The strength and unanimity of this alliance is not easily conceived. It might be expected that no man should suffer his heart to be inflamed with malice, but by injuries; that none should busy himself in contesting the pretensions of another, but whend some right of his own was involved in the question;e that at least hostilities commenced without cause, should quickly cease; that the armies of malignity should soon disperse, when no common interest could be found to hold them together; and that the attack upon a rising character should be leftf to those who had something to hope or fear from the event.

The hazards of those that aspire to eminence would be much diminished if they had none but acknowledged rivals to encounter. Their enemies would then be few, and what is of yet greater importance, would be known. But what caution is sufficient to ward off the blows of invisible assailants, or what force can stand against unintermitted attacks,g and a continual succession of enemies? Yet such is the state of the world, that no sooner can any man emerge from the crowd, and fix the eyes of the publick upon him, than he stands as a mark to the arrows of lurking calumny, and receives, in the tumult of hostility, from distant and from nameless hands, wounds not always easy to be cured.

It ish probable that thei onset against the candidates for renown, is originally incited by those who imagine themselves in danger of suffering by their success; but when war is once declared, volunteers flock to the standard, multitudes follow the camp only for want of employment, and flying squadrons are dispersed to every part, so pleased with an opportunity of mischief that they toil without prospect of praise, and pillage without hope ofj profit.

When any man has endeavoured to deserve distinction, hek will be surprised to hear himself censured where he could not expect to have been named; he will findl the utmost acrimony of malice amongm those whom he never could have offended.n

As there areo to be found in the service of envy men of every diversity of temper and degree of understanding, calumny is diffused by all arts and methodsp of propagation. Nothing is too gross or too refined, too cruel or too trifling to be practised; very little regard is had to the rules of honourable hostility, but every weapon is accounted lawful; and those that cannot make a thrust at life are content to keep themselves in play with petty malevolence, to teaze with feeble blows and impotent disturbance.

But as the industry of observation has divided the most miscellaneous and confused assemblages into proper classes, and ranged the insects of the summer, that torment us with their drones or stings, by their several tribes; the persecutors of merit, notwithstanding their numbers,q may be likewise commodiously distinguished into Roarers, Whisperers, and Moderators.

The Roarer is an enemy rather terrible than dangerous. Her hass no other qualificationst for a champion of controversy than a hardened front and strong voice. Having seldomu so much desire to confute as to silence, he dependsv rather upon vociferation than argument, and has very little care to adjust one part of his accusation to another, to preserve decency in his language, or probability in his narratives. He has always a store of reproachful epithets and contemptuous appellations, ready to be produced as occasion may require, which by constant use he pours out with resistless volubility. If the wealth of a trader is mentioned, he without hesitation devotes him to bankruptcy;w if the beauty and elegance of a lady be commended, he wonders how the town can fall in love with rustick deformity; if a new performance ofx genius happens to be celebrated, he pronounces the writer a hopeless ideot, without knowledge of books or life, and without the understanding by which it must be acquired. His exaggerations are generally without effect upon those whom he compels to hear them; and though it will sometimes happen that the timorous are awed by his violence, andy the credulous mistake his confidence for knowledge, yet the opinions which he endeavours to suppress soonz recover their former strength, as the trees that bend to the tempest erect themselves again when its force is past.

The Whisperer is more dangerous. He easily gains attention by a soft address, and excites curiosity by an air of importance. As secrets are not to be made cheap by promiscuous publication, he calls a select audience about him, and gratifies their vanity with an appearance of trust by communicating his intelligence in a low voice. Of the trader he can tell that though he seems to manage ana extensive commerce, andb talks in high terms of the funds,c yet his wealth is not equal to his reputation; he has lately suffered much byd an expensive project, and had a greater share than ise acknowledged in the rich ship that perished by the storm. Of the beauty he has little to say, but that they who see her in a morning do not discover all thosef graces which are admired in the park. Of the writer he affirmsg with great certainty, that though the excellence of the work be incontestable, he canh claim but a small part of the reputation; that he owed most of thei images andj sentiments tok a secret friend; and that the accuracy and equality of the stile was produced by the successive correction of the chief criticks of the age.

As every onel is pleased with imagining that he knows something not yet commonly divulged,m secret history easily gains credit; but it is for the most part believed only while it circulatesn in whispers, and when once it iso openly told, is openly confuted.

The most pernicious enemy is the man of Moderation. Withoutp interest in the question, or any motive but honest curiosity, this impartial and zealous enquirer after truth, is ready to hearq either side, and always disposed to kind interpretations and favourable opinions. He hasr heard the trader's affairs reported with great variation, and after a diligent comparison of the evidence, concludes its probable that the splendid superstructure of businesst being originally built upon a narrow basis, has lately been found to totter; but between dilatory payment and bankruptcyu there is a great distance; many merchants have supported themselves by expedients for a time, without any final injury to their creditors; andv what is lost by onew adventure may be recovered by another.x He believes that a young lady pleased with admiration, and desirous to make perfect what is already excellent, may heighteny her charms by artificial improvements, but surely most of her beauties must be genuine, and who can say that he is wholly what he endeavours to appear? The author he knows to be a man of diligence, whoz perhapsa does not sparkle with the fire of Homer, butb has the judgment to discover his own deficiencies, and to supply them by the help of others; and in his opinion modesty is a quality so amiable andc rare, that itd ought to find a patron wherever it appears, and may justly be preferred by the publick suffrage to petulant wit and ostentatious literature.

He who thus discovers failings with unwillingness, and extenuates the faults which cannot be denied, puts an end at once to doubt or vindication; his hearers repose upon his candour and veracity, and admit the charge without allowing the excuse.

Such are the arts by which the envious, the idle, the peevish, and the thoughtless, obstruct that worth which they cannot equal, and by artifices thus easy,e sordid, andf detestable, is industry defeated, beauty blasted, and genius depressed.

Some have been so forcibly struck with this observation, that they have, in the first warmth of their discovery, thought it reasonable to alter the common distribution of dignity, and ventured to condemnh mankind of universal ingratitude. For justice exactsi that those by whom we are most benefited should be most honoured. Andj what labour can be more useful than that which procures to families and communities those necessaries which supply the wants of nature, or those conveniencies by which ease, security, and elegance are conferred?

This is one of the innumerable theoriesk which the first attempt to reduce them into practice certainly destroys. If we estimate dignity by immediatel usefulness, agriculture is undoubtedly the first and noblest science; yet we see the plow driven, the clod broken, the manure spread, the seeds scattered, and the harvest reaped, by men whom those that feed upon their industry will never be persuaded tom admit into the same rank with heroes, or with sages; and who, after all the confessions which truth may extort in favour of their occupation, must ben content to fill up the lowest class of the commonwealth, to form the base of the pyramid of subordination, ando lie buried in obscurity themselves, while they support all that is splendid, conspicuous, or exalted.

It will be found,p upon a closer inspection, that this part of the conduct of mankind is by no means contrary to reason or equity. Remuneratory honoursq are proportioned at once to the usefulnessr and difficulty of performances, and are properly adjusted by comparison of the mental and corporeal abilities, which they appear to employ.s That work, however necessary, which is carried on only by muscular strength and manual dexterity, is not of equal esteem, in the consideration of rational beings, with the tasks that exercise the intellectual powers, and require the active vigour of imagination, or the gradual and laborious investigations of reason.

The merit of all manual occupations seems to terminate in the inventor; and surely the first ages cannot be charged with ingratitude; sincet those who civilized barbarians, and taught them how to secure themselves from cold and hunger were numbered amongst their deities. Butu these arts once discovered by philosophy, and facilitated by experience, are afterwards practised with very little assistance from the faculties of the soul; nor is any thing necessary to the regular discharge of these inferior duties, beyond that rude observation which the most sluggish intellectv may practise,w and that industry which the stimulations of necessity naturally enforce.

Yet, though the refusal of statues and panegyrics to those who employx only their hands and feet in the service of mankind may be easily justified, I am far from intending to incite the petulance of pride, to justify the superciliousness of grandeur, or to intercept any part of that tenderness and benevolence which by the privilege of their common nature one man mayy claim from another.

That it would be neither wise nor equitablez to discourage the husbandman, the labourer, the miner, or the smith, isa generally granted; but there is another race of beings equally obscure and equally indigent, who because their usefulness isb less obvious to vulgar apprehensions,c live unrewarded andd die unpitied, and who have been long exposed to insult without a defender, and to censure without an apologist.

The authors of London were formerly computed by Swift at several thousands,1 and there is not any reason for suspecting that their number hase decreased. Of these only a very few can be said to produce, or endeavour to produce new ideas, to extend any principle of science, or gratify the imagination withf any uncommon train of images or contexture of events; the rest, however laborious, however arrogant, can only be considered as the drudges of the pen, the manufacturers of literature, who have set up for authors, either with or without a regular initiation, and like other artificers, have no other care than to deliver their tale of wares at the stated time.

It has been formerly imagined, that he who intends the entertainment or instruction of others, must feel in himself some peculiar impulse of genius; that he must watch the happy minuteg in which his natural fireh is excited, in which his mind isi elevated with nobler sentiments, enlightened with clearer views, and invigorated with stronger comprehension; that he must carefully select his thoughtsj and polish his expressions; and animate his efforts with the hope ofk raising a monument of learning, which neither time nor envy shall be able to destroy.

But the authors whom I am now endeavouring to recommendl have been too long “hackneyed in the ways of men”2 to indulge the chimerical ambition ofm immortality; they have seldom anyn claim to the trade of writing, buto that they have tried some other without success; they perceive no particular summons to composition, except the sound of the clock; they have no other rule than the law or the fashion for admitting their thoughts or rejecting them; and about the opinion of posterity they have little solicitude, for their productions are seldom intended to remain in the world longer than a week.

That such authors are not to be rewarded with praise is evident, since nothing can be admired when it ceases to exist; but surely though they cannot aspire to honour, they may be exempted from ignominy, and adopted into that order of men which deserves our kindness though not our reverence. Thesep papers of the day, the Ephemerae of learning, have usesq more adequate to the purposes of common life thanr more pompous ands durable volumes. If it is necessary for every man to be moret acquainted with his contemporaries than with past generations, and to ratheru know the events which may immediately affect his fortune orv quiet,w than the revolutions of antient kingdoms, in which he has neither possessions nor expectations; if it be pleasing to hear of the preferment and dismission of statesmen, the birth of heirs, and the marriage of beauties, the humble authorx of journals and gazettes must be considered as a liberal dispenser of beneficial knowledge.

Even the abridger, compiler andy translator, though their labours cannot be rankedz with those of the diurnal historiographer, yet must not be rashly doomed to annihilation.a Every size of readers requires a genius of correspondentb capacity; some delight in abstracts and epitomes because they want room in their memory for long details, and content themselves with effects, without enquiry after causes; somec minds are overpowered by splendor of sentiment, as some eyes are offended by a glaring light; suchd will gladly contemplate an author in an humblee imitation, as we look without pain upon the sun in the water.f

As every writer has his use, every writer ought to have his patrons; and since no man, however high he may now stand, can be certain that he shall not be soon thrown down from his elevation by criticism or caprice, the common interest of learning requires that her sonsg should cease from intestine hostilities, and instead of sacrificing each other to malice and contempt, endeavour to avert persecution from the meanest of their fraternity.

When a writer has with long toilf produced a work intended to burst upon mankind with unexpected lustre, and withdraw the attention of the learned world from every other controversy or enquiry,g he is seldom contented to wait long without the enjoyment of his new praises. With an imagination full of his own importance, heh walks out like a monarch in disguise, to learn the various opinions of his readers.i Prepared to feast upon admiration; composed to encounter censures without emotion; and determined not to suffer hisj quiet to be injured by a sensibility too exquisitek of praise or blame, but to laugh with equal contempt at vainl objections and injudicious commendations, he enters the places of mingled conversation,m sits down to his tea in an obscure corner, and while he appears to examine a file of antiquated journals, catches the conversation of the whole room. He listens, butn hears no mention of his book, ando therefore supposes that he has disappointed his curiosity by delay, and that as men of learning would naturally beginp their conversation with such a wonderful novelty, they had digressed to other subjects before his arrival. The company disperses, and their places are supplied by othersq equally ignorant, or equally careless. The same expectation hurries him to another place, from which the same disappointment drives him soon away. His impatience then grows violent and tumultuous; he ranges over the town with restless curiosity, and hears in one quarter of a cricket-match, in another of a pick-pocket; is told by some of an unexpected bankrupcy,r by others of a turtle feast;s is sometimes provoked by importunate enquiries after the white bear, and sometimes with praises oft the dancing dog; he is afterwards entreated to give his judgment upon a wager about the height of the monument;u invited to see a foot race in the adjacent villages; desired to read a ludicrous advertisement; or consulted about the most effectual method of making enquiry after a favourite cat. Thev whole world isw busied in affairs, which he thinks below the notice of reasonable creatures, and which are nevertheless sufficient to withdraw all regard from his labours and his merits.

He resolves at last to violate his own modesty, and to recal the talkers from their folly by an enquiry after himself. Hex finds every one provided with an answer; oney has seen the work advertised, but never met with any that had read it; another has been so often imposed upon by specious titles, that he never buys a book till its character is established; a third wonders what any man can hope to produce after so many writers of greater eminence; the nextz has enquired after the author, but can hear no account of him, and therefore suspects the name to be fictitious; and another knows him to be a man condemned by indigence to write too frequently what he does not understand.

Many are the consolations with which the unhappy author endeavours to allay his vexation, and fortify his patience. He has written with too little indulgence to the understanding of common readers; he has fallen upon an age in whicha solid knowledge, andb delicate refinement, have given way to low merriment and idle buffoonry, andc therefore no writer can hope for distinction, who has any higher purpose than to raise laughter. He finds that his enemies, such asd superiority will always raise, have been industrious, while his performance wase in the press, to vilify and blast it;f and that the bookseller, whom he had resolved to enrich, has rivals thatg obstruct the circulation of his copies. He at last reposes upon the consideration, that the noblest works of learning and genius have always made their way slowly against ignorance and prejudice; and thath reputation which is never to be lost, must be gradually obtained, asi animals of longest life are observed not soon to attain their full stature and strength.

By such arts of voluntary delusion does every man endeavour to conceal his own unimportance from himself.2 It isj long before we are convinced of the small proportion which every individual bears to the collective body of mankind; or learn how few can be interested in the fortune of any single man; how little vacancy is left in the world for any new object of attention;k to how small extent the brightest blaze of merit can be spread amidst the mists of business and of folly; and how soon it isl clouded by the intervention of other novelties. Not only the writer of books, butm the commander of armies, and the deliverer of nations, will easily outlive all noisy and popular reputation: he mayn be celebrated for a time by the public voice, but his actions and his name will soon be considered as remote and unaffecting, ando be rarely mentioned but by those whose alliancep gives them some vanity to gratify by frequent commemoration.

It seems not to be sufficiently considered how little renown can be admitted in the world. Mankindq are kept perpetually busy by their fears orr desires, and have not more leisure from their own affairs, than to acquaint themselves with the accidents of the current day.s Engaged in contriving somet refuge from calamity, or inu shortening the way to some new possession, they seldomv suffer their thoughts to wander to the past or future; nonew but a few solitary students have leisure to enquire into the claims of antientx heroes or sages,3 and names whichy hoped to rangez over kingdoms and continents shrinka at last into cloisters or colleges.b

Nor is it certain, that even of thesec dark and narrow habitations, thesed last retreats of fame, the possession will be long kept. Of men devoted to literature very few extend their views beyond some particular science,e and the greater part seldom enquire, even in their own profession, for any authors but those whom the present mode of study happens to force upon their notice; they desire not to fill their minds with unfashionable knowledge, but contentedlyf resign to oblivion those books whichg they now find censured or neglected.

The hope of fameh is necessarily connected with such considerations as must abate the ardour of confidence, and repress the vigour of pursuit. Whoever claimsi renown from any kind of excellence, expects to fill the place which is now possessed by another, forj there are already names of every class sufficient to employ all that will desire to remember them; and surely he that is pushing his predecessors into the gulph of obscurity, cannot but sometimes suspect, that he must himself sinkk in like manner,l and as he stands upon the same precipice, be swept away with the same violence.

It sometimes happens, that fame begins when life is at an end; but far the greater number of candidates for applause have owed their reception in the world to some favourable casualties,m and have therefore immediately sunk into neglect, when death stripped them of their casual influence, and neithern fortune nor patronage operated in their favour. Amongo those who have better claims to regard, the honour paid to their memory is commonly proportionate to the reputation which they enjoyed in their lives, though stillp growing fainter, as it is at a greater distance from the first emission; andq since it is so difficult to obtain the notice of contemporaries, how little is to be hoped from future times? What can merit effect by its own force, when the help of art or friendship can scarcely support it?

As little things grow great by continual accumulation, I hope you will not think the dignity of your charactera impaired by an account of a ludicrousb persecution, which though it produces no scenes of horror or of ruin, yet by incessant importunity of vexation, wears away my happiness,c and consumes thosed years which nature seems particularly to have assigned to chearfulness, in silent anxiety and helpless resentment.

I am the eldest son of a gentleman, who having inherited a large estate from his ancestors, and feeling noe desire either to encrease or lessen it, has from the time of his marriage generally resided at his own seat;f where, by dividing his time among the duties of a father, a master, and a magistrate, the study of literature, and the offices of civility, he finds means to rid himself of the day, without any of those amusements, which all those with whom my residence in this place has made me acquainted think necessary to lighten the burthen of existence.

When my age made me capable of instruction, my father prevailed upon a gentleman, long known at Oxford for the extent of his learning and purity of his manners, to undertake my education. The regard with which I saw him treated, disposed me to consider his instructions as important,g and I therefore soon formed a habit of attention,h by which I made very quick advances in different kinds of learning, and heard, perhaps too often, very flattering comparisons of my own proficiency with that of others, either less docile by nature, or less happily forwarded by instruction. I was caressedi by all that exchanged visits with my father; and as young men are withj little difficulty taught to judge favourably of themselves,k began to think that close application was no longer necessary, and that the time was now come when I was at liberty to read only for amusement, andl was to receive the reward of my fatigues in praise and admiration.

While I was thus banquetting upon my own perfections, and longing in secretm to escape from tutorage,n my father's brother came from London to pass a summer at his native place. A lucrative employment which he possessed, and a fondness for the conversation and diversions of the gay part of mankind, had so long kept him from rural excursions, that I had never seen him since my infancy. My curiosity was therefore strongly excited by the hope of observing a character more nearly, which I had hitherto reverenced only at a distance.

From all private and intimate conversation I was long withheldo by the perpetual confluence of visitants, with whom the first news of my uncle's arrival crouded the house; but was amply recompensed by seeing an exact and punctilious practice of the arts of a courtier, in all the stratagems of endearment, the gradations of respect, and variations of courtesy. I remarked with what justicep of distribution he divided his talk to a wide circle; with what address he offered toq every man an occasion of indulging some favourite topick, or displaying some particular attainment; the judgment with which he regulated his enquiries after the absent; and the care with which he shewed all the companions of his early years how strongly they were infixed in his memory, by the mention of past incidents, and the recital of puerile kindnesses, dangers, and frolicks. I soon discovered that he possessed some science of graciousness and attraction which books had not taught, and of which neither I nor my father had any knowledge; that he had the power of obliging those whom he did not benefit; that he diffused uponr his cursory behaviour and most trifling actions a gloss of softness and delicacy by which every one was dazzled; and that by some occult method of captivation, he animated the timorous, softened the supercilious, and opened the reserved. I could not but repine at the inelegance of my own manners, which left me no hopes but not to offend, and at the inefficacy of rustick benevolence which gained no friends but by real service.

My uncle saw the veneration with which I caught every accent of his voice, and watched every motion of his hand; and the aukward diligences with which I endeavoured to imitate his embrace of fondness, and his bow of respect. He was, like others, easily flattered by an imitator by whom he could not fear ever to be rivalled, and repaid my assiduities with compliments and professions. Our fondness was sot encreased by a mutual endeavour to please each other, thatu when he returned to London, he declared himself unable to leave a nephew so amiable and so accomplished behind him; and obtained my father's permission to enjoy my company for a few months, by a promise to initiate me in the arts of politeness, andv introduce me into publick life.

The courtier hadw little inclination to fatigue, and therefore by travelling very slowly, afforded me time for more loose and familiar conversation; but I soon found that by a few enquiries which he was notx well prepared to satisfy, I had made him weary of his young companion. His element was a mixed assembly, where ceremony and healths,y compliments and common topicks kept the tongue employed with very little assistance from memory or reflexion; but in the chariot, where he wasz necessitated to support a regular tenor of conversation, without any relief from a new comer,a or any power of starting into gay digressions, or destroying argument by a jest, he soon discovered that poverty of ideas which had been hithertob concealed under the tinsel of politeness. The first day he entertained me with the novelties and wonders with which I should be astonished at my entrance into London, and cautioned me with apparent admiration of his own wisdom against the arts by which rusticity isc frequently deluded. The same detail and the same advice he would have repeated on the second day; but as I every moment diverted the discourse to the history of the towns by which we passed, ord some other subject of learning or of reason, he soon lost his vivacity, grew peevish and silent, wrapped his cloak about him, composed himself to slumber, and reserved his gaiety for fitter auditors.

At length I entered London, and my uncle was reinstated in his superiority. He awaked at once to loquacity as soon as our wheels rattled on the pavement, and told me the name of every street as we crossed it, and owner of every house as we passed by. He presented me to my aunt, a lady of great eminence for the number of her acquaintances, ande splendor of her assemblies, and either inf kindness or revenge consulted with her, in my presence, how I might be most advantageously dressed for my first appearance, and most expeditiously disencumbered from my villatick bashfulness. My indignation at familiarity thus contemptuous flushed in my face; they mistook anger for shame, and alternately exerted their eloquence upon the benefits of publick education, and the happiness of an assurance early acquired.

Assurance is indeed the only qualification to which they seem to have annexed merit, and assurance therefore is perpetually recommended to me as the supply of every defect, and the ornament of every excellence. I never sit silent in company when secret historyg is circulating, but I am reproached for want of assurance. If I fail to return the stated answer to a compliment; if I am disconcerted by unexpected raillery; if I blush when I am discovered gazing on a beauty, or hesitate when I find myself embarrassed in an argument; if I am unwilling to talk of what I do not understand, or timorous in undertaking offices which I cannot gracefully perform; if I suffer a more lively tatler to recount the casualtiesh of a game, or a nimbler fop to pick up a fan, I am censured between pity and contempt, as a wretch doomed to grovel in obscurity for want of assurance.

I have found many young persons harrassed in the same manner by those to whom age has given nothing but the assurance which they recommend; and therefore cannot but think it useful to inform them, that cowardice and delicacy are not to be confounded, and that he whose stupidity has armed him against the shafts of ridicule will always act and speak with greater audacity than they whose sensibility represses their ardor, and who dare never let their confidence outgrow their abilities.

Equally dangerous and equally detestable are the crueltiesf often exercised in private families, under the venerable sanction of parental authority;1 the power which we are taught to honourg from the first moments of reason; which is guarded from insult and violation by all that can impress awe upon the mind of man; and which therefore may wanton in cruelty without controul, and trample the bounds of right with innumerable transgressions, before duty and piety will dare to seek redress, or think themselves at liberty to recur to any other means of deliverance thanh supplications by which insolence is elated, and tears by which crueltyi is gratified.

It was for a long time imagined by the Romans, that no son could be the murderer of his father, and they had therefore no punishment appropriated to parricide. They seem likewise to have believed with equal confidence that no father could be cruel to his child, and therefore they allowed every man the supreme judicature in his own house, and put the lives of his offspring into his hands. Butj experience informed them by degrees, that they had determined too hastily in favour of human nature; they found that instinct and habit were not able to contend withk avarice or malice; that the nearest relation might be violated; and that power, to whomsoever entrusted, might be ill employed. They were therefore obliged to supply and to change their institutions; to deter the parricide by a new law, and to transfer capital punishments from the parent to the magistrate.

There are indeed many houses which it is impossible to enter familiarly, without discovering that parents are by no means exempt from the intoxications of dominion;l and that he who is in no danger of hearing remonstrances but from his own conscience, will seldomm be long without the art of controlling his convictions, and modifying justice by his own will.

If in any situation the heart were inaccessible to malignity, it might be supposed to be sufficiently secured by parental relation. To have voluntarily become to any being the occasion of its existence, produces an obligation to make that existence happy. To see helpless infancy stretching out her hands and pouring out her cries in testimony of dependance, without any powers to alarm jealousy, or any guilt to alienate affection, must surely awaken tenderness in every human mind; and tenderness once excited will be hourly encreased by the natural contagion of felicity, by the repercussion of communicated pleasure, andn the consciousness of the dignity of benefaction. I believe no generous or benevolent man can see the vilest animal courting his regard, and shrinking at his anger, playing his gambols of delight before him, calling on him ino distress, and flying to him inp danger, without more kindness than he can persuade himself to feel for the wild and unsocial inhabitants of the air and water. We naturally endear to ourselves those to whom we impart any kind of pleasure, because we imagine their affection and esteem secured to us by the benefits which they receive.

There is indeed another method by which the pride of superiority may be likewise gratified. He that has extinguished all the sensations of humanity, and has no longer any satisfaction in the reflection that he is loved as the distributorq of happiness, may please himself with exciting terror as the inflicter of pain;r he may delight his solitude with contemplating the extent of his power and the force of his commands, in imaginings the desires that flutter on the tongue whicht is forbidden to utter them, or the discontent which preys on the heart in which fear confines it; he may amuse himself with new contrivances of detection,u multiplications of prohibition, andv varieties of punishment; and swell with exultation when he considers how little of the homage thatw he receives he owes to choice.x

That princes of this character have been known, the history of all absolute kingdoms will inform us; and since, as Aristotle observes, ἡ ὁικονομική μοναρχία, “the government of a family is naturally monarchical,”2 it is like other monarchiesy too often arbitrarily administered. The regal and parental tyrant differ only in the extent of their dominions, and the number of their slaves. The same passions cause the same miseries; except that seldom any prince, however despotick, has so far shaken off all awe of the publick eye as to venture upon those freaks of injustice, which are sometimes indulged under the secrecy of a private dwelling. Capricious injunctions, partial decisions, unequal allotments, distributions of reward not by merit but by fancy, and punishments regulated not by the degree of the offence, but by the humour of the judge, are too frequentz where no power is known but that of a father.

That he delights in the misery of others no man will confess, and yet what other motive cana make a father cruel? The king may be instigated by one man to the destruction of another; he may sometimes think himself endangered by the virtues of a subject; he may dread the successful general or the popular orator; his avarice may point out golden confiscations; and his guilt may whisper that he can only be secure, by cutting off all power of revenge.

But what can a parent hope from the oppression of those who were born to his protection, ofb those who can disturb him with no competition, who can enrich him with no spoils? Why cowards are cruel may be easily discovered; but for what reason not more infamous than cowardice can that man delight in oppressionc who has nothing to fear? The unjustifiable severity of a parent is loaded with this aggravation, that those whom he injures are always in his sight. The injustice of a prince is often exercised upon those of whom he never had any personal or particular knowledge; and the sentence which he pronounces, whether of banishment, imprisonment, or death, removes from his view the man whom he condemns. But the domestick oppressor dooms himself to gaze upon those faces which he clouds with terror and with sorrow; and beholdsd every moment the effects of his own barbarities. He that can bear to give continual pain to those who surround him, and can walk with satisfaction in the gloom of his own presence; he that can see submissive misery without relenting, and meet without emotion the eye that implores mercy, or demands justice, will scarcely be amended by remonstrance or admonition; he has found means of stopping the avenues of tenderness, and arminge his heart against the force of reason.

Even though no consideration should be paid to the great law of social beings, by which every individual is commanded to consult the happiness of others, yetf the harsh parent isg less to be vindicated than any other criminal, because he less provides for the happiness of himself. Every man, however little he loves others, would willingly be loved; every man hopes to live long, and therefore hopes for that time at which he shall sink back to imbecillity, and must depend for ease and chearfulness upon the officiousness of others. But how has he obviated the inconveniences of old age, who alienates from him the assistance of his children, and whose bed must be surrounded in his last hours, in the hours of languor and dejection, of impatience and of pain, by strangers to whom his life is indifferent, or by enemies to whom his death is desirable?

Piety will indeed in good minds overcome provocation, andh those who have been harrassed by brutality willi forget the injuries which they have suffered so far as to perform the last duties with alacrity and zeal. Butj surely no resentment can be equally painful with kindness thus undeserved, nor can severer punishment be imprecated upon a man not wholly lost in meanness and stupidity, than throughk the tediousness of decrepitude, to be reproached by the kindness of his own children, to receive not the tribute but thel alms of attendance, and to owe every relief of his miseries not to gratitude but to mercy.

No depravity of the mind has been more frequently orb justly censured than ingratitude. There is indeed sufficient reason for looking on thosec that can return evil for good, andd repay kindness and assistance with hatred or neglect, as corrupted beyond the common degrees of wickedness; nor will he who has once been clearly detected in acts of injury to his benefactor, deserve to be numbered among social beings; he has endeavoured to destroy confidence, to intercept sympathy, and to turn every man's attention wholly on himself.

There is always danger lest the honest abhorrence of a crime should raise the passions with too much violence against the man to whom it is imputed. In proportion as guilt is more enormous, it ought to be ascertained by stronger evidence. The charge against ingratitude is very general; almost every man can tell what favours he has conferred upon insensibility, and how much happiness he has bestowed without return; but perhaps if these patrons and protectors were confronted with any whom they boast of having befriended, it would often appear that theye consulted only their pleasure orf vanity, and repaid themselves their petty donatives by gratifications of insolence and indulgence of contempt.

It has happenedg that much of my time has been passed in a dependant state, and consequently I have received many favours in the opinion of those at whose expence I have been maintained; yet I do not feel in my heart any burning gratitude or tumultuous affection; and as I would not willingly suppose myself less susceptible of virtuous passions than the rest of mankind, I shall lay the history of my life before you, that you may, by your judgment of my conduct, either reform or confirm my present sentiments.h

My father was the second son of a very antient and wealthy family. He married a lady of equal birth, whose fortune, joined to his own, might have supportedi his posterity in honour;j but being gay and ambitious, he prevailed on his friends to procure him a post, which gave him ank opportunity of displayingl his elegance and politeness. My mother was equally pleased with splendor, and equally careless of expence; theym both justified their profusion to themselves, by endeavouring to believe it necessary to the extension of their acquaintance and improvement of their interest; and whenever any place became vacant, they expected to be repaid.n In the midst of theseo hopes my father was snatched away by an apoplexy; and my mother, who had no pleasure but in dress, equipage, assemblies and compliments, finding that she could live no longer in her accustomed rank, sunk into dejection, and in two years wore out her life with envy and discontent.

I was sent with a sister, one year younger than myself, to the elder brother of my father. Wep were not yet capable of observing how much fortune influences affection, butq flattered ourselves on the road with the tenderness and regard with which we shouldr be treated by our uncle. Our reception was rather frigid than malignant; we were introduced to our young cousins, and for the first month more frequently consoled than upbraided; but in a short time we found our prattle repressed, our dress neglected,s our endearments unregarded, andt our requests referred to the housekeeper.

The forms of decency were now violated, and every day produced new insults.u We were soon brought to the necessity of receding from our imagined equality with our cousins, to whom we sunk into humble companions without choice orv influence, expected only to echo their opinions, facilitate their desires, and accompany their rambles. It was unfortunatew that our early introduction into polite company and habitual knowledge of the arts of civility, had given us such an appearance of superiority to the awkwardx bashfulness of our relations, as naturally drew respect and preference from every stranger;y and my aunt was forced to assert the dignity of her own children, while they were sculking in corners for fear of notice, and hanging down their heads in silent confusion, by relating the indiscretion of our father, displaying her own kindness, lamenting the misery of birth without estate, and declaring her anxiety for our future provision, and the expedients which she hadz formed to secure us from those follies or crimes, to which the conjunction of pride and want often gives occasion. In a short time care was taken to prevent such vexatious mistakes;a we were told, that fine cloaths would only fill our heads with false expectations, and our dress was therefore accommodated to our fortune.

Childhood is not easily dejected or mortified. We felt no lasting pain from insolence or neglect; but finding that we were favoured and commended by all whoseb interest did not prompt themc to discountenance us,d preserved our vivacity and spirit to years of greater sensibility. It then becamee irksome and disgusting to live without anyf principle of action butg the will of another, and we often met privately in the garden to lament our condition, and to ease our hearts with mutual narratives of caprice, peevishness, and affront.

There are innumerable modes of insult and tokens of contempt, for which it is not easy to find a name, which vanish to nothing in an attempt to describe them, and yet may,h by continual repetition, make day pass after day in sorrow and in terror. Phrases of cursory compliment and established salutation may by a different modulation of the voice or cast of the countenance convey contrary meanings, and be changed from indications of respect to expressions of scorn. The dependant who cultivates delicacy in himself very little consults his own tranquillity. My unhappy vigilance is every moment discovering some petulance of accent, ori arrogance of mien, some vehemence of interrogation, orj quickness of reply, that recallsk my poverty to my mind, and which I feel more acutely as I know not how to resent it.l

You are not however to imagine, that I think myself discharged from the duties of gratitude, only because my relations do not adjust their looks or tune their voices to my expectation. The insolence of benefaction terminates not in negative rudeness or obliquities of insult. I am often told in express terms of the miseries from which charity has snatched me, while multitudes are suffered by relations equally near to devolve upon the parish; and have more than once heard it numbered among other favours that I am admitted to the same table with my cousins.

That I sit at the first table I must acknowledge, but I sit there only that I may feel the stings of inferiority. Mym enquiries are neglected, my opinion is overborn, my assertions are controverted; and as insolence always propagates itself, the servants overlook me, in imitation of their master; if I call modestly, I am not heard; if loudly, my usurpation of authority is checked by a general frown. I am often obliged to look uninvited upon delicacies, andn sometimes desired to rise upon very slight pretences.

The incivilities to which I am exposed would give me lesso pain were they not aggravated by the tears of my sister, whom the young ladies are hourly tormentingp with every art of feminine persecution. As it is said of the supreme magistrate of Venice, that he is a prince in one place and a slave in another, my sister is a servant to her cousins in their apartments,q and a companion only at the table. Herr wit and beauty draws so much regard away from them, that they never suffer her to appear with them in any place where they solicit notice, or expect admiration, and when they are visited by neighbouring ladies, and pass their hours in domestic amusements, she is sometimes called to fill a vacancy, insulted with contemptuous freedoms, and dismissed to her needle when her place is supplied. The heir has of late, by the instigation of his sisters, begun to harasst her with clownish jocularity; he seems inclined to make his first rude essays of waggery upon her; and by the connivance, if not encouragement of his father, treats her with such licentious brutality, as I cannot bear, though I cannot punish it.

I beg to be informed, Mr. Rambler, how much we can be supposed to owe to beneficence, exerted on terms like these? tou beneficence which pollutes its gifts with contumely, and may be truly said to pander to pride? I would willingly be told, whether insolence does not reward its own liberalities, and whether he that exacts servility, can with justice at the same time expect affection?

This attempt may perhaps be justly suspected off resemblance to the practice of physicians, who when they cannot mitigate pain, destroy sensibility, and endeavour to conceal by opiates the inefficacy of their other medicines. The panegyrists of calamity have more frequently gained applause to their wit, than acquiescence to their arguments; nor has it appeared that the most musical oratory or subtle ratiocination has been able long to overpower the anguish of oppression, the tediousness of languor, or the longings of want.

Yet it may be generally remarked, that where much has been attempted, something has been performed; though the discoveries or acquisitions of man are not always adequate to the expectations of his pride, they are at least sufficient to animate his industry. The antidotes with which philosophy has medicated the cup of life, though they cannot give it salubrity and sweetness, have at least allayed its bitterness, and contempered its malignity; the balm which she dropsg upon the wounds of the mind, abatesh their pain,i though it cannot heal them.

By suffering willingly what we cannot avoid, we secure ourselves from vain and immoderate disquiet;j we preserve for better purposes that strengthk which would be unprofitably wasted in wildl efforts of desperation, and maintain that circumspection which may enable us to seize every support, and improve every alleviation. This calmnessm will be more easily obtained, as the attention is more powerfully withdrawn from the contemplation of unmingled unabated evil, and diverted to those accidental benefits which prudence may confer on every state.

Seneca has attempted not only to pacify us in misfortune, but almost to allure us to it by representing it as necessary to the pleasures of the mind. “He that never was acquainted with adversity,” says he, “has seen the world but on one side, and is ignorant of half the scenes of nature.”1 He invites his pupil to calamity, as the Syrens allured the passenger to their coasts, by promising that he shall return πλέιονα εἰδὼς,2 with encrease of knowledge, with enlarged views, and multiplied ideas.

Curiosity is, in great and generous minds, the first passion and the last; and perhaps always predominates in proportion to the strength of the contemplative faculties. He who easily comprehends all that is before him, and soon exhausts any single subject, is always eager for new enquiries; and in proportion as the intellectual eye takes in a wider prospect, it must be gratified with variety by more rapid flights, and bolder excursions; nor perhaps can there be proposed to those who have been accustomed to the pleasures of thought,n a more powerful incitement to any undertaking, than the hopeo of filling their fancyp with new images, of clearing their doubts, and enlightening their reason.

When Jason, in Valerius Flaccus, would inclineq the young prince Acastus to accompany him in the first essay of navigation, he disperses his apprehensions of danger by representations of the new tractsr of earth and heaven which the expedition would spread before their eyes; and tells him with what grief he will hear, at theirs return, of the countries which they shall have seen, and the toils which they have surmounted.

Acastus was soon prevailed upon by his curiosity to set rocks and hardships at defiance, and commit his life to the winds;t and the same motives have in all ages had the same effect upon those whom the desire of fame or wisdom has distinguished from the lower orders of mankind.

If therefore it can be proved that distressu is necessary to the attainment of knowledge, and that a happy situation hides from us so large a part of the field of meditation, the envy of many who repine at the sight of affluence and splendor will be much diminished; for such is the delight of mental superiority, that none on whom nature or study have conferred it, would purchase the gifts of fortune by its loss.

It is certain, that however the rhetorick of Seneca may have dressed adversity with extrinsick ornaments, he has justly represented it as affording some opportunities of observation, which cannotv be found in continual success;w he has truly asserted, that to escape misfortune is to want instruction, and that to live at ease is to live in ignorance.

As no man can enjoy happiness without thinking that he enjoys it, the experience of calamity is necessary to a just sense of better fortune; for the good of our present state is merely comparative, and the evil which every man feels will be sufficient to disturb and harrass him if he does not know how muchx he escapes. The lustre of diamonds is invigorated by the interposition of darker bodies; the lights of a picture are createdy by the shades. The highest pleasure which nature has indulged to sensitive perception, is that of rest after fatigue; yet that state which labour heightens into delight is of itselfz only ease, and is incapable of satisfying the mind without the superaddition of diversified amusements.

Prosperity, as is truly asserted by Seneca, very much obstructs the knowledge of ourselves. No man can form a just estimate of his own powers by unactive speculation. That fortitude which has encountered no dangers, that prudence which has surmounted no difficulties, that integrity which has been attacked by no temptations, can at best be considered but as gold not yet brought to the test, of which therefore the true value cannot be assigned. “He that traverses the lists without an adversary, may receive,” says the philosopher, “the reward of victory, but he has no pretensions to the honour.”3 If it be the highest happiness of man to contemplate himself with satisfaction, and to receive the gratulations of his own conscience, he whose courage has made way amidst the turbulence of opposition, and whose vigour has broken through the snares of distress, has many advantages over those that havea slept in the shades of indolence, and whose retrospect of time can entertain themb with nothing but day rising upon day, and year gliding after year.

Equally necessary is some variety of fortune to a nearer inspection of the manners, principles and affections of mankind. Princes, when they would know the opinions or grievances of their subjects, findc it necessary tod steal away frome guards and attendants, andf mingle on equal terms among the people. To him who is known to have the power of doing good or harm, nothing is shown in its natural form. The behaviour of all that approach him is regulated by his humour, their narratives are adapted to his inclination, and their reasonings determined by his opinions; whatever can alarm suspicion, or excite resentment is carefully suppressed, and nothing appears but uniformity of sentiments and ardor of affection. It may be observed, that the unvaried complaisance whichg ladies have the right of exacting, keeps them generally unskilled in human nature; prosperity will always enjoy the female prerogatives, and therefore must be always in danger of female ignorance. Truth is scarcely to be heard but by those from whom it can serve no interest to conceal it.h

It had been a task worthy of the moral philosophers to have considered with equal care the climactericks of the mind; to have pointed out the time at which every passion begins and ceases to predominate, and noted the regular variations of desire, and the succession of one appetite to another.

Thef periods of mental change are not to be stated with equal certainty: Our bodies grow up under the care of nature, and depend so little on our own management, that something more than negligence is necessary to discompose their structure, or impede their vigour. But our minds are committed in a great measure first to the direction of others, and afterwards of ourselves. It would be difficult to protract the weakness of infancyg beyond the usual time, but the mind may be very easily hindered from its share of improvement, and the bulk and strength of manhood must, without the assistance of education and instruction, be informed only with the understanding of a child.

Yet amidst all the disorder and inequality which variety of discipline, example, conversation, and employment produce in the intellectual advances of different men, there is stillh discovered by a vigilant spectator such a general and remote similitude as may be expected in the same common nature affected by external circumstances indefinitely varied. We all enter the world in equal ignorance,i gaze round about us on the same objects, andj have our first pains and pleasures, our first hopes and fears, our first aversions and desires from the same causes; and though, as we proceed farther, life opens wider prospects to our view, and accidental impulses determine us to different paths, yet as every mind, however vigorous or abstracted, is necessitated in its present state of union, to receive its informations, and execute its purposes by the intervention of the body, the uniformity of our corporealk nature communicates itself to our intellectual operations; and those whose abilities or knowledge incline them most to deviate from the general round of life, are recalled froml excentricity by the laws of their existence.

If we consider them exercises of the mind, it will be found that in each part of life some particular faculty is more eminently employed. When the treasures of knowledge are first opened before us, whilen novelty blooms alike on either hand, and every thing equally unknown and unexamined seems of equal value, the power of the soul is principally exerted in a vivacious and desultory curiosity. She applies by turns to every object, enjoys it for a short time, and flies with equal ardour to another. She delights to catch up loose and unconnected ideas, but starts away from systems and complications which would obstruct the rapidity of her transitions, and detain her long in the same pursuit.

When a number of distinct images are collected by these erratick and hasty surveys, the fancy is busied in arranging them; and combineso them into pleasing pictures with morep resemblance to the realities of lifeq as experience advances, and new observations rectify the former. While the judgment is yet uninformed and unable to compare the draughts of fiction with their originals, we are delighted with improbable adventures, impracticable virtues, and inimitable characters: But, in proportion as we have more opportunities of acquainting ourselves with living nature, we are sooner disgusted with copies in which there appearsr no resemblance. Wes first discard absurdity and impossibility, then exact greater and greater degrees of probability, butt at last become cold and insensible to the charms of falshood, however specious, and from the imitationsu of truth, which are never perfect,v transfer our affection to truth itself.

Now commences the reign of judgment orw reason; we begin to findx little pleasure, but in comparing arguments, stating propositions, disentangling perplexities, clearing ambiguities, and deducing consequences. The painted vales of imagination are deserted, and our intellectual activity isy exercised in winding through the labyrinths of fallacy, and toiling with firm and cautious steps up the narrow tracks of demonstration. Whatever may lull vigilance, or mislead attention, isz contemptuously rejected, and every disguise in which error may be concealed, is carefully observed, till by degrees a certain number of incontestablea or unsuspected propositions are established, andb at last concatenated into arguments,c or compacted into systems.

At length weariness succeeds to labour, and the mind lies at ease in the contemplation of her own attainments,d without any desire of new conquests or excursions. This is the age of recollection and narrative;e the opinions are settled, and the avenues of apprehension shut against any new intelligence; the days that are to follow must pass in the inculcation of precepts already collected, and assertion of tenets already received; nothing is henceforwardf so odious as opposition, so insolent as doubt, or so dangerous as novelty.

In like manner the passions usurp the separate command of the successive periods of life. To the happiness of our first years nothing more seemsg necessary than freedom from restraint: Every man may remember that if he was left to himself, and indulged in the disposal of his own time, he was once contenth without the superaddition of any actual pleasure. The new world is itself a banquet, and till we have exhausted the freshness of life, we have always about us sufficient gratifications: The sunshine quickens us to play, and the shade invites us to sleep.

But we soon become unsatisfied with negative felicity, and are solicited by our senses and appetites to more powerful delights, as the taste of him who hasi satisfied his hunger must be excited by artificial stimulations. The simplicity of natural amusement is now past, and art and contrivance must improvej our pleasures; but in time art, like nature, is exhausted, and the senses can no longer supply the cravings of the intellect.

The attention is thenk transferred from pleasure to interest, in which pleasure is perhaps included, though diffused to a wider extent, and protracted through new gradations. Nothing now dances before the eyes but wealth and power, nor rings in the ear but the voice of fame; wealth, to which, however variously denominated, every man at some time or other aspires; power, which all wish to obtain within their circlel of action; and fame, which no man, however high or mean, however wise or ignorant, was yet able to despise. Now prudence and foresight exert their influence: no hour is devoted wholly to any present enjoyment, no act or purpose terminates in itself, but every motion is referred to some distant end; the accomplishment of one design beginsm another, and the ultimate wish is always pushed off to its former distance.

At length fame is observed to be uncertain, and power to be dangerous; the man whose vigour and alacrity begin to forsake him, by degrees contracts his designs, remits his former multiplicity of persuits, and extends no longer his regard to any other honour than the reputation of wealth, or any other influence than its power. Avaricen is generally the last passiono of those lives of which the first part has been squandered in pleasure, and the second devoted to ambition. He that sinks under the fatigue of getting wealth, lulls his agep with the milder businessq of saving it.

I have in this view of life considered men as actuated onlyr by naturals desires, and yielding to their own inclinationst without regard tou superior principlesv by which the forcew of external agents may be counteracted, and the temporary prevalence of passions restrained. Nature will indeed always operate, human desires will be always ranging; but these motions, though very powerful, are not resistless; naturex may be regulated, and desiresy governed;2 and to contend with the predominance of successive passions, to be endangered first by one affection, and then by another, is the condition upon which we are to pass our time, thez time of our preparation for that state which shall put an end to experiment, to disappointment, and to change.

It has yet happenedd that among the numerous writers which our nation has produced, equal perhaps alwayse in force and genius, and of late in elegance and accuracy to those of any other country, very few havef endeavoured to distinguish themselves by the publication of letters, except such as wereg written in the discharge of publick trusts, and during the transaction of great affairs; which, though theyh afford precedents to the minister, and memorials to the historian, are of noi use as examples of the familiar stile, or models of private correspondence.

If it be enquired by foreigners, how this deficiency has happenedj in the literature of a country, where all indulge themselvesk with so little danger in speaking and writing, may we not without eitherl bigotry or arrogance inform them, that it must be imputedm to our contempt of trifles, andn our due sense of the dignity of the publick? Weo do not think it reasonable to fill the world with volumes from which nothing can be learned, nor expect that the employments of the busy, or the amusements of the gay, should give way to narratives of our private affairs,p complaints of absence, expressions of fondness, or declarations of fidelity.

Aq slight perusal of the innumerable lettersr by which the wits of France have signalized their names,s will prove that other nations need not be discouraged from the like attempts by the consciousness of inability; for surely it is not very difficult to aggravate trifling misfortunes,t to magnify familiar incidents,u repeat adulatory professions,v accumulate servile hyperboles, andw produce all that can be found in the despicable remains of Voiture and Scarron.

Yet as much of life must be passed in affairsx considerable only by their frequent occurrence, and much of the pleasure which our condition allows, must be produced by giving elegance to trifles, it is necessary to learn how to become little without becoming mean, to maintain the necessary intercoursey of civility, and fill up the vacuities of action by agreeable appearances. It had therefore been ofz advantage if such of our writers as havea excelled in the art of decorating insignificance, had supplied us with a few sallies of innocent gaiety, effusions of honest tenderness, or exclamations of unimportant hurry.

Precept has generally been posterior to performance. The art of composing works of genius has never been taughtb but by the example of those who performed it by naturalc vigour of imagination, and rectitude of judgment. As we have few letters, we have likewise few criticisms upon the epistolary stile. The observations with which Walsh has introduced his pages of inanity are such as give himd little claim to the rank assigned him by Dryden amonge the criticks. “Letters,” says he, “are intended as resemblances of conversation, and the chief excellencies of conversation are good humour and good breeding.”2 This remark, equally valuable for its novelty and propriety, he dilates and enforces with an appearance of compleat acquiescence in his own discovery.

No man was ever in doubt about the moral qualities of a letter. It has been always known that he who endeavours to please must appear pleased, and he who would not provoke rudeness must not practise it. But thef question among those whog establish rules for anh epistolary performancei isj how gaiety or civility may bek properly expressed; as among the criticks in history it is not contested whether truth ought to be preserved, but by what mode of diction it is best adorned.

As letters are written on all subjects, in all states of mind, theyl cannot be properlym reduced ton settled rules, or described by any single characteristic; ando we may safely disentangle our minds from critical embarrassments,p by determining that a letter has no peculiarity butq its form, and that nothing isr to be refused admission which would bes proper in any other method of treating the same subject. The qualities of the epistolary stile most frequently required are ease and simplicity, an even flow of unlaboured diction, and an artless arrangement of obvious sentiments. But these directionst are no sooner applied tou use, than their scantiness and imperfection becomev evident. Letters are written to the great and to the mean, to the learned and the ignorant, at rest and in distress, in sport and in passion. Nothing can be more improper than ease and laxity of expression, when the importance of the subject impresses solicitude, or the dignity of the person exacts reverence.

That letters should be written with strict conformity to nature is true, because nothing but conformity to nature can make any composition beautiful or just. But it is natural to depart from familiarity of language upon occasions not familiar. Whateverw elevates the sentiments will consequently raise the expression; whatever fills us with hope or terror will produce some perturbation of images, and some figurative distortions of phrase. Wherever we are studious to please, we are afraid of trusting our first thoughts, and endeavour to recommend our opinion by studied ornaments,x accuracy of method, and elegance of stile.

If the personages of the comick scene be allowed by Horace to raise their language in the transports of anger to the turgid vehemence of tragedy,3 the epistolary writer may likewisey without censure comply with the varieties of his matter. If great events are to be related, he may with all the solemnity of an historian, deduce them from their causes, connect them with their concomitants, and trace them to their consequences. If a disputed position is to be established, or a remote principle to be investigated, he may detail his reasonings with all the nicety of syllogistick method. If a menace is to be averted, or a benefit implored, he may, without any violation of the edicts of criticism, call every power of rhetorick to his assistance, and try every inlet at which love or pityz enters the heart.

Lettersa that have no other end than the entertainment of the correspondent areb more properlyc regulated by critical precepts, because the matter and stile are equally arbitrary, and rules ared more necessary, as there ise largerf power of choice. In letters of this kind, some conceive art graceful, and others think negligence amiable; some model them by the sonnet, and will allow themg no means of delighting but the soft lapse of calm mellifluence; others adjust them by the epigram, and expect pointed sentences and forcible periods. The one party considers exemption from faults as the height of excellence, the other looks upon neglect of excellence as the most disgusting fault; one avoids censure, the other aspires to praise; one is always in danger of insipidity, the other continually on the brink of affectation.

When the subject has no intrinsick dignity it must necessarily oweh its attractions to artificial embellishments, and mayi catch at allj advantages which the art of writing can supply.k He that, like Pliny, sends his friend a portion for his daughter,4 will, without Pliny's eloquence or address, find means of exciting gratitude, and securing acceptance; but he that has nol present to make but a garland, a ribbon, or some petty curiosity, must endeavour to recommend it by his manner of giving it.

The purpose for which letters are written whenm no intelligence is communicated, or business transacted,n is to preserve in the minds of the absent either love or esteem; to excite love we must imparto pleasure, and to raise esteem we must discover abilities. Pleasurep will generally be given, as abilities are displayedq by scenes of imagery,r points of conceit, unexpected sallies and artful compliments. Trifless always require exuberance of ornament; the building which has no strength can be valued only for the gracet of its decorations. The pebbleu must be polished with care, which hopes to be valued as a diamond; and words ought surely to be laboured when they are intended to stand for things.

There area occasions on which all apology is rudeness. He that has an unwelcome message to deliver,b mayc give some proof of tenderness and delicacy, by a ceremonial introduction and gradual discovery, because the mind, upon which the weight of sorrow is to fall, gainsd time for the collection of its powers; but nothing is more absurd than to delay the communication of pleasure, to torment curiositye by impatience, and to deludef hope by anticipation.

I shall therefore forbearg the arts by which correspondents generallyh secure admission, for I have too long remarked thei power of vanity,j to doubt that I shall be read by you with a disposition to approve, when I declarek that my narrative has no other tendency than to illustrate and corroborate your own observations.

I was the second son of a gentleman, whose patrimony had beenl wasted by a long succession of squanderers tillm he was unable to support any of his children, except his heir, in the hereditary dignity of idleness. Being thereforen obliged to employ that part of life in study whicho my progenitors had devoted to the hawk andp hound, I was in my eighteenth year dispatchedq to the university, without any rural honours.r I had never killed a single woodcock, nor partaken one triumph over a conquered fox.

At the university I continued to enlarge my acquisitions withs little envy of the noisy happiness which my elder brother had the fortune to enjoy, and having obtained my degree,t retired to consideru at leisure to what profession I shouldv confine that application which had hitherto been dissipated in general knowledge.w To deliberate upon a choice which custom and honour forbid to be retracted, is certainly reasonable, yet to let loose the attention equally to the advantages and inconveniencies of every employment is not without danger;x new motives are every moment operating on every side; and mechanicks have long ago discovered, that contrariety of equal attractions is equivalent to rest.

While I was thus trifling in uncertainty, an old adventurer, who had been once the intimate friendy of my father, arrived from the Indies with a large fortune, which he had so much harrassed himself in obtaining, that sickness and infirmity left him no other desire than to diez in his native country. His wealth easily procured him an invitation to pass his life with us, and beinga incapable of any amusement butb conversation, he necessarily became familiarised to me, whom he found studious and domestick. Pleased with an opportunity of imparting my knowledge, and eager ofc any intelligence that might encrease it, I delighted his curiosity with historical narrativesd and explications of nature, ande gratified his vanity byf enquiries after the products of distant countries, and the customs of their inhabitants.

My brother saw how much I advanced in theg favour of our guest, who being without heirs, was naturally expected to enrich the family of his friend,h but neither attempted to alienate me, nor to ingratiate himself. He was indeedi little qualified to solicit the affection of aj traveller, for the remisness of his education had left him without any rule of action but his present humour. He often forsook the old gentleman,k in the midst of an adventure, because the horn sounded in the courtyard, and would have lost an opportunity, not only of knowing the history, but sharing the wealth of the Mogul, for the trial of a new pointer, or the sight of a horse-race.

It was therefore not long before our new friendl declared his intention of bequeathing to me the profits of his commerce, as the only man in the family by whom he could expect them to be rationally enjoyed. This distinction drew upon me the envy not onlym of my brother but my father. As non man is willing to believe that he suffers by his own fault,o theyp imputed the preference which I had obtainedq tor adulatory compliances ors malignant calumnies. To no purpose did I call upon my patront to attest my innocence, for who will believe what he wishes to be false? In the heat of disappointmentu they forced their inmatev by repeated insults to depart from the house, and I was soon by the same treatment obliged to follow him.

He chose his residence in the confines of London, where rest, tranquillityw and medicine restored him to part of the health which he had lost. I pleased myself with perceiving that I was not likely to obtain an immediate possession of wealth which no labour of mine had contributed to acquire; and that he, who had thus distinguished me, might hope tox end his life without a total frustration of those blessings, which, whatever be their real value, he had sought with so much diligence, and purchased with so many vicissitudes of danger and fatigue.

Hey indeed left me no reason to repine at his recovery, for he was willing to accustom me early to the use of money, and set apart for myz expences such a revenue as I had scarcely dared to image.a Ib can yet congratulate myself that fortune has seen her golden cup once tasted without inebriation. Neither my modesty nor prudence were overwhelmed by affluence; my elevation was without insolence, and my expence without profusion. Employingc the influence which money always confers, to thed improvement of my understanding, Ie mingled inf parties of gaiety, and ing conferences of learning, appeared in every place where instruction was to be found, and imagined that by ranging through all the diversities of life I had acquainted myself fully with human nature, and learned all that was to be known of the ways of men.

It happened, however, that I soon discovered how much was wanting toh the completion of my knowledge, and found that, according to Seneca's remark, I had hitherto seen the world but on one side.1 My patron'si confidence in his encrease of strength tempted him to carelessness and irregularity; he caught a fever by riding in the rain, of which he died delirious on the third day. I buried him without any of the heir's affected grief or secret exultation; then preparing to take a legal possession of his fortune,j opened his closet, where I found a will, made at his first arrival, by which my father was appointed the chief inheritor,k and nothing was left me but a legacy sufficient to support me in the prosecution of my studies.

I had not yet found such charms in prosperity as to continue it by any acts of forgery or injustice, andl made haste to inform my father of the riches which had been given him, not by the preference ofm kindness, but by the delays of indolence, andn cowardice of age. The hungry family flew like vulturs on their prey, and soon made my disappointment publick by the tumult of their claims, and the splendor of their sorrow.

It was now my part to consider how I should repair the disappointment.o I could not but triumph in my long list of friends, which comprised almost every name that power or knowledge entitled to eminence, and in the prospect of the innumerable roads to honour and preferment which I had laid open to myself by the wise use of temporary riches. I believed nothing necessary but that I should continue that acquaintance to which I had been so readily admitted, and which had hitherto been cultivated on both sides with equal ardour.

Full of these expectations, I one morning ordered a chair, with an intention to make my usual circle of morning visits. Where I first stopped I saw two footmen lolling at the door, who told me, without any change of posture or collection of countenance, that their master was at home, and suffered me to open the inner door without assistance. I found my friend standing, and as I was tattling with my former freedom, was formally entreated to sit down, but did not stay to be favoured with any furtherp condescensions.

My next experiment was made at the levee of a statesman, who received me with an embrace of tenderness, that he might with more decency publish my change of fortune to the sycophants about him. After he had enjoyed the triumph of condolence, he turned to a wealthy stockjobber, and left me exposed to the scorn of those who had lately courted my notice and solicited my interest.

I was then set down at the door of another, who upon my entrance advised me with great solemnity to think of some settled provision for life. I left him and hurried away to an old friend, who professed himself unsusceptible of any impressions from prosperity or misfortune, and begged that he might see me when he was more at leisure.

Of sixty-seven doors at which I knocked in the first week after myq appearance in a mourning dress, I was denied admission at forty six;r was suffered at fourteens to wait in the outer room till business was dispatched; at four was entertained with a few questions about the weather; at one heard the footmen rated for bringing my name; and at two was informed in the flow of casual conversation, how much a man of rank degrades himself by mean company.

My curiosityt now led me to try what reception I should find among the ladies, but I found that my patronu had carried all my powers of pleasing to the grave. I had formerly been celebrated as a wit, and not perceiving any langourv in my imagination, I essayed to revive that gayetyw which had hitherto broken out involuntarily before my sentences were finished. My remarks were now heard with a steady countenance, and if a girl happened to give way to habitual merriment, her forwardness was repressed with a frown by her mother or her aunt.

Wherever I come I scatter infirmity and disease; every lady whom I meet in the Mall is too weary to walk; all whom I entreat to sing arex troubled with colds; if I propose cards, they are afflicted with the head-ach; if I invite them to the gardens, they cannot bear a crowd.

All thisy might be endured;z but there is a class of mortals who think my understanding impaired with my fortune, exalt themselves to the dignity of advice, and whenever we happen to meet, presume to prescribe my conduct, regulate my oeconomy, and direct my pursuits. Another race, equally impertinent and equally despicable, are every moment recommending to me an attention to my interest, and think themselves entitled by their superiour prudence to reproach me if I speak or move without regard to profit.

Such, Mr. Rambler, is the power of wealth, that it commands the ear of greatness and the eye of beauty, gives spirit to the dull, and authority to the timorous, and leaves him from whom it departs, without virtue and without understanding, the sport of caprice, the scoff of insolence, the slave of meanness, and the pupil of ignorance.

The mental diseasec of the present generation, isd impatience of study, contempt of the great masters of ancient wisdom, and a disposition to rely wholly upon unassisted genius and natural sagacity. The wits of these happy days have discovered a way to fame, which the dull caution of our laborious ancestors durst never attempt; they cut the knots of sophistry which it was formerly the business of years to untie, solvee difficulties by sudden irradiations of intelligence, and comprehend long processes of argument by immediate intuition.

Men who have flattered themselves into this opinion of their own abilities, look down onf all who waste their lives overg books, as a race of inferior beings condemned by natureh to perpetual pupillage, andi fruitlesly endeavouring to remedy theirj barrenness by incessant cultivation, ork succour their feebleness by subsidiary strength. They presume that none would be more industrious than they,l if they were not more sensible of deficiencies, and readily conclude, that he who places no confidence in his own powers, owes his modesty only to his weakness.

It is however certain that no estimate is more in danger of erroneous calculations than those by which am man computes the force of his own genius. It generally happens at our entrance into the world, that by the natural attraction of similitude, wen associate with men like ourselves young, sprightly, and ignorant, ando rate our accomplishments byp comparison with theirs; when we have once obtained an acknowledged superiority over our acquaintances,q imagination andr desire easily extend it over the rest of mankind, and if no accident forces us into new emulations, we grow old, and die in admiration of ourselves.

Vanity, thus confirmed in her dominion, readily listens to the voice of idleness, and soothss the slumber of life with continual dreams of excellence and greatness. A man elated by confidence in hist natural vigour of fancy and sagacity of conjecture, soon concludes that he already possesses whatever toil and enquiry can confer. Heu then listens with eagerness tov the wild objections which folly has raised against the common means of improvement; talks of the dark chaos of indigested knowledge; describes the mischievous effects of heterogeneous sciences fermenting in the mind; relates the blunders of lettered ignorance; expatiates on the heroick merit of those who deviate fromw prescription, or shake offx authority; and gives vent to the inflations of his heart by declaring that he owes nothing to pedants and universities.

All these pretensions, however confident, are very often vain. The laurels which superficial acuteness gains iny triumphs over ignorance unsupported by vivacity, are observed by Locke to bez lost whenever real learning and rational diligence appear against her;2 the sallies of gaiety are soon repressed by calm confidence, and thea artifices of subtilty are readilyb detected by those who havingc carefully studied the question,d aree not easily confounded or surprised.

But thoughf the contemner of books hadg neither been deceived by others norh himself, andi was really born with a genius surpassing the ordinary abilities of mankind; yet surely such gifts of providence may be more properly urged as incitements to labour, than encouragementsj to negligence. He that neglects the culture of ground, naturally fertile, is more shamefully culpable than he whose field would scarcely recompence his husbandry.

Cicero remarks, that not to know what has been transacted in former times is to continue always a child.3 If no use is madek of the labours of past ages,l the world must remain always in the infancy of knowledge. The discoveries of every man must terminate in his own advantage, and the studies of every agem be employed on questions which the past generation had discussed and determined.n4 We may with as little reproach borrow science as manufactures fromo our ancestors; and it is as rational to live in caves till our own hands have erected a palace, as to reject all knowledge of architecture, which ourp understandings will not supply.

To the strongest and quickest mind it is far easier to learn than to invent. The principles of arithmetick and geometry may be comprehended by a close attention in a few days; yet who can flatter himself that the study of a long life would have enabled him to discover them, when he sees them yet unknown to so many nations, whom he cannot suppose less liberally endowed with natural reason, than the Grecians or Egyptians?

Every science was thus far advanced towards perfection, by the emulous diligence of contemporary students, and the gradual discoveries of one age improving on another. Sometimesq unexpected flashes of instruction were struck out by the fortuitous collision of happy incidents, or an involuntary concurrence of ideas, in which the philosopher to whom they happened had no other merit than that of knowing their value, and transmitting unclouded to posterity that light which had been kindled by causes out of his power. The happiness of these casual illuminations no man can promise to himself, because no endeavours can procure them; and therefore, whatever be ourr abilities or application, we musts submit to learn from others what perhaps wouldt have lain hid for ever from human penetration, had not some remote enquiry brought it to view; as treasures are thrown up by the ploughman and the digger in the rude exercise of their common occupations.

The man whose genius qualifies him for great undertakings, must at least be content to learn from books the present state of human knowledge; that he may not ascribe to himself the invention of arts generallyu known; weary his attention with experiments of which the eventv has been longw registered; and waste, in attempts which have already succeeded or miscarried,x that time which might have been spent with usefulness and honour upon new undertakings.

But though the study of books is necessary, it is not sufficient to constitute literary eminence. He that wishesy to be counted among the benefactors of posterity, must add by his own toil to the acquisitions of his ancestors, and secure his memory from neglect by some valuable improvement. This can only be effected by looking out upon the wastes of the intellectual world, and extending the power of learning over regions yet undisciplined and barbarous; or by surveying more exactly her antient dominions, and driving ignorance from the fortresses and retreats where she skulks undetected and undisturbed. Every science has its difficulties which yet call for solution before we attempt new systems of knowledge; as every country has its forests and marshes, which it wouldz be wise to cultivate and drain, before distant colonies are projected as a necessary discharge of the exuberance of inhabitants.

No man ever yet became great by imitation. Whatever hopesa for the veneration of mankind must have inventionb in the design orc the execution; either the effect must itself be new, or the means by which it is produced. Either truths hitherto unknown must be discovered, or those which are already known enforced by stronger evidence, facilitated by clearer method, or elucidated by brighter illustrations.5

Fame cannotd spread wide or endure long that is not rooted in nature, and manurede by art. That which hopes to resist the blast of malignity, and stand firm against the attacks of time, must contain in itself some original principle of growth. The reputation which arises from the detail or transposition of borrowed sentiments, may spread for a while, like ivy on the rind of antiquity, but will be torn away by accident or contempt, and suffered to rot unheeded on the ground.

It seems generally believed, that, as the eye cannot see itself, the mind has no faculties by which it can contemplate its own state, and that therefore we have note means of becoming acquainted with our real characters; an opinion which, like innumerable other postulates, an enquirer finds himself inclined to admit uponf very little evidence, because it affords a ready solution of manyg difficulties. It will explain why the greatest abilities frequently fail to promote the happiness of those who possess them; why those who can distinguish with the utmost nicety the boundaries of vice and virtue, suffer them to be confounded in their own conduct; why the active and vigilant resign their affairs implicitly to the management of others; and why the cautious and fearful make hourly approaches towards ruin, without one sigh of solicitude or struggle forh escape.

When a position teems thus with commodious consequences, who can without regret confess it to be false? Yet it is certain that declaimers have indulged a disposition to describe the dominion of the passions as extended beyond the limits that nature assigned.i Self-love isj often rather arrogant than blind; itk does not hide our faults from ourselves, butl persuades us that they escape the notice of others, and disposes us to resent censures lest we should confess them to be just.m We are secretlyn conscious ofo defects and vices which we hope to conceal from the publick eye, and please ourselves withp innumerable impostures, by which, in reality, no bodyq is deceived.1 In proof of the dimness of our internal sight, or the general inability of man to determine rightly concerning his own character, it is common to urge the success of the most absurd and incredible flattery, and the resentmentr always raised by advice, however soft, benevolent, and reasonable. But flattery, if its operation bes nearly examined, will be found to owe its acceptance not to our ignorance butt knowledge of our failures,u and to delight us rather as it consoles our wants than displaysv our possessions. He that shall solicit the favour of his patron by praising him for qualities which he can find in himself, willw be defeated by the more daring panegyrist who enriches him with adscititious excellence.x Just praise is only a debt, but flattery is a present. The acknowledgement of those virtues on which conscience congratulates us, is a tribute that we can at any time exact with confidence, but the celebration of those which we only feign, ory desire without any vigorous endeavours to attain them, is received as a confession of sovereignty over regionsz never conquered, as a favourable decision of disputable claims, and is more welcome as it is more gratuitous.

Advice isa offensive, not because it lays us open to unexpectedb regret, or convicts us of any fault which had escaped our notice, but because it shows us that we are known to others as well as to ourselves;c and the officious monitor is persecuted with hatred, not because his accusation isd false, but because he assumes that superiority which we are not willing to grant him, ande has dared to detect what we desired to conceal.f

For this reason advice is commonly ineffectual. If those who follow the call of their desires, withoutg enquiry whither they areh going, had deviated ignorantly from the paths of wisdom, and were rushing upon dangers unforeseen,i they would readily listen toj information that recalsk them from their errors, and catch the first alarm by which destruction or infamy is denounced. Few thatl wander in the wrong waym mistake it for the right; they only find it more smooth and flowery, and indulge their own choice rather than approve it:n therefore few are persuaded to quit it by admonition or reproof, since it impresseso no new conviction, nor confers anyp powers of action or resistance. He that is gravely informed how soon profusion will annihilate his fortune, hears withq little advantage what he knew before, and catches at the next occasion of expence, because advice has no forcer to suppress his vanity. He that is told how certainly intemperance will hurry him to the grave, runs with his usual speed to a new course of luxury, because his reason is not invigorated, nor his appetite weakened.

The mischief of flattery is, not that it persuades any man that he is what he is not, but that it suppressess the influence of honest ambition, by raisingt an opinion that honour may be gained without the toil of merit; and the benefit of advice arises commonly, not from any new light imparted to the mind, but fromu the discovery which it affords of the publick suffrages.v He that could withstand conscience, is frighted at infamy, and shame prevails when reason wasw defeated.

As we all know our own faults, and know them commonlyx with many aggravations which human perspicacity cannot discover, there is, perhaps, no man, however hardened by impudence or dissipated by levity,y sheltered by hypocrisy, or blasted byz disgrace, who does not intend some time to review his conduct, and to regulate the remaindera of his life by the laws of virtue. New temptations indeed attack him, new invitations are offered by pleasure andb interest, and the hour of reformation is always delayed; every delay gives vice another opportunity of fortifying itself by habit; and the change of manners, though sincerely intended and rationally planned, is referred to the time when some craving passion shall be fully gratified, or some powerful allurement cease its importunity.

Thus procrastination is accumulated on procrastination, and one impediment succeeds another, till age shatters our resolution, or death intercepts the project of amendment. Such is often the end ofc salutary purposes, after they have long delighted the imagination, and appeased that disquiet which every mind feels from known misconduct, when the attention is not diverted by business or by pleasure.

Nothing surely can be more unworthy of a reasonable nature, than to continue in a state so opposite to real happiness, as that all the peace of solitude andd felicity of meditation, must arise from resolutions of forsaking it. Yete the world will often afford examples off men, who pass months and years in a continual war with their own convictions, and are dailyg dragged by habit or betrayed by passion into practices, which they closed and opened their eyes with purposes to avoid; purposes which, though settled on conviction, the first impulse of momentary desire totallyh overthrows.

The influence of custom is indeed such that to conquer it will require the utmost efforts of fortitude and virtue, nor can I think any man more worthy of veneration and renown, than those who have burst the shackles of habitual vice. This victory however has different degrees of glory as of difficulty; it isi more heroic as the objects of guilty gratification are more familiar, and the recurrence of solicitation more frequent. He that from experiencej of the folly of ambition resigns his offices,k may setl himself free at once fromm temptation to squander his life in courts, because he cannotn regain his former station. He who is inslaved by an amorous passion, may quit his tyrant in disgust, and absence will without the help of reason overcome by degrees the desire of returning. But those appetites to which every place affords their proper object,o and which require no preparatory measures or gradual advances, are more tenaciously adhesive; the wish is so near the enjoyment, that compliance often precedes consideration, and before the powers of reason can be summoned, the time for employing them is past.

Indolence is therefore one of the vices from which those whom it once infects are seldom reformed. Every other species of luxury operates upon some appetite thatp is quickly satiated, and requires some concurrence of art or accident which every place will not supply; but the desire of ease acts equally at all hours,q and the longer it is indulged is the more encreased.2 To do nothing is in every man's power;r we can never want an opportunity of omittings duties. The lapse to indolence is soft and imperceptible, because it is only a mere cessation of activity; but the return to diligence is difficult, because it implies a change from rest to motion, from privation to reality.

Of this vice, as of all others, every man who indulges it is conscious; we all know our own state, if we could be induced to consider it; and it mightt perhaps be useful to the conquest of allu these ensnarers of the mind, if at certain stated daysv life wasw reviewed. Many things necessary are omitted,x because we vainly imagine that they may be always performed, and what cannot be done without pain will for every be delayed if the time of doing it be left unsettled. No corruption is great but by long negligence, which can scarcely prevail in a mind regularly and frequently awakened by periodicalz remorse. He that thus breaks his life into parts, will find in himself a desire to distinguish every stage of his existence by some improvement, and delight himself with the approach of the day of recollection, as of the time which is to begin a new series of virtue and felicity.

In the same manner the studies of mankind, all at least which, not being subject to rigorous demonstration, admit the influence of fancy and caprice, are perpetually tending to error and confusion. Of thea great principles of truth which the first speculatists discovered, the simplicity is embarrassedb by ambitious additions, or thec evidence obscured by inaccurate argumentation;d and as they descend from one succession of writers to another, like light transmitted from room to room, they losee their strength and splendour, and fade at last inf total evanescence.

The systems of learning therefore must be sometimes reviewed, complications analised into principles, and knowledge disentangled from opinion.g It is not always possible, without a closeh inspection, to separate the genuine shoots of consequential reasoning, which grow out of some radical postulate, from the branches which art has engrafted on it. The accidental prescriptions of authority, when time has procured them veneration, are often confounded with the laws of nature, and those rules are supposed coeval with reason, of which the first rise cannot be discovered.1

Criticism has sometimes permitted fancy to dictate the laws by which fancy ought to be restrained, and fallacy to perplex the principles by which fallacy is to be detected; her super-intendance of others has betrayed her to negligence of herself; and,i like the antient Scythians,2 by extending her conquests over distant regions, she has left her throne vacant to her slaves.j

Among the laws ofk which thel desire of extending authority, orm ardour of promoting knowledge hasn prompted the prescription,o all which writers have received,p hadq not the same original right to our regard. Some arer to be considered as fundamental and indispensable, others only as useful and convenient; some as dictated by reason and necessity, others as enacted by despotick antiquity; some as invincibly supported by their conformity to the order of nature ands operations of the intellect; others as formed by accident, or instituted by example, and therefore always liable to dispute and alteration.

That many rulest have been advancedu without consulting nature or reason, we cannot but suspect, when we find it peremptorily decreed by the antient masters, that “only three speaking personages should appear at once upon the stage”;3 a law which, as thev variety and intricacy of modern plays has made itw impossible to be observed,x we now violate without scruple, and, as experience proves, without inconvenience.

The original of this precept was merely accidental. Tragedy was a monody or solitary song in honour of Bacchus, improved afterwardsy into a dialogue by the addition of another speaker; but the antients, rememberingz that the tragedy was at first pronounced only by one,a durst not for some time venture beyond two; at last when custom and impunity had made them daring, they extended their liberty to the admission of three, but restrained themselves by a critical edict from further exorbitance.

By what accident the number of acts was limited to five, I know not that any author has informed us; but certainly it is not determined by any necessity arising either from the nature of action orb propriety of exhibition. An act is only the representation of such a part of the business of the play as proceeds in an unbroken tenor, orc without any intermediate pause. Nothing is more evident than that of every real, and by consequence of every dramatick action, the intervals may be more or fewer than five; and indeed the rule is upon the English stage every day broken in effect, without any other mischief than that which arises from an absurd endeavour to observe it in appearance. Wheneverd the scene is shifted the act ceases, since some time is necessarily supposed to elapse while the personages of the drama change their place.

With no greater right to our obedience have the criticks confined the dramatic action to a certain number of hours.4 Probabilitye requires that the time of action should approach somewhat nearly to that of exhibition, and those plays will always be thought most happily conducted which croud the greatest variety into the least space. But since it will frequently happen that some delusion must be admitted, I know not where the limits of imagination can be fixed. It is rarelyf observed that minds notg prepossessed by mechanicalh criticism feel any offence from the extension of the intervals between the acts; nor can I conceive it absurd or impossible, that he who can multiply three hours into twelve or twenty-four, might image with equal ease a greater number.

I know not whether he that professes to regard no other laws than those of nature, will not be inclined to receive tragi-comedy to his protection, whom, however generally condemned, her own laurels have hitherto shaded from the fulminations of criticism. For what is there in the mingled drama which impartial reason can condemn? The connexion of important with trivial incidents, since it is not only common but perpetual in the world, may surely be allowed upon the stage, which pretends only to be the mirrour of life. The impropriety of suppressingi passions before we have raised them to the intended agitation, and of diverting the expectation from an event which we keep suspended only to raise it, mayj be speciously urged. But will not experience shew this objection to be rather subtle than just?k is it not certain that the tragic and comic affections have been moved alternately with equal force, and that no plays have oftner filled the eye with tears, and the breast with palpitation, than those which are variegated with interludes of mirth?

I do not however think itl safe to judge of works of genius merely by the event. These resistless vicissitudes of the heart, this alternate prevalence of merriment and solemnity, may sometimes be more properly ascribed to the vigour of the writer than the justness of the design: and instead of vindicating tragi-comedy by the success of Shakespear, we ought perhaps to pay new honours to that transcendent and unbounded genius that could preside over the passions in sport; who, tom actuate the affections, needed not the slow gradation of common means, but could fill the heart with instantaneous jollity or sorrow, and vary our disposition as he changed his scenes. Perhaps the effects even of Shakespeare'sn poetry might have been yet greater, had he not counter-acted himself; and we might have been more interested in the distresses of his heroes had we not been so frequently diverted by the jokes of his buffoons.

There are other rules more fixed and obligatory. Ito is necessary that of every play the chief action should be single; for sincep a play represents some transaction, through its regular maturation to its final event, two actionsq equally important must evidently constitute two plays.

As the design of tragedy is to instruct by moving the passions, it must always have a hero, ar personage apparently and incontestably superior to the rest, upon whom the attention may be fixed, and the anxietys suspended. For though oft two persons opposing each other with equal abilities and equal virtue, the auditor willu inevitably in time choose his favourite, yetv as that choice must be without any cogency of conviction, the hopes or fears which it raises will be faint and languid. Of two heroes acting in confederacy against a common enemy, the virtues or dangers will give little emotion, because each claims our concern with the same right, and the heart lies at rest between equal motives.

It ought to be the first endeavour of a writer to distinguish nature from custom, or that which is established because it is right, from that which is right only because it is established; that he may neither violate essential principles by a desire of novelty, nor debar himself from the attainment ofw beauties within his view by a needless fear of breaking rules which no literary dictator had authority to enact.x

Though one of your correspondents hasa presumed to mention with someb contempt that presence of attention and easiness of address, which thec polite have long agreed to celebrate and esteem, yet I cannot be persuaded to think them unworthy of regard or cultivation; butd am inclined to believe that, as we seldom value rightly what we have never known the misery of wanting, his judgment has been vitiated by his happiness; and that a natural exuberance of assurance has hindered him from discovering its excellence and use.

This felicity, whether bestowed by constitution, or obtained by early habitudes, I can scarcely contemplate without envy. I was bred under a man of learning in the country, whoe inculcated nothing but the dignity of knowledge, and the happiness of virtue. By frequency of admonition, and confidence of assertion,f he prevailed upon meg to believe, thath the splendour of literature would alwaysi attract reverence,j ifk not darkened by corruption. Il therefore pursued my studies with incessant industry, and avoided every thing which I had been taught to consider either as vicious or tending to vice, because I regarded guilt and reproach as inseparably united, and thought a tainted reputation the greatest calamity.

At the university, I found no reason for changing my opinion, for though many among my fellow studentsm took the opportunity of a more remiss discipline to gratify their passions; yet virtue preserved her natural superiority, and those who ventured to neglect, were not suffered to insult her. The ambition of petty accomplishments found its way into the receptacles of learning, but was observed to seize commonly on those who either neglected the sciences, or could not attain them; and I was therefore confirmed in the doctrines of my old master, and thought nothing worthy of my care but the means of gaining or imparting knowledge.

This purity of manners, and intenseness of application, soon extended my renown,n and I was applaudedo by those, whose opinion I thenp thoughtq unlikely to deceive me, as a young man thatr gave uncommon hopes of future eminence. My performances in time reached my native province, and my relations congratulated themselves upon the new honours that were added to their family.

I returned homes covered with academical laurels, and fraught with criticism and philosophy. The wit and thet scholar excited curiosity, and my acquaintance was sollicitedu by innumerable invitations. To please will always be the wish of benevolence, to be admired must be the constant aim of ambition; and I therefore considered myself as about to receive the reward of my honest labours, and to find the efficacy of learning and of virtue.

The third day after my arrival I dined at the house of a gentleman who had summoned a multitude of his friends to the annual celebration of his wedding-day. I set forward with great exultation, and thought myself happy, that I had an opportunity of displaying my knowledgev to so numerous an assembly. I felt no sense of my own insufficiency, tillw going up stairs to the dining-room, I heard the mingled roar of obstreperous merriment. I was however disgusted rather than terrified, and went forwardx without dejection. The whole company rose at my entrance; buty when I saw so many eyes fixed at once upon me, I was blasted with a sudden imbecility, I was quelled by some nameless power which I found impossible to be resisted. My sight was dazzled, my cheeks glowed, my perceptions were confounded; I was harrassed by thez multitude of eager salutations, and returned the common civilities with hesitation and impropriety; the sense of my own blunders encreased my confusion, and before the exchange of ceremonies allowed me to sit down, I was ready to sink under the oppression of surprize;a my voice grew weak, and my knees trembled.

The assembly then resumed their places, and I sat with my eyes fixed upon the ground. To the questions of curiosity, or the appeals of complaisance, I could seldom answer but with negative monosyllables, or professions of ignorance; forb the subjects on which they conversed, were such as are seldom discussed in books, and were therefore out of my range of knowledge. At length an old clergyman, who rightly conjectured the reason of my conciseness, relieved me by some questions about the present state of natural knowledge, and engaged me by an appearance of doubt and opposition in the explication and defence of the Newtonian philosophy.

The consciousness of my own abilities roused me fromc depression, andd long familiarity with mye subject enabled me to discoursef with ease and volubility; but however I might please myself, I found very little added by my demonstrations to the satisfaction of the company; and my antagonist, who knew the laws of conversation too well, to detain their attention long upon an unpleasing topic, after he had commended my acutenessg and comprehension, dismissed the controversy, and resigned me to my former insignificance and perplexity.

After dinner, I received from the ladies, who had heard that I was a wit, an invitation to the tea-table. I congratulated myself upon an opportunity to escape from the company, whose gaiety began to be tumultuous, and among whom several hints had been dropped of the uselessness of universities, the folly of book-learning, and the aukwardness of scholars. To the ladies therefore I flew, as to a refuge from clamour, insult and rusticity; but found my heart sink as I approached their apartment,h and was again disconcerted by the ceremonies of entrance, and confounded by the necessity of encountering so many eyes at once.

When I sat down I considered that something pretty was alwaysi said to ladies, and resolved to recover my credit by some elegant observation or graceful compliment. Ij applied myself to the recollection of all that I had read or heard in praise of beauty, and endeavoured to accommodate some classical compliment to the present occasion. I sunk into profound meditation, revolved the characters of the heroines of old, considered whatever the poets have sung in their praise, and after having borrowed and invented, chosen and rejected a thousand sentiments, which, if I had uttered them, would not have been understood, I wask awakened from my dream of learned gallantry, by the servant who distributed the tea.

There are not many situations more incessantly uneasy than that in which the man is placed who is watching an opportunity to speak, without courage to take it when it is offered, and who, tho' he resolves to give a specimen of his abilities, always finds some reason or other for delaying it to the next minute. I was ashamed of silence,l yet could find nothing to say of elegance or importance equal to mym wishes. The ladies,n afraid of my learning, thought themselves not qualified to propose any subject of prattle to a man so famous for dispute,o and there was nothing on either side but impatience and vexation.

In this conflict of shame, as I was reassembling my scattered sentiments, and resolving to force my imagination to some sprightly sally, had just found a very happy compliment, by too much attention to my own meditations, I suffered the saucer to drop from my hand. The cup was broken, the lapdog was scalded, a brocaded petticoat was stained, and the whole assembly was thrown into disorder. I now considered all hopes of reputation as at an end, and while they were consoling and assisting one another, stole away in silence.

The misadventures of this unhappy day are not yet at an end;p I am afraid of meeting the meanest of them that triumphed overq me in this state of stupidity and contempt, and feelr the same terrors encroaching upon my hearts at the sight of those who have once impressed them. Shame, above any other passion, propagates itself. Before those who havet seen me confused, I can never appear without new confusion, and the remembrance of the weakness which I formerlyu discovered, hinders me from acting or speaking with my natural force.

But is this misery, Mr. Rambler, never to cease?v have I spent my life in study only to become the sport of the ignorant, and debarred myself from all the common enjoyments of youth to collect ideas which must sleep in silence, and form opinions which I must notw divulge? Inform me, dear sir, by what means I may rescue my faculties from these shackles of cowardice, how I may rise to a level with my fellow beings, recalx myself from this languory of involuntary subjection to the freez exertion of my intellects, and add to the power of reasoning the liberty of speech.

Thisk authorityl may be more justly opposed, as it is apparently derived from them whom they endeavour to controul; for we owe fewm of the rules of writing to the acuteness of criticks, who have generally non other merit than thato having read the works of great authors with attention, they have observed the arrangement of their matter, orp the graces of their expression, and then expectedq honour and reverence for precepts which they never could have invented: so that practice has introduced rules, rather than rules have directed practice.

For this reason the laws of every species of writing have been settled by the ideas of him who first raised itr to reputation, withouts enquiry whether his performances were not yet susceptible of improvement. The excellencies andt faults of celebrated writers have been equally recommended to posterity; and so far has blind reverence prevailed, that evenu the number of their books has been thought worthy of imitation.

The imagination of the first authors of lyrick poetry was vehement and rapid, and their knowledgev various and extensive. Livingw in an age when science had been little cultivated, and when the minds of their auditors, not being accustomed to accurate inspection, were easily dazzled by glaring ideas, they applied themselves to instruct, rather by short sentences and striking thoughts, than by regular argumentation; and finding attention more successfully excited by sudden sallies and unexpected exclamations, than by the more artful and placid beauties of methodical deduction, they loosed their genius to its own course,x passed from one sentiment to another without expressing the intermediate ideas, and roved at large over the ideal world with such lightness and agility that their footsteps arey scarcely to be traced.

From this accidental peculiarity of the ancient writers the criticks deducez the rules of lyrick poetry, which they have set free from all the laws by which other compositions are confined, and allowa to neglectb the niceties of transition, to start into remote digressions, and to wander without restraint from one scene of imagery to another.

A writer of later times has, by the vivacity of his essays, reconciled mankind to the same licentiousness in short dissertations; and he therefore who wants skill to form a plan, or diligence to pursue it, needs only entitle his performance an essay, to acquire the right of heaping together the collections of half his life, without order, coherence, or propriety.

In writing,c as in life, faults ared endured without disgust when they are associated with transcendent merit, and may be sometimes recommended to weak judgments by the lustre which they obtain from their union with excellence; bute it is the business of those who presume to superintend the taste or morals of mankind, to separate delusivef combinations, and distinguish that which mayg be praised from that which can onlyh be excused. As vices never promote happiness, though when overpowered by more active and more numerous virtues, they cannot totally destroyi it; so confusion and irregularity produce no beauty, though they cannot always obstruct the brightnessj of genius and learning. To proceed from one truth to another, and connect distant propositions by regular consequences, is the great prerogative of man. Independentk and unconnected sentiments flashing upon the mind in quick succession, may, for a time, delight by their novelty, butl they differ from systematical reasoning, as single notes from harmony, asm glances of lightening from the radiance of the sun.

When rules are thus drawn, rather from precedents than reason,n there is danger not only from the faults of an author, but from the errors of those who criticise his works; since they may often mislead their pupils by false representations, as the Ciceronians of the sixteenth century wereo betrayed into barbarisms by corrupt copies of their darling writer.

It is establishedp at present, that the proemial lines of a poem, in which the general subject is proposed, mustq be void of glitter and embellishment. “The first lines of Paradise Lost,” saysr Addison, “are perhaps as plain, simple, and unadorned as any of the whole poem, in which particular the author has conformed himself to the example of Homer and the precept of Horace.”3

This observation seems to have been made by an implicit adoption of the common opinion, withouts consideration either of the precept or example. Had Horace been consulted, he would have been found to direct onlyt what should be comprised in the proposition, not how it should be expressed, and to have commended Homer in opposition to a meaner poet, not for the gradual elevation of his diction, but the judiciousu expansion of his plan; for displaying unpromised events,v not for producing unexpected elegancies.w

If the exordial versesy of Homer be compared with the rest of the poem, they will not appear remarkable for plainness or simplicity, but rather eminently adorned and illuminated.

The first verses of the Iliad are in like manner particularlya splendid, and the proposition of the Eneid closes with dignity and magnificence not often to be found even in the poetry of Virgil.

The intent of the introduction is to raise expectation, and suspend it; something therefore must be discovered, and something concealed; andb the poet, while the fertility of his invention is yet unknown, may properly recommend himself by the grace of his language.

He that reveals too much, or promises too little; he that never irritates the intellectual appetite, or thatc immediately satiates it, equally defeats his own purpose. Itd is necessary to the pleasure of the reader, that the events should note be anticipated, and how thenf can his attention be invited, but by grandeur of expression?

It is perhaps kindly provided by nature that, as the feathers and strength of a bird grow together, and her wings are not completed till she is able to fly, so some proportion should be preserved in the human kind between judgment andg courage;h the precipitation of inexperience is thereforei restrained by shame, andj wek remain shackled by timidity, till we have learnedl to speak and act with propriety.

I believe fewm can review the days of their youth, without recollectingn temptations, whicho shame, rather thanp virtue, enabled them to resist; andq opinions which,r however erroneous in their principles, and dangerous in their consequences, they haves panted to advance at the hazard of contempt and hatred, when theyt found themselves irresistibly depressed by a languidu anxiety, which seizedv them at the moment of utterance, and still gatheredw strength from their endeavours to resist it.

It generally happens that assurance keeps an even pace with ability, andx the fear of miscarriage, which hinders our first attempts, is gradually dissipated as our skill advances towards certainty of success. That bashfulness therefore which prevents disgrace, that short and temporary shame, which secures us from the danger of lasting reproach, cannot be properly counted among our misfortunes.

Bashfulness, however it may incommode for a moment, scarcely ever producesy evils of long continuance; it may flush the cheek, flutter in the heart, deject the eyes, and enchain the tongue, but its mischiefs soon pass off without remembrance. It may sometimesz exclude pleasure, buta seldom opens any avenue to sorrow or remorse. It is observed somewhere, that “few have repented of having forborn to speak.”2

To excite oppositionb and inflame malevolence is the unhappy privilege of courage made arrogant by consciousness of strength. No man finds in himself any inclination to attack or oppose him who confesses his superiority by blushing in his presence. Qualitiesc exerted with apparent fearfulness, receive applause fromd every voice, and support from every hand. Diffidence may check resolution and obstruct performance, bute compensates its embarrassmentsf by more important advantages; it conciliates the proud, and softens the severe,g averts envy from excellence, and censure from miscarriage.3

It may indeedh happen that knowledge and virtuei remain too long congealed by this frigorifick power, as the principles of vegetation are sometimes obstructed by lingering frosts. He that enters late into a publick station, though with all the abilities requisite to the discharge of his duty, will find his powers at firstj impeded by a timidity which he himself knows to be vitious, and mustk struggle long against dejection and reluctance, before he obtains the full command of his own attention, and adds the gracefulness of ease to the dignity of merit.

For this disease of the mind, I know not whether any remedies of much efficacy can be found. To advise al man unaccustomed to the eyes of multitudesm to mount a tribunal without perturbation, to tell him whose life has passed in the shades of contemplation, that he must not be disconcerted or perplexed in receiving and returning the compliments of a splendid assembly, is to advise an inhabitant of Brasil or Sumatra, not to shiver at an English winter, or him who has always lived upon a plain to lookn from a precipice without emotion. It is to suppose custom instantaneously controlable by reason, and to endeavour to communicate by precept that which only time and habit can bestow.

He that hopes byo philosophy and contemplationp alone to fortify himself against that awe which all,q at their first appearance on the stage of life, mustr feel from the spectators, will, at the hour of need, be mocked by his resolution; and I doubt whether the preservatives which Plato relates Alcibiades to have received from Socrates, when he was about to speak in publick, proved sufficient to secure him from the powerful fascination.4

Yet as the effects of time may by art and industry be accelerated or retarded, it cannots be improper to consider how this troublesome instinct may be opposedt when it exceeds its just proportion, and instead of repressing petulance and temerity, silences eloquence, and debilitates force; since,u though it cannot be hoped thatv anxiety should be immediately dissipated, it may be at least somewhat abated; and the passions willw operate with less violence, when reason rises against them, than while she either slumbers in neutrality, or, mistaking her interest, lends them her assistance.

No cause more frequently produces bashfulness than too high an opinion of our own importance. He that imagines an assembly filled with his merit,x pantingy with expectation, and hushed with attention, easily terrifies himself with the dread of disappointing them,z and strains his imagination in pursuit of something thata may vindicate the veracity of fame, and shew that his reputation was not gained by chance. He considers, that what he shall say or do will never be forgotten; that renown or infamy are suspended upon every syllable, and that nothing ought to fall from him which will not bear the test of time. Under such solicitude, who can wonder that the mind is overwhelmed, and by struggling with attempts above her strength, quickly sinks into languishment and despondency.

The most useful medicines are oftenb unpleasing to the taste. Those who arec oppressed by their own reputation, will perhaps not bed comforted by hearing that their cares are unnecessary.5 But the truth is, that no man is much regarded by the rest of the world.e He that considersf how little he dwells upon the condition of others, willg learn how little the attention of others is attracted by himself. Whileh we see multitudes passing before us, of whom perhaps not one appears to deserve our notice, or excitesi our sympathy, we should remember, that we likewise are lost in the same throng, that the eye which happens to glance upon usj is turned in a moment on him that follows us,k and that the utmost which we can reasonably hope or fear is to fill a vacant hour with prattle, and be forgotten.

Suchc is probably the natural state of the universe, but it is so much deformed by interest and passion, that the benefit of this adaptation of men to things is not alwaysd perceived. The folly or indigence ofe those who set their services to sale,f inclines them to boast of qualifications which they do not possess, andg attempt business which they do not understand; and they who have the power of assigning to others the task of life, are seldom honest or seldom happy in their nominations. Patrons areh corrupted by avarice,i cheated by credulity, orj overpowered by resistless solicitation. They arek sometimes too strongly influenced byl honest prejudices of friendship, or the prevalence of virtuous compassion. For, whatever cool reason may direct, it is not easy for a man of tender and scrupulous goodness to overlook the immediate effect of his own actions, by turning his eyes uponm remoter consequences, andn to do that which must give present pain, for the sake of obviatingo evil yet unfelt, or securingp advantage in time to come. Whatq is distant is in itself obscure, and, when we have no wishr to see it, easily escapes our notice,s or takes such a form as desire or imagination bestows upon it.t

Every man might for the same reason in the multitudes that swarm about him, find some kindred mind with which he could unite in confidence and friendship; yet we see many straggling single about the world, unhappy for want of an associate, and pining with the necessity of confining their sentiments to their own bosoms.

This inconvenience arises in likeu manner from struggles of the will against the understanding. It is not often difficult to find a suitable companion, if every man would be content with such as he is qualified to please. But if vanity tempts him to forsake his rank, and post himself among those with whom no common interest or mutual pleasure can ever unite him, he must always live in a state of unsocial separation, without tenderness and without trust.

There are many natures which can never approach within a certain distance, and which when any irregular motive impels them towards contact, seem to start back from each other by some invincible repulsion. There are others which immediately cohere whenever they come into the reach of mutual attraction, and with very little formality of preparation mingle intimately as soon as they meet. Every man whom either business or curiosity has thrown at large into the world, will recollect many instances of fondness and dislike, which have forced themselves upon himv without the intervention of his judgment; of dispositions, to court some and avoid others, when he could assign no reason for the preference, or none adequate to the violencew of his passions; of influence that acted instantaneously upon his mind, and which no arguments or persuasions could ever overcome.

Among those with whom time and intercourse have made us familiar, we feel our affections divided in different proportions without much regard to moral or intellectual merit. Every man knows some whom he cannot inducex himself to trust, though he has no reason to suspect that they would betray him; those to whom he cannot complain, though he never observed them to want compassion; those in whose presence he never can be gay, though excited byy invitations to mirth and freedom; and those from whom he cannotz be content to receive instruction,a though they never insulted his ignorance by contempt or ostentation.

Thatb much regard is to be had to those instincts of kindness and dislike, orc that reason should blindly follow them, I am far from intending to inculcate: It is very certain that by indulgenced we may give them strength which they have not from nature, and almost every example of ingratitude and treachery provese that by obeying them we may commit our happiness to thosef who are very unworthy of so great a trust. But it may deserve to be remarked, that since few contend much with their inclinations, it is generally vain to solicit the good will of those whom we perceive thus involuntarily alienated from us;g neither knowledge nor virtue will reconcile antipathy, and though officiousness may for a time be admitted, and diligence applauded, they will at last be dismissed with coldness, or discouraged by neglect.

Some have indeed an occulth power of stealing upon the affections, of exciting universali benevolence, and disposing every heart to fondness and friendship. But this is a felicity granted only to thej favourites of nature. The greater part of mankind find ak different reception from different dispositions; they sometimes obtain unexpected caressesl from those whom they never flattered withm uncommon regard, and sometimes exhaust all their arts of pleasing withoutn effect. To these it is necessary to look round ando attempt every breast in which they find virtue sufficient for the foundation of friendship; to enter into the crowd, and try whom chance will offer to their notice, till they fix on some temper congenialp to their own, as the magnet rolled in the dust collects the fragments of its kindred metal from a thousand particles of other substances.

Every man must have remarkedq the facility with which the kindness of others is sometimes gained by thoser to whom he never could have imparted his own. Wes are by ourt occupations, education and habits of life divided almost into different species, which regard one another for the most part with scorn and malignity. Each of these classes of the human race has desires, fears, and conversation, vexations and merriment peculiar to itself; cares which another cannot feel; pleasures which he cannot partake; and modes of expressing every sensationu which he cannot understand. That frolick which shakes one man with laughter will convulse another with indignation; the strain of jocularity which in one place obtains treats and patronage, would in another be heard with indifference, and in a thirdv with abhorrence.

To raise esteem we must benefit others, to procure love we must please them. Aristotle observes,w that old men do not readily form friendships, because they are not easily susceptible of pleasure.2 He that can contribute to the hilarity of the vacant hour, or partake with equal gust the favourite amusement, he whose mind is employed on the same objects, and who therefore neverx harrasses the understanding with unaccustomed ideas, will bey welcomed with ardour, and left with regret, unless he destroys those recommendationsz by faults with which peace and security cannot consist.

It were happy if, in forming friendships, virtue could concur with pleasure; but the greatesta part of human gratificationsb approach so nearly toc vice, that few who make the delight of others their rule of conduct, can avoid disingenuous compliances;d yet certainly he that suffers himself to be driven or allured from virtue,e mistakes his own interest, since he gains succourf by means, for which his friend, if ever he becomes wise, must scorn him, and for which at lastg he must scorn himself.

You have formerly observed that curiositya often terminates in barren knowledge, and that the mind is prompted to study and enquiry rather by the uneasiness of ignorance, than the hope of profit. Nothing can be ofb less importance to any present interest than the fortune of those who have been longc lost in the grave, and from whomd nothing now can be hoped or feared. Yete to rouse the zeal of a true antiquary little more is necessary than to mention a name which mankind havef conspired to forget; heg will make his way to remote scenes of action thro' obscurity and contradiction, as Tully sought amidst bushes and brambles the tomb of Archimedes.1

It is not easy to discover how it concerns him that gathers the produce or receives the rent of an estate, to know through what families the land has passed, who is registered in the Conqueror's survey2 as its possessor, how often it has been forfeited by treason, or how often sold by prodigality. Theh power or wealth of the present inhabitants of a country cannoti be much encreased by an enquiry afterj the names of those barbarians, who destroyed one another twenty centuries ago, in contests for the shelter of woods or convenience of pasturage. Yet we see that no man can be at rest in the enjoyment of a new purchase till he has learned the history of his grounds from the antient inhabitants of the parish, and that no nation omits to record the actions of their ancestors, however bloody, savage and rapacious.

The same disposition, as different opportunities call it forth, discovers itself in great ork little things. I have always thought itl unworthy of a wise man to slumber in total inactivity onlym because he happens to have no employment equal to his ambition orn genius; it is therefore my custom to apply my attention to the objects before me, and as I cannot think any place wholly unworthy of notice that affords a habitation to a man of letters, I have collected the history and antiquities of the several garrets in which I have resided.

Many of these narratives my industry has been able to extend to a considerable length; but the woman with whom I now lodge has lived only eighteen months in the house, ando can give no account of its ancient revolutions; the plaisterer, having, at her entrance, obliterated by his white-wash, all the smoky memorials which former tenants had left upon the cieling, and perhaps drawn the veil of oblivion over politicians, philosophers, and poets.

When I first cheapened my lodgings, the landlady told me, that she hoped I was not an author, for the lodgers on the first floor had stipulated that the upper rooms should not be occupied by a noisy trade. I very readily promised to give no disturbance to her family, and soon dispatched a bargain on the usual terms.

I had not slept many nights in my new apartment before I began to enquire after my predecessors, and found my landlady, whose imagination is filled chieflyp with her own affairs, very ready to give me information.

Curiosity, like all other desires, produces pain as well as pleasure. Before she began her narrative, I had heated my head with expectations of adventures and discoveries, of elegance in disguise, and learning in distress; and wasq somewhat mortified when I heard, that the first tenant was a taylor, of whom nothing was remembered but that he complained of his room for want of light; and, after having lodged in it a month, and paid onlyr a week's rent, pawned a piece of cloth which he was trusted to cut out, and was forced to make a precipitate retreat from this quarter of the town.

The next was a young woman newly arrived from the country, who lived for five weeks with great regularity, and became by frequent treats very much the favourite of the family, but at last received visits so frequently from a cousin in Cheapside, that she brought the reputation of the house into danger, and was therefore dismissed with good advice.

The room then stood empty for a fortnight;s my landlady began to think that she had judged hardly, and often wished for such another lodger. At last an elderly man of at grave aspect, read the bill, and bargained for the room, at the very first price that was asked. He lived inu close retirement, seldom went out till evening, and then returned early, sometimes chearful, and at other times dejected. It was remarkable, that whatever he purchased, he never had small money in his pocket, and tho' cool and temperate on other occasions, was always vehement and stormy till hev received his change. He paid his rent with great exactness, and seldom failed once a week to requite my landlady's civility with a supper. At last, such is the fate of human felicity, thew house was alarm'd at midnight by the constable, who demanded to search the garrets. My landlady assuring him that he had mistaken the door, conducted him up stairs, where he found the tools of a coiner;3 but the tenant had crawled along the roof to an empty house, and escaped;x much to the joy of my landlady, who declares him a very honest man, and wonders why any body should be hanged for making money when such numbers are in want of it. She however confesses that she shall for the future always question the character of those who take her garret without beating down the price.

The bill was then placed again in the window, and the poor woman was teazed for seveny weeks by innumerable passengers, who obliged her to climb with them every hour up five stories, and then disliked the prospect, hated the noise of a publick street, thought the stairs narrow, objected to a low cieling,z required the walls to be hung with fresher paper, asked questions about the neighbourhood, could not think of living so far from their acquaintance, wished the window had looked to the south rather than the west, told how the door anda chimney might have been better disposed, bid her half the price that she asked, or promised to give her earnest the next day, and came no more.

At last, a short meagre man, in a tarnish'd waistcoat, desired to see the garret, and when he had stipulated for two long shelves and a larger table, hired it at a low rate.b When the affair was completed,c he looked round him with great satisfaction, and repeated some words which the woman did not understand. In two days he brought a great box of books, took possession of his room, and lived very inoffensively, except that he frequently disturbed the inhabitants of the next floor by unseasonable noises. He was generally in bed at noon, but from evening to midnight he sometimes talked aloud with great vehemence, sometimes stamped as in rage, sometimes threw down his poker, then clattered his chairs, then satd down in deep thought, and again burst out into loud vociferations; sometimes he would sigh as oppressed with misery, and sometimes shake with convulsive laughter. When he encountered any of the family he gave way or bowed, but rarely spoke, except that as he went up stairs he often repeated,

My landlady was very often advised to beware of this strange man, who, tho' he wase quiet for the present, might perhaps become outrageous in the hot months; but as she was punctually paid, she could not find any sufficient reason for dismissing him, till one night he convinced her by setting fire to his curtains, that it was not safe to have an author for her inmate.

She had then for six weeks a succession of tenants, who left the house on Saturday, and instead of paying their rent, stormed atf their landlady. At last she took in two sisters, one of whom had spent her little fortune in procuring remedies for a lingering disease, and was now supported and attended by the other: she climbed with difficulty to the apartment, where she languishedg eight weeks, without impatience or lamentation, except for the expence and fatigue which her sister suffered, and then calmly and contentedly expired. The sister followed her to the grave, paid the few debts which they had contracted, wiped away the tears of useless sorrow, and returning to the business of common life, resigned to me the vacant habitation.

Such, Mr. Rambler, are the changes which have happened in the narrow space where my present fortune has fixed my residence. So true is ith that amusement and instruction are always at hand fori those who have skill and willingness to find them; and so just is the observation of Juvenal,4 that a single house will shew whatever is done or suffered in the world.

There isd no state more contrary to the dignity of wisdom than perpetual and unlimited dependence, in which the understanding lies useless, and every motion is received frome external impulse. Reason is the great distinction of human nature, the faculty by which we approach to some degree of association with celestial intelligences; but as the excellence of everyf power appears only in its operations,g not to have reason, and to have it useless and unemployed, is nearly the same.

Such is the weakness of man, that the essence of things is seldom so much regarded ash external and accidental appendages.

Ai small variation of triflingj circumstances, a slight change of form byk an artificial dress, or a casual difference of appearance, byl a new light and situation, will conciliate affection or excite abhorrence, and determine us to pursue or to avoid. Every man considers a necessity of compliance with any will but his own, as the lowest state of ignominy and meanness;m few are so far lost in cowardice or negligence as not to rouse at the first insult of tyranny, and exert all their force against him who usurps their property, or invades any privilege of speech or action. Yet we oftenn see those who never wanted spirit to repelo encroachment or oppose violence, at last byp a gradual relaxation ofq vigilance,r delivering up, without capitulation, the fortress which they defended against assault,s and laying down unbidden the weapons which they grasped the harder for every attempt to wrest them fromt their hands. Men eminent for spirit andu wisdom often resign themselves to voluntary pupillage, and suffer their lives to be modelled by officious ignorance, and their choice to be regulated by presumptuous stupidity.

This unresisting acquiescence in the determination of others may bev the consequence of application to somew study remote from the beaten track of life, some employment which does not allow leisure for sufficientx inspection of those petty affairs, by which nature has decreed a great part of oury duration to be filled.z To a mind thus withdrawn from common objects, it is more eligible to repose on the prudence of another, than to be exposed every moment to slighta interruptions. The submission which such confidence requires, is paid without pain, because it implies no confession of inferiority. Theb business from which we withdraw our cognizance, is not above our abilities, but below our notice. We please our pride with the effects of our influence thus weakly exerted, and fancy ourselves placed in a higher orb, from which we regulate subordinate agents by a slight and distant superintendence. But, whatever vanity or abstraction may suggest, no man can safely do that by others which might be done by himself; he that indulges negligence will quickly become ignorant of his own affairs; and he that trusts without reserve will at last be deceived.

It is however impossible but that, as the attention tends strongly towards one thing, it must retire from another; and hec that omits the care of domestick business, because he is engrossed by enquiries of more importance to mankind, has at least the merit of suffering in a good cause. But there are many who can plead no such extenuation of their folly; who shake off the burthen of their station, not that they may soar with less encumbrance to the heights of knowledge ord virtue, but that they may loiter at ease and sleep in quiet; and who select for friendship ande confidence not the faithful and the virtuous, but the soft, the civil, and compliant.

This openness to flattery is the common disgrace of declining life. When men feel weakness encreasing on them, they naturally desire to rest from the struggles of contradiction, the fatigue of reasoning, andf the anxiety of circumspection;g when they are hourly tormented with pains and diseases, they are unable to bear any newh disturbance, andi consider all opposition as an addition to misery, of which they feel already more than they can patiently endure. Thus desirous of peace, and thus fearful of pain, the old man seldom enquires after any other qualities in those whom hej caresses, than quickness in conjecturing his desires, activity in supplying his wants, dexterity in intercepting complaintsk before theyl approach near enough to disturb him, flexibility to his present humour, submission to hasty petulance, and attention to wearisome narrations. By these arts alone many have been able to defeat the claims of kindred and of merit, and to enrich themselves with presents and legacies.2

Thrasybulus inherited a large fortune,m and augmented it byn the revenues of several lucrative employments, which he discharged with honour and dexterity. He was at last wise enough to consider, that life should noto be devoted wholly to accumulation, and therefore retiringp to his estate,q applied himself to the education of his children, and the cultivation of domestick happiness.

He passed several years in this pleasing amusement, and saw his care amply recompensed;r his daughters were celebrated for modesty and elegance, and his sons for learning, prudence and spirit. In time the eagerness, with whichs the neighbouring gentlemen courted his alliance, obliged him to resign his daughters to other families; the vivacity and curiosity of his sons hurried them out of rural privacy into the open world, from whence they had nott soon an inclination to return. This howeveru he had always hoped; hev pleased himself with the success of his schemes, and felt no inconvenience fromw solitude till an apoplexy deprived him of his wife.

Thrasybulus had now no companion;x and the maladies of encreasing years having takeny from him much of the power of procuring amusement for himself,z hea thought it necessary to procure some inferior friend, who might ease him of his economical solicitudes, and divert him by chearful conversation. All these qualities he soon recollectedb in Vafer, a clerk in one of the offices over which he had formerly presided. Vafer wasc invited to visit his old patron, and being by his stationd acquainted with the present modes of life, and by constant practice dextrouse in business, entertained him with so many novelties, and so readily disentangled his affairs, thatf he was desired to resign his clerkship, and accept a liberal salary in the house of Thrasybulus.

Vafer havingg always lived in a state of dependance,h wasi well versed inj the arts by which favour is obtained, andk could withoutl repugnance or hesitation accommodate himself to every caprice, and echo every opinion.m He never doubted but to be convinced, norn attempted opposition but to flatter Thrasybulus with the pleasureo of a victory. By this practice he found his way into his patron's heart,p and having first made himself agreeable, soon became important. His insidious diligence, by which the laziness of age was gratified,q engrossed the management of affairs; and hisr petty offices of civility, and occasional intercessions, persuadeds the tenants to consider him as their friend and benefactor,t and to entreat his enforcement of their representations of hard years, and his countenance to petitions for abatement of rent.

Thrasybulus had now banquetted on flattery, till he could no longer bear the harshness of remonstrance or the insipidity of truth. All contrariety to his own opinion shocked him like a violation of some natural right, and all recommendation of his affairs to his own inspection was dreaded by him as a summons to torture. His children were alarmed by the sudden riches of Vafer, but their complaints were heard by their father with impatience,u as the result of a conspiracy against his quiet, and a design to condemn him, for their own advantage, to groan out his last hours in perplexity and drudgery.

The daughters retired with tears in their eyes, but the son3 continued his importunities till he found his inheritance hazarded by his obstinacy. Vaferv triumphed over all their efforts, and continuingw to confirm himself in authority,x at the death of his master purchased an estate, and bad defiance to enquiry and justice.

Every man is rich or poor, according to the proportion between his desires and enjoyments; any enlargement of wishes is therefore equally destructive to happiness with the diminution of possession, and he that teaches another to long for whatd he never shall obtain, is no less an enemy to his quiet than if he had robbede him of part of his patrimony.

But representations thus refined exhibit no adequate idea of the guilt of pretended friendship; of artifices by which followers are attracted only to decorate the retinue of pomp, and swell the shout of popularity, and to be dismissed with contempt and ignominy, whenf their leader has succeeded or miscarried, when he is sick of show and weary of noise. While a man, infatuated with the promises of greatness, wastes his hours and daysg in attendance and solicitation, the honest opportunities of improving his condition pass by without his notice; he neglects to cultivate his own barren soil, because he expects every moment to be placed in regions of spontaneous fertility, and is seldom roused from his delusion, but by the gripe of distress which he cannot resist, and the sense of evils which cannot be remedied.

The punishment of Tantalus in the infernal regions affords ah just image of hungry servility,i flattered with the approach of advantage,j doomed to lose it before it comes into his reach, always within a few days of felicity, and always sinking back to his former wants.

“I saw,” says Homer's Ulysses, “the severe punishment of Tantalus. In a lake whose waters approached to his lips, he stood burning with thirst, without the power to drink. Whenever he inclined his head to the stream, some deity commanded it to be dry, and the dark earth appeared at his feet. Around him lofty trees spread their fruits to view; the pear, the pomegranate, andm the apple, the green olive, and the luscious fig quivered before him, whichn whenever he extended his hand to seize them,o were snatched by the winds into clouds and obscurity.”

This image of misery was perhaps originally suggested to some poet by the conduct of his patron, by the daily contemplation of splendor which he never must partake, by fruitless attempts to catch at interdicted happiness, and by the sudden evanescence of his reward, when he thought his labours almost at an end.3 To groan with poverty, when all about him was opulence, riot, and superfluity, and to find the favours which he had long been encouraged to hope, and had long endeavoured to deserve, squandered at last on nameless ignorance, was to thirst with water flowing before him, and to see the fruits to which his hunger was hastening, scattered by the wind. Nor can my correspondent, whatever he may have suffered, express with more justness or force the vexations of dependance.

Proportionate to the prevalence of thise love of praise is the variety of means by which its attainment is attempted. Every man, however hopeless his pretensions may appear to all but himself, has some project by which he hopes to rise to reputation; some art by which he imagines that the notice of thef world will be attracted; some quality, good or bad, which discriminates him from the common herd of mortals, and by which others may beg persuaded to love, or compelled to fear him. The ascents of honour, however steep, never appear inaccessible; he that despairs toh scale the precipices by which valour and learning have conducted their favourites, discoversi some by-path, or easier acclivity, which, though it cannot bringj him to the summit, will yet enable him to overlook those with whom he is now contending for eminence; and we seldom require more to the happiness of the present hour, than to surpass him that stands next before us.

As the greater part of humankindk speak and act wholly by imitation, most of those who aspire to honour and applause propose to themselves some example which serves as the model of their conduct, and the limit of their hopes. Almost every man, ifl closely examined, will be found to have enlisted himself under some leader whom he expects to conduct him to renown; to have some hero or other,m living or dead,n in his view, whose character he endeavours to assume, and whose performances he labours to equal.

When the original is well chosen and judiciously copied, the imitator often arrives at excellence, which he could never have attained without direction; for few are formed with abilities to discover new possibilities of excellence, and to distinguish themselves by means never tried before.

But folly and idleness ofteno contrive to gratify pride at a cheaper rate:p not the qualities which are most illustrious, but those which are of easiest attainment are selected for imitation;q andr the honours and rewards which public gratitude has paid to the benefactors of mankind, are expected by wretches who can only imitate them in their vices and defects, or adopt some petty singularities of which those from whom they are borrowed, were secretly ashamed.

No man rises to such height as to become conspicuous, buts he is on one side censured by undiscerning malice, which reproaches him for his best actions and slanders his apparent and incontestable excellencies; andt idolized on the otheru by ignorant admiration, which exalts his faults and follies into virtues. It may be observed, that hev by whose intimacy his acquaintances imagine themselves dignified, generally diffuses among them his mien and his habits; and indeed without more vigilance than is generally applied to the regulation of the minuter parts of behaviour, it is not easy, when we converse much with onew whose general character excites our veneration, to escape all contagion of his peculiarities, even when we do not deliberately think them worthy of our notice, and when they wouldx have excited laughter or disgust had they not been protected by their alliance to nobler qualities, and accidentally consorted with knowledge ory with virtue.

The faults of a man loved or honoured,z sometimes steal secretly and imperceptibly upon the wise and virtuous, buta by injudicious fondness or thoughtless vanity areb adopted with design.c There is scarce any failing of mind or body, any error of opinion, or depravity of practice, which, instead ofd producing shame and discontent, its natural effects, hase not at one time or other gladdened vanity with the hopes of praise, and been displayed with ostentatious industry by those who sought kindred minds among the wits or heroes, and could prove their relation only by similitude of deformity.

In consequence of this perverse ambition, every habit which reason condemns may be indulged and avowed. When a man is upbraided withf his faults, he may indeedg be pardonedh if he endeavours to runi for shelter to some celebrated name; but it isj not to be suffered that, from the retreats to which he fled from infamy, he should issue again with the confidence of conquests,k and call upon mankind for praise.l Yet we see men that waste their patrimony in luxury, destroy their healthm with debauchery, and enervate their minds with idleness, because there have been some whom luxury never could sink into contempt, nor idleness hinder from the praise of genius.

Thisn general inclination of mankind to copy characters in the gross,o and the force which the recommendation of illustrious examples adds to the allurements of vice, ought to be considered by all whose character excludes themp from the shades of secrecy,q as incitementsr to scrupulous caution and universal purity of manners. No man, however inslaved to his appetites, or hurried by his passions, can, while he preserves his intellects unimpaired, please himself with promoting the corruption of others. Hes whose merit has enlarged his influence, would surely wish tot exert it for the benefit of mankind. Yet such will be the effect of his reputation, while he suffers himself to indulge any favourite fault, that they who have no hopeu to reach his excellence, will catch at his failings, and his virtues will be cited to justify the copiers of his vices.

It is particularly the duty of those who consign illustrious names to posterity, to take care lest their readers be misled by ambiguous examples. That writer may be justly condemned as an enemy to goodness who suffersv fondness orw interest to confound right with wrong, or to shelter the faults which even the wisest and the best have committed from that ignominy which guilt ought always to suffer, and with which it should be more deeply stigmatized when dignified by its neighbourhood to uncommon worth, since we shall be in danger of beholdingx it without abhorrence, unless its turpitude be laid open, and the eye securedy from the deception of surrounding splendour.

The writers who have undertaken the unpromising task of moderatinga desire, exertb all the power of their eloquence, to shew that happiness is not the lot of man, and have by many arguments and examples proved the instability of every condition by which envy or ambition are excited. They have set before our eyes all the calamities to which we are exposed from the frailty of nature, the influence of accident, or the stratagems of malice; theyc have terrified greatness with conspiracies, and riches with anxieties, wit with criticism, and beauty with disease.

All the force of reasond and all the charms of language are indeed necessary to support positions which every man hears with a wish to confute them. Truth finds an easy entrance into the mind when she is introduced by desire, and attended by pleasure; but when she intrudes uncalled, and brings only fear and sorrow in her train,e the passes of the intellect are barred against her by prejudice andf passion; if she sometimes forces her way by the batteries of argument, she seldom long keeps possession of her conquests,g but is ejected by some favoured enemy, or at best obtainsh only a nominal sovereignty, without influence and without authority.

That life is short we are all convinced, and yet suffer not that conviction to repress our projects or limit our expectations; that life is miserable we all feel, and yet we believe that the time is near when we shall feel it no longer. But to hope happiness and immortality is equally vain. Our state may indeed be more or less imbittered, as our duration may be more or less contracted; yet the utmost felicity which we can ever attain, will be little better thani alleviation of misery, and we shall always feel more pain from our wants than pleasure from our enjoyments. The incident which I am going to relate will shew, that toj destroy the effectk of all our success, it is not necessary that any signal calamity should fall upon us, that we should be harrassed by implacable persecution, or excruciated by irremediable pains; the brightest hours of prosperity have their clouds, and the stream of life, if it is not ruffled by obstructions, will grow putrid by stagnation.1

Myl father resolving notm to imitate the folly of his ancestors, who had hitherton left the younger sonso encumbrances on the eldest,p destined me to a lucrative profession, and I beingq careful to lose no opportunity of improvement, was at the usual time in which young men enter the world, well qualified for the exercise of the businessr which I had chosen.

My eagerness to distinguish myself in publick, and my impatience of the narrow scheme of life to which my indigence confined me, did not suffer me to continue long in the town where I was born.s I went away as from a place of confinement, with a resolution to return no more, till I should be able to dazzle with my splendor those who now looked upon me with contempt, to reward those who had paidt honours to my dawning merit, and to show allu who had suffered me to glide by them unknown and neglected, how much they mistook their interest in omitting to propitiate a genius like mine.

Such were my intentions whenv I sallied forth into the unknown world, in quest of riches and honours, whichw I expected to procure in a very short time; for what could withold them from industry and knowledge? He that indulges hope will always be disappointed. Reputationx I very soon obtained, but as merit is much more cheaply acknowledged than rewarded, I did not find myself yet enriched in proportion to my celebrity.y

I had howeverz in time surmounteda the obstacles by which envy and competition obstruct the first attempts of a new claimant, and saw my opponents and censurersb tacitly confessing their despair of success, by courting my friendship and yielding to my influence.c They who once persued me, were now satisfied to escape from me; and they who had before thought me presumptuous in hoping to overtake them, had now their utmost wish, if they were permitted at no great distance quietly to follow me.d

My wants were not madlye multiplied as my acquisitionsf encreased, and the time came at length when I thought myself enabled to gratify all reasonable desires, and when, therefore, I resolvedg to enjoy that plenty and serenity which I had been hitherto labouring to procure, to enjoy them while I was yet neither crushed by age into infirmity, nor so habituated to a particular manner of life as to be unqualified forh new studies or entertainments.

I now quitted my profession, and to set myself at once free from all importunities to resume it, changed my residence, and devoted the remaining part of my time to quiet and amusement. Amidst innumerable projects of pleasure which restless idleness incited me to form, and of which most, when they came to the moment of execution, were rejected for others of no longer continuance, some accident revived in my imagination the pleasing ideas of my native place. It was now in my power to visit those from whom I had been so long absent, in such a manner as was consistent with my former resolution, and Ii wondered how it could happen that I had so long delayed my own happiness.j

Full of the admiration which I should excite, and the homage which I should receive, I dressed my servants in ak more ostentatious livery, purchased a magnificent chariot, and resolved to dazzle the inhabitants of the little town with an unexpected blaze of greatness.

While the preparations thatl vanity required were made for my departure, which, as workmen will not easily be hurried beyond their ordinary rate, I thought very tedious, I solaced my impatience with imagingm the various censures thatn my appearance would produce, the hopes which some would feelo from my bounty, the terror which my powerp would strike on others; the aukward respect with which I should be accosted by timorous officiousness; and the distant reverence with which others less familiar to splendour and dignity would be contented to gaze upon me. I deliberated a long time, whether I should immediately descend to a level with my former acquaintances, or make my condescension more grateful by a gentle transition from haughtiness and reserve. At length I determined to forget someq of my companions, till they discovered themselves by some indubitable token, and to receive the congratulations of others upon my good fortune with indifference, to show that I always expected what I had nowr obtained. The acclamations of the populace I purposed to reward with six hogsheads of ale, and a roasted ox, and then recommend to them to return to their work.

At last all the trappings of grandeur were fitted, and I began the journey of triumph, which I could have wished to have ended in the same moment, but my horses felt none of their master's ardour, and I was shaken four days upon rugged roads.s I then entered the town, and having graciously let fall the glasses, that my person might be seen,t passed slowly through the street. The noise of the wheels brought the inhabitants to their doors, but I could not perceive that I was known by them. At last I alighted, and my name, I suppose, was told by my servants, for the barber stept from the opposite house, and seized me by the hand with honest joy in his countenance, which, according to the rule thatu I had prescribed to myself, I repressed with a frigid graciousness. The fellow, instead of sinking into dejection, turned away with contempt, and left me to consider how the second salutation should be received. The next friend was better treated, for I soon found that I must purchase by civility that regard which I had expected to enforce by insolence.

There was yet no smoakv of bonfires, no harmony of bells, no shout of crouds, nor riot of joy; the business of the day went forward as before, and after having ordered a splendid supper, which no man came to partake, and which my chagrinw hindered me from tasting, I went to bed, where the vexation ofx disappointment overpowered the fatigue of my journey, and kept me from sleep.

I rose so much humbled by those mortifications, as to enquire after the present state of the town, and found that I had been absent too long to obtain the triumph which had flattered my expectation. Of the friends whose compliments I expected, some had long ago moved to distant provinces, some had lost in the maladies of age all sense of another's prosperity, and some had forgotten our former intimacy amidst care and distresses. Of three whom I had resolved to punish for their former offences by a longer continuance of neglect, one was, by his own industry, raised above my scorn, and two were sheltered from it in the grave. All those whom I loved,y feared, or hated, all whose envy or whose kindness I had hopes of contemplating with pleasure, were swept away, and their place was filled by a new generation with other views and other competitions; and among manyz proofs of the impotence of wealth, I found that it conferred upon me very few distinctions in my native place.2

Everyd day discovers that mankind are not yet convinced of their error, or that their conviction is without power to influence their conduct; for poverty still continues to produce contempt, and stille obstructs the claims of kindred and of virtue. The eye of wealth isf elevated towards higher stations, and seldom descends to examine the actions of those who are placed below the level of its notice, and who in distant regions and lower situations are struggling with distress, or toiling for bread. Among the multitudes overwhelmed with insuperable calamity, it is common to find those whom a very little assistance would enable to support themselves with decency, and who yet cannot obtain from near relations what they see hourly lavished in ostentation, luxury, or frolick.

There are natural reasons whyg poverty does not easily conciliate affection. He that has been confined from his infancy to the conversation of the lowest classes of mankind, must necessarily want those accomplishments which are the usual means of attracting favour; andh though truth,i fortitude, and probity give an indisputable right to reverence and kindness,j they will not bek distinguished by common eyes, unless they are brightened by elegance of manners, but are cast aside like unpolished gems, of which none but the artist knows the intrinsick value, till their asperities are smoothed and their incrustations rubbed away.

The grossness of vulgar habits obstructs the efficacyl of virtue, as impurity and harshness of stile impairs the forcem of reason, and rugged numbers turn off the mindn fromo artifice of disposition, and fertilityp of invention. Few have strength of reasonq to over-rule the perceptions of sense; and yet fewer haver curiosity or benevolences to struggle long against the first impression: he therefore who fails to please in his salutation and address is at once rejected,t and never obtains an opportunity of showing his latent excellencies, or essential qualities.

It is indeed not easy to prescribe a successful manner of approach to the distressed or necessitous,u whose condition subjects every kind of behaviour equally to miscarriage. He whose confidence of merit incites him to meet without any apparent sense of inferiority the eyes of those whov flattered themselves with their own dignity, is considered as an insolent leveller, impatient of the just prerogatives of rank and wealth, eager to usurp the station to which he has no right, and to confound the subordinations of society; and who would contribute to the exaltation of that spirit, which evenw want and calamityx are not able to restrain from rudeness and rebellion?

But no better success will commonly be found to attend servility and dejection, whichy often give pride the confidence to treat them with contempt. A request made with diffidence and timidity is easily denied, because the petitioner himself seems to doubt its fitness.

Kindness is generally reciprocal; we are desirous of pleasing others, because we receivez pleasure from them; but by what means can the man please, whose attention is engrossed by his distresses, and who hasa no leisure to be officious;1 whose will is restrained by his necessities, and who hasb no power to confer benefits; whose temper is perhaps vitiated by misery, and whose understanding is impeded by ignorance?

Itc is yet a more offensive discouragement, thatd the same actions performed by different hands produce different effects, and instead of rating the man by his performances, we rate too frequently the performance by the man. It sometimes happens in the combinations of life, thate important services are performed by inferiors; but though their zeal and activity mayf be paid by pecuniary rewards, they seldom excite that flow of gratitude, or obtain that accumulation of recompence with which all think it theirg duty to acknowledge the favour of those who descend to theirh assistance from a higher elevation. To be obliged, is to be in some respect inferior to another; and few willingly indulgei the memory of an action which raises one whom they havej always been accustomed to think below them,k but satisfy themselvesl with faint praise and penurious payment, and then drive it from their own minds, and endeavourm to conceal it from the knowledge of others.

It may be always objected to the services of those who can be supposed to want a reward, that they were produced notn by kindness buto interest; they are therefore, when they are no longer wanted, easily disregarded as arts of insinuation, or stratagems of selfishness.p Benefitsq which are received as gifts from wealth, are exacted as debts from indigence; and he that in a high station is celebrated for superfluous goodness,r would in a meaner condition have barely been confessed to have done his duty.

It is scarcely possible for the utmost benevolence to oblige, whens exerted under the disadvantages of great inferiority, for by the habitual arrogance of wealth, such expectations are commonly formed as no zeal or industry can satisfy; and what regard can he hope, who has done less than was demanded from him?

There are indeedt kindnesses conferred which were never purchased byu precedent favours, and there is an affection not arising from gratitude or grossv interest, by which similar natures are attracted to each other, without prospect of any other advantage than the pleasure of exchanging sentiments,w and the hope of confirming their esteem of themselves by the approbation of each other. But this spontaneous fondnessx seldom rises at the sight of poverty, which every one regards with habitualy contempt, and of which the applause is no more courted by vanity, than the countenance is solicited by ambition. The most generous and disinterested friendship must be resolved at last into the love of ourselves;z he therefore whose reputation or dignity inclines us to consider his esteem as a testimonial of desert, will always find our hearts open to his endearments. We every day see men of eminence followed with all the obsequiousness of dependance, and courted with all the blandishments of flattery, by those who want nothing from them but professions of regard, and who think themselves liberally rewarded by a bow, a smile, or an embrace.2

But those prejudices which every mind feels more or less in favour of riches, ought, like other opinions which only custom and example have impressed upon us, to be in time subjected to reason. We musta learn how to separate the real character from extraneous adhesions and casual circumstances, to consider closely him whom we are about to adopt or to reject; to regard his inclinations as well as his actions; to trace out those virtues which lie torpid in the heart for want of opportunity, and those vices that lurkb unseen by the absence of temptation; thatc when we find worth faintly shooting in the shades of obscurity, we mayd let in light and sunshinee upon it, and ripen barren volition into efficacy and power.

It is not common to envy those with whom we cannot easily be placed in comparison. Every man sees without malevolence the progress of another in the tracks of life, which he has himself no desire to tread, and hears withoutb inclination to cavils or contradiction the renown of those whose distance will not suffer them to draw the attention of mankind from his own merit. The sailor never thinks it necessary to contest the lawyer's abilities; nor would the Rambler, however jealous of his reputation, be much disturbed by the success of rival wits at Agra or Ispahan.

We do not therefore ascribe to you any superlative degree of virtue, when we believe that we may inform you of our change of condition withoutc danger of malignant fascination; and that when you read of the marriage of yourd correspondents Hymenaeus and Tranquilla,1 you will join your wishes to those of their other friends for the happy event of an union in which caprice and selfishness had so little part.

There is at least this reason why we should be less deceived in our connubial hopes than manye who enter into the same state, that we have allowed our mindsf to form no unreasonable expectations, nor vitiated our fancies in the soft hours of courtship, with visions of felicity which human power cannot bestow, or of perfection which human virtue cannot attain. That impartiality with which weg endeavoured to inspect the manners of all whom we have known was neverh so much overpowered by our passion, but that wei discovered some faults and weaknesses in each other; and joined our hands in conviction, that as there arej advantages to be enjoyed in marriage, there arek inconveniencies likewise to be endured; and that, together with confederate intellects and auxiliar virtues, we must find different opinions and opposite inclinations.

We however flatter ourselves, for who is not flattered by himself as well as by others on the day of marriage, that we are eminently qualified to give mutual pleasure.l Our birth is without any such remarkable disparity as can give either an opportunity of insulting the other with pompous names and splendid alliances, or of calling in upon any domestick controversy the overbearing assistance of powerful relations. Our fortune was equally suitable,m so that we meet without any of those obligations which always produce reproach or suspicion of reproach, which, though they may be forgotten in the gaieties of the first month, no delicacy will always suppress, or of which the suppression must be considered as a new favour, to be repaid by tameness and submission, till gratitude takes the place of love, and the desire of pleasing degenerates by degrees into the fear of offending.

The settlements caused no delay; for we did not trust our affairs to the negotiation of wretches who would have paid their court by multiplying stipulations. Tranquilla scorned to detain any part of her fortune from him into whose hands she delivered up her person; and Hymenaeus thought no act of baseness more criminal than his who enslaves his wife by her own generosity, who by marrying without a jointure condemns her to all the dangers of accident and caprice, and at last boasts his liberality by granting what only the indiscretion of hern kindness enabled him to withhold.o He therefore received on the common terms the portion which any other woman might have brought him, and reserved all the exuberance of acknowledgment for those excellencies which he has yet been able to discover only in Tranquilla.

We did not pass the weeks of courtship like those who consider themselves as taking the last draught of pleasure, andp resolve not to quit the bowl without a surfeit, or who know themselves about to set happiness to hazard, and endeavour to lose their sense of danger in the ebriety of perpetual amusement, and whirl round the gulph before they sink. Hymenaeus often repeated aq medical axiom, that “the succours of sickness ought not to be wasted in health.” We know that however our eyes may yet sparkle, and our hearts bound at the presence of each other, the time of listlessness and satiety, of peevishness and discontent must come at last, in which we shall be driven for relief to shews and recreations; that the uniformity of life must be sometimes diversified, and the vacuities of conversation sometimes supplied. We rejoice in the reflection that we have stores of novelty yet unexhausted, which may be opened when repletion shall call for change, and gratifications yet untasted, by which life when it shall become vapid or bitter may be restored to its former sweetness and sprightliness, and again irritate the appetite, and again sparkle in the cup.

Our timer will probablys be less tasteless than that of those whom thet authority andu avarice of parents unites almost without their consent in their early years, beforev they have accumulated anyw fund of reflection, orx collectedy materials for mutual entertainment. Such we have often seen rising in the morning to cards, and retiring in the afternoon to dose, whose happiness was celebrated by their neighbours, because they happened to grow rich by parsimony,z and to be kept quiet by insensibility, and agreed to eat and toa sleep together.

We have both mingled with the world, and are therefore no strangers to the faults and virtues, the designs and competitions, the hopes and fears of our contemporaries. We have both amused our leisure with books, and can therefore recount the events of former times, or cite the dictates of antient wisdom. Every occurrence furnishes us with some hint which one or the other can improve, and if it should happen thatb memory orc imagination fail us, we can retire to no idle or unimproving solitude.

Tho' our characters beheld at a distance, exhibit this general resemblance, yet a nearer inspection discovers such a dissimilitude of our habitudes and sentiments, as leaves each some peculiar advantages, and affords that concordia discors,2 that suitable disagreement which is always necessary to intellectual harmony. There may be a total diversity of ideas which admits no participation of the same delight, and there may likewise be such a conformity of notions, as leaves neither any thing to add to the decisions of the other. With such contrariety there can be no peace, with such similarity there can be no pleasure. Our reasonings, though often formed upon different views, terminate generally in the same conclusion. Our thoughts like rivulets issuing from distant springs, ared each impregnated in its course with various mixtures, and tinged by infusions unknown to the other, yet at last easily unite into one stream, and purify themselves by the gentle effervescence of contrary qualities.

These benefits we receive in a greater degree as we converse without reserve, because we have nothing to conceal. We have no debts to be paid by imperceptible deductions frome avowed expences, no habits to be indulged by the private subserviencyf of a favoured servant, no private interviews with needy relations, no intelligence with spies placed upon each other. We considered marriage as the most solemn league of perpetual friendship, a state from which artifice and concealment are to be banished for ever, and in which every act of dissimulation is a breach of faith.

The impetuous vivacity of youth, and that ardor of desire, which the first sight of pleasure naturally produces, haveg long ceased to hurry us into irregularity and vehemence; and experience has shewn us that few gratifications are too valuable to be sacrificed to complaisance. We haveh thought it convenient to rest from the fatigue of pleasure, and now only continue that course of life into which we had before entered, confirmed in our choice by mutual approbation, supported in our resolution by mutual encouragement, and assisted in our efforts by mutual exhortation.

Such, Mr. Rambler, is our prospect of life, a prospect which as it is beheld with more attention, seems to open more extensive happiness, and spreads by degrees into the boundless regions of eternity. But if all our prudence has been vain, andi we are doomed to give one instance morej of the uncertainty of human discernment, we shall comfort ourselves amidst our disappointments, that we were not betrayed but by such delusions as caution could not escape, since we sought happiness only in the arms of virtue. We are,

This solution might satisfy,c if such onlyd were offended with meanness of expression ase are unable to distinguish propriety of thought, and to separate propositions or images from the vehicles by which they are conveyed to the understanding.

Butf this kind of disgust is by no means confined to the ignorant or superficial; it operates uniformly and universally upon readers of all classes; every man, however profound or abstracted, perceives himself irresistibly alienated by low terms;g they who profess the most zealous adherence to truth are forced to admit that she owes part of her charms to her ornaments, and loses much of her power over the soul, when she appears disgraced by a dress uncouth or ill-adjusted.

We are all offended by low terms, buth are noti disgusted alike by the same compositions, because we do not all agree to censure the same terms as low. No word is naturally or intrinsically meaner than another; our opinion thereforej of words, as of other things arbitrarily and capriciously established, dependsk wholly upon accident and custom. The cottager thinks those apartments splendid and spacious, which an inhabitant of palaces will despise for their inelegance; and to him who has passed most of his hours with the delicate and polite, many expressions will seeml sordid, which another, equally acute,m may hear without offence; but a mean term never fails to displease him to whom it appearsn mean, as poverty is certainly and invariably despised, though he who is poor in the eyeso of some, may by others be envied for his wealth.

Words become low by the occasions to which they are applied, orp the general character of them who use them; and the disgust which they produce, arises from the revival of those imagesq with which they are commonly united. Thus if, in the most solemnr discourse, a phrase happens to occur which hass been successfully employed in some ludicrous narrative, the gravestt auditor finds it difficult to refrain from laughter, when they who areu not prepossessed by the same accidental association,v are utterly unable to guess the reason of his merriment. Words which convey ideas of dignity in one age, are banished from elegant writing or conversation in another, because they are in time debased by vulgar mouths, and can be no longer heard without the involuntary recollection of unpleasing images.

When Mackbethw is confirming himself in the horrid purpose of stabbing his king,x he breaks out amidsty his emotions into a wish natural to a murderer,

If we start into raptures when some hero of the Iliad tells us that δόρυ μάινεται,3 his lance rages with eagerness to destroy; if we are alarmed at the terror of the soldiers commanded by Caesar to hew down the sacred grove, who dreaded, says Lucan, lestc the axe aimed at the oak shouldd fly back upon the striker,e

Mackbethj proceeds to wish, in the madness of guilt, that the inspection of heaven may be intercepted, and that he may in the involutions of infernal darkness escape the eye of providence. This is the utmost extravagance of determined wickedness; yet this is sok debased by two unfortunate words, that while I endeavourl to impress on my reader the energy of the sentiment, I can scarce check my risibility, when the expression forces itself upon my mind; for who,m without some relaxation of his gravity, cann hear of the avengers of guilto “peeping through a blanket”?

These imperfections of diction are less obvious to the reader, as he is less acquainted withp common usages;q they are therefore wholly imperceptible to a foreigner, who learns our languager from books, and will strike a solitary academick less forcibly thans a modish lady.

Among the numerous requisites that mustt concur to completeu an author, few are of more importance than an early entrance into the living world. The seeds of knowledge may be planted in solitude, but must be cultivated in publick. Argumentation may be taught in colleges, and theoriesv formed in retirement, but the artifice of embellishment, and the powers of attraction, can be gained onlyw by general converse.

An acquaintance withx prevailing customs and fashionable elegance is necessary likewise for other purposes. They injury that grand imagery suffers from unsuitablez language, personal merit maya fear from rudeness and indelicacy. When the success of AEneas depended on the favour of the queen uponb whose coasts he was driven, his celestial protectressc thought him not sufficiently secured against rejection by his piety ord bravery, but decorated him for the interview with preternatural beauty.4 Whoever desires, for his writings or himself, whate none can reasonably contemn, the favour of mankind, mustf add grace to strength, andg make his thoughtsh agreeable as well as useful.i Many complain of neglect who never triedj to attract regard. It cannotk be expected that the patrons of science orl virtue should be solicitous to discover excellencies which they who possess them shade and disguise.m Fewn have abilities so much needed by the rest of the world as to be caressed on their own terms; and he that will not condescend to recommend himself by external embellishments, must submit to the fate of just sentiments meanly expressed, and be ridiculed and forgotten before he is understood.

The same observation may be extended to the offspring of the mind. Hasty compositions, however theyc please at first byd flowery luxuriance, and spread in the sun-shine of temporary favour, cane seldom endure the change of seasons, but perishf at the first blast of criticism, or frost of neglect. When Apelles was reproached with the paucity of his productions, and the incessant attention with which he retouched his pieces, he condescended to make no other answer, than that “he painted for perpetuity.”2

No vanityg can more justly incur contempt and indignation than that which boasts of negligence and hurry. For who can bear with patience the writerh who claims such superiority to the rest of his species, as to imagine that mankind are at leisure for attention to his extemporary sallies, and that posterity will reposite his casual effusions among the treasures of antient wisdom?

Men have sometimesi appeared of such transcendent abilities, that their slightest and most cursory performances excel all that labour and study can enable meaner intellects to compose;j as there arek regions ofl which the spontaneous products cannot be equalled in other soilsm by care and culture. Butn it is no less dangerous for any man to place himself in this rank of understanding, ando fancy that he is born to be illustrious without labour, than to omit the cares of husbandry, and expect from his groundp the blossomsq of Arabia.

The greatestr part of those who congratulate themselves upon their intellectual dignity, and usurp the privileges of genius, are men whom onlys themselves would ever have marked out as enrichedt byu uncommon liberalities of nature, or entitled to veneration and immortality on easy terms.v This ardor of confidence is usually found among those,w who havingx not enlarged their notions by books or conversation,y are persuaded by thez partiality which we all feel in our own favour, that they have reached the summit of excellence, because they discover none higher than themselves; and whoa acquiesce in the first thoughts that occur, because theirb scantiness ofc knowledge allows them littled choice, and the narrowness of their views affords them no glimpse of perfection, ofe that sublime ideaf which human industry has from the first ages been vainly toiling to approach. They see a little, and believe that there is nothing beyond their sphere of vision, as the Patuecos of Spain, who inhabited a small valley, conceived the surrounding mountains to be the boundaries of the world.3 In proportion as perfection is more distinctly conceived, the pleasure of contemplating our own performances will be lessened; it may thereforeg be observed, that they who most deserveh praise, are often afraid to decide in favour of their own performances;i they know how much is still wanting to their completion, and wait with anxiety and terror the determination of the publick. “I please every one else,” says Tully, “but neverj satisfy myself.”4

It has often been enquired, why, notwithstanding the advances of latter ages in science, and the assistance which the infusion of so many new ideas has given us, we still fall below the antients in the art of composition. Some part of their superiority may be justly ascribed to the graces of their language, from which the most polished of the present European tongues, are nothing more than barbarous degenerations. Some advantage they might gain merely by priority, which put them in possession of the most natural sentiments, and left us nothing but servile repetitionk or forced conceits. But the greaterl part of their praise seems to have beenm the just reward of modesty and labour. Their sense of human weaknessn confined them commonly to one study, which their knowledge of the extent of every science engaged them to prosecute with indefatigable diligence.

Among the writers of antiquity I remember none except Statius, who ventures to mention the speedy production of his writings, either as an extenuation of his faults, or a proof of his facility. Nor did Statius, when he considered himself as a candidate for lasting reputation, think a closer attention un-necessary, but amidst all his pride and indigence, the two great hasteners of modern poems, employed twelve years upon theo Thebaid, and thinks his claim to renown proportionate to his labour.

Ovid indeed apologizesp in his banishment for the imperfection of his letters, butq mentions his want of leisure to polish them as an addition to his calamities; and was so far from imagining revisalsr and corrections unnecessary, that at his departure from Rome, he threw hiss Metamorphoses into the fire, lest he should be disgraced by a book which he could not hope to finish.5

It seems not often to have happened, that the same writert aspired to reputation in verse and prose, and of those few that attempted such diversity of excellence, I know not that evenu one succeeded. Contrary characters they never imagined a single mind able to support, and therefore no man is recorded to have undertaken more than one kind of dramatick poetry.

What they had written, they did not venture in their first fondness to thrust into the world, but considering the impropriety of sending forth inconsideratelyv that which cannot be recalled,w deferred the publication, if not nine years, according to the direction of Horace,6 yet till their fancy was cooled after the raptures of invention, and the glare of novelty had ceased to dazzle the judgment.

There were in those days no weekly or diurnal writers, multa dies, & multa litura,7 much time, and many rasures, were considered as indispensablex requisites; and that no other method of attaining lasting praise has been yet discovered, may be conjectured from the blotted manuscripts of Milton nowy remaining, and fromz the tardy emission of Pope's compositions,a delayed more than once tillb the incidents to which they alluded were forgotten, till his enemies were secure from his satire, and what to an honest mind must be more painful,c his friends were deaf to his encomiums.8

To him, whose eagerness of praise hurries his productions soon into the light, many imperfections are unavoidable,d even where the mind furnishes the materials, as well as regulates their disposition, and nothing depends upon search or information. Delay opens new veins of thought, the subject dismissed for a time appears with a new train of dependant images, the accidents of reading or conversation supply new ornaments or allusions, or mere intermission of the fatigue of thinking enables the mind to collect new force, and make new excursions. But all those benefits come too late for him, who when he was weary with labour, snatched at the recompence, and gave his worke to his friends and his enemies, as soon as impatience and pride persuaded him to conclude it.

One of the most pernicious effects of haste, is obscurity. He that teems with a quick succession of ideas, and perceives how one sentiment produces another, easily believesf that he can clearly express what he so strongly comprehends; heg seldom suspects his thoughtsh of embarrasment while he preserves in his owni memory the series of connection, or his diction ofj ambiguity while only one sense is present to his mind. Yet if he has been employed onk an abstruse or complicated argument, he will find, when he has a while withdrawn his mind,l and returns as a new reader to his work, that he has only a conjectural glimpse ofm his own meaning, and that to explain it to those whom he desires to instruct, he must open his sentiments, disentangle his method, and alter his arrangement.n

Authors and lovers always suffer someo infatuation, from which only absence can set them free; and every man ought to restore himself to the full exercise of his judgment, before he does that which he cannot do improperly, without injuring his honour and his quiet.

I am one of thoseb beings, from whom many, that meltc at the sight of all other misery, think it meritorious to withhold relief; oned whom the rigour of virtuous indignation doomse to suffer without complaint, andf perish without regard; and whom I myself have formerly insulted in the pride of reputation and security of innocence.

I am of a good family, but my father was burthened with more children than he could decently support. A wealthy relation, as he travelled from London to his country seat, condescending to make him a visit,g was touched with compassion of his narrow fortune, and resolved to ease him of part of his charge, by taking the care of a childh upon himself. Distress on one side and ambition on the other, were too powerful for parental fondness, and the little family passed in review before him, that he might makei his choice. I was then ten years old, and without knowing for what purpose, I was called to my great cousin, endeavoured to recommend myself by my best courtesy, sung him my prettiest song, told the last story that I had read, and so much endeared myself by my innocence, that hej declared his resolution to adopt me, and to educate me with his own daughters.

My parents felt the common struggles at the thought of parting, and “some natural tears they dropp'd, but wip'd them soon.”2 They considered, not without that false estimation of the value of wealth which poverty long continued always produces, that I was raised to higher rank than they could give me, and to hopes of more ample fortune than they could bequeath. My mother sold some of her ornaments to dress me in such a manner as might secure me from contempt at my first arrival; and when she dismissed me, pressed me to her bosom with an embrace thatk I stilll feel, gave me some precepts of piety which, however neglected, I have not forgotten, and uttered prayers for my final happiness, of which I have not yet ceased to hope, that they will at last be granted.

My sisters envied my new finery, and seemed not much to regret our separation; my father conducted me to the stagecoach with a kind of chearful tenderness; and in a very short time, I was transported to splendid apartments, and a luxurious table, and grew familiar to show,m noise and gaiety.

In three years my mother died, having implored a blessing on her family with her last breath. I had little opportunity to indulge a sorrow, which there was none to partake with me, and therefore soon ceased to reflect much upon my loss. My father turned all his care upon his other children, whom some fortunate adventures and unexpected legacies enabled him, when he died four years after my mother, to leave in a condition above their expectations.

I should have shared the encrease of his fortune, and had oncen a portion assigned me in his will;o but my cousin assuringp him that all care for me was needless, since he had resolved to place me happily in the world,q directed him to divide my partr amongst my sisters.

Thus I was thrown upon dependance withouts resource. Being now at an age in which young women are initiated in company,t I was no longer to be supported in my former character but atu considerable expence; so that partly lest I should waste money, and partly lest my appearance mightv draw too many compliments and assiduities, I was insensibly degraded from my equality, and enjoyed few privileges above the head servant, but that of receiving no wages.

I felt every indignity, but knew that resentment would precipitate my fall. I therefore endeavoured to continue my importance by little services and active officiousness, and for a time preserved myself from neglect, by withdrawing all pretences to competition, and studying to please rather than to shine. But my interest, notwithstanding this expedient, hourlyw declined, and my cousin's favourite maid began to exchange repartees with me, and consult me about the alterations of a cast gown.

I was now completely depressed, and though I had seen mankind enough to know the necessity of outward chearfulness, I often withdrew to my chamber to vent my grief, or turn my condition in my mind, and examine by what means I might escape from perpetual mortification. At last, my schemes and sorrows were interrupted by a sudden change of my relation's behaviour, who one day took an occasion when we were left together in a room, to bid me suffer myself no longer to be insulted,x buty assume the place which he always intended me to hold in the family. He assured me, that his wife's preference of her own daughters should never hurt me; and, accompanying his professions with a purse of gold, ordered me to bespeak a rich suit at the mercer's,z and to apply privately to him for money when I wanted it, and insinuate that my other friends supplied me, which he would take care to confirm.

By this stratagem, which I did not then understand, he filled me with tenderness and gratitude, compelled me to repose on him as my only support, and produced a necessity of private conversation. He often appointed interviews at the house of an acquaintance, and sometimes called on me with a coach, and carried me abroad. My sense of his favour, and the desire of retaining it, disposed me to unlimited complaisance, and though I saw his kindness grow every day more fond, I did not suffer any suspicion to enter my thoughts. At last the wretch took advantage of the familiarity which he enjoyed as my relation, and the submission which he exacted as my benefactor, to complete the ruin of an orphan whom his own promises had made indigent, whom his indulgence had melted, and his authority subdued.

I know not why it should afford subject of exultation, to overpower on any terms the resolution, or surprise the caution of a girl; but of all the boasters that deck themselves in the spoils of innocence and beauty, they surely have the least pretensions to triumph, who submit to owe their success to some casual influence. They neither employ the graces of fancy, nor the force of understanding, in their attempts; theya cannot please their vanityb with the art of their approaches, the delicacy of their adulations, the elegance of their address, or the efficacy of their eloquence; nor applaud themselves as possessed of any qualities, by which affection is attracted. They surmount no obstacles, they defeat no rivals, but attack only those who cannot resist, and are often content to possess the body without any solicitude to gain the heart.

Many of these despicable wretches does my present acquaintance with infamy and wickedness enable me to number among the heroes of debauchery. Reptiles whom their own servants would have despised, had they not been their servants, and with whom beggary would have disdained intercourse, had she not been allured byc hopes of relief. Many of the beings which are now rioting in taverns, or shivering in the streets, have been corrupted not by arts of gallantry which stole gradually upon the affections and laid prudence asleep, but by the fear of losing benefits which were never intended, or of incurring resentmentd which they could not escape; some have been frighted by masters, and some awed by guardians into ruin.

Our crime had its usual consequence, and he soon perceived that I could not long continue in his family. I was distracted at the thought of the reproach which I now believed inevitable. He comforted mee with hopesf of eluding all discovery, and often upbraided me with the anxiety, which perhaps none but himself saw in my countenance; but at last mingled his assurances of protection and maintenance with menaces of total desertion, if in the moments of perturbation I should suffer his secret to escape, or endeavour to throw on him any part of my infamy.

Thus passed theg dismal hours till my retreat could no longer be delayed. It was pretended that my relations had sent for me to a distant county,h and I entered upon a state which shall be described in my next letter.

Misellaa now sitsb down to continue herc narrative. I am convinced that nothing would more powerfully preserve youth from irregularity, or guard inexperience from seduction, than a just description of the condition into which the wanton plunges herself, and therefore hope that my letter may be a sufficient antidote to my example.

After the distraction,d hesitation and delays which the timidity of guilt naturally produces, I wase removed to lodgingsf in a distant part of the town, under one of the charactersg commonly assumed upon such occasions. Here being, by my circumstances, condemned to solitude, I passed most of my hours in bitterness and anguish. The conversation of the people with whom I was placed, was not at all capable of engaging my attention or dispossessing the reigning ideas. The books which I carried to my retreat were such as heightened my abhorrence of myself; for I was not so far abandoned as to sink voluntarily into corruption, or endeavour to conceal from my own mind the enormity of my crime.

My relation remitted none of his fondness, but visited me so often that I was sometimes afraid lest his assiduity should expose him to suspicion. Whenever he came he found me weeping, and was therefore less delightfully entertained than he expected. After frequent expostulations upon the unreasonableness of my sorrow, and innumerable protestations of everlasting regard, he at last found that I was more affected with the loss of my innocence, than the danger of my fame, and that he might not be disturbed by my remorse, began to lull my conscience with the opiates of irreligion. His arguments were such as my course of life has since exposed me often to the necessity of hearing, vulgar, empty and fallacious; yet they at first confounded me byh their novelty, filled me with doubt and perplexity, and interrupted that peace which I began to feel from the sincerity of my repentance, without substituting any other support. I listened a whilei to his impious gabble, but its influence was soon overpowered by natural reason and early education, and the convictions which this new attempt gave me of his baseness completedj my abhorrence. I have heard of barbarians, who, when tempests drive ships upon their coast, decoy them to the rocks that they may plunder their lading, and have always thought that wretches thus merciless in their depredations, ought to be destroyed by a general insurrection of all social beings; yet how light is this guilt to the crime of him, who in the agitations of remorse cuts away the anchor of piety, and when he has drawn aside credulity from the paths of virtue, hides the light of heaven which would direct her to return. I had hitherto considered him as a man equally betrayed with myself by the concurrence of appetitek and opportunity; but I now saw with horror that he was contriving to perpetuate his gratification, and was desirous to fit me to his purpose by complete and radical corruption.

To escape, however, was not yet in my power. I could support the expences of my condition, only by the continuance of his favour. He provided all that was necessary, and in a few weeks, congratulated me upon my escape from the danger which we had both expected with so much anxiety. I then began to remind him of his promise to restore me with my fame uninjured to the world. He promised me in general terms, that nothing should be wanting which his power could add to my happiness, but forbore to release me from my confinement. I knew how much my reception in the world depended upon my speedy return, and was therefore outragiously impatient of his delays, which I now perceived to be only artifices of lewdness. He told me, at last, with an appearance of sorrow, that all hopes of restoration to my former state were for everl precluded; that chance had discovered my secret, and malice divulged it; and that nothing now remained, but to seek a retreat more private, where curiosity or hatred could never findm us.

The rage, anguish, and resentment, which I felt at this account, are not to be expressed. I was in so much dread of reproach and infamy, which he represented as pursuing me with full cry, that I yielded myself implicitly to his disposal, and was removed with a thousand studied precautions through by-ways and dark passages, to another house, where I harassed him with perpetual solicitations for a small annuity, thatn might enable me to live in the country witho obscurity and innocence.

This demand he at firstp evaded with ardent professions, but in time appeared offended at my importunity and distrust; and having one day endeavoured to sooth me with uncommon expressions of tenderness, when he found my discontent immoveable, left me with some inarticulate murmurs of anger. I was pleased that he was at last roused to sensibility, and expectingq that at his next visit, he would comply with my request,r lived with great tranquilitys upon the money in my hands, and was so much pleased with this pause of persecution, that I did not reflect how much his absence had exceeded the usual intervals, till I was alarmed with the danger of wanting subsistence. I then suddenly contracted my expences, but was unwilling to supplicate for assistance. Necessity, however, soon overcame my modesty or my pride, and I applied to him by a letter, but had no answer. I writ in terms more pressing, but without effect. I then sent an agent to enquire after him, who informed me, that he had quitted his house, and was gone with his family to reside for some time upon his estate in Ireland.

However shocked at this abrupt departure, I was yet unwilling to believe that he could wholly abandon me,t and therefore by the sale of my cloaths I supported myself, expecting that every post would bring me relief. Thus I passed seven months between hope and dejection, in a gradual approach to poverty and distress, emaciated with discontentu and bewildered with uncertainty. At last, my landlady, after many hints of the necessity of a new lover, took the opportunity of my absence to searchv my boxes, and missing some of my apparel, seized the remainder for rent, and led me to the door.

To remonstrate against legal cruelty, was vain; to supplicate obdurate brutality, was hopeless. I went away I knew not whither,w and wandered about without any settled purpose, unacquainted with the usual expedients of misery, unqualified for laboriousx offices, afraid to meet an eye that hady seen me before, and hopeless of relief from those who were strangers to my former condition. Nightz came on in the midst of my distraction, and I still continued to wander till the menaces of the watch obliged me to shelter myself in a covered passage.

Next day, I procured a lodging in the backward garret of a mean house, and employed my landlady to enquire for a service. My applications were generally rejected for want of a character. At length, I was received at a draper's;a but when it was known to my mistress that I had only one gown, and that of silk, she was of opinion, that I looked like a thief, and without warning, hurried me away. I then tried to support myself by my needle, and by my landlady's recommendation, obtained a little work from a shop, and for three weeks lived without repining; but when my punctuality had gained me so much reputation, that I was trusted to make up a head of some value, one of my fellow-lodgers stole the lace, and I was obliged to fly from a prosecution.

Thus driven again into the streets, I lived upon the least that could support me, and at night accommodated myself under pent-housesb as well as I could. At length I became absolutely pennyless; and having strolled all day without sustenance, was at the close of evening accosted by an elderly man, with an invitation to a tavern. I refused him with hesitation; he seized me by the hand, and drew me into a neighbouring house, where when he saw my face pale with hunger, and my eyes swelling with tears, he spurned me from him,c and bad me cant and whine in some other place; he for his partd would take care of his pockets.

I still continued to stand in the way, having scarcely strength to walk farther, when another soon addressed me in the same manner. When he saw the same tokens of calamity, he considered that I might be obtained at a cheap rate, and therefore quickly made overtures, which I had no longer firmness to reject. By this man I was maintained four months in penurious wickedness, and then abandoned to my former condition, from which I was delivered by another keeper.

In this abject state I have now passed four years, the drudge of extortion and the sport of drunkenness; sometimes the property of one man, and sometimes the common prey of accidental lewdness; at one time tricked up for sale by the mistress of a brothel, at anothere begging in the streets to be relieved from hunger by wickedness; without any hope in the day but of finding some whom folly or excess may expose to my allurements, and without any reflections at night, but such asf guilt and terror impress upon me.

If those who pass their days in plenty and security, could visit for an hour the dismal receptacles to which the prostitute retires from her nocturnal excursions, and see the wretches that lie crowded together, mad with intemperance, ghastly with famine, nauseous with filth, and noisome with disease; it would not be easy for any degree of abhorrence to harden them against compassion, or to repress the desire which they must immediately feel to rescue such numbers of human beings from a state so dreadful.

It is said that in France they annually evacuate their streets, and ship their prostitutes and vagabonds to their colonies. If the women that infest this city had the same opportunity of escaping from their miseries, I believe very little force would be necessary; for who among them can dread any change? Many of usg indeed are wholly unqualified for any but the most servile employments, and those perhaps would require the care of a magistrate to hinder them from following the same practices in another country; but others are only precluded by infamy from reformation, and would gladly be delivered on any terms from the necessity of guilt and the tyrannyh of chance. No place but a populous city can afford opportunities for open prostitution, and where the eye of justice can attend to individuals, those who cannot be made good may be restrained from mischief. For my part I should exult at the privilege of banishment, and think myself happy in any region that should restore me once again to honesty and peace.

Many observations havee concurred to establish this opinion, and it is not likely soon tof become obsolete, for want of new occasions to revive it. The greater part of mankind are corrupt in every condition, and differg in high and in low stations, only as they have more or fewer opportunities of gratifying their desires, or as they are more or less restrained by human censures. Many vitiate their principles in the acquisition of riches; and who can wonder that what is gained by fraud and extortion is enjoyed with tyranny and excess?

Yet I am willing to believe that the depravation of the mind by external advantages, though certainly not uncommon, yet approaches not so nearly to universality, as some have asserted in the bitterness of resentment, orh heat of declamation.

Whoever rises above those who once pleased themselves with equality, will have many malevolent gazers at his eminence. To gain sooner than others that which all pursue with the same ardour, and to which all imagine themselvesi entitled, will for everj be a crime. When those who started with us in the race of life, leave us so far behind, that we have little hope to overtake them, we revenge our disappointment by remarks on the arts of supplantation by which they gained the advantage, or on the folly andk arrogance with which they possess it. Of them, whose rise we could not hinder, we solace ourselves by prognosticating the fall.

It is impossible for human purity not to betray to an eye thus sharpened by malignity, some stainsl which lay concealed and unregarded while nonem thought it theirn interest to discover them; nor can the most circumspect attention or steady rectitude, escape blame from censors, who have no inclination to approve. Riches therefore perhaps do not so often produce crimes as incite accusers.

Theo common charge against those who rise above their original condition, is that of pride. It is certain, that success naturally confirms us in a favourable opinion of our own abilities. Scarce any man is willing to allot to accident,p friendship, andq a thousand causes which concur in every event without human contrivance or interposition, the part which they may justly claim in his advancement. We rate ourselves by our fortune rather than our virtues, andr exorbitant claims are quickly produced by imaginary merit. But captiousness and jealousy are likewise easily offended, and to him who studiously looks for an affront, every mode of behaviour will supply it; freedom will be rudeness, and reserve sullenness; mirth will be negligence, and seriousness formality: when he is received with ceremony,s distance and respect are inculcated;t if he is treated with familiarity, he concludesu himself insulted byv condescensions.

It must however be confessed that as all sudden changes are dangerous, a quick transition from poverty to abundance, canw seldom be made with safety. He that has long lived within sight of pleasures, which he could not reach, will need more than common moderation, not to lose his reason in unbounded riot, when they are first put into his power.

Every possession is endeared by novelty; every gratification is exaggerated by desire. It is difficult not to estimate what is lately gained above its real value; it is impossible not to annex greater happiness to that condition from which we are unwillingly excluded, than nature has qualified us to obtain. For this reason, the remote inheritor of an unexpected fortune, may be generally distinguished from those who are enriched in the common course of lineal descent, by his greater haste to enjoy his wealth, by the finery of his dress,x the pomp of his equipage, the splendor of his furniture, and the luxury of his table.

A thousand thingsy which familiarity discovers to be of littlez value, have power for a time to seize the imagination. Aa Virginian king,b when the Europeans had fixed a lock on his door, was so delighted to find his subjects admitted or excludedc with such facility, that it was from morning to evening his whole employment to turn the key.1 We among whom locks and keys have been longerd in use, are inclined to laugh at this American amusement; yet I doubt whether this paper will have a single reader thate may not apply the story to himself, and recollect some hours of his life in which he has been equally overpowered by the transitory charms of triflingf novelty.

Some indulgenceg ish due to him whom a happy gale of fortune has suddenly transported into new regions, where unaccustomed lustre dazzles his eyes, and untasted delicacies soliciti his appetite. Let him not be considered as lost in hopeless degeneracy, though he for a while forgets the regard due to others, to indulge the contemplation of himself, and in the extravagance of his first raptures expects that his eye should regulate the motions of all that approach him, and his opinion be received as decisive and oraculous. His intoxication will give way to time; the madness of joy will fume imperceptibly away; the sense of hisj insufficiency will soon return; he will remember, that the co-operation of others is necessary to his happiness, and learn to conciliate their regard by reciprocal beneficence.

There is, at least, one consideration which ought to alleviate our censures of the powerful and rich. To imaginek them chargeable with all the guilt andl folly of their own actions, is to be verym little acquainted with the world.

He that can do much good or harm,p will not find many whomq ambition or cowardice will suffer to be sincere.r While we live upon the level with the rest of mankind, we ares reminded of our duty by the admonitions oft friends, andu reproaches ofv enemies; but men who stand in the highest ranks of society, seldom hear of their faults;w if by any accident an opprobrious clamour reachesx their ears, flattery is always at hand to pour in her opiates, to quiety conviction and obtund remorse.

Favour is seldomz gained buta by conformity in vice. Virtue can stand without assistance, and considers herself as very little obliged by countenance and approbation; but vice, spiritless and timorous,b seeks the shelter of crouds, andc support of confederacy. The sycophant therefore, neglectsd the good qualities of his patron, ande employs all his art on his weaknesses and follies, regales his reigning vanity, or stimulates hisf prevalent desires.g

Virtue is sufficiently difficult withh any circumstances, but the difficulty is encreased when reproof and advice are frighted away. In common life, reason and conscience have only the appetites and passions to encounter, but in higher stations, they must oppose artifice and adulation. He therefore, that yields to such temptations, cannot give those who look upon his miscarriage much reason for exultation, sincei few can justlyj presume that from the same snare theyk should have been able to escape.

Ita is easy to guess the trade of an artizan by his knees, his fingers, or his shoulders; andb there are few among men of the more liberal professions, whose minds do not carry the brand of their calling, orc whose conversation does not quickly discover to what class of the community they belong.

These peculiarities have been of great use, in the general hostility which every part of mankind exercises against the rest,1 to furnish insults and sarcasms. Every art has its dialect, uncouth and ungrateful to all whom custom has not reconciled to its sound, and which therefore becomes ridiculous by a slight misapplication, or unnecessary repetition.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is observed in the panegyrick on Fabricius the mechanist,r that, though forced by publick employments into mingled conversation, he never lost the modesty and seriousness of the convent, nor drew ridicule upon himself by an affected imitation of fashionable life.2 To the same praise every man devoted to learning ought to aspire. If he attempts the softer arts of pleasing, and endeavours to learn the graceful bow and the familiar embrace, the insinuating accent and the general smile, he will lose the respect due to the character of learning, without arriving at the envied honour of doing nothings with elegance and facility.

Theophrastus was discovered not to be a native of Athens, by so strict an adherence to the Attict dialect as shewed that he had learned it not by custom but by rule.3 A man not early formed to habitual elegance, betrays in like manner the defectsu of his education, by an unnecessary anxiety of behaviour.v It is [as] possible to become pedantick by fear of pedantry, as to be troublesome by ill-timed civility.w There is no kind of impertinence more justly censurable, than his who is always labouring to levelx thoughts to intellects higher than his own; who apologizes for every word which his own narrowness of converse inclines him to think unusual; keeps the exuberance of his faculties under visible restraint; is solicitous to anticipate enquiries by needless explanations; and endeavours to shade his own abilities, lest weak eyes should be dazzled with their lustre.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The power had been possessed in vain, if it had never been exerted; and it was not my custom to let any arts of jocularity remain unemployed. My impatience of applause brought me always early to the place of entertainment; and I seldom failed to lay a scheme with the small knot that first gathered round me, by which some of those whom we expected might be made subservient to our sport. Every man has some favourite topick of conversation, on which, by a feigned seriousness of attention, he may1 be drawn to expatiate without end. Every man has some habitual contortion of body, orm established mode of expression, which never fails to raise mirth if it be pointed out to notice. By premonitions of these particularities I secured our pleasantry. Our companion entered with his usual gaiety, and began to partake of our noisy chearfulness, when the conversation was imperceptibly diverted to a subject which pressed upon his tender part, and extorted the expected shrug, the customary exclamation, or the predicted remark. A general clamour of joy then burst from all that were admitted to the stratagem. Our mirth was often encreased by the triumph of him that occasioned it; for as we do not hastily form conclusions against ourselves, seldom any one suspected, that he had exhilarated us otherwise than by his wit.

You will hear I believe with very little surprize, that by this conduct I had in a shortn time united mankind against me, and that every tongue was diligent in prevention or revenge. I soon perceived myself regarded with malevolence or distrust, but wondered what had been discovered in me either terrible or hateful. I had invaded no man,'s property; I had rivalled no man's claims; nor had ever engaged in any of those attempts which provoke the jealousy of ambition, or the rage of faction. I had lived but to laugh, and make others laugh; and believed thato I was loved by all who caressed, and favoured by all who applauded me. I never imagined, that he who, in the mirth of a nocturnal revel, concurred in ridiculing his friend, would consider in a cooler hour, that the same trick might be playedp against himself; or that, even where there is noq sense of danger, the natural pride of human nature rises against him, who by general censuresr lays claim to general superiority.

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

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

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

But, perhaps, the excellence of aphorisms consistsd not so much in the expression of some rare or abstruse sentiment, as in the comprehension of some obvious and useful truth in a few words. We frequently fall into error and folly, not because the true principles of action are not known, but because, for a time, they are not remembered;2 and he may therefore be justly numbered among the benefactors of mankind, who contracts the great rules of life into short sentences, thate may be easily impressed on the memory, and taught by frequent recollection to recur habitually to the mind.f

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

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

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

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

Virtue presentedi singly to the imagination or the reason, is so well recommended by its own graces, and so strongly supported by arguments, that a good man wonders how any can be bad; and theyj who are yetk ignorant of the force of passion and interest, who neverl observed the arts of seduction, the contagion of example, the gradual descent from one crime to another, or the insensible depravation of the principles by loose conversation, naturally expect to find integrity in every bosom, and veracity on every tongue.

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

I have remarked, in a former paper, that credulity is the common failing of unexperienced virtue;3 and that he who is spontaneously suspicious, may be justly charged with radical corruption; for ifn he has not known the prevalence of dishonesty by information, nor had time to observe it with his own eyes, whence can he take his measures of judgment but from himself?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As it very seldom happens that the rage of extemporary criticism inflictsn fatal or lasting wounds, I know not that the laws of benevolence entitle this distress to much sympathy. The diversion of baiting an author has the sanction of all ages and nations, and is more lawful than the sport of teizing other animals, because for the most part he comes voluntarily to the stake, furnished, as he imagines,o by the patron powers of literature, with resistless weapons, and impenetrable armour, with the mail of the boar of Erymanth, and the paws of the lion of Nemea.1

But the works of genius are sometimes producedp by other motives than vanity; and he whom necessity or duty enforcesq to write, is not always so well satisfied with himself, as not to be discouraged by censorious impudence. It may therefore be necessaryr to consider hows they whomt publicationu lays open to the insults of such as theirv obscurity securesw against reprisals,x may extricate themselves from unexpected encounters.

Vida, a man of considerable skill in the politicks of literature, directs his pupil wholly to abandon his defence, and even when he can irrefragably refute all objections, to suffer tamely the exultations of his antagonist.2

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

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

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

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

Others are furnished by criticism with a telescope. They see with great clearness whatever is too remote to be discovered by the rest of mankind, but are totally blind to all that lies immediately before them. They discover in every passage some secret meaning, some remote allusion, some artful allegory, or some occult imitation which no other reader ever suspected;3 but they have no perception of the cogency of arguments, the force of pathetick sentiments,i the various colours of diction, or the flowery embellishments of fancy; of all that engages the attention of others, they are totally insensible, while they pry intoj worlds of conjecture, and amuse themselves with phantoms in the clouds.

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

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

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

Thus I lived for some years with complete acquiescence in my own plan of conduct, rising early to read, and dividing the latter part of the day between oeconomy, exercise and reflection. But in time, I began to find my mind contracted and stiffened by solitude. My ease and elegance were sensibly impaired; I was no longer able to accommodate myself with readiness to the accidental current of conversation, my notions grew particular and paradoxical, and my phraseology formal and unfashionable; I spoke, on common occasions, the language of books. My quickness of apprehension, and celerity of reply, had entirely deserted me: When I delivered my opinion, or detailed my knowledge, I was bewildered by an unseasonable interrogatory, disconcerted by any slight opposition,e and overwhelmed, and lost in dejection, when the smallest advantage was gained against me in dispute.2 I became decisive and dogmatical, impatient of contradiction, perpetually jealous of my character, insolent to such as acknowledged my superiority, and sullen and malignant to all who refused to receive my dictates.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am,Sir, &c.VIVACULUS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The reigning error of mankind is, that we are not content with the conditions on which the goods of life are granted.

No man is insensible of the value of knowledge, the advantages of health, or the convenience of plenty, but every day shews us those on whom theiro conviction is without effect.

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

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

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

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

Many complaints are made of the misery of life; and indeed it must be confessed that we are subject to calamitiesx by which the good and bad, the diligent and slothful, the vigilant and heedless, are equally afflicted. But surely, though some indulgence may be allowed to groans extorted by inevitable misery, noy man has a right to repine at evils which, against warning, against experience, he deliberately and leisurely brings upon his own head; or to consider himself as debarred from happiness by such obstacles as resolution may break, or dexterity may put aside.

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

Every man, says Tully, has two characters; one which he partakes with all mankind, and by which he is distinguished from brute animals;a another which discriminates him from the rest of his own species, and impresses on him a manner and temper peculiar to himself; this particular character, if it be not repugnant to the laws of general humanity, it is always hisb business to cultivate and preserve.1

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

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

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

It has, I think, been sometimes urged in favour of affectation, that it is only a mistake of the means to a good end, and that the intention with which it is practised is always to please. Ifm all attempts to innovate the constitutional or habitual character have reallyn proceeded from public spirit ando love of others, the world has hitherto been sufficiently ungrateful, since no return butp scorn has yet been made to the most difficult of all enterprizes, a contest with nature; nor has any pity been shown to the fatigues of labour which never succeeded, and the uneasiness of disguise by which nothing was concealed.

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

Affectation naturally counterfeits those excellencies which are placed at the greatest distance from possibility of attainment. We are conscious of our own defects, and eagerly endeavour to supply them by artificial excellence;u nor would such effortsv be wholly without excuse, were theyw not often excitedx by ornamental trifles,y which he, that thus anxiously struggles for the reputation of possessing them, would not have been knownz to want, had not his industry quickened observation.

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

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

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

Gelasimus did not want penetration to discover that no charm was more generally irresistible than that of easy facetiousness and flowing hilarity. He saw that diversion was more frequently welcome than improvement, that authority and seriousness were rather feared than loved, and thatm the grave scholar was a kind of imperious ally, hastilyn dismissed when his assistance was no longer necessary. Heo came to a sudden resolution of throwing off those cumbrous ornaments of learning, whichp hindered his reception, andq commenced a man of wit and jocularity. Utterly unacquainted with every topic of merriment, ignorant of the modes and follies, the vices and virtues of mankind, and unfurnished with any ideas but such as Pappus3 and Archimedes had given him, he began to silence all enquiries with a jest instead of a solution, extended his face with a grin, which he mistook for a smile, and in the place of ar scientifick discourse, retailed in a new language formed between the college and the tavern, the intelligence of the news-paper.s

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

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

These demands of prejudice and folly can never be satisfied;a and therefore, many of the imputations which learning suffers from disappointed ignorance, are without reproach. Butb there are some failures to which men of study are peculiarly exposed. Every condition has its disadvantages. The circle of knowledge is too wide for the most active and diligent intellect, and while science is persued,c other accomplishments ared neglected; as a small garrison must leave one part of an extensive fortress naked, when an alarm calls them to another.

The learned, however, might generally support their dignity with more success, if they suffered not themselves to be mislede by the desire of superfluous attainments.f Raphael, in return to Adam's enquiries into the courses of the stars and the revolutions of heaven, counsels him to withdraw his mind from idle speculations, andg employ his faculties upon nearer and more interesting objects, the survey of his own life, the subjection of his passions, the knowledge ofh duties which must daily be performed, and the detection ofi dangers which must daily be incurred.2

This angelick counsel every man of letters should always have before him. He that devotes himselfj to retiredk study, naturally sinks from omission to forgetfulnessl of social duties; he must be thereforem sometimes awakened, and recalledn to the general condition of mankind.

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

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

No man can imagine the course of his own life, or the conduct of the world around himw unworthy his attention; yet among the sons of learning manyx seem to have thought of every thing rather than of themselves, and to have observed every thing but what passesy before their eyes: Many who toilz thro' the intricacy of complicated systems,a are insuperably embarrassed with the least perplexity in common affairs; many who compare the actions, and ascertainb the characters of ancient heroes, let their ownc days glide away without examination, and suffer vitious habits to encroach upon their minds without resistance or detection.

The most frequent reproachd of the scholastick race is the want of fortitude,e not martial but philosophick. Menf bred in shades and silence, taught to immure themselves at sunset, and accustomed to no other weapon than syllogisms,g may be allowed to feel terror at personal danger, and to be disconcerted by tumult and alarm.h But why shouldi he whose life is spent in contemplation, and whose business is only to discover truth, be unablej to rectify the fallacies of imagination, ork contend successfully against prejudice and passion? To what end has he read and meditated, if he gives up his understanding to false appearances, and suffers himself to be enslaved by fear of evils to which only folly or vanity can expose him, or elated by advantagesl to which, as they are equally conferred upon the good and bad, no real dignity is annexed.

Such, however, is the state of the world, that the most obsequious of the slaves of pride, the most rapturous of the gazers upon wealth, the most officious of the whisperers of greatness, arem collected fromn seminarieso appropriated to the study of wisdom andp of virtue, whereq it was intended, that appetite should learn to be content with little, and that hope should aspire onlyr to honours which no human power can give or take away.

The student, when he comes forth into the world, instead of congratulating himself upon his exemption from the errors of those whose opinions have been formed by accident or custom, and who live without any certain principles of conduct,s is commonly in hastet to mingleu with the multitude, and shew his sprightliness and ductility by an expeditious compliance with fashionsv or vices. The first smile of a man, whosew fortune gives him power to reward his dependents, commonly enchants him beyond resistance; the glare of equipage, the sweets of luxury, the liberality of general promises, the softness of habitual affability,x fill his imagination; and he soon ceases to have any other wish than to be well received, or any measure of right and wrong buty the opinion of his patron.

A man flattered and obeyed,z learns to exact grosser adulation, and enjoin lower submission. Neither our virtues nor vices are all our own. Ifa there were no cowardice, there would be little insolence; pride cannot riseb to any great degree, but by the concurrence of blandishment or the sufferance of tameness. The wretch whoc would shrink and crouch before oned thate should dart his eyesf upon him with the spirit of natural equality,g becomes capricious and tyrannical when he sees himself approached with a downcast look, and hears the soft address of awe and servility. Toh those who are willing to purchase favouri by cringes and compliance, is to be imputed the haughtinessj that leaves nothing to be hoped by firmness and integrity.

If, instead of wandering after the meteors of philosophy which fill the world with splendour for a while, and then sink and are forgotten, the candidates of learning fixedk their eyes upon the permanentl lustre of moral and religious truth,m they would find a more certain direction ton happiness. A little plausibilityo of discourse, andp acquaintance with unnecessary speculations, is dearly purchased when it excludes those instructions which fortify the heart with resolution, and exalt the spirit to independence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sometimes presumed to mention marriage; but was always answered with a slap, a hoot,h and a flounce. At last he began to press her closer, and thought himself more favourably received; but going one morning, with a resolution to trifle no longer, he found her gone to church with a young journeyman from thei neighbouring shop, ofj whom she had become enamoured atk her window.

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

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

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

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

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

Interestq requires some qualities not universally bestowed.

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

Interest is seldom pursued but at some hazard. He that hopes to gain much, has commonly something to lose, and when heu ventures to attack superiority, if he fails to conquer, is irrecoverably crushed. But envy may act withoutv expence, orw danger. To spread suspicion, to invent calumnies, to propagate scandal, requires neither labour nor courage. It is easy for the author of a lye, however malignant, to escape detection, and infamy needs very little industry to assistx its circulation.

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

It is impossible to mention a name which any advantageous distinction has made eminent, but some latent animosity will burst out. The wealthy trader, however he may abstract himself from publick affairs, will never want those whoz hint, with Shylock,2 that ships are but boards.a The beauty, adorned only with the unambitious graces of innocence and modesty, provokes,b whenever she appears, a thousand murmurs of detraction.c The genius, even when he endeavours only to entertaind or instruct,e yet suffers persecution from innumerable criticks, whose acrimony is excitedf merely by the pain of seeing others pleased, and of hearing applauses which another enjoys.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The most frequent difficulty, by which the authors of these petty compositions are distressed, arises from the perpetual demand of novelty and change. The compiler of a system of science lays his invention at rest, and employs only his judgment, the facultye exerted withf least fatigue.1 Even the relator of feigned adventures, when once the principal characters are established, and the great events regularly connected, finds incidents and episodes crouding upon his mind; every changeg opens new views, and the latter part of the story grows without labour out of the former. But he that attempts to entertain his reader with unconnected pieces, finds the irksomeness of his task rather encreased than lessened by everyh production. Thei day calls afresh upon him for a new topick, and he is again obliged to choose, without any principle to regulate his choice.

It is indeed true, that there is seldom any necessity of looking far, or enquiring long for a proper subject. Every diversity of art or nature, every public blessing or calamity, every domestick pain or gratification, every sally of caprice,j blunder of absurdity, ork stratagem of affectation may supply matter to him whose only rule is to avoid uniformity. But it often happens, thatl the judgment is distracted with boundless multiplicity,m the imagination ranges from one design to another,n and the hours pass imperceptibly awayo tillp the composition can be no longer delayed, and necessity enforces the use of those thoughts which then happen to be at hand.2 Theq mind rejoicingr at deliverance on any terms from perplexity and suspense, applies herself vigorously to the work before her, collects embellishments and illustrations, and sometimes finishes with great elegance and happiness what in a state of ease and leisure she never hads begun.

It is nott commonly observed, how much, even ofu actionsv considered as particularly subject to choice,w is to be attributed to accident, orx some cause out of our own power, by whatever name it be distinguished. To close tedious deliberations with hasty resolves, and after long consultations with reason toy refer the question to caprice, is by no means peculiar to the essayist. Let him that peruses this paper, review the series of his life, and enquire howz he was placed in his present condition. He will find that of the good or ill which he has experienced, aa great part cameb unexpected, without any visible gradations of approach; that every event has been influenced byc causes actingd without his intervention;e and that whenever he pretended tof the prerogative of foresight, he wasg mortified with new conviction of the shortness of his views.

The busy, the ambitious, the inconstant, and the adventurous, may be said to throw themselves by design into the arms of fortune, and voluntarily to quit the power of governing themselves;h they engage in a course of life in which littlei can be ascertained by previous measures; norj is it any wonder that their time is past between elation and despondency,k hope and disappointment.

Some there are whol appear to walk the road of life with more circumspection, and make no step till they think themselves secure from the hazard of a precipice; whenm neither pleasure nor profit can tempt themn from theo beaten path; who refuse to climb lest they should fall, or to run lest they should stumble, and move slowly forward withoutp any compliance with those passions by which the heady and vehement are seduced and betrayed.

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

Thisw questionx has long exercisedy the schools of philosophy, butz remains yet undecided; and what hope is there that a young man, unacquainted with the arguments on either side, should determine his own destiny otherwise than by chance?

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

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

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

In this state of universal uncertainty, where a thousand dangers hover about us, and nonex can tell whether the good that he persues is not evil in disguise, or whether the next step will lead him to safety or destruction, nothing can afford any rationaly tranquillity,z but the conviction that, however we amuse ourselves with unideal sounds, nothing in reality is governed by chance, but that the universe is under the perpetual superintendence of him who created it; that our being is in the hands of omnipotent goodness, by whom what appears casual to us is directed for ends ultimately kind and merciful; and that nothing cana finally hurt him who debars not himself from the divine favour.

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

But certainly no precept could better become him, at whose birth “peace” was proclaimed “to the earth.” For, what wouldi so soon destroy all the order of society, and deform life with violence and ravage, as a permission to every onej to judge his own cause, and to apportion his own recompence for imagined injuries?k It is difficult for a man of the strictest justice not to favour himself too much, in the calmest moments of solitary meditation.l Every one wishes for the distinctionsm for which thousands are wishing at the same time, in their own opinion, with better claims. He that, when his reason operates in its full force, can thus, by the mere prevalence of self-love, prefer himself to his fellow-beings,n is very unlikelyo to judge equitably when his passions are agitated by a sense of wrong, and his attention wholly engrossed by pain, interest, or danger.p Whoever arrogatesq to himself the right of vengeance, shows how little he is qualified to decider his own claims,s since he certainly demands what he would think unfit to be granted to another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing can be great which is not right. Nothing which reason condemns can be suitable to the dignity of the human mind. Tos be driven by external motives from the patht which our own heart approves, to give way to any thing but conviction, to suffer the opinion of others to ruleu our choice, orv overpower our resolves, is to submit tamely to the lowest and most ignominious slavery, and to resign the right of directing our own lives.1

The utmost excellence at which humanity can arrive, is a constant and determinate pursuit of virtue, without regard to present dangers or advantage; a continual reference of every action to the divine will; an habitual appeal to everlasting justice; and an unvaried elevation of the intellectual eye to the reward which perseverance only can obtain. But that pride which many whow presume to boast ofx generous sentiments, allow to regulate their measures, has nothingy nobler in view than thez approbation of men, of beings whose superiority we are under no obligation to acknowledge, and who, when we have courted them with the utmost assiduity, can confer no valuable ora permanent reward; of beings who ignorantly judge of what they do not understand, or partially determine what they never have examined; and whose sentence is therefore of no weight till it has received the ratification of our own conscience.

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

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

One of the great arts of escapingb superfluous uneasiness, is to free our minds from the habit of comparing our condition with that of others on whom the blessings of life are more bountifully bestowed, or with imaginary states of delight and security, perhaps unattainable by mortals.2 Few are placed in a situation so gloomy and distressful, as not to see every day beings yet more forlorn and miserable, from whom they may learn to rejoice in their own lot.

No inconvenience isc less superable by art or diligence than the inclemency of climates, and therefore, noned affords more proper exercise for this philosophical abstraction. A native of England,e pinched with the frosts of December, may lessen his affection for his own country, by suffering his imagination to wander in the vales of Asia, and sport among woods that are always green, and streams that always murmur; but if he turns his thoughts towards the polar regions, and considers the nations to whom a great portionf of the year is darkness, and who are condemned to pass weeks and months amidst mountains of snow, he will soon recoverg his tranquility, and while he stirs his fire, or throws his cloak about him, reflect how much he owes to providence, that he is not placed in Greenland or Siberia.h

The barrenness of the earth, and the severity of the skiesi in these dreary countries, are such asj might bek expected to confine the mind wholly to the contemplation of necessity and distress, sol that the care of escaping death from cold and hunger should leave no room for those passions which, in lands of plenty, influence conduct,m or diversifyn characters;o the summer should be spent onlyp in providing for the winter, and the winter in longing for the summer.

Yet learned curiosity is known to haveq found its way into theser abodes of poverty and gloom: Lapland and Iceland have their historians, their criticks, and their poets; and love, that extendss his dominion wherever humanity can be found,t perhaps exerts the same power in the Greenlander's hut as in the palaces of eastern monarchs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The large boats in which the Greenlanders transport their families, are always rowed by women, for a man will notj debase himself by work, which requires neither skill nor courage. Anningait was therefore exposed by idleness to the ravages of passion. He went thrice to the stern of the boat, with an intent to leap into the water, and swim back to his mistress; but recollecting the misery which they must endure in the winter, without oil for the lamp, or skins for the bed, he resolved to employ the weeks of absence in provision for a night of plenty and felicity. He thenk composed his emotions as he could, and expressed in wild numbers and uncouth images, his hopes, his sorrows, and his fears. “O life,” says he, “frail and uncertain! where shall wretched man find thy resemblance but in ice floating on the ocean? It towers on high, it sparkles from afar,l while the storms drive and the waters beat it, the sun melts it above, and the rocks shatter it below. What art thou, deceitfulm pleasure, but a sudden blaze streaming from the north, which plays a moment on the eye, mocks the traveller with the hopes of light, and then vanishes forever? What, love, art thoun but a whirlpool, which we approach without knowledge of our danger, drawno on by imperceptible degrees, till we have lost all power of resistance and escape? Till I fixed my eyes on the graces of Ajut, while I had yet notp called her to the banquet, I was careless as the sleeping morse, I was merry as the singers in the stars. Why, Ajut, did I gaze upon thy graces? why, my fair, did I call thee to the banquet? Yet, be faithful, my love,q remember Anningait, and meet my return with the smile of virginity. I will chase the deer, I will subdue the whale, resistless as the frost of darkness, and unwearied as the summerr sun. In a few weeks, I shall return prosperous and wealthy; then shall the roefish and the porpoise feast thy kindred; the fox and hare shall cover thy couch; the tough hide of the seal shall shelter thee from cold; and the fat of the whale illuminate thy dwelling.”

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

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

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

This prognostication she was ordered to keep secret, andx Norngsuk depending upon his artifice, renewed his addresses with greater confidence; but finding his suity still unsuccessful, applied himself to her parents with gifts and promises.

The wealth of Greenland is too powerful for the virtue of a Greenlander; they forgot the merit and the presents of Anningait, and decreed Ajut to the embracez of Norngsuk. She entreated; she remonstrated; she wept, and raved; but finding riches irresistible,a fled away into the uplands, and lived in a cave upon suchb berries as she could gather, andc thed birds or hares which she had the fortune to ensnare, taking care at an hour when she was not likely to be found, to view the sea every day, that her lover might not miss her at his return.

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

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

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

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