
 In this assembly Rasselas was relating his inter- 
 view with the hermit, and the wonder with which 
 he heard him censure a course of life which he had 
 so deliberately chosen, and so laudably followed. 
 The sentiments of the hearers were various. Some 
 were of opinion that the folly of his choice had been 
 justly punished by condemnation to perpetual perse- 
 verance. One of the youngest among them, with 
 great vehemence, pronounced him a hypocrite. Some 
 talked of the right of society to the labor of individ- 
 uals, and considered retirement as a desertion from 
 
252 RASSELAS. 
 
 duty. Others readily allowed, that there was a time 
 when the claims of the public were satisfied, and 
 when a man might properly sequester himself to re- 
 view his life and purify his heart. 
 
 One, who appeared more affected with the narra- 
 tive than the rest, thought it likely that the hermit 
 would, in a few years, go back to his retreat, and 
 perhaps, if shame did not restrain, or death intercept 
 him, return once more from his retreat into the 
 world ; " For the hope of happiness," said he, " is so 
 strongly impressed that the longest experience is not 
 able to efface it. Of the present state, whatever it 
 be, we feel, and are forced to confess, the misery ; 
 yet, when the same state is -again at a distance, im- 
 agination paints it as desirable. But the time will 
 surely come, when desire will be no longer our tor- 
 mentor, and no man shall be wretched but by his 
 own fault," 
 
 " This," said a philosopher, who had heard him 
 ^ with tokens of great impatience, " is the present con- 
 dition of a wise man. The time is already come 
 when none are wretched but by their own fault. 
 Nothing is more idle than to inquire after happiness, 
 which nature has kindly placed within our reach. 
 The way to be happy is to live according to nature, 
 in obedience to that universal and unalterable law 
 with which every heart is originally impressed ; 
 which is not written on it by precept, but engraven 
 by destiny, not instilled by education, but infused at 
 our nativity. He that lives according to nature will 
 suffer nothing from the delusions of hope, or impor- 
 
THE HAPPINESS OF A LIFE. 2.33 
 
 tunities of desire : lie will receive and reject with 
 equability of temper ; aud act or suffer as the reason of 
 things shall alternately prescribe. Other men n\a,j 
 amuse themselves with subtle definitions, or intricate 
 ratiocinations. Let them learn to be wise by easier 
 means : let them observe the hind of the forest, and 
 the linnet of the grove : let them consider the life of 
 animals whose motions are regulated by instinct : 
 they obeyed their guide, and are happy. Let iw 
 therefore, at length, cease to dispute, and learn to 
 live ; throw away the incumbrance of precepts, which 
 they who utter them with so much pride and pomp 
 do not understand, and carry with us this simple and 
 intelligible maxim. That deviation from nature is 
 deviation from happiness." 
 
 When he had spoken, he looked round him with a 
 placid air, and enjoyed the consciousness of his own 
 beneficence. " Sir," said the prince, with great mod- 
 esty, " as I, like all the rest of mankind, am desirous 
 of felicity, my closest attention has been fixed upon 
 your discourse ; I doubt not the truth of a position 
 which a man so learned has so confidently advanced. 
 Let me only know what it is to live according to na- 
 ture?" 
 
 " When I find young men so humble and so docile," 
 said the philosopher, " I can deny them no inform- 
 ation which my studies have enabled me to afford. 
 To live according to nature is to act always with due 
 regard to the fitness arising from the relations and 
 qualities of causes and effects : to concur with the 
 great and unchangeable scheme of universal felicity ; 
 
254 EASSELAS. ' 
 
 to co-operate with the general disposition and ten- 
 dency of the present system of things." 
 
 The prince soon found that this was one of the 
 sages whom he should understand less as he heard 
 him longer. He therefore bowed and was silent; 
 and the philosopher, supposing him satisfied, and the 
 rest vanquished, rose up, and departed with the air 
 of a man that had co-operated with the present sys- 
 tem. 
 
THE PRIHCE AIJD HIS SISTER. 255 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE PEINCB AND HIS SISTBE DIVIDB BETWEEN 
 THEM THE WORK OP OBSEKTATION. 
 
 Rasselas returned home full of reflections, doubt- 
 ful how to direct his future steps. Of the way to 
 happiness he found tlie learned and simple equally- 
 ignorant ; but, as he was yet young, he flattered him- 
 self that he had time remaining for more experi- 
 ments and further inquiries. He communicated to 
 Imlac his observation and his doubts, but was an- 
 swered by him with new doubts, and remarks that 
 gave him no comfort. He therefore discoursed more 
 frequently and freely with his sister, who had yet 
 the same hope with himself, and always assisted him 
 to give some reason why, though he had been hither- 
 to frustrated, he might suceed at last. 
 
 " We have hitherto," said she, " known but little of 
 the world : we have never yet been either great or 
 mean. In our own country, though we had royalty, 
 we had no power ; and in this we have not yet seen 
 the private recesses of domestic peace. Imlac favors 
 not our search, lest we should in time find him mis- 
 taken. We will divide the task between us ; you 
 shall try what is to be found in the splendor of 
 courts, and I will range the shades of humbler life, 
 
256 RASSELAS. 
 
 Perhaps command and authority may be the supreme 
 blessings, as they afford most opportunities of doing 
 good ; or, perhaps, what this world can give may be 
 found in the modest habitations of middle fortune ; 
 too low for great designs, and too high for penury 
 and distress." 
 
THE PRINCE EXAMINES HiaH STATIONS. 257 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE PEINCE EXAMINES THE HAPPINESS OE HIGH 
 STATIONS. 
 
 Rasselas applauded the design, and appeared 
 next day with a splendid retinue at the court of the 
 Bassa. He was soon distinguished for his magnifi- 
 cence, and admitted, as a prince whose curiosity had 
 brought him from distant countries, to an intimacy 
 with the great officers, and frequent conversation 
 with the Bassa himself. 
 
 He was at first inclined to believe, that the man 
 must be pleased with his own condition whom all 
 approached with reverence, and heard with obeclience, 
 and who had the power to extend his edicts to a 
 whole kingdom. " There can be no pleasure," said 
 he, " equal to that of feeling at once the joy of thou- 
 sands all made happy by wise administration. Yet, 
 since by the law of subordination this sublime de- 
 light can be in one nation but the lot of one, it is surely 
 reasonable to think that there is some satisfaction 
 more popular and accessible, and that millions can 
 hardly be subjected to the will of a single man, only 
 to fill his particular breast with incommunicable con- 
 tent." 
 
 These thoughts were often in his mind, and he 
 
258 RASSELAS. 
 
 found no solution of the difficulty. But as presents 
 and civilities gained him more familiarity, he found 
 that almost every man who stood high in employ- 
 ment hated all the rest, and was hated by them, and 
 that their lives were a continual succession of plots 
 and detections, stratagems and escapes, faction and 
 treachery. Many of those who surrounded the 
 Bassa were sent only to watch and report his conduct ; 
 every tongue was muttering censure, and every eye 
 was searching for a fault. 
 
 At last the letters of revocation arrived, the Bassa 
 was carried in chains to Constantinople, and his 
 name was mentioned no more. 
 
 " What are we now to think of the prerogatives of 
 power ? " said Rasselas to his sister ; " is it without 
 any efficacy to good ? or, is the subordinate degree 
 only dangerous, and the supreme safe and glorious ? 
 Is the Sultan the only happy man in his dominions ? 
 or, is the Sultan himself subject to the torments of 
 suspicion, and the dread of enemies ? " 
 
 In a short time the second Bassa was deposed. 
 The Sultan that had advanced him was murdered by 
 the Janizaries, and his successor had other views and 
 different favorites. 
 
THE PPJInCESS PURSUES HEE INQUIRY. 259 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE PRINCESS PUESTTES HEE INQTJIET WITH MOKE 
 DILIGENCE THAN SITCCBSS. 
 
 The princess, in the mean time, insinuated lieiself 
 into many families ; for there are few doors through 
 which liberality, joined with good humor, cannot 
 find its way. The daughters of many houses were 
 airy and cheerful ; but Nekayah had been too long 
 accustomed to the conversation of Imlao and her 
 brother, to be much pleased with childish levity, and 
 prattle which had no meaning. She found their 
 thoughts narrow, their wishes low, and their merri- 
 ment often artificial. Their pleasures, poor as they 
 were, could not be preserved pure, but were imbit- 
 tered by petty competitions and worthless emulation. 
 They were always jealous of the beauty of each 
 other ; of a quality to which solicitude can add noth- 
 ing, and from which detraction can take nothing 
 away. Many were in love with triflers like them- 
 selves, and many fancied that they were in love 
 when in truth they were only idle. Their affection 
 was not fixed on sense or virtue, and therefore sel- 
 dom ended but in vexation. Their grief, however, 
 like their joy, was transient : everything floated in 
 their mind unconnected with the past or future, so 
 
260 RASSELAS. 
 
 that one desire easily gave way to another, as a 
 second stone east into the water effaces and confounds 
 the circles of the first. 
 
 With these girls she played as with inoffensive an- 
 imals, and found them proud of her countenance, and 
 "weary of her company. 
 
 But her purpose was to examine more deeply, and 
 her affability easily persuaded the hearts that were 
 swelling with sorrow to discharge their secrets in her 
 ear : and those whom hope flattered, or prosperity 
 delighted, often courted her to partake their pleas- 
 ures. 
 
 The princess and her brother commonly met in 
 the evening in a private summer-house on the bank 
 of the Nile, and related to each other the occurrences 
 of the day. As they were sitting together, the prin- 
 cess cast her eyes upon the river that flowed before 
 her. " Answer," said she, " great father of waters, 
 thou that roUest thy floods through eighty nations, to 
 the invocations of the daughter of thy native king. 
 Tell me if thou waterest through all thy course, a 
 single habitation from which thou dost not hear the 
 murmurs of complaint ! " 
 
 " You are then," said Rasselas, " not more success- 
 ful in private houses than I have been in courts." 
 
 " I have, since the last partition of our provinces," 
 said the princess, " enabled myself to enter familiarly 
 into many families, where there was the fairest show 
 of prosperity and peace, and know not one house 
 that is not haunted by some fury that destroys their 
 quiet. I did not seek ease among the poor, because 
 
THE PRINC£!SS PURSUES HER liTQUlRY. 261 
 
 I concluded that there it could not be found. But I 
 saw many poor, whom I had supposed to live in af- 
 fluence. Poverty has, in large cities, veiy different 
 appearances : it is often concealed in splendor, and 
 often in extravagance. It is the care of a very great 
 part of mankind to conceal their indigence from the 
 rest; they support themselves by temporary expe- 
 dients, and eveiy day is lost in contriving for the mor- 
 row. 
 
 " This, however, was an evil which, though fre- 
 quent, I saw with less pain, because I could relieve 
 it. Yet some have refused my bounties ; more of- 
 fended with my quickness to detect their wants than 
 pleased with my readiness to succor them, and others, 
 whose exigencies compelled them to admit my kind- 
 ness, have never been able to forgive their benefac- 
 tress. Many, however, have been sincerely grateful, 
 without the ostentation of gratitude, or the hope of 
 other favors." 
 
262 EASSELAS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE PEINCESS CONTINUES HEE EEMABKS "DPON PEI- 
 VATE LIFE. 
 
 Nekayah, perceiving her brother's attention fixed, 
 proceeded in her narrative. 
 
 "In families, where there is or is not poverty, 
 there is commonly discord : if a kingdom be, as Imlac 
 tells us, a great family, a family likewise is a little 
 kingdom, torn with factions and exposed to revolu- 
 tions. An unpracticed observer expects the love of 
 parents and children to be constant and equal ; but 
 this kindness seldom continues beyond the years of 
 infancy ; in a short time the children become rivals 
 to their parents. Benefits are allayed by reproaches, 
 and gratitude debased by envy. 
 
 " Parents and children seldom act in concert: each 
 child endeavors to appropriate the esteem or fond- 
 ness of the parents, and the parents, with yet less 
 temptation, betray each other to their children : thus 
 some place their confidence in the father, and some 
 in the mother, and by degrees the house is filled with 
 artifices and feuds. 
 
 " The opinions of children and parents, of the 
 young and the old, are naturally opposite, by the 
 contrary effects of hope and despondence, of expect-. 
 
THE PRINCESS REMAEKS UPON PRIVATE LIFE. 263 
 
 ation and experience, without crime or folly on 
 either side. The colors of life in youth and age ap- 
 pear different as the face of nature in spring and 
 winter. And how can children credit the asser- 
 tions of parents, which their own eyes show them 
 to be false ? 
 
 " Few parents act in such a manner as much to en- 
 force their maxims by the credit of their lives. The 
 old man trusts wholly to slow contriyance and 
 gradual progression : the youth expects to force his 
 way by genius, vigor, and precipitance. The old 
 man pays regard to riches, and the youth reverences 
 virtue. The old man defies prudence : the youth com- 
 mits himself to magnanimity and chance. The young 
 man, who intends no ill, believes that none is intended, 
 and therefore acts with openness and candor ; but his 
 father, having suffered the injuries of fraud, is im- 
 pelled to suspect, and too often allured to practice it. 
 Age looks with anger on the temerity of youth, and 
 youth with contempt on the scrupulosity of age. 
 Thus parents and children, for the greatest part, live 
 on to love less and less : and if those whom nature 
 has thus closely united are the torments of each other, 
 where shall we look for tenderness and consolation." 
 
 " Surely," said the prince, " you . must have been 
 unfortunate in your choice of acquaintance : I am 
 unwilling to believe, that the most tender of all rela- 
 tions is thus impeded in its effects by natural neces- 
 sity." 
 
 " Domestic discord," answered she, " is not in- 
 evitably and fatally necessary ; but yet it is not easy 
 
264 RASSELAS. 
 
 to avoid. We seldom see that a whole family is vir- 
 tuous; the good and evil cannot well agree ; and the 
 evil can yet less agree with one another ; even the 
 virtuous fall sometimes to variance, when their virtues 
 are of different kinds and tendincf to extremes. In 
 general those parents have most reverence that most 
 deserve it : for he that lives well cannot he despised. 
 
 " Many other evils infest private life. Some are the 
 slaves of servants whom they have trusted with their 
 affairs. Some are kept in continual anxiety by the 
 caprice of rich relations, whom they cannot please and 
 dare not offend. Some husbands are imperious, 
 and some wives perverse : and as it is always more 
 easy to do evil than good, though the wisdom or 
 virtue of one can very rarely make many happy, the 
 folly or vice of one may often make many miser- 
 able." 
 
 " If such be the general effect of marriage," said 
 the prince, " I shall, for the future, think it danger- 
 ous to connect my interest with that of another, lest 
 I should be unhappy by my partner's fault." 
 
 " I have met," said the princess," with many who 
 live single for that reason ; but I have never found that 
 their prudence ought to raise envy. They dream away 
 their time without friendship, without fondness, and 
 are driven to rid themselves of the day, for which they 
 have no use, by childish amusements or vicious de- 
 lights. They act as beings under the constant sense 
 of some known inferiority, that fills their minds with 
 rancor ; and their tongues with censure. They are 
 peevish at home, and malevoleut abroad; and, as the 
 
THE PRINCESS EEMAEKS UPON PRIVATE LIFE. 265 
 
 outlaws of human nature, make it their business and 
 their pleasure to disturb that society which debars 
 them from its privileges. To live without feeling or 
 exciting sympathy, to be fortunate without adding to 
 the felicity of others, or afflicted without tasting the 
 balm of pity, is a state more gloomy than solitude ; it 
 is not retreat, but exclusion from mankind. Marriage 
 has many pains, but celibacy has no pleasures." 
 
 " What, then, is to be done ? " said Rasselas ; " the 
 more we inquire the less we can resolve. Surely 
 he is most likely to please himself that has no other 
 inclination or regard." 
 
266 BASSELA8. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 DISQUISITION UPON GREATNESS. 
 
 The conversation had a short pause. The prince, 
 having considered his sister's observations, told her 
 that she had surveyed life with prejudice and sup- 
 posed misery where she did not find it. " Your nar- 
 rative," says he, " throws yet a darker gloom upon 
 the prospects of futurity ; the predictions of Imlac 
 were but faint sketches of the evils painted by Nek- 
 ayah. I have been lately convinced that quiet is not 
 the daughter of grandeur or of power s that her pres- 
 ence is not to be bought by wealth, nor enforced by 
 conquest. It is evident, that as any man acts in a 
 wider compass, he must be more exposed to opposi- 
 tion from enmity, or miscarriage from chance ; who- 
 ever has many to please or to govern must use the 
 ministry of many agents, some of whom will be 
 wicked, and some ignorant; by some he will be 
 misled, and by others betrayed. If he gratifies one, 
 he will offend another: those that are not favored 
 will think themselves injured: and, since favors can 
 be conferred but upon few, the greater number will 
 be always discontented." 
 
 " The discontent," said the princess, " which is 
 thus unreasonable, I hope that I shall always have 
 spirit to despise, and you power to repress," 
 
DISQUISITION UPON GREATNESS. 267 
 
 " Discontent," answered Rasselas, " will not always 
 be without reason under the most just and vigilant 
 administration of public affairs. None however at- 
 tentive, can alwa3fs discover that merit which indul- 
 gence or faction may happen to obscure ; and none, 
 however powerful, can always reward it. Yet he that 
 sees inferior desert advanced above him will naturally 
 impute that preference to partiality or caprice ; and, 
 indeed, it can scarcely be hoped than any man, how- 
 ever magnanimous by nature, or exalted by con- 
 dition, will be able to persist forever in the fixed and 
 inexorable justice of distribution ; he will sometimes 
 indulge his own affections, and sometimes those of 
 his favorites ; he will permit some to please him who 
 can never serve him ; he will discover, in those whom 
 he loves, qualities which in reality they do not pos- 
 sess ; and to those, from whom he receives pleasure, 
 he will in his turn endeavor to give it. Thus will 
 recommendations sometimes prevail which were pur- 
 chased by money, or by the more destructive bribery 
 of flattery and servility. 
 
 " He that has much to do will do something wrong, 
 and of that wrong must suffer the consequences ; and 
 if it were possible that he should always act rightly, 
 yet when such numbers are to judge of his conduct, 
 the bad will censure and obstruct him by malevolence, 
 and the good sometimes by mistake. 
 
 " The highest stations cannot therefore hope to be 
 abodes of happiness, which I would willingly believe 
 to have fled from thrones and palaces to seats of 
 humble privacy and placid obscurity. For what ca^ 
 
268 EASSELA8. 
 
 hinder the satisfaction, or intercept the expectations, 
 of him whose abilities are adequate to his employ- 
 ments, who sees with his own eyes the whole circuit 
 of his influence, who chooses by his own knowledge 
 all whom he trusts, and whom none are tempted to 
 deceive by hope or fear ? Surely he has nothing to 
 do but to love and to be loved, to be virtuous, and to 
 be happy." 
 
 " Whether perfect happiness would be procured by 
 perfect goodness," said Nekayah, " this world will 
 never afford an oportunity of deciding. But this, at 
 least, may be maintained that we do not always find 
 visible happiness in proportion to visible virtue. All 
 natural and almost all political evils are incident 
 alike to the bad and goodj they are confounded in 
 the misery of a famine, and not much distinguished 
 in the fury of a faction ; they sink together in a 
 tempest, and are driven together from their country 
 by invaders. All that virtue can afford is quietness 
 of conscience, a steady prospect of a happier state ; 
 this may enable us to endure calamity with patience ; 
 but remember that patience must suppose pain." 
 
RaSSELAS and NEKAf ah. 269 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 BASSBLAS AST) lOlKATAH CONTINUE THEIR CONVBE- 
 SATION. 
 
 " Deae princess," said Rasselas, " you fall into 
 the common errors of exaggeratory declamation, by 
 producing, in a familiar disquisition, examples of 
 national calamities, and scenes of extensive misery, 
 which are found in books rather than in the world, 
 and which, as they are horrid, are ordained to be 
 rare. Let us not imagine evils which we do not feel, 
 nor injure life by misrepresentations. I cannot bear 
 that querulous eloquence which threatens every city 
 with a siege like that of Jerusalem, that makes 
 famine attend on every flight of locusts, and sus- 
 pends pestilence on the wing of every blast that is- 
 sues from the south. 
 
 " On necessary and , inevitable evils, which over- 
 whelm kingdoms at once, all disputation is vain : 
 when they happen, they must be endured. But it is 
 evident that these bursts of universal distress are 
 more dreaded than felt ; thousands and ten thousands 
 flourish in youth and wither in age, without the 
 knowledge of any other than domestic evils, and 
 share the same pleasures and vexations, whether their 
 kings are mild or cruel, whether the armies of their 
 
270 RASSELAS. 
 
 country pursue their enemies or retreat before them. 
 While courts are disturbed with intestine competi- 
 tions, and ambassadors are negotiating in foreign 
 countries, the smith still plies his anvil, and the hus- 
 bandman drives his plow forward ; the necessaries of 
 life are required and obtained ; and the successive 
 business of the seasons continues to make its wonted 
 revolutions. 
 
 " Let use cease to consider what, perhaps, may 
 never happen, and what, when it shall happen, will 
 laugh at human speculation. We will not endeavor 
 to modify the motions of the elements, or to fix the 
 destiny of kingdoms. It is our business to consider 
 what beings like us may perform ; each laboring for 
 his own happiness by promoting within his circle, 
 however narrow, the happiness of others. 
 
 " Marriage is evidently the dictate of nature ; 
 men and women are made to be companions of each 
 other, and therefore I cannot be persuaded but that 
 marriage is one of the means of happiness." 
 
 " I know not," said the princess, " whether mar- 
 riage be more than one of the innumerable modes of 
 human misery. When I see and reckon the various 
 forms of connubial infelicity, the unexpected causes 
 of lasting discord, the diversities of temper, the opposi- 
 tions of opinion, the rude collisions of contrary desire 
 where both are urged by violent impulses, the 
 obstinate contests of disagreeable virtues where both 
 are supported by consciousness of good intention, I 
 nra sometimes disposed to think, with the severer 
 casuists of most nations, that mai-riage is rather 
 
RASSELAS AND NEK A YAH. 271 
 
 permitted than approved, and that none, but by the 
 instigation of a passion too much indulged, entangle 
 themselves with indissoluble compacts." 
 
 " You seem to forget," replied Rasselas, " that you 
 have, even now, represented celibacy as less happy 
 than marriage. Both conditions may be bad, but 
 they cannot both be worst. Thus it happens wlieii 
 wrong opinions are entertained, that they mutually 
 destroy each other, and leave the mind open to ti'utli. 
 
 " I did not expect," answered the princess, " to 
 hear that imputed to falsehood which is the conse- 
 quence only of frailty. To the mind, as to the eye, 
 it is difficult to compare with exactness objects vast 
 in their extent, and various in their parts. Where 
 we see or conceive the whole at once, we readily 
 note the discriminations, and decide the preference ; 
 but of two systems, of which neither can be surveyed 
 by any human being in its full compass of magnitude 
 and multiplicity of complication, where is the wonder 
 that, judging of the whole by parts, I am alternately 
 affected by one and the other, as either presses on 
 my memory or fancy? We differ from ourselves 
 just as we differ from each other, when we see only 
 parts of the question, as in the multifarious jelations 
 of politics and morality; but when we perceive the 
 whole at once, as numerical computations, all agree 
 in one judgment, and none ever varies his opinion." 
 
 " Let us not add," said the prince, " to the other 
 evils of life the bitterness of controversy, nor endeavor 
 to vie with each other in subtil ties of argumeuL 
 We are employed in a search, of which both ii;o 
 
2Y2 EASSELAS. 
 
 equally to enjoy the success, or suffer by the mis- 
 carriage. It is therefore fit that we assist each other. 
 You surely conclude too hastily from the infelicity 
 of marriage against its institution: will not the 
 misery of life proTe equally that life cannot be the 
 gift of Heaven ? The world must be peopled by 
 marriage, or peopled without it." 
 
 " How the world is to be peopled," returned 
 Nekayah, " is not my care, and needs not be yours. 
 I see no danger that the present generation should 
 omit to leave successors behind them ; we are not 
 now inquiring for the world, but for ourselves." 
 
THE DEBATE OF MARRIAGE CONTINUED. 273 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE. DEBATE OP MARRIAGE CONTIKUED. 
 
 " The good of the whole," says Rasselas, " is the 
 same with the good of all its parts. If marriage be 
 best for mankind, it must be evidently best for 
 individuals, or a permanent and necessary duty must 
 be the cause of evil, and some must be inevitably 
 sacrificed to the convenience of others. In the 
 estimate which you have made of the two states, it 
 appears that the incommodities of a single life are, in 
 a great measure, necessary and certain, but those of 
 the conjugal state accidental and avoidable. 
 
 " I cannot forbear to flatter myself, that prudence 
 and benevolence will make marriage happy. The 
 general folly of mankind is the cause of general 
 complaint. What can be expected but disappoint- 
 ment and repentance from a choice made in the 
 immaturity of youth, in the ardor of desire, without 
 judgment, without foresight, without inquiry after 
 comformity of opinions, similarity of manners, recti- 
 tude of judgment, or purity of sentiment ? 
 
 " Such is the common process of marriage. A 
 youth or maiden meeting by chance, or brought 
 together by artifice, exchange glances, reciprocate 
 civilities, go home, and dream of one another. 
 
214: RASSELAS. 
 
 Having little to divert attention, or diversify thought, 
 they find themselves uneasy when they are apart, 
 and therefore conclude that they shall be happy 
 together. They marry, and discover what nothing 
 but voluntary blindness before had concealed ; they 
 wear out life in altercations, and charge nature with 
 cruelty. 
 
 " From those early marriages proceeds likewise 
 the rivalry of parents and children : the son is eager 
 to enjoy the world before the father is willing to 
 forsake it, and there is hardly room at once for two 
 generations. The daughter begins to bloom before 
 the mother can be content to fade, and neither can 
 forbear to wish for the absence of the other. 
 
 " Surely all these evils may be avoided by that 
 deliberation and delay which prudence prescribes to 
 irrevocable choice. In the variety and jollity of 
 youthful pleasures life may be well enough supported 
 without the help of a partner. Longer time will 
 increase experience, and wider views will allow 
 better opportunities of inquiry and selection ; one 
 advantage at least, will be certain ; the parents will 
 be visibly older than their children." 
 
 " What reason cannot collect," said Nekayah, 
 " and what experiment has not yet taught, can be 
 known only from the report of others. I have been 
 told that late marriages are not eminently happy. 
 This is a question too important to be neglected, and 
 I have often proposed it to those whose accuracy 
 of remark and comprehensiveness of knowledge made 
 their suffrages worthy of regard. They have gener- 
 
THE DEBATE OF MARRIAGE CONTINUED. 275 
 
 ally determined that it is dangerous for a man and 
 woman to suspend their fate upon each other, at a 
 time when opinions are fixed, and habits are estab- 
 lished; when friendships have been contracted on 
 both sides, when life has been planned into method, 
 and the mind has long enjoyed the contemplation 
 of its own prospects. 
 
 " It is scarcely possible that two, travelling through 
 the world, under the conduct of chance, should have 
 been both directed to the same path, and it will not 
 often happen that either will quit the track which 
 custom has made pleasing. When the desultory levity 
 of youth has settled into regularity, it is soon suc- 
 ceeded by pride ashamed to yield, or obstinacy de- 
 lighting to contend. And even though mutual esteem 
 produces mutual desire to please, time itself, as it 
 modifies unchangeably the external mien, determines 
 likewise the direction of the passions, and give an in- 
 flexible rigidity to the manners. Long customs are not 
 easily broken : he that attempts to change the course 
 of his own life very often labors in vain : and how 
 shall we do that for others which we are seldom able 
 to do for ourselves ? " 
 
 " But surely," interposed the prince, " you suppose 
 the chief motive of choice forgotten or neglected. 
 Whenever I shall seek a wife, it shall be my first 
 question, whether she be willing to be led by rea- 
 son ? " 
 
 " Thus it is," said Nekayah, " that philosophers 
 are deceived. There are a thousand familiar disputes 
 which reason never can decide ; questions that elude 
 
276 feASSELAS. 
 
 investigation, and make logic ridiculous ; cases where 
 sometliirig must be done, and where little can be said. 
 Consider the state of mankind, and inquire how few 
 can be supposed to act upon any occasions, whether 
 small or great, with all the reasons of action present 
 to their minds. "Wretched would be the pair above 
 all names of wretchedness, who should be doomed to 
 adjust by reason, every morning, all the minute 
 detail of a domestic day. 
 
 " Those who marry at an advanced age will prob- 
 ably escape the encroachments of their children; 
 but, in diminution of this advantage, they will be 
 likely to leave them, ignorant and helpless, to a 
 guardian's mercy : or, if that should not happen, they 
 must at least go out of the world before they 
 see those whom they love best either wise or 
 great. 
 
 " From their children, if they have less to fear, 
 they have less also to hope ; and they lose, without 
 equivalent, the joys of early love, and the convenience 
 of uniting with manners pliant, and minds suscep- 
 tible of new impressions, which might wear away their 
 dissimilitudes by long cohabitation ; as soft bodies, 
 by continual attrition, conform their surfaces to each 
 other. 
 
 " I believe it will be found that those who marry 
 late are best pleased with their children, and those 
 who marry early with their partners." 
 
 " The union of these two affections," said Rasselas, 
 " would produce all that could be wished. Perhaps 
 there is a time when marriage might unite them, a 
 
THE DEBATE OF MARRIAGE CONTINUED. 277 
 
 time neither too early for the father, nor too late for 
 the husband." 
 
 " Every hour," answered the princess, " confirms 
 my prejudice in favor of the position so often uttered 
 by the mouth of Imlac, ' That nature sets her gifts 
 on the right hand and on the left.' Those conditions, 
 which flatter hope and attract desire, are so consti- 
 tuted, that, as we approach one we recede from another. 
 There are goods so opposed that we cannot seize both, 
 but, by too much prudence, may pass between them 
 at too great a distance to reach either. This is often 
 the fate of long consideration ; he does nothing who 
 endeavors to do more than is allowed to humanity. 
 Flatter not yourself with contrarieties of pleasure. 
 Of the blessings set before you make your choice, 
 and be content. No man can taste the fruits of 
 autumn while he is delighting his scent with the 
 flowers of spring: no man can, at the same time, fill 
 his cup from the source and from the mouth of the 
 Nile." 
 
278 RASSELAS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 Imlac enters, and changes the conveesation. 
 
 Here Imlac entered and interrupted them. " Im- 
 lac," said Rasselas, "I have been taking from the 
 princess the dismal history of private life, and am al- 
 most discouraged from further search." 
 
 " It seems to me," said Imlac, " that while you are 
 making the choice of life, you neglect to live. You 
 wander about a single city, which, however large 
 and diversified, can now afford few novelties, and 
 forget that you are in a country famous among the 
 earliest monarchies for the power and wisdom of its 
 inhabitants ; a country where the sciences first 
 dawned that illuminate the world, and beyond which 
 the arts cannot be traced of civil society or domestic 
 life. 
 
 " The old Egyptians have left behind them mon- 
 uments of industry and power, before which all Eur- 
 opean magnificence is confessed to fade away. The 
 ruins of their architecture are the schools of modern 
 builders, and from the wonders which time has spared, 
 we may conjecture, though uncertainly, what it has 
 destroyed." 
 
 " My curiosity," said Rasselas, " does not very 
 strongly lead me to survey the piles of stone or 
 
IMLAC CHANGES THE CONVERSATION. 279 
 
 mounds of earth ; my business is with man. I came 
 hither not to measure fragments of temples, or trace 
 choked aqueducts, but to look upon the various 
 scenes of the present world." 
 
 " The things that are now before us," said the 
 princess, "require attention and deserve it. What 
 have I to do with the heroes or the monuments of 
 ancient times ? with times which never can return, and 
 heroes, whose form of life was different from all that 
 the present condition of man requires or allows ? " 
 
 " To know anything," returned the poet, " we 
 must know its effects ; to see men we must see their 
 works that we may learn what reason has dictated, or 
 passion has incited, and find what are the most pow- 
 erful motives of action. To judge rightly of the 
 present, we must oppose it to the past ; f or all judg- 
 ment is co mparative , and of the future nothing can 
 be known. The truth is, that no mind is much em- 
 ployed upon the present: recollection and antici- 
 pation fill up almost all our moments. Our pas- 
 sions are joy and grief, love and hatred, hope and 
 fear. Of joy and grief the past is the object, and 
 the future of hope and fear ; even love and hatred 
 respect the past, for the cause must have been before 
 the effect. 
 
 " The present state of things is the 'consequence of 
 the former, and it is natural to inquire what were 
 the sources of the good that we enjoy, or the evil 
 that we suffer. If we act only for ourselves, to neg- 
 lect the study of history is not prudent : if we are 
 intrusted with the care of others, it is not just, 
 
280 RASSBLAS. 
 
 Ignorance, when it is voluntary, is criminal; and 
 he may be properly charged with evil who refused 
 to learn how he might prevent it. 
 
 " There is no part of history so generally useful as 
 that which relates the progress of the human mind, 
 the gradual improvement of reason, the successive ad- 
 vances of science, the vicissitudes of learning and ig- 
 norance, which are the light and darkness of think- 
 ing beings, the extinction and resuscitation of arts, 
 and the revolutions of the intellectual world. If ac- 
 counts of battles and invasions are peculiarly the bus- 
 iness of princes, the useful or elegant arts are not to 
 be neglected; those who have kingdoms to govern 
 have understandings to cultivate. 
 
 " Example is always more efficacious than precept. 
 A soldier is formed in war, and a painter must copy 
 pictures. In this, contemplative life has the advan- 
 tage : great actions are seldom seen, but the labors of 
 art are always at hand for those who desire to know 
 what art has been able to perform. 
 
 " When the eye or the imagination is struck with 
 an uncommon work, the next transition of an active 
 mind is to the means by which it was performed. 
 Here begins the true use of such contemplation ; we 
 enlarge our comprehension by new ideas, and per- 
 haps recover some art lost to mankind, or learn what 
 is less perfectly known in our own country. At 
 least we compare our own with former times, and 
 either rejoice at our improvements, or, what is the 
 first motion towards good, discover our defects." 
 
 " I am willing," said the prince, " to see all that; 
 
IMLAC CHANGES THE CONVERSATION. 281 
 
 can deserve my search." " And 1," said the princess, 
 " shall rejoice to learn something of the manners of 
 antiquity." 
 
 " The most pompous monument of Egyptian great- 
 ness, and one of the most bulky works of manual 
 industry," said Imlac, " are the Pyramids ; fabrics 
 raised before the time of history, and of which the 
 earliest narratives afford us only uncertain traditions. 
 Of these the greatest is still standing, very little 
 injured by time." 
 
 " Let us visit them to-morrow," said Nekayah. " I 
 have often heard of the Pyramids, and shall not rest 
 until I have seen them within and without with my 
 own eyes." 
 
282 EASSELAS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THEY VISIT THE PTEAMIDS. 
 
 The resolution being taken, they set out the next 
 day. They laid tents upon their camels, being 
 resolved to stay among the Pyramids till their 
 curiosity was fully satisfied. They travelled gently, 
 turned aside to everything remarkable, stopped from 
 time to time and conversed with the inhabitants, and 
 observed the various appearances of towns ruined and 
 inhabited, of wild and cultivated nature. 
 
 When they came to the great Pyramid, they were 
 astonished at the extent of the base, and the height 
 of the top. Imlac explained to them the principles 
 upon which the pyramidical form was chosen for a 
 fabric intended to co-extend its duration with that of 
 the world : he showed that its gradual diminution 
 gave it such stability as defeated all the common 
 attacks of the elements, and could scarcely be over- 
 thrown by earthquakes themselves, the least resistible 
 of natural violence. A concussion that should shatter 
 the Pyramid would thi'eaten the dissolution of the 
 continent. 
 
 They measured all its dimensions, and pitched 
 their tents at its foot. Next day they prepared to 
 enter its interior apartments ; and having hired the 
 
THEY VISIT THE PYRAMIDS. 283 
 
 common guides, climbed up to the first passage, when 
 the favorite of the princess, looking into the cavity, 
 stepped back and trembled. " Pekuah," said the 
 princess, " of what art thou afraid ? " " Of the narrow 
 entrance," answered the lady, " and of the dreadful 
 gloom. I dare not enter a place which must surely 
 be inhabited by unquiet souls. The original pos- 
 sessors of these dreadful vaults will start up before 
 us, and perhaps shut us in forever." She spoke, and 
 threw her arms round the neck of her mistress. 
 
 " If all your fear be of apparitions," said the 
 prince, " I will promise you safety ; there is no danger 
 from the dead ; he that is once buried will be seen 
 no more." 
 
 " That the dead are seen no more," said Imlac, " I 
 will not undertake to maintain, against the concurrent 
 and unvaried testimony of all ages and of all nations. 
 There is no people, rude or learned, among whom 
 apparitions of the dead are not related and believed. 
 This opinion, which perhaps prevails as far as human 
 nature is diffused, could become universal only by its 
 truth ; those that never heard of one another would 
 not have agreed in a tale which nothing but experience 
 can make credible. That is doubted by single 
 cavillers can very little weaken the general evidence; 
 and some who deny it with their tongues confess it 
 by their fears. 
 
 " Yet I do not mean to add new terrors to those 
 which have already seized upon Pekuah. There can 
 be no reason why specters should haunt the Pyramid 
 more than other places, or why they should have 
 
284 tlASSELAS. 
 
 power or will to hurt innocence and purity. Our 
 entrance is no violation of their privileges ; we can 
 take nothing from them, how then can we offend 
 them?" 
 
 " My dear Pekuah," said the princess, " I will 
 always go before you, and Imlac shall follow you. 
 Remember that you are the companion of the prin- 
 cess of Abyssinia." 
 
 " If the princess is pleased that her servant should 
 die," returned the lady, "let her command some 
 death less dreadful than enclosure in this horrid 
 cavern ; you know I dare not disobey you ; I must 
 go if you command me ; but, if I once enter, I never 
 shall come back." 
 
 The princess saw that her fear was too strong for 
 expostulation or reproof; and, embracing her, told 
 her that she should stay in the tent till their return. 
 Pekuah was yet not satisfied, but entreated the prin- 
 cess not to pursue so dreadful a purpose as that of 
 entering the recesses of the Pj^ramid. " Though I 
 cannot teach courage," said Nekayah, " I must not 
 learn cowardice ; nor leave at last undone what I 
 came hither only to do." 
 
THEY ENTER THE PYRAMID. 285 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 THEY EKTEK THE PYRAMID. 
 
 Pektjah descended to the tents, and the rest en- 
 tered the Pyramid : they passed through the galleries, 
 surveyed the vaults of marble, and examined the 
 chest in which the body of the founder is supposed 
 to have been reposited. They then sat down in one 
 of the most spacious chambers to rest awhile before 
 they attempted to return. 
 
 " We have now," said Imlac, " gratified our minds 
 with an exact view of the greatest work of man, 
 except the wall of China. 
 
 " Of the wall it is very easy to assign the motive. 
 It secured a wealthy and timorous nation from the 
 incursions of barbarians, whose unskilfulness in the 
 arts made it easier for them to supply their wants by 
 rapine than by industry, and who from time to 
 time poured in upon the habitations of peaceful com- 
 merce, as vultures descend upon domestic fowl. 
 Their celerity and fierceness rendered the wall neces- 
 sary, and their ignorance made it efficacious. 
 
 " But for the Pyramids no reason has ever been 
 given adequate to the cost and labor of the 
 work. The narrowness of the chambers proves 
 that it could afford no retreat from enemies, and 
 
236 RASSELAS. 
 
 treasures might have been reposited at far less 
 expense with equal security. It seems to have been 
 erected only in compliance with that hunger of 
 imagination which preys incessantly upon life, and 
 must be always appeased by some employment. 
 Those who have already all that they can enjoy must 
 enlarge their desires. He that has built for use 
 till use is supplied, must begin to build for vanity, 
 and extend his plan to the utmost power of human 
 performance, that he may not be soon reduced to 
 form another wish. 
 
 " I consider this mighty structure as a monument 
 of the insufficiency of human enjoyments. A king, 
 whose power is unlimited, and whose treasures sur- 
 mount all real and imaginary wants, is compelled to 
 solace, by the erection of a Pyramid, the satiety of 
 dominion and tastelessness of pleasures, and to 
 amuse the tediousness of declining life, by seeing 
 thousands laboring without end, and one stone, for 
 no purpose, laid upon another. Whoever thou art 
 that, not content with a moderate condition, imaginest 
 happiness in royal magnificence, and dreamest that 
 command or riches can feed the appetite of novelty 
 with perpetual gratifications, survey the Pyramids, 
 and confess thy folly." 
 
tBlNCESS MEET AN tTNEXPECf EB MISFORTUNE. 287 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 THE PEINCESS MEETS WITH AN UNEXPECTED 
 MISEOETTTNE. 
 
 Thet rose up, and returned through the cayity at 
 which they had entered, and the princess prepared 
 for her favorite a long narrative of dark labyrinths 
 and costly rooms, and of the different impressions 
 which the varieties of the way had made upon her. 
 But when they came to their train, they found every 
 one silent and dejected ; the men discovered shame 
 and fear in their countenances, and the women were 
 weeping in the tents. 
 
 What had happened they did not try to conjecture, 
 but immediately inquired. " You had scarcely en- 
 tered into the Pyramid," said one of the attendants, 
 " when a troop of Arabs rushed upon us : we were 
 too few to resist them, and too slow to escape. They 
 were about to search the tents, set us on our camels, 
 and drive us along before them, when the approach 
 of some Turkish horsemen put them to flight ; but 
 they seized the lady Pekuah with her two maids, and 
 carried her away ; the Turks are now pursuing them 
 by our instigation, but I fear they will not be able to 
 overtake them." 
 
 The princess was overpowered with surprise and 
 
288 RASSELAS. 
 
 grief. Rasselas, in the first heat of his resentment, 
 ordered his servants to follow him, and prepared to 
 pursue the robbers with his saber in his hand. " Sir," 
 said Imlac, " what can you hope from yiolence or 
 valor? the Arabs are mounted on horses trained to 
 battle and retreat ; we have only beasts of burden. 
 By leaving our present station we may lose the prin- 
 cess, but cannot hope to regain Pekuah." 
 
 In a short time the Turks returned, having not 
 been able to reach the enemy. The princess burst 
 out into new lamentations, and Rasselas could 
 scarcely forbear to reproach them with cowardice ; 
 but Imlac was of opinion that the escape of the Arabs 
 was no addition to their misfortune, for perhaps they 
 would have killed their captives rather than have 
 resigned them. 
 
THEY RETURN TO CAIRO WITHOUT PEKUAH. 289 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 THEY BETUKN TO CAIEO WITHOUT PEKUAH. 
 
 Theke was nothing to be hoped from longer stay. 
 They returned to Cairo, repenting of their curiosity, 
 censuring the negligence of the government, lament- 
 ing their own rashness; which had neglected to pro- 
 cure a guard, imagining many expedients by which 
 the loss of Pekuah might have been prevented, and 
 resolving to do something for her recovery, though 
 none could find anything proper to be done. 
 
 Nekayah retired to her chamber, where her women 
 attempted to comfort her, by telling her that all had 
 their troubles, and that lady Pekuah had enjoyed 
 much happiness in the world for a long time, and 
 might reasonably expect a change of fortune. They 
 hoped that some good would befall her wheresoever 
 she was, and that their mistress would find another 
 friend who might supply her place. 
 
 The princess made them no answer, and they con- 
 tinued the form of condolence, not much grieved in 
 their hearts that the favorite was lost. 
 
 Next day the prince presented to the Bassa a me- 
 morial of the wrong which he had suffered, and a 
 petition for redress. The Bassa, threatened to punish 
 the robbers, but did not attempt to catch them, nov 
 
290 RASSeLAS. 
 
 indeed could any account or description be given by 
 ■which he might direct the pursuit. 
 
 It soon appeared that nothing would be done by 
 authority. G-overnors beinpf accustomed to hear of 
 ryiQTfi p.T-i'mp.s tha n thpy fifn pnm'sh, a jid more wr ongs 
 tha n they can redress, set themsel-ves at ease by indis- 
 p.mjninf^.tp npo-T jgenc e, and presently forget the request 
 when they lose sight of the petitioner. 
 
 Imlac then endeavored to gain some intelligence 
 by private agents. He found many who pretended 
 to an exact knowledge of all the haunts of the Arabs, 
 and to regular correspondence with their chiefs, and 
 who readily undertook the recovery of Pekuah. Of 
 these, some were furnished with money for their 
 j6urney and came back no more ; some were liberally 
 paid for accounts which a few days discovered to be 
 false. But the princess would not suffer any means, 
 however improbable, to be left untried. While she 
 was doing something, she kept her hope alive. As 
 one expedient failed, another was suggested ; when 
 one messenger returned unsuccessful, another was 
 despatched to a different quarter. 
 
 Two months had now passed, and of Pekuah 
 nothing had been heard ; the hopes which they had 
 endeavored to raise in each other grew more languid ; 
 and the princess, when she saw nothing more to be 
 tried, sunk down inconsolable in hopeless dejection. 
 A thousand times she reproached herself with the 
 easy compliance by which she permitted her favorite 
 to stay behind her. " Had not my fondness," said 
 she, " lessened my authority, Pekuah had not dared 
 
THEY RETURN TO CAIRO WITHOUT PEKUAH. 291 
 
 to talk of her terrors. She ought to have feared me 
 more than spectres. A severe look would have over- 
 powered her; a peremptory command would have 
 compelled obedience. Why did foolish indulgence 
 prevail upon me ? Why did I not speak, and refuse 
 to hear?" 
 
 " Great princess," said Imlac, " do not reproach 
 yourself for your virtue, or consider that as blamable 
 by which evil has accidentally been caused. Your 
 tenderness for the timidity of Pekuah was generous 
 and kind. When we act according to our duty, we 
 commit the event to Him by whose laws our actions 
 are governed, and who will suffer none to be finally 
 punished for obedience. When, in prospect of some 
 good, whether natural or moral, we break the rules 
 prescribed us, we withdraw from the direction of 
 superior wisdom, and take all consequences upon 
 ourselves. Man cannot so far know the connection 
 of causes and events, as that he may venture to do 
 wrong in order to do right. When we pursue our 
 end by lawful means, we may always console our 
 miscarriage by the hope of future recompense. 
 When we consult only our own policy, and attempt 
 to find a nearer way to good, by overleaping the 
 settled boundaries of right and wrong, we cannot be 
 happy even by success, because we cannot escape the 
 consciousness of our fault : but, if we miscarry, the 
 disappointment is irremediably embittered. How 
 comfortless is the sorrow of him who feels at once 
 the pangs of guilt, and the vexation of calamity 
 which guilt has brought upon him I 
 
292 RASSELAS. 
 
 " Consider, princess, what would have been your 
 condition, if the lady Pekuah had entreated to ac- 
 company you, and, being compelled to stay in the 
 tents, had been carried away ; or how you would have 
 borne the thought if you had forced her into the 
 Pyramid, and she had died before you in agonies of 
 terror ? " 
 
 " Had either happened," said Nekayah, " I could 
 not have endured life till now : I should have been 
 tortured to madness by the remembrance of such 
 cruelty, or must have pined away in abhorrence of 
 myself." 
 
 " This, at least," said Imlac, " is the present reward 
 of virtuous conduct, that no unlucky consequence 
 can oblige us to repent it. " 
 
THE PRINCESS LANGUISHES. 293 
 
 CHAPTER XXXY. 
 
 THE PEQrCBSS LANGUISHES POK "WANT OP PEKUAH. 
 
 Nbkayah, being thus reconciled to herself, found 
 that no evil is insupportable but that which is ac- 
 companied with consciousness of wrong. She was 
 from that time delivered from the violence of tem- 
 pestuous sorrow, and sunk into silent pensiveness and 
 gloomy tranquillity. She sat from morning to eve- 
 ning recollecting all that had been done or said by 
 her Pekuah, treasured up with care every trifle on 
 which Pekuah had set an accidental value, and which 
 might recall to mind any little incident or careless 
 conversation. The sentiments of her, whom she now 
 expected to see no more, were treasured in her mem- 
 ory as rules of life, and she deliberated to no other 
 end than to conjecture on any occasion what would 
 have been the opinion and counsel of Pekuah. 
 
 The woman by whom she was attended knew noth- 
 ing of her real condition, and therefore she could not 
 talk to them but with caution and reserve. She be- 
 gan to remit her curiosity, having no great desire to 
 collect notions which she had not convenience of 
 uttering. Rasselas endeavored first to comfort, and 
 afterwards to divert her ; he hired musicians, to whom 
 she seemed to listen, but did not hear them ; and pro- 
 
294 feASSELAS. 
 
 cured masters to instruct her in various arts, whose 
 lectures, when they visited her again, were again to 
 be repeated. She had lost her taste of pleasure and 
 her ambition of excellence. And her mind, though 
 forced into short excursions, always recurred to the 
 image of her friend. 
 
 Imlac was every morning earnestly enjoined to re- 
 new his inquiries, and was asked every night whether 
 he had yet heard of Pekuah, till, not being able to 
 return the princess the answer that she desired, he 
 was less and less willing to come into her presence. 
 She observed his backwardness, and commanded him 
 to attend her. " You are not," said she, " to confound 
 impatience with resentment, or to suppose that I 
 charge you with negligence, because I repine at your 
 unsuccessfulness. I do not much wonder at your 
 absence : I know that the unhappy are never pleas- 
 ing, and that all naturallj'- avoid the contagion of 
 miserjr. To hear complaints is wearisome alike to 
 the wretched and the happy: for who would cloud, 
 by adventitious grief, the short gleams of gayety 
 which life allows us ? or who, that is struggling 
 under his own evils, will add to them the miseries of 
 another ? " 
 
 " The time is at hand when none shall be disturbed 
 any longer by the sighs of Nekayah : my search after 
 happiness is now at an end. I am resolved to retire 
 from the world with all its flatteries and deceits, and 
 will hide myself in solitude without any other care 
 than to compose my thoughts, and regulate my hours 
 by a constant succession of innocent occupations, till, 
 
THE PRINCESS LANGUISHES. 295 
 
 with a mind purified from all earthly desires, I shall 
 enter into that state to which all are hastening, and 
 in which I hope again to enjoy the friendship of 
 Pekuah." 
 
 "Do not entangle your mind," said Imlac, "by 
 irrevocable determinations, nor increase the burden 
 of life by a voluntary accumulation of misery ; the 
 weariness of retirement will continue or increase 
 when the loss of Pekuah is forgotten. That you have 
 been deprived of one pleasure is no very good reason 
 for rejection of the rest." 
 
 " Since Pekuah was taken from me," said the prin- 
 cess, " I have no pleasure to reject or to retain. She 
 that has no one to love or trust has little to hope. 
 She wants the radical principle of happiness. We 
 may, perhaps, allow, that what satisfaction this world 
 can afford must arise from the conjunction of wealth 
 knowledge, and goodness : wealth is nothing but as 
 it is bestowed, and knowledge nothing but as it is 
 communicated : they must therefore be imparted to 
 others, and to whom could I now delight to impart 
 them ? Goodness affords the only comfort which can 
 be enjoyed without a partner and goodness may be 
 practised in retirement." 
 
 " How far solitude may admit goodness, or advance 
 it, I shall not," replied Imlac, " dispute at present. 
 Remember the confession of the pious hermit. You 
 will wish to return into the world when the image of 
 your companion has left your thoughts." 
 
 " That time," said Nekayah, " will never come 
 The generous frankness, the modest obsequiousness, 
 
296 RASSELAS. 
 
 and the faithful secrecy of my dear Pekuah will 
 always be more missed as I shall live longer to see 
 vice and folly." 
 
 " The state of a mind oppressed with a sudden 
 calamity," said Imlac, " is like that of the fabulous 
 inhabitants of the new-created earth, who, when the 
 first niglit came upon them, supposed that day would 
 never return. When the clouds of sorrow gatlier 
 over us, we see nothing beyond them, nor can imagine 
 how they will be dispelled : yet a new day succeeded 
 to the night, and sorrow is never long without a dawn 
 of ease. But they who restrain themselves from re- 
 ceiving comfort do as the savages would have done, 
 had they put out their eyes when it was dark. Our 
 minds, like our bodies, are in continual flux ; some- 
 thing is hourly lost, and something acquired. To 
 lose much at once is inconvenient to either, but while 
 the vital powers remain uninjured nature will find 
 the means of reparation. Distance has the same effect 
 on the mind as on the eye ; and while we glide along 
 the stream of time, whatever we leave behind us is 
 always lessening, and that which we approach increas- 
 ing in magnitude. Do not suffer life to stagnate ; it 
 will grow muddy for want of motion : commit your- 
 self again to the current of the world ; Pekuah will 
 vanish by degrees ; you will meet in your way some 
 other favorite, or learn to diffuse yourself in general 
 conversation." 
 
 " At least," said the prince, " do not despair be- 
 fore all remedies have been tried ; the inquiry after 
 the unfortunate lady is still continued, and shall be 
 
THE PRINCESS LANGUISHES. 297 
 
 carried on with yet greater diligence, on condition 
 that you will promise to wait a year for the event, 
 without any unalterable resolution." 
 
 ISTekayah thought this a reasonable demand, and 
 made the promise to her brother, who had been ad- 
 vised by Imlac to require it. Imlac had, indeed, no 
 great hope of regaining Pekuah ; but he supposed, 
 that if he could secure the interval of a year, the 
 princess would then be in no danger of a cloister. 
 
S98 RASSELAS. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVI. 
 
 PEKTJAH IS STILL EEMEMBBKBD. THE PEOGEESS 
 OF SOEBOW. 
 
 Nbkayah, seeing that nothing was omitted for 
 the recovery of her favorite, and having, by her prom- 
 ise, set her intention of retirement at a distance, 
 began imperceptibly to return to common cares and 
 common pleasures. She rejoiced without her own 
 consent at the suspension of her sorrows, and some- 
 times caught herself with indignation in the act of 
 turning away her mind from the remembrance of 
 her, whom she yet resolved never to forget. 
 
 She then appointed a certain hour of the day for 
 meditation on the merits and fondness of Pekuah, 
 and for some weeks retired constantly at the time 
 fixed, and returned with her eyes swollen and her 
 countenance clouded. By degrees she grew less 
 scrupulous, and suffered any important and pressiag 
 avocation to delay the tribute of daily tears. She 
 then yielded to less occasions ; sometimes forgot 
 what she was indeed afraid to remember, and at last 
 wholly released herself from the duty of periodical 
 affliction. 
 
 Her real love of Pekuah was not yet diminished. 
 A thousand occurrences brought her back to mem- 
 ory, and a thousand wants, vihii.li r.otliiiig but tl.e 
 
PEKUAH IS STILL REMEMBERED. 299 
 
 confidence of friendship can supply, made her fre- 
 quently regretted. She therefore solicited Imlao 
 never to desist from inquiry, and to leave no art of 
 intelligence untried, that at least she might have the 
 comfort of knowing that she did not suffer by negli- 
 gence or sluggishness. " Yet w^ai." said she, " is 
 t o be expected from nnr pi irinit "f happin^f;''. when 
 wp. find thp. sta.tR of lif^ tn ba snp.Ti, that happine ss 
 it.gp1f ig +hf> pgngp nf TrnVnTy ? Why should we en- 
 deavor to attain that of which the possession cannot 
 be secured. I shall henceforward fear to yield my 
 heart to excellence, however bright, or to fondness, 
 however tender, lest I should lose again what I have 
 lost in Pekuah." 
 
300 EASSELAS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 THE PRINCESS HEARS NEWS OF PEKTJAH. 
 
 In seven months, one of the messengers, who had 
 been sent away upon the day when the promise was 
 drawn from the princess, returned, after many un- 
 successful rambles, from the borders of Nubia, with 
 an account that Pekuah was in the hand of an Arab 
 chief, who possessed a castle or fortress on the ex- 
 tremity of Egypt. The Arab, whose revenue was 
 plunder, was willing to restore her with her two 
 attendants, for two hundred ounces of gold. 
 
 The price was no subject of debate. The princess 
 was in ecstasies when she heard that her favorite was 
 alive, and might so cheaply be ransomed. She could 
 not not think of delaying for a moment Pekuah's hap- 
 piness or her own, but entreated her brother to send 
 back the messenger with the sum required. Imlac 
 being consulted was not very confident of the veracity 
 of the relator, and was still more doubtful of the Arab's 
 faith, who might, if he were too liberally trusted, 
 detain at once the money and the captives. He 
 thought it dangerous to put themselves in the power 
 of the Arab, by going into his district, and could not 
 expect that the rover would so much expose him- 
 self as to come into the lower country, where he 
 might be seized by the forces of the Bassa. 
 
THE PRINCESS HEARS NEWS OF PEKUAH. 301 
 
 It is difficult to negotiate where neither will trust. 
 But Imlac, after some deliberation, directed the mess- 
 enger to propose that Pekuah should be conducted 
 by ten horsemen to the monastery of St. Antony, 
 which is situated in the deserts of Upper Egypt, 
 where she should he met by the same number, and 
 her ransom should be paid. 
 
 That no time might be lost, as they expected that 
 the proposal would not be refused, they immediately 
 began their journey to the monastery ; and when they 
 arrived, Imlac went forward with the former messen- 
 ger to the Arab's fortress. Rasselas was desirous to 
 go with them ; but neither his sister nor Imlac would 
 consent. The Arab, according to the custom of his 
 nation, observed the laws of hospitality with great 
 exactness to those who put themselves into his power, 
 and, in a few days brought Pekuah with her maids, 
 by easy journeys, to the place appointed, where, re- 
 ceiving the stipulated price, he restored her with 
 great respect to liberty and her friends, and under- 
 took to conduct them back towards Cairo, beyond all 
 danger of robbery or violence. 
 
 The princess and her favorite embraced each other 
 with transport too violent to be expressed, and went 
 out together to pour the tears of tenderness in secret, 
 and exchange professions of kindness and gratitude. 
 After a few hours they returned into the refectory 
 of the convent, where, in the presence of the prior 
 and his brethren, the prince required of Pekuah the 
 history of her adventures. 
 
80^ JBASSULAS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 THE ADVENTUEBS OF THE LADY PEKTJAH. 
 
 " At what time and in what manner I was forced 
 away," said Pekuah, "your servants have told you. 
 The suddenness of the event struck me with surprise, 
 and I was at first rather stupefied than agitated with 
 anj' passion of either fear or sorrow. My confusion 
 was increased by the speed and tumult of our flight, 
 while we were followed by the Turks, who, as it 
 seemed, soon despaired to overtake us, or were afraid 
 of those whom they made a show of menacing. 
 
 " When the Arabs saw themselves out of danger 
 they slackened their course, and as I was less har- 
 assed by external violence, I began to feel more uneasi- 
 ness in my mind. After some time we stopped near 
 a spring, shaded with trees, in a pleasant meadow, 
 where we where set upon the ground, and offered 
 such refreshments as our masters were partaking. I 
 was suffered to sit with my maids apart from the 
 rest, and none attempted to comfort or insult us. 
 Here I first began to feel the full weight of my mis- 
 ery. The girls sat weeping in silence, and from 
 time to time looked on me for succor. I knew not 
 to what condition we were doomed, nor could conjec- 
 ture where would be the place of our captivity, ox 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF THE LADY PEKUAH. 303 
 
 whence to draw any liope of deliverance. I was in 
 the hands of robbers and savages and had no reason 
 to suppose that their pity was more than their justice, 
 or that they would forbear the gratification of any 
 ardor of desire or caprice of cruelty. I, however, 
 kissed my maids, and endeavored to pacify them by 
 remarking, that we were yet treated with decency, 
 and that, since we were now carried beyond pursuit, 
 there was no danger of violence to our lives. 
 
 " When we were to be set again on horseback, my 
 maids clung round me, and refused to be parted, but 
 I commanded them not to irritate those who had us 
 in their power. We travelled the remaining part of 
 the day through an unfrequented and pathless coun- 
 try, and came by moonlight to the side of a hill, 
 where the rest of the troop was stationed. Their 
 tents were pitched and their fires kindled, and our 
 chief was welcomed as a man much beloved by his 
 dependants. 
 
 " We were received into a large tent, where we 
 found women who had attended their husbands in the 
 expedition. They set before us the supper which 
 they had provided, and I ate it rather to encourage 
 my maids than to comply with any appetite of my 
 own. When the meat was taken away they spread 
 the carpets for repose. I was weary, and hoped to 
 find in sleep that remission of distress which nature 
 seldom denies. Ordering myself therefore to be un- 
 dressed, I observed that the women looked very 
 earnestly upon me, not expecting, I suppose, to see 
 jne so submissively attended. When my upper vest 
 
304 EASSELAS. 
 
 was taken off, they were apparently struck with the 
 splendor of my clothes, and one of them timorously 
 laid her hand upon the embroidery. She then went 
 out, and in a short time came back with another 
 woman, who seemed to be of higher rank and greater 
 authority. She did, at her entrance, the usual act of 
 reverence, and, taking me by the hand, placed me in 
 a smaller tent, spread with finer carpets, where I 
 spent the night quietly with my maids. 
 
 " In the morning, as I was sitting on the grass, the 
 the chief of the troop came towards me. I rose up 
 to receive him, and he bowed with great respect. 
 ' Illustrious lady,' said he, ' my fortune is better than 
 I had presumed to hope ; I am told by my women, 
 that I have a princess in my camp.' — ' Sir, answered 
 I, ' your women have deceived themselves and you ; 
 I am not a princess, but an unhappy stranger who 
 intended soon to have left this country, in which I 
 am now to be imprisoned forever.' — 'Whoever, or 
 whencesoever you are,' returned the Arab, 'your 
 dress, and that of your servants, show your rank to 
 be high, and your wealth to be great. Why should 
 you, who can so easily procure your ransom, think 
 yourself in danger of perpetual captivity? The 
 purpose of my incursions is to increase my riches, or, 
 more properly, to gather tribute. The sons of Ish- 
 mael are the natural and hereditary lords of this part 
 of the continent, which is usurped by late invaders 
 and low-born tyrants, from whom we are compelled 
 to take by the sword what is denied to justice. The 
 violenee of war admits no distinction ; the lance, that 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF THE LADY PEKUAH. 305 
 
 is lifted at guilt and power, will sometimes fall on 
 innocence and gentleness." 
 
 " ' How little,' said I, ' did I expect that yesterday 
 it should have fallen upon me ! ' 
 
 " 'Misfortunes,' answeredthe Arab, 'should always 
 be expected. If the eye of hostility could learn rev- 
 erence or pity, excellence like yours had been exempt 
 from injury. But the angels of affliction spread their 
 toils alike for the virtuous and the wicked, for the 
 mighty and the mean. Do not be disconsolate : I 
 am not one of the lawless and cruel rovers of the 
 desert ; I know the rules of civil life : I will fix your 
 ransom, give a passport to your messenger, and per- 
 form my stipulation with nice punctuality.' 
 
 " You will .easily believe that I was pleased with 
 his courtesy : and, finding that his predominant pas- 
 sion was desire of money, I began now to think my 
 danger less, fori knew that no sum would be thought 
 too great for the release of Pekuah. I told him that 
 he should have no reason to charge me with ingrati- 
 tude, if I was used with kindness, and that any ran- 
 som which could be expected from a maid of common 
 rank, would be paid, but that he must not persist to 
 rate me as a princess. He said he would consider 
 what he should demand, and then, smiling, bowed 
 and retired. 
 
 " Soon after the women came about me, each con- 
 tending to be more officious than the other, and my 
 maids themselves were served with reverence. We 
 travelled onward by short journeys. On the fourth 
 day the chief told me, that my ransom must be two 
 
 20 
 
306 RASSELAS. 
 
 hundred ounces of gold ; which I not only promised 
 him, but told him that I would add fifty more, if I 
 and my maids were honorably treated. 
 
 " I never knew the power of gold before. From 
 that time I was the leader of the troop. The march 
 of every day was longer or shorter as I commanded, 
 and the tents were pitched where I chose to rest. 
 We now had camels and other conveniences for 
 travel, my own women were always at my side, and 
 I amused myself with observing the manners of the 
 vagrant nations, and with viewing remains of ancient 
 edifices, with which these deserted countries appear 
 to have been, in some distant age, lavishly embellished. 
 
 " The chief of the band was a man far from illit^ 
 erate : he was able to travel by the stars or the com- 
 pass, and had marked, in his erratic expeditions, such 
 places as are most worthy the notice of a passenger. 
 He observed to me, that buildings are always best 
 preserved in places little frequented and difficult of 
 access ; for, when once a country declines from its 
 primitive splendor, the more inhabitants are left, the 
 quicker ruin will be made. Walls supply stones 
 more easily than quarries, and palaces and temples 
 will be demolished, to make stables of granite, and 
 cottages of porphyry." 
 
THE ADVENTURES OP PEKUAH CONTINUED, gof 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF PEKUAH CONTINUED. 
 
 " We wandered about in this manner for some 
 weeks, whether, as our chief pretended, for my grati- 
 fication, or, as I rather suspected, for some conve- 
 nience of his own. I endeavored to appear contented 
 where suUenness and resentment would have been 
 of no use, and that endeavor conduced much to the 
 calmness of my mind ; but my heart was always with 
 Nekayah, and the troubles of the night much over- 
 balanced the amusements of the day. My women, 
 who threw all their cares upon their mistress, set 
 their minds at ease from the time when they saw me 
 treated with respect, and gave themselves up to the 
 incidental alleviations of our fatigue without solici- 
 tude or sorrow. I was pleased with their pleasure, 
 and animated with their confidence. My condition 
 had lost much of its terror, since I found that the 
 Arab ranged the conntry merely for riches. Avaric e 
 ja Q nnifr>rry| j^pfl f.ra.nta. hlc vicB : o ther intellectual 
 distempers are different in different constitutions of 
 mind ; that which soothes the pride of one will offend 
 the pride of another ; but to the favor of the covetous 
 there is a ready way ; bring money, and nothing is 
 denied. 
 
308 EASSELAS. 
 
 " At last we came to the dwelling of our chief, a 
 strong and spacious house built with stone in an isl- 
 and of the Nile, which lies, as I was told, under the 
 tropic. ' Lady,' said the Arab, ' you shall rest after 
 your journey a few weeks in this place, where you 
 are to consider yourself as sovereign. My occupa- 
 tion is war : I have therefore chosen this obscure res- 
 idence, from which I can issue unexpected, and to 
 which I can retire unpursued. You may now repose 
 in security : here are few pleasures, but here is no 
 danger.' He then led me into the inner apartments, 
 and, seating me on the richest couch, bowed to the 
 ground. His woman, who considered me as a rival, 
 looked on me with malignity ; but being soon in- 
 formed that I was a great lady detained only for my 
 ransom, they began to vie with each other in obsequi- 
 ousness and reverence. 
 
 " Being again comforted with new assurances of 
 speedy liberty, I was for some days diverted from 
 impatience by the novelty of the place. The turrets 
 overlooked the country to a great distance, and 
 afforded a view of many windings of the stream. In 
 the day I wandered from one place to another, as the 
 course of the sun varied the splendor of the prospect, 
 and saw many things which I had never seen before. 
 The crocodiles and river-borses are common in this 
 unpeopled region, and I often looked upon them with 
 terror, tliough I knew that they could not hurt me. 
 For some time I expected to see mermaids and tri- 
 tons, which, as Imlac has told me, the European trav- 
 ellers have stationed in the Nile ; but no such beings 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF PEKUAH CONTINUED. 309 
 
 ever appeared, and the Arab, when I inquired after 
 them, laughed at my credulity. 
 
 " At night, the Arab always attended me to a 
 tower set apart for celestial observations, where he 
 endeavored to teach me the names and courses of the 
 stars. I had no great inclination to this study, but 
 an appearance of attention was necessary to please 
 my instructor, who valued himself for his skill ; and, 
 in a little while, I found some employment requisite 
 to beguile the tediousness of time, which was to be 
 passed always amidst the same objects. I was weary 
 of looking in the morning on things from which I 
 had turned away weary in the evening; I therefore 
 was at last willing to observe the stars rather than do 
 nothing, but could not always compose my thoughts, 
 and was very often thinking on Nekayah, when others 
 imagined me contemplating the sky. Soon after the 
 Arab went upon another expedition, and then my 
 only pleasure was to talk with my maids about the 
 accident by which we were carried away, and the 
 happiness that we should all enjoy at the end of our 
 captivity." 
 
 " There were women in your Arab's fortress," said 
 the princess, " why did you not make them your 
 companions, enjoy their conversation, and partake 
 their diversions ? In a place where they found busi- 
 ness or amusement, why should you alone sit cor- 
 roded with idle melancholy ? or why could not you 
 bear for a few months that condition to which they 
 were condemned for life ? " 
 
 " The diversions of the women," answered Pekuah, 
 
310 EASSELAS. 
 
 " were only childish play, by which the mind, accus- 
 tomed to stronger operations, could not be kept busy. 
 I could do all which they delighted in doing by 
 powers merely sensitive, while my intellectual fac- 
 ulties were flown to Cairo. They ran from room to 
 room, as a bird hops from wire to Mdre in his cage. 
 They danced for the sake of motion, as lambs frisk in 
 a meadow. One sometimes pretended to be hurt, 
 that the rest might be alarmed ; or hid herself, that 
 another might seek. Part of their time passed in 
 watching the progress of light bodies that floated on 
 the river, and part in marking the various forms into 
 which clouds broke in the sky. 
 
 " Their business was only needlework, in which I 
 and my maids sometimes helped them ; but you know 
 that the mind will easily straggle from the fingers, 
 nor will you suspect that captivity and absence from 
 Nekayah could receive solace from silken flowers. 
 
 " Nor was much satisfaction to be hoped from their 
 conversation ; for of what could they be expected to 
 talk ? They had seen nothing : for they had lived 
 from early youth in that narrow spot : of what they 
 had not seen they could have no knowledge, for they 
 could not read. They had no ideas but of the few 
 things that were within their view, and had hardly 
 names for anything but their clothes and their food. 
 As I bore a superior character, I was often called to 
 terminate their quarrels, which I decided as equi- 
 tably as I could. If it could have amused me to hear 
 the complaints of each against the rest, I might have 
 been often detained by long stories ; but the motives 
 
THE AD-^ENTITEES OF PEKtJAH CONTlNtTBD. 311 
 
 of their animosity were so small that I could not 
 listen without interrupting the tale." 
 
 " How," said Easselas, " can the Arab, whom you 
 represented as a man of more than common accom- 
 plishments, take any pleasure in his seraglio, when it 
 is filled only with women like these ? Are they ex- 
 quisitely beautiful ? " 
 
 " They do not," said Pekuah, " want that unaffect- 
 ing and ignoble beauty which may subsist without 
 sprightliness or sublimity, without energy of thought 
 or dignity of virtue. But to a man like the Arab 
 such beauty was only a flower casually plucked and 
 carelessly thrown away. Whatever pleasures he 
 might find among them, they were not those of friend- 
 ship or society. When they were playing about him, 
 he looked on them with inattentive superiority ; when 
 they vied for his regard, he sometimes turned away 
 disgusted. As they had no knowledge, their talk 
 could take nothing from the tediousness of life ; as 
 they had no choice, their fondness, or appearance 
 of fondness, excited in him neither pride nor grati- 
 tude : he was not exalted in his own esteem by 
 the smiles of a woman who saw no other man, nor 
 was much obliged by that regard, of which he could 
 never know the sincerity, and which he might often 
 perceive to be exerted, not so much to delight him as 
 to pain a rival. That which he gave, and they re- 
 ceived, as love, was only a careless distribution of 
 superfluous time, such love as man can bestow upon 
 that which he despises, such as has neither hope nor 
 fear, neither joy nor sorrow." 
 
312 RASSELAS. 
 
 " You have reason, lady, to think yourself happy," 
 said Imlac, " that you have been thus easily dismissed. 
 How could a mind, hungry for knowledge, be will- 
 ing, in an intellectual famine, to lose such a banquet 
 as Pekuah's conversation ? " 
 
 "I am inclined to believe," answered Pekuah, 
 " that he was for some time in suspense ; for notwith- 
 standing his promise, whenever I proposed to dis- 
 patch a messenger to Cairo, he found some excuse 
 for delay. While I was detained in his house he made 
 many excursions into the neighboring countries, and, 
 perhaps, he would have refused to discharge me, had 
 his plunder been equal to his wishes. He returned 
 always courteous, related his adventures, delighted 
 to hear my observations, and endeavored to advance 
 my acquaintance with the stars. When I importuned 
 him to send away my letters, he soothed me with 
 professions of honor and sincerity : and, when I could 
 be no longer decently denied, put his troop again in 
 motion, and left me to govern in his absence. I was 
 much afflicted by this studied procrastination, and 
 was sometimes afraid that I should be forgotten ; 
 that you would leave Cairo, and I must end my days 
 in an island of the Nile. 
 
 " I grew at last hopeless and dejected, and cared so 
 little to entertain him that he for a while more fre- 
 quently talked with my maids. That he should fall 
 in love with them, or with me, might have been 
 equally fatal, and I was not much pleased with the 
 growing friendship. My anxiety was not long ; for, 
 as I recovered some degree of cheerfulness, he 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF PEKUAH CONTINUED. 313 
 
 returned to me, and I could not forbear to despise my 
 former uneasiness. 
 
 "He still delayed to send for my ransom, and 
 would, perhaps never have determined, had not your 
 agent found his way to him. The gold, which he 
 would not fetch, he could not reject when it was 
 offered. He hastened to prepare for our journey 
 hither, like a man delivered from the pain of an in- 
 testine conflict. I took leave of my companions in 
 the house, who dismissed me with cold indifference." 
 
 Nekayah, having heard her favorite's relation, rose 
 and embraced her ; and Rasselas gave her a hundred 
 ounces of gold, which she presented to the Arab for 
 the fifty that were promised. 
 
314 RASSELAS. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. ^ 
 
 THE aiSTOET OF A MAN OF LEABNING. 
 
 They returned to Cairo, and were so well pleased 
 at finding themselves together that none of them 
 went much abroad. The prince began to love learn- 
 ing, and one day declared to Imlac, that he intended 
 to devote himself to science, and pass the rest of his 
 days in literary solitude. 
 
 "Before you make your final choice," answered 
 Imlac, you ought to examine its hazards, and con- 
 verse with some of those who are grown old in the 
 company of themselves. I have just left the observ- 
 atory of one of the most learned astronomers in the 
 world, who has spent forty years in unwearied atten- 
 tion to the motions and appearances of the celestial 
 bodies, and has drawn out his soul in endless calcu- 
 lations. He admits a few friends once a month to 
 hear his deductions and enjoy his discoveries. I was 
 introduced as a man of knowledge worthy of hi? 
 notice. Men of various ideas and fluent conversation 
 are commonly welcome to those whose thoughts have 
 been long fixed upon a single point, and who find the 
 images of other things stealing away. I delighted 
 him with my remarks ; he smiled at the narrative of 
 my travels ; and was glad to forget the constella- 
 
THE HISTORY OF A MAN OP LEARNING. 31 g 
 
 tions, and descend for a moment into the lower 
 world. 
 
 " On the next day of vacation 1 renewed my visit, 
 and was so fortunate as to please him again. He 
 relaxed from that time the severity of his rule, and 
 permitted me to enter at my own choice. I found 
 him always busy, and always glad to be relieved. 
 As each knew much which the other was desirous of 
 learning, we exchanged our notions with great de- 
 light. I perceived that I had every day more of his 
 confidence, and always found new cause of admira- 
 tion in the profundity of his mind. His comprehen- 
 sion is vast, his memory ca^^acious and retentive, his 
 discourse is methodical, and his expression clear. 
 
 " His integrity and benevolence are equal to his 
 learning. His deepest researches and most favorite 
 studies are willingly interrupted for an opportunity 
 of doing good by his counsel or his riches. To his 
 closest retreat, at his most busy moments, all are 
 admitted that want his assistance : ' For, though I ex- 
 clude idleness and pleasure, ' I will never,' says he, 
 ' bar my doors against charity. To man is permitted 
 the contemplation of the skies, but the practice of 
 virtue is commanded.' " 
 
 " Surely," said the princess, " this man is happy." 
 
 " I visited him," said Imlac, " with more and more 
 frequency, and was every time more enamored of his 
 conversation ; he was sublime without haughtiness, 
 courteous without formality, and communicative 
 without ostentation. I was at first, great princess, 
 of your opinion, thought him the happiest of man- 
 
ni6 EASSELAS. 
 
 kind, and often congratulated him on the blessing 
 that he enjoyed. He seemed to hear nothing with 
 indifference but the praises of his condition, to which 
 he always returned a general answer, and diverted 
 the conversation to some other topic. 
 
 "Amidst this willingness to be pleased and labor 
 to please, I had quickly reason to imagine that some 
 painful sentiment pressed upon his mind. He often 
 looked up earnestly towards the sun, and let his 
 voice fall in the midst of his discourse. He would 
 sometimes, when we were alone, gaze upon me in 
 silence with the air of a man who longed to speak 
 what he was yet resolved to suppress. He would 
 often send for me, with vehement injunctions of 
 haste, though, when I came to him, he had nothing 
 extraordinary to say. And sometimes, when I was 
 leaving him, he would call me back, pause a few 
 moments, and then dismiss me." 
 
ASTRONOMER'S CAUSE OF UNEASINESS. 31^ 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 THE ASTEONOMER DISCOVERS THE CAUSE OP HIS 
 UNEASINESS. 
 
 " At last the time came when the secret burst his 
 reserve. We were sitting together last night in the 
 turret of his huse, watching the emersion of a satel- 
 lite of Jupiter. A sudden tempest clouded the sky, 
 and disappointed our observation. We sat a while 
 silent in the dark, and then he addressed himself to 
 me in these words : — ' Imlac, I have long considered 
 thy friendship as the greatest blessing of my life. 
 Integrity without knowledge is weak and useless, and 
 know;ledge without integrity is dangerous and dread- 
 ful. I have found in thee all the qualities requisite 
 for trust, benevolence, experience, and fortitude. I 
 have long discharged an office which I must soon 
 quit at the call of nature, and shall rejoice, in the 
 hour of imbecility and pain, to devolve it upon 
 thee.' 
 
 " I thought myself honored by this testimony, and 
 protested, that whatever would conduce to his hap- 
 piness would add likewise to mine. 
 
 " ' Hear, Imlac, what thou wilt not without diffi- 
 culty credit. I have possessed for five years the 
 regulation of the weather and the distribution of the 
 seasons ; the sun has listened to my dictates, and 
 
318 RASSELAS. 
 
 passed from tropic to tropic by my direction ; the 
 clouds, at my call, have poured their waters, and the 
 Nile has overflowed at my command ; I have re- 
 strained the rage of the dog-star, and mitigated the 
 fervors of the crab. The winds alone, of all the ele- 
 mental powers, have hitherto refused my authority, 
 and multitudes have perished by equinoctial tempest 
 which I have found myself unable to prohibit or 
 restrain. I have administered this great office with 
 exact justice, and made to the different nations of 
 the earth an impartial dividend of rain and sunshine. 
 What must have been the misery of half the globe 
 if I had limited the clouds to particular regions, or 
 confined the sun to either side of the equator ? ' " 
 
THE OPINION OF THE ASTRONOMER. 310 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 THE OPINION OF THE ASTRONOMBB IS EXPLAINED 
 AND JTrSTIPIED. 
 
 " I SUPPOSE he discovered in me, through the ob- 
 scurity of the room, some tokens of amazement and 
 doubt, for, after a short pause, he proceeded thus : 
 
 " ' Not to be easily credited will neither surprise 
 nor offend me ; for I am, probably, the first of human 
 beings to whom this trust has been imparted. Nor 
 do I know whether to deem the distinction a reward 
 or punishment; since I have possessed it I have 
 been far less happy than before, and nothing but the 
 consciousness of good intention could have enabled 
 me to support the weariness of unremitted vigil- 
 ance.' 
 
 " ' How long, sir,' said I, ' has this great office been 
 in your hands ? ' 
 
 " ' About ten years ago,' said he, ' my daily observ- 
 ations of the changes of the sky led me to consider 
 whether, if I had the power of the seasons, I could 
 confer greater plenty upon the inhabitants of the 
 earth. This contemplation fastened upon my mind 
 and I sat days and nights in imaginary dominion, 
 pouring upon this country and that the showers of 
 fertility, and seconding every fall of rain with a due 
 proportion of sunshine. I had yet only the will to 
 
320 EASSELAS. 
 
 do good, and did not imagine that I should ever have 
 the power. 
 
 " ' One day, as I was looking on the fields wither- 
 ing with heat, I felt in my mind a sudden wish that 
 I could send rain on the southern mountains, and 
 raise the Nile to an inundation. In the hurry of my 
 imagination I commanded rain to fall ; and, by com- 
 paring the time of my command with that of the 
 inundation, I found that the clouds had listened to 
 my lips.' 
 
 " ' Might not some other cause,' said I, ' produce 
 this concurrence ? the Nile does not always rise on 
 the same day.' 
 
 " ' Do not believe,' said he with impatience, ' that 
 such objections could escape me : I reasoned long 
 against my own conviction, and labored against truth 
 with the utmost obstinacy. I sometimes suspected 
 myself of madness, and should not have dared to 
 impart this secret but to a man like you, capable of 
 distinguishing the wonderful from the impossible, 
 and the incredible from the false.' 
 
 " ' Why, sir,' said I, - do you call that incredible 
 which you know, or think you know, to be true ? " 
 
 " ' Because," said he, ' I cannot prove it by any 
 external evidence ; and I know too well the laws of 
 demonstration to think that my conviction ought to 
 influence another, who cannot, like me, be conscious 
 of its force. I therefore shall not attempt to gain 
 credit by disputation. It is sufficient that I feel this 
 power, that I have long possessed, and every day 
 exerted it. But the life of man is short, the infirm^ 
 
THE OPINION OP THE AS'TROKOMER. 321 
 
 ities of age increase upon me, and the time will soon 
 come when the regulator of the year must mingle 
 with the dust. _ The care of appointing a successor 
 has long disturbed me ; the night and the day haye 
 been spent in comparisons of all characters which 
 have come to my knowledge, and I have yet found 
 none so worthy as thyself.' " 
 
RA8SELAS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 THE ASTRONOMER LEAVES IMLAC HIS DIRECTIONS. 
 
 " ' Hear, therefore, what I shall impart with 
 attention, such as the welfare of a world requires. 
 If the task of a king be considered as difficult, who 
 has the care only of a few millions, to whom he can- 
 not do much good or harm, what must be the anxiety 
 of hiin, on whom depends the action of the elements, 
 and the great gifts of light and heat? — Hear me, 
 therefore, with attention. 
 
 " ' I have diligently considered the position of the 
 earth and sun, and formed innumerable schemes in 
 which I changed their situation. I have sometimes 
 turned aside the axis of the earth, and sometimes 
 varied the ecliptic of the sun : but I have found it 
 imjiossible to make a disposition by which the world 
 'iuay be advantaged; what one region gains another 
 loses by an imaginable alteration, even without con- 
 sidering the distant parts of the solar system with 
 which we are acquainted. Do not, therefore, in thy 
 administration of the year, indulge thy pride by in- 
 novation ; do not please thyself with thinking that 
 tliou canst make thyself renowned to all future ages, 
 by disordering tlie seasons. The memory of mis- 
 chief is no desirable fame. Much less will it become 
 
ASTRONOMER LEAVES IMLAC HIS DIRECTIONS. 323 
 
 thee to let kindness or interest prevail. Never rob 
 other countries of rain to pour it on thine own. For 
 us the Nile is sufficient.' 
 
 " I promised, that when I possessed the power, I 
 would use it vrith inflexible integrity; and he dis- 
 missed me, pressing my hand. ' My heart,' said lie, 
 ' will be now at rest, and my benevolence will no 
 more destroy my quiet ; I have found a man of wis- 
 dom and virtue, to whom I can cheerfully bequeath 
 the inheritance of the sun.' " 
 
 The prince heard this narration with very serious 
 regard ; but the princess smiled, and Pekuah con- 
 vulsed herself with laughter. " Ladies," said Imlac, 
 " to mock the heaviest of human afflictions is neither 
 charitable nor wise. Few can attain this man's 
 knowledge and few practice his virtues ; but all may 
 suffer his calamity. Of the uncertainties of our 
 present state, the most dreadful and alarming is the 
 uncertain continuance of reason." 
 
 The princess was recollected, and the favorite was 
 abashed. Rasselas, more deeply affected, inquired of 
 Imlac, whether he thought such maladies of the mind 
 frequent, and how they were contracted ? 
 
324 EASSELAS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 THE DANGEROUS PEBVALENCB OF IMAGINATION. 
 
 " Disorders of intellect," answered Imlac, " hap- 
 pen much more often than superficial observers will 
 easily believe. Perhaps, if we speak with rigorous 
 exactness, no human mind is in its right state. 
 There is no man whose imagination does not some- 
 times predominate over his reason, who can regulate 
 his attention wholly by his will, and whose ideas will 
 come and go at his command. No man will be found 
 in whose mind airy notions do not sometimes tyran- 
 nize, and force him to hope or fear beyond the limits 
 of sober probability. All power of fancy over reason 
 is a degree of insanity ; but while this power is such 
 as we can control and repress, it is not visible to 
 others, nor considered as any depravation of the 
 mental faculties : It is not pronounced madness but 
 when it becomes ungovernable, and apparently influ- 
 ences speech or action. 
 
 " To indulge the power of fiction, and send imag- 
 ination out upon the wing, is often the sport of 
 those who delight too much in silent speculation. 
 When we are alone we are not always busy ; the 
 labor of excogitation is too violent to last long ; the 
 ardor of inquiry will sometimes give way to idleness 
 or satiety. He who has nothing external that can 
 
DANGEROUS PREVALENCE OF IMAGINATION. 325 
 
 divert him must find pleasure in his own thoughts, 
 and must conceive himself vrhat he is not ; for who 
 is pleased with w:hat he is ? He then expatiates in 
 boundless f aturity, and culls from all imaginable con- 
 ditions that which for the present moment he should 
 most desire, amuses his desires with impossible enjoy- 
 ments, and confers upon his pride unattainable domin- 
 ion. The mind dances from scene to scene, unites 
 all pleasures in all combination, and riots in delights 
 which nature and fortune, with all their bounty, can- 
 not bestow. 
 
 " In time some particular train of ideas fixes the 
 attention ; all other intellectual gratifications are re- 
 jected ; the mind, in weariness or leisure, recurs con- 
 stantly to the favorite conception, and feasts on the 
 luscious falsehood whenever she is offended with the 
 bitterness of truth. By degrees the reign of fancy is 
 confirmed ; she grows first imperious, and in time 
 despotic. Then fictions begin to operate as realities, 
 false opinions fasten upon the mind, and life passes 
 in dreams of rapture or of anguish. 
 
 " This, sir, is one of the dangers of solitude, which 
 the hermit has confessed not always to promote good- 
 ness, and the astronomer's misery has proved to be 
 not always propitious to wisdom." 
 
 " I will no more," said the favorite, " imagine my- 
 self the queen of Abyssinia. I have often spent the 
 hours, which the princess gave to my own disposal, 
 in adjusting ceremonies and regulating the court ; I 
 have repressed the pride of the powerful, and granted 
 the petitions of the poor ; I have built new palaces 
 
826 KASSELAS. 
 
 in more happy situations, planted groves upon the 
 tops of mountains, and have exulted in the benefi- 
 cence of royalty, till, when the princess entered, I 
 had almost forgotten to bow down before her." 
 
 " And I," said the princess, " will not allow myself 
 any more to play the shepherdess in my waking 
 dreams. I have often soothed my thoughts with the 
 quiet and innocence of pastoral employments, till I 
 have, in my chamber, heard the winds whistle and 
 the sheep bleat : sometimes freed the lamb entangled 
 in the thicket, and sometimes with my crook encoun- 
 tered the wolf. I have a dress like that of the village 
 maids, which I put on to help my imagination, and 
 a pipe, on which I play softly, and suppose myself 
 followed by my flocks." 
 
 " I will confess," said the prince, " an indulgence 
 of fantastic delight more dangerous than yours. I 
 have frequently endeavored to imagine the possibility 
 of a perfect government, by which all wrong should 
 be restrained, all vice reformed, and all the subjects 
 preserved in tranquillity and innocence. This thought 
 produced innumerable schemes of reformation, and 
 dictated many useful regulations and salutarj' edicts. 
 This has been the sport, and sometimes the labor, of 
 my solitude ; and I start, when I think with how 
 little anguish I once supposed the death of my father 
 and my brothers." 
 
 " Such," says Imlac, " are the eSect of visionary 
 schemes. When we first form them we know them 
 to be absurd, but familiarize them by degrees, and in 
 time lose sight of their folly." 
 
THEY DISCOURSE WITH AN OLD MAN. 327 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 THEY DISCOtTKSE WITH AN OLD MAN. 
 
 The evening was now far passed, and tlley rose to 
 return home. As they walked along the bank of the 
 Nile, delighted with the beams of the moon quiver- 
 ing on the water, they saw at a small distance an old 
 man, whom the prince had often heard in the assem- 
 bly of the sages. " Yonder," said he, " is one whose 
 years have calmed his passions, but not clouded his 
 reason : let us close the disquisitions of the night by 
 inquiring what are his sentiments of his own state, 
 that we may know whether youth alone is to struggle 
 with vexation, and whether any better hope remains 
 for the latter part of life." 
 
 Here the sage approached and saluted them. 
 They invited him to join their walk, and prattled a 
 while, as acquaintances that had unexpectedly met 
 one another. The old man was cheerful and talk- 
 ative, and the way seemed short in his company. He 
 was pleased to find himself not disregarded, accom- 
 panied them to their house, and, at the prince's re- 
 quest, entered with them. They placed him in the 
 seat of honor, and set wine and conserves before him. 
 
 " Sir," said the princess, " an evening walk must 
 give to a man of learning, like you, pleasures which 
 
a28 RASSELAS. 
 
 ignorance and youth can hardly conceive. You 
 know the qualities and the causes of all that you 
 behold, the law by which the river flows, the periods 
 in which the planets perform their revolutions. 
 Everything must supply you with contemplation, and 
 renew the consciousness of your own dignity." 
 
 " Lady," answered he, " let the gay and the 
 vigorous expect pleasure in their excursions; it is 
 enough that age can obtain ease. To me the world 
 has lost its novelty : I look round and see what I 
 remember to have seen in happier days. I rest 
 against a tree, and consider that in the same shade 
 I once disputed upon the annual overflow of the Nile 
 with a friend who is now silent in the grave. I cast 
 mj eyes upwards, fix them on the changing moon, 
 and think with pain on the vicissitudes of life. I 
 have ceased to take much delight in physical truth ; 
 for what have I to do with those things which I am 
 soon to leave ? " 
 
 " You may at least recreate yourself," said Imlac, 
 " with the recollection of an honorable and useful life, 
 and enjoy the praise which all agree to give you." 
 
 " Praise," said the sage, with a sigh, " is to an old 
 man an empty sound. I have neither mother to be 
 delighted with the reputation of her son, nor wife 
 to partake the honors of her husband. I have out- 
 lived my friends and my rivals. Nothing is now of 
 much imporbance ; for I cannot extend my interest 
 beyond myself. Youth is delighted with applause, 
 because it is considered as the earnest of some future' 
 good, and because the prospect of life is far extended : 
 
THEY DISCOXJESE WITH AN OLD MAN. 329 
 
 but to me, who am now declining to decrepitude, 
 there is little to be feared from the malevolence of 
 men, and yet less to be hoped from their affection 
 or esteem. Something they may yet take away, but 
 they can give me nothing. Riches would now be 
 useless, and high employment would be pain. My 
 retrospect of life recalls to my view many opportuni- 
 ties of good neglected, much time squandered upon 
 trifles, and more lost in idleness and vacancy. I 
 leave many great designs unattempted, and many 
 great attempts unfinished. My mind is burdened 
 with no heavy crime, and therefore I compose my- 
 self to tranquillity ; endeavor to abstract my thoughts 
 from hopes and cares, which, though reason knows 
 them to be vain, still try to keep their old possession 
 of the heart ; expect, with serene humility, that hour 
 which nature cannot long delay ; and hope to possess, 
 in a better state, that happiness which here I could 
 not find, and that virtue which here I have not at- 
 tained." 
 
 He rose and went away, leaving his audience not 
 much elated with the hope of long life. The prince 
 consoled himself with remarking, that it was not 
 reasonable to be disappointed by this account ; for age 
 had never been considered as the season of felicity ; 
 and if it was possible to be easy in decline and weak- 
 ness, it was likely that the days of vigor and alacrity 
 might be happy: that the noon of life could be 
 bright if the evening could be calm. 
 
 The princess suspected that age was querulous and 
 malignant, and delighted to repress the expectations of 
 
330 RASSELAS. 
 
 those who had newly entered the world. She had 
 seen the possessors of estates look with envy on their 
 heirs, and known many who enjoyed pleasure no 
 longer than they could confine it to themselves. 
 
 Pekuah conjectured that the man was older than 
 he appeared, and was willing to impute his com- 
 plaints to delirious dejection ; or else supposed that 
 he had been unfortunate, aud was therefore dis- 
 contented; " For nnt hing," said she, " is more _ com- 
 
 mon than to call our own f .nndit.ipn tTi^ r^nnrlifinn of 
 
 life/' 
 
 Imlac, who had no desire to see them depressed, 
 smiled at the comforts which they could so readily 
 procure to themselves, and remembered, that at the 
 same age he was equally confident of unmingled 
 prosperity, and equally fertile of consolatory expedi- 
 ents. He forbore to force upon them unwelcome 
 knowledge, which time itself would too soon impress. 
 The princess and her lady retired; the madness of 
 the astronomer hung upon their minds, and they 
 desired Imlac to enter upon his office, and delay next 
 morning the rising of the sun. 
 
PRINCESS AND PEKUAH VISIT ASTRONOMER. 33I 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 THE PRINCESS AND PEKUAH VISIT THE ASTEONOMEB. 
 
 The princess and Pekuah, having talked in pri- 
 vate of Imlac's astronomer, thought his character at 
 once so amiable and so strange that they could not 
 be satisfied with a nearer knowledge ; and Imlac was 
 requested to find the means of bringing them to- 
 gether. 
 
 This was somewhat difficult, the philosopher had 
 never received any visits from women, though he 
 lived in a city that had in it many Europeans, who 
 followed the manners of their own countries, and 
 many from other parts of the world, that lived 
 there with European liberty. The ladies would not 
 be refused, and several schemes were proposed for 
 the accomplishment of their design. It was proposed 
 to introduce them as strangers in distress, to whom 
 the sage was always accessible ; but, after some de- 
 liberation, it appeared that by this artifice no ac- 
 quaintance could be formed, for their conversation 
 would be short, and they could not decently impor- 
 tune him often. " This," said Rasselas, " is true ; 
 but I have yet a stronger objection against misrepre- 
 sentation of yonr state. I have always considered it 
 
g3S RASSELAS. 
 
 as treason against the great republic of human 
 nature to make any man's virtues the means of de- 
 ceiving him, whether on great or little occasions. 
 All imposture weakens confidence and chills benev- 
 olence. When the sage finds that you are not what 
 you seemed, he will feel the resentment nature to a 
 man who, conscious of great abilities, discovers that he 
 has been tricked by understandings meaner that his 
 own; and, perhaps, the distrust, which he can never 
 afterwards wholly lay aside, may stop the- voice of 
 counsel and close the hand of charity ; and where will 
 you find the power of restoring his benefactions to 
 mankind or his peace to himself ? " 
 
 To this no reply was attempted, and Imlac began 
 to hope that their curiosity would subside, but, next 
 day, Pekuah told him, she had now found an honest 
 pretence for a visit to the astronomer, for she would 
 solicit permission to continue under him the studies 
 in which she had been initiated by the Arab, and 
 the princess might go with her either as a fellow 
 student, or because a woman could not decently come 
 alone. " I am afraid," said Imlac, " that he will be 
 soon weary of your company ; men advanced far in 
 knowledge do not love to repeat the elements of 
 their art, and I am not certain that even of the ele- 
 ments, as he will deliver them connected with infer- 
 ences and mingled with reflections, you are a very 
 capable auditress," 
 
 "That," said Pekuah, " must be my care ; I ask of 
 you only to take me thither. Mj'' knowledge is, per- 
 haps, more than you imagine it ; and, by concurring 
 
PRINCESS AND PEKUAH VISIT ASTRONOMER. 333 
 
 always with his opinions, I shall make him think it 
 greater than it is." 
 
 The astronomer, in pursuance of this resolution, 
 was told that a foreign lady, travelling in search of 
 knowledge, had heard of his reputation, and was de- 
 sirous to become his scholar. The uncommonness 
 of the proposal raised at once his surprise and curi- 
 osity : and when, after a short deliberation, he con- 
 sented to admit her, he could not stay without 
 impatience till the next day. 
 
 The ladies dressed themselves magnificently, and 
 were attended by Imlac to the astronomer, who was 
 pleased to see himself approached with respect by 
 persons of so splendid an appearance. In the ex- 
 change of the first civilities he was timorous and 
 bashful; but when the talk became regular, he 
 recollected his powers, and justified the character 
 which Imlac had given. Inquiring of Pekuah, what 
 could have turned her inclination towards astron- 
 omy ? he received from her a history of her adven- 
 ture at the pyramid, and of the time passed in the 
 Arab's island. She told her tale with ease and ele- 
 gance, and her conversation took possession of his 
 heart. The discourse was then turned to astron- 
 omy ; Pekuah displayed what she knew ; he looked 
 upon her as a prodigy of genius, and entreated her 
 not to desist from a study which she had so happily 
 begun. 
 
 They came again and again, and were every time 
 more welcome than before. The sage endeavored to 
 amuse them, that they might prolong their visits, 
 
n3i RASSELAS. 
 
 for he found his thoughts grow brighter in their 
 company ; the clouds of solicitude vanished by de- 
 grees, as he forced himself to entertain them ; and 
 he grieved when he was left at their departure to his 
 old employiuent of regulating the seasons. 
 
 The princess and her favorite had now watched 
 his lips for several months, and could not catch a 
 single word from which they could judge whether 
 he continued, or not, in the opinion of his preter- 
 natural commission. They often contrived to bring 
 him to an open declaration : but he easily eluded all 
 their attacks, and on which side soever they pressed 
 him escaped from them to some other topic. 
 
 As their familiarity increased, they invited him 
 often to the house of Imlac, where they distinguished 
 him by extraordinary respect. He began gradually 
 to delight in sublunary pleasures. He came early, 
 and departed late ; labored to recommend him- 
 self by assiduity and compliance ; excited their cu- 
 riosity after new arts, that they might still want his 
 assistance ; and when they made any excursion of 
 pleasure or inquiry, entreated to attend them. 
 
 By long experience of his integrity and wisdom, 
 the prince and his sister were convinced that he 
 might be trusted without danger ; and, lest he 
 should draw any false hopes from the civilities which 
 he received, discovered to hira their condition, with 
 the motives of their journey ; and required his opin- 
 ion on the choice of life. 
 
 " Of the various conditions which the world 
 spreads before you, which you shall prefer," said the 
 
PRINCESS AND PEKUAH VISIT ASTRONOMER. 335 
 
 sage, " I am not able to instruct j'ou. I can only 
 tell that I have chosen wrong. I have passed my 
 time in study without experience ; in the attainment 
 of sciences which can, for the most part, be but re- 
 motely useful to mankind. I have purchased knowl- 
 edge at the expense of all the common comforts of 
 life ; I have missed the endearing elegance of female 
 friendship, and the happy commerce of domestic 
 tenderness. If I have obtained any prerogatives 
 above other students, they have been accompanied 
 with fear, disquiet, and scrupulosity : but even of 
 these prerogatives, whatever they were, I have, since 
 my thoughts have been divei'sified by more inter- 
 course with the world, begun to question the reality. 
 When I have been for a few days lost in pleasing 
 dissipation, I am always tempted to think that my 
 inquiries have ended in error, and that I have suf- 
 fered much, and suffered it in vain." 
 
 Imlac was delighted to find that the sage's under- 
 standing was breaking through its mists, and re- 
 solved to detain him from the planets till he should 
 forget his task of ruling them, and reason should re- 
 cover its original influence. 
 
 From this time the astronomer was received into 
 familiar friendship, and partook of all their projects 
 and pleasures : his respect kept him attentive, and 
 the activity of Rasselas did not leave much time un- 
 engaged. Something was always to be done ; the 
 day was spent in making observations, which fur- 
 nished talk for the evening, and the evening was 
 closed with a scheme for the morrow. 
 
336 rasselaS. 
 
 The sage confessed to Imlac, that since he had 
 mingled in the gay tumults of life, and divided his 
 hours by a succession of amusements, he found the 
 conviction of his authority over the skies fade grad- 
 ually from his mind, and began to trust less to an 
 opinion vi^hich he never could prove to others, and 
 which he now found subject to variation, from causes 
 in which reason had no part. " If I am accidentally 
 left alone for a few hours," said he, " my inveterate 
 persuasion rushes upon my soul, and my thoughts 
 are chained down by some irresistible violence ; but 
 they are soon disentangled by the prince's conver- 
 sation, and instantaneously released at the entrance 
 of Pekuah. I am like a man habitually afraid 
 of spectres, who is set at ease by a lamp, and 
 wonders at the dread which harassed him in the 
 dark ; yet, if his lamp be extinguished, feels again 
 the terrors which he knows that when it is light he 
 shall feel no more. But I am sometimes afraid lest 
 I indulge my quiet by criminal negligence, and vol- 
 untarily forget the great charge with which I am 
 intrusted. If I favor myself in a known error, or am 
 determined by my own ease in a doubtful question 
 of this importance, how dreadful is my crime ! " 
 
 "No disease of the imagination," answered Im- 
 lac, " is so diflficult of cure as that which is compli- 
 cated with the dread of guilt : fancy and conscience 
 then act interchangeably upon us, and so often shift 
 their places that the illusions of one are not dis- 
 tinguished from the dictates of the other. If fancy 
 presents images not moral or religions, the mind 
 
drives them away wlieu they give it pain ; but when 
 melancholic notions take the form of duty, they lay 
 hold on the faculties without opposition, because we 
 are afraid to exclude or banish them. For this rea- 
 son the superstitious are often melancholy, and the 
 melancholy almost always superstitious. 
 
 " But do not let the suggestions of timidity over- 
 power your better reason : the danger of neglect can 
 be but as the probability of the obligation, which 
 when you consider it with freedom, you find very 
 little, and that little growing every day less. Open 
 your heart to the influence of the light which from 
 time to time, breaks in upon you : when scruples im- 
 portune you, which you in your lucid moments know 
 to be vain, do not stand to parley, but fly to business 
 or to Pekuah, and keep this thought always prev- 
 alent, that you are only one atom of the mass of 
 humanity, and have neither such virtue nor vice as 
 that you should be singled out for supernatural 
 favors or afflictions." 
 
 22 
 
j3S RASSBLAS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 THE PEINCE ENTERS, AND BEINGS A NEW TOPIC. 
 
 "All tMs," said the astronomer, "I have often 
 thought, but my reason has been so long subjugated 
 by an uncontrollable and overwhelming idea that it 
 durst not confide in its own decisions. I now see 
 how fatally I betray my quiet, by suffering chimeras 
 to prey upon me in secret ; but melancholy shrinks 
 from communication, and I never found a man before 
 to whom I could impart my troubles, though I had 
 been certain of relief. I rejoice to find my own senti- 
 ments confirmed by yours, who are not easily de- 
 ceived, and can have no motive or purpose to deceive. 
 I hope that time and variety will dissipate the gloom 
 that has so long surrounded me, and the latter part 
 of my days will be spent in peace." 
 
 " Your learning and virtue," said Imlac, " may 
 justly give you hopes." 
 
 Rasselas then entered with the princess and Pe- 
 kuah, and inquired whether they had contrived any 
 new diversion for the next day ? " Such," said Neka- 
 yah, " is the state of life, that no ne are happy_ but 
 b y the anticipation of cbap ge : the change itself is 
 nothing ; when we have made it, the next wish is to 
 change again. The world is not yet exhausted ; let 
 
THE PRINCE BEINGS A NEW TOPIC. 339 
 
 me see something to-morrow which I never saw 
 before." 
 
 "Variety," said Rasselas, is so necessary to con- 
 tent, that even the happy valley disgusted me by the 
 recurrence of its luxuries ; yet I could not forbear to 
 reproach myself with impatience when I saw the 
 monks of St. Anthony support, without complaint, a 
 life, not of uniform delight, but uniform hardship." 
 
 " Those men," answered Imlae, " are less wretched 
 in their silent convent than the Abyssinian princes 
 in their prison of pleasure. Whatever is done by 
 the monks is incited by an adequate and reasonable 
 motive. Their labor supplies them with necessaries ; 
 it therefore cannot be omitted, and is certainly re- 
 warded. Their devotion prepares them for another 
 state, and reminds them of its approach while it fits 
 them for it. Their time is regularly distributed : 
 one duty succeeds another, so that they are not left 
 open to the distraction of unguided choice, nor lost 
 in the shades of listless inactivity. There is a cer- 
 tain task to be performed at an appropriated hour ; 
 and their toils are cheerful because they consider 
 them as acts of piety, by which they are always ad- 
 vancing towards endless felicity." 
 
 " Do you think," said Nekayah, " that the mon- 
 astic rule is a more holy and less imperfect state than 
 any other ? May not he equally hope for future hap- 
 piness who converses openly with mankind, who 
 succors the distressed by his charity, instructs the 
 ignorant by his learning, and contributes by his in- 
 dustry to tlie general system of life; even though Iiq 
 
SiO UASSELAS. 
 
 should omit some of the mortifications which are 
 practised in the cloister, and allow himself such 
 harmless delights as his condition may place within 
 his reach ? " 
 
 " This," said Imlac, " is a question which has long 
 divided the wise and perplexed the good. I am 
 afraid to decide on either part. "Ff^ tha , | , lives well in 
 th e world is better than he that lives well in a mo n- 
 agifiry. But, perhaps, every one is not able to stem 
 the temptations of public life ; and if he cannot con- 
 quer, he may properly retreat. Some have little 
 power to do good, and have likewise little strength 
 to resist evil. Many are weary of their conflicts 
 with adversity, and are willing to eject those pas- 
 ions which have long busied them in vain. And 
 many are dismissed by age and diseases from the 
 more laborious duties of society. In monasteries 
 the weak and timorous may be happily sheltered, 
 the weary may repose, and the penitent may med- 
 itate. Those retreats of prayer and contemplation 
 have something so congenial to the mind of man 
 that, perhaps, there is scarcely one that does not pur- 
 pose to close his life in pious abstraction with a few 
 associates serious as himself." 
 
 " Such," said Pekuah, " has often been my wish, and 
 I have heard the princess declare, that she should 
 not willingly die in a crowd." 
 
 " The liberty of using harmless pleasure," pro- 
 ceeded Imlac, " will not be disputed ; but it is still 
 to be examined what pleasures are harmless. The 
 evil of any pleasure that Nekayah can imagine is not; 
 
THE PRINCE eHmCS A NEAV TOPIC. 341 
 
 in the act itself, but in its consequences. Pleasure, 
 in itself harmless, may become mischievous by en- 
 dearing us to a state which we know to be transient 
 and probatory, and withdrawing our thoughts from 
 that of which every hour brings us nearer to the be- 
 ginning, and of which no length of time will bring 
 us to the end. Mortification is not virtuous in itself, 
 nor has any other use but that it disengages us from 
 allurements of sense. In the state of future perfec- 
 tion, to which we all aspire, there will be pleasure 
 without danger, and security without restraint." 
 
 The princess was silent, and Rasselas, turning to 
 the astronomer, asked him " whether he could not 
 delay her retreat by showing her something which 
 she had not seen before ? " 
 
 " Your curiosity," said the sage, " has been so 
 general, and your pursuit of knowledge so vigorous, 
 that novelties are not now very easily to be found ; 
 but what you can no longer procure from the living 
 may be given by the dead. Among the wonders of 
 this country are the Catacombs, or the ancient 
 repositories in which the bodies of the earliest gen- 
 erations were lodged, and where, by the virtue of tlie 
 gums which embalmed them, they yet remain with- 
 out corruption." 
 
 " I know not," said Rasselas, " what pleasure the 
 sight of the Catacombs can afford ; but, since nothing 
 else is offered, I am resolved to view them, and shall 
 place this with many other things which I have done 
 because I would do something." 
 
 They hired a guard of horsemen, and the next day 
 
342 RASSELAS. 
 
 visited the Catacombs. When they were about to 
 descend into the sepulchral caves, " Pekuah," said the 
 princess, " we are now again invading the habitations 
 of the dead ; I know that you will stay behind ; let 
 me find you safe when I return." — " No ; I will not be 
 left," answered Pekuah, "I will go down between 
 you and the prince." 
 
 " They then all descended, and roved with wonder 
 through the labyrinth of subterraneous passages, 
 where the bodies were laid in rows on either side. 
 
IMLAC ON THE jS^ATUEE OF THE SOUL. 343 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 IMLAC DISCOTTESES ON THE NATURE OP THE SOTTL. 
 
 '■■ What reason," said the prince, " can be given 
 why the Egyptians should thus expensively preserve 
 those carcasses which some nations consume with 
 fire, others lay to mingl3 with the earth, and all agree 
 to remove from their sight as soon as decent rites can 
 be performed ? " 
 
 " The original ancient custom," said Imlac, " is 
 commonly unknown; for the practice often con- 
 tinues when the cause has ceased; and concerning 
 superstitious ceremonies it is vain to conjecture ; for 
 what reason did not dictate, reason cannot explain. 
 I have long believed that the practice of embalming 
 arose only from tenderness to the remains of rela- 
 tions or friends, and to this opinion I am more 
 inclined because it seems impossible that this care 
 should have been general; had all the dead been 
 embalmed, their repositories must in time have been 
 more spacious than the dwellings of the living. I 
 suppose only the rich or honorable were secured 
 from corruption, and the rest left to the course of 
 nature. 
 
 " But it is commonly supposed that the Egyptians 
 believed the soul to live as long as the body cou- 
 
544 EASSELAS. 
 
 tiiiued undissolved, and therefore tried this method 
 of eluding death." 
 
 " Could the wise Egyptians," said Nekayah, " think 
 so grossly of the soul ? If the soul could once sur- 
 vive its separation, vsrhat could it afterwards receive 
 or suffer from the body ? " 
 
 " The Egyptians vv^ould doubtless think erro- 
 neously," said the astronomer, " in the darkness of 
 heathenism, and the first dawn of philosophy. The 
 nature of the soul is still disputed amidst all our 
 opportunities of clearer knowledge : some yet say 
 that it may be material, who nevertheless believe it 
 to be immortal." 
 
 " Some," answered Imlac, " have indeed said that 
 the soul is material, but I can scarcely believe that 
 any man has thought it, who knew how to think; for 
 all the conclusions of reason enforce the immaterial- 
 ity of mind, and all the notices of sense and investi- 
 gations of science concur to prove the unconscious- 
 ness of matter. 
 
 " It was never supposed that cogitation is inherent 
 in matter, or tliat every particle is a thinking being. 
 Yet, if any part of matter be devoid of thought, what 
 part can we suppose to think ? Matter can differ 
 from matter only in form, density, bulk, motion, and 
 direction of motion : to which of these, however 
 varied or combined, can consciousness be annexed ? 
 To be round or square, to be solid or fluid, to be 
 great or little, to be moved slowly or swiftly one 
 way or another, are modes of material existence, 
 all equally alien from the nature of cogitation. If 
 
iJILAO OX THE NATURE OF THE SOtrL. 84:0 
 
 matter Le once without thought, it can only be made 
 to think by some new modification, but all the 
 modifications which it can admit are equally un- 
 connected with cogitative powers." 
 
 "But the materialists," said the astronomer, "urge 
 that matter may have qualities with which we are 
 unacquainted." 
 
 " He who will determine," returned Imlac, " against 
 that which he knows, because there may be some- 
 thing which he knows not; he that can set hypo- 
 thetical possibility against acknowledged certainty, is 
 not to be admitted among reasonable beings. All 
 that we know of matter is, that matter is. inert, sense- 
 less, and lifeless ; and if this conviction cannot be 
 opposed but by referring us to something that we 
 know not, we have all the evidence that human in- 
 tellect can admit. If that which is known may be 
 overruled by that which is unknown, no being, not 
 omniscient, can arrive at certainty." 
 
 " Yet let us not," said the astronomer, too arro- 
 gantly limit the Creator's power." 
 
 " It is no limitation of omnipotence," replied the 
 poet, " to suppose that one thing is not consistent with 
 another, that the same proposition cannot be at once 
 true and false, that the same number cannot be even 
 and odd, that cogitation cannot be conferred on that 
 which is created incapable of cogitation." 
 
 " I know not," said Nekayah, " any great use of 
 this question. Does that immateriality, which, in 
 my opinion, you liave sufSciently proved, necessarily 
 include eternal duration ? '' 
 
S^fi EASSELAS. 
 
 " Of immateriality," said Imlac, " our ideas are neg- 
 ative, and therefore obscure. Immateriality seems 
 to imply a natural power of perpetual duration as a 
 consequence of exemption from all causes of decay : 
 whatever perishes is destroyed by the solution of its 
 contexture, and separation of its parts ; nor can we 
 conceive how that which has no parts, and therefore 
 admits no solution, can be naturally corrupted or 
 impaired." 
 
 " I know not," said Rasselas, " how to conceive 
 anything without extension ; what is extended must 
 have parts, and you allow that whatever has parts 
 may be destroyed." 
 
 " Consider your own conceptions," replied Imlac, 
 " and the difficulty will be less. You will find sub- 
 stance without extension. An ideal form is no less 
 real than material bulk : yet an ideal form has no ex- 
 tension. It is no less certain, when you think on a 
 pyramid, that your mind possesses the idea of a pyra- 
 mid than that the pyramid itself is standing. What 
 space does the idea of a pyramid occupy more than 
 the idea of a grain of corn ? or how can either idea 
 suffer laceration ? As is the effect, such is the cause : 
 its thought, such is the power that thinks : a power 
 impassive and indiscerptible." 
 
 " But the Being," said Nekayah, " whom I fear to 
 name, the Being which made the soul, can de- 
 stroy it." 
 
 " He surely can destroy it," answered Imlac, 
 "since, however unperishable, it receives from a su- 
 peiior nature its power of duration. That it will not 
 
IMLAC ON THE NATURE OF THE SOUL. 347 
 
 perish by any inherent cause of decay, or principle of 
 corruption, may be shown by philosophy ; but phi- 
 losophy can tell no more. That it will not be anni- 
 hilated by him that made it, we must humbly learn 
 from higher authority." The whole assembly stood a 
 while silent and collected. " Let us return," said 
 Rasselas, from this scene of mortality. How gloomy 
 would be these mansions of the dead to him who did 
 not know that he should never die, that what now 
 acts shall continue its agency, and what now 
 thinks shall think on forever. Those that lie here 
 stretched before us, the wise and the powerful of an- 
 cient times, warn us to remember the shortness of 
 our present state : they were, perhaps, snatched away 
 while they were busy like us in the choice of life." 
 
 " To me," said the princess, " the choice of life is 
 become less important ; I hope hereafter to think only 
 on the choice of eternity." 
 
 They then hastened out of the caverns and under 
 the protection of their guard returned to Cairo. 
 
348 EASSELAS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 THE CONCLtJSION, IN "WHICH NOTHING IS 
 CONCLUDED. 
 
 It was now the time of the inundation of the Nile : 
 a few days after their visit to the Catacombs the 
 river began to rise. 
 
 They were confined to their house. The whole 
 region being under water gave them no invitation to 
 any excursions, and being well supplied with ma- 
 terials for talk, they diverted themselves with com- 
 parisons of the different forms of life which they 
 had observed, and with various schemes of happiness 
 which each of them had formed. 
 
 Pekuah was never so much charmed with any place 
 as the convent of St. Anthony, where the Arab re- 
 stored her to the princess, and wished only to fill it 
 with pious maidens, and to be made prioress of the 
 order ; she was weary of expectation and disgust, and 
 would gladly be fixed in some unvariable state. 
 
 The princess thought, that of all sublunary things 
 knowledge was the best : she desired first to learn all 
 sciences, and then proposed to found a college of 
 learned women, in which she would preside, that, by 
 conversing with the old, and educating the young, 
 she might divide her time between the acquisition 
 
THE CONCLUSION. 349 
 
 and communication of wisdom, and raise up for the 
 next age, models of prudence and patterns of piety. 
 
 The prince desired a little kingdom, in which he 
 might administer justice in his own person, and see 
 all the parts of government with his own eyes ; but he 
 could never fix the limits of his dominion, and was 
 always adding to the number of his subjects. 
 
 Imlac and the astronomer were contented to be 
 driven along the stream of life, without directing 
 their course to any particular port. 
 
 Of these wishes that they had formed they well 
 knew that none could be obtained. They deliberated 
 a while what was to be done, and resolved, when the 
 inundation should cease, to return to Abyssinia. 
 
 THE END. 
 
A. L. Burt's Catalogue of Books for 
 Young People by Popular Writers, 52- 
 58 Duane Street, New York >« ^ m; 
 
 BOOKS FOR GIRLS. 
 
 Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. By Lewis Caeeoi;L. 
 
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 Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Jound. 
 
 There. By Lewis Cabeoll. 12mo, cloth, 50 illustrations, price 75 cents. 
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 Little Lucy's Wonderful Globe. By Charlotte M. 
 
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 Count Up the Sunny Days : A Story for Girls and Boys. 
 
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 The Dove in the Eagle's West. By Charlotte M. 
 
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