J ^ - vf / i^^^^^^H >^ ■nra ^ ) V. f \ %A, U' > 1 '• ) 1 \ \ y ^/T^_^ w / ^^-ii K^. k5: and, in the course o that work, as he grew familiar with technica and scholastic words, he thought the bulk of his readers were equ£illy learned; or at least would admire the splendour and dignity of the style. And yet it is well known, that he praised in C owley the ease and imaffected structure of the sentences. Cowley may be placed at the head vi HISTORICAL AND of those who cultivated a clear and natural ! all the refined and delicate beauties of the Ro- style. Drj'den, Tillotson, and Sir William Temple, followed. Addison, Swift, and Pope, with more con*ectness, carried our language well nigh to perfection. Of Addison, Johnson was used to say, " He is the Raphael of Essay Writers. " How he differed so widely from such elegant models is a problem not to be solved, unless it be true that he took an early tincture from the vn-itew of the last century, particular- ly Sir Thomas Browne. Hence the peculiari- ties of his sty]e, new combinations, sentences of an unusual structure, and words derived from the learned languages. His own account of the matter is, " When common words were less pleasing to the ear, or less distinct in their sig- nification, I familiarized the terms of philoso- phy, by applying them to popular ideas." But he forgot the observation of Dryden : — " If too many foreign words are poured in upon us, it looks as if they were designed, not to assist the natives, but to conquer them." There is, it must be admitted, a swell of language, often out of all proportion to the sentiment ; but there is, in general, a fulness of mind, and the thought seems to expand with the sound of the words. Determined .to discard coUoquitd barbarisms and licentious idioms, he forgot the elegant simplicity that distinguishes the writings of Addison. He had what Locke calls a round- about view of his subject ; and, though he was never tainted, like many modern wits, with the ambition of shining in paradox, he maybe fairly called an Original Thinker. His read- ing was extensive. He treasured in his mind whatever was worthy of notice, but he added to it from his own meditation. He ccllected, jU£B reconderet, aucta^ue 2)romeret. Addison was not so profound a thinker. He was bom to write, converse, and live with ease ; and he foimd an early patron in Lord Somers. He depended, however, more upon a fine taste than the vigour of his mind. His Latin poetry chows, that he relished, with a just selection, man classics ; and when he cultivated his na- tive language, no wonder that he formed that graceful style, which has been so justly admir- ed ; simple, yet elegant ; adorned, yet never over-wrought ; rich in allusion, yet pure and perspicuous ; correct without labour, and, though sometimes deficient in strength, yet always mu- sical. His essays in general, are on the surface of life; if ever original, it was in pieces of hu- mom*. Sir Roger de Coverly, and the Tory Fox-hunter, need not to be mentioned. John- son had a fund of humour, but he did not know it, nor was he willing to descend to the famiL'ar idiom and the vai'iety of diction which that mode of composition required. The letter, in the Rambler, No. 12, from a young girl that wants a place, will illustrate this observation. Addison possessed an unclouded imagination, alive to the first objects of nature and of art. He reaches the sublime without any apparent effort. When he teUs us, " If we consider the fixed stars as so many oceans of flame, that are each of them attended with a different set of planets ; if we still discover new firmaments and new lights that are simk further in those mifathomable depths of eether, we are lost in a labyrinth of sims and worlds, and confo unded with the magnificence and immensity of na- ture;" the ease, with which this passage rises to unaffected grandeur, is the secret charm that captivates the reader. Johnson is always lofty ; he seems, to use Dryden's phrase, to be o'er in- formod with meaning, and his words do not ap- pear to himself adequate to his conception. He moves in state, and his periods are always har- monious. His Oriental Tales £ire in the true style of eastern magnificence, and yet none of them are so much admired as the Visions of Mirza. In matters of criticism, Johixson is never the echo of preceding writers. He thinks and de- cides for himself. If we except the Essays on the pleasures of imagination, Addison cannot be called a philosophical critic. His moral Essaj'sare boautifiil; but in that province no- thing can exceed the Rambler, though Johnson used to say, that the Essay on " The Burthens of Mankind" (in the Spectator, No. 558) was the most exquisite he had ever read. Talking of himself, Johnson said, " Topham Beauclark has wit, and every thing comes from him with ease ; but when I say a good thing, I seem to labour." When we compare him with Addison, the con- trast is still stronger. Addison lends grace and ornament to truth -, Johnson gives it force and energy. Addison makes virtue amiable ; John- son represents it as an awful duty. Addison in- sinuates himself with an air of modesty ; John- eon commands like a dictator ; but a dictator in his splendid robes, not labouring at the plough. Addison is the Jupiter of Virgil, with placid serenity talking to Venus : " Vultu, quo ropluni tcmpestatesque screnat." Johnson is Jupiter Tonans ; he darts his lightning, and rolls his thunder, in the cause of virtue and piety. The language seems to fall short of his ideas ; he pours along, familiar- ising the terms of philosophy, with bold inver- sions, and sonorous periods; but we may apply BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. yji with the assumed character, is written with abated vigour, in a style of ease and unlaboured elegance. It is the Odyssey after the Iliad. Intense thinking would not become the Idler. The first number presents a well drawn por- trait of an Idler, and from that character no deviation could be made. Accordingly, John- son forgets his austere manner, and plays us into sense. He still continues his lectures on human life, but he adverts to common occur- rences, and is often content with the topic of the day. An advertisement in the beginning of the first volume informs us, that twelve entire Essays were a contribution from different hands. One of these, No. 33, is the journal of a Senior fellow at Cambridge, but, as Johnson, being himself an original thinker, always re- volted from scrvUe imitation, he has printed the piece, with an apology, importing that the journal of a citizen in the Spectator almost precluded the attempt of any subsequent writer. This account of the Idler may be closed, after observing, that the author's mother being buried on the 23d of January 1759, there is an admirable paper, occasioned by that event, on Saturday the 27th of the same month. No. 41. to him what Pope has said of Homer : — "It is j The reader, if he pleases, may compai'e it with the sentiment that swells and fills out the diction, which rises with it, and forms itself about it ; like glass in the furnace, which grows to a greater magnitude, as the breath within is more power- ful, and the heat more intense." It is not the design of this comparison to de- cide between those two eminent writers. In matters of taste" every reader will choose for him- self. Johnson is always profound, and of course gives the fatigue of thinking. Addison charms whUe he instructs ; and writing, as he always does, a pure, an el^ant, and idiomatic style, he may be pronounced the safest model for imita- tionc The Essays written by Johnson In the Ad- venturer maybe called a continuation of the Rambler. The Idler, in order to be consistent another fine paper in the Rambler, No. Si, on the conviction that rushes on the mind at the bed of a dying friend. The Idlers, during the time of their publi- cation, were frequently copied into contem- porary works without any acknowledgment. The author who was also a proprietor of the Universal Chronicle, in which they appeared, hurled his vengeance on the pirates in the fol- lowing " Hufi and Ci*y," which, as coming from Dr. Johnson's pen, may justly be deemed a literary curiosity. ** London, Jan. 5, 1759. Advertisement. The proprietors of the paper, entitled " The Idler," having found that those essays are in serted in the newspapers and magazines with so little regard to justice or decency, that the Universal Chronicle in which they first appear, is not always mentioned, think it necessai-y to declare to the publishers of those collections, that however patiently they have hithei'to en- dured these injuries, made yet more injurious by contempt, they have now determined to en- dure them no longer.— They have already seen essays, for which a very large price is paid, transferred with the most shameless rapacity into the weekly or monthly compilations, and. their right, at least for the present, alienated from them, before they could themselves be said to enjoy it. But they would not willingly be thought to want tenderness even for men by whom no tenderness hath been shown. The past is without remedy, and shall be with- out resentment. But those who have been thus bxisy with their sickles in the fields of their neighbours, are henceforward to take notice, that the time of impunity is at an end. "Whoever shall without our leave, lay the hand of rapine upon our papers, is to expect that we shall vindicate our due, by the means which justice prescribes, and which are warranted by the immemorial prescriptions of honourable trade. We shall lay hold, in our turn, on their copies, degrade them from the pomp of wide margin and diffuse typography, contract them into a narrow space, and sell them at an hum- ble price ; yet not with a view of growing rich by confiscations, for we think not much better of money got by punishment than by crimes : we shall therefore, when our losses are repaid, give what profit shall remain to the Magdelens : for we know not who can be more properly taxed for the support of penitent prostitutes than prostitutes in whom there yet appears neither penitence nor shame." The effect of this singular manifesto is not now known; but if "essays for which a large price has been paid " be not words of course, they may prove that the author received an im- mediate remuneration for his labour, indepen- dent of his share in the general profits. HISTORICAL AND Nos. 33, 93, and 96, were written by Mr. Thomas Warton. Thomas Warton was tlic younger brother of Dr. Joseph "Warton, and was born at Basingstoke in 1728. He very early manifested a taste for verse ; and there is extant a well-turned translation of an epigram of Martial composed by him in his ninth year. He was educated under his father, who kept a school at Basingstoke, till he was admitted in 1743 a commoner of Trinity College, Oxford. Here he exercised his poetical talent to so much advantage, that on the appearance of Mason's Elegy of " Isis," which severely reflected on the disloyalty of Oxford at that period, he was encouraged by Dr. Huddesford, president of his college, to vindicate the cause of the univer- sity. This task he performed with great ap- plause by writing, in his 2 1st year, " The Triumph of Isis ;" a piece of much spirit and fancy, in which he retaliated upon the bard of Cam by satirising the courtly venality then supposed to distinguish the loyal university, and sung in no common strains the past and present glories of Oxford. This on his part was fair warfare, though as a peace-offering he after- wards excluded the poem from his volume of collected pieces. His " Progress of Discontent," published in 1750 in a miscellany entitled " The Student," exhibited to great advantage his power in the familiar style, and his talent for humoiu*, with a knowledge of life extraordinary at his early age, especially if composed, as is said, for a college-exercise in 1746. In 1750 he took the degree of M. A., and in the following yer,r became a Fellow of his college. He ap- pears now to have unalterably devoted him- self to the pursuit of poetry and elegant litera- ture in a vmiversity-residence. Hia spirited satire, entitled " Newmarket," and pointed against the ruinous passion for the turf; hii "Ode for Music ;" and "Verses on the Death ol the Prince of Wales ;" were written about this time ; and in 1763 he was the editor of a small collection of poems, which, under the title of BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. " The Union," was printed at Edinburgh, and pieces in which lively miscellany he was the contained several of his own pieces. In 1754 iie writer. In 1766 he again appeared as a classical made himself known as a critic and a diligent ; editor by superintending the Anthology of student of poetical antiquities, by his observa- tions on Spenser's Fairy Queen, in one volume, afterwards enlarged to two volumes ; a work well received by the public, and which made a considerable addition to his literary reputation. These vai'ious proofs of his abilities caused him very properly to be elected in 1757 professor of poetry to the university, an office which he held for the usual period of ten years, and ren- dered respectable by the erudition and taste dis- played in his lectures. Dr. Johnson was at this time publishing his " Idler," and Warton, who had long been intimately acquainted with him, contributed the three papers we have mentioned to that work. He gave a specimen of his classical proficiency in 1758 by the publi- cation " Inscriptionum Romanarum Metricar- um Delectus," a collection of select Latin epi- grams and inscriptions, to which were annexed a few modern ones, on the antique model, five of them by himself. He drew up in 1760, for the Biographica Eritannica, the life of Sir Thomas Pope, which he published separately, much enlarged, in 1772 and 1780. Another contribution to literary biography was his " Life and literary Remains of Dr. Ba- thurst," published in 1761. A piece of local humour, which was read at the time with great avidity, dropped from his pen in 1760, with the title, " A Companion to the Guide, and a Guide to the Companion ; being a complete Supplement to all the Accounts of Oxford hith- erto published." The lapse of time, and the new reign, had now entirely restored to Oxford its ancient virtue of loyalty ; and Warton, who had lamented the death of George II. in a copy of verses addressed to Mr. Pitt, continued the courtly strain, though with due dignity, in lines on the mari'iage of George III. and on the birth of the Prince of Wales, printed in the university collection. Still ranking equally with the wits and with the poets of Isis, he Cephalus, printed at the Clarendon-press, to which he prefixed a learned and ingenious pre- face. He took the degree of B. D. in 1761, and in 1771 was instituted to the small living of Kiddington in Oxfordshire, on the presenta- tion of the Earl of Litchfield, then chancellor of the university. An edition of Theocritus in 2 vols. 4to. which was published in 1770, gave him celebrity not only at home, but among the scholars of the continent. A History of English Poetry is said to have been meditated by Pope, who was but indiffer- ently qualified by learning, whatever he might have been by taste, for such an undertaking. Gray, who possessed every requisite for the work, except industry, entertained a distant idea of engaging in it, with the assistance of Mason ; but he shrunk from the magnitude of the task, and readily relinquished his project, when he heard that a similar design was adop- ted by Warton. At what -period he first occu- pied himself in this extensive plan of vtTiting and research, we are not informed ; but in 1774 he had proceeded so far as to publish the first volume in quarto ; and he pursued an object, now apparently become the great mark of his studies, with so much assiduity, that he brought out a second volume in 1778, and a third in 1781. He now relaxed in his labours, and never executed more than a few sheets of a fourth vo- lume. The work had grown upon his hands, and had greatly exceeded his first estimate ; so that the completion of the design, which was to have terminated only with the commencement of the eighteenth century, was stUl very remote, supposing a due proportion to have beon pre- served throughout. Warton's " History of Englibh Poetry" is regarded as his opus mag' num. ; and is indeed an ample monument of his reading, as well as of his taste and eritical judg- ment. The majority of its readers, however. Will probably be of opinion that he has dwelt edited in 1764 the " Oxford Sausage," of several too minutely upon those eai'ly periods in wWct Idler b X HISTORICAL AND poetry can scarcely be said to have existed in this country, and has been too profuse of tran- scripts from pieces destitute of all merit but their age. Considered, however, as literary an- iiquarianism, the work is very interesting ; and though inaccuracies have been detected, it can- Dot be denied to abound with curious informa- tion. His brother gave some expectation of Tarrying on the history to the compl^ion of the fourth volume, but seems to have done little or nothing towards fulfilling it. As a proof that Warton began to be weary of his task, it ap- pears that about 1781 he had tiu'ned his thoughts to another laborious undei-taking, which was a eounty-histoiy of Oxfordshire ; and in 1782 he published as a specimen a topogi^pHical account of his parish of Kiddington. In the same year he entered into the celebrated Chattertonian controversy, and published An Inquiry into the Authenticity of the Poems ascribed to Rowley, which he decidedly pronounced to be the fabri- cation of their pretended editor. His income was augmented in this year by presentation to a donative in Somersetshire ; and as he was free both from ambition and avarice he seems to have looked no farther for ecclesiastical promotion. In 1785 the place of Camden-professor of his- tory at Oxford, vacant by the resignation of the present Sir W. Scott, was conferred upon him. He attended to his duties so far as to deliver a learned and ingenious inaugural lecture, but that was the limit of his professional exertions. An- other oflBice at this time demanded new efforts. At his Majesty's express desire the post of Poet- laureat, vacated by the death of Whitehead, was offered to him ; and, in accepting it, he laudably resolved to use his best endeavours for rendering it respectable. He varied the monotony of an- niversary court compliment by retrospective views of the splertiid period of English history and the glories of chivalry, and by other topics adapted to poetical description, though little con- nected with the proper theme of the day ; and Ihough his lyric strains underwent some ridicule on that account, they in general enhanced the Jiterary valuation of laureat odes. His con- cluding publication was an edition of the juve- nile poems of Milton, in which it was his pur pose to explain his allusions, point out his inii. tations, illustrate his beauties, and elucidate h'u obsolete diction and peculiai* pliraseology. This was a task of no great effort to one qualified like Warton ; and engaging in it, rather than in the completion of his elaborate plans, seems to prove that the indolence of advancing years and a col- legiate life was gaining upon him. Of this work the first edition appeared in 1785, and the second in 1791, a short time before his death. He had intended to include in his plan a similar edition of the Paradise Regained, and the Sam- son Agonistes, of the great author, of whom, notwithstanding religious and political differ- ences, lie was a wai*m admirer; and he left notes on both these pieces. But his constitution now began to give way, though the period of old age was yet distant. In his 62nd yrar an attack of the gout shattered his frame, and was succeeded, in May 1790, by a paralytic seizui-e, which carried him off at his lodgings in Oxford. His remains were interred, with every academ- ical honour, in the chapel of Trinity College. The character of Thomas Warton was marked by some of those peculiarities which commonly fix upon a man the appellation of an humorist ; and a variety of stories current among the collegians show that he was mor.^ intent upon gratifying his own habitual tastes, than regardful of the usual modes and decoruma of society. But he was substantially good- liumoured, friendly, and placid ; and if his dis- like of form and'restraint sometimes made him prefor the company of inferiors to that of equals, the choice was probably in some measure con- nected with that love of nature, and spirit of independence, which may be discerned in his writings. That he employed a large portion of his time in the cultivation of his mind by curi- ous and elegant literature, his various produc- tions abundantly testify; yet he appears to have wanted the resolution and steady industry necessary for the completion of a great design j and some remarkable instances of inaccuracy or BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. SI forgetfulness prove that his exertions were rather desultory than regular. This disposition was less injurious to him in his poetical capa- city than in any other, whence he wiU pro- bably live longest in fame as a poet. Scarcely any one of that tribe has noted with finer ob- servation the minute circumstances in rural na- ture that afford pleasure in description, or has derived from the regions of fiction more ani- mated and picturesque scenery. His pieces are very various in subject, and none of them long. He can only rank among the minor poets ; but perhaps few volumes in that class will more frequently be taken up for real amusement. Several editions of his poems were called for in his life-time, and since his death an edition of bis works has been given by Mr. Mant, in 2 rols. octavo, 1802, with a biographical account of the author prefixed. When Mr. Warton wrote his three papers in the Idler, he lived in habits of intimacy and correspondence with Dr. Johnson j he was likewise a member of the Literary Club, and made occasional journeys to Loudon, to attend thaA, and to enjoy the pleasures of Sir Joshua Reynolds' company, of whom some notice is now to be taken as writer of the Essays Nos. 76, 79, and 82, in this work. Sir Joshua Reynolds was the son of a clergy- man at Plympton, in Devonshire, and bom there in 1723. Being intended for the church, he re- ceived a suitable education imder his father, and then removed to Oxford, where he took his de- grees in arts ; but having a great taste for draw- ing, he resolved to make painting his profession, and accordingly was placed under Hudson the portrait painter. About 1749 he went to Italy, in company with the honourable Mr. Keppel, his early friend and patron. After studying the works of the most illustrious masters two years, Mr. Reynolds returned to London, where he foimd no encouragement given to any other branch of the art than to portrait painting. He was of course under the necessity of com> plying with the prevailing taste, and in that walk soon became xmri vailed. The first picture by which he distinguished himself, after his re- turn, was the portrait of Mr. Keppel. He did not, however, confine himself to portraits, but painted several historical pictures of high and acknowledged merit. When the royal academy was instituted he was appointed president, which station he held with honour to himself and advantage to the arts till 1791, and then resigned it. He was also appointed principal painter to the king, and knighted. His literary merits, and other accomplishments, procured him the friendship of the most distinguished men of genius in his time, particularly Johnson, Burke, Goldsmith, and Garrick: and Sir Joshua had the honour of instituting the literary club, of which they were members. He was likewise a member of the royal society, and of that of antiquaries ; and was created doctor of laws by the universities of Oxford and Dublin. Sir Joshua's academical dis- courses display the soundest judgment, the most refined taste, and a perfect acquaintance with the works of different masters ; and are written in a clear and elegant style. He died in 1792, and lies buried in St. Paul^ cathedral. Having no children, he bequeathed the princi- pal part of his property to his niece, since mar- ried to the Earl of Inchiquin, now Marquis of Thomond. We shall conclude our sketch of the life of this illustrious artist, by quoting his opinion of Dr. Johnson, which is equally honourable to himself and his friend. Speaking of his own discourses, our great artist says, " Whatever merit they have must be imputed, in a great measure, to the education which I may be said to have had under Dr. Johnson. I do not mean to say, though it certainly would be to the credit of these discourses if I could say it with truth, that he contributed even a single senti- ment to them; but he qualified my mind to think justly. No man. had, like him, the facul- ty of teaching, inferior minds the art of think- ing. Perhaps other men might have equal knowledge, but few were bo communicative. His great pleasure was to talk to those who xu BIOGRAPHICAL AND HISTORICAL PREFACE. looked up to him. It was here he exhibited his wonderful powers. In mixed company, and frequently in company that ought to have looked up to him, many, thinking they had a chai'ac- ter for learning to support, considered it as be- neath them to enlist in the train of his auditors ; and to such persons he certainly did not appear to advantage, being often impetuous and ovei'- bearing. The desire of shining in conversation was in him indeed a predominant' passion; and if it must be attributed to vanity, let it at the same time be recollected, that it produced that loquaciousness from , which his more intimate frienda derived considerable advantage. The observations which he made on poetry, on life, and on every thing about us, I applied to our art, with what success others must judge." No. 67 was wi-itten by another intimate and affectionate fi'iend of Dr. Johnson's, Bennet Langton, Esq. of Langton in Lincolnshire. His acquaintaince with Dr. Johnson com- menced soon after the conclusion of the Ram- bler, which Mr. Langton, then a youth, had read with so much admiration that Mr. Bos- well says he came to London chiefly with a view of being introduced to its author. Mr. Langton died December the 18th, 1801. THE IDLER. No. 1.] Satukday, April 15, 176a Vacul sub umbra Liusfmus. HOR. Those who attempt periodical essays seem to be often stopped in the beginning by the difficul- ty of finding a proper title. Two writers, since the time of the Spectator, have assumed his name, without any pretensions to lawful inher- itance ; an effort was once made to revive the Tatter; and the strange appellations by which other papers have been called, show that the authors were distressed, like the natives of America, who come to the Europeans to beg a name. It will be easily believed of the Idler, that if his title had required any search, he never •would have found it. Every mode of life has its conveniences. The Idler, who habituates himself to be satisfied with what he can most easily obtain, not only escapes labours which are often fruitless, but sometimes succeeds better than those who despise all that is within their reach, and think every thing more valua- ble as it is harder to be acquired. If similitude of manners be a motive to kind- ness, the Idler may flatter himself with univer- sal patronage. There is no single character under which such numbers are comprised. Every man is, or hopes to be, an Idler. Even those who seem to differ most from us are hast- ening to increase our fraternity ; as peace is the end of war, so to be idle is the ultimate pur- pose of the busy. There is, perhaps, no appellation by which a writer can better denote his kindred to the hu- man species. It has been found hard to de- scribe man by an adequate definition. Some pliilosophers have called him a reasonable ani- mal ; but others have considered reason as a quality of which many creatures partake. He has been tenned, likewise, a laughing animal ; but it is said that sopie men have never laughed. Perhaps man may be more properly distin- guished as an idle animal; for there is no man who is not sometimes idle. It is at least a de- finition from which none that shall find it in this pai)€r can be excepted ; for who can be more idle than the reader of the Idler? That the definition may be complete, idleness must be not only the general, but the peculiar characteristic of man ; and, perhaps, man is the only being that can properly be called idle, that does by others what he might do himself, or sacrifices duty or pleasure to the love of ease. Scarcely any name can be imagined from which less envy or competition is to be dreaded. The Idler has no rivals or enemies. The man of business forgets him ; the man of enterprise despises him ; and though such as tread the same track of life fall commonly into jealousy and discord, Idlers are always found to associate in peace ; and he who is most famed for doing nothing, is glad to meet another as idle as him- self. What is to be expected from this paper, whether it will be uniform or various, learned or familiar, serious or gay, political or moral, continued or interrupted, it is hoped that no reader will inquire. That the Idler has some scheme cannot be doubted ; for to form schemes is the Idler's privilege. But though he has many projects in his head, he is now grown sparing of communication, having observed, that his hearei-s ,are apt to remember what he for- gets himself; that his tardiness of execution exposes him to the encroachments of those who catch a hint and fall to work ; and that very specious plans, after long contrivance and pom- pous displays, have subsided in weariness with- out a tiial, and without miscarriage have been blasted by derision. ■ Something the Idler's character may be sup- posed to promise. Those that are cui-ious after diminutive history, who watch the revolut'ons of families, and the rise and fall of charr ters B 2 THE IDLER. [No. eithei m«ile or female, will hope to be gratifio.l by tills paper; for the IdJcr is always inquisi- tive and seldom retentive. He that delights in obloquy and satire, and wishes to see clouds gathering over any reputation that dazzles him Tvitl' its brightness, wil snatch up the Idler's essays with a beating heart. Tlie IdL-r is natu- rally censorious; those who attempt notliJng themselves, think every thing easily performed, and consider the unsuccessful always as crim- inal. I think it necessarj' to give notice, tlvat I make no contract, nor incur any obligation. If those Avho depend on the Idler for intelligence and entertainment, should suffer the di.sapi)oint- ment which commonly follows ill-placed ex- pectations, they are to lay the blame only on themselves. Yet hope is not w^holly to be cast away. The Idler, though sluggish, is yet alive, and may sometimes be stimulated to vigour and activity. He may descend into profoundness, or tower into sublimity ; for the diligence of an Idler is rapid and impetuous, as ponderous bodies forced into velocity move with violence proportionate to their weight. But these vehement exertions of intellect can- not be frequent, and he will therefore gladly receive help from any correspondent, who shall enable him to please without his own labour. He excludes no stjle, he prohibits no subject ; only let him that writes to the Idler remember, that his letters must not be long : no words are to be squandered in declaration of esteem, or confessions of inability; conscious dulness has little right to be prolix, and praise is not so welcome to the Idler as quiet. Ko. 2.] Saturday, April 22, 1758. Toto vix quater anno Mcmbrancnn. hor. Many positions are often on the tongue, and seldom in the mind j there are many truths which every human being acknowledges and forgets. It is generally known, that he who expects much will be often disappointed ; yet disappointment seldom cures us of expectation, or has any other effect than tliat of producing a moral sentence, or peevish exclamation.. He that embarks in the voyage of life, will always wish to advance rather by the impulse of the wind, than the strokes of the car; and many founder in the passage, while they lie waiting for the gale that is to waft them to their wish. It will naturally be suspected that the Idler has lately suffered some disappointment, and that he does not talk thus gravely for nothinj. Ko man is required to betray his own secrets. I will, however, coni'ess, that I have now been a writer almost a week, and have not yet heard a single word of praise, nor received one hiut from any correspondent. AVhence this negligence proceeds I am not able to discover. IMany of my predecessors have thought themselves obliged to return their acknowledgments in the second paper, for tlie kind reception of the first, and in a short time apologies have beccm" necessary to those ingen- ious gentlemen and ladies whose performances, though in the highest degree elegant and learned, have been unavoidably delayed. What then will be thought of me, who, hav- ing experienced no kindness, have no thanks to return ; ^^'hom no gentleman or lady has yet enabled to give any cause of discontent, and who have, thci-efore, no opportunity of showing how skilfully I can pacify resentment, extenu- ate negligence, or palliate rejection? I have long known that splendour of reputa- tion is not to be counted among the necessaries of life, and therefore shall not much repine if praise be withheld till it is better deserved. But surely I may be allowed to complain that, in a nation of authors, not one has thought me worthy of notice after so fair an invitation. At the time when the rage of wi'iting had seized the old and the young, when the cook warbles her IjtIcs in the kitchen, and the thrasher vociferates his heroics in the barn ; when our traders deal out knowledge in bulky volumes, and our girls forsake their samplers to teach kingdoms wisdom, it may seem very un- necessary to di-aw any more from their proper occupations, by affording new opportunities, of literary fame. I should be, indeed, unwilling to find that, for the sake of corresponding with the Idler, the smith's iron had cooled on the anvU, or the spinster's distaff stood unemployed. I solicit only the contributions of those who have al- ready devoted themselves to literature, or, with- out any determinate intention, wander at large though the expanse of life, and wear out the day in hearing at one place what they utter at another. Of these, a great part are already writers. One has a friend in the country upon whom he exercises his powers ; whose passions he raises and depresses ; whose understanding he per- plexes with paradoxes, or strengthens by argu- ment ; whose admiration he courts, whose praises he enjoys ; and who serves him instead of a senate or a theati-e ; as the young soldiers in the Roman camp learned the use of their weapons by fencing against a post in the place of an enemy. Another has 'his pockets filled with essays and epigrams, which he reads from house '■.o \ house, to select parties, and which his acquaint- ances are daily entreating him to withhold no longer from the impatience of the public. Na 3.] THE IDLER. If among these any one is persuaded that, by such preludes of composition, he has qualified himself to appeal" in the open world, and is yet afraid of those censures which they who have already written, and they "«'ho cannot write, are equally ready to fulminate against public pretenders to fame, he may, by transmitting his performances to the Idler, make a cheap ex- periment of his abilities, and enjoy the pleasure of success, without the hazard of miscarriage. Many advantages not generally known arise from this method of stealing on the public. The standing author of the paper is always the object of critical malignity. Whatever is mean will be imputed to him, and whatever is excel- lent be ascribed to his assistants. It does not mucli alter the event, that the author and his correspondents are equally unknown ; for the author, whoever he be, is an individual, of whom every reader has some fixed idea, and whom he is, therefore, unwilling to gratify with applause ; but the praises given to his cor- respondents are scattered in the air, none can tell on whom they will light, and therefore none are unwilling to bestow them. He that is known to contribute to a periodical work, needs no other caution than not to tell what particular pieces are his own ; such secrecy is, indeed, A-ery difficult ; but if it can be main- tained, it is scarcely to be imagined at how small an expense he may grow considerable. A person of quality, by a single paper, may engross the honom- of a volume. Fame is, in- deed, dealt tvith a hand less and less bounteous through the subordinate ranks, till it descends to the professed author, who will find it very difficult to get more than he deserves ; but every man who does not want it, or who needs not value it, may have liberal allowances ; and, for five letters in the year sent to the Idler, of which perhaps only two are printed, will be promoted to the first rank of A^-riters by those who are weary of the present race of wits, and wish to sink them into obscm-ity before the lustre of a name not yet known enough to be detested. No. 3.] Saturday, April 29, 1758. Otia vita Solamur cantu. stat. Ir-haj long been the complaint of those who frequent the theatre, that all the dramatic art has been long exhausted, and that the vicissi- tudes of fortune, and accidents of life, have been shown in every possible combination, till the first scene informs us of the last, and the play no sooner opens, than every auditor knows how it will conclude. When a conspiracy is fonned iu a tragedy, we guess by whom it Avill be de- tected ; when a letter is dropt in a comedy, we can tell by whom it will be found. Nothing is now left for the poet but character and senti- ment, which are to make their way as they can, without the soft anxiety of suspense, or the en- livening agitation of surprise. A new paper lies under the same disadvan- tages as a new play. There is danger lest it be new without novelty. My earlier predecessors had their choice of vices and follies, and selected such as were most likely to raise merriment or attract attention ; they had the whole field of life before them, un- trodden and unsurveyed; characters of every kind shot up in their way, and those of the most luxuriant growth, or most conspicuous colours, were naturally cropt by the first sickle. They that foUow are forced to peep into neglected cor- ners, to note the casual varieties of the same species, and to recommend themselves by minute industry, and distinctions too subtle for com- mon eyes. Sometimes it may happen that the haste or negligence of the first inquirers has left enough behind to reward another search ; sometimes new objects start up under the eye, and he that is looking for one kind of matter, is amply gratified by the discovery of another. But still it must be allowed, that, as more is taken, less can remain ; and every truth brought newly to light impoverishes the mine from which suc- ceeding intellects are to dig their treasures. Many philosophers imagine that the elements themselves may be in time exhausted ; that the sun, by shining long, will effuse all its light ; and that, by the continual waste of aqueous par- ticles, the whole earth wiU at last become a sandy desert. I would not advise my readers to disturb themselves by contriving how they shall live without light and water. For the days of uni- versal thirst and perpetual darkness are at a great distance. The ocean and the sun will last our time, and we may leave posterity to shift for themselves. But if the stores of nature are limited, much more narrow bounds must be set to the modes of life ; and mankind may want a moi*al or amusing paper, many years before they shall be deprived of drink or day-light. This want, which to the busy and inventive may seem easily remedi- able by some substitute or other, the Avhole j-ace of Idlers will feel with all the sensibility that such torpid animals can suffer. When I consider the innumerable multitudes that, having no motive of desire, or determina- tion of will, lie freezing in perpetual inactivity, till some external impidse puts them in motion; who awake in the morning, vacant of thought, with minds gaping for the intellectual food, which some kind essayist has been accustomed to supply, 1 am moved by the commiseration THE IDLER. [No. 4. with whlcli all human beings ought to behold the distresses of eacli other, to try some expedi- ents for their relief, and to inquire by what methods the listless may be actuated, and the empty be replenished. I There are said to be pleasures in madness known only to madmen. There are certainly ' miseries in idleness which the Idler only can conceive. These miseries I have often felt and [ often bewailed. I know by experience how welcome is every avocation that summons the thoughts to a new image ; and how much lan- guor and lassitude are relieved by that officious- ness which oifers a momentary amusement to him who is unable to find it for himself. It is naturally indifferent to this race of men what entertainment they receive, so they are but entertained. They catch, with equal eager- ness, at a moral lecture, or the memoirs of a rob- ber ; a prediction of the appearance of a comet, or the calculation of the chances of a lottery. They might thei'efore, easily be pleased if they consulted only their own minds ; but those who will not take the trouble to think for themselves, have always somebody that thinks for them; and the difficulty of writing is to please those from whom others learn to be pleased. Much mischief is done in the world with very little interest or design. He that assumes the character of a critic, and justifies his claim by perpetual censure, imagines that he is hurting none but the author, and him he considers as a pestilent animal, whom every other being has a right to persecute ; little does he think how many harmlesss men he involves in his own guilt, by teaching them to be noxious without malignity, and to repeat objections which they do not undei'stand ; or how many honest minds he debars from pleasure, by exciting an artificial fastidiousness, and making them too wise to concur with their own sensations. He who is taught by a critic to dislike that which pleased him in his natural state, has the same reason to complain of his instructor, as the madman to rail at his doctor, who when he thought him- self master of Peru, physicked him to poverty. If men will struggle against their own advan- tage they are not to expect that the Idler will take much pains upon them; he has himself to please as well as them, and has long learned, or endeavoured to learn, not to make the pleas- ure of others too necessary to his own. ■*^-vv%-wx^ No. 4.] Saturday, May. 6, 1758. UxvTocs y«§ (fiXkirxi. HOM. Charity, or tenderness for the poor, which is now justly considered, by a great part of man- kijid; as inseparable froiij piety, and in which almost all the goodness of the present age con- sists, is, I think, known only to those who enjoy, either immediately or by transmission, the light of revelation. Those ancient nations who have given xis the wisest models of government, and the brightest examples of patriotism, whose institutions have been transcribed by all succeeding legislatures, and whose history is studied by every candidate for political or military reputation, have left behind them no mention of alms-houses or hos- pitals, of places where age might repose, or sick- ness be i;elieved. The Roman emperors, indeed, gave large donatives to the citizens and soldiers, but these distributions were always reckoned rather popular than virtuous ; nothing more was in- tended than an ostentation of liberality, nor was any recompense expected, but suffrages and acclamations. Their beneficence was merely occasional ; he that ceased to need the favour of the people, ceased likewise to court it; and therefore, no man thought it either necessary or wise to make any standing provision for the needy, to look forwards to the wants of posterity, or to secure successions of charity, for successions of dis- tress. Compassion is, by some reasoners, on whom the name of philosophers has been too easily conferred, resolved into an affection merely self- ish, an involuntary perception of pain at the involuntary sight of a being like ourselves lan- guishing in misery. But this sensation, if ever it be felt at aU from the brute instinct of unin- structed nature, will only produce effects desul- tory and transient; it will never settle into a principle of action, or extend relief to calamities unseen, in genei^tions not yet in being. The devotion of life or fortune to the succour of the poor, is a height of virtue to which hu- manity has never risen by its own power. The charity of the Mahometans is a precept which their teacher evidently transplanted from the doctrines of Christianity ; and the care with which some of the Oriental sects attend, as it is said, to the necessities of the diseased and indi- gent, may be added to the other arguments which prove Zoroaster to have borrowed his in- stitutions from the law of Moses. The present age, though not likely to shine hereafter among the most splendid periods of history, has yet given examples of charity which may be very properly recommended to imitation. The equal distribution of wealth, which long commerce has produced, does not en- able any single hand to raise edifices of piety like fortified cities, to appropriate manors to re- ligious uses, or deal out such large and lasting beneficence as was scattered over the land in ancient times, by those who possessed counties, or provinces. But no sooner is a new species ol No. 5.2 misery brought to view, and a desig^n of reliev- ing it professed, than every hand is open to con- tribute something, every tongue is busied in Bolicitation, and every art of pleasure is em- ployed for a time in the interest of virtue. The most apparent and pressing miseries in- cident to man, have now their peculiar houses of reception and relief; and there are few among us, raised however little above the dan- ger of poverty, who may not justly claim, what is implored by the Mahometans in their most ardent benedictions, the prayers of the poor. Among those actions which the mind can most securely review with unabated pleasiire, is that of having contributed to an hospitcd for the sick. Of some kinds of charity the conse- quences are dubious; some evils which benefi- cence has been busy to remedy, are not certainly known to be very grievous to the sufferer or detrimental to the community ; but no man can question whether wounds and sickness are not really painful ; whether it be not worthy of a good man's care to restore those to ease and use- fulness, from whose labour infants and women expect their bread, and who, by a casual hui't, or lingering disease, lie pining in want and anguish, burthensome to othei-s, and weary of themselves. Yet, as the hospitals of the present time sub- sist only by gifts bestowed at pleasure, without any solid fund of support, there is danger lest the blaze of charity, which now burns with so much heat and splendour, should die away for wanting of lasting fuel; lest fashion should suddenly withdraw her smile, and inconstancy transfer the public attention to something which may appear more eligible, because it will be new. Whatever is left in the hands of chance must be subject to vicissitude ; and when any estab- lishment is found to be useful, it ought to be the next care to make it permanent. But man is a transitory being, and his designs must partake of the imperfections of their author. To confer duration is not always in our power. We must snatch the present mo- ment, and employ it well, without too much solicitude for the future, and content ourselves with reflecting that oui- part is performed. He that waits for a« opportunity to do much at once, may breathe out his life in idle wishes, and regret, in the last hour, his useless inten- tions, and barren zeal. The most active promoters of the present schemes of charity, cannot be cleared from some instances of misconduct, which may awaken contempt or censure, and hasten that neglect which is likely to come too soon of itself. The open competitions between different hospitals, and the animosity with which their patrons oppose one another, may prejudice weak minds against them aU. For it will not be easily THE IDLER. believed, that any man can, for good reasons^ wish to exclude another from doing good. The spirit of charity can only be continued by a re- conciliation of these ridiculous feuds; and, therefore, instead of contentions who shall be the only benefactors to the needy, let there be no other struggle than who shall be the first. No. 5.] Saturday, May 13, 1758. KaXXos Ayr iy^itkiv ktroivriaf 'Avt' ica-ri^ciiv oi^xcuVf ANAC. Our military operations are at last begun ; our troops are marching in all the pomp of war, and a camp is marked out on the Isle of Wight ; the heart of every Englishman now swells with confidence, though somewhat softened by gen- erous compassion for the consternation and dis- tresses of our enemies. This fonnidable armament, and splendid march, produce different effects upon diffei'ent minds, according to the boundless diversities of temper, occupation, and habits of thought. Many a tender maiden considers her lover as already lost, because he cannot reach the camp but by crossing the sea ; men of a more political understanding are persuaded that we shall now see, in a few days, the ambassadors of France supplicating for pity. Some are hoping for a bloody battle, because a bloody battle makes a vendible naiTative ; some are composing songs of victory ; some planning arches of triumph ; and some are mixing fireworks for the celebra- tion of a peace. Of all extensive and complicated objects dif- ferent parts are selected by different eyes ; and minds are variously affected, as they vary their attention. The care of the public is now fixed upon our soldiers, who are leaving their native country to wander, none can tell how long, in the pathless deserts of the Isle of Wight. The tender sigh for their sufferings, and the gay drink to their success. I who look, or believe myself to look, Avith more philosophic eyes on human affairs, must confess, that I saw the troops march with little emotion ; my thoughts were fixed upon other scenes, and the tear stole into my eyes, not for those who were going away, but for those who were left behind. We have no reason to doubt but our troops will proceed with proper caution ; there are men among them who can take care of them- selves. But how shall the ladies endure with- out them ? By what arts can they, who have long had no joy but from the civilities of a sol- dier, now amuse their hours, and solace their separation? Of fifty thousand men, now destined to differ- ent stations, if we allow each to have been occa- 6 THE IDLER. [No. 6. sionally necessary only to four women, a short computation will inform us, that two hundred thousand ladies are left to languish in distress; two hundred thousand ladies, who must run to sales and auctions without an attendant ; sit at the play without a critic to direct their opinion ; buy their fans by their own judgment; dispose shells by their own invention ; walk In the Mall without a gallant ; go to the gardens without a protector; and shuflie ceaks with more tenderness, owns that she meant well, and can tell by whom and why she was poisoned. In the succeeding reigns all has been corruption, m.ilice, and design. He believes that nothing ill has ever happened for these forty years by chance or error ; he holds that the battle of Dettingen was won by mis- take, and that of Fontenoy lost by contract ; that the Victory was sunk by a private order ; that Cornhill was fired by emissaries fi'om the coun- cil ; and the arch of Westminster-bridge was so contrived as to sink, on purpose that the nation might be put to charge. He considers the new road to Islington as an encroachment on libei*ty, and often asserts that broad wheel will be the ruin of England. Tom is generally vehement and noisy, but nevertheless has some secrets which he always communicates in a whisper. Many and many a time has Tom told me, in a corner, that oui miseries were almost at an end, and that we should see, in a month, another monarch on the throne ; the time elapses without a revolution ; Tom meets me again with new intelligence, the v/hole scheme is now settled, and we shall scf great events in another month. Jack Sneaker is a hearty adherent to the pre- sent establishment; he has known those who saw the bed into which the Pretender was con- veyed in a warming pan. He offen rejoices that the nation was not enslaved by the Irish. He believes that king William never lost a battle, and that if he had lived one year longer he would have conquered France. He hokls that Charles the First was a Fapist. He allows there were IS THE IDLER. [No. 11. some good mm in the reign of queen Anne, but the peace of Utrecht brouglit a blast upon the nation, and has been the cause of all the evil that ■we have suffered to the present hour. He be- lieves that the scheme of the South Sea was well intended, but that it miscarried by the influence of France. He considers a standing army as the bulwark of liberty ; thinks us secured from cor- ruption by septennial parliaments ; relates how "we are enriched and strengthened by the elec- toral dominions, and declares that the public debt is a blessing to the nation. Yet, amidst all this prosperity, poor Jack is hourly disturbed by the dread of Popery. He wonders that some stricter laws are not made against Papists, and is sometimes afraid that they are busy with French gold among the bishops and judges. He cannot believe that the Nonjurors are so quiet for nothing ; they must certainly be form- ing some plot for the establishment of popery ; he does not think the present oath sufficiently binding, and wishes that some better security could be found for the succession of Hanover. He is zealous for the naturalization of foreign Protestants, and rejoiced at the admission of the Jews to the English privileges, because he thought a Jew would never be a Papist. k'»'»%'V'V%'»/«'V« 'W'V^ No. 11.") Saturday, June 24, 1758. It is commonly observed, that when two Englishmen meet, their first talk is of the weather ; they are in haste to tell each other, what each must already know, that it is hot or cold, bright or cloudy, windy or calm. There are, among the numerous lovers of sub- tilties and paradoxes, some who derive the civil institutions of every country from its climate, who impute freedom and slavery to the temper- ature of the air, can fix the meridian of vice and virtue, and tell at what degree of latitude we are to expect covu-age or timidity, knowledge or ignorance. From these dreams of idle speculation, a slight survey of life, and a little knowledge of history, is suflUcient to awaken any inquirer, whose am- bition of distinction has iiot overpowered his love of tinith. Forms of government are seldom the result of much deliberation ; they are framed by chance in popular assemblies, or in conquer- ed countries by despotic authority. Laws are often occasional, often capricious, made always by a few, and sometimes by a single voice. Na- tions have changed their characters ; slavery is now no where more patiently endured, than in countries once inhabited by the zealots of liberty. But Jiational customs can arise only from gen- eral agreement; they are not imposed, hut chosen, and are continued only by the continu- ance of their cause. An Englishman's notice of the weather, is the natural consequence of changeable skies and uncertain seasons. In many parts of the world, wet weather and dry are regularly expected at certain periods ; but in our island every man goes to sleep, unable to guess whether he shall behold in the morning a bright or cloudy atmosphere, whether his rest shall be lulled by a shower, or broken by a tem- pest. We therefore rejoice mutually at good weather, as at an escape from something that we feare-d j and mutually complain of bad, as of the loss of something that we hoped. Such is the reason of our practice ; and who shall treat it with contempt? Surely not the attendant on a court, whose business is to watch the looks of a being weak and foolish as himself, and whose vanity is, to recount the names of men who might drop into nothing, and leave no vacuity ; nor the proprietor of funds, who stops his ac- quaintance in the street to tell him of the loss of half-a-crown ; nor the inquirer after news, who fills his head with foreign events, and talks of skirmishes and sieges, of which no consequence will ever reach his hearers or himself. The weather is a nobler and more interesting subject ; it is the present state of the skies and of the earth, on which plenty and famine are suspend- ed, on which millions depend for the necessaries of life. The weather is frequently mentioned for an- other reason, less honourable to my dear coun- trymen. Our dispositions too frequently change with the colour of the sky ; and when we find ourselves cheerful and good-natured, we natur- ally pay our acknowledgements to the powers of sunshine ; or, if we sink into dulness and peev- ishness, look round the horizon for an excuse, and charge our discontent upon an easterly wind or a cloudy day. Surely nothing is more reproachful to a being endowed with reason, than to resign its powers to the influence of the air, and live in depen- dence on the weather and the wind, for the only blessings which nature has put into our power, tranquiUity and benevolence. To look up to the sky for the nutriment of ovir bodies, is the con- dition of nature ; to call upon the sun for peace and gayety, to deprecate the clouds lest sorrow should overwhelm us, is the cowardice of idle- ness, and idolatry of folly. Yet, even in this age of inquiry and knowledge, when superstition is driven away, and omens and prodigies have lost their terrors, we find this folly countenanced by frequent examples. Those that laugh at the portentous glare of a comet, and hear a crow with equal tranquillity from the right or left, wiU yet talk of times and situations proper for intellectual performances, will imagine the fancy exalted by vernal No. 12.] THE IDLER. 18 breezes, and the reason invigorated by a bright calm. If men who have given up themselves to fan- ciful credulity, would confine their conceits in their own minds, they might regulate their lives by the barometer, with inconvenience only to themselves; but to fill the world with ac- counts of intellects subject to ebb and flow, of one genius that awakened in the spring, and another that ripened in the autumn, of one mind expanded in the summer, and of another concentrated in the winter, is no less dangerous than to tell children of bugbears and goblins. Fear will find every house haunted ; and idle- ness will wait for ever for the moment of illum- ination. This distinction of seasons is produced only by imagination operating on luxury. To tem- perance every day is bright, and every hour is propitious to diligence. He that shall resolute- ly excite his facilities, or exert his virtues, will soon make himself superior to the seasons, and may set at defiance the morning mist, and the evening damp, the blasts of the east, and the clouds of the south. It was the boast of the Stoic philosophy, to make man unshaken by calamity, and undated by success; incorruptible by pleasure, and in- vulnei'able by pain; these are heights of wisdom which none ever attained, and to which few can aspii'e ; but there are lower degrees of con- stancy necessary to common virtue ; and eveiy man, however he may distrust himself in the extremes of good or evil, might at least struggle against the tyranny of the climate, and refuse to enslave his virtue or his reason to the most variable of all variations, the changes of the weather. k'V W%'«.'V'»^«^-V^'%'% «^ 'V% ^ No. 12.] Saturday, July 1, 1758. That every man is important in his own eyes, is a position of which we all, either voluntarily or unwarily, at least once an hour confess the truth; and it will unavoidably follow, that every man believes himself important to the \^ublic. The right which this importance gives us to general notice and visible distinction, is one of those disputable privileges which we have not always courage to assert, and which we there- fore suffer to lie dormant, till some elation of mind, or vicissitude of fortune, incites us to de- clare our pretensions, and enforce our demands. And hopeless as the claim of vulgar characters may seem to the supercilious and severe, there are few who do not at one time or other endea- vour to step forward beyond their rank, who do not make some struggles for fame, and show that they think all other conveniences and de- lights imperfectly enjoyed without a name. To get a name can happen but to few. A name, even in the most commercial nation, is one of the few things which cannot be bought. It is the free gift of mankind, which must be deserved before it will be granted, and is at last unwUlingly bestowed. But this unwillingness only increases desire in him who believes his merit sufficient to overcome it. There is a particular period of life in which this fondness for a name seems principally to predominate in both sexes. Scarce any coupk comes together but the nuptials are declared in the newspapers with encomiums on each party. Many an eye, ranging over the page with eager curiosity in quest of statesmen and heroes, is stopped by a marriage celebrated between Mr. Buckram, an eminent salesman in Threadnee- dle-street, and Miss Dolly Juniper, the only daughter of an eminent distiller of the parish of St. Giles's in the Fields, a young lady adorned with every accomplishment that can give happi- ness to the married state. Or we are told amidst our impatience for the event of a battle, that on a certain day Mr. Winker, a tide-waiter at Yarmouth, was married t-o Mrs. Cackle, a widow lady of great accomplishments ; and that as soon as the ceremony was performed they set out in a post chaise for Yarmouth. Many are the inquiries which such intelli- gence must undoubtedly raise, but nothing in the world is lasting. When the reader has con- templated with envy, or with gladness, the feli- city of Mr. Buckram and Mr. Winker, and ran- sacked his memory for the names of Juniper and Cackle, his attention is diverted to other thoughts, by finding that Mirza will not cover this season ; or that a spaniel has been lost or stolen, that answers to the name of Ranger. Whence it arises that on the day of marriage all agi'ee to call thus openly for honours, I am not able to discover. Some, perhaps, think it kind, by a public declaration, to put an end to the hopes of rivalry and the fears of jealousy, to let parents know that they may set their daugh- ters at liberty whom they have locked up for fear of the bridegroom, or to dismiss to their counters and their offices tlie amorous youths that had been used to hover round the dwelling of the bride. These connubial praises may have another cause. It may be the intention of the husband and wife to dignify themselves in the eyes of each other, and, according to their different tempers or expectations, to win affection, or enforce respect. It was said of the family of Lucas that it was noble, for all tJie brothers were valiant, and all the sisters icere virtnous. What would a stranger say of the English nation, in which, on the day of marriage, all the men are eminent^ u THE IDLER- [No. 15. and all the women bcaulifid, accomplished, and rick ? How long the wife will be persuaded of the eminence of her husband, or the husband con- tinue to believe that his wife has the qualities required to make marrijige haj)py, may reason- ably be questioned. I am afraid iliat much time seldom passes before each is convinced that pi-aises are fallacious, and jxirticuliU'ly those praises which we confer upon ourseilves. I should, therefore, think that this custom might be omitted without any loss to the com- munity ; and that the sons and daughters of lanes and alleys might go hereafter to the next church, with no witnesses of their worth or happiness but their parents and their friends ; but if they cannot be happy on their bridal day without some gratification of their vanity, I hope they will be willing to encx)urage a friend of mine who proposes to devote his jwwers to their service. Mr. Settle, a man whose eminence was once allowed by the eminent, and whose accomplish- meoits were confessed by the accomplished, in the latter part of a long life supported himself by an uncommon expedient. He had a standing elegy and epithalamium, of which only the first and last leaves were varied occasionally, and the in- termediate pages were, hy general terms, left applicable alike to every character. When any marriage became known, Settle ran to the bride- groom with his epithalamium; and when he heard of any death, ran to the heir with his elegy. Who can think himself disgraced by a trade that was practised so long by the rival of Dry- den, by the poet whose Kmpress of Morocco was played before princes by ladies of the court ? My friend purposes to open an office in the Fleet for matrimonial panegyrics, and will ac- commodate all with praise who think their own powers of expression inadequate to their merit. He will sell any man or woman the virtue or qualification which is most fashionable or most desired ; but desires his customers to remember, that he sets beauty at the highest price, and riches at the next ; and if he be well paid, throws in virtue for nothing. No. 13.1 Saturday, July 8, 1758. TO THE IDLER. Dear Mr. Idler, Though few men of prudence are much in- clined to interpose in disputes between man and wife, who commonly make peace at the expense of the arbitrator, yet I Avill venture to lay be- fore you a controversy, by which the quiet of my house has been long distuibcd, and which, * ^ unless you can decide it, is likely to produce lasting evils, and embitter those hours which nature seems to have appropriated to tenderness and repose. I married a wife with no great fortune, but of a family remarkable for domestic prudence, and elegant frugality. I lived with her at ease, if not with happiness, and seldom hud any rea- son of complaint. The house was always clean,, the servants very active and regular, dinner was on the table every day at the same minute, and the ladies of the neighbom-hood were frightened when I invited their Ifusbands, lest their own economy should be loss esteemed. During this gentle lapse of Hie my dear brought me three daughters. I wished for a son, to continue the family ; but my wife often tells me, that boys are dirty things, and are al- ways troublesome in a house j and declares that she has hated the sight of them ever since she saw lady P'ondle's eldest son ride over a carpet with his hobby-horse all mire. I did not much attend to her opinion, but knew that girls could not be made boys ; and therefore composed myself to bear what I could not remedy, and resolved to bestow that care on my daughters to which only the sons are com- monly thought entitled. But my wife's notions of education differ widely from mine. She is an irreconcileable enemy to idleness, and considers evei*y state of life as idleness, in which the liands are not em- ployed, or some art acquired, by which she thinks money may be got or saved. In pursuance of this principle, she calls up her daughters at a certain hour, and appoints them a task of needlework to be performed be- fore breakfast. They are confined in a garret, which has its window in the roof, both because the work is best done at a skylight, and because children are apt to lose time by looking about them. They bring down their work to breakfast, and as they deserve are commended or reproved ; they are then sent up with a new task till din- ner ; if no company is expected, their mother sits with them the whole afternoon, to direct their operations, and to draw patterns, and is sometimes denied to her nearest relations, when she is engaged in teaching them a new stitch. By this continual exercise of their diligence, she has obtained a very considerable number of laborious performances. We have twice as- many fire-screens as chimneys, and three flour- ished quilts for every bed. Half the rooms are adorned with a kind of sulile pictures, which imi- tate tapestry. But all their work is not set out to show ; she has boxes filled with knit garters and braided shoes. She has twenty covers for side-saddles embroidered with silver flowers, and has curtains wrought with gold in various No. 14-.] THE IDLER. 15 figures, which she resolves some time or other to hang up. All these she displays to her com- pany whenevei' she is elate with merit, and eager for praise ; and amidst the praises which her friends and herself bestow upon her merit, she never fails to turn to me, and ask what all these would cost, if I had been to buy them. I sometimes venture to tell her that many of the ornaments are superfluous ; that what is done with so much labour might have been supplied by a very easy purchase ; that the work is not always worth the materials ; and that I know not why the children should be persecuted with useless tasks, or obliged to make shoes that are never worn. She answers with a look of con- tempt, that men never care how money goes, and proceeds to tell of a dozen new chairs for which she is contriving covers, and of a couch which she intends to stand as a monument of needlework. In the meantime the girls grow up in to':al ignorance of every thing past, present, and fu- tm-e. Molly asked me the other day, whether Ireland was in France, and was ordei«ed by her mother to mind her hem. Kitty knows not, at sixteen, the difference between a protestant and a papist, because she has been employed three years in filling a side of a closet with a hanging that is to represent Cranmer in the flames. And Dolly, my eldest girl, is now un- able to read a chapter in the Bible, having spent all the time, which other children pass at school, in working the interview between Solo- mon and the queen of Sheba. About a month ago Tent and Turkey-stitch seemed at a stand ; my wife knew not what new work to introduce ; I ventured to propose that the girls should now learn to read and write, and mentioned the necessity of a little arithmetic; bnt, unhappily, my wife has dis- covered that linen weai's out, and has bought the girls three little wheels, that they may spin huckaback for the servants' table. I remon- strated, that with larger wheels they might despatch in an hour what must now cost them a day ; but she told me, with irresistible authority, that any business is better than idle- ness; that when these wheels are set upon a table, with mats under them, they will turn without noise and keep the girls upright ; that great wheels are not fit for gentlewomen ; and that with these, small as they are^ she does not doubt but that the three girls, if they are kept close, will spin every year as much cloth as would cost five pounds if one wore to buy it. >.V-V%%'V^'V^> No. 141 Saturday, July 15, 1758. When Diogenes received a visit in his tub from Alexander the Great, and was asked, according to the ancient forms of royal courtesy, what petition he had to offer ; I have nothing, said he, to ask, but that you would remove to the other side, that you may not, by intercqUing the sunshine, take from me what you cannot give. Such was the demand of Diogenes from the greatest monarch of the earth, which those, who have less power than Alexander, may, with yet more propriety, apply to themselves. He that does much good, may be allowed to do sometimes a little hai'm. But if the oppor- tunities of beneficence be denied by fortune, in- nocence should at least be vigilantly preserved. It is well known that time once past never returns ; and that the moment which is lost, is lost for ever. Time, therefore, ouglit, above all other kinds of property, to be free from invasion ; and yet there is no man ^vho does not claim the power of wasting that time which is the right of others. This usurpation is so general, that a very small part of tlie year is spent by choice ; scarcely any thing is done when it is intended, or obtained when it is desired. Life is contin- ually ravaged by invaders ; one steals away an hour, and another a day : one conceals the rob- bery by hurrying us into business, another by lulling us with amusement; the depredation is continued through a thousand vicissitudes of tumult and tranquillity, till^ having lost all* we can lose no more. This waste of the lives of men has been very frequently charged upon the Great, whose fol- lowers linger from year to year in expectations, and die at last with petitions in their hands. Those who raise envy will easily incur censure. I know not whether statesmen and patrons do not suffer more reproaches than they deserve, and may not rather themselves complain, that they are given up a prey to pretensions with- out merit, and to importunity without shame. The truth is, that the inconveniences of at- tendance are more lamented than felt. To tlie greater number solicitation is its own reward. To be seen in good company, to talk of famili- arities with men of power, to be able to tell tlie freshest news, to gratify an inferior circle with predictions of increase or decline of favour, and to be regarded as a candidate for high offices, are compensations more than. equivalent to the delay of favours, which, perhaps, he that begs them h.as hardly confidence to expect. A man, conspicuous in a high station, who multiplies hopes that he may multiply depen- dents, may be considered as a beast of prey, justly dreaded, but easily avoided ; his den is known, and they who would not be devoured, need not approach it. The great danger of the waste of time is from caterpillars and moths, who are not resisted, because they are not feared, and who work on with unheeded mischiefs, and Invisible encroachments. 16 THE IDLER. [No. 15. He whose rank or merit procnres him tlie notice of mankind, must give up himself, in a g:reat measure, to the convenience or humour of those who surround him. Every man who is sick of himself will fly to him for relief; he that wants to speak wiU require him to hear ; Ind he that wants to hear will expect him to speak. Hour passes after hour, the noon succeeds to morning, and the evening to noon, while a thousand objects are forced upon his at- tention, which he rejects as fast as they are of- fered, but which the custom of the world re- quires to be received with appearance of regard. If we will have the kindness of others, we must endure their follies. He who cannot per- suade himself to withdraw from society, must be content to pay a tribute of his time to a mul- titude of tyrants ; to the loiterer, who makes ap- pointments which he never keeps ; to the consul- ter who asks advice which he never takes ; to the boaster, who blusters only to be praised ; to the complainer, who whines only to be pitied ; to the projector, whose happiness is to entertain his friends with expectations which all but himself know to be vain ; to the economist, who tells of bargains and settlements ; to the politician, who predicts the fate of battles and breach of alli- ances ; to the usurer, who compares the differ- ent funds ; and to the talker, who talks only because he loves to be talking. To put every man in possession of his own time, and rescue the day from the succession of usurpers, is beyond my power, and beyond my hope. Yet, perhaps, some stop might be put to this unmerciful persecution, if all would seri- ously reflect, that whoever pays a visit that is not desired, or talks longer than the hearer is willing to attend, is guilty of an injury which he cannot repair, and takes away that which he cannot give. No. 16.] Saturday, July 22, 1758. TO THE IDLER. Sir, X HAVE the misfortune to be a man of business ; that, you wiU say, is a most grievous one ; but what makes it the more so to me is, that my wife has nothing to do; at least she had too good an education, and the prospect of too good a fortune in reversion when I married her, to think of employing herself either in my shop affairs, or the management of my family. Her time, you know, as well as my own, must be filled up some way or other. For my part, I have enough to mind in weighing my goods out, and waiting on my customers; but my wife, though she could be of as much use as a shopman to me, if she would put her hand to a ' it, is now only in my way. She walks all the morning sauntering about the shop, with her arms through her pocket-holes, or stands gaping at the door-sill, and looking at every person that passes by. She is continually asking me thousand frivolous questions about every custo- mer that comes in and goes out ; and all the while that I am entering any thing in my day- book, she is lolling over the counter, and staring at it, as if I was only scribbling or drawing figures for her amusement. Sometimes, indeed, she will take a needle ; but as she always works at the door, or in the middle of the shop, she has 80 many interruptions, that she is longer hemming a towel, or darning a stocking, thaa I am in breaking forty loaves of sugar, and making it up into pounds. In the afternoon I am sure, likewise, to have her company, except she is called upon by some of her acquaintance : and then, as we let out all the upper part of our house, and have only a little room backwards for our- selves, they either keep such a chattering, or else are calling out every moment to me, that I cannot mind my business for them. My wife, I am sure, might do all the little matters our family requires ; and I could wish that she would employ herself in them ; but, in- stead of that, we have a girl to do the work, and look after a little boy about two years old, which I may fairly say is the mother's own child. The brat must be humoured in every thing : he is, therefore, suffered constantly to play in the shop, pull aU the goods about, and clamber up the shelves to get at the plums and sugar. I dare not correct him ; because, if I did, I should have wife and maid both upon me at once. As to the latter, she is as lazy and sluttish as her mistress; and because the com- plains she has too much work, we can scarcely get her to do any thing at all ; nay, what is worse than that, 1 am afraid she is hardly honest ; and as she is entrusted to buy in all our provisions, the jade, I am sure, makes a market- penny out of every article. But to return to my deary. — The evenings are the only time, when it is fine weather, that I am left to myself; for then she generally takes the child out to give it milk in the park. When she comes home again she is so fatigued with walking, that she cannot stir from her chair ; and it is an hour after shop is shut, before I can get a bit of supper, while the maid is taken up in undressing and putting the child to bed. But you will pity me much more when I tell you the manner in which we generally pass our Sundays. In the morning she is commonly too ill to dress herself to go to church ; she f therefore, never gets up tiU noon ; and what t] is still more vexatious, keeps me in bed with her, when I ought to be busily engaged in better emplojTnent. It is well if she can get her things No. 16.] THE IDLER on by dinner-time ; and when that is over I am sure to be dragged out by her, either to Georgia, or Hornsey Wood, or the White- Conduit House.' Yet even these near excui'sions are so very fa- tiguing to her, that, besides what it costs me in tea and hot rolls, and syllabubs, and cakes for the boy, I am frequently forced to take a hack- ney-coach, or drive them home in a one-horse chair. At other times, as my wife is rather of the fattest, and a very poor walker, besides bear- ing her whole weight upon my ann, 1 am obliged to caiTy the child myself. Thus, Sir, does she constantly drawl out her time, without either profit or satisfaction ; and, while I see my neighbours' wives helping in the shop, and almost earning as much as their hus- bands, I have the mortification to find, that mine is nothing but a dead weight upon me. 'n short, I do not know any greater misfortune can happen to a plain hard-working tradesman, as I am, than to be joined to such a woman, who is rather a clog than a help-mate to him. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, Zachary Treacle. 17 No. 16.] Saturday, July 29, 1758. I PAID a visit yesterday to my old friend Ned Drugget, at his country lodgings. Ned began trade with a very small fortune ; he took a small house in an obscure street, and for some years dealt only in remnants. Knowing that light gains make a heavy jmrse, he was content with mo- derate profit ; having observed or heard the effects of civility, he bowed down to the counter-edge at the entrance and departure of every customer, listened without impatience to the objections of the ignorant, and refused Avithout resentment the offers of the penurious. His only recreation was, to stand at his own door and look into the street. His dinner was sent him from a neigh- bouring alehouse, and he opened and shut the shop at a certain hour Avith his own hands. His reputation soon extended from one end of the street to the other ; and Mr. Drugget's exemplary conduct was recommended by eveiy master to his apprentice, and by every father to his son. Ned was not only considered as a thriving tradei", but as a man of elegance and politeness, for he was remarkably neat in his dress, and would wear his coat threadbaj'e with- out spotting it ; his hat was always brushed, his shoes glossy, his wig nicely curled, and his stockings without a Avi'inkle. With such quali- fications it was not very difficult for him to gain the heart of P»Iiss Comfit, the only daughter of M% Comfit the confectioner. Ned is one of those whose happiness marriage has increased. His wife had the same disposi- tion with himself; and his method of life was very little changed, except that he dismissed the lodgers from the first floor, and took the whole house into his own hands. He had already, by his parsimony, accumu- lated a considerable sum, to which the fortune of his wife was now added. From this time he began to grasp at greater acquisitions, and was always ready with money in his hand, to pick up the refuse of a sale, or to buy the stock of a trader svho retired from business. He soon added his parlour to his shop, and was obliged a few months afterwards, to hire a warehouse. He had now a shop splendidly and copiously furnished with every thing that time had injur- ed, or fashion had degraded, with fragments of tissues, odd yards of brocade, vast bales of fad- ed silk, and innumerable boxes of antiquated ribbons. His shop was soon celebrated through all quarters of the tOAvn, and frequented by eveiy form of ostentatious poverty. Every maid, whose misfortune it was to be taller than her lady, matched her gown at Mr. Drugget's ; and many a maiden who had passed a winter with her aunt in London, dazzled the rustics, at her return, with cheap finery which Drugget had supplied. His shop was often visited in a morn- ing by ladies who left their coaches- in the next street, and crept through the alley in linea gowns. Drugget knows the rank of his cus- tomers by their bashfulness ; and when he finds them unwilling to be seen, invites them up stairs, or retires with them to the back window. I rejoiced at the increasing prosperity of my friend, and imagined that as he gi-ew rich, he was growing happy. His mind has partaken the enlargement of his fortune. When I stepped in for the first five yeai-s, 1 Avas Avelcomed only Avith a shake of the hand ; in the next period of his life, he beckoned across the way for a pot of beer ; but for six years past, he invited me to dinner ; and if he bespeaks me the day before, never fails to regale me with a fillet of A'eal. His riches neither made him uncivil nor negli- gent; he rose at the same hour, attended with the same assiduity, and bowed Avith the same gentleness. But for some years he has been much inclined to talk of the fatigues of business, and the confinement of a shop, and to Avish that he had been so happy as to have renewed his uncle's lease of a fann, that he might have lived without noise and hurry, in a pure air, in the artless society of honest villagers, and the con- templation of the works of nature. I scon discovered the cause of my friend's philosophy. He thought himself groAvn rich enough to have a lodging in the country, like the mercers on Ludgate-hill, and was resolved to enjoy himself in tlie decline of life. This Avas a 1 evolution not to be nx94e suddenly. H« D ^8 THE IDLER. [No. 17. ♦ftlkcd three years of the pleasures of the coun- try, hut p.isscd CA'ery niglit over his own shop. But at last he resolved to be happy, and Iiired a lodging in the country, that Jie may steal some hours in the week from business ; for, says he, when a man advances in life, he loves to entertain himself sometimes with his oum thovghts. I was invited to this seat of quiet and con- templation among those whom Mr. Drugget con- siders as his most reputable friends, and desires to make the first witnesses of his elevation to the highest dignities of a shopkeeper. I found him at Islington, in a room which overlooked the high road, amusing himself with Ie ; another erects his head, and exhi- bits the dust of a marigold separated from the flower with a dexterity worthy of Leuwenhoeck himself. Some turn the wheel of electricity . some suspend rings to a loadstone, and lind that what tiiey did yesterday they can do again to-day. S(Jine register the changes of the wind, and die fully convinced that the wind is change- able. There are men yet more profound, who have heard that two colourless liquors may produce a colour by union, and that two cold bodies will gi'ow hot if they are mingled; they mingle them, and produce the effect expected, say it is strange, and mingle them again. The Idlers that sport only with inanimate na- ture may claim some indulgence; if they are useless, they are still innocent; but there are others, whom I know not how to mention with- out more emotion than my love of quiet Avili- ingly admits. Among the inferior professors of medical knowledge, is a race of Avretches, whose liA'es are only varied by A'arieties of cruelty; whose favounte amusement is, to • nail dogs to tables and open them alive ; to try j| hoAv long life may be continued in various de- gi'ees of mutilation, or with the excision or laceration of the vital parts; to examine whethtr burning irons are felt more acutely by the bone or tendon ; and whether the more lasting agonies are produced by poison forced into the mouth, or injected into the veins. It is not Avithout reluctance that I offend the sensibility of the tender mind Avith images like these. If such cruelties were not practised, it were to be desired that they should not be con- ceived ; but, since they are published every day 1 with ostentation, let me be allowed once to I mention them, since I mention them with ab- hoiTcnce. Mead has invidiously remarked of Woodward, that he gathered, shells and stones, and would pass for a philosopher. With pretensions much less reasonable, the anatomical novice tears out the living bowels of an animal, and styles him- self physician, prepares himself by familiar cruelty for that profession Avhich he is to exer- cise upon the tender and the helpless, upon fee- ble bodies and broken minds, and by which he has opportunities to extend his arts of toi-ture^ and continue those experiments upon infancy and age, Avhich he has hitherto tried upon cats and dogs. What is alleged in defence of these hateful No. 18-2 THE IDLER. 1^ practices, every one knows j but the truth is, that by knives, flj e, and poison, knoAvledge is not always sought, and is very seldom attained. The experiments that have been tried, are tried again ; he that burned an animal with ii-ons yes- terday, will be willing to amuse himself with burning another to-morrow. I know not, that by living dissections any discovery has been made by which a single malady is more easily «ured. And if the knowledge of physiology has been somewhat increased, he surely buys know- ledge dear, who learns the use of the lacteals at the expense of his humanity. It is time that universal resentment should arise against these horrid operations, which tend to harden the heart, extinguish those sensations which give man confidence in man, and make tlie physician more dreadful than the gout or stone. No. 18.] Satcrdat, Aug. 12, 1758. TO THE IDLER. Sir, It commonly happens to him who endeavours to obtain distinction by ridicule, or censui'e, that he teaches others to practise his own arts against himself; and that, after a short enjoyment of the applause paid to his sagacity, or of the mirth excited by his wit, he is doomed to suffer the same severities of scrutiny, to hear inquiry de- tecting his faults, and exaggeration sporting with his failings. The natural discontent of inferiority will sel- dom fail to operate in some degi-ee of malice against him who professes to superintend the conduct of others, especially if he seats himself uncalled in the chair of judicature, and exercises authority by his own commission. You cannot, therefore, wonder that your ob- servations on human folly, if they produce Iftughter at one time, awaken criticism at ano- ther ; and that among the numbers whom you have taught to scoff at the retirement of Drug- g'et, there is one who offers his apology. The mistake of your old friend is by no means peculiar. The public pleasures of far the greater part of mankind are counterfeit. Very few carry their philosophy to places of diversion, or ai'e very careful to analyse their enjoyments. The genei'al condition of life is so full of miserj', that we are glad to catch delight without inquiring whence it comes, or by what power it is be- stowed. The mind is seldom quickened to very vigor- ous operations but by pain, or the dread of pain. We do not disturb ourselves with the detection of fallacies which do us no harm, nor willingly decline a pleasing effect to investigate its cause. lie that is happy, by whatever means, desires ■ nothing bat the continuance of hav)piness, and is no more solicitous to distribute his sensations into their proper species, than the common gazer on the beauties of the spring to separate light in- to its original rays. Pleasure is therefore seldom such as it appears to others, nor often such as we represent it to ourselves. Of the ladies that sparkle at a musi- cal performance, a very small number has any quick sensibility of harmonious sounds. But every one that goes has her pleasure. She has tlie pleasure of wearing fine clothes, and of shoT\'- ing them, of outshining those whom she suspects to envy her; she has the pleasure of appearing among other ladies in a place whither the race of meaner mortals seldom intrudes, and of re- flecting that, in the conversations of the next morning, her name will be mentioned among those that sat in the first row; she has the pleas- ure of returning courtesies; or refusing to return them, of receiving compliments with civility, or I'ejecting them with disdain. She has the pleas- ure of meeting some of her acquaintance, of guessing why the rest are absent, and of telling them tliat she saw the opera, on pretence of in- quiring why they would miss it. She has the pleasure of being supposed to be pleased with a refined amusement, and of hoping to be num- bered among the votaresses of harmony. She has the pleasure of escaping for two hours the superiority of a sister, or the control of a hus- band ; and from all these pleasures she concludes, that heavenly music is the balm of life. All assemblies of gayety are brought together by motives of the same kind. The theatre is not filled with those that know or regard the skill of the actor, nor the ball-room by those who dance, or attend to the dancers. To all places of general resort, where the standard of pleasure is erected, we run with equal eagerness, or appeai'ance of eagerness, for very different reasons. One goes that he may say he has been there, another because he never misses. This man goes to try what he can find, and that to discover what others find. "Whatever diversion is costly will be frequented by those who desire to be thought rich ; and whatever has, by any accident become fashionable, easily continues its reputation, because every one is ashamed of not partaking it. To every place of entertainment we go with expectation and desire of being pleased; we meet others who are brought by the same mo- tives ; no one will be the first to own the disap- pointment ; one face reflects the smile of an- other, till each believes the rest delighted, and endeavours to catch and transmit the circulating rapture. In time all are deceived by the cheat to which all contribute. The fiction of hapi)i- ness is propagated by every tongue, and confinn- ed by every look, till at last all profess the j<»y which they do not feel, consent to yield to tha so THE IDLER. [No. 19. general delusion ; and when the voluntary dream is at an end, lament that bliss is of so short a duration. i If Drugget pretended to jjleasurcs of which he had no perception, or boasted of one amuse- ! ment where he was indulging another, what did ', he which is not done by all those who read his 1 story? of whom some pretend delight in con- versation, only because they dare not be alone ; ' some praise the quiet of solitude, because they | are envious of sense, and impatient of folly ; and some gratify their pride, by writing characters which expose the vanity of life. I am. Sir, Your humble Servant. No. 19.] Saturday, Aug. 19, 175a Some of those ancient sages that have exercised their abilities in the inquiry after the supreme good, have been of opinion, that the highest de- gree of earthly happiness is quiet ; a calm re- pose both of mind and body, undisturbed by the sight of folly or the noise of business, the tumults of public commotion, or the agitations of private interest ; a state in which the mind has no other employment, but to obsei*ve and regulate her own motions, to trace thought from thought, combine one image with another, raise systems of science, and form theories of virtue. To the scheme of these solitary speculatists, it has been justly objected, that if they are happy, they are happy only by being useless. That mankind is one vast republic, where every in- dividual receives many benefits from the labours of others, which, by labouring in his turn for others, he is obliged to repay ; and that where the united efforts of all are not able to exempt all from misery, none have a right to withdraw from their task of vigilance, or to be indulged in idle wisdom or solitary pleasures. It is common for controvertists, in the heat of disputation, to add one position to another till they reach the extremities of knowledge, where truth and falsehood lose their distinction. Their admirers follow them to the brink of absurdity, and then start back from each side towards tlie middle point. So it has happened in this great disquisition. Many perceive alike the force of the contrary arguments, find quiet shameful, and business dangerous ; and therefore pass their lives between them, in bustle without busi- ness, and negligence without quiet. Among the principal names of this moderate set is that great philosopher Jack Whirler, whose business keeps him in perpetual motion, and whose motion always eludes his business; who is always to do what he never does, who cannot stand still becdufe he is wanted in another place, and who is wanted in many places because he stays ill none. Jack has more business than he can conveni- ently transact in one house; he has therefore one habitation near Bow- Church, and another about a mile distant. By this ingenious distri- bution of himself between two houses. Jack has contrived to be found at neither. Jack's trade is extensive, and he has many dealers ; his con- versation is sprigh*^ly, and he has many compan- ions ; his disposition is kind, and he has many friends. Jack neither forbears pleasure for busi- ness, nor omits business for ])leasure, but 13 equally invisible to his friends and his customers ; to him that comes with an invitation to a club, and to him that waits to settle an account. "When you call at his liouse, his clerk tells you, that Mr. Whirler has just stept out, but will be at home exactly at two ; you v/ait at a coflfee- house till two, and then find that he has been at home, and is gone out again, but left word that he should be at the Half-moon tavern at seven, where he hopes to meet you. At seven you go to the tavern. At eight in comes Mr. Whirler to tell you, that he is glad to see you, and only begs leave to run for a few minutes to a gentleman that lives near the Exchange, from whom he will return before supper can be i*eady. Away he runs to the Exchange, to tell those who are waiting for him, that he must beg them to defer the business till to-morrow, because his time is come at the Half-moon. Jack's cheerfulness and civility rankhim among those whose presence never gives pain, and whom all receive with fondness and caresses. He calls often on his friends to tell them, that he will come again to-moiTOw ; on the mon-ow he comes again, to tell them how an unexpected summons hurries him away. — W^hen he enters a house, his first declaration is, that he cannot sit down ; and so short are his visits, that he seldom ap- pears to have come for any other reason but to say he must go. The dogs of Egj-pt, when thirst brings them to the Nile, are said to run as they drink for fear of the crocodiles. Jack W^hirler always dines at full speed. He enters, finds the family at table, s^its familiarly down, and fills his plate; but while the first morsel is in his mouth, hears the clock strike, and rises; then goes to another house, sits down again, recollects another en- gagement; has only time to taste the soup, makes a short excuse to the company, and continue.* through another street his desultory dinner. But, overwhelmed as he is with business, his chief desire is to have still more. Every new proposal takes possession of his thoughts ; he soon balances probabilities, engages in the pro- ject, brings it almost to completion, and then forsakes it for another, which he catches with some alacrity, urges with the same vehemence, and abandons with the same coldness. No. 20.1 THE IDLER, 21 Every man may be observed to have a certain strain of lamentation, some peculiar theme of complaint on which he dwells in his moments- of dejection. Jack's topic of sorrow is his want of time. Many an excellent design languishes in empty theory for want of time. For the omission of any civilities, want of time is his plea to others ; for the neglect of any affairs, want of time is his excuse to himself. That he wants time he sincerely believes; for he once pined away many months with a lingering dis- temper, for want of time to attend to his health. Thus Jack Whirler lives in perpetual fatigues without proportionate advantage, because he does not consider that no man can see ell with his own eyes, or do all with his own hands ; that whoever is engaged in multiplicity of busi- ness, must transact much by substitution, and leave something to hazard ; and that he who attempts to do aU, will waste his life in doing little. No. 20.] Satukdat, Aug. 26, 1758. There is no crime more infamous than the violation of truth. It is apparent that men can be social beings no longer than they believe each other. When speech is employed only as the vehicle of falsehood, every man must dis- unite himself from others, inhabit his own caA'e, and seek prey only for himself. Yet the law of truth, thus sacred and neces- sary, is broken without punishment, without censure, in compliance with inveterate preju- dice and prevailing passions. Men are willing to credit what they wish, and encourage rather those who gratify them with pleasures, than those that instruct them with fidelity. For this reason every historian discovers his country ; and it is impossible to read the differ- ent accounts of any great event, without a wish that truth had more power over partiality. Amidst the joy of my countrjonen for the Acquisition of Louisbourg, I could not forbear to consider how differently this revolution of American power is not only now mentioned by the contending nations, but will be represented by the writers of another century. The English historian will imagine himself barely doing justice to English virtue, when he relates the capture of Louisbourg in the follow- ing manner: — " The English had hitherto seen, with great Indignation, their attempts baffled and their force defied by an enemy, whom they consid- ered thomselves as entitled to conquer by the right of prescription, and whom many ages of hereditary superiority had taught them to des- pise. Their fleets were more numerous, and their seamen braver, than those of France ; yet they only floated useless on the ocean, and the French derided them from their porta. Mis- fortunes, as is usual, produced discontent, the people murmured at the ministers, and the ministers censured the commanders. '* In the summer of this year, the English began to find their success answerable to their cause. A fleet and an army were sent to America to dislodge the enemies from the settle- ments which they had so perfidiously made, and so insolently maintained, and to repress that power which was growing more every day by the association of the Indians with whom these degenerate Europeans intermarried, and whom they secured to their party by presents and promises. " In the beginning of June the ships of war and vessels containing the land forces appeared before Louisbourg, a place so secure by nature that art was almost superfluous, and yet forti- fied by art as if nature had left it open. The French boasted that it was. impregnable, and spoke with scorn of all attempts that could be made against it. The~garrison was numerous, the stores equal to the longest siege, and their engineers and commanders high in reputation. " The mouth of the harbour was so narrow, that three ships within might easily defend it against aU attacks from the sea. The French had, "tvith that caution which cowards borrow from fear, and attribute to policy, eluded our fleets, and sent into that port five great ships and §ix smaller, of which tliey sunk four in the mouth of the passage, having raised batteries and posted troops at all the places where they thought it possible to make a descent. The English, however, had more to dread from the roughness of the sea, than from the skill or bravery of the defendants. Some days passed before the surges, which rise very high round that island, would suffer them to land. At last their impatience could be restrained no longer ; they got possession of the shore with little loss by the sea, and with less by the enemy. In a few days the artillery was landed, the batteries were raised, and the French had no other hope than to escape from one post to another. A shot fi'om the batteries fired the powder in one of their largest ships, the flame spread to the two next, and all three were destroyed; the Eng- lish admiral sent his boats against the two large ships yet remaining, took them without resist- ance, and terrified the gaiTison to an immediate capitulation. " Let us now oppose to this English narrative the relation which will be produced, about the same time, by the writerof theage of Louis XV. " About this time the English admitted to thi conduct of affairs a man who imdertook to save from destruction that ferocious and turbulent people, who from the mean insolence of wealthy 22 THE IDLER. [No. 21. traders, and the lawless confidence of successful robbers, were now sunk in despair and stupified with horror. lie called in the ships which had been dispersed over the ocean to guard their merchants, and sent a fleet and an army, in which almost the whole strength of England was comprised, to secure their possessions in America, which were endangered alike by the French arms and the French virtue. We had taken the English fortresses by force, and gained the Indian nations by humanity. The English, wherever they come, are sure to have the na- tives for their enemies : for, the only motive of their settlements is avarice, and the only con- sequence of their success is oppression. In this war they acted like other barbarians, and, with a degree of outrageous cruelty which the gentle- ness of our manners scarcely suflFers us to con- ceive, offered rewards by open proclamation to those who should bring in the scalps of Indian women and children. A trader always makes war with the cruelty of a pirate. " They had long looked with envy and with terror upon the influence which the French ex- erted over all the northern regions of America by the possession of Louisbourg, a place na- turally strong, and new fortified with some slight outworks. They hoped to surprise the gai'rison unprovided; but that sluggishness which always defeats their malice, gave us time to send supplies, and to station ships for the defence of the harbour. They came before Louisbourg in June, and were for some time in doubt whether they should land. But the com- manders, who had lately seen an admiral be- headed for not having done what he had not power to do, durst not leave the place unassault- ed. An Englishman has no ardour for honour, nor zeal for duty ; he neither values glory nor loves his king, but balances one danger with another, and will fight rather than be hanged. They therefore landed, but with great loss ; their engineers had, in tke last war with the French, learned something of the militaiy sci- ence, and made their approaches with sufficient skill ; but all their efi'orts had been without ef- fect, had not a ball unfortunately fallen into the powder of one our ships, which communicated the fire to the rest, and, by opening the passage of the harbour, obliged the garrison to capitulate. Thus WS3 Louisbourg lost, and our troops marched out with the admiration of their ene- mies, who durst hardly think themselves mas- ters of the place." No. 21.] Saturday, Sept. 2, 1738. TO THE IDLER. Deau Mil. Idler, TiiKftE is a species of niiscry, or of disease, for which our language i« commonly supposed to be without a name, but which I think is emphati- cally enough denominated listlessness, and which is commonly termed a want of something to do. Of the unhappiness of this state I do not ex- pect all your readers to have an adequate idea. Many are overburthened with business, and can imagine no comfort but in rest ; many have minds so placid, as willingly to indulge a vo- luntary lethargy ; or so narrow, as easily to be filled to their utmost capacity. By these 1 shall not be understood, and therefore cannot be pitied. Those only will s}Tnpathise with my complaint, whose imagination is active and re- solution weak, whose desires are ardent, and whose choice is delicate ; who cannot satisfy themselves with standing stUl, and yet cannot find a motive to direct their course. I was the second son of a gentleman, whose estate was barely sufficient to support himself and his heir in the dignity of killing game. He therefore made use of the interest which the alliances of his family afforded him, to procure me a post in the army. I passed some years in the most contemptible of all human stations, that of a soldier in time of peace. I wandered with the regiment as tl e quarters were changed, without opportunity for business, taste for know- ledge, or money for pleasure. Wherever I came, I was for some time a stranger without curiosity, and afterwards an acquaintance with- out friendship. Having nothing to hope in these places of fortuitous residence, I resigned my conduct to chance ; I had no intention to offend, I had no ambition to delight. I suppose every man is shocked when he hears how frequently soldiers are wishing for war. The wish is not always sincere ; the greater part are content with sleep and lace, and coun- terfeit an ardour which they do not feel; but those who desire it most are neither prompted by malevolence nor patriotism : they neither pant for laurels nor delight in blood ; but long^ to be delivered from the tyranny of idleness, and restored to the dignity of active beings. I never imagined myself to have more courage than other men, yet was often involuntaiy wish- ing for a war, but of a war at that time I had nr prospect ; and being enabled, by the death of an uncle, to live without my pay, I quitted the army, and resolved to regulate my own motions I was pleased, for a while, with the novelty o independence, and imjigined that I had now found what every man desires. My time was in my own power, and my habitation was wherever my choice should fix it. I amused myself for two years in passing from place to place, and comparing one convenience with an- other ; but being at last ashamed of inquiry, and weary of uncertainty, I purchased a house, and established my family. 1 o^ow ex/)ected to begin to be happv. and waa I No. 522.] THE IDLER. S3 happy for a short time with that expectation. ■ of this city, 1 was struck with horror by a rue But I soou perceived my spirits to subside, and ful cry which summoned me to remember the r)oor vaj imagination to grow dark. The gloom-; debtors. thickened every day around me. I wondered by what malignant power my peace was blasted, till I discovered at last that 1 had nothing to do. i Time, with all its celerity, moves slowly to j him whose whole emplojTnent is to watch its I flight. I am forced upon a thousand shifts to enable me to endure the tediousness of the day. I rise when T can sleep no longer, and take my morning walk ; I see v/hat I have seen before, and return. I sit down and persuade myself that 1 sit down to think, find it impossible to think without a subject, rise up to inquire after news, and endeavour to kindle in myself an arti- ficial impatience for intelligence of events, which will never extend any consequence to me, but that a few minutes they abstract me from myself. When 1 have heard any thing that may gra- tify curiosity, I am busied for a while in run- ning to relate it. I hasten from one place of concourse to another, delighted with my own importance, and proud to think that I am doing something, though I know that another hour would spare my labour. I had once a round of visits, which 1 paid very regularly ; but I have now tired most of my friends. When I have sat down I forget to rise, and have more than once overheard one asking another when I would be gone. I per- ceive the company tired, I observe the mistress of the family whispering to her servants, I find ordei's given to put off business till to-morrow, I see the watches frequently inspected, and yet cannot withdraw to the vacuity of solitude, or ventui'e myself in my own company. Thus burthensome to myself and others, I foim many schemes of employment which may make my life useful or agi'eeable, and exempt me fi'om the ignominy of living by sufferance. This new course 1 have long designed, but have not yet begun. The present moment is never proper for the change, but there is always a time in view v.'hen all obstacles will be removed, and I shall surprise all that know me with a new distribution of my time. Twenty years have passed since I have resolved a complete amend- ment, and twenty years have been lost in de- lays. Age is coming upon me; and I should look back with rage and despair upon the waste of life, but that I am now beginning in earnest to begin a I'eformation. 1 am. Sir, Your humble servant, Dick Linger. No. 22.] Saturday, Sept. 16, 175S. TO THE IDLER. Sir, As 1 wjis passing lately under one of the gates The wisdom and justice of the English laws are, by Englishmen at least, loudly celebrated : but scarcely the most zealous admii-ers of our institutions can think that law wise, which, when men are capable of work, obliges them to beg ; or just, which exposes the liberty of one to the passions of another. The prosperity of a people is proportionate to the number of hands and minds usefully em- ployed. To the community, sedition is a fever, corruption is a gangi-ene, and idleness is ai> atrophy. Whatever body, and whatever society wastes more than it acquires, must gradually decay ; and every being that continues to be fed, and ceases to labour, takes away something from the public stock. The confinement, therefore, of any man in the sloth and darkness of a prison, is a loss to the nation, and no gain to the creditor. For of the multitudes who are pining in those cells of misery, a very small part is suspected of any fraudulent act by which they retain what be- longs to otbors. The rest are imprisoned by the wantonness of pride, the malignity of re- venge, or the acrimony of disappointed expec- tation. If those, who thus rigorously exercise the power which the law has put into their hands, be asked, why they continue to imprison those whom they know to be unable to pay them? one will answer, that his debtor once lived better than himself; another, that his wife looked above her neighbours, and his children went in silk clothes to the dancing-school ; and another, that he pretended to be a joker and a wit. Some will reply, that if they wore in debt, they should meet with the same treatment ; some, that they owe no more than they can pay, and need there- fore give no account of their actions. Some will confess their resolution that their debtors shall rot in gaol; and some will discover, that they hope, by cruelty, to wring the payment from their friends. The end of all civil regulations is, to secure private happiness from private malignity ; to keep individuals from the power of one another: but this end is apparently neglected, when a man, irritated with loss, is allowed to be the judge of his own cause, and to assign the punish- ment of his own pain ; M-hen the distinction be- tween guilt and hapjiiness, between casualty and design, is entrusted to eyes blind with in- terest, to understandings depraved by resent- ment. Since poverty is punished among us as a crime, it ought at least to be ti-eated with the sanift lenity as other crimes : the offender ought not to languish at the a. ill of him v* hom he has of- fendedj but to be allowed seme appeal to the S4 THE IDLER. [No. 23. justice of his country. There can be no reason why any debtor should be imprisoned, but tliat he may be compelled to payment ; and a term should therefore be fixed, iu which the creditor should exhibit his accusation of concealed pro- perty. If such property can be discovered, let it be given to the creditor ; if the charge is not offered, or cannot be proved, let the prisoner be dismissed. Those who made the laws have apparently supposed, that every deficiency of payment is the crime of tlie debtor. But the truth is, that the creditor always shares the act, and often more than shares the guilt of improper trust. It seldom happens that any man imprisons an- other but for debts which he suflored to be con- tracted in hope of advantage to himself, and for bargains in which he proportioned his profit to his own opinion of the hazard ; and there is no reason why one should punish the other for a contract in which both concurred. Many of the inhabitants of prisons may justly complain of harder treatment. He that once owes more than he can pay, is often obliged to bribe his creditor to patience, by increasing his debt. Worse and worse commodities, at a high- er and higher price, are forced upon him ; he is impoverished by compulsive traffic, and at last overwhelmed, in the common receptacles of mis- ery, by debts, which, without his own consent, were accumulated on his head. To the relief of this distress, no other objection can be made, but that by an easy dissolution of debts, fraud will be left without punishment, and impru- dence without awe ; and that when insolvency should be no longer punishable, credit will cease. The motive to credit is the hope of advan- tage. Commerce can never be at a stop, while one man wants what another can supply ; and credit will never be denied, while it is likely to be repaid with profit. He that trusts one whom he designs to sue, is criminal by the act of trust : the cessation of such iusiduous traflic is to be desired, and no reason can be given why a change of the law should impair any other. We see nation trade with nation, where no payment can be compelled. Mutual coiiveni- ence produces mutual confidence ; and the mer- chants continue to satisfy the demands of each other, though they have nothing to dread but the loss of trade. It is vain to continue an institution, which experience shows to be ineffectual. We have now imprisoned one generation of debtors after another, but we do not find that their numbers lessen. We have now learned that rashness and imprudence will not be deterred from taking credit ; let us try whether fraud and avarice may be more easily restrained from giving it. I am, Sir, &c. No. 23.] Saturday, Sept. 23, 1753. LiFK has no pleasure higher or nobler tlian that of friendsliip. It is painful to fonsider, that this sublime enjoyment may be impaired or de- stroyed by innumerable causes, and that tiiere is no human possession of whicli the dui*ation is less certain. Many have talked, in very exalted language, of the perpetuity of friendsliip, of invincible con- stancy, and unalienable kindness; and some ex- amples have been seen of men who have contin- ued faithful to tlieir earliest choice, and whose affection has predominated over changes of for- tune, and contrariety of opinion. But these instances are memorable, because they are rare. The friendship which is to be practised or expected by common mortals, must take its rise from mutual pleasure, and must end when the power ceases of delighting each other. Many accidents therefore may happen, by which the ardour of kindness will be abated, without criminal baseness or contemptilde in- constancy on either part. To give pleasure is not always in our power; and little does he know himself, who believes that he can be al- ways able to receive it. Those who would gladly pass their days to- gether may be separated by the different course of their affaii-s : and friendship, like love, is de- stroyed by long absence, though it may be in- ci eased by short intermissions. What we have missed long enough to want it, we value more when it is regained ; but that which has been lost till it is forgotten, will be found at last with little gladness, and with still less, if a substitute has supplied the place. A man deprived of the companion to whom he used to open his bosom, and with whom he shared the hours of leisure and mei'riment, feels the day at first hanging heavy on him; his difficulties oppress, and his doubts distract him ; he sees time come and go without his wonted gratification, and all is sad- ness within and solitude about him. But this uneasiness never lasts long ; necessity produces expedients, new amusements are discovered, and new conversation is admitted. ]So expectation is more frequently disappoint- ed, than that which naturally arises in the mind from the prospect of meeting an old friend after long separation. We expect the attraction to be revived, and the coalition to be renewed ; no man considers how much alteration time has made in himself, and very few inquire what effect it has had upon others. The first hour convinces them, that the pleasure vihich they have formerly enjoyed, is for ever at an end ; different scenes have made different impres- sions; the opinions of both are changed; and that similitude of manners and sentiment is No. 21.] lost, which conflrmed them both in the appro- bation of themselvess. Friendship is often destroyed by opposition of interest, not only by the ponderous and visible interest which the desire of wealth and great- ness forms and maintains, but by a thousand secret and slight competitions, scarcely known to the mind upon which they operate. There is scarcely any man without some favourite ti'ifle which he values above greater attainments, some desire of petty praise w^hich he cannot patiently suffer to be frustrated. This minute ambition is sometimes crossed before it is knoAvn, and sometimes defeated by wanton petulance ; but such attacks are seldom made without the loss of friendship ; for whoever has once found the vulnerable part will always be feared, and the resentment will burn on in secret, of which shame hinders the discovery. This, however, is a slow malignity, which a wise man will obviate as inconsistent with quiet, and a good man will repress as contrary to virtue ; but human happiness is sometimes violated by some more sudden strokes. A dispute begun in jest upon a subject which a moment before was on both parts rjegarded with careless indifference, is continued by the desire of conquest, till vanity kindles into rage, and opposition rankles into enmity. AgaiiLst this hasty mischief, I know not what security can be obtained; men will be sometimes sur- prised into quarrels; and though they might both hasten to reconciliation, as soon as their tumult had subsided, yet two minds wiU seldom be found together, which can at once subdue their discontent, or immediately enjoy the sweets of peace, without remembering the wounds of the conflict. Friendship has other enemies. Suspicion is always hardening the cautious, and disgust re- pelling the delicate. Very slender differences will sometimes part those whom long recipro- cation of civility or beneficence has united. Lonelove and Ranger retired into the country to enjoy the company of each other, and re- turned in six weeks cold and petulant : Ran- ger's pleasm'e was, to walk in the fields, and Lonelove's to sit in a bower ; each had complied with the other in his turn, and each was angry that compliance had been exacted. ITie most fatal disease of friendship is gradual decay, or dislike hourly increased by causes too slender for complaint and too numerous for rjemoval. — Those who are angry may be recon- ciled; those who have been injured may receive a recompence ; but when the desire of pleasing and willingness to be pleased is silently dimin- ished, the renovation of friendship is hopeless ; as, when the vital powers sink into languor, there is no longer any use of the physician. THE IDLER. ^a No. 24.] Saturday, Sept. 80, 1758. When man sees one of the inferior creatures perched upon a tree, or basking in the sunshine, without any apparent endeavour or pursuit, he often asks himself, or his companion. On what that animal can be supposed to be thinking F Of this question, since neither bird nor beast can answer it, we must be content to live with- out the resolution. We know not how much the brutes recollect of the past, or anticipate of the future ; what power they have of comparing and preferring ; or whether their faculties may not rest in motionless indifference, tiU they are moved by the presence of their proper object, or stimulated to act by corporal sensations. I am the less inclined to these superfluous in- quiries, because 1 have always been able to find sufficient matter for curiosity in my own species. It is useless to go far in quest of that which may be found at home ; a very narrow circle of observation will supply a suflBicient number of men and women, who might be asked, with equal propriety, On what they can be thinking ? It is reasonable to believe, that thought, like every thing else, has its causes and effects ; that it must proceed from something known, done, or suffered ; and must produce some action or event. Yet how great is the number of those in whose minds no source of thought has ever been opened, in whose life no thought of conse- quence is ever discovered ; who have learned nothing upon which they can reflect ; who have neither seen nor felt any thing wliich could leave its traces on the memory; who neither foresee nor desire any change of their condition, and have therefore neither fear, hope, nor de- sign, and yet are supposed to be thinking beings. To every act a subject is required. He that thinks, must think upon something. But tell me, ye that pierce deepest into nature, ye that take the widest surveys of life, inform me, kind shades of Malbranche and of Locke, what that something can be, which excites and continues thought in maiden aunt^ with small fortimes ; in younger brothers that live upon annuities ; in traders retired from business ; in soldiers ab- sent from their regiments ; or in widows that have no children ? Life is commonly considered as either active or contemplative ; but surely this division, how long soever it has been received, is inadequate and falacious. There are mortals whose life is certainly not active, for they do neither good nor evil ; and whose life cannot be properly cal- led contemplative, for they never attend either to the conduct of men, or the works of nature, but rise in the morninija look round ihem till E 96 THE IDLER. [No. 25. night in careless stupidity, go to bed and sleep, and rise again in the morning. It has been lately a celebi-ated question in tbe schools of philosophy, Wlietlier the soul always thinks ? Some have defined the soul to be the poiver of thinking ; concluded that its essence con- sists in act ; that, if it should cease to act, it would cease to be; and that cessation of thought is but another name for extinction of mind. This argument is subtile, but not conclusive ; because it supposes what cannot be proved, that the nature of mind is properly defined. Others affect to disdain subtilty, when subtilty will not serve their purpose, and appeal to daily experi- ence. We spend many hours, they say, .in sleep, without the least remembrance of any thoughts which then passed in our minds ; and since we can only by our own consciousness be sure that we think, why should we imagine that we have had thought of which no conscious- ness remains? This argument, which appeals to experience, may fi'om experience be confuted. "We every day do something which we forget when it is done, and know to have been done only by con- sequence. The waking hours are not denied to have been passed in thought ; yet he that shall endeavour to recollect on one day the ideas of the former, will only turn the eye of reflection upon vacancy; he will find, that the greater part is irrevocably vanished, and wonder how the moments could come and go, and leave so little behind them. To discover only that the arguments on both sides are defective, and to throw back the tenet into its former uncertainty, is the sport of wan- ton or malevolent scepticism, delighting to see the sons of philosophy at work upon a task which never can be decided. I shall suggest an argument hitherto overlooked, which may per- haps determine the controvei'sy. If it be impossible to think without materials, there must necessarily be minds that do not always think ; and whence shall we furnish materials for the meditation of the glutton be- tween his meals, of the sportsman in a rainy month, of the annuitant between the days of quarterly payment, of the politician when the mt-ils are detained by contraiy winds? But how frequent soever may be the exam- ples of existence without thought, it is certainly a state not much to be desired. He that lives in torpid insensibility, wants nothing of a car- cass but putrefaction. It is the part of every inhabitant of the earth to partake the pains and pleasures of his fellow-beings; and, as in a road through a country desert and uniform, the traveller languishes for want of amusement, so the passage of life will be tedious and irlisome to him who does not beguile it by diversified IdL'as. No. 26.] SATunnAY, Oct. 7, V TO THE IDLER. Sir, I AM a very constant frequenter of the play- house, a place to which I suppose the Idler not much a stranger, since he can have no where else so much entertainment with so little con- currence of his own endeavour. At all other assemblies, he that comes to receive delight, will be expected to give it ; but in the theatre nothing is necessary to the amusement of two hom's, but to sit down and be willing to be pleased. The last week has offered two new actors to the towTi. The appearance and retirement of actors are the great events of the theatrical world ; and their first performance fills the pit with conjecture and prognostication, as the first actions of a new monarch agitate nations with hope or fear. What opinion I have formed of the future excellence of these candidates for dramatic glory, it is not necessary to declare. Their en- trance gave me a higher and nobler pleasure than any borrowed character can afford. I saw the ranks of the theatre emulating each other in candour and humanity, and contending who should most eflfectually assist the struggles of endeavour, dissipate the blush of diflSdence, and still the flutter of timidity. This behavioiu' is such as becomes a people, too tender to repress those who wish to please, too generous to insult those who can make no resistance. A public performer is so much in the power of spectators, that all unnecessary severity is restrained by that general law of hu- manity which forbids us to be cruel, where there is nothing to be feared. In every new performer something must be pardoned. No man can, by any force of reso- lution, secure to himself the full possession of his own powers under the eye of a large assem- bly. Variation of gesture, and flexion of voice, are to be obtained only by experience. There is nothing for which such numbers think themselves qualified as for theatrical ex- hibition. Every human being has an action graceful to his own eye, a voice musical to his own ear, and a sensibility which nature forbids him to know that any other bosom can excel. An art in which such numbers fancy them- selves excellent, and which the public liberally rewards, will excite many competitors, and in many attempts there must be many miscar- riages. The care of the critic should be to distinguish error from inability, faults of inexperience from defects of nature. Action in-egxilar and turbu- I lent may be reclaimed; vociferation vehement 26'.1 THE IDLER. 27 ami confused maybe resti-aiiu;il and modulated; the stalk of the tyrant may become the gait of the man ; the yell of inarticulate distress may be reduced to human lamentation. All these faults should be for a time overlooked, and after- wards censured with gentleness and candour. But if in an actor there appears an utter vacan- cy of meaning, a frigid equality, a stupid lan- guor, a torbid apathy, the greatest kindness that can be shown him, is a speedy sentence of expulsion. I am, Sir, &c. The plea which my correspondent has offered for young actors, I am very far from wishing to invalidate. I always considered those combina- ations which are sometimes formed in the play- house, as acts of fraud or of cruelty ; he that applauds him who does not deserve praise, is endeavouring to deceive the public ; he that hisses in malice or sport, is an oppressor and a robber. But surely this laudable forbearance might be justly extended to young poets. The art of the writer, like that of the player, is attained by sloAV degrees. The power of distinguishing and discriminating comic characters, or of fiUing tragedy with poetical images, must be the gift of nature, which no instruction nor labour can supply ; but the art of di-amatic disposition, the contexture of the scenes, the opposition of char- acters, the involution of the plot, the expedi- ents of suspension, and the stratagems of sur- prise, are to be learned by practice ; and it is cruel to discourage a poet for ever, because he has not from genius what only experience can bestow. Life is a stage. Let me likewise solicit can- dour for the young actor on the stage of life. They that enter into the world are too often treated with unreasonable rigour by those that were once as ignorant and heady as themselves ; and distinction is not always made between the faults which require speedy and violent eradica- tion, and those that will gradually drop away in the progression of life. Vicious solicitations of appetite, if not checked, will grow more importunate ; and mean arts of profit or ambi- tion will gather strength in the mind, if they are not early suppressed. But mistaken notions of superiority, desires of useless show, pride of little accomplishments, and all the train of vanity, wiU. be brushed away by the wing of T«me. Repi'oof should not exhaust its power upon petty failings ; let it watch diligently against the incursion of vice, and leave foppery and fu- tility to die of themselves. No. 26.1 Satuudav, Oct. U-, 1758. Mr. Idler, I NEVER thought that I should write any thing to be printed ; but having lately seen your first essay, which was sent down into the kitchen, with a great bundle of gazettes and useless papers, I find that you are willing to admit any corre- spondent, and therefore hope you will not reject me. If you publish my letter, it may encourage others, in the same condition with myself, to tell their stories, which may be perhaps as use- ful as those of great ladies. I am a poor girl. I was bred in the country at a charity-school, maintained by the contri- butions of wealthy neighbours. The ladies, or patronesses, visited us from time to time, ex- amined how we were taught, and saw that our clothes were clean. "We lived happily enough, and wei'e instructed to be thankfid to those at whose cost we were educated. I was always the favourite of my mistress ; she used to call me to read, and show my copy-book to all strangers, who never dismissed me without commendation, and very seldom without a shil- ling. At last the chief of our subscribers, having passed a winter in London, came down full of an opinion new and strange to the whole coun- try. She held it little less than criminal to teach poor girls to read and write. They who are born to poverty, said she, are born to ignor- ance, and will work the harder, the less they know. She told her friends, that London was in confusion by the insolence of servants; that scarcely a wench was to be got for all ivork, since education had made such numbers of fine ladies, that nobody would now accept a lower title than that of a waiting-maid or something that might qnalify her to wear laced shoes and long ruffles, and to sit at work in the parlour win- dow. But she was resolved, for her part, to spoil no more gii'ls ; those, who were to live by their hands, should neither read nor write out of her pocket ; the world was bad enough al- ready, and she would have no part in making it worse. She was for a short time warmly opposed; but she persevered in her notions, and with- drew her subscription. Few listfen without a desire of conviction to those who advise them to spare their money. Her example and her ar- guments gained ground daily ; and in less than a year the whole parish was convinced, that the nation would be ruined, if the children of the poor were taught to read and wTite. Our school was now dissolved ; my mistress kissed me when we parted, and told me, that, being old and helpless she could not assist me. 28 THE IDLER. [No. advised me to seel* a service, nnd charged me not to forget what I had learned. My reputation for scholarship, which had hitherto recommended me to favour, was, by the adherents to the new opinion, considered as a crime ; and, when I offered myself to any mistress, I had no other answer than Sure, child, you would not work ! hard work is not Jit for a pen-woman; a scnibbing-bnish xvould spoil your hnud, child / I could not live at home ; and while I was considering to what I should betake me, one of the girls, who had gone from our school to Lon- don, came down in a silk gown, and told her acquaintance how well she lived, what fine things she saw, and what great wages she re- ceived. I resolved to try my fortune, and took my passage in the next week's waggon to Lon- don. I had no snares laid for me at my anival, but came safe to a sister of my mistress, who undertook to get me a place. She knew only the families of mean tradesmen ; and I, having no high opinion of my own qualifications, was willing to accept the first offer. My first mistress was wife of a working watchmiaker, who earned more than was suffi- cient to keep his family in decency and plenty ; but it was their constant practice to hire a chaise on Sunday, and spend half the wages of the week on Richmond hill ; of Monday he com- monly lay half in bed, and spent the other half in merriment; Tuesday and Wednesday con- sumed the rest of his money; and three days every week were passed in extremity of want by us who were left at home, while my master lived on trust at an ale-house. You may be sure, that of the sufferers, the maid suffered most ; and I left them, after three months, rather than be starved. I was then maid to a hatter's wife. There was no want to be dreaded, for they lived in perpetual luxury. My mistress was a diligent woman, and rose early in the morning to set the journeymen to work; my master was a man much beloved by his neighbours, and sat at one club or other every night. I was obliged to wait on my master at night, and on my mistress in the morning. He seldom came home before two, and she rose at five. I could no more live without sleep than without food, and therefore entreated them to look out for another servant. My next removal was to a linen-draper's, who hitd six children. My mistress, when I first entered the house, informed me, that I must never contradict the children, nor suffer them to cry. I had no desire to offend, and readily promised to do my best. But when I gave them their breakfast, I could not help all first ; when 1 was playing with one in my lap, I was forced to keep the rest in expectation. That which was not gratified always resented my I erar- I No. 27.] Saturday, Oct. 21, 1758. It has been the endeavour of all those whom the world has reA'erenced for superior wisdom, to persuade man to be acquainted with himself, to learn his own powers and his own weakness, to observe by what evils he is most dangerously beset, and by what temptations most easily overcome. This counsel has been often given with seri- ous dignity, and often received with appearance of conviction ; but, as very few can search deep into their own minds without meeting what they wish to hide from themselves, scarcely any man persists in cultivating such disagree- able acquaintance, but draws the veil again be- tween his eyes and his heart, leaves his passions and appetites as he found them, and advises others to look into themselves. This is the common result of inquiry even among those that endeavour to grow wiser or better ; but this endeavour is far enough from frequency ; the greater part of the multitudes that swarm upon the earth have never been dis- turbed by such uneasy curiosity, but deliver themselves up to business or to pleasure, plunge into the current of life, whether placid or tur- bulent, and pass on from one point of prospect to another, attentive rather to any thing than the state of theli' minds ; satisfied, at an easy the injury w»;h aloud outcry, which put mistress in a fury at me, and procured sugar- plums to the child. I could not keep six chil- dren quiet, who were bribed to be clamorous ; and was therefore dismissed, as a girl honest, but not good-natured. I then lived with a couple that kept a petty shop of remnants and cheap linen. I was qual- ified to make a bill, or keep a book ; and being therefore often called, at a busy time, to serve the customers, expected that I should now be happy, in proportion as I was useful. But my mistress appropriated every day part of the ■ profit to some private use, and, as she grew I bolder in her theft, at last deducted such sums, that my master began to wonder how he sold so much, and gained so little. She pretended to assfet his inquiries, and began, very gravely, to hope that Betty ivas honest, and yet those sharj> girls were apt to be light Jingered. You will be- lieve that I did not stay there much longer. The rest of my story I will tell you in anoth- er letter ; and only beg to be informed, in some paper, for which of my places, except perhaps the last, I was disqualified by my skill in read- ing and writing. ' I am. Sir, Your very humble servant, Betty Broom. No. !w'S.] THE IDLER. ^9 rate, with an opioion, that they are no worse .than others, that every man must mind his own interest, or that their pleasures hurt only them-- selves, and are therefore no proper subjects of censure. Some, however, there are, whom the intru- sion of scruples, the recollection of better notions, or the latent reprehension of good examples, wiU not suffer to live entirely contented with their own conduct ; these are forced to pacify the mutiny of reason with fair promises, and quiet their thoughts with designs of calling all their actions to review, and planning a new scheme for the time to come. There is nothing which we estimate so falla- ciously as the force of our own resolutions, nor any fallacy which we so unwillingly and tardi- ly detect. He that has resolved a thousand times, and a thousand times deserted his own purpose, yet suffers no abatement of his confi- dence, but still believes himself his own master ; and able, by innate vigour of soul, to press for- ward to his end, through all the obstructions that inconveniences or delights can put in his way. That this mistake should prevail for a time is very natural. When conviction is present, and temptation out of sight, Ave do not easily con- ceive how any reasonable being can deviate from his true interest. What ought to be done, while it yet hangs only in speculation, is so plain and certain, that there is no place for doubt; the whole soul yields itself to the predominance of truth, and readily determines to do what, when the time of action comes, will be at last omitted. I believe most men may review all the lives that have past within their observation, without remembering one ef&cacious resolution, or be- ing able to tell a single instance of a coiu-se of practice suddenly changed in consequence of a change of opinion, or an establishment of deter- mination. Many, indeed, alter their conduct, and are not at fifty what they were at thirty ; but they commonly varied imperceptibly from themselves, followed the train of external causes, and rather suffered reformation than made it. It is not uncommon to charge the difference between promise and performance, between pro- fession and reality, upon deep design and stud- ied deceit ; but the truth is, that there is very little hypocrisy in the world: we do not so often endeavour or wish to impose on others as on ourselves ; we resolve to do right, we hope to keep our resolutions, we declare them to con- firm our own hope, and fix our own inconstan- cy by calling witnesses of our' actions ; but at last habit prevails, and those whom we invited to our triumph, laxigh at our defeat. Custom is commonly too strong for the most resolute resolver, though furnished for the as- sault with all the weapons of philosophy. " He that endeavours to free himself from an iU habit," says Bacon, "must not change too much at a time, lest he should be discouraged by diffi- culty ; nor too little, for then he will make but slow advances." This is a precept which may be applauded in a book, but will fail in the ti'ial, in which every change will be found too great or too little. Those who have been able to con- quer habit, are like those that are fabled to have returned from the realms of Pluto : Fauci, qt/os aquus amavit Jupiter, atque ardens evexit ad athera virtus. They are sufficient to give hope, but not secur- ity ; to animate the contest, but not to promise victory. Those who are in the power of evil habits, must conquer them as they can ; and conquered they must be, or neither wisdom nor happiness can be attained; but those who are not yet subject to their influence may, by timely cau- tion, preserve their fi'eedom ; they may effectu- ally resolve to escape the tyrant, whom they will very vainly resolve to conquer. No. 28.] Saturday, Oct. 28, 1758. TO THE IDLER. Sir, It is very easy for a man who sits idle at faome, and has nobody to please but himself^ to ridi- cule or to censure the common practices of man- kind ; and those who have no present tempta- tion to break the rules of propriety, may ap- plaud his judgement, and join in his merriment ; but let the author or his readers mingle with common life, they will find themselves irre- sistibly borne away by the stream of custom, and must submit, after they have laughed at others, to give others the same opportunity of laughing at them. There is no paper published by the Idler which I have read with more approbation than that which censures the practice of recording vulgar marriages in the newspapei-s. I carried it about in my pocket, and read it to aU those whom 1 suspected of having published their nuptials, or of being inclined to publish them, and sent transcripts of it to all the couples that transgressed your precepts for the next fort- night. I hoped that they were all vexed, and pleased myself with imagining their mis- ery. But short is the triumph of malignity. I was married last week to Miss Mohair, the daughter of a salesman ; and, at my fii*st ap- pearance after the wedding night, was asked by my wife's mother whether 1 had sent our so THE IDLER. No. 29. I miirriage to the Advcx'tiser ; I eiidfavoure:! ta show how uul'.t it was to dcMiand tlio attfulioii of the publio to oar d<,«m„'stic adairs ; but s!ic told me, with groat vehemence, " That she Avould not have it thought to be a stolen match ; that tlie blood of the Mohairs should never be disgraced ; that her husband had served all the parish offices but one; that she had lived five-and-thirty years at the same house, and paid every body twenty shillings in the pound, and would have me know, though she was not as fine and as flaunting as Mi's. Gingham, the deputy's wife, she was not ashamed to tell her name, and would show her face with the best of them, and since I had married her daughter — — " At this instant entered my father-in- law, a grave man, from whom I expected suc- cour : but upon hearing the case, he told me, ** That it would be very imprudent to miss such an opportunity of advertising my shop ; and that when notice was given of my mar- riage, many of my wife's friends would think themselves obliged to be my customers." I was subdued by clamour on one side, and gravity on the other, and shall be obliged to tell the town that three days ago Timothy Mushroom, an emin- ent oUman in Seo- Coal-lane, 2vas married to Miss Polly Mohair, of Lothbury, a beautiful young lady, with a large fortune. I am, Sir, &c. Sir, I AM the unfortunate Avife of the grocer whose letter you published about ten weeks ago, in which he complains, like a sorry fellow, that I loiter in the shop with my needle-wcrk in my hand, and that I oblige him to take me out on Sundays, and keep a girl to look after the child. Sweet Mr. Idler, if you did but laiow all, you tvould give no encouragement to such an un- reasonable grumbler. I brought him three hundred pounds, which set him up in a shop, and bought in a stock, on which, with good management, we might live comfortably; but now I have given him a shop, I am forced to watch him and the shop too. I wiU tell you, Mr. Idler, how it is. Tliei'e is an alehouse over the way, with a nine-pin alley, to which he is sure to run when I turn my back, and there he loses his money, for he plays at nine- pins as he does every thing else. While he is at this favourite sport, he sets a dirty boy to watch his door, and call him to his customers ; but he is long in coming, and so rude when he comes, that our custom falls off every day. Those who cannot govern themselves, must be governed ; I am resolved to keep him for the future behind his counter, and let him bounce at his customers if he dares. I cannot be above stairs and below at the same time, and have therefore taken a girl to look after the chila, and] dr^jss the dinner; and, after all, pray who is] to blame ? On a Sunday, it is true, I make him walk abroad, and sometimes carry the child ; — I wonder who should carry it! But I never take him out till after church-time, nor would do it then, but that, if he is left alone, he will be upon the bed. On a Sunday, if he stays at home he has six meals ; and, Avhen he can eat no longer, has twouty sti'atagems to escape from me to the ale-house ; but 1 commonly keep the door locked, till Monday produces something for him to do. This is the true state of the case, and these are the pi'ovocations for which he has written his letter to you. I hope you will write a paper to show that, if a wife must spend her whole time in watching her husband, she can- not conveniently tend her child, or sit at her needle. I am, Sir, &c. Sir, There is in this town a species of oppression which the law has not hitherto prevented or re- dressed. I am a chairman. You know, Sir, we come when we are called, and are expected to carry- all who require our assistance. It is common for meu of the most unwieldy corpulence to crowd themselves into a chair, and demand to be carried for a shilling as far as an airy young lady whom we scarcely feel upon our poles. Surely we ought to be paid like aU other mor- tals, in proportion to our labour. Engines should be fixed in proper places to weigh chairs as they weigh waggons ; and those, whom ease and plenty have made unable to cany them- selves, should give part of their superfluities to those who carry them. I am, Sir, &c. No. 29.] Saturday, Nov. 4, 1758. TO THE IDLER. Sir, I HAVE often observed, that friends are lost by discontinuance of intercourse, without any of- fence on either part, and have long known, that it is more dangerous to be forgotten than to be blamed ; I therefoi-e make haste to send you the rest of my story, lest, by the delay of another fortnight, the name of Betty Broom might be no longer remembered by you or your readers. Having left the last place in haste, to avoid No. 29.] THE IDLER. $1 the charge or the suspicion of theft, I had not secured another service, and was forced to take a lodging in a back street. I had now got good clothes. Tlie woman who lived ia the garret' opposite to mine was very officious, and offered lo take care of my room and clean it, while I wont rouud to my acquaintance to inquire for a misti'ess. I knew not why she vv^as so kind, nor how I could recompense her; but in a few days I missed some of my linen, went to another lodging, and resolved not to have another friend in the next garret. In six weeks 1 became under-maid at the house of a mercer in Cornhill, whose son was his apprentice. The young gentleman used to sit late at the tavern, without the knowledge of his father ; and I was ordered by my mistress to let him in silently to his bed under the coxin- ter, and to be very careful to take away his can- dle. The hours which I was obliged to watch, whilst the rest of the family was in bed, I considered as supernumerary, and, having no business assigned for tliem, thought myself at liberty to spend them my own way: I kept myself awake with a book, and for some time liked my state the better for this opportunity of reading. At last, the upper-maid found my book, and showed it to my mistress, who told me, that wenches like me might spend their time better; that she never knew any of the readers that had good designs in their heads ; that she could always find something else to do with her time, than to puzzle over books ; and did not like that such a fine lady should sit up for her young master. This was the first time that I found it thought criminal or dangerous to know how to read. 1 was dismissed decently, lest I should teU tales, and had a small gratuity above my wages. I then lived with a gentlewoman of a small fortune. This was the only happy part of my life. My mistress, for whom public diversions were too expensive, spent her time with books, and was pleased to find a maid who could par- take her amusements. I rose early in the morning, that 1 might have time in the after- noon to read or listen, and was suffered to tell my opinion, or express my delight. Thus fif- teen months stole away, in which I did not re- pine that I was born to servitude. But a burn- ing fever seized my mistress, of whom I shall say no more, than that her servant wept upon her grave. I' had lived in a kind of luxury which made me very unfit for another place ; and was rather too delicate for the conversation of a kitchen ; so that when I was hired in the family of an Kast India director, my behaviour was so dif- ferent, as they said, from that of a common ser- vant, that they concluded me a gentlewouian in disguise, and turned me out in three weeks, on suspicion of seme design which they could not compi-ehend. I then fled for refuge to the Other end of tha town, where 1 hoped to find no obstruction from my new accomplisliments, and was hired under the housekeeper in a splendid family. Here 1 was too v.-ise for the maids, and too nice for the footman; yet I might have lived. on with- out much uneasiness, had not my misti-ess, the housekeeper, who used to employ me in buying necessaries for the family, formd a bill which I had made of one day's expense. I suppose it did not quite agree with her own book, for she fiercely declared her resolution, that there should be no pen and ink in that kitchen but her own. She had the justice, or the prudence, not to injure my reputation; and I was easily admit- ted into another house in the neighbomhood, where my business was, to sweep the rooms and make the beds. Here I was for some time the favourite of Mrs. Simper, my lady's woman, who could not bear the Aiilgar girls, and was happy in the attendance of a young woman of some education. Mrs. Simper loved a novel, though she could not read hard words, and therefore when her lady was abroad, we always laid hold on her books. At last, my abilities became so much celebrated, that the house- steward used to employ me in keeping his ac- counts. Mrs. Simper then found out, that my sauciness was grown to such a height that no- body could endure it, and told my lady, that there had never been a room well swept since Betty Broom came into the house. I was then hired by a consumptive lady, who wanted a maid that could read and write. I attended her four years, and though she was never pleased, yet when I declared my resolu- tion to leave her, she burst into tears, and told me that I must bear the peevishness of a sick bed, and I should find myself remembered in her will. I complied, and a codicil was added* in my favour ; but in less than a \^'eek, when I set her giuel before her, I laid the spoon on the left side, and she threw her will into the fire. In two days she made another, which she burnt in the same maimer, because she could not eat her chicken. A third was made, and destroyed because she heard a mouse within the wainscot, and was sure that I should suifer her to be car- ried away alive. After this I was for some time out of favour, but as her illness grew upon her, resentment and sullenness gave way to kinder sentiments. She died, and left me five hundred pounds ; with this fortune I am going to settle in my native parish, where I resolve to spend some hours every day in teaching poor girls to read and write. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, Betty Broom. THE IDLER. 32 No. SO.] Saturday, Nov. 11, 1758. The desires of man increase with his acqui- sitions ; every step which he advances brings something within his view, which he did not see before, and which, as soon as he sees it, he begins to want. Where necessity ends, curiosity begins ; and no sooner are we supplied with every thing that nature can demand, than we sit down to contrive artificial appe- tites. By this restlessness of mind, every populous and wealthy city is filled with innumerable em- ployments, for which the greater part of man- kind is without a name ; with artificers, whose labour is exerted in producing such petty conveniences, that many shops are furnished with instruments of which the use can hardly be found without inquiry, but which he that once knows them quickly learns to number among necessary things. Such is the diligence with which, in countries completely civilized, one part of mankind la- bours for another, that wants are supplied faster than they can be formed, and the idle and lux- urious find life stagnate for want of some de- sire to keep it in motion. This species of dis- tress furnishes a new set of occupations ; and multitudes are busied from day to day, in find- ing the rich and the fortunate something to do. It is very common to reproach those artists as useless, who produce only such superfluities as neither accommodate the body, nor improve the mind ; and of which no other effect can be imagined, than that they are the occasions of spending money and consuming time. But this censure will be mitigated when it is seriously considered that money and time are the heaviest burdens of life, and that the un- happiest of all mortals are those who have more of either than they know, how to use. To set himself free from these incumbrances, one hurries to Newmarket; another travels over Europe ; one pulls down his house and calls architects about him; another buys a seat in the country, and follows his hounds over hedges and through rivers ; one makes collections of shells ; and another searches the world for tulips and carnations. He is surely a public benefactor who finds employment for those to whom it is thus diffi- cult to find it for themselves. It is true, that this is seldom done merely from generosity or compassion ; almost every man seeks his own advantage in helping others, and therefore it is too common for mercenary ofiiciousness to consider rather what is grateful, than what U right. We all know that it is more profitable to be loved than esteemed ; and ministers of plea- [No. SO. sure will always be found, who study to make themselves necessary, and to supplant those who are practising the same arts. One of the amusements of idleness is reading without the fatigue of close attention ; and the world, therefore, swarms with writers whose wish is not to be studied, but to be read. No species of literary men has lately been so much multiplied as the writers of news. Not many years ago the nation was content with one gazette ; but iiow we have not only in the metropolis papers for every morning and every evening, but almost every large town has its weekly historian, who regularly circulates his periodical intelligence, and fills the villages of his district with conjectures on the events of war, and with debates on the true interests of Europe. To write news in its perfection requires such a combination of qualities, that a man complete- ly fitted for the task is not always to be found. In Sir Henry Wotton's jocular definition, ^n ambassador is said to be a man of virtue sent abroad to tell lies for the advantage of his country ; a news- writer is a man without virtue, who writes lies at home for hii oum jyrofit. To these compositions is required neither genius nor knowledge,neither in- dustry nor sprightliness ; but contempt of shame, and indifference to truth, are absolutely neces- sary. He who by a long familiarity with infamy has obtained these qualities, may confidently tell to-day what he intends to contradict to- morrow; he may affirm fearlessly what he knows that he shall be obliged to recant, and may write letters from Amsterdam or Dresden to himself. In a time of war the nation is always of one mind, eager to hear something good of them- selves, and ill of the enemy. At this time the task of news-writers is easy ; they have noth- ing to do but to tell that the battle is expected, and afterwards that a battle has been fought, in j which we and our friends, v/h ether conquering or conquered, did aU, and our enemies did noth- i ing- Scarcely any thing awakens attention like a tale of cruelty. The writer of news never fails in the intermission of action to tell how the enemies murdei'ed children and ravished vir- gii.s ; and if the scene of action be some- what distant, scalps half the inhabitants of a province, j Among the calamities of war, may be justly j numbered the diminution of the love of truth, 1 by the falsehoods which interest dictates, and i credulity encourages. A peace will equally leave the warrior and relator of wars destitute of emplojTnent; and I know not whether more j is to be dreaded from streets filled with soldiers accustomed to plunder, or from gaiTets filled with scribblers accustomed to lie. No. 31.] No. 31.] Saturday, Nov. 18, 1758. Many moralists hare remarked, that pride has of all human vices the widest dominion, appears in the greatest multiplicity of forms, and lies hid under the greatest variety of disguises ; of disguises which, like the moon's veil of bright- ness, are both its lustre and its shade, and be- tray it to others, though they hide it from our- selves. It is not my intention to degrade pride from this pre-eminence of mischief ; yet I know not whether idleness may not maintain a very doubtful and obstinate competition. There are some that profess idleness in its full dignity, who call themselves the Idle as Bu- siris in the play calls himself the Proud ,- who boast that they can do nothing, and thank their stars that they have nothing to do ; who sleep every night till they can sleep no longer, and rise only that exercise may enable them to sleep again ; who prolong the reign of dai'kness by double curtains j and never see the sun but to tell him how thei/ hate his beams ; whose whole labour is to vary the posture of indulgence, and whose day ditfers from their night but as a couch or chair differs from a bed. These are the true and open votaries of idle- ness, for whom she weaves the garlands of pop- pies, and into whose cup she pours the waters of oblivion ; who exist in a state of unruffled stupidity, forgetting and forgotten ; who have long ceased to live, and at whose death the sur- vivors can only say that they have ceased to breathe. But idleness predominates in many lives where it is not suspected ; for, being a vice which terminates in itself, it may be enjoyed without injury to others; and it is therefore not watched like fraud, which endangers prop- erty; or like pride, which naturally seeks its gratifications in another's inferiority. Idleness is a silent and peaceful quality, that neither raises envy by ostentation, nor hatred by opposi- tion ; and therefore nobody is busy to censure or detect it. As pride sometimes is hid under humility, idleness is often covered by turbulence aud hur- ry. He that neglects his known duty and real employment, naturaDy endeavours to crowd his mind with something that may bar out the re- membrance of his own folly, and does any thing but what he ought to do with eager diligence, that he may keep himself in his own favour. Some are always in a state of preparation, occupied in previous measures, forming plans, accumulating materials, and providing for the main affair. These are certainly under the se- cret power of idleness. Nothing is to be expect- ed from the workman whose tools are for ever THE IDLER. to be sought. I was once told by a great mas- ter that no man ever excelled in painting, who was eminently curious about pencils and col- ours. There are othei-s to whom idleness dictates another expedient, by which life may be passed unprofitably away without the tediousness of many vacant hours. The art is, to fill the day with petty business, to have always something in hand which may raise curiosity, but not solicitude, and keep the mind in a state of ac- tion, but not of labour. This art has for many years been practised by my old fi-iend Sober with wonderful success. Sober is a man of strong desires and quick imagination, so exactly balanced by the love of ease, that they can seldom stimiilate him to any difficult undertaking ; they have, however, so much power, that they will not suffer him to lie quite at rest ; and though they do not make him sufficiently useful to others, they make him at least weary of himself. Mr. Sober's chief pleasure is conA-ersation ; there is no end of his talk or his attention ; to speak or to hear is equally pleasing ; for he still fancies that he is teaching or learning something, and is free for the time from his own reproaches. But there is one time at night when he must go home, that his friends may sleep ; and anoth- er time in the morning, when all the world agrees to shut out interruption. These are the moments of which poor Sober trembles at the thought. But the misery of these irksome inter- vals tie has many means of alleviating. He has persuaded himself that the manual arts are un- deservedly overlooked ; he has observed in many trades the effects of close thought, and just ratiocination. From speculation he pro- ceeded to practice, and supplied himself with the tools of a carpenter, with which he mended his coalbox very successfully, and which he still continues to employ, as he finds occasion. He has attempted at other times the crafts of shoe-maker, tinman, plumber, and potter ; in aU these arts he has faUed, and resolves to qual- ify himself for them, by better information. But his daily amusement is chemistry. He has a small furnace, which he employs in distil- lation, and which has long been the solace of his life. He draTVS oils and •naters and essen- ces and spirits, which he knows to be of no use ; sits and counts the drops as they come from his retort, and forgets that, Avhilst a drop is falling, a moment flies away. Poor Sober ! I have often teazed him with reproof, and he has often promised reformation ; for no man is so much open to conviction as the Idler, but there is none on which it operates so little. "What will be the effect of this paper I know not ; perhaps he will read it and laugh, and light the fire in his fui'n: ce ; but my hopa F S4 THE IDLER. [No. 32 1 is, that he will quit his hiflos, and betake him- Belf to rational and useful diligence. ^^0. 82. ] Saturday, Nov. 25, 1758. Among the innumerable mortifications that waylay human arrogance on every side, may well be reckoned our ignorance of the most common objects and effects, a defect of which we become more sensible, by evei*y attempt to supply it. Vulgar and inactive minds confound familiarity with knowledge, and conceive them- selves informed of the whole nature of things when they are shown their form or told their use; but the speculatist, who is not content Avith superficial views, harasses himself with fruitless cui'iosity, and still as he acquires more, perceives only that he knows less. Sleep is a state in which a great part of every life is passed. No animal has yet been discov- ered, whose existence is not varied with inter- vals of insensibility ; and some late philosophers have extended the empire of sleep over the vegetable world. Yet of this change, so frequent, so great, so general, and so necessary, no searcher has yet found either the efficient or final cause ; or can tell by what power the mind and body are thus chained down in irresistible stupefaction ; or what benefits the animal receives from this alternate suspension of its active powers. Whatever may be the multiplicity or contra- riety of opinions upon this subject. Nature has taken sufficient care that theory shall have little influence on practice. The most diligent ii^uirer is not able long to keep his eyes open; the most eager disputant will begin about midnight to desert his ai'gument ; and once in four-and-twenty hours, the gay and the gloomy, the witty and the dull, the clamorous and the silent, the busy and the idle, are all overpowered by the gentle tyrant, and all lie down in the equality of sleep. Philosophy has often attempted to repress in- solence, by asserting that all conditions are levelled by death ; a position which, however it may deject the happy, will seldom afford much comfort to the wretched. It is far more pleas- ing to consider, that sleep is equally a leveller with death ; that the time is never at a great distance, when the balm of rest shall be diffused alike upon every head, when the diversities of life shall stop their operation, and tlie high and low shall lie down together. It is somewhere recorded of Alexarider, that in the pride of conquests, and intoxication of flattery, he declared that he only perceived him- self to be a man by the necessity of sleep. Whether he considered sleep as necessary to his mind or body, It was indeed a sufficient evidence of human infirmity; the body which I'equired such frequency of renovation, gave but faint promises of immortality: .and the mind which, from time to time, sunk gladly into insensibili- ty, had made no very near approaches to the felicity of the supreme and self-sufficient nature. I know not what can tend more to repi-ess all the passions that disturb the peace of the world, than the consideration that there is no height of happiness or honom* from which man does 1 not eagerly descend to a state of unconscious re- pose; that the best condition of life is such, that W8 contentedly quit its good to be disen- tangled from its evils; that in a few hours splendour fades before the eye, and praise itself deadens in the ear ; the senses withdraw from their objects, and reason favours the retreat. What then arc the hopes and prospects of covetousness, ambition, and rapacity? Let him that desires most have aU his desires gratified, he never shall attain a state which he can fur a day and a night contemplate with satisfaction, or from which, if he had the power of perpetual vigilance, he would not long for periodical separations. All envy would be extinguished, if it were universally known that there are none to be envied, and surely none can be much envied who are not pleased with themselves. There is reason to suspect, that the distinctions of man- kind have more show than value, when it is found that all agree to be weary alike of pleas- lu'es and of cares ; that the powerful and the weak, the celebrated and obscure, join in one common wish, and implore from Nature's hand the nectar of oblivion. Such is our desire of abstraction fi-om our- selves, that very few are satisfied "with the quantity of stupefaction which the needs of the body force upon the mind. Alexander himself added intemperance to sleep, and solaced with the fumes of wine the sovei*eignty of the world ; and almost every man has some art by which he steals his thoughts away from his present state. It is not much of life that is spent in close at- tention to any important duty. Many hours of every day are suffered to fly away without any traces left upon the intellects. We suffei phantoms to rise up before us, and amuse our- selves with the dance of airy images, which, after a time, we dismiss for ever, and know not how we have been busied. Many have no happier moments than thosi that they pass in solitude, abandoned to theii own imagination, which sometimes puts scep^ tres in their hands or mitres on their heads, shifts the scene of pleasure with endless variety, bids all the fc^rms of beauty sparkle before them, and gluts them with every change of visionary hixury. No. 33] THE IDLER. 35 It is easy iu these semi-slumbers to collect all the pt'ssibilities of happiness, to alter the course of the sun, to bring back the past, and anticipate the future, to unite all the beauties of all seasons, and all the blessings of all climates, to receive and bestow felicity, and forget that misery is the lot of man. All this is a volun- tary dream, a temporary recession from the realities of life to airy fictions j an habitual sub- jection of reason to fancy. Others are afraid to be alone, and amuse themselves by a perpetual succession of com- panions; but the difference is not great: in solitude we have our dreams to ourselves, and in company we agree to dream in concert. The end sought in both is, forgetfulness of our- selves. No. 33.] Saturday, Dec. 2, 1758. [1 hope the author of the following letter will excuse the omission of some parts, and al- low me to remark, that the Journal of the Citizen in the Spectator has almost precluded the attempt of any future writer.] -No7i it a Romiili Prcescriptum, 4 intonsi Catonis Auspiciis, veterumque norma. Sir, You have often solicited correspondence. I have sent you the Journal of a Senior Fellow, or Genuine Idler, just transmitted from Cam- bridge by a facetious correspondent, and wai'- ranted to have been transcribed from the com- mon-place book of the journalist. Monday, nine o'clock. Turned off my bed- maker for waking me at night. Weather rainy. Consulted my weather-glass. No hopes of a ride before dinner. Ditto, ten. After breakfast transcribed half a sermon from Dr. Hickman. N. B. Never to transcribe any more from Calamy; Mrs. Pil- cocks, at my curacy, having one volume of that author lying in her parlour- window. Ditto, eleven. Went down into my cellar. Mem. My mountain will be fit to drink in a month's time. N. B. To remove the five year old jport into the new bin on the left hand. Ditto, twelve. Mended a pen. Looked at ray weather-glass again. Quicksilver very low. Shaved. Barber's hand shakes. Ditto, one. Dined alone in my room on a soal. N. B. The shrimp-sauce not so good as Mr. H. of Petei'house and I used to eat in London last winter, at the Mitre in Fleet- street. Sat down to a pint of Madeira. Mr. H. surx)rised me over it. We finished two bottles of port together, and were A-ery cheerfai. Mem. To dine with Mr. H. at Peter hou?-' next Wednesday. One of the dishes a leg oi pork and peas, by miy desire. Ditto, six. Newspaper in the common room. Ditto, seven. Returned to my room. Made a tiff of warm punch, and to bed before niue ; did not fall asleep till ten, a young fellow-com- moner being very noisy over my head. Tuesday, nine. Rose squeamish. A fine morning. Weather-glass very high. Ditto, ten. Ordered my horse, and rode to the five-mile stone on the Newmarket road. Appetite gets better. A pack of hounds in full ciy crossed the road, and startled my horse. Ditto, twelve. Dressed. Found a letter on my table to be in London the 19th inst. Be- spoke a new wig. Ditto, one. At dinner in the hall. Too much water in the soup. Dr. Dry always orders the beef to be salted too much for me. Ditto, two. In the common-room. Dr. Dry gave us an instance of a gentleman who kept the gout out of his stomach by drinking old Madeira. Convei-sation chiefly on the expedi- tions. Company broke up at foxir. Dr. Dry and myself played at back-gammon for a brace of snipes. Won. Ditto, five. At the coffee-house. Met Mr. H. there. Could not get a sight of the Moni- tor. Ditto, seven. Returned home, and stirred my fire. Went to the common-room, and sup- ped on the snipes with Dr. Dry. Ditto, eight. Began the evening in the com- mon-room. Dr. Dry told several stories. Were very merry. Our new fellow that studies physic, very talkative toward twelve. Pretends he will bring the youngest Miss — — to drink tea with me soon. Impertinent block- head! Wednesday, nine. Alarmed with a pain iu my ankle. Q,. The gout ? Fear I can't dine at Peter house ; but I hope a ride will set all to rights. Weather-glass belowyair. Ditto, ten. Mounted my horse, though the weather suspicious. Pain in my ankle entirely gone. Catched in a shower coming back. Convinced that my weather-glass is the best in Cambridge. Ditto, twelve. Dressed. Sauntered up to the Fishmonger's-hill. Met Mr. H. and went with him to Peterhouse. Cook made us wait thirty six minutes beyond the time. The com- pany, some of my Emanuel friends. For din- ner, a pair of soals, a leg of pork and peas among other things. Mem. Peas-pudding not boiled enough. Cook reprimanded and sconced in my presence. Ditto, after dinner. I'ain in my ankle re- turns. Dull all the afternoon. Rallied for being no ccmpauy. Mr. H.'s account of tlie 36 THE IDLER. [No. 34. aooommodatlons on the road in his Biith jour- ney. Ditto, six. Got into spirits. Never was more chatty. We sat late at whist. Mr. H. and self agreed at parting to take a gentle ride, and dine at the old house on the London road to-morrow. Thursday, nine. My sempstress. She has lost the measure of my wrist. Forced to be mea- sured again. The baggage has got a trick of smiling. Ditto, ten to eleven. Made some rappee- snuff. Read the magazines. Received a pres- ent of pickles from Miss Piicocks. Mem. To send in return some collared eel, which I know bjth the old lady and miss are fond of. Ditto, eleven. Glass very high. Mounted at the gate with Mr. H. Horse skittish and wants exercise. Arrive at the old house. All the provisions bespoke by some rakish fellow- commoner in the next room, who had been on a scheme to Newmarket. Could get nothing but mutton chops off the worst end. JPort very new. Agree to try some other house to- morrow. Here the Journal breaks off: for the next morning, as my friend infoi'ms me, our genial academic was waked with a severe fit of the gout ; and, at present, enjoys all the dignity of that disease. But I believe we have lost no- thing by this interruption ; since a continuation of the remainder of the Journal, through the remainder of the week, would most probably have exhibited nothing more than a repeated relation of the same circumstances of idling and luxury. I hope it will not be concluded, from this specimen of academic life, that I have attempted to decry our universities. If literature is not the essential requisite of the modern academic, I am yet persuaded that Cambridge and Ox- ford, however degenerated, surpass the fashion- able academies of our metropolis, and the gymnasia of foreign countries. The number of learned persons in these celebrated seats is still considerable, and more conveniences and oppor- tunities for study still subsist in them, than in any other place. There is at least one very powerful incentive to learning ; I mean the Genius of the place. It is a sort of inspiring deity, which every youth of quick sensibility and ingenious disposition creates to himself, by reflecting, that he is placed under those vener- able walls, where a Hooker and a Hammond, a Bacon and a Newton, once pursued the same course of science, and from whence they soared to the most elevated heights of literary fame. This is that incitement which Tully, according to his own testimony, experienced at Athens, when he contemplated the porticos where So- crates sut, and tho 'aurel-groves where Plato dis- puted. But there arc other circumstances., and of the highest importance, which render our colleges superior to all other places of educatio'i. Their institutions, although somewhat fallei; from their primaeval simplicity, are such as in- fluence, in a particular manner, the moi'al con- duct of their youth ; and in this general depra- vity of manners and laxity of principles, pure re- ligion is no where more strongly inculcated. The academies, as they are presumptuously styled, are too low lo be mentioned : and foreign seminaries are likely to prejudice the unwary mind with Calvinism. But English universi- ties render their students virtuous, at least by excluding all opportunities of vice ; and, by teaching them the principles of the church of England, confirm them iu those of true Christianity. No. 34] Saturday, Dec. 9, 1758. To illustrate one thing by its resemblance to another, has been always the most popular and efiicacious art of instruction. There is indeed no other method of teaching that of which any one is ignorant, but by means of something al- ready known ; and a mind so enlarged by con- templation and inquirj', that it has always many objects within its view, will seldom be long without some near and familiar image through which an easy transition may be made to truths more distant and obscure. Of the parallels which have been drawn by wit and curiosity, some are literal and real, as between poetrj' and painting, two arts which pursue the same end, by the operation of the same zaental faculties, and which differ only as the one represents things by marks permanent and natural, the other by signs accidental and arbitrary. The one therefore is more easily and generally understood, since similitude of form is immediately perceived ; the other is capable of conveying more ideas ; for men have thought and spoken of many things which they do not see. Other parallels are fortuitous and fanciful, yet these have sometimes been extended to mauy particulars of resemblance by a lucky concur- rence of diligence and chance. The animal body is composed of many members, united un- der the direction of one mind ; any number of individuals, connected for some common pur- pose, is therefore called a body. From this participation of the same appellation arose the comparison of the body natural and body po- litic, of which, how far soever it has been de- duced, no end has hitherto been found. In these imaginary similitudes, the same wore is used at once in its primitive and metaphori- THE IDLER. S7 Thus health, ascribed to the body na- tural, is opposed to sickness; but attributed to the body politic stands as contrary to adversity.. These parallels, therefore, have more of genius, out less of truth ; they often please, but they never convince. Of this kind is a curious speculation frequent- ly indulged by a philosopher of my acquaint- ance, who had discovered, that the qualities re- quisite to conversation are very exactly repre- sented by a bowl of punch. Punch, says this profound investigator, is a liquor compounded of spirit and .icid juices, sugar and water. The spirit, volatile and fiery, is the proper emblem of vivacity and wit ; the acidity of the lemon will very aptly figure pun- gency of raillery, and aci'imony of censure ; sugar is the natural representative of luscious adulation and gentle complaisance; and water is the proper hieroglyphic of easy prattle, inno- cent and tasteless. Spirit alone is too powerful for use. It will produce madness rather than merriment ; and instead of quenching thirst will inflame the blood. Thus wit, too copiously poured out, agitates the hearer with emotions rather violent than pleasing ; every one shrinks from the force of its oppression, the company sits entranced and overpowered ; all are astonished, but nobody is pleased. The acid juices give this genial liquor all its power of stimulating the palate. Conversation would become dull and vapid, if negligence wei'e not sometimes roused, and sluggishness quicken- ed by due severity of reprehension. But acids unmixed will distort the face and torture the palate ; and he that has no other qualities than penetration and asperity, he whose constant employment is detection and censure, who looks only to find faults, and speaks only to publish them, will soon be dreaded, hated, and avoided. The taste of sugar is generally pleasing, but it cannot long be eaten by itself. Thus meek- ness and courtesy will always recommend the first address, but soon pall and nauseate, unless they ai*e associated with more sprightly quali- ties. The chief use of sugar is to temper the taste of other substances; and softness of be- haviour in the same manner mitigates the roughness of contradiction, and allays the bitter- ness of vnwelcome truth. Water is the universal vehicle by which are conveyed the particles necessary to sustenance and growth, by which thirst is quenched, and nil the wants of life and nature are supplied. Thus all the business of the world is transacted by artless and easy talk, neither sublimed by fancy, nor discoloured by aiFectation, without either the harshness of satire, or the luscious- ness of flattery. By this limpid vein of lan- guage, curiosity is gratified, and all the know- ledge is conveyed which one man is rcquii'ed to impart for the safety or convenience of , another. Water is the only ingredient in punch which can be used alone, and with which man is content till fancy has fi-amed an artificial want. Thus while we only desire to have our ignorance informed, we are most delighted with the plainest diction ; and it is only in the mo- ments of idleness or pride, that we call for the gratifications of wit or flattery. He only will please long, who by tempering the acidity of satire with the sugar of civility, and allaying the heat of wit with the frigidity of humble chat, can make the ti'ue punch of j conversation ; and as that punch can be drank , in the gi-eatest quantity which has the largest proportion of water, so that companion will be oftenest welcome, whose talk flows out with inoffensive copiousness, and unenvied insipidity. No. 35.1 Saturday, Dec. 16, 1758. TO THE IDLER. Mr. Ir»r,ER, If it be difficult to persuade the idle to be busy, it is likewise, as experience has taught me, not easy to convince the busy that it is better to be idle. When you shall despair of stimulating sluggishness to motion, I hope you will turn your thoughts towards the means of stilling the bustle of pernicious activity. I am the unfortunate husband of a buyer of bargains. My wife has somewhere heard that a good housewife never has any thing to purchase when it is wanted. This maxim is often in her mouth, and always in her head. She is not one of those philosophical talkers that speculate without practice, and learn sentences of wis- dom only to repeat them ; she is always making additions to her stores ; she never looks into a bi'oker's shop, but she spies something that may be wanted some time ; and it is impossible to make her pass the door of a house where she hears goods selling by auction. Whatever she thinks cheap, she holds it the duty of an economist to buy ; in consequence of this maxim, we are encumbered on every side with useless lumber. The servants can scarcely creep to their beds through the chests and boxes that surround them. The cai-penter is em- ployed once a week in building closets, fixing cupboai'ds, and fastening shelves ; and my house has the appearance of a ship stored for a voyage to the colonies. I had often observed that advertisements set her on fire; and therefore, pretending to emu- late her laudable frugality, I forbade the news- paper to be taken any longer ; but my precau- tion is vain : I know not by what fatality, or S8 THE IDLER. CNo. 36 by what confederacy, every catalogue of getiu- ine furniture comes to her hand, every adver- tisement of a newspaper newly opened is in her pocket-book, and she knows before any of her neighbours when the stock of any man leav- ing off trade is to be sold cheap for ready money. Such intelligence is to my dear-one the Sir- en's song. No engagement, no duty, no inter- est, can withhold her from a sale, from which she always returns congratulating herself upon her dexterity at a bargain ; the porter lays down Lis burden in the hall ; she displays her new acquisitions, and spends the rest of the day in contriving where they shall be put. As she cannot bear to have any thing incom- I)lete, one purchase necessitates another ; she has twenty feather-beds more than she can use, and a late sale has supplied her with a propor- tionable number of Witney blankets, a large roll of linen for sheets, and five quilts for every bed, which she bought because the seller told her, that if she would clear his hands he would let her have a bargain. Thus by hourly encroachments my habita- tion is made narrower and narrower ; the din- ing-room is so crowded with tables, that dinner scarcely can be served ; the parlour is decorated with so many piles of china, that I dare not step within the door ; at every turn of the stairs I have a clock, and half the windows of the upper floors are darkened, that shelves may be set before them. This^ however, might be borne, if she would gratify her own inclinations without opposing mine. But I, who am idle, am luxurious, and she condemns me to live upon salt provision. She knows the loss of buying in small quanti- ties, we have therefore whole hogs and quarters of oxen. Part of our meat is tainted before it is She is always imagining some distant time in which she shall use whatever she accumulates ; she has four looking-glasses which she cannot hang up in her house, but which will be hand- some in more lofty rooms ; and pays rent for the place of a vast copper in some warehouse, because when we live in the country we shaU brew our own beer. Of this life I have long been weary, but I know not how to change it ; all the married men whom Tconsult advise me to have patience ; but some old bachelors are of opinion, that since she loves sales so well, she should have a sale of her own ; and I have, I think, resolved to open her hoax'ds, and advertise an auction. I am Sir, - Your very humble Servant, Peter Plenty. No. 36.] Saturday, Dec. 23, 1758. The great diflferences that disturb the peace of mankind are not about ends, but means. We have all the same general desires, but how those desires shall be accomplished will for ever be dis- puted. The ultimate purpose of government is temporal, and that of religion is eternal happiness. Hitherto we agree ; but here we must part to try according to- the endless vaiieties of passion and understanding combined with one another, every possible form of government, and every imaginable tenet of religion. We are told by Cumberland that rectitude, applied to action or contemplation, is merely metaphorical ; and that as a right line describes the shortest passage from point to point, so a saten, and part is thrown away because it is j right action effects a good design by the fewest •polled, but she persists in her system, and will aever buy any thing by single pennyworths. The common vice of those who are still gras- ping at more, is to neglect that which they already possess ; but from this failing my charmer is free. It is the great care of her life that the pieces of beef should be boiled in the order in which they are bought ; that the second bag of peas should not be opened till the first were eaten ; that every feather-bed shall be lain on in its turn ; that the carpets should be taken •nt of the chests once a month and brushed ; and the rolls of linen opened now and then Before the fire. She is daily inquiring after the best traps for mice, and keeps the rooms always scented by fumigations to destroy the means ; and so likewise a right opinion is that which connects distant truths by the shortest train of intermediate propositions. To find the nearest way from truth to truth, or from purpose to effect, not to use more in- struments where fewer will be sufficient, not to move by wheels and levers what will give way to the naked hand, is the great proof of a healthful and vigorous mind, neither feeble with healthful ignorance, nor overburdened with untvieldy knowledge. But there are men who seem to think n thing so much the characteristic of a genius, as to do common things in an uncommon manner ; like Hudibras, to tell the clock by algebra ; or like the lady in Dr. Young's satires, to drink moths. She employs a workman from time to tea by stratagem ; to quit the beaten track only time to adjust six clocks that never go, and because it is kno^vnj and take a new path, how- clean five jacks that rust in the garret ; and a ever crooked or rough, because the straight was •woman in the nest alley that lives by scoui-ing the brass and pewter, which are only laid up to tarnish again. . found out before. Every man speaks and writes with intent to be understood J and it can seldom happen but No. 37.] THE IDLER. S9 he that understands himself might convey his notions to another, if, content to be understood, 06 did not seek to he admired 5 but when once ne begins to contrive how his sentiments may be received, not with most ease to bis reader, but with most advantage to himself, he then transfers his consideration from words to sounds, from sentences to periods, and as he grows more elegant becomes less intelligible. Ft is difficult to enumerate every species of authors whose labours counteract themselves ; the man of exuberance and copiousness, who diffuses every thouglit through so many diversi- ties of expression, that it is lost like water in a mist; the ponderous dictator of sentences, whose notions are delivered in the lump, and are, like uncoined bullion, of more weight than use ; the liberal illustrator, who shows by examples and comparisons what was cleai-ly seen when it was first proposed ; and the stately son of demonstration, who proves with mathemat- ical formality what no man has yet pretended to doubt. There is a mode of style for which 1 know not that the masters of oratory have yet found a name ; a style by which the most evident truths are so obscured, that they can no longer be per- ceived, and the most familiar propositions so dis- guised that they cannot be known. Every other kind of eloquence is the dress of sense; but this is the mask by which a true master of his art will so effectually conceal it, that a man wiU as easily mistake his o^vn positions, if he meets them thus transformed, as he may pass in a masquerade his nearest acquaintance. This style may be called the terrific, for its chief intention is, to ten-ify and amaze ; it may be termed the repulsive, for its natui-al effect is to drive away the reader ; or it may be distin- guished, in plain English, by the denomination of the bugbear style, for it has more terror than dangei', and will appear less formidable as it is more nearly approached. A mother tells her infant that two and two make four ; the child remembers the i)roposition, and is able to count four to all the purposes of life, till the course of his education brings him among philosophers who fright hiin from his fonner knowledge, by telling him, that four is a certain aggregate of units ; that all numbers being only the repetition of an unit, which, though not a number itself, is the i>arent, root, or original of all number, four is the denomina- tion assigned to a certain number cf such repe- titions. The only danger is, lest, when he first hears these dreadful sounds, the pupil should run away ; if he has but the courage to stay till the conclusion, he will find that, when spe^-- ulation has done its v/orst, two and two still lake four. An illustrious example of this species of elo- iUt-nce may be fcuiid in Letters concerning Mind. The author begins by declaring, that "the sort? of things are things that now are, have been, and shall be, and the things that strictly are." In this position, except the last clause, in which he uses something of the scholastic language, there is nothing but what every man has heard and imagines himself to know. But who would not believe that some wonderful novelty is presented to his intellect when he is afterwards told, in the true bugbear style, that " the ares, in the former sense, are things that lie between the have-beens and the shaU-bes. The liave-beens are things that are past ; the shaU-bes ive tilings that are to come ; and the things that are, in the latter sense, are things that have not been, nor shall be, nor stand in the midst of such as are before them, or shall be after them. The things that have been, and shall be, have respect to present, past, and fu- ture. Those likewise that now ai-e have more- over place ; that, for instance, which is here, that which is to the east, that which is to the west." All this, my dear reader, is veiy strange ; but though it be strange, it is not new; sur- vey these wonderful sentences again, and they will be found to contain nothing more, than very plain truths, which till this author arose had always been delivered in plain language. No. 37.] Saturday, Dec. 30, 175S. Those who are skilled in the extraction and preparation of metals, declare, that iron is every where to be found ; and that not only its pro- per ore is copiously treasured in the cav« rns of the earth, but that its particles are dispersed throughout all other bodies. If the extent of the human view could com- prehend the whole frame of the universe, I be- lieve it would be found invariably true, that Providence has given that in greatest plenty, which the condition of life makes of greatest use ; and that nothing is penuriously imparted or placed far from the reach of man, of which a more liberal distribution, or more easy acquis- ition, would increase real and rational felicity. Iron is common, and gold is rare. Iron con- tributes so much to supply the wants of nature, that its use constitutes much of the difference between savage and polished life, between the state of him that slumbers in European palaces, and him that shelters himself in the cavities of a rock from the chillness of the night, or the vio- lence of the storm. Gold can never be harden- ed into saws or axes; it can neither furnish instruments of manufacture, utensils of agri- culture, nor weapons of defence ; its only qual- ity is to shine, and the value of its lustre arises from its scai'citj . Throughout ihe wiiole circle, both of natuj-al 40 THE IDLER. [No. 38. and moral life, necessaries are as iron, and su- perfluities as gold. What we really need we may readily obtain; so readily, that far the greater part of mankind has, in the wantonness of abundance, confounded natural with artifi- cial desires, and invented necessities for the sake of employment, because the mind is impatient of inaction, and life is sustained with so little labour, that the tediousness of idle time cannot otherwise be supported. Thus plenty is the original cause of many of our needs ; and even the poverty, which is so frequent and distressful in civilized nations, proceeds often from that change of manners which opulence has produced. Nature makes us poor only when we want necessai'ies ; but custom gives the name of poverty to the want of superfluities. When Socrates passed through shops of toys and ornaments, he cried out, How many things are here which I do not need ! And the same ex- clamation may every man make who surveys the common accommodations of life. Superfluity and difficulty begin together. To dress food for the stomach is easy, the art is to irritate the palate when the stomach is sufficed. A rude hand may build walls, form roofs, and lay floors, and provide all that warmth and se- curity require ; we only call the nicer artificers to carve the cornice, or to paint the ceilings. iSuch dress as may enable the body to endure the difterent seasons, the most unenlightened nations have been able to procure : but the work of science begins in the ambition of distinction, in vai'iations of fashion, and emulation of ele- gance. Corn grows with easy culture; the gardener's experiments are only employed to exalt the flavours of fruits, and brighten the colours of flowers. Even of knowledge, those parts are most easy which are generally necessaiy. The intercourse of society is maintained without the elegances of language. Figures, criticisms, and refine- ments, are the work of those whom idleness makes weary of themselves. The commerce of the world is carried on by easy methods of com- putation. Subtilty and study are required only when questions are invented merely to puzzle, and calculations are extended to show the skill of the calculator. The light of the sun is equally beneficial to him whose eyes tell him that it moves, and to him whose reason per- suades him that it stands stiU; and plants grow with the same luxiu'iance, whether we suppose earth or water the parent of vegeta- tion. If we raise our thoughts to nobler inquiries, we shall still find facility concurring with use- fulness. No man needs stay to be virtuous till the moralists have determined the essence of virtue ; our duty is made apparent by its proxi- mate consequences, *Ti'>^gh the general and ul- timate reason should never be discovered. Re ligion may regulate the life of liim to whom the Scotists and Thomists arc alike unknown ; and the assertors of fate and free-will, however different in their talk, agree to act in the same manner. It is not my intention to depreciate the politer arts or abstruser studies. That curiosity which always succeeds ease and plenty, was un doubtedly given us as a proof of capacity which our present state is not able to fill, as a prepara- tive for some better mode of existence, which shall furnish employment for the whole soul, and where pleasure shall be adequate to our powers of fruition. In the mean time let us gratefully acknowledge that goodness which grants us ease at a cheap rate, which changes the seasons Avhere the nature of heat and cold has n«tbeen yet examined, and gives the vicissitudes of day and night to those who never mai'ked the tro pics, or numbered the constellations. No. 38.1 Saturday, Jan. 6, 1759. Since the publication of the letter concerning the condition of those who are confined in gaols by their creditors, an inquiry is said to have been made, by which it appears that more thaa twenty thousand* are at this time prisoners for debt. We often look with indifference on the suc- cessive parts of that, which, if the whole were seen together, would shake us witn emotion; A debtor is dragged to prison, pitied jor a mo- ment, and then forgotten ; another follows him, and is lost alike in the caverns of oblivion ; but when the whole mass of calamity rises up at once, when twenty thousand reasonable beings are heard all groaning in unnecessary misery, not by the infirmity of nature, but the mistake or negligence of policy, who can forbear to pity and lament, to wonder and abhor ! There is here no need of declamatory vehe mence : we live in an age of commerce and com- putation ; let us therefore coolly inquire what is the sum of evil which the imprisonment o- debtors brings upon our country. It seems to be the opinion of the later compuv tists, that the inhabitants of England do nol exceed six millions, of which twenty thousand is the three hundredth part. What shall we say of the humanity or the wisdom of a nation, that voluntarily sacrifices one in every three hundred to lingering destruction ! The misfortunes of an individual do not ex- » This number was at that time confidently pub- lished ; but the author has since foi^nd reason to question the calfl-^'^ou No. 38. THE IDLER. 41 j tend thcJr infiuence to many; yet if we con- sider the effects of consan^nity and friendship, and the general reciprocation of wants and I benefits, which make one man dear or necessary to another, it may reasonably be supposed, that every man languishing in prison gives trouble of some kind to two others who love or need him. By this multiplication of misery we see distress extended to the hundredth part of the whole society. If we estimate at a shilling a day what is lost by the inaction and consumed in the support of each man thus chained down to involun- tary idleness, the public loss will rise in one year to three hundred thousand pounds ; in ten years to more than a sixth part of our circulat- ing coin. I am afraid that those who ai'e best acquaint- ed with the state of our prisons will confess that my conjecture is too near the truth, when I suppose that the corrosion of resentment, the heaviness of sorrow, the corruption of confined ah", the want of exercise, and sometimes of food, the contagion of diseases, from which there is no retreat, and the severity of tjTants, against whom there can be no resistance, and all tht complicated horrors of a prison, put an end every year to the life of one in four of those thai are shut up from the common comforts of hu- man life. Thus perish yearly five thousand men, over- borne with sorrow, consumed by famine, oi putrified by filth ; many of them in the most vigorou3 and useful part of lile; for the thoughtless and imprudent are commonly young, and the active and busy are seldom old- According to the rule generally received, which supposes that one in thirty dies yearly, the race of man may be said to be renewed at the end of thirty years. Who would have be- lieved till now, that of every English genera- tion, a hundred and fifty thousand perish in our gaols ! that in every century, a nation em- inent for science, studious of commerce, ambi- tious of empire, should willingly lose, in noisome dungeons, five hundred thousand of its inhabitants; a number gi'eater than has ever been destroyed in the same time by the pesti- lence and sword ! A very iate occurrence may show us the value of the number which we thus condemn to be useless ; in the re-establishment of the trained bauds, thirty thousand are considered as a force sufficient against all exigencies. While, there- fore, we detain twenty thousand in prison, we shut up in darkness and uselessness two thirds of an army which ourselves judge equal to the defence of our country. The monastic institutions have been often blamed as tending to retard the increase of man- kind. And perhaps retirement ought rarely to be permitted, exctpt to those whose employ- ment is consistent with abstraction, and who, though solitary, will not be idle : to those whom infirmity makes useless to the commonwealth, or to those who have paid their due proportion to society, and who, having lived for others, may be honourably dismiissed to live for them- selves. But whatever be the evil or the folly of these retreats, those hare no right to censure them whose prisons contain gi^eater numbers thaa the monasteries of other countries. It is, sure- ly, less foolish and less criminal to permit inac- tion than compel it ; to comply with doubtful opinions of happiness, than condemn to certain and apparent misery; to indulge the extrava- gances of erroneous piety, than to multiply and enforce temptations to wickedness. The misery of gaols is not half their evil : they are filled with every corruption which poverty and wickedness can generate between them; with all the shameless and profligate enormities that can be produced by the impu- dence of ignominy, the rage of want, and the malignity of despair. In a prison, the awe of the public eye is lost, and the power of the law is spent; there are few fears, there are no blushes. The lewd inflame the lewd, the auda- cious harden the audacious. Every one fortifies himself as he can against his own sensibility, endeavours to practise on others the arts which are practised on himself; and gains the kind- ness of his associates by similitude of manners. Thus some sink amidst their misery, and others survive only to propsigate villany. It may be hoped, that our lawgivers will at length take away from us this power of starving and depraving one another; but, if there be any i-eason why this inveterate evil should not be removed in our age, which true policy has en- lightened beyond any former time, let those, whose writings form the opinions and the prac- tices of their contemporaries, endeavour to transfer the reproach of such imprisonment from the debtor to the creditor, till universal infamy shall pm-suc the wretch whose wanton- ness of power, or revenge of disappointment, condemns another to torture and to ruin ; tiU he shall be hunted through the world as an enemy to man, and find in riches no shelter from con- tempt. Surely, he whose debtor has perished in prison, although he may acquit himself of deli- berate murder, must at least have his mind clouded with discontent, when he considers how much another has suffered from him; wlten he thinks on the wife bewailing her hus- band, or the children begging the bread which their father would have earned. If there are any made so obdurate by avarice or cruelty, as to revolve these consequences without dread or pity, I must leave them to be awakened by some other power, for I write only to human beings. G 42 THE IDLER. No. 39.] Satuiiday, Jak. 13, 17o9. [No. 39. TO THE IDLER. Sir, As none look more diligently about them than thos3 who have nothing to do, or who do no- thing, I suppose it has not escaped your observa- tion, that the bracelet, an ornament of great an- tiquity, has been for some years revived among the English ladies. The genius of our nation is said, I know not for what reason, to appear rather in improve- ment than invention. The bracelet was known in the earliest ages ; but it ^vs^s formerly only a hoop of gold, or a cluster of jewels, and showed nothing but the wealth or vanity of the wearer ; till our ladies, by carrying pictures on their wrists, made their ornaments works of fancy and exercises of judgment. This addition of art to luxury is one of the in- numerable proofs that might be given of the late increase of female erudition; and I have often congratulated myself that my life has happen- ed at a time when those, on whom so much of human felicity depends, have learned to think as well as speak, and when respect takes possession of the ear, while love is entering at the ?ye. I have observed, that even by the suffrages of their own sex, those ladies are accounted wisest who do not yet disdain to be taught ; and there- fore, I shall offer a few hints for the completion of the bracelet, without any dread of the fate of Orpheus. To the ladies who wear the pictures of their husbands or children, or any other relations, I can offer nothing more decent or more proper. It is reasonable to believe that she intends at least to perfonn her duty, who carries a perpet- ual excitement to recollection and caution, whose own ornaments must upbraid her with every failure, and who, by an open violation ^of her engagements, must for ever foi'feit her bracelet. Yet 1 know not whether it is the interest of the husband to solicit very earnestly a place on the bracelet. If his image be not in the heart, it is of small avail to hang it on the hand. A husband encircled with diamonds and rubies may gain some esteem, but will never excite love. He that thinks himself most secure of fcis wife, should be fearful of persecuting her continually with his presence. The joy of life is variety ; the tenderest Ioa'c requires to be re- kindled by intervals of absence ; and fidelity herself will be wearied with transferring her eye only from the same man to the same picture. In many countries the condition of every wo- man is known by her dress. Marriage is re- warded with some honourable distinction which cell! acy is forbidden to usurp. Some such in- formation a bracelet might afford. The ladies might enrol themselves in distinct classes, and carry in open view the emblems of their or- der. The bracelet of the authoress may exhibit the muses in a grove of laurel ; the housewife may show Penelope with her web ; the votaress of a single life may carry Ursula with her troop of virgins ; the gamester may have Fortune with her wheel ; and those women that have no character at all, may display a field of white enamel, as imploring help to fill up the vacui- ty. There is a set of ladies who have outlived most animal pleasures, and having nothing ra- ti(mal to put in their place, solace with cards the loss of what time has taken away, and the want of what wisdom, having never been courted, has never given. For these, I know not how to provide a proper decoration. They cannot be numbered among the gamesters : for though they are always at play, they play for nothing, and never rise to the dignity of hazard or the reputation of skill. They neither love nor are loved, and cannot be supposed to contemplate any human image with delight. Yet though they despair to please, they always wish to be fine, and therefore cannot be without a bracelet. To this sisterhood I can recommend nothing more likely to please them than the king of clubs, a personage very comely and majestic, who Avill never meet their eyes without reviving the thought of some past or future party, and who may be displayed in the act of dealing v/ith grace and propriety. But the bracelet which might be most easily introduced into general use is a small convex mirror, in which the lady may see herself when- ever she shall lift her hand. This will be a perpetual source of delight. Other ornaments are of use only in public, but this will furnish gratifications to'solitude. This will show a face that must always please ; she who is followed by admirers will carry about her a perpetual justification of the public voice ; and she who passes without notice may appeal from preju- dice to her own eyes. But 1 know not why the privilege of the bracelet should be confined to women ; it was in former ages worn by heroes in battle ; and as modern soldiers are al\\'ays distinguished by splendour of dress, I should rejoice to see the bracelet added to the cockade. In hope of this ornamental innovation, I have spent some thoughts upon military bracelets. There is no passion more heroic than love; and therefore I should be glad to see the sons of Eng- land marching in the field, every man with the picture of a woman of honour bound upon his hand. But since in the army, as every where else, there will always be men who love nobody but themselves, or whom no woman of honour will No. 40.1 THE IDLER. h3 permit to love her, there is a necessity of some other distinctions and devices. I have read of a prince who, having lost,a town, ordered the name of it to he every morn- ing shouted in his ear till it should he recovered. For the same purpose I think the prospect of Minorca might he properly worn on the hands of some of our generals: others might delight their countrymen, and dignify themselves with a view of Rochefort as it appeared to them at sea: and those that shall return from the con- quest of America, may exhibit the warehouse of Frontenac, with an inscription denoting that it was taken in less than three years hy less than twenty thousand men. I am, Sir, &c. Toil Tot. No. 40.] Saturday, Jan. 20, 1759. The practice of appending to the naiTatives of public transactions more minute and domestic intelligence, and filling the newspapers with advertisements, has grown up hy slow degrees to its present state. Genius is shown only by invention. The man who first took advantage of the general curiosity that was excited by a siege or battle, to betray the readers of news into the know- ledge of the shop where the best puffs and powder were to be sold, was undoubtedly a man of great sagacity and profound skill in the na- ture of man. But when he had once shown the w^ay, it was easy to follow him; and every man no^v knows a ready method of infonning .the public of all that he desires to buy or sell, whether his wares be material or intellectual; whether he makes clothes, or teaches the mathe- matics; whether he be a tutor that wants a pu- pil, or a pupil that wants a tutor. Whatever is common is despised. Adver- tisements are now so numerous that they are very negligently perused, and it is therefore be- come necessary to gain attention by magnifi- cence of promises; and by eloquence sometimes sublime and sometimes pathetic. Promise, large promise, is the soul of an ad- vertisement. I remember a wash-ball that had a quality truly wonderful — it gave an exquisite edge to the razor. And there are now to be sold, << for ready money only, some duvets for bed coverings, of down, beyond comparison, superior to what is called otter-down, and in- deed such, that its many excellences cannot be here set forth." With one excellence we are made acquainted — " it is warmer than four or five blankets, and lighter than one." There are some, however, that know the prejudice of mankind In favour of modest sin- cerity. The vender of the beautifying fluid sells a lotion that repels pimples, washes away freckles, smooths the skin, and plumps the flesh : and yet, with a generous abhoiTence of ostenta- tion, confesses, that it will not "restore the bloom of fifteen to a lady of fifty." The true pathos of advertisements must have sunk deep into the heart of every man that re- members the zeal sho^vn by the seller of the anodyne necklace, . for the ease and safety of poor toothing infants, and the affection with which he warned every mother, that " she would never forgive herself" if her infant should perish without a necklace. I cannot but remark to the celebrated author who gave, in his notifications of the camel and dromedary, so many specimens of the genuine sublime, that there is now arrived another sub- ject yet more worthy of his pen. " A famous 3Iohawk Indian warrior, who took Dieskaw tlie French general prisoner, dressed in the same manner with the native Indians wlieii they go to war, with his face and body painted, with his scalping-knife, tom-ax and all other implements of war ! a sight worthy the curios- ity of every true Briton!" This is a very powerful description : but a critic of great re- finement would say, that it conveys rather horror than ten'or. An Indian, dressed as he goes to war, may bring company together; but if he carries the scalping knife, and tom-ax, there are many true Britons that will never be persuaded to see him but through a grate. It has been remarked by the severer judges, that the salutary sorrow of tragic scenes is too soon effaced by the meiTiment of the epilogue ; the same inconvenience arises from the impro- per disposition of advertisements. The noblest objects may be so associated as to be made ridi- culous. The camel and dromedary themselves might have lost much of their dignity between " the true flower of mustard and the original Daffy's elixir;" and I could not but feel some indignation, when I found this illustrious In- dian warrior immediately succeeded by " a fresh parcel of Dublin butter." The trade of advertising is now so near to perfection, that it is not easy to propose any improvement. But as every art ought to he exercised in due subordination to the public good, I cannot but propose it as a moral question to these masters of the public ear. Whether they do not sometimes play too wantonly with our passions, as when the registrar of lottery tickets invites us to his shop by an account of the prizes which he sold last year; and whether the ad- vertising controvertists do not indulge asperity of language without any adequate provocation ; as in the dispute about straps for razors, now happily subsided, and in the altercation which at present subsists concerning eaii de luce? In an advertisement it is allowed to evej-y 44 THE IDLER. [No. 41, man to speak well of himself, but I know not why he should assume the privilege of t-ensur- ing his neighbour. He may proclaim liis own virtue or skill, but ought not to exclude others from the same pretensions. Every man that advertises his own excellence should write with some consciousness of char- acter which dares to call the attention of the public. He should remember that his name is to stand in the same paper with those of the king of Prussia and the emperor of Germany, nnd endeavour to make himself worthy of such tissociation. Some regard is likewise to be paid to pos- terity. There are men of diligence and curio- sity who treasure up the papers of the day "mere- ly because others neglect them, and in time they will be scarce. When these collections shall be read in another century, how will numberless contradictions be reconciled ; and how shall fame be possibly distributed among the tailors and boddice-makers of the present age? Surely these things deserve consideration. It is enough for me to have hinted my desire that these abuses may be rectified ; but such is the state of nature, that what all have the right of doing, many will attempt without sufficient care or due qualifications. Ko. 41.] Saturday, Jan. 27, 1759. The following letter relates to an affliction perhaps not necessary to be imparted to the public; but I could not persuade myself to suppress it, because I think I know the sen- timents to be sincere, and I feel no disposi- tion to provide for this day any other enter- tainment. At tu quisquls eris, miseri qui crude foetd Credideris fietu funera d\gna tuo, JIac postrema tibi sitflendi causa , fluatque Lenis iiwjj enso vitaque 7no7-sque gradu. Mr. Idler, Kotwithstanding the warnings of philoso- phers, and the daily examples of losses and misfortimes which life forces upon our obser- vation, such is the absoi7>tion of our thoughts in the business of the present day, such the re- signation of our reason to empty hopes of future felicity, or such our unwillingness to foresee what we di'ead, that every calamity comes sud- denly upon us, and not only presses us as a bur- den, but crushes as a blow. There are evils which happen out of the com- mon course of nature, against which it is no re- proach not to be provided. A flash of light- ning iutercppts tb«» traveller in his way. The concussion of an earthquake heaps the ruins of cities upon their inhabitants. But other mis- eries time brings, though silently, yet visibly, forward by its even lapse, which yet approach us unseen, because we turn our eyes away, and seize us unresisted, because we could not arm ourselves against them but by setting them be- fore us. That it is vain to shrink from what cannot be avoided, and to hide that from ourselves which must sometime be found, is a truth which we all know, but which all neglect, and perhaps none more than the speculative reasoner, whose thoughts are always from home, whose eye wanders over life, whose fancy dances after meteors of happiness kindled by itself, and who examines every thing rather than his own state. Nothing is more evident than that the decays of age must terminate in death ; yet there is no man, says Tuliy, who does not believe that he may yet live another year ; and there is none who does not, upon the same principle, hope another year for his parent or his friend ; but the fallacy will be in time detected; the last year, the last day, must come. It has come, and is past. The life which made my own life pleasant is at an end, and the gates of death are shut upon my prospects. The loss of a friend upon whom the hefurt was fixed, to whom every wish and endeavour tend- ed, is a state of dreary desolation, in which the mind looks abroad impatient of itself, and finds nothing but emptiness and horror. The blame- less life, the artless tenderness, the pious simplici- ty, the modest resignation, the patient sickness, and the quiet death, are remembered only to add value to the loss, to aggravate regret for what cannot be amended, to deepen sorrow for what cannot be recalled. These are the calamities by which providence gradually disengages us from the love of life. Other evils fortitude may repel, or hope may mitigate; but irreparable privation leaves no- thing to exercise resolution or flatter expectation. The dead cannot return, and nothing is left us here but languishment and gi'ief. Yet such is the course of nature, that whoever lives long must outlive those whom he loves and honours. Such is the condition of our present existence, that life must one time lose its asso- ciations, and every inhabitant of the earth must walk downward to the gi-ave alone and unre- I garded, without any partner of his joy or grief, 1 without any interested witness of his misfortunes ■ or success. Misfortune, indeed, he may yet feel ; for where is the bottom of the misery of man ? But 1 what is success to him that has none to enjoy it? Happiness is not found in self-contemplation : it is perceived only when it is reflected from another. We know little of the state of dt-j^arted souls, No. 42 ] THE IDLER. 45 because such knowledge is not necessary to a good life. Reason deserts us at the brink of the grave, and can give no farther intelligence^ Revelation is not wholly silent. " There is joy in the angels of Heaven over one sinner that repenteth;" and surely this joy is not incom- ! municable to souls disentangled from the body, and made like angels. Let hope therefore dictate, what revelation does not confute, that the union of souls may still remain ; and that we who are struggling with sin, sorrow, and infirmities, may have our part in the attention and kindness of those who have finished their course, and are now receiving their reward. These are the great occasions which force the mind to take refuge in religion ; when we have no help in ourselves, AAhat can remain but that we look up to a higher and a greater Power? and to what hope may we not raise our eyes and heaits when we consider that the greatest power is the best ? Surely there is no man who, thus afiiicted, does not seek succour in the gospel, w^hich has brought life and immortality to light. The pre- cepts of Epicurus, who teaches us to endure what the laws of the universe make necessary, may silence, hut not content us. The dictates of Zeno, who commands us to look with in- difference on external things, may dispose us to conceal our sori'ow, but cannot assuage it. Real alleviation of the loss of friends, and rational tranquillity in the prospect of our own dissolu- tion, can be received only from the promises of Him in whose hands are life and death, and from the assurance of another and better state, in which all tears will be wiped from the eyes, and the whole soul shall be filled with joy. Philosophy may infuse stubbornness, but relig- ion only can give patience. I am, &c. No. 42.] Saturday, Feb. 3, 17o9. The subject of the following letter is not wholly immentioned by the Rambler. The Spectator has also a letter containing a case not much different. I hope my correspondent's perform- ance is more an effort of genius, than effusion of the passions ; and that she hath rather attemp- ted to paint some possible distress than rezdly feels the evils she has described. TO THE IDLER. Sn There is a cause of misery, which, though cer- tainly known both to you and your predecessors, has been little taken notice of in your papers ; I mean the snares that the bad behaviour of pa- rents extends over the paths of life which their children are to tread after them ; and as I make no doubt but the Idler holds the shield for virtue as well as the glass for folly, that he will employ his leisure hours as much to his own satisfaction, in warning his readers against a danger, as in laughing them out of a fashion : for this reason to ask admittance for my story in your paper, though it has nothing to reommend it but truth, and the honest wish of warning others to shun the track which I am afraid may lead me at last to ruin. I am the child of a father, who, having always lived in one spot in the country where he was born, and having had no genteel educa- tion himself, thought no qualificjitions in the world desirable but as they led up to fi-rtune, and no learning necessary to happiness but such as might most effectually teach me to make the best market of myself: I was unfortunately born a beauty, to a full sense of which my fa- ther took care to flatter me ; and having, when very young, put me to school in the country, afterwards transplanted me to another in town, at the instigation of his friends, where his ill- judged fondness let me remain no longer than to learn just enough experience to convince me of the sordidness of his views, to give me an idea of perfections which my present situation will never suffer me to reach, and to teach me suffi- cient morals to dare to despise what is bad, though it be in a father. Thus equipped (as he thought completely) for life, I was carried back into the country, and lived with him and my mother in a small vil- lage, within a few miles of the county-town ; where I mixed, at first with reluctance, among company which, though I never despised, I could not approve, as they were brought up with other inclinations, and narrower views than my own. INIy father took great pains to show me every where, both at his own house, and at such pub- lic diversions as the country afforded : he fre- quently told the people all he had was for hia daughter ; took care to repeat the civilities I had received from all his friends in London ; told how much I was admired, and all his little ambition could suggest to set me in a stronger light. Thus have I continued tricked out for sale, as I may call it, and doomed, by parental author- ity, to a state little better than that of prostitu- tion. I look on myself as gi'owing cheaper every hour, and am losing all that honest pride, that modest confidence, in which the virgin dignity consists. Nor does my misfortune stop here : though many would be too generous to impixte the follies of a father to a child whose heart has set her above them ; yet I am afraid the most charitable of them will hardly think it possible for me to be a daily spectatress of his vices with- out tacitly allowing them, and at last consenting 46 THE IDLER. I'So. 43. to them, as the eye of the friyhtod infant Is, by degrees reconciled to the darkness of wliich at first it was afraid. It is a common opinion, he himself must very well know, that vices, like diseases, are often hereditary ; and that the pro- perty of the one is to infect the manners, as the other poisons the springs of life. Yet this though bad, is not the worst ; my father deceives himself the hopes of the very child he has brought into the world ; he suffers his house to be the seat of drunkenness, riot, and irreligion : who seduces, almost in my sight, the menial servant, converses with the prosti- tute, and com-upts the wife ! Thus I, who from my earliest dawn of reason was taught to think that at my approach every eye sparkled with pleasure, or was dejected as conscious of supe- rior charms, am excluded from society, through fear lest I should partake, if not of my father's crimes, at least of his repi'oach. Is a parent, who is so little solicitous for the welfaie of a child, better than a pirate who tui'ns a wretch adrift in a boat at sea, without a star to steer by, or an anchor to hold it fast? Am I not to lay all my miseries at those doors which ought to have opened only for my protection ? And if doomed to add at last one more to the number of those WTetches whom neither the world nor its law befriends, may I not justly say that I have been awed by a parent into ruin? But though a parent's power is screened from in- sult and violation by the very words of Heaven, yet surely no laws, divine or human, forbid me to remove myself from the malignant shade of a plant that poisons all around it, blasts the bloom of youth, checks its improvements, and makes all its flowerets fade ; but to whom can the wretched, can the dependent fly? Forme to fly a father's house, is to be a beggar ; I have only one comforter amidst my anxieties, a pious relation, who bids me appeal to Heaven for a witness to my just intentions, fly as a deserted •wretch to its protection ; and, being asked who my father is, point, like the ancient philosopher, with my finger to the heavens. The hope in which I write this, is, that you will give it a place in your paper ; and as your essays sometimes find their way into the country, that my father may read my story there ; and, if not for his own sake yet for mine, spare to perpetuate that worst of calamities to me, the loss of character, from which aU his dissimula- tion has not been able to rescue himself. Tell the world. Sir, that it is possible for virtue to keep its throne unshaken without any other guard than itself; that it is possible to maintain that purity of thought so necessary to the com- pletion of human excellence even in the midst of temptations ; when they have no friend within, nor are assisted by the voluntary indulgence of vicious thoughts. If the insertion of a story like this does not i break in on the plan of yoiU' paper, you have it in your ])ower to be a better friend than her father to Perdita, No. is.] Satukday, Feb. 10, 1759. The natural advantages which arise from the position of the earth which we inhabit, Avith respect to the other planets, afford much em- ployment to mathematical speculation, by which it has been discovered, that no other conforma- tion of the system could have given such com- modious distributions of light and heat, or im- parted fertility and pleasure to so great a part ■ of a revolving sphere. It may be, perhaps, observed by the moralist, with equal reason, that our globe seems particu- larly fitted for the residence of a being, placed here only for a short time, whose task is, to ad- vance himself to a higher and happier state of existence, by unremitted vigilance of caution, and activity of virtue. The duties required of a man are such as hu- man nature does not willingly perform, and such as- those are inclined to delay who yet in- tend some time to fulfil them. It was there- fore necessary that this universal reluctance should be counteracted, and the drowsiness of hesitation wakened into resolve ; that the dan- ger of procrastination should be always in view, and the fallacies of security be houily detected. To this end all the appearances of nature uni- formly conspire. Whatever we see on every side reminds us of the lapse of time and the flux of life. The day and night succeed each other, the rotation of seasons diversifies the year, the aun rises, attains the meridian, de( lines and sets; and the moon every night changes its form. The day has been considered as an image of j the year, and the year as the representation oi life. The morning answers to the spring, and the spring to childhood and youth; the noon corresponds to the summer, and the summer to the strength of manhood. The evening is au emblem of autumn, and autumn of declining life. The night with its silence and darkness shows the winter, in which aU the powers of vegeta- tion are benumbed ; and the winter points out the time when life .shall cease, with its hopes and pleasures. He that is carried forward, however swiftly, by a motion equable and easy, perceives not the change of place but by the variation of ob- jects. If the wheel of life, which roUs thus silently along, passed on through un distinguish- able uniformity, we should never mark its ap- proaches to the end of the course. If one hour * Avere like another ; if the pass^e of the sun did No. 44.] THE IDLER. 47 not show that the day is wasting; if the change of seasons did not impress upon us the flight of the year ; quantities of duration equal to days' and years would glide unobserved. If the parts of time were not variously coloured, we should never discern their departure or succession, but should live thoughtless of the past, and careless of the future, withoTit will, and pei-haps with- out power, to compute the periods of life, or to compare the time which is already lost with that which may probably remain. But the course of time is so visibly marked, that it is observed even by the birds of passage, and by nations who have raised their minds very little above animal instinct ; there are hu- man beings whose lan^age does not supply them with words by ^vhich they can number five, but I have read of none that have not names for day and night, for summer and win- ter. Yet it is certain that these admonitions of na- ture, however forcible, however importunate, are too often vain ; and that many who mark with such accuracy the course of time, appear to have little sensibility of the decline of life. ICvery man has something to do which he ne- glects ; every man has faults to conquer which he delays to combat. So little do we accustom ourselves to consider the effects of time, that things necessary and certain often surprise us like unexpected contin- genc'ies. We leave the beauty in her bloom, and, after an absence of twenty years, wonder, at our return, to find her faded. We meet those whom we left children, and can scarcely persuade ourselves to treat them as men. The traveller visits in age those countries through which he rambled in his youth, and hopes for merriment at the old place. The man of busi- ness, wearied with unsatisfactory prosperity, retires to the town of his nativity, and expects to play away the last years with the compan- ions of his childhood, and recover youth in the fields whei'e he once was young. From tliis inattention, so general and so mis- chievous, let it he every man's study to exempt himself. Let him that desires to see others haj»py, make haste to give while his gift can be enjoyed, and remember that every moment of delay takes away something from the value of his benefaction. And let him, who purposes his own happiness, reflect, that while he forms his purpose the day rolls on, and " the night rometh, when no man can work !" k-vvw-i-Vfc^ v%-vv«.» No. 44.] Saturday, Feb. 17, 1739. Mfmory is, among the faculties of the human xniud, that of which we make the most frequent use, or rather that of which the agency is in- cessant or perpetual. Memory is the primary and fundamental power, without which there could be no other intellectual operation. Judg- ment and ratiocination suppose something al- ready known, and draw their decisions only from experience. Imagination selects ideas from the treasures of remembrance, and pro- duces novelty only by varied combinations. We do not even form conjectures of distant, or anticipations, of future events, but by conclud- ing what is possible from what is past. The two oflS^ces of memory are collection and distribution ; by one images are accumulated, and by the other produced for use. Collection is always the employment of our first years; and distribution commonly that of our advanced age. To collect and reposit the various forms of things, is far the most pleasing part of mental occupation. We are naturally delighted with novelty, and there is a time when all that we see is new. When first we enter into the world, whithersoever we turn om* eyes, they meet Knowledge with Pleasure at her side ; every diversity of nature pours ideas in upcm the soul ; neither search nor labour are necessary ; we have nothing more to do than to open our eyes, and curiosity is gratified. iVIuch of the pleasure Avhich the first survey of the world affords, is exhausted before we are conscious of our own felicity, or able to compare our condition with some other possible state. We have therefore few traces of the joy of our earliest discoveries ; yet we all remember a time when nature had so many untasted gratifica- tions, that every excursion gave delight which can now be found no longer, Avhen the noise of a torrent, the rustle of a wood, the song of birds, or the play of lambs, had power to fill the at- tention, and suspend all perception of the course of time. But these easy pleasures are soon at end ; Ave have seen in a very little time so much, that v.e call out for new objects of observation, and en^ deavour to find variety in books and life. But study is laborious, and not always satisfactory ; and conA-ersation has its pains as well as pleas- ures; we are willing to learn, but not Avil- llng to be taught; we ai'e pained by ignorance, but pained yet more by another's knoAvledge. From the A-exation of pupilage men common- ly set themseh'cs free about the middle of life, by shutting up the aA-enues of intelligence, and resolving to rest in their present state; and they, whose ardour of inquiry continues longer find themselves insensibly forsaken by their in structors. As every man advances in life, the proportion between those that are younger and that are elder than himself, is continually changing ; and he that has lived half a century finds few that do not require from him that in- 48 THE IDLER. [No 45 formation which he once expected ft-om those that went before him. Then it is that'the magazines of memory are opened, and the stores of accumulated knowledge ure displayed by vanity or btnevolence, or in honest commerc^c of mutual interest. Every man wants others, and is therefore glad when he is wanted by them. And as few men will endure the labour of intense meditation with- out necessity, he that has learned enough for his profit or his honour, seldom, endeavours after further acquisitions. The pleasure of recollecting speculative no- tions would not be much less than that of gain- ing them, if they cojuld be kept pure and unmingled with the passages of life ; but such is the necessary concatenation of our thoughts, that good and evil are linked together, and no pleasure recurs but associated Avith pain. Every revived idea reminds us of a time, when some- thing was enjoyed that is now lost, when some hope was yet not blasted, when some purpose had yet not languished into sluggishness or in- difference. Whether it be that life has more vexations than comf(ft"ts, or, what is in the event just the same, that evil makes deeper impression than good, it is certain that no man can review the time past without heaviness of heart. He re- members many calamities incurred by folly, many opportunities lost by negligence. The shades of the dead rise up before him ; and he laments the companions of his youth, the part- ners of his amusements, the assistants of his laboui-s, whom the hand of death has snatched away. When an offer was made to Themistocles of teaching him the art of memory, he answered, that he would rather Avish for the art of forget- fulness. He felt his imagination haunted by phantoms of misery which he was unable to suppress, and would gladly have calmed his thoughts with some oblivious antidote. In this we all resemble one another : the hero and the sage are like vulgar moi'tals, overburdened by the weight of life; all shrink from recollec- tion, and all wish for an art of forgetfulness. No 45.] Saturday, Feb.- 24, 1759. There is in many minds a kind of vanity ex- erted to the disadvantage of themselves ; a de- sire to be praised for superior acuteness discov- ered only in the degradation of their species, or censure of their country. Defamation is sufficiently copious. _The gen- oral lampooner of mankind may find long exer- cise fur his zeal or wit, in the defects of nature, the vexations of life, the follies cf opinicn, and the ccriiiptions of practice. But fiction is easi- er than discernment ; and most of these writers spare themselves the labour* of inquiry, and ex- liaust their virulence upon imaginary crimes, which, as they never existed, can never be mended. That the painters find no encouragement among the English for many other works than portraits, has been imputed to national selfish- ness. 'Tis vain, says the satirist, to set before any Englishman the scenes of landscapes, or the heroes of history ; natiu'e and antiquity art no thing in his eye; he has no value but for him self, nor desires any copy but of his own form. Whoever is delighted with his own picture must derive his pleasure from the pleasure of another. Every man is always present to him- self, and has, therefore, little need of his own I'esemblance, nor can desire it, but for the sake of those whom he loves, and by whom he hopes 10 be remembered. This use of the art is a natural and reasonable consequence of affec- tion ; and though, like other human actions, it is often complicated with pride, yet even such pride is more laudable than that, by which palaces are covered with pictures, that, however excellent, neither imply the owner's virtue nor excite it. Genius is chiefly exerted in historical pic- tures ; and the art of the painter of portraits is often lost in the obscurity of his subject. But it is in painting as in life, what is greatest is not always best. I should grieve to see Rey- nolds transfer to heroes and to goddesses, to empty splendour and to airy fiction, that art which is now employed in diffusing friendship, in reviving tenderness, in quickening the affec- tions of the absent, and continuing the presence of the dead. Yet in a nation great and opulent there is room, and ought to be patronage, for an art like that of painting through all its diversities ; and it is to be wished, that the reward now offered for an historical picture may excite an honest emulation, and give beginning to an English school. ft is not very easy to find an action or event that can be efficaciously represented by a painter. He must have an action not successive, but instantaneous; for the time of a picture is a single moment. For this reason the death of Hercules cannot well be painted, though at the first view it flatters the imagination with very glittering ideas ; the gloomy mountain over- hanging the sea, and covered with treen, some bending to the wind, and some torn from the root by the raging hero ; the violence with which he sends from his shoulders the envenomed gar- ment ; the propriety with which his muscular nakedness may be displayed : the death of Lycas whirled from the promontory ; the gigantic presence of Philoctetes ; the blaze of the fatal pile, which the deities beheld with giief and ter- ror from tlie sky. No. 46.] THE IDLER. 4-9 All these Images fiU the mind, but will not compose a picture, because they cannot be united in a single moment. Hercules must have rent his flesh at one time, and tossed Lycas into the air at another ; he must first tear up the trees, and then lie down upon the pile. The action must be circumstantial and dis- tinct. There is a passage in the Iliad which cannot be read without strong emotions. A Trojan prince, seized by Achilles in the battle, falls at his feet, and in moving terms supplicates for life. « How can a wretch like thee," says the haughty Greek, " intreat to live, when thou knowest that the time must come when Achilles is to die?" This cannot be painted, because no peculiarity of attitude or disposition can so sup- ply the place of language as to impress the sen- timent. The event painted must be such as excites pas- sion, and different passions in the several actors, or a tumult of contending passion in the chief. Perhaps the discovery of Ulysses by his nurse is of this kind. The surprise of the nurse mingled with joy ; that of Ulysses checked by prudence, and clouded by solicitude ; and the distinctness of the action by which the scar is found ; all concur to complete the subject. But the picture, having only two figures, will want variety. A much nobler assemblage may be furnished by the death of Epaminondas. The mixture of gladness and grief in the face of the messenger who bi'ings his dying general an account of the victory ; the various passions of the attendants ; the sublimity of composure in the hero, while the dart is by his own command drawn from his side, and the faint gleam of satisfaction that dif- fuses itself over the languor of death, are worthy of that pencil which yet I do not wish to see employed upon them. If the design were not too multifarious and extensive, I should wish that our painters would attempt the dissolution of the parliament by Cromwell. The point of time may be chosen when Cromwell looked round the Pandsemoni- um with contempt, ordered the bauble to be taken away ; and Harrison laid hands on the Speaker to drag him from the chair. The various appearances which rage, and ter- ror, and astonishment, and guilt, might exhibit in the faces of that hateful assembly, of whom the principal persons may be faithfully drawn from portraits or prints ; the irresolute repug- nance of some, the hypocritical submission of others, the ferocious insolence of Cromwell, the rugged brutality of HaiTison, and the general trepidation of fear and wickedness, would, if some proper disposition could be contrived, make a picture of unexampled variety, and irresistible instruction. No. 46.] Saturday, March 3, 1750. Mr. Idler, I AM encouraged, by the notice you have taken of Betty Broom, to represent the miseries which I suffer from a species of tyranny which, I be- lieve, is not very uncommon, though perhaps it may have escaped the observation of those who converse little with fine ladies, or see them only in their public characters. To this method of venting my vexation I am the more inclined, because if I do not complain to you, I must burst in silence ; for my mistresi has teased me, and teased me till I can hold no longer, and yet I must not tell her of her tricks. The girls that live in common services can quarrel, and give warning, and find other places ; but we that live with great ladies, if we once offend them, have nothing left but to re- turn into the country. I am waiting-maid to a lady who keeps the best company, and is seen at every place of fa- shionable resort. I am envied by all the maids in the square, for few countesse^ leave off so many clothes as my mistress, and nobody shares with me : so that I supply two families in the country with finery for the assizes and horse- races, besides what I wear myself. The stew- ard and house-keeper have joined against me to procure my removal, that they may advance a relation of their own ; but their designs are found out by my lady, who says I need not fear them, for she will never have dowdies about her. You would think, Mr. Idler, like others, that I am very happy, and may well be contented with my lot. But I will tell you. My lady has an odd humour. She never orders any thing in direct words, for she loves a sharp girl that can take a hint. I would not have you suspect that she has any thing to hint which she is ashamed to speak at length ; for none can have greater purity of sentiment, or rectitude of intention. She has nothing to hide, yet nothing will she tell. She always gives her directions oblique and allusive- ly, by the mention of something relative or con- sequential, without any other purpose than to exercise my acuteness and her own. It is impossible to give a notion of this style otherwise than by examples. One night, when she had sat writing letters till it was time to be dressed, " Molly," said she, " the ladies are alj to be at court to-night in white aprons." When she means that I should send to order the chair, she says, " I think the streets are clean, 1 may venture to walk." When she would have some- thing put into its place, she bids me " lay it ou the fiooi'." If she would have me snuff the candles, she asks. " whether I think her eyes H 50 THE IDLER. [No. 47. Are like a cat's?" If she thinks her chocohitc delayed, she talks of the benefit of abstinence. If any needle- work is forgotten, she supposes that I have heard of the lady who died by prick- ing her finger. She always imagines that I can recall every thing past from a single word. If she wants her head from the milliner, she only says, " Molly, you know Mrs. Tape." If she would have the mantua-raaker sent for, she remarks that " Mr. Taffety, the mercer, was here last week." She ordered, a fortnight ago, that the first time she was abroad all day I should choose her a new set of coffee-cups at the china-shop : of this she reminded me yesterday, as she was going down stairs, by saying, " You can't find your way now to Pall- Mall." All this would not vex me, if, by increasing my trouble, she spared her own ; but, dear Mr. Idler, is it not as easy to say coffee-cups, as Pali- Mall ? and to tell me in plain words what I am to do, and when it is to be done, as to torment her own head with the laboui* of finding hints, and mine with that of understanding them ? When first I came to this lady, I had nothing like the learning that I have now ; for she has many books, and I have much time to read ; so that of late I have seldom missed her meaning : but when she first took me I was an ignorant girl; and she, who, as is very common, con- founded want of knowledge with want of un- deistanding, began once to despair of bringing me to any thing, because, when I came into her chamber at the call of her bell, she asked me, " (^Vhether we lived in Zembla;" and I did not guess the meaning of inquiry, but modestly an- swered that I could not tell. She had happened to ring once when I did not hear her, and meant to put me in mind of that country where sounds are said to be congealed by the frost. Another time, as I was dressing her head, she began to talk on a sudden of Medusa, and snakes, and " men turned into stone, and maids that, if they were not watched, would let their mistresses be Gorgons." I looked round me half frightened, and quite bewildered; till at last, finding that her literature was thrown away upon ine, she bid me, with great vehe- mence, reach the curling-irons. It is not without some indignation, Mr. Idler, that I discover, in these artifices of vexation, something worse than foppery or caprice; a mean delight in superiority, which knows itself in no danger of reproof or opposition ; a cruel pleasure in seeing the perplexity of a mind obliged to find what is studiously concealed, and a mean indulgence of petty malevolence, in the sharp censure of involuntary, and very often of inevitable failings. When, beyond her ex- pectation, 1 bit upon her meaning, I can per- ceive a snddvu cloud of disappointment spread over her fa^ ; and have sometimes been afraid I lest I should lose her favour by understanding her when she means to pu/zle me. This day, however, she has conquered my ■ sagacity. When she went out of her dressing- * room she said nothing but " MoDy, you knoAv," and hastened to her chariot. What I am to know is yet a secret ; but if I do not kno\v before she comes back, what I have yet no means of discovering, she will make my dulness 1 a pretence for a fortnight's ill humour, treat I me as a creature devoid of the faculties neces- sary to the common duties of life, and perhaps give the next gown to the housekeeper. I am, Sir, Your humble Servant, MoLi-Y Quick, No. 47.] Satuhday, March 10, 1759. TO THE IDLER. Mr. Idler, I AM the unfortunate wife of a city wit, and cannot but think that my case may deserve equal compassion with any of those which have been represented in your paper. I married my husband within three months after the expiration of his apprenticeship ; we put our money together, and furnished a large and splendid shop, in which he was for five years and a half diligent and civil. The notice which curiosity or kindness commonly bestoAvs on beginners, was continued by confidence and esteem; one customer, pleased with his treat- ment and his bargain, recommended another; and we were busy behind the counter from morning to night. Thus every day increased our wealth and our reputation. My husband was often .invited to dinner openly on the Exchange by hundred- thousand-pounds men; and whenever I went to any of the halls, the wives of the aldermen made me low courtesies. We always took up our notes before the day, and made all consider- able payments by drafts upon our banker. You will easily believe that I was weU enoagh pleased with my condition ; for what happiness can be greater than that of growing every day richer and richer? I will not deny that, imagining myself likely to be in a short time the sheriff's lady, I broke off my acquain- tance with some of my neighbours; and advised my husband to keep good company, and not to be seen with men that were worth nothing. In time he found that ale disagreed with his constitution, and went every night to drink his pint at a tavern, where he met with a set of critics, who disputed upon the merits of the different theatrical performers. By these idle No. 48.] THE IDLER. 51 fellows he i;i'as taken to tlie play, which at first he did not seem much to heed ; for he owned, that he very seldom knew what they w^ere do- ing, and that, while his companions would let liin^. alone, he was commonly thinking on his last hargain. Having once gone, however, he went again and again, though I often told him that three shillings were thrown away; at last he grew uneasy if he missed a night, and importuned me to go with him. 1 went to a tragedy which they called jMacbeth ; and, when I came home, told him, that I could not bear to see men and %yomen make themselves such fools, by pretend- ing to be witches and ghosts, generals and kings, •and to walk in their sleep when they were as much awake as those that looked at them. He told me, that I must get higher notions, and that a play was the most rational of all enter- tainments, and most proper to relax the mind after the business of the day. 13y degrees he gained knowledge of some of the players; and when the play was over, very frequently treated them with suppers ; for which he was admitted to stand behind the scenes. He soon began to lose some of his morning hours in the same folly, and was for one winter very diligent in his attendance on the rehear- sals ; but of this species of idleness he grew weary, and said, that the play was nothing with- out the company. His ardour for the diversion of the evening increased; he bought a sword, and paid five shillings a night to sit in the boxes ; he went sometimes into a place which he calls the green- room, w^here all the w^its of the age assembled ; and, when he had been there, could do nothing for two or three days but repeat their jests, or tell their disputes. He has now lost his regard for every thing but the play-house : he invites, three times a week, one or other to drink claret, and talk of the drama. His first care in the morning is to read the play-bills; and, if he remembers any lines of the tragedy which is to be represented, walks about the shop, repeating them so loud, and with such strange gestures, that the passen- gers gather round the door. His greatest pleasm-e when I married him was to hear the situation of his shop commend- ed, and to be told how many estates have been got in it by the same trade ; but of late he grows peevish at any mention of business, and delights in nothing so much as to be told that he speaks like Mossop. Among his new associates he has learned an- other language, and speaks in such a strain that his neighbours cannot understand him. If a customer talks longer than he is willing to hear, he will complain that he lias been excruciated with unmeaning verbosity ; he laughs at the letters of his friends for their tameness of ex- pression, and often declares himself weary of at- tending to the minutice of a shop. It is well for me that I know how to keep a book, for of late he is scarcely ever in the way. Since one of his friends told him that he had a genius for tragic poetry, he has locked himself in an upper room six or seven hours a day ; and, when I carry him any paper to be read or sign- ed, I hear him talking vehemently to himself, sometimes of love and beauty, sometimes of friendship and virtue, but more frequently of li- berty and his country. I would gladly, Mr. Idler, be informed what to think of a shopkeeper who is incessantly talk- ing about liberty ; a word which, since his ac- quaintance with polite life, my husband has al- ways in his mouth ; he is, on all occasions, afraid of our liberty, and declares his resolution to hazard all for liberty. What can the man mean? I am sure he has liberty enough— it v/ere better for him and me if his liberty was lessened. He has a friend whom he calls a critic, that comes twice a week to read what he is writing. This critic tells him that his piece is a little ir- regular, but that some detached scenes Avill shine prodigiously, and that in the character of Bom- bulus he is w^onderfully great. My scribbler then squeezes his hand, calls him the best of friends, thanks hini for his sincerity, and tells him that he hates to be flattered. 1 have reason to believe that he seldom parts with his dear friend without lending him two guineas, and am afraid that he gave bail for him three days ago. By this course of life otir credit as traders is lessened, and I cannot forbear to suspect, that my husband's honour as a wit is not much ad- vanced, for he seems to be always the lowest of the company, and is afraid to tell his opinion till the rest have spoken. When he was behinc) his counter, he used to be brisk, active, and jo» cular, like a man that knew what he was doing; and did not fear to look another in the face ; but among wits and critics he is timorous and awkward, and hangs down his head at his own table. Dear IMr. Idler, persuade him, if you can, to return once more to his native element. Tell him, that his wit will never make him rich, but that there are places where riches will always make a wit. I am. Sir, &c. Deborah Ginger. No. 48.] Saturday, March 17, 1759. There is no kind of idleness, by which we arc so easily sef'uced as that which dignifies itself 52 THE IDLER. LNo. 49. \>y the appearance of business, and by making the loiterer imagine that he has something to do which must not be neglected, keeps him in per- petual agitation, and hurries him rapidly from place to place. He that sits still, or reposes himself upon a couch, no more deceives himself than he deceives othei*s ; he knows that he is doing nothing, and has no other solace of his insignificance than the resolution, which the lazy hourly make, of changing his mode of life. To do nothing every man is ashamed ; and to do much almost every man is unwilling or afraid. Innumerable expedients have therefore been in- vented to produce motion without labour, and employment without solicitude. The greater part of those whom the kindness of fortune has left to their own direction, and whom want does not keep chained to the counter or the plough, play throughout life with the shadows of busi- ness, and know not at last what they have been doing. These imitators of action are of all denomi- nations. Some are seen at every auction with- out intention to purchase ; others appear punc- tually at the Exchange, though they are known there only by their faces. Some are always making parties to visit collections for which they have no taste ; and some neglect every pleasure and every duty to hear questions, in •which they have no interest, debated in par- liament. These men never appear more ridiculous than in the distress which they imagine themselves to feel, from some accidental interruption of those empty pursuits. A tiger newly imprisoned is indeed more formidable, but not more angry, than Jack Tulip withheld from a florist's feast, or Tom Distich hindered from seeing the first representation of a play. As political affairs are the highest and most extensive of temporal concerns ; the mimic of a politician is more busy and important than any other trifler. Monsieur le Noir, a man who, without property or importance in any corner of the earth, has, in the present confusion of the world, declared himself a steady adherent to the French, is made miserable by a wind that keeps back the packet boat, and still more miserable by every account of a Malouin privateer caught in his cruise ; he knows well that nothing can be done or said by him which can produce any effect but that of laughter, that he can neither hasten nor retard good or evil, that his joys and sorrows have scarcely any partakers ; yet such is his zeal, and such his curiosity, that he would run barefooted to Gravesend, for the sake of knowing first that the English had lost a tender, and would ride out to meet every mail from the continent if he might be pei'mittod to open it. Lewning is generally confessed to be desirable, und there aie some who fancy th»mselves al- ways busy in acquiring it. Of these ambula* tory students, one of the most busy is my frienii Tom Restless. Tom has long had a mind to be a man of knowledge, but he does not care to spend much time among authors ; for he is of opinion that few books deserve the labour of perusal, that they give the mind an unfashionable cast, and destroy that freedom of thought and casings of manners indispens-^bly requisite to acceptance in the world. Tom has therefore found another way to wisdom. When he rises he goes into a coffee-house, where he creeps so near to men whom he takes to be reasoners as to hear their discourse, and endeavours to remember some- thing which, when it has been strained througli Tom's head, is so near nothing, that what it once was, cannot be discovered. This he car- ries round from friend to friend through a circle of visits, till, hearing what each says upon the question, he becomes able at dinner to say a little himself ; and, as every gi-eat genius relaxes himself among his inferiors, meets with some who wonder how so young a man can talk so wisely. At night he has a new feast prepared for his intellects ; he always runs to a disputing society, or a speaking club, where he half hears what, if he had heard the whole, he would but half understand ; goes home pleased with the con- sciousness of a day well spent, lies down full of ideas, and rises in the morning empty as before. No. 49.] Saturdat, March 24, 1759. I SUPPED three nights ago with my friend "Will Marvel. His affairs obliged him lately to take a journey into Devonshire, from which he has just returned. He knows me to be a very pa- tient hearer, and was glad of my company, as it gave him an opportunity of disburdening him- self by a minute relation of the casualties of his expedition. Will is not one of those who go out and re- turn with nothing to tell. He has a story of his travels, which will strike a home-bred citi- zen with horror, and has jn ten days suffered so often the extremes of terror and joy, that he is in doubt whether he shall ever again expose either his body or mind to such danger and fa- tigue. When he left London the morning was bright and a fair day was promised. But Will is born to struggle with difl&culties. That happened to him, which has sometimes, perhaps, happened to others. Before he had gone more than ten miles it began to rain. What couiae was to be taken? His soul disdained to turn back. He did what the king of Prussia -might have done; No. 45.J THE IDLER. 53 he flapped his hat, buttoned up his cape, and went forwards, fortifying his mind by the stoical consolation, that whatever is violent will be short: His constancy was not long tried ; at the dis- tance of about half a mile he saw an inn, which he entered wet and weary, and found civil treatment and proper refreshment. After a respite of about two hours, he looked abroad, and seeing the sky clear, called for his horse, and passed the first stage without any other me- morable accident. Will considered, that labour must be relieved by pleasure, and that the strength which great undertakings require must be maintained by copious nutriment; he therefore ordered him- self an elegant supper, drank two bottles of claret, and passed the beginning of the night in sound sleep ; but, waking before light, was forewarn- ed of the troubles of the next day, by a shower beating ag?mst his windows with such violence as to threaten the dissolution of nature. When he arose, he *bund what he expected, that the country was under water. He joined himself, however, to a company that was travelling the same way, and came safely to the place of din- ner, though every step of his horse dashed the mud into the air. In the afternoon, having parted from his com- pany, he set forward alone, and passed many collections of water, of which it was impossible to guess the depth, and which he now cannot review without some censure of his own rash- ness ; but what a man undertakes he must per- form, and Marvel hates a coward at his heart. Few that lie warm in their beds think what others undergo, who have perhaps been as ten- derly educated, and have as acute sensations as themselves. My friend was now to lodge the second night almost fifty miles from home, in a house which he never had seen before, among people to whom he was totally a stranger, not knowing whether the next man he should meet would prove good or bad ; but seeing an inn of a good appearance, he rode resolutely into the yard ; and knowing that respect is often paid in proportion as it is claimed, delivered his in- junctions to the hostler with spirit, and enter- ing the house called vigorously about him. On the third day up rose the sun and Mr. Marvel. His troubles and his dangers were now such as he wishes no other man ever to en- counter. The ways were less frequented, and the country more thinly inhabited. He rode many a lonely hour through mire and Avater, and met not a single soul for two miles to- gether with whom he could exchange a word. He cannot deny that, looking round upon the dreary region, and seeing nothing but bleak fields and naked trees, hills obscured by fogs, and flats covered with inundations, he did for some time suflFer melancholy to prevail upon him, and wished himself again safe at home. One comfort he had, which was to consider that none of his friends were in the same dis- tress, for whom, if they had been with him, he should have suffered more than for himself ; he could not forbear sometimes to consider how happy the Idler is, settled in an easier condi- tion, who, surrounded like him with terrors, could have done nothing but lie down and die. Amidst these reflections he came to a town, and found a dinner which disposed him to more cheerful sentiments : but the joys of life are short, and its miseries are long; he mounted and travelled fifteen miles more through dirt and desolation. At last the sunset, and all the horrors of dark- ness came upon him. He then repented the weak indulgence in which he had gratified him- self at noon with too long an interval of rest : yet he went forward along a path which he could no longer see, sometimes rushing sudden- ly into water, and sometimes incumbered with stiff clay, ignorant whither he was going, and uncertain whether his next step might not be the last. In this dismal gloom of nocturnal peregrina- tion his horse unexpectedly stood still. Mar- vel had heard many relations of the instinct of horses, and was in doubt what danger might be at hand. Sometimes he fancied that he was on the bank of a river still and deep, and sometimes that a dead body lay across the track. He sat still awhile to recollect his thoughts ; and as he was about to alight and explore the dark- ness, out stepped a man with a lantern, and opened the turnpike. He hired a guide to the town, arrived in safety, and slept in quiet. The rest of his journey was nothing but dan- ger. He climbed and descended precipices on which vulgar mortals tremble to look ; he passed marshes like the " Serbonian bog, where armies whole have sunk ;" he forded rivers where the current roared like the Egre or the Severn ; or ventured himself on bridges that trembled under him, from which he looked down on foaming whirlpools, or dreadful abysses: he wandered over houseless heaths, amidst all the rage of th« elements, with the snow driving in his face, and the tempest howling in his eai-s. Such are the colours in which Marvel paints his adventures. He has accustomed himself to sounding words and hj'perbolical images, till he has lost the pow^er of true description. In road through which the heaviest carriages pass without difficulty, and the post-boy every day and night goes and returns, he meets with hardships like those which are endured in Sibe- rian deserts, and misses nothing of romantic dan- ger but a giant and a dragon. When his dread- ful stoiy is told in proper terms, it is only that the way was dirty in winter, and that he expe- rienced the common vicissitudes of rain and sun-shine. 54 THE IDLER. [No. 50, r,\. Mo. 60.] Saturday, March SI, 1759. The character of Mr. Marvel has raised the merriment of some and the contempt of others, who do not sufficiently consider how often they liear and practise the same arts of exaggerated narration. There is not, perhaps, among the multitudes of all conditions that swarm upon the earth, a single man ■who does not believe that he has something extraordinary to relate of himself ; and who does not, at one time or other, summon the attention of his friends to the casualties of his adventures, and the vicissitudes of his fortune ; casualties and vicissitudes that happen alike in lives uniform and diversified; to the commander of armies, and the wi'iter at a desk, to the sailor who resigns himself to the wind and water, and the farmer whose longest journey is to the mar- ket. In the present state of the world men may pass through Shakspeare's seven stages of life, and meet nothing singular and wonderful. But such is every man's attention to himself, that what is common and unheeded when it is only seen, becomes remarkable and peculiar when we happen to feel it. It is well enough known to be according to the usual process of nattire that men should sicken and recover, that some designs should succeed and others miscarry, that friends should be separated and meet again, that some should be made angry by endeavours to please them, and some be pleased when no care has been used to gain their approbation ; that men and women should at first come together by chance, like each other so well as to commence acquaintance, improve acquaintance into fondness, increase or extinguish fondness by man-iage, and have chil- dren of different degrees of intellects and virtue, some of whom die before their parents, and others survive them. Yet let any tell his own story, and nothing of all this has ever befallen him according to the common order of things ; something has always discriminated his case ; some unusual concur- rence of events has appeared which made him more happy or more miserable than other mor- tals; for in pleasures or calamities, however common, every one has comforts and afiiictions of his own. It is certain that without some artificial aug- mentations, many of the pleasures of life, and almost all its embellishments, would fall to the ground. If no man was to express more delight than he felt, those who felt most would raise little euvy. If travellers were to describe the most la- boured performances of art with the same cold- ness as they survey them, all expectations of hap- piness fi'om change of place would cease. The pictui-cs of Raphael would hang without specta- tors, and the gardens of Versailles might be in- habited by hermits. All the pleasure that U received ends in an opportunity of splendid falsehood, in the power of gaining notice by the display of beauties which the eye was weary of beholding, and a history of happy moments, of which in reality the most happy was the last. The ambition of superior sensibility and su- perior eloquence disposes the lovers of arts to receive rapture at one time, and communicate it at another ; and each labours first to impose upon himself, and then to propagate the impos- ture. Pain is less subject than pleasure to caprices of expression. The torments of disease, and the grief for irremediable misfortunes, sometimes, are such as no words can declare, and can only be signified by groans, or sobs, or inarticulate ejaculations. Man h;is from nature a mode of utterance peculiar to pain, but he has none pe- culiar ^ pleasure, because he never has pleasure but in such degrees as the ordinary use of lan- guage may equal or surpass. It is nevertheless certain, that many pains as well as pleasures ax*e heightened by rhetorical affectation, and that the picture is, for the most part, bigger than the life. When we describe our sensations of another's sorrow either in friendly or ceremonious con- dolence, the customs of the world scarcely admit of rigid veracity. Pei-haps the fondest friendship would enrage oftener than comfort, were the tongue on such occasions faithfully to represent the sentiments of the heart ; and I think the strictest moralists allow forms of address to be used without much regard to their literal acceptation, when either respect or tenderness requires them, because they are universally known to denote not the degree but the species of our sentiments. But the same indulgence cannot be allowed to him who aggravates dangers incurred or sorrow endured by himself, because he darkens the pro- spect of futurity, and multiplies the pains of our condition by useless terror. Those who mag- nify their delights are less criminal deceivers, yet they raise hopes which are sure to be disap- pointed. It would be undoubtedly best, if we could see and hear every thing as it is, that nothing might be too anxiously dreaded, or too ardently pursued. No. 51.] Saturday, April 7, 1769* It has been commonly remarked, that eminent men are least eminent at home, that bright characters lose much of their splendour at a nearer view, and many who fill the world with tlrtir fame, excite very little reverence among No. 52.] THE IDLER, 55 those that surround them iu their domestic privacies. To blame or to suspect is easy and natural-. When the fact is evident, and the cause doubt- fid, some accusation is always engendered be- tween idleness and malignity. This disparity of general and familiar esteem is therefore im- puted to hidden vices, and to practices in- dulged in secret, but carefully covered from the I public eye. Vice will indeed always produce contempt, j The dignity of Alexander, though nations fell ! prostrate before him, was certainly held in lit- tle veneration by the partakers of his midnight revels, who had seen him, in the madness of wine, murder his friend, or set fire to the Per- 1 sian palace at the instigation of a harlot ; and it j is well remembered among us, that the avarice of Marlborough kept him in subjection to his wife while he was dreaded by France as her conqueror, and honoured by the emperor as his deliverer. But though, where there is vice there must be want of reverence, it is not reciprocaUy true that when there is want of reverence there is al- ways vice. That awe which great actions or abilities impress will be iiievitably diminished by acquaintance, though nothing either mean or criminal should be found. Of men, as of every thing else, we must judge according to our knowledge. AVTicn we see of a hero only his battles, or of a writer only his books, we have nothing to allay our ideas of their greatness. We consider the one only as the guardian of his country, and the other only as the instructor of mankind. We have neither opportunity nor motive to examine the minuter parts of their lives, or the less apparent peculi- arities of their characters ; we name them with habitual respect, and forget, what we still con- tinue to know, that they are men like other mortals. But such is the constitution of the world, that much of life must be spent in the same manner by the wise and the ignorant, the exalted and the low. Men, however distinguished by ex- ternal accidents or intrinsic qualities, have all the same wants, the same pains, and, as far as tlie senses are consulted, the same pleasure. The petty cares and petty duties are the same in every station to every understanding, and every hour brings some occasion on which we all sink to the common level. We are all naked tUl We are dressed, and hungry till we are fed ; and the general's triumph, and sage's disputa- tion, end, like the humble labours of the smith or ploughman, in a dinner or in sleep. Those notions which are to be collected by reason, in opposition to the senses, will seldom stand forward in the mind, but lie treasured in the remoter repositories of memorj-, to be found only when they are sought. Whatever any raau may have written or done, his precepts or hii valour w^ill scarcely overbalance the unimpor- tant uniformity which runs thi'ough his time. We do not easily consider him as great, whom our own eyes show us to be little ; nor labour to keep present to our thoughts the latent excel- lencies of him who shares with us all our weak- nesses and many of our follies ; who like us ii delighted with slight amusements, busied with trilling employments, and distuibed by little vexations. Great powers cannot be exerted, but when great exigencies make them necessary. Great exigencies can happen but seldom, and therefore those qualities which have a claim to the vene- ration of mankind lie hid, for the most part, like subterranean treasures, over which the foot passes as on common ground, till necessity breaks open the golden cavern. In the ancient celebration of victory, a slave was placed on a triumphal car, by the side of the general, who reminded him by a short sentence, that he was a man. Whatever danger tliere might be lest a leader, in his passage to the ca- pitol, should forget tlie frailties of his nature, there was surely no need of such an admoni- tion ; the intoxication could not have continued long ; he would have been at home but a few hours before some of his dependents would have forgot his gi'catness, and shown him, that not- withstanding his laurels, he was yet a man. There are some who try to escape tliis domes- tic degradation, by labouring to appear always wise or always great; but he that strives against nature, will for ever strive in vain. To be grave of mien and slow of utterance ; to look with solicitude and speak with hesitation, is attain- able at will ; but the show of wisdom is ridicu- lous when there is nothing to cause doubt, as that of valour where there is nothing to be feared. A man who has duly considered the condition of his being, will contentedly yield to the courso of things ; he will not pant for distincti.;u where distinction would imply no merit ; but though on great occasions he may Avish to be greater than others, he will be satisfied in com- mon occurrences not to be less. No. u2.] Saturdav, Apiul l-t, 1759. Rcsfomare cupidinibtts. bor The practice of self-denial, or the forbearance of lawful pleasures, has been considered by almost every nation, from the remotest ages, as the highest exaltation of human Virtue ; and all have agreed to pay respect and veneration to those who abstained fn-m the deliglits of life, 56 THE IDLER. [No. 53. even when they did not censure those who en- joy them. The general voice of mankind, civil and bar- barous, confesses that the mind and body are at variance, and that neither can be made happy by its proper gratifications but at the expense of the other ; that a pampered body will darken the mind, and an enlightened mind will mace- rate the body. And none have failed to confer their esteem on those who prefer intellect to sense, who conti'ol their lower by their higher faculties, and forget the wants and desii'es of animal life for rational disquisitions or pious contemplations. The earth has scarcely a country so far ad- vanced towards political regularity as to divide the inhabitants into classes, where some orders of men or women are not distinguished by vo- luntary severities, and where the reputation of their sanctity is not increased in propiortion to the rigour of their rules, and the exactness of their performance. When an opinion to which there is no temp- tation of interest spreads wide and continues long, it may reasonably be presumed to have been issued by nature or dictated by reason. It has been often observed that the fictions of im- posture, and illusions of fancy, soon give way to time and experience ; and that nothing keeps its ground but truth, which gains every day new influence by new confirmation. But truth, when it is reduced to practice, easily becomes subject to caprice and imagina- tion ; and many particular acts will be wrong, though their general principle be right. It can- not be denied that a just conviction of the re- straint necessary to be laid upon the appetites has produced extravagant and unnatural modes of mortification, and institutions, which, how- ever favourably considered, will be found to vio- late nature without promoting piety. But the doctrine of self-denial is not weakened in itself by the errors of those who misinterpret or misapply it J the encroachment of the appe- tites upon the understanding is hourly perceived ; and the state of those, whom sensuality has en- slaved, is known to be in the highest degree des- picable and wretched. The dread of such shameful captivity may justly raise alarms, and wisdom will endeavour to keep danger at a distance. By timely caution and suspicious vigilance those desires maybe re- pressed, to which indulgence would soon give absolute dominion ; those enemies may be over- come, which, when they have been a while ac- customed to victory, can no longer be resisted. Nothing is more fatal to happiness or virtue, than tliat confidence which flatters us with an opinion of our own strength, and by assuring us of the power of retreat, precipitates us ii. to haz- ard. Some may safely venture farther than others into the regions of delight, lay themselves more open to the golden shafts of pleasure, and advance nearer to the residence of the Sirens ; but he that is best armed with constancy and] reason is yet vulnerable in one part or other, and to every man there is a point fixed, beyond j which, if he passes, he will not easily return. It is certainly most wise, as it is most safe, to stop before he touches the utmost limit, since every step of advance will more and more entice him to go forward, till he shall at last enter into the recesses of voluptuousness, and sloth and despondency close the passage behind them. To deny early and inflexibly, is the only art of checking the importunity of desire, and of preserving quiet and innocence. Innocent grati- fications must be sometimes withheld ; he that complies with all lawful desires will certainly lose his empire over himself, and in time either submit his reason to his wishes, and think all his desires lawful, or dismiss his reason as troublesome and intrusive, and resolve to snatch what he may happen to wish, without inquiring about right and wi'ong. No man, whose appetites are his masters, can perform the duties of his nature with strictness and regularity; he that would be superior to external influences must first become superior to his own passions. When the Roman general, sitting at supper with a plate of turnips before him, was solicited by large presents to betray his trust, he asked the messengers whether he that could sup on turnips was a man likely to sell his own coun- try. Upon him who has reduced his senses to obedience, temptation has lost its power ; he is able to attend impartially to virtue, and execute her commands without hesitation. To set the mind above the appetites is the end of abstinence, which one of the fathers observes to be not a virtue, but the ground- work of vir- tue. By forbearing to do what may innocently be done, we may add hourly new vigour or re- solution, and secure the power of resistance when pleasure or interest shall lend their charms to guilt. No. 53.1 Saturday, April 21, 1759. TO THE IDLER. Sir, I HAVE a wife that keeps good company. You know that the word good varies its meaning ac- cording to the value set upon different qualities in diflTerent places. To be a good man in a col- lege, is to be learned ; in a camp, to be brave ; and in the city, to be rich. By good company in the plac« which I have the misfortune to in- habit, we understand not always those from No. 53.] THE IDLER. ST whom any good can be learned, whether wisdom or virtue ; or by whom any good can be confer- red, whether profit or reputation. Good com- pany is the company of those, whose birth is high, and whose riches are great; or of those whom the rich and noble admit to familiarity. I am a gentleman of fortune by no means ex- uberant, but more than equal to the wants of my family, and for some years equal to our de- sires. My wife, who had never been accustom- ed to splendour, joined her endeavours to mine in the superintendence of our economy ; we lived in decent plenty, and were not excluded from moderate pleasures* But slight causes produce great eflfects. All my happiness has been destroyed by change of place ; virtue is too often merely local : in some situations the air diseases the body, and in othei"s poisons the mind. Being obliged to re- move my habitation, I was led by my evil genius to a convenient house in a street where many of the nobility reside. We had scarcely ranged our furniture, and aired our rooms, when my wife began to grow discontented, and to wonder tvhat the neighbours would think when they saw so few chairs and chariots at her door. Her acquaintance, who came to see her from the quarter that we had left, mortified her with- out design, by continual inquiries about the ladies whose houses they viewed from our win- dows. She was ashamed to confess that she had no intercourse with them, and sheltered her distress under general answei-s, which al- ways tended to raise suspicion that she knew more than she would tell ; but she was often reduced to difficulties, when the course of talk introduced questions about the furniture or ornaments of their houses, w^hich, when she could get no intelligence, she Avas forced to pass slightly over, as things which she saw so often that she never minded them. To all these vexations she "vvas resolved to put an end, and redoubled her visits to those few of her friends who visited those who kept good company ; and, if ever she met a lady of qual- ity, forced herself into notice by respect and assi- duity. Her advances were generally rejected ; and she heard them, as they went down stairs talk how some creatures put themselves for- ward. She was not discouraged, but crept forward from one to another ; and as perseverance will do great things, sapped her way unperceived, till, unexpectedly, she appeared at the card table of lady Biddy Porpoise, a lethargic virgin, of seventy six, whom all the families in the next square visited very punctually when she was not at home. This was the first step of that elevation to which my wife has since ascended. For five months she had no name in her mouth but that of ladv Biddy, who, let the world say what it would, had a fine understanding, and such a command of her temper, that whether she woa or lost, she slept over her cards. At lady Biddy's she met with lady Tawdry, whose favour she gained by estimating her ear- rings, which were counterfeit, at twice the valu9 of real diamonds. When she once entered two houses of distinction, she was easily admit- ted into more, and in ten weeks had all her time anticipated by parties and engagements* Every morning she is bespoke, in the sum- mer, for the gardens ; in the winter, for a sale ; every afternoon she has visits to pay, and every night brings an inviolable appointment, or an assembly in which the best compjmy in the town were to appear. You will easily imagine that much of my do- mestic comfort is withdrawn. 1 never see my wife but in the hurry of preparation, or the lan- guor of weariness. To dress and to undress is almost her whole business in private, and the servants take advantage of her negligence to in- crease expense. But 1 can supply her omis- sion by my own diligence, and should not much regret this new coiu-se of Ufa, it it did nothing more than transfer me to the care of our ac- counts. The changes which it has made are more vexatious. My wife has no longer the use of her understanding. She has no rule of ac- tion but the fashion. She has no opinion but that of the people of quality. She has no lan- guage but the dialect of her own set of company. She hates and admires in humble imitation ; and echoes the words charming and detestable without consulting her own perceptions. If for a few minutes we sit down together, she entertains me with the repartees of lady Cackle, or the conversation of lord Whiffler, and Miss Quick, and wonders to find me receiving with indifference sayings which put all the com- pany into laughter. By her old friends she is no longer very wil- ling to be seen, but she must not rid herself of them all at once : and is sometimes surprised by her best visitants in company which she would not show and cannot hide ; but from, the mo- ment that a countess enters, she takes care nei- ther to hear nor see them ; they soon find them- selves neglected, and retire ; and she tells her ladyship that they are somehow related at a great distance, and that as they are good sort o» people she cannot be rude to them. As by this ambitious imion with those that are above her, she is always forced upon disad- vantageous comparisons of her condition with theirs, she has a constant source of misery within ; and never returns from glittering as- semblies and magnificent apartments but she growls out her discontent, and wonders why she was doomed to so indigent a state. When she attends the dutchess to a sale, she always sees something she cannot buy ; and, that she I 58 THE IDLER. [No. 54. may not seem wholly insignificant, she will •sometimes venture to bid, and often make ac- quisitions whidi she did not want, at prices wliirli slie cannot afford. ^Vhat adds to all this uneasiness is, that this fxpense is without use, and this vanity without /lonour ; she foi-sakes houses where she might ee courted, lor those where she is only suflered ; hor equals are daily made her enemies, and Jier sipi'riors will never be her friends. 1 am, Sir, yomvs, &c. No. 64.] Saturdat, April 28, 1759. TO THE IDLER. Sir, You have lately entertained your admirers with .the case of an unfortunate husband, and there- by given a demonstrative proof you are not averse even to hear appeals and terminate dif- ferences between man and wife; I therefore take the liberty to present you with the case of an injured lady, which, as it chiefly z'elates to what 1 think the lawyers call a point of law, I shall do in as juridical a manner as 1 am capa- ble, and submit it to the consideration of the learned ge-ntleraen of that profession. Imprimis. In the style of ray marriage arti- cles, a marriage was " had and solemnized," about six months ago, between me and Mr. Savechai'ges, a gentleman possessed of a plenti- ful fortune of his own, and one who, 1 was persuaded, v.ould improve, and not spend, mine. Before our marriage, Mr. Savecharges had fill along preferred the salutary exercise of walking on foot to the distempered ease, as he terms it, of lolling in a chariot; but, notwith- standing his fine panegyrics on walking, the great advantages the infantry were in the sole possession of, and the many dreadful dangers they escaped, he found I had very diff"erent notions of an equipage, and was not easily to be converted, or gained over to his party. An equipage I was determined to have, when- ever I man-ied. I too well knew the disposi- tion of my intended consort to leave the pro- viding one entirely to his honour, and flatter myself Mr. Savecharges has, in the articles made previous to oiu* marriage, agreed to keep me a coach ; but lest I should be mistaken, or he attorney should not have done me justice in methodising or legalising these half dozen ■words, I r»'ill set about and transciibe that part of the agreement, which will explain the mat- ter to you mucli better than can be done by one who is so deeply interested in the event ; and btiov*' (ui what foundation I build my hopes of being soon under the iranssporting, delightful denomination of a fashionable lady, who enjoys the exalted and uiuch-envied felicity of bowling about in her own coach. " And further the said Solomon Savecharges, for divers good causes and considerations him hereunto moving, hath agreed, and doth hereby agree, that the said Solomon Savecharges shall and will, so soon as conveniently may be after the solemnization of the said intended marriage, at his own proper cost and charges, find and provide a certain vehicle or four-wheel carriage, commonly called or known by the name of a coach ; which said vehicle or Avheel carriage, so called or knoAvn by tltiU)ces would very well alford it, he must pardon me if I insisted on a performance of his agreement. I appeal to you, Mr. Idler, whether any thing could be more civil, mere complaisantj No 55.] THE IDLER. 59 I than this ? And, would j'ou believe it, the crea- j tUQ'e in return, a few day after, accosted me, in I an oifended tone, with, " Madam, I can now i tell you your coach is ready ; and since you are I so passionately fond of one, 1 intend you the honour of keeping a pair of horses. — You in- i sisted upon having an article of pin-money, and horses are no part of ray agreement." Base, designing wretch ! — I beg your pardon, Mr. Idler, the very recital of such mean, ungentle- man-like behaviour fires my blood, and lights up a flame within me. But hence, thou worst of monsters, ill-timed Rage, and let me not spoil my cause for want of temper. Now, though I am convinced I might make a Worse use of part of my pin-money, than by ex- tending my bounty towards the support of so useful a part of the bi-ute creation ; yet, like a tinie-born Englishwoman, I am so tenacious of my rights and privileges, and moreover so good a friend to the gentlemen of the law, that I pro- test, Mr. Idler, sooner than tamely give up the point, and be quibbled out of my right, I will receive my^ pin-money, as it were, with one hand, and pay it to them with the other; provided they will give me, or, which is the same thing, my trustees, encouragement to commence a suit against this dear, frugal husband of mine. And of this I can't have the least shadow of doubt, inasmuch as I have been told by very good authority, it is some way or other laid down as a rule, " That whenever the law doth give any thing to one, it giveth impliedly what- ever is necessary for the taking and enjoying the same."* NoAr, I would gladly know what en- joyment I, or any lady in the kingdom, can have of a coach without horses ? The answer is ob- vious — None at all ! For as Serjeant Catlyne very wisely observes, " Though a coach has wheels, to the end it may thereby and by virtue thereof be enabled to move ; yet in point of uti- lity it may as well have none, if they are not put in motion by means of its vital parts, that is, the horses." And therefore. Sir, I humbly hope you and the learned in the law will be of opinion, that two certain animals, or quadruped creatures, commonly called or known by the name of horses, ought to be annexed to, and go along with the coach. SUKEY SaVECHARGES. No. 65.1 Saturday, May 5, 1759. Mr. Idler, I HAVE taken the liberty of laying before you my complaint, and of desiring advice or conso- • Coke on Lytttlton. lation with the gi'eater confidence, because I br« lieve many other writers have suffered the same indignities with myself, and hope my quari'el will be regarded by you and your readers as the common cause of literature. Having been long a student, I thought my- self qualified in time to become an author. M y inquiries have been much diversified and far ex- tended, and not finding my genius directing me by irresistible impulse to any particular subject, 1 deliberated three years which part of know- ledge to illustrate by my labours. Choice is more often determined by accident than by rea- son : I walked abroad one morning with a cu- rious lady, and by her inquiries and observations was incited to write the natural history of the country in wliich 1 reside. Natural history is no work for one that loves his chair or his bed. Speculation may be pursued on a soft couch, but nature must be observed in the open air. I have collec- ted materials with indefatigable pertinacity. I hare gathered glow-worms in the evening, and suc^ils in the morning ; I have seen the daisy close and open ; 1 have heard the owl shriek at midnight, and hunted insects in the heat of noon. Seven years I was employed in collecting ani- mals and vegetables, and then found that my de- sign was yet imperfect. The subterranean trea- suies of the place had been passed unobserved, and another year was to be spent in mines and coal-pits. What I had already done supplied a sufficient motive to do more. I acquainted myself with the black inhabitants of metallic caverns, and, in defiance of damps and floods, wandered through the gloomy labyrinths, and gathered fossils from every fissure. At last I began to write, and as I finished any section of my book, read it to such of my friends as were most skilful in the matter which it treated. None of them were satisfied ; one dis- liked the disposition of the parts, another the colours of the style ; one advised me to enlarge another to abridge. I resolved to read no more, but to take my own way and write on, for by consultation I only perplexed my thoughts and retarded my work. The book -was at last finished, and I did not doubt but my labour would be repaid by profit, and my ambition satisfied w^ith honours. I con- sidered that natural history is neither temporary nor local, and that though I limited my inqui- ries to my own country, yet every part of the earth has productions common to all the rest. Civil history may be partially studied, the revo- lutions of one nation may be neglected by an- other ; but after that in which all have an in- terest, all must be inquisitive. No man can have sunk so far into stupidity as not to con- sider the properties of the gi-ound on which he walks, of the plants on which he feeds, or the m fo THE IDLER. [No. 56. animals that delight his ear, or .imnse his eye ; und therefore I computed that universal curio- sity would call for many editions of my book, and that in five years I should gain fifteen thousand pounds by the sale of thirty thousand copies. When I began to write, I insured the house ; and suffered the utmost solicitude when I en- trusted my book to the carrier, though I had secured it against mischances by lodging two transcripts in different places. At my arrival, I expected that the patrons of learning would contend for the honour of a dedication, and re- solved to maintain the dignity of letters by a haughty contempt of pecuniary solicitations. I took lodgings near the house of the Royal Society, and expected every morning a visit from the president. I walked in the Park, and wondered that I overheard no mention of the great naturalist. At last I visited a noble earl, and told him of my work : he answered, that he was imder an engagement never to subscribe. I was angry to have that refused which I did not mean to ask, and concealed my design of making him immortal. I went next day to an- other, and, in resentment of my late affront, of- fered to prefix his name to miy new book. He said, coldly, that " he did not understand those things ;" another thought "there were too many books ;" and another would " talk with me "when the races were over." Being amazed to find a man of learning so in- decently slighted, I resolved to indulge the phi- losophical pride of retirement and independence. I then sent to some of the principal booksellers the plan of my book, and bespoke a large room in the next tavern, that I might more commo- diously see them together, and enjoy the contest, while they were outbidding one another. I drank my coffee, and yet nobody was come ; at last I received a note from one, to tell me that he was going out of town ; and from another, that natiu'al history was out of his way. At last there came a grave man, who desired to see the work, and, without opening it, told me, that a book of that size " would never do." I then condescended to step into sliops, and mentioned my work to the masters. Some never dealt with authors ; others had their hands full ; some never had known such a dead time ; others had lost by all that they had published for the last twelvemonth. One offered to print my work, if I coujd procure subscriptions for five hundred, and would allow me two hundred copies for my property. I lost my patience, and gave him a kick ; for which he has indicted me. I can easily perceive that there is a combina- tion among them to defeat my expectations ; and I find it so general, that I apa sure it must have been long concerted. I suppose some of my friends, to whom I read the first part, gave notice of my design, and, perhaps, sold the treacherous intelligence at a higher price than the fi-audulence of trade will now allow me for my book. Inform me, Mr. Idler, what I must do; where must knowledge and industry find their recompense, thus neglected by the high, and cheated by the low? I sometimes resolve to print my book at my own expense, and, like the Sibyl, double the price ; and sometimes am tempted, in emulation of Raleigh, to throw it into the fire, and leave this sordid generation to the curses of posterity. Tell me, dear Idler, what I shall do. I am Sir, &c. No. 56.] Saturday, May 12, 1759. There is such difference between the pursuit* of men, that one part of the inhabitants of a great city lives to little other purpose than to wonder at the rest. Some have hopes and fears, wishes and aversions, which never enter into the thoughts of others, and inquiry is laborious- ly exerted to gain that which those who possess it are ready to throw away. To those who are accustomed to value every thing by its use, and have no such superfluity of time or money as may prompt them to unna- tural wants or capricious emulations, nothing appears more improbable or extravagant than the love of curiosities, or that desire of accumu- lating trifles, which distinguishes many by whom no other distinction could have ever been obtained. He that has lived without knowing to what height desire may be raised by vanity, with what rapture baubles are snatched out of the hands of rival collectors, how the eagerness of one raises eagerness in another, and one worth- less purchase makes a second necessary, may, by passing a few hours at an auction, learn more than can be shown by many volumes of maxims or essays. The advertisement of a sale is a signal which at once puts a thousand hearts in motion, and brings contenders from every part to the scene of distribution. He that had resolved to buy no more, feels his constancy subdued ; there is now something in the catalogue which completes his cabinet, and which he was never before able to find. He whose sober reflections inform him, that of adding collection to collection there is no end, and that it is wise to leave early that which must be left imperfect at last, yet cannot withhold himself from coming to see what it is that brings so many together, and when he comes is soon overpowered by his habitual passion ; he is No. 57.] THE IDLER. Cl attracted by rarity, seduced by example, and inflamed by competition. While the stores of pride and happiness are sur- veyed, one looks with longing eyes and gloomy countenance on that which he despairs to gain from a rich bidder ; another keeps his eye with care from settling too long on that which he most earnestly desires ; and another, with more art than virtue, depreciates that which he values most, in hope to have it at an easy rate. The novice is often surprised to see what mi- nute and unimportant discriminations increase or diminish value. An irregular contortion of a turbinated shell, which common eyes pass un- regarded, will ten times treble its price in the imagination of philosophers. Beauty is far from operating upon collectors as upon low and vul- gar minds, even where beauty might be thought the only quality that could deserve notice. Among the shells that please by their variety of colours, if one can be found accidentally de- formed by a cloudy spot, it is boasted as the pride of the collection. • China is sometimes pux'chas- cd for little less than its weight in gold, only because it is old, though neither less brittle nor better painted than the modern ; and brown china is caught up with ecstasy, though no reason can be imagined for which it should be preferred to common vessels of common clay. ~ The fate of prints and coins is equally inex- plicable. Some prints are treasured up .xs in- estimably valuable, because the impression was made before the plate was finished. Of coins, the price rises not from the purity of the metiil, the excellence of the workmanship, the elegance of the legend, or the chronological use. A piece, of which neither the inscription can be read, nor the face distinguished, if there remain of it but enough to show that it is rare, will be sought by contending nations, and dignify the treasury in which it shall be shown. Whether this curiosity, so barren of immediate advantage, and so liable to depravation, does more harm or good, is not easily decided. Its harm is apparent at the first view. It fills the mind with trifling ambition ; fixes the at- tention upon things which have seldom any tendency towards virtue or wisdom ; employs in idle inquiries the time that is given for better purposes ; and often ends in mean and dis- honest practices, when desire increases by indulgence beyond the power of honest gratifi- cation. These are the eflFects of curiosity in excess ; but what passion in excess will not become vi- cious? All indifferent qualities and practices are bad if they are compared with those which are good, and good if they are opposed to those that are bad. The pride or the pleasure of making collections, if it be restrained by prudence and morality, produces a pleasing remission after more laborious studies ; furnishes an amusement not wholly unprofitable for that part of life, the greater part of many lives, which would other- wise be lost in idleness or vice ; it produces a useful traffic between the industry of indigence and the curiosity of wealth; it brings many things to notice that would be neglected, and, by fixing the thoughts upon intellectual pleasures, resists the natural encroachments of sensuality, and maintains the mind inlher lawful superiority. No. 67.] Saturday, May 19, 1759. Prudekce is of more fi'equent use than any other intellectual quality ; it is exerted on slight occasions, and called into act by the cursory business of common life. WTiatever is universally necessary, has been granted to mankind on easy terms. Prudence, as it is always wanted, is without great difficul- ty obtained. It requires neither extensive view nor profound search, but forces itself by spon- taneous impulse upon a mind neither great nor busy, neither engrossed by vast designs, nor dis- tracted by multiplicity of attention. Prudence operates on life in the same manner as rules on composition : it produces vigilance rather than elevation ; rather prevents loss than procures advantage ; and often escapes miscar- riages, but seldom reaches either power or hon- our. It quenches that ardour of enterprise by which every thing is done that can. claim praise or admiration ; and i*epresses that generous temerity which often fails and often suc- ceeds. Rules may obviate faults, but can never confer beauties ; and prudence keeps life safe, but does not often make it happy. The world is not amazed with prodigies of excellence, but when Avit tramples upon rules, and magna- nimity breaks the chains of prudence. One of the most prudent of all that have fal- len within my observation, is my old companion Sophron, who has passed through the world in quiet, by perpetual adherence to a few plain maxims, and wonders how contention and dis- tress can so often happen. The first principle of Sophron is to run no hazards. Though he loves money, he is of opinion that frugality is a more certain source of riches than industry. It is to no purpose that any prospect of large profit is set before him; he believes little about futurity, and does not love to trust his money out of his sight, for no- body knows what may happen. He has a small estate, which he lets at the old rent, be- caiise " it is better to have a little than nothing ;" but he rigorously demands payment on the stated day, for " he that cannot pay one quarter, cannot pay two." If he is told of any improvements in agriculture, be likes the old way, ha3 observed 62 that changes very seldom answer cxpeifatiou ; is of opinion that our forefathers knew how to till the ground as well as we; and eondudes with an argument tl)at notiiiiig can overpower, that the expense of jdanting and fencing is im- mediate, and the advantage distant, and tliat " he is no wise man who will quit a certainty for an uncertainty." • Another of Sophron's rules is " to mind no business but his own." In the state he is of no party; but hears and speaks of public affairs with the same coldness as of the administration of some ancient republic. If any flagrant act of fraud or oppression is mentioned, he hopes that "all is not true that is told:" if miscoix- duct or corruption puts the nation in a flame, he hopes that "every man means well." At elec- tions he leaves his dependents to their own choice, and declines to vote himself, for every candidate is a good man, whom he is unwilling to oppose or offend* If disputes happen among his neighbours he observes an invariable and cold neutrality. His' punctuality has gained him the reputation of honesty, and his caution that of wisdom ; and few would refuse to refer their claims to his award. He might have prevented many ex- pensive law-suits, and quenched many a feud in its first smoke; but always refuses the office of arbitration, because he must decide against one or the other. With the affairs of other families he is filways unacquainted. He sees estates bought and sold, squandered and increased, without prais- ing the economist, or censuring the spendthrift. He never courts the rising lest they should fall ; nor insults the fallen lest tliey should rise again. His caution has the appearance of virtue, and all who do not want his help praise his benevo- lence; but, if any man solicits his assistance, he has just sent away all his money; and, when the petitioner is gone, declares to his family that he is sorry for his misfortunes, has always looked upon him with particular kindness, and therefore could not lend him money, lest he should destroy their friendship by the necessity of enforcing payment. Of domestic misfortunes he has never heard. When he is told the hundredth time of a gentle- man's daughter who has married the coach- man, he lifts up his hands with astonishment, for he always thought her a very sober girl. W^hen nuptial quarrels, after having filled the country with talk and laughter, at last end in separation, he never can conceive how it hap- pened, for he looked upon them as a happy couple. If his advice is asked, he never gives any par- ticular direction, because events are uncertain, and he will bring no blame upon himself; but he takes the consulter tenderly by the hand, tells Liin he makes his case Lis own, and ad- THE IDLER. [No. 5S. | vises him not to act rashly, but to weigh tho reasons on both sides; observes, that a man may be as easily too hasty as too slow, and that as many fail by doing too much as too little; that " a wise man has two eai*s and one tongue;" and "that little said is soon mend- ed ;" that he could tell him this and that, but that after all every man is the best judge of his own affairs. With this some are satisfied, and go home with gi'eat reverence of Sophron's wisdom ; and none are offended, because every one is left in full possession of his own opinion. 1| Sophron gives no characters. It is equally II vain to tell him of vice and virtue; for he ha« remarked, that no man likes to be censured, and that very few are delighted with the praisea of another. He has a few terms which he uses to all alike. With respect to fortune, he be- lieves every family to be in good circumstances; he never ex;Jts any understanding by lavish praise, yet he meets with none but very sensible people. Every man is honest and hearty ; and every woman is a good creature. Thus Sophron creeps along, neither loved nor hated, neither favoured nor opposed : he has never attempted to gi'ow rich, for fear of grow- ing poor ; and has raised no friends, for fear of making enemies. No. 58.] Satukday, May 26, 1759. Pleasure is very seldom found where it U sought. Our bright blazes of gladness are com- monly kindled by unexpected sparks. The flowers which scatter their odours from time to time in the paths of life, grow up without cul- ture from seeds scattered by chance. Nothing is more hopeless than a scheme of merriment. Wits and humourists are brought together from distant quarters by preconcerted invitations ; they come attended by their ad- mirers, prepared to laugh and to applaud ; they gaze a while on each other, ashamed to be silent, and afraid to speak ; every man is discontented with himself, grows angry with those that give him pain, and resolves that he will contribute nothing to the merriment of such worthless company. Wine inflames the general malignity, and changes suilenness to petulance, till at last none can bear any longer the presence of the rest. They i*etire to vent their indignation in safer places, where they are he-ird with atten- tion ; their importance is restored, they recover their good humour, and gladden the night with wit and jocularity. Merriment is always the effect of a sudden impression. The jest which is expected, is al- No. 59.2 ready destroyed. The most active imagination will be sometimes torpid undei* the frigid influ- ence of melancholy, and sometimes occasions will be wanting to tempt the mind, howover vo- latile, to sallies and excursions. Nothing was ever said with uncommon felicity, but by the co-operation of chance, and therefore, wit as well as valour must be content to share its honoui's with fortune. All other pleasures are equally uncertain ; the gi^noral remedy of ur.easiness is change of place; ahiiost every one has some journey of pleasure in his mind, with n-hich he Hatters his expecta- tion. He that trav<'ls in theory has no inconve- nience ; he has shade and sunshine at his dis- posal, and wherever he alights finds tables of j)lenty and looks of gayety. These ideas are In- dulged till the day of departure arrives, the chaise is called, and the progress of happiness begins. A few miles teach him the fallacies of imagi- nation. The road i3 dusty, trie air is sidtry, the horses are sluggisli, and the postillion brutal. He longs for the time of dinner, tJiat he may eat and rest. The inn is crowded, his orders are neglected, and nothing remains but that he devour in haste what the cook has spoiled, and drive on in quest of better entertainment. He linds at night a more commodious house, but the best is always worse than he expected. He at last enters his native province, and re- solves to feast his mind with the conversation of his old friends and the recollection of juvenile frolics. He stops at the house of his friend, whom lie designs to overpower with pleasure by the unexpected interview. He is not known till he tells his name, and revives the memory of himself by a gradual explanation. He is then coldly received and ceremoniously feast- ed. He hastes away to another, whom his af- airs have called to a distant place, and having seen the emoty house, goes away disgusted, by a disappointment which could not l^e Intended because it could not be foreseen. At the next house he finds every face clouded with misfor- tune, and is regarded with malevolence as an unreasonable intruder, who tomes not to visit but to insult them. It is seldom that we find either men or places such as we expect them. He that has pictured a prospect upon his fancy, will receive little pleasure from his ej^es ; he that has anticipated the conversation of a wit, will wonder to what prejudice he owes his reputation. Yet it is ne- cessary to hope, though hope should always be deluded ; for hope itself is happiness, and its irustrations, however frequent, are yet loss eadful than its extinction. THE IDLER. ^3 No. 59.] Saturday, Junk 2, 1759. In the common enjoyments of life, we cannot very liberally indulge the present hoar, but by anticipating part of the pleasure which might have relieved the tediousness of another day; and any imcommon exertion of strength, or per- severance in labour, is succeeded by a long inter- VEil of languor and weariness. "VMiatever ad- vantage we snatch beyond the certain poi'tion allotted us by nature, is like money spent before it is due, which at the time of regular payment will be missed and regretted. Fame, like all other things which are suppos- ed to give or to increase happiness, is dispensed with the same equality of distribution. He that is loudly praised will be clamorously censured ; lie that rises hastily into fame will be in danger of sinking suddenly into oblivion. Of many writers who fiUed their age with wonder, and whose names we find celebrated in the books of their contemporaries, the works are now no longer to be seen, or are seen only amidst the lumber of libraries which are seldom visited, where they lie only to show the deceit- fulness of hope, and the uncertainty of honour. Of the decline of reputation many causes may be assigned. It is commonly lost because it never was deserved ; and was conferred at first, not by the sufl^rage of criticism, but by the fond- ness of friendship, or servility of flattery. The great and popular are veiy freely applauded ; but all soon grow weary of echoing to each other a name which has no other claim to notice, but that many mouths are pronouncing it at once. But many have lost the final reward of their labours because they were too hasty to enjoj' it They have laid hold on recent occurrences, and eminent names, and delighted their readers with allusions and remarks, in which all were inter- ested, and to which all therefore were attentive. But the effect ceased with its cause ; the time quickly came when new events drove the for- mer from memory, when the vicissitudes of the world brought new hopes and fears, transferred the love and hatred of the public to other agents, and the writer, whose works were no longer as- sisted by gratitude, or resentment, was left to the cold regard of idle curiosity. He that writes upon general principles, or de- livers universal truths, may hope to be often read, because his work will be equally useful at all times, and in every country ; but he cannot expect it to be received with eagerness, or to spread Avith rapidity, because desire can have no particular stimulation ; that which is to be loved long must be loved with reason rather than with passion. He that lays out his labours upon temporary subjects; easily finds readers, and quickly loses them ; for, what should make the book valued when its subject is no more ? 64 THE IDLER. [No. 60. \ These observations will show the reason why the poem of Iludibras is almost forgotten, how- ever embellished with sentiments and diversi- fied with allusions, however bright with wit, and however solid with truth. The hypocrisy which it detected, and the folly which it ridi- culed, have long vanished from public notice. Those who had felt the mischief of discord, and the tyranny of usurpation, read it with rapture, for every line brought back to memory something known, and gratified resentment by the just censure of something hated. But the book which was once quoted by princes, and which supplied conversation to all the assemblies of the gay and the witty, is now seldom mentioned, and even by those that aflfect to mention it, is seldom read. So vainly is wit lavished upon fugitive topics, so little can architecture secure duration when the ground is false. No. 60.] Saturday, June 9, 1759, Criticisai is a study by which men grow im- portant and formidable at a very small expense. The power of invention has been conferred by natui-e upon few, and the labour of learning those sciences which may by mere labour be ob- tained is too g. eat to be willingly endured ; but every man can exei't such judgment as he has upon the works of others ; and he whom nature has made weak, and idleness keeps ignorant, may yet support his vanity by the name of a Critic. 1 hope it will give comfort to great numbers who are passing through the world in obscuri- ty, when 1 inform them how easily distinction may be obtained. All the other powers of lite- rature are coy and haughty, they must be long courted, and at last are not always gained ; but Criticism is a goddess easy of access and for- ward of advance ; who will meet the slow, and encourage the timorous ; the want of meaning she supplies with words, and the want of spirit she recompenses with malignity. This profession has one recommendation pe- culiar to itself, that it gives vent to malignity without real mischief. No genius was ever blasted by the breath of critics. The poison which, if confined, would have burst the heart, fumes away in empty hisses, and malice is set at ease with very little danger to merit. The critic is the only man whose triumph is with- out another's pain, and whose greatness does not rise upon another's rain. To a study at once so easy and so reputable, so malicious and so harmless, it cannot be ne- cessary to invite my readers by a long or la- boured exhortation ; it is sufficient, since all would be critics if they could, to show by one eminent example that all can be critics if thef will. Dick Minim, after the common course of puerile studies, in which he was no great pro- ficient, was put an apprentice to a brewer, with whom he had lived two years, when his undo died in the city, and left him a large fortune in the stocks. Dick had for six months bcfor« used the company of the lower players, of whom he had learned to scorn a trade, and, being now at liberty to follow his genius, he resolved to be a man of wit and humour. That he might be properly initiated in his new character, he fre- quented the coffee-houses near the theatres, where he listened very diligently, day after day, to those who talked of language and senti- ments, and unities and catastrophes, till by slow degrees he began to think that he understood something of the stage, and hoped in time to talk himself. But he did not trust so much to natural saga- city as wholly to neglect the help of books. When the theatres were shut, he retired to Richmond with a few select writers, whose opinions he impressed upon his memory by un- wearied diligence ; and, when he returned with other wits to the town, was able to tell, in very proper phrases, that the chief business of art is to follow nature ; that a perfect writer is not to be expected, because genius decays as judgment in- creases ; that the great art is the art of blotting; and that, according to the rule of Horace, every piece should be kept nine years. Of the great authors he now began to display the characters, laying down as a universal posi- tion, that all had beauties and defects. His opinion was, that Shakspeare, committing him- self wholly to the impulse of nature, wanted that correctness which learning would have given him ; and that Jonson, trusting to learn- ing, did not sufiiciently cast his ej'e on nature. He blamed the stanza of Spenser^ and could not bear the hexameters of Sidney. Denham and Waller he held the first reformers of English numbers ; and thought that if Waller could have obtained the strength of Denham, or Denham. the sweetness of Wallei*, there had been nothing wanting to complete a poet. He often expressed his commiseration of Dryden's poverty, and his indignation at the age which suffered him to write for bread ; he repeated with rapture the first lines of All for Love, but wondered at the corruption of taste which could bear any thing so unnatural as rhyming tragedies. In Otway he found uncommon powei-s of moving the pas- « sions, but was disgusted by his general negli-.^ | gence, and blamed him for making a conspirator - his hero ; and never concluded his disquisition without remarking how happily the sound of the clock is made to alarm the audience. South- i em would have been bis favourite, but that he ? mixes comic with tragic scenes, intercepts the No. 61.] THE IDLER. 65 natui*al course of the passions, and fills the mind with a wild confusion of mirth and melancholy. The versification of Rowe he thought too mel- odious for the stage, and too little varied in different passions. He made it the great fault of Congreve, that all his persons were wits, and that he always wrote with more art than na- ture. He considered Cato rather as a poem than a play, and allowed Addison to be tiie complete master of allegory and grave humour, but paid no great deference to him as a critic. He thought the chief mei'it of Prior was in liis easy tales and lighter poems, though he alluwed that his Solomon had many noble sentiments elegantly expressed. In Swift he discovered an inimitable vein of irony, and an easiness which all would hope and few would attain. Pope he was inclined to degrade from a poet to a versifier, and thought his numbers rather luscious than sweet. He often lamented the neglect of Phae- dra and Hippolitus, and wished to see the stage under better regulation. These assertions passed commonly uncon- tradicted ; and if now and then an opponent started up, he was quickly repressed by the suf- frages of the company, and JNIinim went away from every dispute with elation of heart and increase of confidence. He now grew conscious of his abilities, and began to talk of the present state of dramatic poetry; w^ondered what was become of the comic genius which supplied our ancestors with wit and pleasantry, and why no wi-iter could be found that durst now venture beyond a farce. He saw no reason for thinking that the vein of humour was exhausted, since we live in a coun- try where liberty suffers every character to spread itself to its utmost bulk, and which, therefore, produces more originals than all the rest of the world together. Of tragedy he con- cluded business to be the soul, and yet often hinted that love predominates too much upon the modern stage. He was now an acknowledged critic, and had his own seat in a coffee-house, and headed a party in the pit. Minim has more vanity rhan ill na- ture, and seldom desires to do much inischief ; he will perhaps murmur a little in the ear of him that sits next him, but endeavours to influence the audience to favour, by clapping Avhen an actor exclaims, " Ye gods !" or laments the misery of his country. By degrees he was admitted to rehearsals ; and many of his friends are of opinion, that our present poets are indebted to him for their hap- piest thoughts ; by his contrivance the bell was rung twice inBarbarossa, and by his persuasion the author of Cleone concluded his play with a couplet ; for what can be mere absurd, said Minim, than that part of a play should be rhymed, and part written in blank verse ? and by what acquisition of faculties is the speak- er, who never could find rhjTnes before, enabled to rhyme at the conclusion of an act ? He is the great investigator of hidden beau- ties, and is particularly delighted when be finds the sound an echo to the sense. He has read all our poets with particular attention to this deli- cacy of versification, and wonders at the supine- ness with which their works have been hither- to perused, so that no man has found the sound of a drum in this distich. " When palpit, drum ecclesiastic. Was beat with list iastead of a stick ;" and that the wonderful lines upon honour and a bubble, have hitherto passed without no- tice : " Honour is like the glassy bubble. Which costs philosophers such trouble : Where, one part crack'd, the whole docs fl}-, And wits are crack'd to lind out why." In these verses, says Minim, we have two striking accommodations of the sound to the sense. It is impossible to utter the two linc3 emphatically without an act like that which they describe ; bubble and trouble causing a momentary inflation of the cheeks by the reten- tion of the breath, which is afterwax'tis forcibly emitted, as in the practice of blowirtg bub- bles. But the greatest exce'lence is in the thini line, which is cracked in the middle to express a crack, and then shivers into monosyllables. Yet hath this diamond lain neglected with com- mon stones, and among the innuuierable ad- mirers of Hudibras the observation of this superlative ptissage has been reserved for the sagacity of Minim. No. 61.] Satuuday, June 16, 1759. Mr. Minim had now advanced himself to the zenith of critical reputation; when he was in the pit, every eye in the boxes was fixed upon him ; when he entered his coffee-house, he was surrounded by circles of candidates, who passed their noviciate of literature under his tuition : his opinion was asked by all who had no opin- ion of their o'svn, and yet loved to debate and decide ; and no composition was supposed to pass in safety to posterity, till it had been se- cured by Minim's approbation. Minim professes gi'eat admiration of the w^is- dom and munificence by which the academies of the continent were raised ; and often wishes for some standard of taste, for some tribunal, to which merit may appeal from caprice, prejudice, and malignity. He has formed a plan for an acad- emy of criticism, where every work of imagi- * K 66 THE IDLER. [No. 6^. uatioD may be read before it is printed, and which shall authoritatively direct the theatres what pieces to receive oi' rfject, to exclude or to revive. Such an institution would, in Dick's opinion, spread the fame of English literature over Eu- rope, and make London the metropolis of ele- gance and politeness, the place to which the learned and ingenious of all countries would re- pair for instruction and improvement, and where nothing would any longer be applauded or endured that was not conformed to the nicest rules, and finished with the highest elegance. Till some happy conjunction of the planets shall dispose our i)rinces or ministers to make themselves immortal by such an academy, Min- im contents himself to preside four nights in a week in a critical society selected by himself, where he Is heard without contradiction, and w^hence his judgment is disseminated through the great vulgar and the small. When he is placed in the chair of criticism, he declares loudly for the noble simplicity of our ancestors, in opposition to the petty refinements, and ornamental luxuriance. Sometimes he is sunk in despair, and perceives false delicacy daily gaining ground, and sometimes bi'ightens his countenance with a gleam of hope, and predicts the revival of the true sublime. He then ful- minates his loudest censures against the monkish barbarity of rhyme ; wonders how beings that pretend to reason can be pleased Avith one line always ending like another ; tells how unjustly and unnaturally sense is sacrificed to sound; how often the best thoughts are mangled by the necessity of confining or extending them to the dimensions of a couplet ; and rejoices that ge- nius has, in our days, shaken oif the shackles which had encumbered it so long. Yet he al- lows that rhyme may sometimes be borne, if the lines be often broken, and the pauses judiciously diversified. From blank verse he makes an easy transition to Milton, whom he produces as an example of the slow advance of lasting I'eputation. Milton is the only writer in whose books Minim can read for ever without weariness. What cause is it that exempts this pleasure from satiety he has long and diligently inquired, and believes it to consist in the perpetual variation of the num- bers, by which the ear is gratified and the atten- tion awakened. The lines that are commonly thought rugged and unmusical, he conceives to have been wi'itten to temper the melodious luxury of the rest, or to express things by a pro- per cadence : for he scarcely finds a verse that has not this favourite beauty ; he declares that he could shiver in a hot-house when he reads that " the ground Burns frore, and cold perfornis tlie effect of fire ; and that, when Milton bewails hisblindnes, the verse, " So tbick a drop serene has quencL'd thette orbs," has, he knows not how, something that strikes him with an obscure sensation like that which he fancies would be felt from the sound of dark- ness. Minim is not so confident of his rules of judg- ment as not very eiigerly to catch new light fi'om the name of the author. He is commonly so prudent as to sx)are those whom he cannot resist, unless, as will sometimes happen, he finds the public combined against them. But a fresh pretender to fame he is strongly inclined to censure, till his own honour requires that he commend him. Till he knows the success of a composition, he intrenches himself in genej-al terms ; there are some new thoughts and beau- tiful passages, but there is likewise much Avhich he would have advised the author to expunge. He has several favourite epithets, of Avhich he has never settled the meaning, but which arc very commodiously applied to books which he iias not read, or cannot understand. One is manly, another is dry, another stiff, and ano- ther flimsy : sometimes he discovers delicacy of style, and sometimes meets with strange expres- sions. He is never so great nor so happy, as when a youth of promising parts is brought to receive his directions for the prosecution of his studies. He then puts on a very serious air; he advises the pupil to read none but the best authors, and, when he finds one congenial to his own mind, to study his beauties, but avoid his faults, and, when he sits do\^'n to write, to consider how his favourite author would think at the present time on the present occasion. He exhorts him to catch those moments when he finds his thoughts expanded and his genius exalted, but to take care lest imagination hurry him be- yond- the bounds of nature. He holds diligence the mother of suc<"-ess; yet enjoins him with great earnestness, not to read more than he can digest, and not to confuse his mind, by pursuing studies of contrary tendencies. He tells him, that every man has his genius, and that Cicero could never be a poet. The boy retires illumin- ated, resolves to follow his genius, and to think how Milton would have thought : and Minim feasts upon his own beneficence till another day brings another pupil. No. 62.] Saturday, June 23, 1759. TO THE IDLER. Sir, An opinion prevails almost universally in the No. 62.] world, that he who has money has every thing. This is not a modern paradox, or the tenet of a small and obscure sect, but a persuasion which appears to have operated upon most minds in all ages, and which is supported by authorities so numerous and so cogent, that nothing but long experience could have given me confidence to question its truth. But experience is the test by which all the philosophers of the present age agree, that speculation must be tried ; and I may therefore be allowed to doubt the power of money, since I have been a long time rich, and I have not yet found that riches can make me happy. My father was a farmer neither wealthy nor indigent, who gave me a better education than was suitable to my birth, because my uncle in the city designed me for his heir, and desired that I might be bred a gentleman. My uncle's wealth was the perpetual subject of couver- eation in the house; and when any little mis- fortune befei us, or any mortification dejected \is, my father always exhorted me to hold up my head, for my uncle would never marry. My uncle, indeed, kept his promise. Having his mind completely busied between his ware- house and the Change, he felt no tediousness of life, nor any want of domestic amusements. When my father died, he received me kindly ; but after a few months, finding no great pleas- ure in the conversation of each other, we part- ed ; and he remitted me a small annuity, on which I lived a quiet and studious life, Avithout any wish to grow great by the death of my benefactor. But though I never suffered any malignant impatience to take hold on my mind, I could not forbear sometimes to imagine to myself the pleasure of being rich ; and when I read of diversions and magnificence, resolved to try, when time should put the trial in my power, what pleasure they could afford. My uncle, in the latter spring of his life, when his ruddy cheek and his firm nerves promised him a long and healthy age, died of an apoplexy. His death gave me neither joy nor sorrow. He did me good, and I regarded him with gratitude ; but I could not please him, and therefore could not love him. He had the policy of little minds, who love to surprise ; and having always represented his fortune as less than it was, had, I suppose, often gratified himself with thinking, how I should be delighted to find myself twice as rich as I pxpected. My wealth was such as exceeded all the schemes of expense which I had formed ; and I soon began to expand my thoughts, and look round for some purchase of felicity. The most striking effect of riches is the splen- dour of dress, which every man has observed to enforce respect, and facilitate reception ; and my first desire was to be fine. I sent for a THE IDLER. 67 I tailor who was employed by the nobility, and ordered such a suit of clothes as 1 had often looked on with involuntary submission, and am ashamed to remember with what flutters of ex- ' pectation I waited for the hour when I should issue forth in all the splendour of embroidery. The clothes were brought, and for three days 1 observed many eyes turned towards me as I passed ; but I felt myself obstructed in the com- mon intercourse of civility, by an uneasy con- sciousness of my new appeai'ance ; as I thought myself more observed, I was more anxious about my mien and behaviour; and the mien which is formed by care is commonly i-idiculous. A short time accustomed me to myself, and my dress was without pain, and without pleasure. For a little while I tried to be a rake, but I began too late; and having by nature no turn for a frolic, was in great danger of ending in a drunkard. A fexer, in which not one of my companions paid me a visit, gave me time for reflection. I found that there was no great pleasure in breaking -nindows and lying in the round-house; and resolved to associate no hin- ger with those whom, though I had treated and bailed them, 1 couli not make friends. I then changed my measures, kept running horses, and had the comfort of seeing my name very often in the news. I had a chesnut horse, the grandson of Childers, who won four plates, and ten by-matches ; and a bay filly who carried off the five-years-old plate, and was expected to perform much greater exploits, when my groom broke lier wind, because I happened to catch him selling oats for beer. This happiness was soon at an end ; there was no pleasure when I lost, and when I won I could not much exalt myself by the virtues of my horse. I grew ashamed of the company of jockey-lords, and resolved to spend no more of my time in the stable. It was now known that I had money, and would spend it, and I passed four months in the company of architects, Avhose Avhole busi- ness was, to persu.ade me to build a house. I told them that 1 had more room than I wanted, but could not get rid of their importunities. A new plan was brought me every morning ; till at last my constancy was overpowered, and I began to build. The happiness of building last- ed but a little while, for though I love to spend, I hate to be cheated ; and I soon found, that to build is to be robbed. How I proceed in the pursuit of happiness, you shall hejir when I find myself disposed to write. I am, Sir, Tim. Kaxcjer. 68 No. 63.] Saturday, June 30, 1753. The natural progress of the works of men is from rudeness to convenience, from convenience to elegance, and from elegance to nicety. The first labour is enforced by necessity. The savage finds himself incommoded by heat and cold, by rain and yvind ; he shelters himself in the hollow of a rock, and learns to dig a cave where there was none before. He finds the sun and the wind excluded by the thicket, and when the accidents of the chase, or the con- Tenience of pasturage, lead him into more open places, he forms a thicket for himself, by plant- ing stakes at proper distances, and laying branch- es from one to another. The next gi'adation of skill and industry pro- duces a house closed with doors, and divided by partitions ; and apartments are multiplied and disposed according to the various degi*ees of power or invention ; improvement succeeds im- provement, as he that is ft-eed from a greater evil grows impatient of a less, till ease in time is advanced to pleasure. The mind set free from the importunities of natural want, gains leisure to go in search of superfluous gratifications, and adds to the uses of habitation the delights of prospect. ITien begins the reign of sjTnmetry ; orders of archi- tecture are invented, and one part of the edifice is conformed to another, without any other reason, than that the eye may not be ofi^ended. The passage is very short fi'om elegance to luxury. Ionic and Corinthian columns are soon succeeded by gilt cornices, inlaid floors, and petty ornaments, which show rather the w^ealth than the taste of the possessor. Language proceeds, like every thing else, through improvement to degeneracy. The ro- vers who first take possession of a country, having not many ideas, and those not nicely modified or discriminated, were contented, if by general terms and abrupt sentences they could make their thoughts known to one another ; as life begins to be more regulated, and property to become limited, disputes must be decided, and claims adjusted ; the differences of things are noted, and distinctness and propriety of expres- sion become necessary. In time, happiness and plenty give rise to curiosity, and the sciences are cultivated for ease and pleasure ; to the arts, which are now to be taught, emulation soon adds the art of teaching ; and the studious and ambi- tious contend not only who shall think best, but who shall teU their thoughts in the most pleas- ing manner. Then begin the arts of rhetoric and poetry, the regulation of figures, the selection of words, the modulation of periods, the graces of transition, the complicatioa of clauses, aid all tlie deli- THE IDLER. [No. 63, 64. cacies of style and subtiltiesof composition, use- ful while they advance perspicuity, and lauda- ble while they inci'ease pleasure, but easy to be refined by needless scrupulosity till they shall more embarrass the writer than assist the reader or delight him. The first state is commonly antecedent to the practice of writing; the ignorant essays of im- perfect diction pass aAvay with the savage gener- ation that uttered them. No nation can trace their language beyond the second period, and even of that it does not often happen that many monuments remain. The fate of the English tongue is like that of others. We know nothing of the scanty jargon of our barbarous ancestors ; but we have speci- mens of our language when it began to be adap- ted to civil and religious purposes, and find it such as might naturally be expected, artless and simple, unconnected and concise. The writers seem to have desired little more than to be under- stood, and perhaps seldom aspired to the praise of pleasing. Their verses were considered chiefly as memorial, and therefore did not differ from prose but by the measure or the rhyme. In this state, varied a little according to the different purposes or abilities of writers, our language may be said to have continued to the time of Gower, whom Chaucer calls his mas- ter, and who, however obscured by his scholar's popularity, seems justly to claim the honour which has been hitherto denied him, of show- ing his countrymen that something more was to be desired, anB that English verse might be exalted into poetry. From the time of Gower and Chaucer, the English writers have studied elegance, and ad- vanced their language, by successive improve- ments, to as much haraiony as it can easUy re- ceive, and as much copiousness as human know- ledge has hitherto required. These advances have not been made at all times with the same diligence or the same success. Negligence has suspended the course of improvement, or affecta- tion tiu'ned it aside ; time has elapsed with lit- tle change, or change has been made without amendment. But elegance has been long kept in view with attention as near to constancy as life permits, till every man now endeavours to excel others in accuracy, or outshine them in splendour of style, and the danger is, lest care should too soon pass to affectation. No. 64.] Saturday, July 7, 1759. TO THE IDLER. Sir, As nature has made every man desirous of hap- No. 64>: THE IDLER. 69 piuess, I flatter myself, that you and your read- er cannot but feel some ciu-iosity to know the sequel of my story ; for though, by trying the different schemes of pleasure, I have yet found nothing in which I could finally acquiesce ; yet the narrative of my attempts will not be wholly without use, since we always approach nearer to truth as we detect more and more varieties of jrror. When I had sold my racers, and put the orders >f architectui'e out of my head, my next resolu- tion was to be a fine gentleman. I frequented the polite coffee-houses, grew acquainted with all the men of humour, and gained the right of bowing familiary to half the nobility. In this new scene of life my great labour was, to learn to laugh. I had been used to consider laughter as the effect of merriment ; but I soon learned that it is one of the arts of adulation, and, from laughing only to show that I was pleased, I now began to laugh when I wished to please. This was at first very difficult. I sometimes heard the story with dull indifference ; and, not ex- alting myself to merriment by due gi'adations, burst out suddenly into an awkward noise, which was not always favourably interpreted. Sometimes I was behind the rest of the com- pany, and lost the grace of laughing by delay, and sometimes when 1 began at the right time was deficient in loudness or in length. But, by diligent imitation of the best models, I attained at last such flexibility of muscles, that I was al- ways a welcome auditor of a story, and got the reputation of a good-natured fellow. This was something ; but much more was to be done, that I might be univei-sally allowed to be a fine gentleman. I appeared at court on all public days ; betted at gaming-tables, and play- ed at all the routs of eminence. 1 went every night to the opera, took a fiddler of disputed merit under my protectioii, became the head of a musical faction, and had sometimes concerts at my own house. I once thought to have at- tained the highest rank of elegance, by taking a foreign singer into keeping. But my favourite fiddler contrived to be arrested on the night of a concert, for a finer suit of clothes than I had ever presumed to wear, and I lost all the fame of patronage by refusing to bail him. My next ambition was, to sit for my picture. I spent a whole winter in going from painter to painter, to bespeak a whole length of one, and a half length of another; I talked of nothing but attitudes, draperies, and proper lights ; took my friends to see the pictures after every sitting ; heard every day of a wonderful performer in crayons and miniature, and sent my pictures to be copied ; was told by the judges that they were not like, and was recommended to other artists. At length, being not able to please my friends, I grew less pleased myself, and at last resolved to think no more about it. It was impossible to live in total idleness : and wandering about in search of something to do, I was invited to a weekly meeting of virtuosos, and felt myself instantaneously seized with an un- extinguishable ardour for all natural curiosities. I ran from auction to auction, became a critic in shells and fossils, bought a Hortus siccus of ines- timable value, and purchased a secret art of pre- serving insects, which made my collection the envy of the other philosophers. I found this pleasure mingled with much vexation. All the faults of my life were for nine months circulated through the town with the most active malig- nity, because I happened to catch & moth of pe- culiar variegation; and because I once outbid all the lovers of shells, and carried off a nautilus, it was hinted that the validity of my uncle's will ought to be disputed. I will not deny that I was very proud both of the moth and of the shell, and gratified myself with the envy of my companions, and perhaps more than became a benevolent being. But in time I grew weary of being hated for that which produced no advan- tage, gave my shells to children that wanted play-things, and suppressed the art of drying butterflies, because I would not tempt idleness and cruelty to kill them. I now began to feel life tedious, and wished to store myself with friends, with whom I might grow old in the interchange of benevolence. I had observed that popularity was most easily gained by an open table, and therefore hired a French cook, furnished my sideboard with great magnificence, filled my cellar with wines of pompous appellations, bought every thing that was dear before it was good, and invited all those who were most famous forjudging of a dinner. In three weeks my cook gave me warning, and, upon inquiry, told me that Lord Queasy, who dined with me the day before, had sent him an offer of double wages. My pride prevailed : I raised his wages, and invited his lordship to an- other feast. I love plain meat, and was there- fore soon weary of spreading a table of which I could not partake. I foimd that my guests, when they went away, criticised their entertain- ment, and censured my profusion ; my cook thought himself necessary, and took upon him the direction of the house ; and I could not rid myself of flatterers, or break from slavery, but by shutting up my house, and declaring my re- solution to live in lodgings. After all this, tell me, dear Idler, what I must do next ; I have health, I have money, and I hope that I have understanding ; yet, with all these, I have never been able to pass a single day which I did not wish at an end be- fore sunset. TeU me, dear Idler, what I shall do. 1 am. Yoiu* humble servant. Txiu Han THE IDLER. [No. 65, 66. No. 65.] Saturday, July H, 1759. The sequel of Clarendon's history, at last hap- pily published, is an accession to English liter- ature equally agi'eeable to the admirers of ele- gance and the lovers of truth ; many doubtful facts may now be ascertained, and many ques- tions, after long debate, may be determined by decisive authority. He that records transac- tions in which himself was engaged, has not only an opportunity of knowing innumerable particulars which escape spectators, but has his natural powers exalted by that ardour which always rises at the remembrance of our own im- portance, and by which CA-^ery man is enabled to relate his own actions better than another's. The difficulties through which this work has struggled into light, and the delays with which our hopes have been long mocked, naturally lead the mind to the consideration of the com- mon fate of posthumous compositions. He who sees himself surrounded by admirers, and whose vanity is hourly feasted with all the luxuries of studied praise, is easily persuaded that his influence will be extended beyond his life ; that they who cringe in his presence will reverence his memory, and that those who are proud to be numbered among his friends, ■will endeavour to vindicate his choice by zeal for his reputation. Witli hopes like these, to the executors of Swift was committed the history of the last years of Queen Anne, and to those of Pope, the Avorks which remained unpriuted in his closet. The pei'formances of Pope were burnt by those whom he had perhaps selected from all mankind as most likely to publish them ; and the history had likewise perished, had not a straggling tran- script fallen into busy hands. The papers left in the closet of Pieresc, sup- plied his heirs with a whole winter's fuel ; and many of the labours of the learned bishop Lloyd were consumed in the kitchen of his descen- dants. Some works, indeed, have escaped total de- struction, but yet have had reason to lament the fate of orphans exposed to the frauds of unfaith- ful guardians. How Hale would have borne the mutilations which his " Pleas of the Crown" have suffered from the editor, they who know his character will easily conceive. The original copy of Burnet's history, though promised to some public * library, has been never given ; and who then can prove the fidel- ity of the publication, when the authenticity of • It would be proper to reposite, in some public place, the manuscript of Clarendon, which has nof escaped all suspicion of unfaithful publication. Clarendon's Iiistory, though printed with th« sfinction of one of the first universities of the world, had not an unexpected manuscript been happily discovered, would, with the help of fac- tious credulity, have been brought into question by the two lowest of all human beings, a scribbler for a party, and a commissioner of ex- cise? Vanity is often no less mischicA'^ous than neg- ligence or dishone:ty. He that possesses a val- uable manuscript, hopes to raise its esteem by concealment, and delights in the distinction which he imagines himself to obtain by keep- ing the key of a treasure which he neither uses nor imparts. From him it falls to some othei owner, less vain but more negligent, who con- siders it as useless lumber, and rids himself of the incumbrance. Yet there are some works which the authors must consign unpublished to posterity, however uncertain be the event, however hopeless be the trust. He that writes the history of his own times, if he adheres steadily to truth, will write that which his own times will not easily endure. He must be content to reposite his book till all private passions shall cease, and love and hatred give way to curiosity. But many leave the labours of half their life to their executors and to chance, because they will not send them abroad unfinished, and are unable to finish them, having prescribed to themselves such a degree of exactness as human diligence can scarcely attain. " Lloyd," says Burnet, "did not lay out his learning with the same diligence as he laid it in." He was al- Avays hesitating and inquiring, raising objections * and removing them, and waiting for clearer light and fuller discovery. Baker, after many years passed in biography, left his manuscripts to be buried in a library, because that was im- perfect Avhich could never be perfected. Of these learned men, let those who aspn*e to the same praise imitate the diligence, and avoid the scrupulosity. Let it be always remembered that life is short, that knowledge is endless, and that many doubts deserve not to be cleared. Let those whom nature and study haA'e qual- ified to teach mankind, tell us what they have learned Avhile they are yet able to tell it, and trust their reputation only to themselves. No. 66.] Saturday, July 21, 1759. No complaint is more frequently repeated among the learned, than that of the Avaste made by time among the labours of antiquity. Of those Avho once filled the civilized Avoild with their renoAvn, nothing is jioav left but their No. 67.] THE IDLER. 71 names, which are left only to raise desires that never can be satisfied, aud sorrow which never can be comfoi'ted. Had all the writings of the ancients been faithfully delivered down from age to age, had the Alexandrian library been spared, and the Palatine repositories remained unimpaired, how much might we have known of which we are now doomed to be ignorant ! how many laborious inquiries, and dark conjectures ; how many collations of broken hints, and mutilated passages might have been spared ! "We should have known the succession-s of princes, the re- volutions of empire, the actions of the great, and opinions of the wise, the laws and constitu- tions of every state, and the arts by whirh public grandeur aud hai)piness are acquired and preserved ; we should have traced the progress of life, seen colonies from -tlistant regions take possession of Euiopean deserts, and ti'oops of savages settled into connmunities by the desire of keeping what they had acquired ; we should have traced the gradations cf civility, and trav- elled upward to the original of things by the light of history, till in remoter times it had glimmered in fable, and at last sunk into dark- ness. If the works of imagination had been less diminished, it is likely that iM future times might have been supplied with inexhaustible amusement by the fictions of antiquity, llie tragedies of Sophocles and Euripides would have shown. all the stronger passions in all their diversities ; and the comedies of IVIenander would have furnished all the maxims of domes- tic life. Nothing would have been necessary to mortal wisdom but to have studied th«se great masters, whose knoAvledge would have guided doubt, and whose authority would have silenced cavils. Such are the thoughts that rise in every stu- dent, when his coiriosity is eluded, and his searches are frustrated ; yet it m.ay perhaps be doubted, whether our complaints are not sometimes in- considerate, and whether we do not imagine more evil than we feel. Of the ancients, enough I'emains to excite our emulation and direct our endeavours. Many of the works AVhich time has left us, Ave know to have been those that were most esteemed, and which antiquity itself considered as models ; so that, having the ori- ginals, we may without much regret lose the imitations. The obscurity which the want of contemporary writers often produces, only darkens single passages, and those commonly of slight importance. The general tendency of every piece may be known : and though that diligence deserves praise which leaves nothing unexamined, yet its miscarriages are not much to be lamented ; for the most useful truths are always universal, and unconnected with acci- dents and customs. Such is the general conspiracy of human na- ture against contemporary merit, that, if we had inherited from antiquity enough to afford employment for the laborious, and amusement for the idle, I know not what room v.-ould have been left for modern genius or modern industry; almost every subject Avould have been pre-occu- pied, and evei'y style would have been fixed by a precedent from which few w'ould have Aentur- ed to depart. Every writer Avould have had a rival, whose superiority v.as already acknow- ledged, and to whose fame his work would, even before it was seen, be maiked out for a sacrifice. We see how little the united experience of mankind hath been able to add to the heroic characters displayed by Homer, and how few incidents the fertile imagination of modern Italy has yet produced, which may not be found in the Iliad and Odyssey. It is likely, that if all the works of the Athenian philosophers had been extant, Malbranche and Locke would have been condemned to be silent readers of the an- cient metaphysicians ; and it is appai'eut, that, if the old writers had all remained, the Idler could not have written a disquisition on the loss. No. 67.] Satuudav, July 2S, 1759. TO THE IDLER. Sin, In the observations which you have made on the various opinions and pursuits of mankind, you must often, in literary conversations, have met Avith men Avho consider dissipation as the great enemy of the intellect ; and maintain, that, in proportion as the student keeps himself within the bounds of a settled ])hin, he Avill more certainly advance in science. This opinion is, perhaps, generally true ; yet when Ave contemplate the inquisitive nature of the human mind, and its perpetual impatience of all i-estraint, it may be doubted whether the faculties may not be contracted by confining the attention ; and w hether it may not sometimes be proper to risk the certainty of little for the chance of much. Acquisitions of knowledge, like blazes of genius, are often fortuitous. Those who had proposed to themselves a methodical course of reading, light by accident on a new hook, Avhich seizes their thoughts and kindles their curiosity, and opens an vinexpected pros- pect, to Avhich the way Avhich they had pre- scribed to themselA'cs would never haA-e con- ducted them. To enforce and illustrate my meaning, I have sent you a journal of three days' emj^loj-ment, ^cuisd among the papers of a late intiui&te ac- 72 THE IDLER. [No. 67. qualntance; who, as will plainly appear, was a man of vast designs, and of vast performances, though he sometimes designed one thing and performed another. 1 allow that the Specta- tor's inimitable productions of this kind may well discounige all subsequent journalists ; but as the subject of this is diiferent from tliat of any which the Spectator has given us, I leave it to you to publish or suppi'ess it. Mem. The following three days I propose to give up to reading ; and intend, after all the delays which have obtruded themselves upon me, to finish my " Essay on the Extent of the Mental Powers ;" to revise my " Treatise on Logic;" to begin the "Epic" which I have long projected; to proceed in my perusal of the " Scriptures with Grotius's Comment;" and at my leisure to regale myself with the works of classics ancient and modern, and to finish my *•' Ode to Astronomy." Monday. Designed to rise at six, hut, by my servant's laziness, my fire was not lighted be- fore eight, when I dropped into a slumber that lasted till nine, at which time I arose, and after breakfast at ten sat down to study, proposing to begin upon my Essay: but, finding occasion to consult a passage in Plato, was absorbed in the perusal of the Republic till twelve. I had ne- glected to forbid company, and now enters Tom Careless, who after half an hour's chat, insisted upon my going with him to enjoy an absurd character, that he had appointed, by an advei'- tisement, to meet him at a particular coffee- house. After we had for some time entertained ourselves with him, we sallied out, designing each to repair to his home ; but, as it fell out, coining up in the street to a man whose steel by his side declared him a butchei', we overheard him opening an address to a genteelish sort of young lady, whom he walked with : " Miss, though your father is master of a coal-lighter, and you will be a great fortune, 'tis true ; yet I wish I muy be cut into quarters, if it is not only love, and not lucre of gain, that is my mo- tive for offering terms of marriage." As this lover proceeded in his speech, he misled us the length of three streets, in admiration at the un- limited power of the tender passion that could soften even the heart of a butcher. We then adjourned to a tavern, and from thence to one of the public gardens, where I was regaled with a most amusing variety of men possessing great talents, so discoloured by affectation, that they only made thtm eminently ridiculous ; shallow things, who, by continual dissipation, had an- nihilated the few ideas nature had given them, and yet were celebrated for wonderful pretty gentlemen ; young ladies extolled for their Avit, because they were handsome ; illiterate empty women, as well as men, in high life, admired for their knowledge, from their being resolutely positive; and women of real understanding so far from pleasing the pf lite million, that they frightened them away, and were left solitary. When we quitted this entertaining scene, Tom pressed me irresistibly to sup with him. I reached home at twelve, and then reflected, that though indeed I had, by remarking various characters, improved my insight into human ; nature, yet still I neglected the studies proposed, i and accordingly took up my Treatise on Logic, I to give it the intended revisal, but found my spirits too much agitated, and could not forbear a few satirical lines, under the title of " The Evening's Walk." Tuesday. At breakfast, seeing my " Ode to Astronomy" lying on my desk, I was struck with a train of ideas, that I thought might con- tribute to its improvement. I immediately rang my bell to forbid all visitants, when my servant opened the door, with " Sir, Mr. Jaffray Gape." My cup dropped out of one hand, and my poem out of the other. 1 could scarcely ask him to sit ; he told me he was going to walk, but as there was a likelihood of i-ain, he would sit with me; he said, he intended at first to have called at Mr. Varan t's. but as he had not seen me a great while, he did not mind coming out of his way to wait on me ; I made him a bow, but thanks for the favour stuck in my throat. I asked him if he had been to the coffee house ; he replied, two hours. Under the oppression of this dull interrup- tion, I sat looking wishfully at the clock ; for which, to increase my satisfaction, 1 had chosen the inscription, " Art is long, and life is short ;" exchanging questions and answers at long in- tervals, and not without some hints that the weather glass promised fair weather. At half an hour after three he told me he would tres- pass on me for a dinner, and desired me to send to his house for a bundle of papers, about in- closing a common upon his estate, which he would read to me in the evening. I declared myself busy, and Mr. Gape went away. Having dined, to compose my chagrin, I took my Virgil, and several other classics, but could not calm my mind, or proceed in my scheme. At about five I laid my hand on a Bible that lay on my table, at first with coldness and insen- sibility ; but was imj»erceptibly engaged in a close attention to its sublime morality, and felt my heart expanded by warm philanthropy, and exalted to dignity of sentiment. I then cen- sured my too great solicitude, and my disgust conceived at my acquaintance, who had been so far from designing to offend, that he only meant to show kindness and respect. In this strain of mind I wrote " An Essay on Benevolence," and " An Elegy on Sublunary Disappointments." When I had finished these at eleven, 1 supped, and recollected how little 1 had adhered to my 1 1 plan, and almost questioned the possibility of,: i pursuing any settled and uniform design; h'^w- No. 68.] THE IDLER. 73 «ver, I was not so fai' persuaded of the truth of these suggestions, but that I resolved to try once more at my scheme. As I observed the moon shining through my window, from a calm and bright sky, spangled with innumerable stars, I indulged a pleasing meditation on the splendid j scene, and finished my " Ode to Astronomy." ■ Wednesday. Rose at seven, and employed j three hours in perusal of the " Scriptures with j Grotius's Comment ;" and after breakfast fell [ into meditation concerning my projected Epic ; and being in some doubt as to the particular lives of some heroes, whom 1 proposed to cele- brate, I consulted Bayle and Moreri, and Avas engaged two hours in examining various lives and characters, but then resolved to go to my employment. When I was seated at my desk, and began to feel the glowing succession of poetical ideas, my servant brought me a letter from a lawyer requiring my instant attendance at Gray's Inn for half an hour. I went fuU of vexation, and was involved in business till eight at night ; and then, being too much fatigued to study, supped, and went to bed. Here my friend's journal concludes, which perhaps is pretty much a picture of the manner in which many prosecute their studies. 1 there- fore resolved to send it you, imagining, that, if you think it worthy of appearing in your paper, some of your readers may receive entertainment by recognizingaresemblance between my friend's conduct and their own. It must he left to the Idler accurately to ascertain the proper methods of advancing in literature ; but this one position, deducible from what has been said above, may, I think, be reasonably asserted, that he who finds himself strongly atti'acted to any particu- lar study, though it may happen to be out of his proposed scheme, if it is not trifling or vicious, had better continue his application to it, since it is likely that he will with much more ease and expedition, attain that which a warm incli- nation stimulates him to pursue, than that at which a prescribed law compels him to toil. I am, Sir, &c. Ho. 68.] Saturday, Aug. 4, 1759. Among the studies which have exercised the in- genious and the learned for more than three cen- turies, none has been more diligently or more successfully cultivated than the art of transla- tion ; by which the impediments which bar the way to science are, in some measure, removed, and the multiplicity of languages becomes less incommodious. Of every other kind of writing the ancients have left us models which all succeeding ages ' have laboured to imitate ; but translation may justly be claimed by the modems as their own. In the first ages of the world instruction was commonly oral, and learning traditional, and what was not written could not be translated. ^V^len alphabetical writing made the conveyance of opinions and the transmission of events more easy and certain, literature did not flourish in more than one country at once, for distant na- tions had little commerce with each other ; and those few whom curiosity sent abroad in quest of improvement, delivered their acquisitions im their own manner, desirous perhaps to be con- sidered as the inventors of that which they had I learned from others. The Greeks for a time travelled into Egypt, but they translated no books from the Egyptian language ; and when the Macedonians had over- thrown the empire of Persia, the countries that became subject to Grecian dominion studied only the Grecian literature. The books of the con- quered nations, if they had any among them, sunk into oblivion ; Greece considered herself as the mistress, if not as the parent of arts ; her language contained all that was supposed to be known, and, except the sacred writings of the Old Testament, I know not that the library of Alexandria adopted any thing from a foreign tongue. The Romans confessed themselves the scho- lars of the Greeks, and do not appear to have ex- pected what has since happened, that the igno- rance of succeeding ages would prefer them to their teachers. Every man, who in Rome as- pired to the praise of literature, thought it ne- cessary to learn Greek, and had no need of ver- sions when they coidd study the originals. Translation, however, was not Avholly neglec- ted. Dramatic poems could be understood by the people in no language but their own, and tlie Romans were sometimes entertained with the tragedies of Euripides and the comedies of Men- auder. Other works were sometimes attempted ; in an old scholiast there is mention of a Latin Iliad ; and we have not wholly lost Tully's ver- sion of the poem of Aratus ; but it does not ap- pear that any man grew eminent by interpret- ing another, and perhaps it was more frequent to translate for exercise or amusement, than for fame. The Arabs were the first nation who felt the ardour of translation : when they had subdued the eastern provinces of the Greek empire, they found their captives wiser than themselves, and made haste to relieve their wants by imparted knowledge. They discovered that many might grow wise by the labour of a few, and that im- provements might be made with speed, when they had the knowledge of former ages in their own language. They therefore made haste to lay hold on medicine and philosophy, and turned their chief authors into Arabic. Whether they I. THE IDLER. [No. 69. attempted the poets is not known ; their literary zeal was vehement, but it was short, and prob- ably expired before they had time to add the arts of elegance to those of necessity. The study of ancient literature was inter- rupted in Europe by the irruption of the north- ern nations, who subverted the Roman empire, and erected new kingdoms with new languages. It is not strange, that such confusion should suspend literary attention ; those who lost, and those who gained dominion, had immediate dif- ficulties to encounter, and immediate miseries to redress, and had little leisui-e, amidst the violence of war, the trepidation of flight, the distresses of forced migration, or the tumults of unsettled conquest, to inquire after ^eculative truth, to enjoy the amusement of imaginary adventures, to know the history of former ages, or study the events of any other lives. But no sooner had this chaos of dominion sunk into order, than learning began again to flourish in the calm of peace. When life and possessions were secure, convenience and enjoyment were soon sought, learning was found the highest gratification of the mind, and translation became one of the means by which it was imparted. At last, bj"^ a concui-rence of many causes, the European world was roused from its lethargy ; those arts which had been long obscurely studied in the gloona of monasteries became the general favourites of mankind ; every nation vied with its neighbour for the prize of learning ; the epi- demical emulation spread from south to north, and curiosity and translation found their way to Britain. No. 69. J Saturday, Aug. 11, 1759. He that reviews the progress of English litera- ture, will find that translation was very early cultivated among us, but that some principles either wholly erroneous or too far extended, hindered our success from being always equal to our diligence. Chaucer, who is genei'ally considered as the father of our poetry, has left a version of Boetius on the Comforts of Philosophy, the book which seems to have been the favourite of the middle ages, which had been translated into Saxon by King Alfred, and illustrated with a copious Comment ascribed to Aquinas. It may be sup- posed that Chaucer would apply more than common attention to an author of so much celebrity, yet he has attempted nothing higher than a version strictly literal, and has de- graded the poetical parts to prose, that the con- straint of versification might not obstruct his zeal for fidelity. Caxton taught us typography about the year 3474. The first book printed in English was a traiislatioii. Caxton was both tlie translator and printer of the Destruction of Troye, a book which, in that infancy of learning, was con- sidered as the best account of the fabulous ages, and which, though now driven out of notice by authors of no greater use or value, still con- tinued to be read in Caxton's English to the beginning of the present centuiy. Caxton proceeded as he began, and except the poems of Gower and Chaucer, printed nothing | jj but translations f/om the French, in which • |^ the original is so scrupulously followed, that they afford us little knowledge of our own lan- guage ; though the words are English, the phrase is foreign. As learning advanced, new works were adopted into our language, but I thijik with little improvement of the art of translation, though foreign nations and other languages offered us models of a better method ; till in the age of Elizabeth we began to find that greater liberty was necessary to elegance, and that elegance was necessary to general reception ; some essays were then made upon the Italian poets, which deserve the praise and gratitude of posterity. But the old practice was not suddenly for- saken ; Holland filled the nation with literal translation ; and what is yet more strange, the same exactness was obstinately practised in the versions of the poets. This absurd labour of construing into rhyme was countenanced by Jonson in his version of Horace ; and whether it be that more men have learning than genius, or tliat the endeavours of that time were more directed towards knowledge than delight, the accuracy of Jonson found more imitatoi's than the elegance of Fairfax ; and IMay, Sandys, and Holiday, coiifined themselves to the toil of rendering line for line, not indeed with equal felicity, for May and Sandys were poets, and Holiday only a scholar, and a critic. Feltham appears to consider it as the establish- ed law of poetical translation, that the lines should be neither more nor fewer than those of the original; and so long had this prejudice prevailed, that Denham praises Fanshaw's ver- sion of Guarini as the example of a " new and noble way," as the first attempt to break the boifidaries of custom, and assert the natural freedom of the Muse. In the general emulation of wit and genius which the festivity of the Restoration produced, the poets shook off their constraint, and con- sidered translation as no longer confined to ser- vile closeness. But reformation is seldom the work of pure virtue, or unassisted reason. Translation was improved more by accident than conviction. The writers of the foregoing age had at least learning equal to their genius and being often more able to explain the senti- ments or illustrate the allusions of the ancients, than to exhibit their graces and transfuse their No. 70.] THE IDLER. 75 spii-it, were perhaps willing sometimes to con- ceal their want of poetry hy profusion of litera- ture, and therefore translated literally, that their fidelity might shelter their insipidity or harshness. The wits of Charles's time had sel- dom more than slight and superficial views ; and their care was, to hide their want of learn- ing hehind the colours of a gay imagination : they therefore translated always w^ith freedom, sometimes with licentiousness, and perhaps ex- pected that their I'eaders should accept spright- liness for knowledge, and consider ignorance and mistake as the impatience and negligence of a mind too i-apid to stop at difl&culties, and too elevated to descend to minuteness. Thus was translation made more easy to the writer, and more delightful to the reader ; and there is no wonder if ease and pleasure have found their advocates. The paraphrastic liber- ties have been almost imiversaUy admitted ; and Sherbourn, whose learning was eminent, and who had no need of any excuse to pass slightly over obscurities, is the only writer who in later times has attempted to justify or revive the an- cient severity. There is undoubtedly a mean to be observed. Dryden saw very early that closeness best pre- served an author's sense, and that freedom best exhibited his spirit ; he therefore will deserve the highest praise, who can give a representa- tion at once faithful and pleasing, who can con- vey the same thoughts with the same graces, and who, when he translates, changes nothing but the language. No. 70.] Saturday, Aug. 18, 1759. Few faults of style, whether real or imaginary, excite the malignity of a more numerous class of readers than the use of hard words. If an author be supposed to involve his thoughts in voluntary obscurity, and to obstruct, by un- necessary difficulties, a mind eager in pursuit of truth ; if lie writes not to make others learn- ed, but to boast the learning which he possesses himself, and wishes to be admired rather than understood, he counteracts the first end of writing, and justly suffers the utmost severity of censure, or the more afflictive severity of neglect. But words are only hard to those who do not understand them ; and the critic ought always to inquire, whether he is incommoded by the fault of the writer, or by his own. Every author does not write for every reader ; many questions are such as the illiterate part of mankind can have neither interest nor pleasure in discussing, and which therefore it would be a useless endeavour to level with common minds, by tiresome circumlocutions or laborious ex- planations ; and many subjects of general use may be treated in a different manner, as the book is intended for the learned or the ignorant. Diffusion and explication are necessary to the instruction of those who, being neither able nor a^.;customed to think for themselves, can learn only what is expressly taught; but they who can form parallels, discover consequences, and multiply conclusions, are best pleased with involution of argument and compression of thought ; they desire only to receive the seeds of knowledge which they may branch out by their own power, to have the way to truth pointed out, which they can then follow with- out a guide. The Guardian directs one of his pupils " to think with the wise, but speak with the vul- gar." This is a precept specious enough, but not always practicable. Difference of thoughts will produce difference of language. He that thinks with more extent than another wiU want words of larger meaning ; he that thinks with more subtilty will seek for tenns of more nice discrimination ; and where is the wonder, since words are but the images of things, that he who never knew the original should not know the copies ? Yet vanity inclines us to find faults any where rather than in ourselves. He that reads and grows no wiser, seldom suspects his own deficiency ; but complains of hard words and obscure sentences, and asks why books are writ- ten which cannot be understood? Among the hard words which are no longer to be used, it has been long the custom to num- ber terms of art. •' Every man," says Swift, " is more able to explain the subject of an art than its professors ; a farmer will teU you, in two words, that he has broken his leg ; but a surgeon, after a long discourse, shall leave you as ignorant as you were before." This could only have been said by such an exact observer of life, in gratification of malignity, or in ostentation of acuteness. Evei'y hour produces instances of the necessity of terms of art. Mankind could never conspire in uniforaa affectation ; it is not but by necessitj' that every science and every trade has its peculiar language. They that content themselves with general ideas may rest in general terms ; but those, whose studies or employments force them upon closer inspec- tion, must have names for particular parts, and words by which they may express various modes of combination, such as none but them- selves have occasion to consider. Artists are indeed sometimes ready to suppose that none can be strangers to words to which themselves are familiar, talk to an incidental in- quirer as they talk to one another, and make their knowledge ridiculous by injudicious obtrusion. An art cannot be taught but by its proper terms, but it is not always necessary to teach the art. 76 THE IDLER. [No. 71. That the -xnilgar express their thouglits clearly is far from true ; and what perspicuity can be found among them proceeds not from the easi- ness of their language, but the shallowness of their thoughts. He that sees a building as a com- mon spectator, contents himself with relating that it is great or little, mean or splendid, lofty or low ; all these 'rt'ords are intelligible and com- mon, but they convey no distinct or limited ideas ; if he attempts, without the terms of ar- chitecture, to delineate the parts, or enumerate the ornaments, his narration at once becomes unintelligible. The terms, indeed, generally displease, because they are understood by few ; but they are little understood only because few that look upon an edifice, examine its parts, or analyse its columns into their members. The state of every other art is the same ; as it is cursorily surveyed or accurately examined, different foiins of expression become proper. In morality it is one thing to discuss the niceties of the casuist, and another to direct the practice of common life. In agriculture, he that instructs the fjirmer to plough and sow, may convey his notions without the words which he would find necessary in explaining to philosophers the pro- cess of vegetation ; and if he, who has nothing to do but to be honest by the shortest way, will perplex his mind with subtile speculations ; or if he, whose task is to reap and thi'esh, will not be contented without examining the evolution of the seed, and circulation of the sap, the A^Titers whom either shall consult are very little to be blamed, though it should sometimes happen that they are read in vain. No. 71.] Saturdat, Aug. 25, 1759. Dick Shifter was horn in Cheapside, and hav- ing passed reputably through all the classes of St. Paul's school, has been for some years a student in the Temple. He is of opinion, that intense application dulls the faculties, and thinks it necessary to temper the severity of the law by books that engage the mind, but do not fatigue it. He has therefore made a copious collection of plays, poems, and romances, to Avhich he has recourse when he fancies himself tired with statutes and reports ; and he seldom inquires very nicely whether he is weary or idle. Dick has received from his favourite authors very strong impressions of a country life ; and though his furthest excursions have been to Greenwich on one side, and Chelsea on the other, he has talked for several years with great pomp of language and elevation of sentiments, about a state too high for contempt and too low for envy, about homely quiet, and blameless simplicity, pastoral delights, and rural inno- cence. His friends who had estates in the country, often invited him to pass the summer among them, but something or other had always hin- dered him ; and he considered that to reside in the house of another man was to incur a kind of dependence inconsistent with that laxity of life which he had imagined as the chief good. This summer he resolved to be happy, and procured a lodging to be taken for him at a soli- tary house, situated about thirty miles from London, on the banks of a small river, with corn fields before it, and a hill on each side co- vered with wood. He concealed the place of his retirement, that none might violate his ob- scurity, and promised himself many a happy day when he should hide himself among the trees, and contemplate the tumults and vexa- tions of the tOAvn. He stepped into the post-chaise with his heart beating and his eyes sparkling, was conveyed through many varieties of delightful prospects, saw hills and meadows, corn fields and pasture, succeed each other, and for four hours charged none of his poets with fiction or exaggeration. He was now within six miles of happiness, when, having never felt so much agitation before, he began to wish his journey at an end, and the last hour was passed in changing his posture, and quarrelling with his driver. An hour may be tedious, but cannot be long. He at length alighted at his new dwelling, and was received as he expected; he looked round upon the hiUs and rivulets, but his joints were stiff and his muscles sore, and his first request was to see his bed-chamber. He rested well, and ascribed the soundness of his sleep to the stiUiiess of the country. He ex- pected from that time nothing but nights of quiet and days of rapture, and, as soon as he had risen, wrote an account of his new state to one of his friends in the Temple. " Dear Frank, " I never pitied thee before. I am now as I could wish every man of wisdom and virtue to be, in the regions of calm content and placid meditation ; with all the beauties of nature so- liciting my notice, and all the diversities of plea- sm-e courting my acceptance ; the birds are chirping in the hedges, and the flowers bloom- ing in the mead ; the breeze is whistling in the wood, and the sun dancing on the water. I can now say with truth, that a man, capable of en- joying the purity of happiness, is never more busy than in his hours of leisure, nor ever less solitary than in a place of solitude. " I am, dear Frank, &c." When he had sent away his letter, he walked into the wood, with some inconvenience, ftv/rn No. 72.] THE IDLER. 77 the furze that pricked his legs, and the briers that scratched his face. He at last sat down under a tree, and heard with great delight a' shower, by which he was not wet, rattling among the branches : this, said he, is the true image of obscurity; we hear of troubles and commotions, but never feel them. His amusement did not overpower the calls of nature, and he therefore went back to order bis dinner. He knew that the country pro- duces whatever is eaten or drunk, and imagin- ing that he was now at the source of luxury, resolved to indulge himself with dainties which he supposed might be procured at a price next to nothing, if any price at all was expected ; and intended to amaze the rustics with his generosity, by paying more than they would ask. Of twenty dishes which he named, he was amazed to find that scarcely one was to be had; and heard, with astonishment and indignation, that all the fruits of the earth were sold at a higher price than in the streets of London. His meal was short and sullen ; and he re- tired again to his tree, to inquire how dearness could be consistent with abundance, or how fraud should be practised by simplicity. He was not satisfied with his own speculations, and, returning home early in the evening, went a while from window to window, and found that he wanted something to do. He inquired for a newspaper, and was told that farmers never minded news, but that they could send for it from the ale-house. A messen- ger was despatched, who ran away at full speed, but loitered an hour behind the hedges, and at last coming back with his feet purposely be- mired, instead of expressing the gratitude which Mr. Shifter expected for the bounty of a shil- ling, said that the night was wet, and the way dirty, and he hoped that his worship would not think it much to give him half a-crown. Dick now went to bed with some abatement of his expectations; but sleep, I know not how, revives our hopes, and rekindles om* desires. He rose early in the morning, surveyed the landscape, and was pleased. He walked out, and passed from field to field, without observing any beaten path, and wondered that he had not seen the shepherdesses dancing, nor heard the swains piping to their flocks. At last he saw some reapers and harvest- women at dinner. Here, said he, are the true Arcadians, and advanced courteously towards them, as afraid of confusing them by the dignity of his presence. They acknowledged his super- iority by no other token than that of asking him for something to drink. He imagined that he had now purchased the privilege of discourse, and began to descend to familiar questions, en- deavouring to accommodate his discourse to the gi'ossness of rustic imderstandings. Tlie clowns soon found that he did not know wheat ftom rye, and began to despise him ; one of the boys, by pretending to show him a bird's nest, de- coyed him into a ditch ; and one of the wenches sold him a bargain. This walk had given him no great pleasure ; but he hoped to find other rustics less coarse of manners, and less mischievous of disposition. Next morning he was accosted by an attorney, who told him, that, unless he made farmer Dobson satisfaction for trampling his grass, he had orders to indict him. Shifter was offended, but not terrified ; and, telling the attorney that he was himself a lawyer, talked so volubly ox" pettifoggers and barraters, that he drove him away. Finding his walks thus interrupted, he was inclined to ride, and being pleased with the ap- pearance of a horse that was grazing in a neigh- bouring meadow, inquired the owner, who warranted him sound, and would not sell him, but that he was too fine for a plain man. Dick paid down the price, and, riding out to enjoy the evening, feU with his new horse into a ditch ; they got out with difficulty, and as he was going to mount again, a countryman looked at the horse, and perceived him to be blind. Dick went to the seller, and demanded back his money ; but was told that a man who rented his gi-ound must do the best for himself, that his landlord had his rent though the year was barren, and that, whether horses had eyes or no, he should sell them to the highest bidder. Shifter now began to be tired with rustio simplicity, and on the fifth day took possession again of his chambers, and bade farewell to the regions of calm content and placid meditation. No. 72.] Saturday, Sept. 1, 1759. Men complain of nothing more frequently than of deficient memory ; and, indeed, every one finds that many of the ideas which he desired to retain have slipped in'etrievably away ; that the acquisitions of the mind ai'e sometimes equally fugitive with the gifts of fortune; and that a short intermission of attention more cer- tainly lessens knowledge than impaii"s an estate. To assist this weakness of our nature, manj methods have been proposed, all of which may be justly suspected of being ineffectual; for no art of memory, however its effects have been boasted or admired, has been ever adopted into general use, nor have those who possessed it appeared to excel others in readiness of recol- lection or multiplicity of attainments. There is another art of which all have felt the want, though Themistocles only confessed 78 THE IDLER. [No. 73. It. We suffer equal pain from the pertinacious adhesion of unwelcome images, as from the evanescence of those wliich are pleasing and useful ; and it may be doubted whether we should be more benefited by the art of memory or the art of forgetful ness. Forgetfulness is necessary to remembrance. Ideas are retained by renovation of that impres- sion which time is always wearing away, and which new images are striving to obliterate. If useless thoughts could be expelled from the mind, all the valuable parts of our knowledge would more frequently recur, and every recur- euce would reinstate them in their former place. It is impossible to consider, without some regret, how much might have been learned, or how much might have been invented by a ra- tional and vigorous application of time, useless- ly or painfully passed in the revocation of events Avhich have left neither good nor evil behind them, in grief for misfortunes either repaired or irreparable, in resentment of injuries known only to ourselves, of which death has put the authors beyond our power. Philosophy has accumulated precept upon precept, to warn us against the anticipation of futm'e calamities. All useless misery is certain- ly folly, and he that feels evils before they come may be deservedly censured ; yet surely to dread the future is more reasonable than to lament the past. The business of life is to go forwards : he who sees evil in prospect meets it in his way ; but he who catches it by retrospection tui-ns back to find it. 'ITiat which is feared may sometimes be avoided, but that which is re- gretted to-day, m.ay be regretted again to-mor- row. Regret is indeed useful and virtuous, and not only allowable but necessary, when it tends to the amendment of life, or to admonition of er- ror which we maybe again in danger of commit- ting. But a very small part of the moments spent in meditation on the past, produce any reasonable caution or salutary sorrow. Most of the mortifications that we have suffered, arose from the concurrence of local and temporary circumstances, which can never meet again ; and most of our disappointments have succeeded those expectations, which life allows not to be formed a second time. It would add much to human happiness, if an art could be taught of forgetting all of which the remembrance is at once useless and afflictive, if that pain which never can end in pleasure could be driven totally away, that the mind might perform its functions without incumbrance, and the past might no longer encroach upon the present. Little can be done well to which the whole mind is not applied ; the business of every day calls for the day to which it is assigned ; and ho will have no Itisare to regret yesterday's vex- ations who resolves not to have a new subject of regret to-uxorrow. But to f. rget or to remember at pleasure, are equally beyond the power of man. Yet as memory may be asisted by method, and the decays of knowledge repaired by stated times of recollection, so the power of forgetting is capa- ble of improvement. Reason will, by a resolute contest, prevail over imagination, and the power may be obtained of transferring the attention as judgment shall direct. The incursions of troublesome thoughts are often violent and importunate ; and it is not easy to a mind accustomed to their inroads to expel them immediately by putting better im- ages into motion ; but this enemy of quiet is above all others weakened by every defeat ; the reflection which has been once overpowered and ejected, seldom returns with any formidable vehemence. EmplojTnent is the great instniufient of intel- lectual dominion. The mind cannot retire from. its enemy into total vacancy, or tiu-n aside from one object but by passing to another. The gloomy and the resentful are always found among those who have nothing to do, or who do nothing. We must be busy about good or evil, and he to whom the present offers nothing will often be looking backward on the past. No. 73.] Saturday, Sept. 8, 1759. That every man would be rich if a wish could obtain riches, is a position which I believe few will contest, at least in a nation like ours, in which commerce has kindled a universal emu- lation of wealth, and in wliich money receives all the honours which are the proper right of knowledge and of virtue. Yet though v.-e are all labouring for gold, as for the chief good, and, by the natural effort of unwearied diliiience, have found many expedi- tious methods of obtaining it, we have not been able to improve the art of using it, or to make it produce more happiness than it afforded in for- mer times, when every declaimer expatiated on its mischiefs, and every philosopher taught his followers to despise it. Many of the dangers imputed of old to exor- bitant wealth are now at an end. The rich are neither way-laid by robbers nor watched by in- formers? there is nothing to be dreaded from proscriptions, or seizures. The necessity of concealing treasure has long ceased ; no man now needs counterfeit mediocrity, and condemn his plate and jewels to caverns and darkness, or feast his mind with the consciousness of cloud- ed splendour, of finery which is useless till it is shown, and which he dares not show. No. 74.] THE IDLER. 79 In our time the poor are strongly tempted to assume the appearance of wealth, but the wealthy very rarely desire to he thought poor ; for we are all at full liberty to display riches by every mode of ostentation. We fill our houses with useless ornaments, only to show that we can buy them ; we cover our coaches with gold, and employ artists in the discovery of new fash- ions of expense ; and yet it cannot be found that riches produce happiness. Of I'iches, as of every thing else, the hope is more than the enjoyment; while we consider them as the means to be used, at some future time, for the attainment of felicity, we press on our pursuit ardently and vigorously, and that ardour secures us from weariness of ourselves ; but no sooner do we sit down to enjoy our ac- quisitions, than we find them insufficient to fill up the vacuities of life. One cause which is not always observed of the insufficiency of riches is, that they very seldom make their owner rich. To be rich is to have inore than is desired, and more than is wanted ; to have something which may be spent without reluctance, and scattered without care, with which the sudden demands of desire may be gratified, the casual freaks of fancy indulged, oi the unexpected opportunities of benevolence im- proved. Avarice is always poor, but poor by her own fault. There is another poverty to which the rich are exposed with less guilt by the officious- ness of others. Every man, eminent for exu- berance of fortune, is surrounded from morning to evening, and from evening to midnight, by flatterers, whose art of adulation consists in ex- citing artificial wants, and in forming new schemes of profusion. Tom Tranquil, when he came to age, found himself in possession of a fortune of which the twentieth part might, perhaps, have made him rich. His temper is easy, and his aifections soft; he receives every man with kindness, and hears him with credidity. His friends took care to settle him by giving him a wife, whom, having no particular inclination, he rather ac- cepted than chose, because he was told that she was proper for him. He was now to live with dignity proportion- ate to his fortune. What his fortune requires or admits Tom does not know, for he has little skill in computation, and none of his friends think it their interest to improve it. If he was suffered to live by his own choice, he would leave every thing as he finds it, and pass through the woiid distinguished only by inoffensive gen- tleness. But the ministers of luxury have marked him out as one at whose expense they may exercise their arts. A companion, who had just learned the names of the Italian masters, runs from sale to sale, and buys pictiu-es, for which Mr. Tranquil pays, without inquix"ing where they shall be hung. Another fills his garden with statues, which Tranquil wishes away, but dares not remove. One of his friends is learning architecture, by building him a house, which he passed by and enquired to whom it belonged ; another has been for three years dig- ging canals, and raising mounts ; cutting trees down in one place, and planting them in an- other, on which Tranquil looks with a serene indifference, without asking what will be the cost. Another projector teUs him that a water- work, like that of Versailles, will complete the beauties of his seat, and lays his draughts before him ; Tranquil turns his eyes upon them, and the artist begins his explanations ; Tranquil raises no objections, but orders him to begin the work, that he may escape from talk which he does not understand. Thus a thousand hands are busy at his ex- pense without adding to his pleasures. He pays and receives visits, and has loitered in public or in solitude, talking in summer of the town, and in winter of tlie cormtry, without knowing that his fortune is impaired, till his steward told him this morning that he could pay the workmen no longer but by mortgaging a manor. No. 74.] Saturday, Sept. 15, 1759. In the mythological pedigree of learning, me- mory' is made the motlier of the muses, by which the masters of ancient wisdom, perhaps, meant to show the necessity of storing the mind copi- ously "vvith true notions, before the imagination should be suffered to form fictions or collect em- bellishments ; for the ^^•orks of an ignorant poet can afford nothing higher than pleasing sound, and fiction is of no other use than to display the treasures of memory. The necessity of memory to the acquisition of knowledge is inevitably felt and universally al- lowed, so that scarcely any other of the mental faculties are commonly considered as necessary to a student : he that admires the proficiency of another, always attributes it to the happiness of this memory ; and he that laments his own de- fects, concludes with a wish that his memory was better. It is evident that when the power of retention is weak, all the attempts at eminence of know- ledge must be vain ; and as few are willing to be doomed to perpetual ignorance, I may, per- haps, afford consolation to some that have fallen too easily into despondence, by observing that such weakness is, in my opinion, veiy rare, and that few have reason to complain of nature as unkindly sparing of the gifts of memory. In the common business of life, we find the memory of one like that of another, and honestly 80 THE IDLER. [No. 75. impute omissions not to involuntary forget- fulness, but culpable inattention ; but in literary inqixiries, failure is imputed rather to want of- memory than of diligence. We consider ourselves as defective in me- mory, either because we remember less than we desire, or less than we suppose others to remem- ber. Memory is like all other human powers, with which no man can be satisfied %vho measures them by what he can conceive, or by what he can desire. He whose mind is most capacious, finds it much too narrow for his wishes ; he that remembers most, remembers little compart d with what he forgets. He, therefore, that, after the perusal of a book, finds few ideas remaining in his mind, is not to consider the disappointment as peculiar to himself, or to re- sign all hopes of improvement, because he does not retain what even the author has, perhaps, forgotten. He who compares his memory with that of others, is often too hasty to lament the inequali- ty. Nature has sometimes, indeed, afforded examples of enormous, wonderful, and gigantic memory. Scaliger reports of himself, that, in his youth, he could repeat abovft a hundred verses, having once read them. ; and Barthicus declares that he wrote his " Comment upon Cladian" without consulting the text. But not to have such degrees of memory is no more to be la- mented than not to have the strength of Her- cules, or the swiftness of Achilles. He that, in the distribution of good, has an equal share with common men, may justly be contented. Where there is no striking disparity, it is difficult to know of two which remembers most, and still more difficult to discover which reads with greater attention, which has renewed the first impression by more frequent repetitions, or by what accidental combination of ideas either mind might have united any particular narra- tive or argument to its former stock. But memory, however impartially distribu- ted, so often deceives our trust, that almost every man attempts, by some artifice or other, to secm-e its fidelity. It is the practice of many readers to note, in the margin of their books, the most important passages, the strongest arguments, or the bright- est sentiments. Thus they load their minds with superfluous attention, repress the vehe- mence of curiosity by useless deliberation, and by frequent interruption break the current of narration or the chain of reasoning, and at last close the volume, and forget the passages and marks together. Others I have found unalterably persuaded that nothing is certainly remembered but what is transcribed ; and they have, therefore, passed weeks and months in transfeiTing large quota- tions to a common-place book. Yet why any part of a book, which can be consulted at pleas- ure, should be copied, I was never able to dis- cover. The hand has no closer correspondence with the memory than the eye. The act of writing itself distracts the thoughts, and what is read twice, is commonly better remember- ed than what is transcribed. The method, therefore, consumes time without assisting memory. The true art of memory is the art of atten- tion. No man will read with much advantage who is not able, at pleasure, to evacuate his mind, or who brings not to his author, an intellect defecated and pure, neither turbid with care, nor agitated by pleasure. If the repositories of thought are already full, what can they receive ; if the mind is employed on the past or future, the book will be held before the eyes in vain. What is read with delight 18 commonly retained, because pleasure always se- cures attention ; but the books which are con- sulted by occasional necessity, and perused with impatience, seldom leave any ti'aces on the mind. No. 75.] Saturday, Sept. 22, 1759. In the time when Bassora was considered as the school of Asia, and flourished by the repu- tation of its professors, and the confluence of its students, among the pupils that listened round the chair of Albamazar vi^as Gelaleddin, a native of Tauris, in Persia, a young man, amiable in his manners and beautiful in his form, of boundless curiosity, incessant diligence, and irresistible genius, of quick apprehension, and tenacious memory, accurate without narrow- ness, and eager for novelty without inconstan- cy. No sooner did Gelaleddin appear at Bassora, than his virtues and abilities raised him to dis- tinction. He passed from class to class rather admired than envied by those whom the rapid- ity of his progress left behind : he was consult- ed by his fellow-students as an oraculous guide, and admitted as a competent auditor to the con- ferences of the sages. After a few years, having passed through all the exercises of probation, Gelaleddin was in- vited to a professor's seat, and intreated to in- crease the splendour of Bassora. Gelaleddin af- fected to deliberate on the proposal, with which, before he considered it, he resolved to comply ; and next morning retired to a garden planted > for the recreation of the students, and entering | a solitary walk, began to meditate upon his fu- ture life. " If I am thus eminent," said he, " in the regions of literatmre, I shall be yet more con Xo. 76.] THE IDLER. 81 spicuous in any other place ; if I should now devote myself to study and retirement, I must pass my life in silence, unacquainted with the delights of wealth, the influence of power, the pomp of greatness, and the charms of elegance, with all that man envies and desires, with all that keeps the world in motion, by the hope of gaining or the fear of losing it. I will, there- fore, depart to Tauris, where the Persian monarch resides in all the splendour of absolute dominion : my reputation will fly before me, my arrival will be congratulated by my kins- men and friends ; 1 shall see the eyes of those who predicted my greatness sparkling with exultation, and the faces of those that once despised me clouded with envy, or counterfeit- ing kindness by artificial smiles. I will show my wisdom by my discourse, and my modera- tion by my silence ; I will instruct the modest v.'ith easy gentleness, and repress the ostentatious by seasonable superciliousness. My apartments will be crowded by the inquisitive, and the vain, by those that honour and those that rival me ; my name will soon reach the court ; I shall stand before the throne of the emperor; the judges of the law ivill confess my wisdom, and the nobles will contend to heap gifts upon me. If 1 shall find that my merit, like that of others, excites malignity, or feel myself totter- ing on the seat of elevation, I may at last retire to academical obscurity, and become, in my lowest state, a professor of Bassora." Having thus settled his determination, he de- clared to his friends his design of visiting Tauris, and saw with more i»leasure than he ventured to express, the regret with which he was dis- missed. He could not bear to delay the honours to which he was designed, and therefore hasten- ed away, and in a short time entered the cap- ital of Persia. He was immediately immersed in the crowd, and passed unobserved to his father's house. He entered, and was received, though not unkindly, yet without any excess of fondness, or exclamations of rapture. His father had, in his absence, suffered many losses, and Gelaleddin was considered as an additional burden to a falling family. When he recovered from his surprise, he be- gan to display his acqxiisitions, and practised all the arts of narration and disposition : but the poor have no leisure to be pleased with elo- quence ; they heard his arg-uments without re- flection, and his pleasantries without a smile. He then applied himself singly to his brothers and sisters, but found them all chained down ' by invariable attention to their own fortunes, ' and insensible of any other excellence than that which could bring seme remedy for indigence. I It was new known in the neighbourhood that Gelaleddin was returned, and he sat for some I days in expectation that the learned would visit ■ him for consultation, or the great for entertain- ment. But who would be pleased or instructed in the mansions of poverty ? He then frequent- ed places of public resort, and endeavoured to attract notice by the copiousness of his talk. The sprightly were silenced, and went away to censure in some other place his arrogance and his pedantry ; and the duU listened quietly for a while, and then wondered why any man should take pains to obtain so much knowledge which would never do him good. He next solicited the viziers for employment, not doubting' but his service would be eagerly accepted. He was told by one that there was no vacancy in his office; by anothei-, that his merit was above any patronage but that of the emperor ; by a third, that he would not forget him ; and by the chief vizier, that he did not think literature of any great use in public busi- ness. He was sometimes admitted to their tables, where he exerted his wit and diffused his knowledge ; but he observed, that where, by en- deavour or accident, he had remarkably excelled, he was seldom invited a second time. He now returned to Bassora, wearied and disgusted, but confident of resuming his former rank, and reveling again in satiety of praise. But he who had been neglected at Tauris, was not much regarded at Bassora; he was con- sidered as a fugitive, who returned only because he could live in no other place ; his companions found that they had formerly over-rated his abili- ties, and he lived long without notice or esteem. No. 76.] Satuuday, Sei-t. S9, 1759. TO THE IDLER. Sir, I WAS much pleased with your ridicule of those shallow critics, whose judgment, though often right as far as it goes, yet reaches only to in- ferior beauties, and who, unable to comprehend the whole, judge only by parts, and from thence determine the merit of extensive works. But there is another kind of critic still worse, who judges by narrow rules, and those too often false, and which, though they should be true, and founded on nature, will lead him but a very little way toward the just estimation of the sublime beauties in works of genius; for what- ever part of an art can be executed or criticiired by rules, that jart is no longer the work of genius, which implies excellence out of the reach of rules. P'or my own part I profess myself an Idler, and love to give my judgment, such as it is, from my immediate perceptions without much fatigiie of thinking: and I am of opinion, that if a man has not those perceptions right, it will be vain for him to endeavour to M 82 THE IDI.ER. [No. 77. supply their place by rules, Avliich may enable him to talk more learnedly, but not to distin- guish more acutely. Another reason which has lessened my affection for the study of criti- cism is, that critics, so far as I have observed, debar themselves from receiving any pleasure from the polite arts, at the same time that they profess to love and admire them : for these rules, being always uppermost, give them such a propensity to criticise, that instead of giving up the reins of their imagination into their author's hands, their frigid minds are employed in examining whether the performance be ac- cording to the rules of art. To those who are I'esolved to be critics in spite of nature, and at the same time have no great disposition to much reading and study, I would recommend to them to assume the char- acter of connoisseur, which may be purchased at a much cheaper rate than that of a critic in poetry. The remembrance of a few names of painters, with their general characters, with a few rules of the academy, which they may pick up among the painters, wiU go a great way towards making a very notable connoisseur. With a gentleman of this cast, I visited last week the Cartoons at Hampton-court ; he was just returned from Italy, a connoisseur of course, and of coiu'se his mouth full of nothing, but the grace of Raifaelle, the purity of Domi- nichlno, the learning of Poussin, and the air of Guido, the greatness of taste of the Carrachis, and the sublimity and grand contorno of Michael Angelo ; with all the rest of the cant of criti- cism, which he emitted with that volubility which generally those orators have who annex no ideas to their words. As we were passing through the rooms, in our way to the gallery, I made him observe a whole length of Charles the First, by Vandyke, as a perfect representation of the character as well as the figure of the man. He agreed it was very fine, but it wanted spirit and contrast, and had not the flowing line, without which a figure could not possibly be graceful. When we entered the gallery, I thought I could per- ceive him recollecting his rules by which he was to ci'iticise RaiFaeUe. I shall pass over his observation of the boots being too little, and other criticismis of that kind, till we arrived at St. Paul preaching. "This," says he, "is esteemed the most excellent of all the <;artoons ; what nobleness, what dignity there is in that figure of St. Paul ! and yet what an addition to that nobleness could RafFaelle have given, had the art of contrast been known in his time ! but, above all, the flowing line, which consti- tutes grace and beauty ! You would not have then seen an upright figure standing equally on both legs, and both hands stretched forward in the same direction, and his drapery, to all ap- jpearance, without the least art of disposition." The following picture is the Charge to Peter. " Here," says he, "are twelve upright figures; what a pity it is that Raffaelle was not ac- quainted with the pyramidal principle ! He would theik have contrived the figures in the middle to have been on higher ground, or the figures at the extremities stooping or lying, which would not only have formed the gi-oup into the shape of a pyramid, but likewise con- trasted the standing figures. Indeed," added he, " I have often lamented that so great a genius as Raff"aelle had not lived in this enlight- ened age, since the art has been reduced to prin- ciples, and had had his education in one of the modern academies ; what glorious works might we then have expected from his divine pencil '" I shall trouble you no longer with my fi'iend's observations, which, I suppose, you arc now able to continue by yourself. It is curious to observe, that, at the same time that great ad- miration is pretended for a name of fixed re- putation, objections are raised against those very qualities by which that gi'eat name was ac- quired. Those critics are continually lamenting that RafFaelle had not the colouring and harmony of Rubens, or the light and shadow of Rem- brant, without considering hoAV much the gay harmony of the former, and affectation of the lat- ter, would take from the dignity of Raffaelle; and yet Rubens had great harmony, and Rcm- brant understood light and shadow ; but what may be an excellence in a lower class of paint- ing, becomes a blemish in a higher; as the quick, sprightly turn, which is the life and beauty of epigrammatic compositions, would but ill suit with the majesty of heroic poetry. To conclude ; I would not be thought to in- fer from any thing that has been said, that rules are absolutely unnecessary; but to censure scrupulosity, a servile attention to minute ex- actness, which is sometimes inconsistent with higher excellency, and is lost in the blaze of expanded genius. I do not know whether you will think paint- ing a general subject. By inserting this letter, perhaps, you will incur the censure a man, would deserve, whose business being to enter- tain r, whole room, should turn his back to the company, and talk to a particular person. I am, Sir, &c. No. 77.] SATUKnAY, Oct. 6, 1759. Easy poetry is universally admired ; but I know not whether any rule has yet been fixed, by which it may be decided when poetry can be properly called easy. Horace has told us, that it is such as " every reader hopes to equal, but No. 78:] THE IDLE R. S3 after long labour finds unattainable." This is a very loose description, in which only the effect is noted ; the qualities which produce this effect remain to be investigated. Easy poetry is that in which natural thoughts are expressed without violence to the language, ' The discriminating character of ease consists principally in the diction ; for all true poetry requires that the sentiments be natural. Lan- guage suffers violence by harsh or by daring ' figures, by transposition, by unusual accepta- ! tions of words, and by any license which would j be avoided by a writer of prose. "Where any ' artifice appears in the construction of the verse, ' that verse is no longer easy. Any epithet which can be ejected without diminution of the sense, ' any curious iteration of the same word, and all unusual, though not imgrammatical structure of speech, destroy the grace of easy poetry. The first lines of Pope's Iliad afford examples of many licenses which an easy writer must de- cline : — ■ Achilles' wrath, to Greece the direful spring Of woes unnumber'd heavenly goddess sing, The wrath which hurl'd to Pluto's gloomy reign The souls of michty chiefs untimely slain. In the first couplet the language is distorted by inversions, clogged with superfluities, and clouded by a harsh metaphor ; and in the second there are two words used in an uncommon sense, and two epithets inserted only to length- en the line ; all these practices may in a long work easily be pardoned, but they always pro- duce some degree of obscurity and ruggedness. Easy poetry has been so long excluded by am- bition of ornament, and luxm-iance of imagery, thatitsnatureseems now to be forgotten. Afiecta- I tion, however opposite to ease, is sometimes mis- ! taken for it : and those who aspire to gentle ele- i gance, collect female phrases and fashionable bar- ! barisms, and imagine that style to be easy which custom has made familiar. Such was the idea of the poet who wrote the following verses to a countess cutting paper: — Pallas grew vap'rish once and odd. She would not do the least right thing Either for goddess or for god, Nor work, nor play, nor paint, nor sing. Jove frowned, and " Use," he cried, " those eyes So skilful, and those hands so taper ; Do something exquisite and wise."— She bow'd, obey'd him, and cut paper. This vexing him who gave her birth. Thought by all heaven a burning shame, V/hat does she next, but Lids on earth Her Burlington do just the same! Pallas, you give yourself strange airs ; But sure you'll find it hard to spoil The sense and taste of one that bears The name of Saville and of Boyle. Alas ! OLO I a 1 example shown. How quickly all the sex pursue ! See, Madam .' see the arts o'erthrowu Between John Overton and you. It is the prerogative of easy poetry to be un- derstood as long as the language lasts; but modes of speech, which owe their prevalence only to modish folly, or to the eminence of those that use them, die away with their inventors, and their meaning, in a few years, is no longer known. Easy poetry is commonly sought in petty com- positions upon minute subjects ; but ease, though it excludes pomp, will admit greatness. Many lines in Cato's soliloquy are at once easy and sublime : — The divinity that stirs within us ; 'Tis heaven itself that points oui an hereafter. And intimates eternity to man. If there is a power above us. And that there is all nature cr^es aloud Thro' all her works, he must delight in virtue. And that which he delights in must be happy. Nor is ease more contrary to wit than to sub- limity: the celebrated stanza of Cowley, on a lady elaborately dressed, loses nothing of its freedom by the spirit of the sentiuicut : — Th' adorning tlee with so much art Is but a barbarous ski'.l, 'Tis like the pois'ning of a dart, Too apt before to kill. Cowley seems to have possessed the power of wi'iting easily beyond any other of our poets ; yet his pursuit of remote thoughts led him often into harshness of expression. Waller often at- tempted, but seldom attained it ; for he is too frequently driven into transpositions. The poets, from the time of Dryden, have gradually ad- vanced in embellishment, and cousequeiitly de- parted from simplicity and ease. To require from any author many pieces of easy poetry, would be, indeed, to oppress him with too hard a task. It is less difficult to write a volume ot lines swelled with epithets, bright- ened by figures, and stiffened by transpositions, than to produce a few couplets graced only by naked elegance and simple purity, which re quires so much care and skill, that I doubt whe ther any of our authors have yet been able, fo twenty lines together, nicely to obsei've the tru definition of easy poetry. No. 78.] Saturday, Oct. 13, 1759. I HAVE passed the summer in one of tlios', pliu-es to >vnich a minerjU spring gives the idle 84 THE IDLER. and liixvii'ioiis an annual reason for resorting, whenever they fancy themselves offended by the heat of I^ondon. What is the true motive of this periodical assembly I have never yet been able to dis.:over. The greater part of the visi- tants neither feel diseases nor fear them. What pleasure can be expected, more than the variety of the journey, I know not, for the numbers are too great for privacy, and too small for diver- sion. As each is known to be a spy upon the rest, they all live in continual restraint ; and having but a narrow range for censure, they gi'atify its cravings by preying on one another. But every condition has some advantages. In this confinement a smaller circle affords oppor- tunities for more exact observation. The glass that magnifies its object contracts the sight to a point ; and the mind must be fixed upon a single character to remark its minute peculiarities. The quality or habit which passes unobserved in the tumult of successive multitudes, becomes con- spicuous -when it is offered to the notice day after day ; and perhaps I have, without any distinct notice, seen thousands, like my late companions ; for when the scene can be varied at pleasure, a slight disgust turns us aside before a deep impression can be made upon the mind. There was a select set, supposed to be distin- guished by superiority of intellects, who always passed the evening together. To be admitted to their conversation was the highest honour of the place; many youths aspired to distinc- tion, by pretending to occasional invitations ! and the ladies were often wishing to be men, that they might partake the pleasm-es of learned society. I know not whether by merit or destiny, I was, soon after my arrival, admitted to this en- vied party, which I frequented till I had learn- ed the art by which each endeavoured to sup- port his character. Tom Steady was a vehement assertor of un- controverted tnith ; and by keeping himself out of the reach of contradiction had acquired all the confidence which the consciousness of ir- resistible abilities could have given. I was once mentioning a man of eminence, and after having recounted his vu'tues, endeavoured to represent him fully, by naentioning his faults. *' Sir," said Mi\ Steady, " that he has faults I can easily believe, for who is without them ? No man. Sir, is now alive, among the in- numerable multitudes that swarm upon the earth, however wise, or however good, who has not, in some degree, his failings and his faults. If there be any man faultless, bring him forth into public view, show him openly, and let him be known ; but I will venture to affirm, and, till the contrary be plainly shown, shall always maintain, that no such man is to bo found, Tell not me. Sir, of impeccability [No. 78. and perfection ; such talk is for those that are strangers in the world ; I have seen several na- tions, and conversed with all ranks of people; I have known the great and the mean, the learned and the ignorant, the old and the young, the clerical and the lay ; but I have never found a man without a fault ; and I suppose shall die in the opinion, that to be human is to be frail." To all this nothing could be opposed. I list- ened with a hanging head : Mr. Steady looked round on the hearers with triumph, and saw every eye congratulating his victory ; he de- parted, and spent the next morning in following those who retired from the company, and tell- ing them, with injunctions of secresy, how poor Sprightly began to take liberties with men wiser than himself; but that he suppressed hira by a decisive argument, which put him totally to silence. Dick Snug is a man of sly remark and pithy sententiousness ; he never immerges himself in the stream of conversation, but lies to catch his companions in the eddy : he is often very suc- cessful in breaking narratives, and confounding eloquence. A gentleman, giving the histoiy of one of his acquaintance, made mention of a lady that had many lovers: " Then," said Dick, " she was either handsome or rich." This observation being well received, Dick watched the progress of the tale ; and hearing of a man lost in a shipwreck, remarked, that " no man was ever drowned upon dry land." Will Startle is a man of exquisite sensibility, whose delicacy of frame, and quickness of dis- cernment, subject him to impressions from the slightest causes ; and who, therefore, passes his life between rapture and horror, in quiverings of delight, or convulsions of disgust. His emo- tions are too violent for many words ; his thoughts are always discovered by exclamations. " Vile, odious, hon-id, detestable," and "sweet, charming, delightful, astonishing," compose al- most his whole vocabulary, which he utters with various contortions and gesticulations, not easily related or described. Jack Solid is a man of much reading, who utters nothing but quotations ; but having been, I suppose, too confident of his memory, he has for some time neglected his books, and his stock grows every day more scanty. Mr. Solid has found an opportunity every night to repeat, from Hudibras, Douhtless the pleasure is as great Of being cheated, as to cheat ; and from Waller, Poets lose half (he praise they would have got, Were it hut known what they discretely blot. Dick Misty is a man of deep research, and forcible penetration. Others are content with superficial appearances : but Dick holds, that No. 79.] THE IDLER. 85 tKere is no effect without a cause, ami values 1 himself upon his power of explaining the diffi- culty, and displaying the abstruse. Upon a dis- pute among us, which of two young strangers was more beautiful, " You," says ISIr. Misty, turning to me, " lilce Amaranthia better than CUoris. I do not wonder at the preference, for the cause is evident ; there is in man a percep- tion of harmony, and a sensibility of perfection, which touches the finer fibres of the mental tex- ture; and before reason can descend from her throne, to pass her sentence upon the things compared, drives us towards the object propor- tioned to our faculties, by an impulse gentle, yet irresistible; for the harmonic system of the uni- verse, and the reciprocal magnetism of similar natures, are always operating towards confor- mity and vmion ; nor can the powers of the soul cease from agitation, till they find something on which they can repose." To this nothing was opposed ; and Amaranthia was acknowledged to excel Chloris. Of the rest you may expect an account from. Sir, yours, Robin Spritely. No. 79.] Saturday, Oct. 20, 1759. TO THE IDLER. Sir, Your acceptance of a former letter on painting, gives me encouragement to offer a few more sketches on the same subject. Amongst the painters and the writers on paint- ing, there is one maxim universally admitted, and continually iticukated. Imitate nature is the invariable rule ; but I know none who have explained in Avhat manner this rule is to be un- derstood ; the consequence of which is, that every one takes it in the most obvious sense, that objects are represented naturally when they have such relief tliat they seem real. It may appear strange, pei'haps, to hear this sense of the rule disputed ; but it must be considered, that, if the excellence of a painter consisted only in this kind of imitation, painting must lose its rank, and be no longer considered as a liberal art, and sister to poetry, this imitation being merely mechanical, in which the slowest intellect is always sure to succeed best ; for the painter of genius cannot stoop to drudgery, in which the understanding has no part; and what pretence has the art to claim kindred with poetry, but by its powers over the imagination ? To tliis power the painter of genius directs his aim ; in this ipnse he studies nature, and often arrives at his end, even by being uanaiEui-al in the confined eensff of the word. Tlie grand style of painting requires this mi- nute attention to be carefully avoided, and must be kept as separate from it as the style of poetry from that of history. Poetical ornaments de- stroy that air of truth and plainness which ought to characterise history ; but the very being of poetry consists in departing from this plain narration, and adopting every ornam^ent that will wann the imagination. To desire to see the excellencies of each style united, to mingle the Dutch with the Italian school, is to join con- trarieties which cannot subsist together, and which destroy the efficacy of each other. The Italian attends only to the invariable, the gi-eat and general ideas v/hich are fixed and inherent in universal nature ; the Dutch, on the con- trary, to literal truth, and a minute exactness in the detail, as 1 may say of nature modified by accident. The attention to these petty peculi- arities is the very cause of this naturalness, so much admired in the Dutch pictures, which, if we suppose it to be a beauty, is certainly of a lower order, wliich ought to give place to a beauty of a superior kind, since one cannot be obtained but by departing from the other. If my opinion was asked concerning the works of Michael Angelo, whether tliey would receive any advantage from possessing this mechanical merit, I should not scruple to say they would not only receive no advantage, but would lose, in a great measure, the elTeot whidi tliey now have on every mind susceptible of great and noble ideas. His works may be said to be all genius and soul ; and wliy should they be load- ed with heavy matter, which can only counter- act his purpose by retarding tlie progress of the imagination? If this opinion should be tliought one of the wild extravagancies of enthusiasm, I shall only say, that those who censure it are not conver- sant in the works of tlie groat masters. It is very difficult to determine the exact decree of enthusiasm that tiie arts of painting and poetry may admit. Tliere may pcriiaps be too great an indulgence, as well as too great a restraint of imagination ; and if the one produces incoherent monsters, the other produces what is full as bad, lifeless insipidity. An intimate knowledge of the passions, and good sense, but not common sense, must at last determine its limits. It has been thought, and I believe with reason, that Michael Angelo sometimes transgressed those limits ; and 1 think I have seen figures of him of which it was very difficult to determine whe- ther they were in the highest degree sublime or extremely ridiculous. Such faults may be said to be the ebullitions of genius ; but at least he had this merit, that he never was insipid, and what- ever passion his works may excite, they wiU always escape contempt. What I have had under consideration is the sublimest style, paiticularly that of Michael 86 THE IDLER. [No. 80. Angelo, the Homer of painting. Other kinds may admit of this naturalness, wliich of the lowest kind is the chief merit ; but in painting, as in poetry, the highest style has the least of common nature. One may very safely recommend a little more enthusiasm to the modern painters : too much is certainly not the vice of the present age. The Italians seem to have been continually declining in this respect from the time of Michael Angelo to that of Carlo Maratti, and from thence to the very bathos of insipidity to which they are now sunk ; so that there is no need of remark- ing, that where I mentioned the Italian painters in opposition to the Dutch, I mean not the mod- erns, but the heads of the old Roman and Bol- ognian schools ; nor did I mean to include in my idea of an Italian painter, the Venetian school, which may he said to be the Dutch part of the Italian genius. I have only to add a word of advice to the painters, that however excellent they may be in painting naturally, they would not flatter themselves very much upon, it ; and to the connoisseur's, that when they see a cat or fiddle painted so finely, that as the phrase is, " It looks as if you could take it up," they would not for that reason immediate- ly compare the painter to RaffaeUe and Michael Angelo. No. 80.] Saturday, Oct. 27, 1759. That every day has its pains and sorrows is universally experienced, and almost universally confessed ; but let us not attend only to mourn- ful truths ; if we look impartially about us, we shall find that every day has likewise its pleasures and its joys. The time is now come when the tovm is again beginning to be full, and the rusticated beauty sees an end of her banishment. Those whom the tyranny of fashion had condemned to pass the summer among shades and brooks, are now preparing to return to plays, balls, and assem- blies, with health restored by retirement, and spirits kindled by expectation. Many a mind, which has languished some months without emotion or desire, now feels a sudden renovation of its faculties. It was long ago observed by Pythagoras, that ability and necessity dwell near each other. She that •wandered in the garden without sense of its fra- grance, and lay day after day stretched upon a couch behind a green curtain, unwilling to wake and unable to sleep, now summons her thoughts to consider which of her last year's clothes shall be seen again, and to anticipate the raptures of a new suit ; the day and the night are now filled with occupation ; the laces, wliich were too fine to be worn among rustics, are taken from the boxes, and reviewed, and the eye is no sooner closed after its labours, than whole shops of silk busy the fancy. But happiness is nothing if it is not known, and very little if it is not envied. Before the day of departure a week is alwaya appropriated to the payment and reception of ceremonial visits, at which nothing can be mentioned but the de- lights of London. The lady who is hastening to the scene of action, flutters her wings, dis- plays her prospect of felicity, teUs how she grudges every moment of delay, and, in the pre- sence of those whom she knows condemned to stay at home, is sure to wonder by what ai'ts life can be made supportable through a winter in the country, and to tell how often, amidst the ecstacies of an opera, she shall pity those friends whom she has left behind. Her hope of giving pain is seldom disappointed : the af- fected indifference of one, the faint congratula- tions of another, the wishes of some openly con- fessed, and the silent dejection of the rest, all exalt her opinion of her own superiority. But, however we may labour for our own deception, truth, though unwelcome, will some- times intrude upon the mind. They who have already enjoyed the crowds and noise of the great city, know that their desire to retm-n is lit- tle more than the restlessness of a A^acant mind, that they are not so much led by hope as driven by disgust, and wish rather to leave the country than to see the town. There is commonly in every coach a passenger enwTapped in silent ex- pectation, whose joy is more sincei-e, and whose hopes are more exalted. The virgin w bom the last summer released from her governess, and who is now going between her mother and her aimt to try the fortune of her wit and beauty, suspects no fallacy in the gay representation. She believes herself passing into another world, and images London as an Elysian region, where every hour has its proper pleasxire, where no- thing is seen but the blaze of wealth, and no- thing heard but merriment and flattery ; where the morning always rises on a show, and the evening closes on a ball ; where the ej-ea are used only to sparkle, and the feet only to dance. Her aunt and her mother amuse themselves on the road, with telling her of dangers to be dreaded, and cautions to be observed. She hears them as they heard their predecessors, with in- credulity or contempt. She sees that they have ventured and escaped ; and one of the pleasures which she promises herself is, to detect their falsehoods, and be freed from their admoni- tions. We are inclined to believe those whom we do not know, because they have never deceived us. The fair adventurer may perhaps listen to the Idler, \\ horn she caraiot suspect of rivalry or No. 81.] THE IDLER. 87 malice; yet he scarcely experts to be credited when he tells her, that her expectations will likewise end in disappointment. The uniform necessities of human nature produce in a great measure uniformity of life, and for part of the day make one place like an- other ; to dress and undress, to eat and to sleep, are the same in London as in the country. The supernumei-ary hours have indeed a gi'eater variety both of pleasure and of pain. The stranger, gazed on by multitudes at her fii"st ap- pearance in the Park, is perhaps on the highest summit of female happiness : hut how great is the anguish when the novelty of another face draws her worshippers away ! The heart may leap for a time imder a fine gown ; but the sight of a gown yet finer puts an end to rapture. In the first row at an opera, two houi's may be happily passed in listening to the music on the stage, and watching the glances of the company ; but how will the night end in despondency when she that imagined herself the sovereign of the place, sees lords contending to lead Iris to her chair ! There is little pleasure in conversation to her whose wit is regarded but in the second place ; and who can dance with ease or spirit that sees Amaryllis led out before her? She that fancied nothing but a succession of pleas- ures, will find herself engaged without design in numberless competitions, and mortified with- out provocation with numberless afflictions. But I do not mean to extinguish that ardour which I wish to moderate, or to discourage those whom I am endeavouring to restrain. To know the world is necessary, since we are born for the help of one another ; and to knoiv it early is convenient, if it be only that we may learn early to despise it. She that brings to London a mind well prepared for improvement, though she misses her hope of uninterrupted happiness, will gain in return an opportunity of adding knowledge to vivacity, and enlarging in- nocence to virtue. No. 81.] Saturday, Nov. 3, 1759. As the English army was passing towards Quebec, along a soft savanna between a moun- tain and a lake, one of the petty chiefs of the inland regions stood upon a rock surrounded by his clan, and from behind the shelter of the bushes contemplated the art and regularity of . European war. It was evening, the tents were pitched : he observed the security with which the troops rested in the night, and the order j with which the march was renewed in the morning. He continued to pursue them with [ his eye till they could be seen no longer, and then stood for some time silent and pensive. I Then turning to his followers, " My child- ren," said he, " 1 have often heard from men hoary with long life, that there was a time when our ancestors were absolute lords of the woods, the meadows, and the lakes, wherever the eye can reach, or the foot can pass. They fished and hunted, feasted and danced, and, when they were weary lay down vmder the first thicket, without danger, and without fear. They changed their habitations as the seasons required, convenience prompted, or curiosity allured them ; and sometimes gathered the fruits of the mountain, and sometimes sported in ca- noes along the coast. " Many years and ages are supposed to have been thus passed in plenty and security ; when, at last, u new race of men entered our country from the great ocean. They inclosed themselves in habitations of stone, which our ancestors could neither enter by violence, nor destroy by fire. They issued from those fastnesses, some- times, covered like the armadillo with shells, from which the lance rebounded on the striker, and sometimes carried by mighty beasts which had never been seen in our vales or forests, of such strength and swiftness, that flight and ©i)- position were vain alike. Those invadera ranged over the continent, slaughtering in their rage those that resisted, and those that sub- mitted, in their mirth. Of those that remain- ed, some were buried in caverns, and condemned to dig metals for their masters ; some were em- ployed in tilling the ground, of which foreign tyrants devour the produce ; and, when the sword and the mines have destroyed the natives, they supply their place by human beings of an- other colour, brought from some distant country to perish here under toil and torture. " Some there are who boast their humanity, and content themselves to seize our chaces and fisheries, who drive us from every track of ground where fertility and pleasantness invite them to settle, and make no war upon us ex- cept when we intrude upon our own lands. " Others pretend to have purchased a right of residence and tyranny ; but surely the insolence of such bargains is more offensive than the avowed and open dominion offeree. "What re- ward can induce the possessor of a country to admit a stranger more powerful than himself? Fraud or terror must operate in such contracts; either they promised protection which they never have afforded, or instruction which they never impai-ted. We hoped to be secured by their favour from some other evil, or to learn the arts of Europe, by which we might be able to secure ourselves. Their power they never have exerted in our defence, and their arts they have studiously concealed from us. Their treaties are only to deceive, and their trafiic only to de- fraud us. They have a written law among them, of which they boast as derived from Hiin 68 THE IDLER. [No. 82. who made the earth and sea, and by wliuli they profess to believe that man will be made hai>])y when life shall forsake him. Why is not this law communicated to us ? It is concealed be- cause it is violated. For how can they pi'each it to an Indian nation, when I am told that one of its first precepts forbids them to do to others what they would not that others should do to them? " But the time perhaps is new approaching when the pride of usurpation shall be crushed, and the cruelties of invasion shall be revenged. The sons of rapacity have now drawn their swords upon each other, and referred their claims to the decision of war ; let us look uncon- cerned upon the slaughter, and remember that the death of every European delivers the coun- try from a tyrant and a robber ; for what is the claim of either nation, but the claim of the vul- ture to- the leveret, of the tiger to the fawn? Let them then continue to dispute their title to re- gions which they cannot people, to purchase by danger and blood the empty dignity of dominion over mountains which they will never climb, and rivers Avhich they will never pass. Let us endeavour in the mean time, to learn their dis- cipline, and to forge their weapons ; and, when they shall be weakened with mutual slaughter, let us rush down upon them, force their remains to take shelter in their ships, and reign once jnore in our native country." ^o. 82.] SATuaDAY, Nov. 10, 1759. TO THE IDLER. Sir, Discoursing in my last letter on the different practice of the Italian and Dutch painters, 1 ob- served, that " the Italian painter attends only to the invariable, the great and general ideas which ai"e fixed and inherent in universal na- ture." I was led into the subject of this letter by en- deavouring to fix the original cause of this con- duct of the Italian masters. If it can be. proved that by this choice they selected the most beauti- ful pai-t of the creation, it will show how much their principles are founded on reason, and, at the same time, discover the origin of oui- ideas of beauty. 1 suppose it will be easily granted, that no man can judge whether any animal be beautiful in its kind, or deibrmed, who has seen only one of that species ; that is as conclusive in regard to the human figure ; so that if a man, born blind, was to recover his sight, and the most beautiful woman was brought before him, he could not determine whether she was handsome or not ; nor, if the most beautiful and most Re- formed were produced, could he any better de- termine to which he should give the preference, having seen only those two. To distinguish beauty, then, implies the having seen many in- dividuals of that species. If it is asked, how is more skill acquired by the observation of great- er numbers ? I answer, that, in consequence of having seen many, the power is acquired, even without seeking after it, of distinguishing be- tween accidental blemishes and excrescences which are continually varying the surface of Nature's works, and the invariable general form which nature most frequently produces, and al. ways seems to intend in her productions. Thus amongst the blades of grass or leaves of the same tree, though no two can be found ex- actly alike, yet the general form is invariable : a naturalist, before he chose one as a sample, Avould examine manj', since, if he took the first that occurred, it might haA^e, by accident, or othei-wise, such a form as that it would scarcely be known to belong to that species; he selects, as the painter does, the most beautiful, that is, the most general form of nature. Every species of the animal as well as the ve- getable creation may be said to have a fixed or determinate fjrm towards which nature is con- tinually inclining, like various lines terminating in the centre ; or it m^ay be compared to pendu- lums vibrating in different directions over one central point, and as they all cross the, centre, though only one passes through any other point, so it will be found that perfect beauty is oftener produced by nature than deformity ; I do not mean than deformity in general, but than any one kind of defor«iity. To instance in a parti- cular part of a feature : the line that forms the ridge of the nose is beautiful Avhen it is straight ; this then is the central form, which is oftener found than either concave, convex, or any other irregular form that shall be proposed. As we are then more accustomed to beauty than defor- mity, we may conclude that to be the reason why we approve and admire it, as we approve and admire customs, and fashions of dress for no other reason than that we are used to them, so that though habit and custom cannot be said to be the cause of beauty, it is certainly the cause of our liking it ; and I have no doubt but that, if we were more used to deformity than beauty, deformity would then lose the idea now annex- ed to it, and take that of beauty; as, if the whole Avorld should agree that yes and no should change their meanings, yes would then deny, and no would aflfinaa. Whoever undertakes to proceed farther in this argument, and endeavours to fix a general crite- rion of beauty respecting different species, or to show why one species is more beautiful than another, it will be required from him first to prove that one species is more beautiful than No. 83.] THE IDLER. 89 another. That we prefer one to the other, and with very good reason, will be readily granted ; but it does not follow from thence that we think it a more beautiful form ; for we have no cri- terion of form by which to determine our judg- ment. He who says a swan is more beautiful than a dove, means little more than that he has more pleasure in seeing a swan than a dove, either from the stateliness of its motions, or its being a more rare bird ; and he who gives the preference to the dove, does it from some associa- tion of ideas of innocence that he always annex- es to the dove ; but if he pretends to defend the preference he gives to one or the other by endea- vouring to prove that this more beautiful form proceeds from a particular gradation of magni- tude, undulation of a curve, or direction of a line, or whatever other conceit of his imagination he shall fix on as a criteiion of form, he will be continually contradicting himself, and find at last that the great mother of nature will not be subjected to such narrow rules. Among the various reasons why we prefer one part of her works to another, the most general, I believe, is habit and custom ; custom makes, in a certain sense, white black, and black white ! it is cus- tom alone determines our preference of the col- our of the Europeans to the ^Ethiopians ; and they, for the same reason, prefer their own col- our to ours. I suppose nobody will doubt, if one of their painters were to paint the goddess of beauty, but that he would represent her black, with thick lips, flat nose, and woolly hair ; and, it seems tome, he would act very unnaturally if he did not ; for by what criterion will any one dispute the propriety of his idea ? We, indeed, say, that the form and colour of the European is preferable to that of the ^Ethiopian ; but 1 know of no reason we have for it, but that we are more accustomed to it. It is absurd to say that beauty is possessed of attractive powers, which irresistibly seize the corresponding mind with love and admiration, since that argument is equally conclusive in the favour of the white and the black philosopher. The black and white nations must, in respect of beauty, be considered as of dilFerent kinds, at least a different species of the same kind; from one of which to the other, as I observed, no inference can be drawn. Novelty is said to be one of the causes of beauty : that novelty is a very sufficient reason why we should admire, is not denied ; but because it is uncommon, is it therefore beautiful ? The beauty that is produced by colour, as when we prefer one bird to another, though of the same, form, on account of its colour, has nothing to do with this argument, which reaches only to form. I have here considered the word beauty as being properly applied to form alone. There is a necessity of fixing this confined sense ; for there can be no argument if the sense of the word is extended to every thing that is approved. A rose may as well be said to be beautiful be- cause it has a fine smell, as a bird because of its colour. When we apply the word beauty, we do not mean always by it a more beautiful form, but something valuable on account of its rarity, usefulness, colour, or any other property. A horse is said to be a beautiful animal ; but, had a horse as few good qualities as a tortoise, I do not imagine that he would be then esteemed beautiful. A fitness to the end proposed, is said to be another cause of beauty ; but supposing we were proper judges of what form is the most proper in an animal to constitute strength or swiftness, wo always determine concerning its beauty, before we exert our understanding to judge of its fitness. From what has been said, it may be infen'ed, that the works of nature, if we compare one species with another, are all equally beautiful ; and that preference is given from custom, or some association of ideas ; and that, in creatures of the same species, beauty is the medium or centre of all various forms. To conclude, then, by way of corollary ; if it has been proved, that the painter, by attending to the invariable and general ideas of nature, produces beauty, he must, by regarding minute particularities and accidental discriminations, deviate from the universal rule, and pollute hia canvass with deformity. k^X'WV^*/* No. 83.] Saturday, Nov. 17, 1759. TO THE IDLER. Sir, I SUPPOSE you have forgotten that many weeks ago I promised to send you an account of my companions at the Wells. You would not deny me a place among the most faithful votaries of idleness, if you knew how often I have recol- lected my engagement, and contented myself to delay the performance for some reason which I durst not examine because I knew it to be false; how often I have sat down to write and rejoiced at interruption ; and how often I have praised the dignity of resolution, detennined at night to write in the morning, and deferred it in the morning to the quiet hours of night. I have at last begun what I have long wished at an end, and find it more easy than I expect- ed to continue my narration. Our assembly could boast no such constella- tion of intellects as Clarendon's band of associ- ates. We had among us no Selden, Falkland, or Waller ; but we had men not less important in their own eyes, though less dis^gubhed by the public ; and many a time have we lamented M 90 THE IDLER. 'No. 84. the partiality of mankind, and agreed tliat men of the deepest inquiry sometimes let their dis- coveries die away iu silence, that the most com- prehensive observers have seldom opportunities of imparting their remarks, and that modest merit passes in the crowd unknown and un- j heeded. One of the greatest men of the society was , Sim Scruple, who lives in a continual equiijois;i of doubt, and is a constant enemy to confidenc-e ^ and dogmatism. Sim's favourite topic of con- versation is, the narrowness of the human , mind, the fallaciousness of our senses, the pi-e- I valence of early prejudice, and the uncertainty of appearances. Sim has many doubts about tlie ^ nature of death, and is sometimes inclined to believe that sensation may survive motion, and , that a dead man may feel though he cannot stir. ' He has sometimes hinted that man might per- j haps have been naturally a quadruped; and thinks it would be very proper, that at the ; Foundling Hospital some children should be | inclosed in an apartment in which the nurses should be obliged to walk half upon four and half upon two, that the younglings, being bred without the prejudice of example, might have no other guide than nature, and might at last come forth into the world as genius shoiJd direct, erect or prone, on two legs or on foiir. The next in dignity of mien and fluency of talk was Dick Wormwood, whose sole delight is, to find every thing wrong. Dick never enters a room but he shows that the door and the chimney are ill-placed. He never walks into the fields but he finds ground ploughed which is fitter for pasture. He is always an enemy to the present fashion. He holds that all the beauty and virtue of women will soon be de- stroyed by the use of tea. He triumphs when he talks on the present system of education, and tells us with great vehemence, that we are learning words when we should learn things. He is of opinion that we suck in eiTors at the nurse's breast, and thinks it extremely ridicu- lous that children should be taught to use the right hand rather than the left. Bob Sturdy considers it as a point of honour to say again what he has once said, and wonders how any man that has been known to alter his opinion, can look his neighbours in the face. Bob is the miost formidable disputant of the ■whole company ; for, without troubling himself to search for reasons, he tires his antagonist with repeated afiirmations. When Bob has been attacked for an hour with all the powers of eloquence and reason, and his position appears to all but himself utterly untenable, he al- T^'ays closes the debate with his first declara- tion, introduced by a stout preface of con- temptuous civility. " AU this is very judi- cious ; you may talk, Sir, as you please ; but I will still say what I said at first." Bob deals much in universals, which he has now obliged us to let pass without exceptions. He lives on an annuity, and holds that " there are as many thieves as traders;" he is of loyalty unshaken, and always maintains, that " he who sees a Jacobite sees a rascal." Phil Gentle is an enemy to the rudeness of contradiction and the turbulence of debate. Phil has no notions of his own, and therefore willingly catches from the last speaker such as he shall di'op. This inflexibility of ignorance is easily accommodated to any tenet; his only difficulty is, when the disputants grow zealous, how to be of two contrary opinions at once. If no appeal is made to his judgment, he has the art of distributing his attention and his smiles in such a manner, that each thinks him of his own party; but if he is obliged to speak, Le then observes that the question is difficult; that he never received so much pleasure from a de- bate before ; that neither of the controvertists could have found his match in any other com- pany ; that Mr. Womawood's assertion is very well supported, and yet there is gi-eat force in Vt^hat Mr. Scruple advanced against it. By this indefinite declaration both are. commonly satisfied; for he that has prevailed is in good humour; and he that has felt his own weak- ness is very glad to have escaped so well. I am, Sir, yours, &c. Robin Spritely. No. 84,] Saturday, Nov. 24, 1759. BiOGRAriiY is, of the various kind of narrative writing, that which is most eagerly read, and most easily applied to the purposes of life. In romances, when the wide field of possibiL'ty lies open to invention, the incidents may easily be made more numerous, the vicissitudes more sudden, and the events more wonderful; but from the time of life when fancy begips to be over-ruled by reason and corrected by experi- ence, the most artful tale raises little curiosity '^i'heu it is known to be false ; though it may, perhaps, be sometimes read as a model of a neat or elegant style, not for the sake of knowing what it contains, but how it is written ; or those that are weary of themselves, may have recourse to it as a pleasing dream, of which, when they awake, they voluntarily dismiss the images from their minds. The examples and events of history, press, in- deed, upon the mind with the weight of truth ; but when they are reposited in the memory, they are oftener employed for show than use, and rather diversify conversation than regulate life. Few are engaged in such scenes as give No. 85.] THE IDLER. 91 them opportunities of groA"Ving wiser uy the dowafal of statesmen or the defeat of generals. The stratagems of war, and the intrigues of courts, are read by far the greater part of man- kind with the same indifference as the adven- tures of fabled heroes, or the revolutions of a fairy region. Between falsehood and useless truth there is little difference. As gold which he can- not spend will make no man rich, so know- ledge which he cannot apply will make no man wise. The mischievous consequences of vice and folly, of irregular desires and predominant pas- sions, are best discovered by those relations which are levelled with the general surface of life, which tell not how any man became great, but how he was made happy ; not how he lost the favour of his prince, but how he became dis- contented with himself. Those relations are therefore commonly of most value in which the writer tells his own story. He that recounts the life of another commonly dwells most upon conspicuous events, lessens the familiarity of his tale to increase its dignity, shows his favourite at a distance deco- rated and magnified like the ancient actors in | their tragic dress, and endeavours to hide the man that he may produce a hero. But if it be true, which was said by a French prince, " That no man was a hero to the ser- vants of his chamber," it is equally true that every man is yet less a hero to himself. He that is most elevated above the crowd by the impor- tanee of his employments, or the reputation of his genius, feels himself affected by fame or bu- siness but as they influence his domestic life. The high and low, as they have the same fa- culties and the same senses, have no less simili- tudes in their pains and pleasures. The sensa- tions are the same in all, though produced by verj' different occasions. The prince feels the ' same pain when an invader seizes a province, as ' the farmer when a thief drives away his cow. Men thus equal in themselves will appear equal in honest and impartial biography ; and those ' whom fortune or nature place at the gi'eatest distance, may affoi'd instruction to each other. The writer of his own life has at least the first qualification of an historian, the knowledge of the truth ; and though it may be plausibly ob- jected that his temptations to disguise it are equal to his opportunities of knowing it, yet I cannot but think that impartiality may be ex- pected with equal confidence from him that re- lates the passages of his own life, a^ from him that delivers the transactions of another. Certainty of knowledge not only excludes mis- take, but fortifies veracity. What we collect by conjecture, and by conjectui'e only can one man judge of another's motives or sentiments, is easily modified by fancy or by desire ; as ob- jects imperfectly discerned take forms from the hope or feur of the beholder. But that XA'hicfe is fully known cannot be falsified but with xa- luctance of understanding, and alarm of con- science : of understanding, the lover ot truth ; of conscience, the sentinel of virtue. He that writes the life of another is either his friend or his enemy, and wishes either to exalt his praise or aggi-avate his infamy : many temp- tations to falsehood will occur in the disguise of passions, too specious to fear much resistance. Love of virtue will animate paneg^'ric, and ha- tred of wickedness imbitter censure. The zeal of gratitude, the ardour of patriotism, fondness for an opinion, or fidelity to a party, may easily overpower the vigilance of a mind habitually well disposed, and prevail over xmassisted and unfriended veracity. But he that speaks of himself has no motive to falsehood or partiality except self-love, by which all have so often been betrayed, that all are on the watch against its artifices. He that writes an apology for a single action, to confute an accusation, to recommend himself to favour, is indeed always to be suspected of favouring his own cause ; but he that sits down calmly and vo- luntarily to review his life for the admonition of posterity, or to amuse himself, and leaves this account unpublished, may be commonly pre- sumed to teU truth, since falsehood cannot ap- pease his own mind, and fame will not be heard beneath the tomb. No. 85.] Saturday, Dec. 1, 1759. One of the peculiarities which distinguish the present age is the multiplication of books. Every day brings new advertisements of literary un- dertakings, and we are flattered with repeated promises of growing wise on easier terms than our progenitors. How much either happiness or knowledge is advanced, by this multitude of authors, it is not very easy to decide. He that teaches us any thing which we knew not before, is undoubtedly to be reverenced as a master. He that conveys knowledge by more pleasing ways, may very properly be loved as a benefac- tor ; and he that supplies life with innocent amusement, will be certainly caressed as a pleas- ing companion. But few of those who fill the world with books have any pretensions to the hope either of pleasing or instructing. They have often no other task than to lay two books before them, out of which they compile a third, without any new materials of their own, and with very little application of judgment to those which former authors have supplied. d2 THE IDLER. [No. 86. That all compilations are useless I do not as- sert. Particles of science are often very widely Bcpttered. Writers of extensive comprehension have incidental remarks upon topics very re- mote from the principal subject, which are of- ten more valuable than formal treatises, and which yet are not known because they are not promised in the title. He that collects those under proper heads is very laudably employed, for though he exerts no great abilities in the work, he facilitates the progress of others, and hy making that easy of attainment which is al- ready written, may give some mind, more vigo- rous or more adventurous than his own, leisure for new thoughts and original designs. But the collections poured lately from the press have been seldom made at any great ex- pense of time or inquiry, and therefore only serve to distract choice without supplying any real want. It is observed that " a corrupt society has many laws:" I know not whether it is not equally true, that " an ignorant age has many books." When the treasures of ancient know- ledge lie unexamined, and original authors are neglected and forgotten, compilers and plagi- aries ai'e encouraged, who give us again what we had before, and grow great by setting before us what our own sloth had hidden from our view. Yet are not even these writers to be indiscri- minately censured and rejected. Truth like beauty varies its fashions, and is best recom- mended by different dresses to different minds ; and he that recalls the attention of mankind to any part of learning which time has left behind it, may be truly said to advance the literature of his own age. As the manners of nations vary, new topics of persuasion become necessary, and new combinations of imagery are produced ; and he that can accommodate himself to the reign- ing taste, may always have readers who per- haps would not have looked upon better per- formances. To exact of every man who writes, that he should say something new, would be to reduce authors to a small number ; to oblige the most fertile genius to say only what is new would be to contract his volumes to a few pages. Yet, surely, there ought to be some bounds to repe- tition ; libraries ought no more to be heaped for ever with the same thoughts differently ex- pressed, than with the same books differently decorated. The good or evil which these secondary writ- ers produce, is seldom of any long duration. As they owe their existence to change of fashion, they commonly disappear when a new fashion becomes prevalent. The authors that in any nation last from age to age are very few, because there are very few that have any other claim to notice than that they cai :h hold on present cui'i • osity, and gratify some accidental desire, or pro- duce some temporary conveniency. But however the writers of the day may des- pair of future fame, they ought at least to for- bear any present mischief. Though they can- not arrive at eminent heights of excellence, they might keep themselves harmless. They might take care to inform themselves before they at- tempt to inform others, and exert the little in- fluence which they have for honest purposes. But such is the present state of our literature, that the ancient sage, who thought " a great book a great evil," would now think the multitude of books a multitude of evils. He would consider a bulky writer who engrossed a year, and a swai-m of pamphleteers who stole each an hour, as equal wasters of human life, and would make no other difference between them, than between a beast of prey and a flight of locusts. No. 86.] Saturday, Dec. 8, 1759. TO THE IDLER. Sir, I AM a young lady newly married to a young gentleman. Our fortune is large, our minds are vacant, our dispositions gay, our acquaint- ances numerous, and our relations splendid. We considered that marriage, like life, has its youth ; that the first year is the year of gayety and revel, and resolved to see the shows and feel the joys of London before the increase of our family should confine us to domestic cares and domes- tic pleasures. Little time was spent in preparation ; the coach was harnessed, and a few days brought us to London, and we alighted at a lodging provided for us by Miss Biddy Trifle, a maiden niece of my husband's father, where we found apartments on a second floor, which my cousin told us would serve us till we could please ovir- selves with a more commodious and elegant ha- bitation, and which she had taken at a very high price, because it was not worth the while to make a hard bargain for so short a time. Here I intended to lie concealed till my new clothes were made, and my new lodging hired ; but Miss Trifle had so industriously given no- tice of our arrival to all our acquaintance, that I had the mortification next day of seeing the door thronged with painted coaches and chairs with coronets, and was obliged to receive all my hus- band's relations on a second floor. Inconveniences are often balanced by some advantage : the elevation of my apartments fur- nished a subject for conversation, which, with- out some such help, we should have been in No. 87.] THE IDLER. 93 danger of wanting. Lady Stately told us how many years had passed since she climbed so many steps. Miss Airy --.an to the window, and thought it charming to see the walkers so little in the street ; and Miss Gentle went to try the same experiment, and screamed to find herself so far above the gi'ound. They all knew that we intended to remove, and, therefore, all gave me advice about a pro- per choice. One street was recommended for the purity of its air, another for its freedom from noise, another for its nearness to the park, another because there was but a step from it to all places of diversion, and another, because its inhabitants enjoyed at once the town and country. I had civility enough to hear every recom- mendation with a look of curiosity while it was made, and of acquiesence when it was conclud- ed, but in my heart felt no other desire than to be free from the disgrace of a second floor, and .lared little where 1 should fix if the apartments were spacious and splendid. Kext day a chariot was hired, and Miss Trifle was despatched to find a lodging. She returned in the afternoon, with an account of a charming place, to which my husband went in the morn- ing to make the contract. Being young and unexperienced, he took with him his friend Ned Quick, a gentleman of great skill in rooms and furniture, who sees, at a single glance, whatever there is to be commended or censured. Mr. Quick, at the first view of the house, declared that it could not be inhabited, for the sun in the afternoon shone with full glare on the windows of the dining room. Miss Trifle went out again and soon discov- ered another lodging, which Mr. Quick went to survey, and found, that, whenever the wind should blow from the east, all the smoke of the city would be driven upon it. A magnificent set of rooms was then found in one of the streets near Westminster- Bridge, which Miss Trifle preferred to any which she had yet seen ; but Mr. Quick having mused upon it for a time, concluded that it would be too much exposed in the morning to the fogs that rise from the river. Thus Mr. Quick proceeded to give us every day new testimonies of his taste and circumspec- tion ; sometimes the street was too narrow for a double range of coaches ; sometimes it was an obscure place, not inhabited by persons of qual- ity. Some places -were dirty, and some crowd- ed ; in some houses the furniture was ill-suited, and in others the stairs were too narrow. He had such fertility of objections that Miss Trifle was at last tired, and desisted from all attempts for our accommodation. In the meantime I have still continued to see my company on a second floor, and am asked twenty times a day when 1 am to leave those odious lodgings, in which I live tumultuously without pleasure, and expensively without hon- our. My husband thinks so highly of Mr. Quick, that he cannot be persuaded to remove without his approbation ; and Mr. Quick thinks his reputation raised by the multiplication of difficulties. In this distress to whom can I have recourse ? I find my temper vitiated by daily disappoint- ment, by the sight of pleasure which I cannot partake, and the possession of riche§ which I cannot enjoy. Dear Mr. Idler, inform my hus- band that he is trifling away, in superfluous vex- ation, the few months which custom has appro- priated to delight ; that matrimonial quarrels are not easily reconciled between those that have no children ; that wherever we settle he must al- ways find some inconvenience ; but nothing is so much to be avoided as a perpetual state of in- quiry and suspense. I am, Sir, Your humble Servant, Peggt Heaktless. No. 87.] Saturday, Dec. 15, 1759. Of what we know not, we can only judge by what we know. Every novelty appears more wonderful as it is more remote from any thing with which experience or testimony have hither- to acquainted us ; and if it passes farther beyond the notions that we have been accustomed tb form, it becomes at last incredible. We seldom consider that human knowledge is very narrow, that national manners are formed by chance, that uncommon conjunctures of causes produce rare eff^ects, or that what is impossible at one time or place may yet happen in another. It is always easier to deny than to inquire. To refuse credit confers for a mo- ment an appearance of superiority, which every little mind is tempted to assume when it may be gained so cheaply as by withdrawing atten- tion from evidence, and declining the fatigue of comparing probabilities. The most pertinacious and vehement demonstrator may be wearied in time by continual negation; and incredulity, which an old poet, in his address to Raleigh, calls "the wit of fools," obtunds the argument which it cannot answer, as woolsacks deaden arrows though they cannot repel them. Many relations of travellers have been slight- ed as fabulous, till more frequent voyages have confirmed their veracity ; and it may reasona- bly be imagined, that many ancient historians are unjustly suspected of falsehood, because our own times aff'ord nothing that resembles what they tell. Had only the writers of antiquity informed us that there was once a nation in which the 94 THE IDLER. [No. 88. wife lay down upon the burning pile, only to I mix her ashes with those of her husband, we j should have thought it a tale to be told with that of Endymion's commerce with the Moon. Had only a single traveller related that many nations of the earth were black, we should have thought the accounts of the Negroeii and of the Phoenix equally credible. But of black men the numbers are too gi'eat who are now repin- ing under English cruelty, and the custom of voluntary cremation is not yet lost among the ladies of India. Few narratives will either to men or women appear more incredible than the histories of the Amazons; of female nations of whose constitu- tion it was the essential and fundamental law, to exclude men from all participation either of public affairs or domestic business ; where fe- male armies mai'ched under female captains, fe- male farmers gathered the harvest, female part- ners danced together, and female wits diverted one another. Yet several sages of antiquity have transmitted accounts of the Amazons of Caucasus ; and of the Amazons of America, who have given their name to the greatest river in the world. Con- damine lately found such memorials, as can be expected among erratic and unlettered nations, where events are recorded only by tradition, and new swarms settling in the coimtry from time to time, confuse and efface all traces of former times. lo die with husbands, or to live without them, are the two extremes which the prudence and moderation of European ladies have, in all ages, equally declined ; they have never been allured to death by the kindness or civility of the politest nations, nor has the roughness and brutality of more savage countries ever pro- voked them to doom their male associates to ir- revocable banishment. The Bohemian matrons are said to have made one short struggle for superiority, but instead of banishing the men, they contented themselves with condemning them to servile oflBces; and their constitution thus left imperfect, was quickly overthrown. There is, I think, no class of English women from whom we are in any danger of Amazonian usurpation. The old maids seem nearest to in- dependence, and most likely to be animated by revenge against masculine authority ; they often speak of men with acrimonious vehemence, but it is seldom found that they have any settled hatred against them, and it is yet more rarely observed that they have any kindness for each other. They will not easily combine in any plot; and if they should ever agree to retire and fortify themselves in castles or in mountains, the sentinel will betray the passes in spite, and the garrison will capitulate upon easy terms, if the beseigers have handsome sword knots, and are well supplied with fringe and lace. The gamesters, if they were united, would make a formidable body; and since they con- sider men only as beings that are to lose theii monej', they might live together without any wish for the officiousness of gallantry, or the delights of diversified conversation. But as nothing would hold them together but the hope of plundering one another, their government would fail from the defect of its principles, the men would need only to neglect them, and they would perish in a few weeks by a civil war. I do not mean to censure the ladies of Eng- land as defective in knowledge or in spirit, when I suppose them unlikely to revive the militai'y honours of their sex. The character of the ancient Amazons was rather terrible than lovely ; the hand could not be very delicate that was only employed in drawing the bow and brandishing the battle-axe; their power was maintained by cruelty, their courage was de- formed by ferocity, and their example only shows that men and women live best together. No. 88.] Saturday, Dec 22, 1759, When the philosophers of the last age were first congregated into the Royal Society, great ex- pectations were raised of the sudden progress of ; iLSeful arts ; the time was supposed to be near, I when engines should turn by a pei-petual mo- ' tion, and health be secui-ed by the universal medicine ; when learning should be facilitated by a real character, and commerce extended by ships Avhich could reach their ports in defiance of the tempest. But improvement is naturally slow. The Society met and parted without any visible di- minution of the miseries of life. The gout and stone were still painful, the ground that was not i ploughed brought no harvest, and neither oranges f nor grapes would grow upon the hawthorn. At last, those who were disappointed began to be angry; those, likewise, who hated innovation were glad to gain an opportunity of ridiculing men who had depreciated, perhaps with too much arrogance, the knowledge of antiquity. And it appears from some of their earliest apo- logies, that the philosophers felt with great sen- sibility the unwelcome importunities of those, who were daily asking, " What have ye done?" The truth is, that little had been done com- pared with what fame had been suffered to pro- mise ; and the question could only be answered by general apologies and by new hopes, which, when they were frustrated, gave a new occasion to the same vexatious inquiry. This fatal question has disturbed the quiet of many other minds. He that in the latter part No. 890 THE IDLER. 95 of his life too strictly inquires what he has done, i can very seldom receive from his own heart such an account as will give him satisfaction. We do not, indeed, so often disappoint others as ourselves. We not only think more highly than others of our own abilities, but allow our- selves to form hopes which we never communi- cate, and please our thoughts with employments which none ever will allot us, and with eleva- tions to which we are never expected to rise ; and when our days and years are passed away in common business or common amusements, and we find, at last, that we have suffered our pui'poses to sleep till the time of action is past, we are reproached only by our own reflections ; neither our friends nor our enemies wonder that we live and die like the rest of mankind ; that we live without notice, and die without memo- rial; they know not what task we had pro- posed, and, therefore, cannot discern whether it is finished. He that compares what he has done with what he has left undone, wiU feel the effect which must always follow the comparison of imagination with reality ; he will look with contempt on his own unimportance, and won- der to what purpose he came into the woi'ld ; he will repine that he shall leave behind liim no evidence of his having been, that he has added nothing to the system of life, but has glided from youth to age among the crowd, without any effort for distinction. Man is seldom willing to let fall the opinion of his own dignity, or to believe that he does little only because every individual is a very little being. He is better content to want dili- gence than power, and sooner confesses the de- pravity of his will than the imbecility of his nature. From this mistaken notion of human great- ness it proceeds, that many who pretend to have made great advances in wisdom so loudly de- clare that they despise themselves. If 1 had ever found any of the self-contemners much ir- ritated or pained by the consciousness of their meanness, I should have given them consolation by observing, that a little more than nothing is as much as can be expected from a being, who, with respect to the multitudes about him is himself little more than nothing. Every man is obliged by the Supreme Master of the uni- verse to improve all the opportunities of good which are afforded him, and to keep in continu- al activity such abilities as are bestowed upon him. But he has no reason to repine, though his abilities are small and his opportunities few. He that has improved the virtue, or advanced the happiness of one fellow-creature, he that has ascertained a single moral proposition, or added one useful experiment to natural knowledge, may be contented with his own performance, and, with respect to mortals like himself, may demand, like Augustus, to be dismissed at his departure with applause. No. 89.] Satu] Dec. 29, 17o9. 'Anixev xce.) oiTixov. EI'ICT. How evil came into the world — for what rea- son it is that life is overspread Avith sucli bound- less varieties of misery — "why the only thinking being of this globe is doomed to think, mere- ly to be wretched, and to pass his time from youth to age in fearing or in suffering calamities, is a question which philosophers have long asked, and which philosophy could never an- swer. Religion informs us that misery and sin were produced together. The depravation of human will was followed by a disorder of the harmony of nature ; and by that Providence which often places antidotes in tlie neighbourhood of poisons, vice was checked by misery, lest it should swell to universal and unlimited dominion. A state of innocence and happiness is so re- mote fi'om all that we have ever seen, that though we can easily conceive it possible, and may, therefore, hope to attain it, yet our specu- lations upon it must be general and confused. We can discover that where there is univers;il innocence, there will probably be universal hap- piness ; for why should afHIctions be pennittcd to infest beings who are not in danger of cor- ruption from blessings, and where there is no use of terror nor cause of punishment ? But in a world like ours, where our senses assault us, and our hearts betray us, we should pass on from crime to crime, heedless and remorseless, if mi- sery did not stand in our way, and oui' own pains admonish us of our folly. Almost all the moral good which is loft among us, is the apparent eliect of physical evil. Goodness is divided by divines into soberness, righteousness, and godliness. Let it be examin- ed how each of these duties would be practised if there vwore no physical evil to enforce it. Sobriety, or temperance, is nothing but the forbearance of pleasure ; and if pleasure was not followed by pain, who would forbear it? We see every hour those in whom the desire of pre- sent indulgence overpowers all sense of past and all foresight of future misery. In a remission of the gout, the drunkard returns to his wine, and the glutton to his feast ; and if neither dis- ease nor poverty were felt or dreaded, every one would sink down in idle sensuality, without any care of others, or of himself. To eat and drink, and lie down to sleep, would be the whole business of mankind. Righteousness, or the system of social duty, 96 THE IDLER. No. 90. may be subdivided into justice and cbarity. Of ustice one of tbe heathen sages has shown, with great acuteness, that it was impressed upon mankind only by the inconveniencies which in- iistice had produced. " In the first ages," says he, " men acted without any rule but the im- pulse of desire; they practised injustice upon others, and suffered it from others in their turn ; but in time it was discovered, that the pain of suffering wrong was greater than the pleasure of doing it ; amd mankind, by a gene- ral compact, submitted to the restraint of laws, and resigned the pleasure to escape the pain." Of charity it is superfluous to observe, that it could have no place if thei'e were no want ; for of a virtue which could not be practised, the omission could not be culpable. Evil is not only the occasional but the efficient cause of cha- rity ; we are incited to the relief of misery by the consciousness that we have the same nature with the sufferer, that we are in danger of the same distresses, and may sometimes implore the same assistance. Godliness, or piety, is elevation of the mind towards the Supreme Being, and extension of the thoughts to another life. The other life is future, and the Supreme Being is invisible. None would have recourse to an invisible power, but that all other subjects had eluded their hopes. None would fix their attention upon the future, but that they are discontented with the present. If the senses were feasted with perpetual plea- sure, they would always keep the mind in sub- jection. Reason has no authority over us, but by its power to warn us against evil. In childhood, while our minds are yet unoc- cupied, religion is impressed upon them, and the first years of almost aU who have been well edu- cated are passed in a regular discharge of the du- ties of piety. But as we advance forward into the crowds of life, innumerable delights solicit our inclinations, and innumei*able cares distract our attention ; the time of youth is passed in noisy frolics ; manhood is led on from hope to hope, and from project to project ; the dissolute- ness of pleasure, the inebriation of success, the ardour of expectation, and the vehemence of competition, chain down the mind alike to the present scene, nor is it remembered hotv soon this mist of trifles must be scattered, and the bubbles that float upon the rivulet of life be lost for ever in the gulph of eternity. To this con- sideration scarcely any man is awakened but by some pressing and resistless evil. The death of those from whom he derived his pleasures, or to whom he destined his possessions ; some disease which shows him the vanity of aU external acquisitions, or the gloom of age, which inter- cepts his prospects of long enjoyment, forces him to fix his hopes upon another state, and when he has contended with the tempests of life till his strength fails him, he flies, at last, to the shelter of religion. Tiiat misery does not make all virtuous, expe- rience too clearly informs us ; but it is no less certain that of what virtue there is, misery pro- duces far the greater part. Physical evil may be, therefore, endured with patience, since it is the cause of moral good ; and patience itself is one virtue by which we are prepared for that state in which evil shall be no more. No. 90.] Saturday, Jan. 5, 1760. It is a complaint which has been made from time to time, and which seems to have lately become more frequent, that English oratory, however forcible in argument, or elegant in ex- pression, is deficient and inefficacious, because our speakers want the grace and energy of ac- tion. Among the numerous projectors who are de- sirous to refine our manners, and improve our faculties, some are willing to supply the defi- ciency of our speakers. We have had more than one extortion to study the neglected art of mov- ing the passions, and have been encouraged to believe that our tongues, however feeble in them- selves, may, by the help of our hands and legs, obtain an uncontrollable dominion over the most stubborn audience, animate the insensible, en- gage the careless, force tears from the obdui-ate, and money from the avaricious. If by slight of hand, or nimbleness of foot, all these wonders can be performed, he that shall neglect to attain the free use of his limbs may be justly censured as criminally lazy. But I am afraid that no specimen of such effects will easi- ly be shown. If I could once find a speaker in 'Change Alley raising the price of stocks by the power of persuasive gestures, I should very zea- lously recommend the study of his art ; but having never seen any action by which language was much assisted, I have been hitherto inclined to doubt whether my countrymen are not blamed too hastily for their calm and motionless utter- ance. Foreigners of many nations accompany their speech with action : but why should their ex- ample have more influence upon us than ours upon them? Customs are not to be changed but for better. Let those who desire to re- form us show the benefits of the change pro- posed. When the Frenchman waves his hands, and writhes his body, in recounting the revolu- tions of a game at cards, or the Neapolitan, who tells the hour of the day, shows upon his fingers the number which he mentions, I do not per- ceive that their manual exercise is of much use, or that they leave any image more deeply im- No. 91.] THE IDLER. 9T pressed by their bustle and veliemence of com- munication. Upon the English stage there is no want of action, but the difficulty of making it at once various and proper, and its perpetual tendency to become ridiculous, notwithstanding all the advantages which art and show, and custom and prejudice can give it, may prove how little it can be admitted into any other place, where it can have no recommendation but from truth and nature. The use of English oratory is only at the bar, in the parliament, and in the church. Neither the judges of our laws, nor the representatives of our people, would be much affected by la- boured gesticulation, or believe any man the more because he rolled his eyes, or puffed his cheeks, or spread abroad his arms, or stamped the ground, or thumped his breast, or turned his eyes sometimes to the ceiling, and sometimes to the floor. Upon men intent only upon truth, the arm of an orator has little power ; a credible testimony, or a cogent argument, will overcome all the art of modulation, and all the violence of contortion. It is well known that, in the city which may be called the parent of oratory, all the arts of mechanical persuasion were banished from the court of supreme judicature. The judges of the Areopagus considered action and vociferation as a foolish appeal to the external senses, and un- worthy to be practised before those who had no desire of idle amusement, and whose only plea- sure was to discover right. Whether action may not be yet of use in churches, where the preacher addresses a min- gled audience, may deserve inquiry. It is cer- tain that the senses are more powerful as the reason is weaker ; and that he whose ears con- vey little to his mind, may sometimes listen with his eyes till truth may gradually take pos- session of his heart. If there be any use of ges- ticulation, it must be applied to the ignorant and rude, who will b^ more affected by vehemence than delighted by propriety. In the pulpit lit- tle action can be proper, for action can illustrate nothing but that to which it may be referred by nature or by custom. He that imitates by his hand a motion which he describes, explains it by a natural similitude ; he that laj-^ his hand on his breast, when he expresses pity, enforces his words by a customary allusion. But the- ology has few topics to which action can be ap- propriated ; that action which is vague and in- determinate will at last settle into habit, and habitual peculiarities are quickly ridiculous. It is, perhaps, the character of the English, to despise trifles ; and that art may surely be accounted a trifle which is at once useless and ostentatious, which can seldom be practised with pi'opriety, and which, as the mind is more cul- tivated, is less powerful. Yet as all innocent means ai'e to be used for the propagation of truth, I would not deter those who are employ- ed in preaching to common congregations from, any practice which they may find persuasive ; for, compared with the conversion of sinners, propriety and elegance are less than nothing. No. 91.J Saturday, Jak. 12, 17G0. It is common to overlook what is near, by keep- ing the eye fixed upon something remote. In the same manner present opportunities are ne- glected, and attainable good is slighted, by minds busied in extensive ranges, and intent upon fu- ture advantages. Life, however short, is made still shorter by waste of time, and its progress towards happinesS) though naturally slow, is yet retarded by unnecessary labour. The difficulty of obtaining knowledge is uni- versally confessed. To fix deeply in the mind the principles ot' science, to settle their limita- tions, and deduce the long succession of their consequences ; to comprehend the whole com- pass of complicated systems, -with all the argu- ments, objections, and solutions, and to I'eposite in the intellectual treasury the numberless facts, experiments, apophthegms, and positions, which must stand single in the memory, and of which none has any perceptible connection with the rest, is a task which, though undertaken with ardour, and pursued with diligence, must at last be left unfinished by the frailty of oui* na- ture. To make the way to learning either less short or less smooth, is certainly absurd ; yet this is the apparent effect of the prejudice which seems to prevail among us in favour of foreign authors, and of the contempt of our native literature, which this excm'sive curiosity must necessarily produce. Every man is more speedily instructed by his own language, than by any other; before we search the rest of the world for teachers, let us try whether we may not spare our trouble by finding them at home. The riches of the English language are much greater than they are commonly supposed. Many useful and valuable books lie buried in shops and libraries, unknown and unexamined, unless some lucky compiler opens them by chance, and finds an easy spoil of wit and learn- ing. I am far from intending to insinuate that other languages are not necessary to him who aspires to eminence, and whose whole life is devoted to study; but to him who reads only for amusement, or whose purpose is not to deck himself with the honours of literature, but to be qualified for domestic usefulness, and sit down content with subordinate reputation, WQ O m THE IDLER. [No. 92. have authors snflioipnt to fill up all tlit- vacaiT-ii 9 of his time, and gratify most of his wishes for information. Of our poets I need say little, because they are, perhaps, the only authors to whom their country has done justice. We consider the whole succession from Spenser to Pope, as su- perior to any names which the continent can boast ; and therefore the poets of other nations, however familiarly they may be sometimes men- tioned, are very little read, except by those who design to borrow their beauties. There is, I think, not one of the liberal arts which may not be competently learned in the English language. He that searches after ma- thematical knowledge may busy himself among his own counti'ymen, and will find one or other able to instruct him in every part of those ab- struse sciences. He that is delighted with experiments, and wishes to know the nature of bodies from certain and visible effects, is hap- pily placed where the mechanical philosophy was first established by a public institution, and from which it was spread to all other countries. The more airy and elegant studies of philolo- gy and criticism have little need of any foreign help. Though our language not being very an- alogical, gives few opportunities for grammati- cal researches, yet we have not wanted authors who have considered the principles of speech ; and with critical writings we abound sufficient- ly to enable pedantry to impose rules which can seldom be observed, and vanity to talk of books which are seldom read. But our own language has, from the Refor- mation to the present time, been chiefly dignified and adorned by the works of our divines, who, considered as commentators, controvertists, or preachers, have undoubtedly left all other na- tions far behind them. No vulgar language can boast such treasures of theological knowledge, or such multitudes of authors at once learned, elegant, and pious. Other countries, and other communions, have authors perhaps equal in abilities and diligence to ours ; but if we unite number with excellence, there is certainly no nation which must not allow us to be superior. ' Of morality little is necessary to be said, be- cause it is comprehended in practical divinity, and is, perhaps, better taught in English ser- mons than in any other books ancient and modern. Nor shall 1 dwell on om* excellence in metaphysical speculations, because he that reads the works of our divines will easily dis- cover how far human subtil ty has been able to yenetrate. Political knowledge is forced upon us by the form of our constitution; and all the mysteries of government are discovered in the attack or defence of every minister. The original law of society, the rights of subjects, and the preroga- tives of kings, have been considered with the utmost lii ety, sometimes profoundly investi- gated, and sometimes familiarly explained. Thus copiously instructive is the English language ; and thus needless is all recourse to foreign writers. Let us not, therefore, make our neighbours proud by soliciting help whi( h we do not want, nor discourage our own indus- try by difficulties which we need not suffer. No. 92.] Saturday, Jan. 19, 17G0. Whatever is useful or honourable will be de- sired by many who never can obtain it ; and that which cannot be obtained when it is de- sired, artifice or folly will be diligent to coun- terfeit. Those to whom fortune has denied gold and diamonds, decorate themselves with stones and metals, which have something of the show, but little of the value ; and every moral excellence, or intellectual faculty, has some vice or folly which imitates its appear- ance. Every man wishes to be wise, and they who cannot be wise are almost always cunning. The less is the real discernment of those whom busi- ness or conversation brings together, the more illusions are practised, nor is caution ever so necessary as with associates or opponents of feeble minds. Cunning differs from wisdom as twilight from open day. He that walks in the sunshine goes boldly forward by the nearest way ; he sees that where the path is straight and even he may proceed insecurity, and where it is rough and crooked he easily complies with the turns, and avoids the obstructions. But the traveller in the dusk fears more as he sees less ; he knows there may be danger, and therefore susptcts that he is never safe, tries every step before he fixes his foot, and shrinks at every noise, lest violence should approach him. Wisdom com- prehends at once the end and the means, esti- mates easiness or difficulty, and is cautious or confident in due proportion. Cunning discovers little at a time, and has no other means of cer- tainty than multiplication of stratagems and superfluity of suspicion. The man of cunning always considers that he can never be too safe, and therefore always keeps himself enveloped in a mist, impenetrable, as he hopes, to the eye of rivalry or curiosity. Upon this principle Tom Double has formed a habit of eluding the most harmless question. What he has no inclination to answer, he pre • tends sometimes not to hear, and endeavours to divert the inquirer's attention by some other subject ; but if he be pressed hard by repeated interrogation, he always evades a direct reply. Ask him whom he likes best on the stage ; he is No. 93.] THE IDLER. 99 ready to tell that there are several excellent per- formers. Inquire when he was last at the cuifee-house ; he replies, that the weather has been bad lately. Desire him to tell the age of any of his acquaintance; he immediately men- tions another who is older or younger. Will Puzzle values himself upon a long reach. He foresees every thing before it will happen, though he never relates his prognostications till the event is past. Nothing has come to pass for these twenty years of which Mr. Puzzle had not given broad hints, and told atleast that it was not proper to tell. Of those predictions, which every conclusion will equally verify, he always claims the credit, and wonders that his friends did not understand them. He supposes very truly, that much may he known which he knows not, and therefore pretends to know much of which he and all mankind are equally ignorant. I desired his opinion, yesterday, of the German war, and was told, that if the Prussians were well supported, something great may he expected ; but that they have very powerful enemies to en- counter; that the Austrian general haslong ex- perience, and the Russians are hardy and reso- lute ; but that no human power is invincible. 1 then drew the conversation to our own affairs, and invited him to balance the probabilities of war and peace. He told me that war requires courage, and negotiation judgment, and that the time will come when it will be seen whether our skill in treaty is equal to our bravery in battle. To this general prattle he will appeal hereafter, and will demand to have his foresight applaud- ed, whoever shall at last be conquered or vic- torious. With Ned Smuggle all is a secret. He be- lieves himself watched by observation and ma- lignity on every side, and rejoices in the dexter- ity by which he has escaped snares that never Avere laid. Nod holds that a man is never de- ceived if he never trusts, and thei'efore wiU not tell the name of his tailor or his hatter. He rides out every morning for the aii-, and pleases himself with thinking that nobody knows where he has been. When he dines with a friend, he never goes to his house the nearest way, but walks up a bye street to perplex the scent. ^^'hen he has a coach called, he never tells him at the door the true place to which he is going, but stops him in the way, that he may give him directions where nobody can hear him. The price of what he buys or sells is always conceid- cd. He often takes lodgings in the country by a wrong name, and thinks that the world is wondering where he can be hid. All these nansactions he registers in a book, which, he says, will some time or other amaze posterity. It is remarked by Bacon, that many men try to procure reputation only by objections, of wliich, if they are once admitted, the nullity never appears, because tJie design is laid aside. " This false feint of wisdom," says he, "is the ruin of business." The whole power of cun- ning is privative ; to say nothing, and to do nothing, is tlie utmost of its reach. Yet men thus narrow by nature, and mean by art, are sometimes able to rise by the miscari'iages of bravery and the openness of integrity ; and by watching failures, and snatching opportunities obtain advantages which belong j>roperly to higher characters. No. 93.] Saturdat, Jan. 26, IToO. Sam Softly was bread a sugar baker ; but suc- ceeding to a considerable estate on the death of his elder brother, he retired early from business, married a fortune, and settled in a country-house near Kentish-town. Sam, who formerly was a sportsman, and in his apprenticeship used to frequent Barnet races, keeps a high chaise, with a brace of seasoned geldings. During the sum- mer months, the principal passion and employ- ment of Sam's life is to visit, in this vehicle, the most eminent seats of the nobility and gentry in different parts of the kingdom, with liis wife and some select friends. By these periodiciil ex- cursions Sam gratifies many important purposes. He sissists the several pregnancies of his wife ; he shows his chaise to the best advantage ; he indulges his insatiable curiosity for finery, which, since he has turned gentleman, has grown upon him to an extraordinary degree ; he discovers taste and spirit ; and, what is above all, he finds frequent opportunities of displaying to the party, at every house he sees, his know- ledge of family connections. At first Sam was contented with driving a friend between London and his villa. Here he prided himself in point- ing out the boxes of the citizens on each side of the road, with an accurate detail of their re- spective failures or successes in trade ; and ha- rangued on the several equipages that were acci- dentally passing. Here, too, the seats inter- spersed on the suiTounding hills, afforded ample matter for Sam's curious discoveries. For one, he told his companion, a rich Jew had offered money ; and that a retired widow was coui-ted at another, by an eminent dry-salter. At the same time he discussed the utility, and enume- rated the expenses, of the Islington turnpike. But Sam's ambition is at present raised to nobler undertakings. When the happy hour of the annual expedition, arrives, the seat of the chaise is furnished with " Ogilvy's Book of Roads," and a choice quan- tity of cold tongues. The most alarming dis- aster which can happen to our hero, who thinks he " throws a whip" admirably well, is to be overtaken in a road which affords no "quarter" lor wheels. Indeed, few men possess more &kili 100 THE IDLER. [No. 94. «r discernment for concerting and conducting a " party of pleasure." When a seat is to be sur- veyed, he has a peculiar talent in selecting some shady bench in the park, where the company may most commodiously refresh themselves •vvith cold tongue, chicken, and French rolls ; and is very sagacious in discovering what cool temple in the garden will be best adapted for drinking tea, brought for this purpose, in the afternoon, and from which the chaise may be resumed with the greatest convenience. In viewing the house itself, he is principally attrac- ted by the chairs and beds, concerning the cost of which his minute inquiries generally gain the clearest information. An agate table easily di- verts his eyes from the most capital strokes of Rubens, and a Turkey carpet has more charms than a Titian. Sam, however, dwells with some attention on the family portraits, particularly the most modern ones ; and as this is a topic on which the house-keeper usually harangues in a more copious manner, he takes this opportunity of improving his knowledge of intermaiTiages. Yet. notwithstanding this appearance of satis- faction, Sam has some objection to all he sees. One house has too much gilding; at another, the chimney-pieces are all monuments ; at a third, he conjectures that the beautiful canal must certainly be dried up w a hot summer. He despises the statues at W'ilton, because he thinks he can see much better carving at West- minster Abbey. But there is one general ob- jection which he is sure to make at almost every house, particulgirly at those which are most dis- tinguished. He allows that all the apartments are extremely fine, but adds, with a sneer, that they are too fine to be inhabited. Misapplied genius most commonly proves ri- diculous. Had Sam, as nature intended, con- tentedly continued in the calmer and less con- spicuous pui'suits of sugar- baking, he might have been a respectable and useful character. At present he dissipates his life in a specious idle- ness, which neither improves himself nor his fi'iends. Ihose talents which might have bene- fitted society, he exposes to conternpt by false pretensions. He affects pleasures which he cannot enjoy, and is acquainted only with those subjects on which he has no right to talk, and which it is no merit to understand. No. 9-i.] Saturday, Feb. 2, 1760. It is common to find young men ardent and di- ligent in the pursuit of knowledge ; but the pro- gress of life very often produces laxity and in- dirtcrence; and not only those who are at li- biTty to chiJAse their business and amusements, but those likewise whose professions engago them in literary inquiries, pass the latter part of their time without improvement, and spend the day rather in any other entertainment than that which they might find among their books. This abatement of the vigour of curiosity is sometimes imputed to the insufficiency of learn- ing. Men are supposed to remit their labours, because they find their labours to have been vain ; and to search no longer after truth and wisdom, because they at last despair of finding them. But this reason is for the most part very falsely assigned. Of learning, as of virtue, it may be affirmed, that it is at once honoured and neglected. Whoever forsakes it will for ever look after it with longing, lament the loss which he does not endeavour to repair, and desire the good which he wants resolution to seize and keep. The Idler never applauds his own idle- ness, nor does any man repent of the diligence of his youtli. So many hinderances may obstruct the acqui- sition of knowledge, that there is little reason fpr wondering that it is in a few hands. To the greater part of mankind the duties of life are in- consistent with much study ; and the hours which they would spend upon letters must be stolen from their occupations and their families. Many sufi'er themselves to be lured by more sprightly and luxurious pleasures fi'om the shades of contemplation, where they find sel- dom more than a calm delight, such as though greater than all others, its certainty and its du- ration being reckoned with its power of gratifi- cation, is yet easily quitted for some extempo- rary joy, which the present moment offers, and another, perhaps, will put out of reach. It is the great excellence of learning, that it borrow^s very little from time or place ; it is not confined to season or to climate, to cities, or to the country, but may be cultivated and enjoyed where no other pleasure can be obtained. But this quality, which constitutes much of its va- lue, is one occasion of neglect ; what may be done at all times with equal propriety is defer- red from day to day, till the mind is gradually reconciled to the omission, and the attention is turned to other objects. Thus habitual idleness gains too much power to be conquered, and the soul shrinks from the idea of intellectual labour and intenseness of meditation. That those who profess to advance learning sometimes obstruct it, cannot be denied ; the contiaiuil multiplication of books not only dis- tracts choice, but disappoints inquiry. To him that has moderately stored his mind with images^, few writers afford any novelty ; or what little they have to add to the common stock of learn- ing, is so buried in the mass of general notions, that like silver mingled with the ore of lead, it is too little to pay for the labour of separation; No. 95.] THE IDLER. 101 Rnd he that has often been deceived by the pro- mise of a title, at last grows weary of examin- ing, and is tempted to consider all as equally fallacious. There are, indeed, some repetitions always lawful, because they never deceive. He that writes the historj' of past times, undertakes only to decorate known facts by new beauties of me- thod or style, or at most to illustrate them by his own reflections. The author of a system, whether moral or phj-^sical, is obliged to nothing beyond care of selection and regularity of dispo- sition. But there are others who claim the name of authors merely to disgi-ace it, and fill the world with volumes only to bury letters in their own rubbish. The traveller who tells, in a pompous folio, that he saw the Pantheon at Rome, and the Medicean Venus at Florence ; the natui-al historian, who, describing the pro- ductions of a narrow island, recounts all that it has in common with every other part of the world ; the collector of antiquities, that accounts every thing a curiosity which the ruins of Her- culaneum happen to emit, though an instrument already shown in a thousand repositories, or a cup common to the ancients, the moderns, and all mankind, may be justly censured as the per- secutors of students, and the thieves of that time which never can be restored. No. 95.] Saturday, Feb. 9, 1760. TO THE IDLER. Mr. Idlkr, It is, I think, universally agreed, that seldom any good is gotten by complaint ; yet we find that few forbear to complain but those who are afraid of being reproached as the authors of their own miseries. I hope, therefore, for the com- mon pei*mission to lay my case before you and your readers, by which I shall disburden my heart, though I cannot hope to receive either as- sistance or consolation. I am a trader, and owe my fortune to frugal- ity and industry. I began with little ; but by the easy and obvious method of spending less than I gain, I have every year added something to my stock, and expect to have a seat in the common-council, at the next election. My wife, who Avas as prudent as myself, died six years ago, and left me one son and one daughter, for whose sake I resolved never to marry again, and rejected the overtures of Mi's. Squeeze, the broker's widow, w^ho had ten thousand pounds at her own disposal. I bi'ed my son at a school near Islington ; and when he had learned arithmetic, and wrote a good hand, I took him into tho shop, designing, iu about ten years, to retire to Stratford or Hackney, and leave him established in the busi ness. For four years he was diligent and sedate, en- tered the shop before it was opened, and when it was shut always examined the pins of tho window. In any intermission of business it was his constant practice to peruse the ledger. I had always great hopes of him, when I ob- served how sorroAvfuUy he would shake his head over a bad debt, and how eagerly he would listen to me -n'hen I told him that he might at one time or other become an alderman. We lived together with mutual confidence, till unluckily a visit was paid him by two of his school-fellows who were placed, I suppose, in the army, because they were fit for nothing bet- ter : they came glittering in their military dress, accosted their old acquaintance, and invited him to a tavern, where, as I have been since in- formed, they ridiculed the meanness of com- merce, and wondered how a youth of spirit could spend the prime of his life behind a counter. I did not suspect any mischief. I knew my son was never without money in his pocket, and was better able to pay his reckoning than bis companions ; and expected to see him re- turn triumphing in his own advantages, and congratulating himself that he Avas not one of those who expose their heads to a musket bullet for three shillings a day. He returned sullen and thoughtful ; I sup- posed him sorry for the hard fortune of his friends ; and tried to comfort him by saying that the war would soon be at an end, and that, if they had any honest occupation, half^pay would be a pretty help. He looked at me with indig- nation; and snatching up his candle, told me, as he went up stairs, that " he hoped to see a battle yet." Why he should hope to see a battle I could not conceive, but let him go quietly to sleep away his folly. Next day he made two mis- takes in the first bill, disobliged a customer by surly answers, and dated all liis entries in the journal in a wrong month. At night he met his military companions again, came home late, and quari-elled with the maid. From this fatal interview he has gradually lose all his laudable passions and desires. He soon grew useless in the shop, where, indeed, I did not willingly trust him any longer ; for he of- ten mistook the price of goods to his own loss, and once gave a promissory note instead of a re- ceipt. I did not know to what degree he was cor- rupted, till an honest tailor gave me notice that he had bespoke a laced suit, which was to be left for him at a house kept by the sister of one of my journeymen. I went to this clandestine lodging, and found, to my amazement, all the oi'naments of a fine gentleman, which he has 102 THE IDLER. [No. 96. taken upon credit, or purchased with money subducted from tlie shop, 'I'his detection has made him desperate. lie now openly declares his resolution to be a gen- tleman ; says that his soul is too great for a counting-house ; ridicules the conversation of city taverns ; talks of new plays, and boxes, and ladies; gives dutchesses for his toasts; carries silver, for readiness, in his waistcoat pocket ; and comes home at night in a chair, with such thmiders at the door as have more than once brought the watchmen from their stands. Little expenses will not hurt us ; and I could forgive a few juvenile frolics, if he would be cai'eful of the main : but his favourite topic is contempt of money, which he says, is of no use but to be spent. Riches, without honour, he holds empty things ; and once told me to my face, that wealthy plodders were only purveyors to men of spirit. He is always impatient in the company of his old friends, and seldom speaks till he is warmed with wine ; he then entertains us with accounts that we do not desire to hear, of in- trigues among lords and ladies, and quarrels be- tween officers of the guards ; shows a miniature on his snuff-box, and wonders that any man can look upon the new dancer without rapture. All this is very provoking ; and yet all this might he box*ne, if the boy could support his pretensions. But, whatever he may think, he is yet far from the accomplishments which he has endeavoured to purchase at so dear a rate. I have watched him in public places. He sneaks in like a man that knows he is where he should not be ; he is proud to catch the slight- est salutation, and often claims it when it is not intended. Other men receive dignity from dress, but my booby looks always more meanly for his finery. Dear Mr. Idler, teU him what must at last become of a fop, whom pride will not suffer to be a trader, and whom long habits in a shop forbid to be a gentleman. I am, Sir, &c. Tim Wainscot. No. 96.1 Saturday, Feb. 16, 1760. Hacho, a king of Lapland, was in his youth the most i*enowned of the Northern warriors. His martial achievements remain engraved on a pillar of flint in the rocks of Hanga, and are to this day solemnly carolled to the harp by the Laplanders, at the fires with wliich they cele- brate their nightly festivities. Such was his in- trepid spirit, that he ventured to pass the lake Vether to the isle of Wizards, where he de- scended alone into the dreary vault in which a magician had been kept bound for six ogee, and read the Gothic characters inscribed on hia brazen mace. His eye was so piercing, that, as j ancient chronicles report, he oould blunt the weapons of his enemies only by looking at them. At twelve years of age he carried an iroii vessel of a prodigious weight, for the length of five [ furlongs, in the presence of all the chiefs of his ' father's castle. I Nor was he less celebrated for his prudence and wisdom. Two of his proverbs are yet re- j membered . and repeated among Laplanders. To express the vigilance of the Supreme Being, he was wont to say, " Odin's belt is always buckled." To show that the most prosperous condition of life is often hazardous, his lesson I was, " When you slide on the smoothest ice, beware of pits beneath." He consoled his countrymen, when they were once preparing to leave the frozen desarts of Lapland, and re- solved to seek some warmer climate, by telling them, that the Eastern nations, notwithstand- ing their boasted fertility, passed every night amidst the horror;^ of anxious apprehension, and were inexpressibly affrighted, and almost stunned, every morning, with the noise of the sun while he was rising. His temi>erance and severity of manner were his chief praise. In his early years he never tasted wine ; nor would he drink out of a painted cup. He constantly slept in his armour, with his spear in his hand; nor would he use a battle-axe whose handle was inlaid with brass. He did not, however, persevere in this contempt of luxury ; nor did he close his days with honoui". One evening, after hunting the gulos, or wild dog, being bewildered in a solitary forest, and having passed the fatigues of the day without any intervsJ of refreshment, he discovered a large store of honey in the hollow of a pine. This was a dainty which he had never tasted before ; and being at once faint and hxingry, he fed greedily upon it. From this unusual and delicious repast he received so much satisfaction, that, at his return home, he commanded honey to be served up at his table every day. His pa- late, by degrees, became refined and vitiated; he legan to lose his native relish for simple fare, and contracted a hjfbit of indulging him- self in delicacies ; he ordered the delightful gardens of his castle to be thrown open, in v.'hich the most luscious fruits had been suffered to ripen and decay, unobserved and untouched, for many revolving autumns, and gi'atified his appetite with luxurious desserts. At length he found it expedient to introduce wine, as an agreeable improvement ; or a necessary ingredi- ent to his new way of living; and having once tasted it, he was tempted by little and little, to give a loose to the excesses of intoxication. His general simplicity of life was changed • he ucr- No. 97.] THE IDLER. 103 fuToed his apartments by burning the wood of the most aromatic fir, and commanded -his helmet to be ornamented with beautiful rows of the teeth of the rein-deer. Indolence and effem- inacy stole upon him by pleasing and impercep- tible gradations, relaxed the sinews of his reso- lution, and extinguished his thirst of military glory. While Hacho was thus immersed in pleasure and in repose, it was reported to him, one morn- ing, that the preceding night a disastrous omen had been discovered, and that bats and hideous birds had drank up the oil which nourished the perpetual lamp in the temple of Odin. About the same time, a messenger arrived to tell him, that the king of Norway had invaded his kingdom with a formidable army. Hacho, terrified as he was with the omen of the night, and enervated with indulgence, roused himself from his voluptuous lethargy, and recollecting some faint and few sparks of veteran valour, marched forward to meet him. Both armies joined battle in the forest where Hacho had been lost after hunting; and it so happened, that the king of Norway challenged him to single combat, near the place where he had tasted the honey. The Lapland chief, languid and long disused to arms, was soon overpowered ; he fell to the ground ; and before his insulting adver- sary struck his head from his body, uttered this exclamation, which the Laplanders still use as an early lesson to their children : " The vicious man should date his destruction from the first temptation. Hoav justly do I fall a sacrifice to sloth and luxury, in the place where I first yielded to those .allurements which seduced me to deviate from temperance and innocence ! the honey which I tasted in this forest, and not the hand of the king of Norway, conquers Hacho." No. 97.1 Saturday, Feb. 23, 17G0. It may, I think, be justly observed, that few books disappoint their readers more than the narrations of travellers. One part of man- kind is naturally curious to learn the sentiments, manners, and condition of the rest; and every mind that has leisure or poAver to extend its views, must be desirous of knowing in what proportion Providence has distributed the bless- ings of nature, or the advantages of art, among the several nations of the earth. This general desire easily procures readers to every book from which it can expect gratification. Tlie adventurer upon unknown coasts, and the fK'siriber of distant regions, is always welcomed as ii man who has laboured for the pleasure of able to enlarge our knowledge and rectify our opinions ; but when the volume is opened, nothing is found but such general accounts as leave no distinct idea behind them, or sueh minute enumerations as few can read with either profit or delight. Every writer of travels should consider, that, like all other authors, he undertakes either to instruct or please, or to mingle pleasure" with in- struction. He that instructs, must oflfer to the mind something to be imitated, or something to be avoided ; he that pleases must offer new im- ages to his reader, and enable him to form a tacit comparison of his own state with that of others. The greater part of travellers tell nothing, because their method of travelling supplies them with nothing to be told. He that enters a town at night and surveys it in the moi'ning, and then hastens away to another place, and guesses at the manners of the inhabitants by the enter- tainment which his inn afforded him, may please himself for a time with a hasty change of scenes, and a confused remembrance of palaces and churches ; he may gratify his eye with a variety of landscapes, and regale his palate with a suc- cession of vintages : but let him be contented to please himself without endeavouring to disturb others. Why should he record excursions by which nothing could be learned, or wish to make a show of knowledge, which, without some power of intuition unknown to other mor- tals, he never could attain? Of those who crowd the world with their itineraries, some have no other purpose than to describe the face of the country ; those who sit idle at home, and are curious to knoAv what is done or suffered in distant countries, may bo informed by one of these wanderers, that on a certain day he set out early with the caravan, and in the first hour's march saw, towards the south, a hill covered with trees, then passed over a stream, which ran northward with a swift course, but which is probably dry in the summer months; that an hour after he saw something to the right which looked at a dis- tance like a castle with towers, but whicli he discovered afterward to be a craggy rock; thut he then entered a valley, in which he saw several trees tall and flourishing, watered by a rivulet not marked in the maps, of which be was not able to learn the name ; that the road afterward grew stony, and the country uneven, where he observed among the hills many hollows worn by torrents, and was told that the road was passable only part of the year , that going on they found the remains of a building, once perhaps a fortress to secure the pass, or to restrain the robbers, of which the present inhab- itants can give no other account than that it is haimted by fairies ; that they went to dine at the foot of a rock, and travelled the rest of the day along the banks of a river, from which the road turned aside towards evening, and brcucht 104 THE IDLER. [No. 98. them within sight of a village, which was once a considerable town, but which atforded theui neither good victuals nor commodious lodging. Thus he conducts his reader through Avet and dry, over rough and smooth, without incidents, without reflection : and, if he obtains his com- pany for another day, will dismiss him again at night, equally fatigued with a like succession of rocks and streams, mountains and ruins. This is the common style of those sons of en- terprise, who visit savage countries, and range through solitude and desolation ; who pass a desert, and tell that it is sandy ; who cross a valley, and find that it is green. There are others of more delicate sensibility, that visit only the I'calms of elegance and softness ; that wander through Italian palaces, and amuse the gentle reader with catalogues of pictures; that hear masses in magnificent churches, and recount the number of the pillars or variegations of the pavement. And there are yet others, who, in disdain of trifles, copy inscriptions elegant and rude, ancient and modern ; and transcribe into their book the walls of every edifice, sacred or civil. He that reads these books must consider his labour as its own reward j for he will find nothing on which attention can fix, or which memory can retain. He that would travel for the entertainment of others-, should remember that the great object of remark is human life. Every nation has some- thing particular in its manufactures, its works of genius, its medicines, its agriculture, its cus- toms, and its policy. He only is a useful tra- veller, who brings home something by which his country may be benefitted ; who procures some supply of want, or some mitigation of evil, which may enable his readers to compare their condition with that of others, to improve it whenever it is worse, and whenever it is better to enjoy it. No. 98.] Saturday, March 1, 1760. TO THE IDLER. Sir, I AM the daughter of a gentleman, who during his life-time enjoj'ed a small income which arose from a pension from the court, by which he was enabled to live in a genteel and comfortable manner. By the situation of life in which he was placed, he was frequently introduced into the company of those of much greater fortunes than his own, among whom he Avas always received with complaisance, and treated with civility. At six years of age I was sent to a boarding- school in the country, at which I continued till my father's death. This melancholy event hap- pened at a time when I Avas by no n;eans of a sufficient age to manage for myself, nhile the passions of youth continued unsubdued, and be- fore experience could guide my sentiments q' my actions. I Avas then taken from school by an uncle, to the care of whom my father had committed me on his dying bed. With him I lived several years ; and as he was unmarried, the manage- ment of his family Avas committed to me. In this character I alAA-ays endeavoured to acquit myself, if not with applause, at least Avithout censure. At the age of twenty-one, a young gentleman ' of some fortune paid ijis addresses to me, and offered me terms of marriage. This proposal I should readily have accepted, because from vici- nity of residence, and from many opportunities of observing his behaviour, I had in some sort contracted an affection for him. My uncle, for what reason I do not knoAV, refused his consent to this^ alliance, though it would have been com- plied with by the father of the young gentle- man ; and, as the future condition of my life Avas whoUy dependant on him, I was not Avill- ing to disoblige him, and therefore, though un- willingly, declined the offer. My uncle, Avho possessed a plentiful fortune, frequently hinted to me in conversation, that at his death I should be provided for in such a a manner that I should be able to make my fu- ture life comfortable and happy. As this pro- mise was often repeated, I was the less anxious about any provision for myself. In a short time my uncle AVas taken ill, and though all possible means were made use of for his recovery, in a fcAv days he died. The sorrow arising from the loss of a relation, by whom I had been aUvays treated with the gi'eatest kindness, however grievous, was not the worst of my misfortunes. As he enjoyed an al- most uninterrupted state of health, he was the less mindful of his dissolution, and died intes- tate ; by which means his whole fortune de- A'olved to a nearer relation, the heir at law. Thus excluded from all hopes of living in the majner with Avhich I have so long flattered my- self, I am doubtful Avhat method I shaU take to procure a decent maintenance. I have been edu- cated in a manner that has set me above a state of servitude, and my situation renders me unfit for the company of those with whom I have hitherto conversed. But, though disappointed in my expectations, I do not despair. I will hope that assistance may still be obtained for in- nocent distress, and that friendship, though rare, is yet not impossible to be found. I am, Sir, Yom- humble servant, SoruiA Hbebfui. Nos. 99y 100.] No. 99.] Saturday, March 8, 1760. As OrtogTul of Basra was one day wandering along the streets of Bagdat, musing on" the va- rieties of merchandise which the shops offered to his view, and observing the different occupa- tions which busied the multitudes on every side, he was awakened from the tranquillity of medi- tation by a crowd that obstructed his passage. He raised his eyes, and saw the chief vizier, who having returned from the div£in, was entering his palace. Ortogrul mingled with the attendants, and being supposed to have some petition for the vi- zier, was permitted to enter. He surveyed the spaciousness of the apartments, admired the walls hung with golden tapestry, and the floors covered with sUken carpets, and despised the simple neatness of his own little habitation. Surely, said he to himself, this palace is the seat of happiness, where pleasure succeeds to pleasure, and discontent and sorrow can have no admission. ^Vhateve^ nature has provided for the delight of sense, is here spread^forth to be enjoyed. What can mortals hope or imagine, which the master of this palace has not obtained? The dishes of luxury cover his table, the voice of harmony lulls him in his bowers ; he breathes the fragrance of the groves of Java, and sleeps upon the down of the cygnets of Ganges. He speaks, and his mandate is obeyed ; he wishes, and his wish is gratified ; all whom he sees obey him, and all whom he hears flatter him. How dif- ferent, Ortogrul, is thy condition, who art doomed to the perpetual torments of unsatisfied desire, and who has no amusement in thy power that can withhold thee from thy own reflec- tions ! They tell thee that thou art wise ; but what does wisdom avail with poverty ? None will flatter the poor, and the wise have very lit- tle power of flattering themselves. That man is surely the most wretched of the sons of wretchedness, who lives with his own faults and foUies always before him, who has none to reconcile him to himself by praise and venera- tion. I have long sought content, and have not found it ; I will from this moment endeavoui* to be rich. Full of his new resolution, he shuts himself in his chamber for six months, to deliberate how he should grow rich : he sometimes proposed to offer himself as a counsellor to one of the kings of India, and sometimes resolved to dig for dia- monds in the mines of Golconda. One day, af- ter some hours passed in violent fluctuation of opinion, sleep insensibly seized him in his chair ; he dreamed that he was ranging a desert coun- try in search of some one that might teach him to grow rich ; and as he stood on the top of a hill shaded with cypress, in doubt whether to THE IDLER. 105 direct his steps, his father appeared on & sudden standing before him. Ortogrul, said the old man, I know thy perplexity ; listen to thy father ; turn thine eye on the opposite mountain. Or- togrul looked, and saw a torrent tumbling down the rocks, roaring with the noise of thunder, and scattering its foam on the impending woods. Now, said his father, behold the valley that lies between the hills. Ortogrul looked, and espied j a little weU out of which issued a small rivulet. I TeD me now, said his father, dost thou wish for sudden afiiuence, that may pour upon thee like the mountain torrent, or for a slow and gradual incresise, resembling the rill gliding from the well ? Let me be quickly rich, said Ortogrul ; let the golden stream be quick and violent. Look round thee, said his father, once again. Ortogrul looked, and perceived the channel of the torrent dry and dusty ; but following the rivulet from the well, he traced it to a wide lake, which the supply, slow and constant, kept always full. He waked, and determined to grow rich by silent profit and persevering in- dustry. Having sold his patrimony, he engaged in merchandise, and in twenty years purchased lands, on which he raised a house, equal in sumptuousness to that of the vizier, to which he invited aU the ministers of pleasure, expecting to enjoy all the felicity which he had imagined riches able to afford. Leisure soon made him weary of himself, and he longed to be persuaded that he was great and happy. He was courte- ous and liberal ; he gave all that approached him hopes of pleasing him, and all who should please him hopes of being rewarded. Every art of praise was tried, and every source of adulatory fiction was exhausted. Ortogrul heard his flat- terers without delight, because he found him- self unable to believe them. His own heart told him its frailties, his own understanding re- proached him with his faults. How long, said he, with a deep sigh, have I been labouring in vain to amass wealth which at last is useless I Let no man hereafter wish to be rich, who k already too wise to be flattered. No. 100.] Saturday, March 1.5, 1760. TO THE IDLER, Sir, The uncertainty and defects of language have produced very frequent complaints among the learned; yet there still remain many words among us undefined, which are very necessary to be rightly understood, and which produce very mischicA'ous mistakes when they ara erroneously interpreted. P 10() THE IDLER. [No. 100. 1 lived in a state of celibacy beyond the usual time. In the huriy first of pleasure, and after- wards of business, I felt no want of a domestic i tomj)anion ; but becoming weary of labour, I soon grew more weary of idleness, and thought it reasonable to follow the custom of life, and to seek some solace of my cares in female tender- ness, and some amusement of my leisure in female cheerfulness. | The choice which has been long delayed is commonly made at last with great caution. My resolution was, to keep my passions neutral, and to marry only in compliance with my reason. 1 drew upon a page of my pocket- ; book a scheme of all female virtues and vices, ; with the vices which border upon every virtue, ; and the virtues which are allied to eveiy vice. ' I considered that wit was sarcastic, and mag- nanimity Imperious ; that avarice was economi- cal, and ignorance obsequious ; and having estimated the good and evil of every quality, employed my own diligence, and that of my friends, to find the lady in whom nature and reason had reached that happy mediocrity which is equally remote from exuberance and defi- cience. Every woman had her admirers and her cen- siirers ; and the expectations which one raised were by another quickly depressed ; yet there was one in whose favour almost all suffrages concurred. Miss Gentle was universally allowed to be a good sort of woman. Her fortune v/as not large, but so prudently ma- naged, that she wore finer clothes, and saw more company, than many who were known to be twice as rich. Miss Gentle's visits were eveiy where welcome ; and whatever family she favoured with her company, she always left be- hind her such a degree of kindness as recom- mended her to others. Every day extended her acquaintance ; and all who knew her declared that they never met with a better sort of wo- man. To Miss Gentle I made my addresses, and "was received with great equality of temper. She did not in the days of courtship assume the privilege of imposing rigorous commands, or resenting slight offences. If I forgot any of her injimctions, I was gently reminded ; if I missed the minute of appointment, I was easily forgiven. I foresaw nothing in marriage tut a halcyon calm, and longed for the happi- ness which was to be found in the inseparable society of a good sort of woman. The jointure was soon settled by the interven- tion of friends, and the day came in which Miss Gentle was made mine for ever. The first month was passed easily enough in receiving and repaying the civilities of our friends. The bride practised with great exactness all the niceties of ceremony, and distributed her notice in the most punctilious proportions to the friends who surrounded us witli their happy auguries. But the time soon came when we were left to oui-selves, and were to receive our pleasures from each other, and I then began to perceive that I was not formed to be much delighted by a good sort of woman. Her great principle is, that the orders of a family must not be broken. Every hour of the day has its emplojTnent in- violably appropi-iated ; nor will any importun- ity persuade her to walk in the garden at the time which slie has devoted to her needlework, or to sit up stairs in that part of the forenoon which she has accustomed herself to spend in the back parlour. She allows herself to sit half an hour after breakfixst, and an hour after din- ner; while I am talking or reading to her, she keeps her eye upon her watch, and when the minute of departure comes, wiU leave an argu- ment unfinished, or the intrigue of a play un- ravelled. She once called me to supper when I was watching an eclipse, and summoned me at another time to bed when I was going to give directions at a fire. Her conversation is so habitually cautious, that she never talks to me but in general terms, as to one whom it is dangerous to trust. For discriminations of character she has no names : all whom she mentions are honest men and agreeable women. She smiles not by sensation, but by practice. Her laughter is never excited but by a joke, and her notion of a joke is not very delicate. The repetition of a good joke does not weaken its efifect ; if she has laughed once, she wiU laugh again. She is an enemy to nothing but ill-nature and pride; but she has frequent reason to lament that they are so frequent in the world. All who are not equally pleased with the good and the bad, with the elegant and gross, with the witty and the dull, all who distinguish excellence from defect, she considers as ill-natured; and she condemns as proud all who repress imperti- nence or quell presumption, or expect respect from any other eminence than that of fortune, to which she is always willing to pay homage. There are none whom she openly hates, for if once she suffers, or believes herself to suffer, any contr;mpt or insult, she never dismisses it from her mind, but takes all opportunities to tell how easily she can forgive. There are none whom she loves much better than others; for when any of her acquaintance decline in the opinion of the world, she always finds it inconvenient to visit them ; her affection continues unaltered, but it is impossible to be intimate with the whole town. She daily exercises her benevolence by pity- ' - ing every misfortune that happens to every I* family within her circle of notice; she is in hourly terrors lest one should catch cold in the rain, and another be fi-ighted by the high wind. No. 101.] THE IDLER. 107 Her charity she sho\A's by lamenting tliat so many poor wretches should languish in the streets, and by wondering what the great can think on that they do so little good with such large estates. Her house is elegant and her table dainty, though she has little taste of elegance, and is wholly free from vicious luxury; but she com- forts herself that nobody can say that her house is dirty, or that her dishes are not well dress- ed. This, Mr, Idler, I have found by long expe- rience to be the character of a good sort of wo- man, w^hich I have sent you for the information of those by whom a " good sort of a woman," and a " good woman," may happen to be used as equivalent terms, and who may suffer by the mistake, like Your humble servant, Ti>i Warner. No. 101.] Saturday, March 22, 1760. Omar, the son of Hassan, had passed seventy- five years in honour and prosperity. The fa- vour of three successive califs had filled his house with gold and silver ; and whenever he appeared, the benedictions of the people pro- claimed his passage. Terrestrial happiness is of short continuance. The brightness of the flame is wasting its fuel ; the fragrant flower is passing away in its own odours. The vigour of Omar began to fail, the curls of beauty fell from his head, strength departed from his hands, and agility from his feet. He gave back to the calif the keys of trust and the seals of secrecy ; and sought no other pleasure for the remains of life than the con- verse of the wise, and the gratitude of the good. The powers of his mind were yet unimpaired. His chamber was filled by visitants, eager to catch the dictates of experience, and officious to pay the tribute of admiration. Caled, the son of the viceroy of Egypt, entered every day early, and retired late. He was beautiful and elo- quent ; Omar admired his wit and loved his do- cility. Tell me, said Caled, thou to whose voice nations have listened, and whose wisdom is known to the extremities of Asia, tell me how I may resemble Omar the prudent. The arts by which you have gained power and preserved it, are to you no longer necessary or useful ; im- part to me the secret of your conduct, and teach me the plan upon which your wisdom has built your fortune. Young man, said Omar, it is of little use to fonn plans of life. When I took my first sur- vey of the world, in my twentieth year, having considered the various conditions of mankind, in the hour of solitude I said thus to myself, leaning against a cedar which spread its branch- es over my head : — Seventy years are allowed to man ; I have yet fifty remaining : ten years I will allot to the attainment of knowledge, and ten I will pass in foreign countries ; I shall be learned, and therefore shall be honoured ; every city will shout at my arrival, and every student will solicit my friendship. Twenty years thus passed "will store my mind with images w^hich I shall be busy through the rest of ray life in combining and comparing. I shall revel in in- exhaustible accumulations of intellectual riches; I shall find new pleasures for every moment, and sliall never more be weary of myself. I will, however, not deviate too far from the beat- en track of life, but will try what can be found in female delicacy. I will marry a wife beauti- ful as the Houries, and wise as Zobeide ; with her I will live twenty years within the suburbs of Bagdat, in every pleasure that wealth can purchase, and fancy can invent. I will then re- tire to a rural dwelling, pass my last days in ob- scurity and contemplation, and lie silently down on the bed of death. Through my life it shall be my settled resolution, that I will never de- pend upon the smile of princes; that I will never stand exposed to the artifices of courts ; I will never pant for public honours, nor disturb my quiet with the affairs of state. Such was my scheme of life, which I impressed indelibly upon my memory. The first part of my ensuing time was to be spent in search of knowledge ; and I know not how I was diverted from my design. I had no visible impediments without, nor any un- governable passions within. I regarded know- ledge as the highest honour and the most engag- ing pleasure ; yet day stole upon day, and month glided after month, till I found that seven years of the first ten had vanished, and left nothing be- hind them. I now postponed my purpose of travel- ling ; for why should I go abroad while so much remained to be learned at home ? 1 immured myself for four years, and studied the laws of the empire. The fame of my skill reached the judges ; I was found able to speak upon doubt- ful questions, and was commanded to stand at the footstool of the calif. I was heard with at- tention, I was consulted with confidence, and the love of praise fastened on my heart. I still wished to see distant countries, listened with rapture to the relations of travellers, and resolved some time to ask my dismission, that I might feast my soul with novelty ; but my pre- sence was always necessary, and the stream of business hiuried me along. Sometimes I was afraid lest 1 should be chai'ged with ingratitude ; 108 THE IDLER. [No. 102. but I still proposed to travel, and therefore woiild not confine myself by marriage. In my fiftieth year I began to suspect that the time of travelling was past, and thought it best to lay hold on the felicity yet in my power, and indulge myself in domestic pleasures. But at fifty no man easily finds a woman beau- tiful as the Houries, and wise as Zobeide. I inquired and rejected, consulted and deliberated, till the sixty-second year made me ashamed of gazing upon girls. I had now nothing left but retirement, and for retirement I never found a time, till disease forced me from public employ- ment. Such was my scheme, and such has been its consequence. With an insatiable thirst for knowledge, I trifled away the years of improve- ment ; with a restless desire of seeing different countries, I have always resided in the same city ; with the highest expectation of connubial felicity, I have lived unmarried ; and with un- alterable resolutions of contemplative retire- ment, I am going to die within the walls of Bagdat. No. 102.] Saturday, March 29, 1760. It very seldom happens to man that his business is his pleasure. What is done from necessity is so often to be done when against the present in- clination, and so often fills the mind with anx- iety, that an habitual dislike steals upon us, and we shrink involuntarily from the remembrance of our task. This is the reason why almost every one wishes to quit his employment ; he does not like another state, but is disgusted with his own. From this unwillingness to perform more than is required of that which is commonly per- formed with reluctance, it proceeds that fe-w^ authors vpxite their own lives. Statesmen, cour- tiers, ladies, generals, and seamen, have given to the world their own stories, and the events with which their difi"erent stations have made them acquainted. They retired to the closet as to a place of quiet and amusement, and pleased them- selves with writing, because they could lay down the pen whenever they w^ere weary. But the author, however conspicuous, or however important, either in the public eye or in his own, leaves his life to be related by his successors, for iiC cannot gratify his vanity but by sacrificing his ease. It is commonly supposed, that the uniformity of a stuiions life affords no matter for narration : but the truth is, that of the most studious life a great pai-t passes without study. An author partakes of the common condition of humanity; he is born and married like another man ; he has hopes and fears, expectations and disappoint- ments, griefs and joys, and friends and enemies, like a courtier or a statesman ; nor can 1 con- ceive why his affairs should not excite curiosity as much as the whisper of a drawing-room, or the factions of a camp. Nothing detains the reader's attention more powerfully than deep involutions of distress, or sudden vicissitudes of fortune ; and these might be abundantly afforded by memoirs of the sons of literature. They are entangled by contracts which they know not how to fulfil, and obliged to write on subjects which they do not understand. Every publication is a new period of time, from which some increeuse or declension of fame is to be reckoned. The gradations of a hero's life are from battle to battle, and of an author's from book to book. * Success and miscarriage have the same effects in all conditions. The prosperous are feared, hated, and flattered ; and the unfortunate avoid- ed, pitied, and despised. No sooner is a book published than the writer may judge of the opinion of the world. If his acquaintance press round him in public places or salute him from the other side of the street ; if invitations to dinner come thick upon him, and those with whom he dines keep him to supper ; if the la- dies turn to him when his coat is plain, and the footmen serve him with attention and alacrity; he may be sure that his work has been praised by some leader of literary fashions. Of declining reputation the symptoms are not less easily observed. If the author enters a cof- fee-house, he has a box to himself; if he calls at a bookseller's, the boy turns his back; and, what is the most fatal of all prognostics, authors will visit him in a morning, and talk to him hour after hour of the malevolence of critics, the neglect of merit, the bad taste of the age, and the candour of posterity. AU this, modified and varied by accident and custom, would form very amusing scenes of bio- graphy, and might recreate many a mind which is very little delighted with conspiracies or bat- tles, intrigues of a court, or debates of a parlia- ment ; to this might be added all the changes of the countenance of a patron, traced from the first glow which flattery raises in his cheek, through ardour of fondness, vehemence of pro- mise, magnificence of praise, excuse of delay, and lamentation of inability, to the last chill look of final dismission, when the one grows weary of soliciting, and the other of hearing so- licitation. Thus copious are the materials which have been hitherto suffered to lie neglected, while tlie repositories of every family that has produc- ed a soldier or a minister are ransjacked, and libraries are crowded with useless folios of state No. 103.] THE IDLER. 109 papers which will never be read, and which con- tribute nothing to valuable knowledge. I hope the learned will be taught to know their own strength and their value, and, instead of devoting their lives to the honour of those who seldom thank them for their labours, re- solve at last to do justice to themselves. %^*>»%^^/»>%< No. 103.] Saturday, April 5, 1760. Respicere ad longa jussit spatia ultima vitce. Much of the pain and pleasure of mankind arises from the conjectures which every one makes of the thoughts of others ; we all enjoy praise which we do not hear, and resent con- tempt which we do not see. The Idler may therefore be forgiven, if he suffers his imagina- tion to represent to him what his readers wiU say or think when they are informed that they have now his last paper in their hands. Value is more frequently raised by scarcity than by use. That which lay neglected when it was common, rises in estimation as its quantity be- comes less. We seldom learn the true want of 'what we have, till it is discovered that we can have no more. This essay will, perhaps, be read with care even by those who have not yet attended to any other ; and he that finds this late attention re- compensed, will not forbear to wish that he had bestowed it sooner. Though the Idler and his readers have con- tracted no close friendship, they are perhaps both unwilling to part. There are few things not purely evil, of which we can say, without some emotion of uneasiness, " this is the last." Those who never could agree together, shed tears when mutual discontent has determined them to final separation ; of a place which has been frequently visited, though without plea- sure, the last look is taken with heaviness of heart ; and the Idler, with all his chillness of tranquillity, is not wholly unaffected by the thought that his last essay is now before him. This secret hoi:ror of the last is inseparable from a thinking being, whose life is limited, and to whom death is dreadful. We always make a secret comparison between a part and the whole; the termination of any period of life re- minds us that life itself has likewise its termi- nation ; when we have done any thing for the last time, we involuntarily reflect that a part of the days allotted us is past, and that as more are past there are less remaining. Jt is very happily and kindly provided, that in every life there are certain pauses and interrup- tions, which force consideration upon the careless, and seriousness upon the light ; points of time where one course of action ends, and another begins ; and by vicissitudes of fortune, or alter- ation of employment, by change of place or loss of friendship, we are forced to say of something, "this is the last." An even and unvaried tenour of life always hides from our apprehension the approach of its end. Succession is not perceived but by varia- tion ; he that lives to day as he lived yesterday, and expects that as the present day is, such will be the morrow, easily conceives time as running in a circle and returning to itself. The uncer- tainty of our duration is impressed commonly by dissimilitude of condition ; it is only by finding life changeable that we are reminded of its shortness. This conviction, however forcible at every new impression, isj every moment fading from the mind ; and partly by the inevitable incur- sion of new images, and partly by voluntary ex- clusion of unwelcome thoughts, we are again exposed to the universal fallacy ; and we must do another thing for the last time, before we consider that the time is nigh when we shall do no more. As the last Idler is published in that solemn week which the Christian world has always set apart for the examination of the conscience, the review of life, the extinction of earthly desires, and the renovation of holy purposes; I hope that my readers are already disposed to view every incident Avith seriousness, and im- prove it by meditation ; and that when they see this series of trifles brought to a con- clusion, they will consider that, by outliving the Idler, they have passed weeks, months, and years, which arc now no longer in their power ; that an end must in time be put to every thing great, as to every thing little ; that to life must come its last hour, and to this system of being its last day, the hour at which probation ceases and repentance will be vain ; the day in which every work of the hand, and imagination of the heart, shall be brought to judgment, and an everlasting futurity shall be determined by the past. No. XXII.* Many naturalists are of opinion, that the ani- mals which we commonly consider as mute, * This was the original No. 22, but on the re- publicarioa of the work in volume*. Dr. Johnson sub- stituted what now stands under that head. no THE IDLER. [No. XXII. have the power of imparting their thoughts to oue anotlier. That they can express general sensations is very certain : every being that can utter sounds, has a different voice for pleasure and for pain. The hound infoi-ms his fellows when he scents his game; the hen calls her chickens to their food by her cluck, and drives them from danger by her scream. Birds have the greatest variety of notes ; they have indeed a variety, which seems almost suffi- cient to make a speech adequate to the pxirposes of a life which is regulated by instinct, and can admit little change or improvement. To the cries of birds cariosity or superstition has been al- ways attentive ; many have studied the lan- guage of the feathered tribes, and some have boasted that they understood it. The most skilful or most confident interpre- ters of the sylvan dialogues, have been common- ly found aHiong the philosophers of the east, in a country where the calmness of the air, and the mildness of the seasons, allow the student to pass a gi'eat part of the year in groves and bowers. But what may be done in one place by peculiar opportunities, may be performed in another by peculiar diligence. A shepherd of Bohemia has, by long abode in the forests, en- abled himself to understand the voice of birds ; at least he relates with great confidence a story, of which the credibility is left to be considered by the learned. ^ ♦ As I was sitting (said he) within a hollow rock, and watching my sheep that fed in the valley, I heard two vultures interchangeably crying on the summit of a cliff. Both voices were earnest and deliberate. My curiosity prevailed over the care of the flock ; I climbed slowly and silently from crag to crag, concealed among the shrubs, till I found a cavity where I might sit and listen without suffering, or giving disturbance. I soon perceived that my labour would be well repaid, for an old vulture was sitting on a naked prominence, with her young about her, whom she was instructing in the arts of a vul- ture's life, and preparing, by the last lecture, for their final dismission to the mountains and t'he skies. My children, said the old vulture, you will the less want my instructions, because you have had my practice before your eyes ; you have seen me snatch from the farm the household fowl, j-^ou have seen me seize the leveret in the bush, and the kid in the pasturage ; you know how to fix your talons, and how to balance your flight when you are laden with your prey. Bat you remember the taste of more delicious food. I have often regaled you with the flesh of man Tell us, said the young vultures, where man may be foimd, and how he may be known : his flesh is surely the natiual food of a vultuie. Why have you never brought a man in your ta- lons to the nest? He is too bulky, said tlie mother ; when we find a man we can only tear away his flesh, and leave his bones upon the ■ ground. Since man is so big, said the young ones, how do you kill him ? You are afraid of the wolf and of the bear, by what power are vultures superior to man? Is man more de- fenceless than a sheep? We have not the strength of man, returned the mother, and I am sometimes in doubt whether we have the subtilty ; and the vultures would seldom feast upon his flesh, had not nature, that devoted him to our uses, infused into him a strange ferocity, which I have never observed in any other being that feeds upon the earth. Two herds of men will often meet and shake the earth with noise, and fill the earth with fire. When you hear noise, and see fire, with flashes along the ground, hasten to the place with your swiftest wing, for men are surely destroying one another; you will then find the ground smok- ing with blood and covered with carcases, of which many are dismembered, and mangled for the convenience of the vulture. But when men have killed their prey, said the pupil, why do they not eat it? When the wolf has killed a sheep, he suffers not the vulture to touch it tiU he has satisfied himself. Is not man another kind of wolf ? Man, said the mother, is the only beast who kills that which he does not devour, and this quality makes him so much a benefactor to our species. If men kill our prey, and lay it in our way, said the yoimg one, what need shall we have of labouring for ourselves? Because man will sometimes, replied the mother, remain for a long time quiet in his den. The old vultures will tell you when you are to watch his mo- tions. When you see men in great numbers moving close together, like a flight of storks, you may conclude that they are hunting, and that you will soon revel in human blood. But still, said the j'oung one, I would gladly know the reason of this mutual slaughter. I could never kill what I could not eat. JMy child, said the mother, this is a question which I cannot an- swer, though I am reckoned the most subtile biru of the moimtain. When I was young, I used frequently to visit the ayry of an old vul- ture, who dwelt upon the Carpathian rocks ; he had made many observations ; he knew the places that afforded prey round his habitation, as far in every direction as the strongest wing can fly between the rising and setting of the summer sun ; he had fed year after year on the entrails of men. His opinion was, that men had only the appearance of animal life, being really vegetables, with a power of motion ; and that as the boughs of an oak are dashed together by the storm, that swine may fatten upon the No. XXII.] THE IDLER. Ill fallen acorns, so men are by some unaccountable power driven one a^rainst another, till they lose their motion, that vultures may be fed. Others think they have observed something of con- trivance and policy among these mischievous beings ; and those that hover more closely round them, pretend, that there is in every herd, one that gives directions to the rest, and seems to ba more eminently delighted with a wide cai'nage. What it is that entitles him to such pre-emi- nence we know not-, he is seldom the biggest or the swiftest, but he shows by his eagerness and diligence that he is, more than any of tha others, a friend to the vultures. THE END GLASGOW : AN1>HEW & JOHN RU DUNCaH 'Vinteis to tlie University. 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