T
No. 138. Saturday, 2 March 1754.
Quid purè tranquillet? honos, an dulce lucellum,
An secretum iter et fallentis semita vitæ?
HOR.1
Whether the tranquil mind and pure,
Honours or wealth our bliss insure;
Or down through life unknown to stray,
Where lonely leads the silent way.
FRANCIS.
Having considered the importance of authors to the welfare of the public, I am led by a natural train of thought, to reflect on their condition with regard to themselves; and to enquire, what degree of happiness or vexation is annexed to the difficult and laborious employment, of providing instruction or entertainment for mankind.
In estimating the pain or pleasure of any particular state, every man, indeed, draws his decisions from his own breast, and cannot with certainty determine, whether other minds are affected by the same causes in the same manner. Yet by this criterion we must be content to judge, because no other can be obtained; and, indeed, we have no reason to think it very fallacious, for excepting here and there an anomalous mind, which either does not feel like others, or dissembles its sensibility, we find men unanimously concur in attributing happiness or misery to particular conditions, as they agree in acknowledging the cold of winter and the heat of autumn.
If we apply to authors themselves for an account of their state, it will appear very little to deserve envy; for they have in all ages been addicted to complaint. The neglect of learning, the ingratitude of the present age, and the absurd preference by which ignorance and dulness often obtain favour and rewards, have been from age to age topics of invective; and few have left their names to posterity, without some appeal to future candour from the perverseness and malice of their own times.
I have, nevertheless, been often inclined to doubt, whether authors, however querulous, are in reality more miserable than their fellow mortals. The present life is to all a state of infelicity; every man, like an author, believes himself to merit more than he obtains, and solaces the present with the prospect of the future: others, indeed, suffer those disappointments in silence, of which the writer complains, to shew how well he has learned the art of lamentation.
There is at least one gleam of felicity, of which few writers have missed the enjoyment: he whose hopes have so far overpowered his fears, as that he has resolved to stand forth a candidate for fame, seldom fails to amuse himself, before his appearance, with pleasing scenes of affluence or honour; while his fortune is yet under the regulation of fancy, he easily models it to his wish, suffers no thoughts of critics or rivals to intrude upon his mind, but counts over the bounties of patronage or listens to the voice of praise.
Some there are, that talk very luxuriously of the second period of an author’s happiness, and tell of the tumultuous raptures of invention, when the mind riots in imagery, and the choice stands suspended between different sentiments.
These pleasures, I believe, may sometimes be indulged to those, who come to a subject of disquisition with minds full of ideas, and with fancies so vigorous, as easily to excite, select, and arrange them. To write, is, indeed, no unpleasing employment, when one sentiment readily produces another, and both ideas and expressions present themselves at the first summons: but such happiness, the greatest genius does not always obtain; and common writers know it only to such a degree, as to credit its possibility. Composition is, for the most part, an effort of slow diligence and steady perseverance, to which the mind is dragged by necessity or resolution, and from which the attention is every moment starting to more delightful amusements.
It frequently happens, that a design which, when considered at a distance, gave flattering hopes of facility, mocks us in the execution with unexpected difficulties; the mind which, while it considered it in the gross, imagined itself amply furnished with materials, finds sometimes an unexpected barrenness and vacuity, and wonders whither all those ideas are vanished, which a little before seemed struggling for emission.
Sometimes many thoughts present themselves; but so confused and unconnected, that they are not without difficulty reduced to method, or concatenated in a regular and dependent series: the mind falls at once into a labyrinth, of which neither the beginning nor end can be discovered, and toils and struggles without progress or extrication.
It is asserted by HORACE,2 that “if matter be once got together, words will be found with very little difficulty;” a position which, though sufficiently plausible to be inserted in poetical precepts, is by no means strictly and philosophically true. If words were naturally and necessarily consequential to sentiments, it would always follow, that he who has most knowledge must have most eloquence, and that every man would clearly express what he fully understood: yet we find, that to think, and to discourse, are often the qualities of different persons; and many books might surely be produced, where just and noble sentiments are degraded and obscured by unsuitable diction.
Words, therefore, as well as things, claim the care of an author. Indeed, of many authors, and those not useless or contemptible, words are almost the only care: many make it their study, not so much to strike out new sentiments, as to recommend those which are already known to more favourable notice by fairer decorations; but every man, whether he copies or invents, whether he delivers his own thoughts or those of another, has often found himself deficient in the power of expression, big with ideas which he could not utter, obliged to ransack his memory for terms adequate to his conceptions, and at last unable to impress upon his reader the image existing in his own mind.
It is one of the common distresses of a writer, to be within a word of a happy period, to want only a single epithet to give amplification its full force, to require only a correspondent term in order to finish a paragraph with elegance and make one of its members answer to the other: but these deficiencies cannot always be supplied; and after long study and vexation, the passage is turned anew, and the web unwoven that was so nearly finished.
But when thoughts and words are collected and adjusted, and the whole composition at last concluded, it seldom gratifies the author, when he comes coolly and deliberately to review it, with the hopes which had been excited in the fury of the performance: novelty always captivates the mind; as our thoughts rise fresh upon us, we readily believe them just and original, which, when the pleasure of production is over, we find to be mean and common, or borrowed from the works of others, and supplied by memory rather than invention.
But though it should happen, that the writer finds no such faults in his performance, he is still to remember, that he looks upon it with partial eyes; and when he considers, how much men who could judge of others with great exactness, have often failed in judging of themselves, he will be afraid of deciding too hastily in his own favour, or of allowing himself to contemplate with too much complacence, treasure that has not yet been brought to the test, nor passed the only trial that can stamp its value.
From the public, and only from the public, is he to await a confirmation of his claim, and a final justification of self esteem; but the public is not easily persuaded to favour an author. If mankind were left to judge for themselves, it is reasonable to imagine, that of such writings, at least, as describe the movements of the human passions, and of which every man carries the arche-type within him, a just opinion would be formed; but whoever has remarked the fate of books, must have found it governed by other causes, than general consent arising from general conviction. If a new performance happens not to fall into the hands of some, who have courage to tell, and authority to propagate their opinion, it often remains long in obscurity, and perhaps perishes unknown and unexamined. A few, a very few, commonly constitute the taste of the time; the judgment which they have once pronounced, some are too lazy to discuss, and some too timorous to contradict: it may, however, be I think observed, that their power is greater to depress than exalt, as mankind are more credulous of censure than of praise.
This pe
rversion of the public judgment, is not to be rashly numbered amongst the miseries of an author; since it commonly serves, after miscarriage, to reconcile him to himself. Because the world has sometimes passed an unjust sentence, he readily concludes the sentence unjust by which his performance is condemned; because some have been exalted above their merits by partiality, he is sure to ascribe the success of a rival, not to the merit of his work, but the zeal of his patrons. Upon the whole, as the author seems to share all the common miseries of life, he appears to partake likewise of its lenitives and abatements.
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THE IDLER (1758–60)
No. 1. Saturday, 15 April 1758.
Vacui sub umbra
Lusimus.
HOR.1
Those who attempt periodical Essays seem to be often stopped in the beginning, by the difficulty of finding a proper Title. Two Writers, since the time of the Spectator, have assumed his Name, without any pretensions to lawful inheritance; an effort was once made to revive the Tatler; and the strange appellations, by which other Papers have been called, show that the Authours were distressed, like the Natives of America, who come to the Europeans to beg a Name.2
It will be easily believed of the Idler, that if his Title had required any search, he never would have found it. Every mode of life has its conveniencies. The Idler, who habituates himself to be satisfied with what he can most easily obtain, not only escapes labours which are often fruitless, but sometimes succeeds better than those who despise all that is within their reach, and think every thing more valuable as it is harder to be acquired.
If similitude of manners be a motive to kindness, the Idler may flatter himself with universal Patronage. There is no single character under which such numbers are comprised. Every man is, or hopes to be, an Idler. Even those who seem to differ most from us are hastening to encrease our Fraternity; as peace is the end of war, so to be idle is the ultimate purpose of the busy.
There is perhaps no Appellation by which a Writer can better denote his Kindred to the human Species. It has been found hard to describe Man by an adequate Definition. Some Philosophers have called him a reasonable Animal, but others have considered Reason as a Quality of which many creatures partake. He has been termed likewise a laughing Animal; but it is said that some Men have never laughed. Perhaps Man may be more properly distinguished as an Idle Animal; for there is no Man who is not sometimes Idle. It is at least a Definition from which none that shall find it in this Paper can be excepted; for who can be more idle than the Reader of the Idler?
That the Definition may be complete, Idleness must be not only the general, but the peculiar characteristic of Man; and perhaps Man is the only Being that can properly be called Idle, that does by others what he might do himself, or sacrifices Duty or Pleasure to the Love of Ease.
Scarcely any Name can be imagined from which less envy or competition is to be dreaded. The Idler has no Rivals or Enemies. The Man of Business forgets him; the Man of Enterprize despises him; and though such as tread the same track of Life, fall commonly into jealousy and discord, Idlers are always found to associate in Peace, and he who is most famed for doing Nothing, is glad to meet another as idle as himself.
What is to be expected from this Paper, whether it will be uniform or various, learned or familiar, serious or gay, political or moral, continued or interrupted, it is hoped that no Reader will enquire. That the Idler has some scheme, cannot be doubted; for to form schemes is the Idler’s privilege. But tho’ he has many projects in his head, he is now grown sparing of communication, having observed, that his hearers are apt to remember what he forgets himself; that his tardiness of execution exposes him to the encroachments of those who catch a hint and fall to work; and that very specious plans, after long contrivance and pompous displays, have subsided in weariness without a trial, and without miscarriage have been blasted by derision.
Something the Idler’s Character may be supposed to promise. Those that are curious after diminutive History, who watch the Revolutions of Families, and the Rise and Fall of Characters either Male or Female, will hope to be gratified by this Paper; for the Idler is always inquisitive and seldom retentive. He that delights in Obloquy and Satire, and wishes to see Clouds gathering over any Reputation that dazzles him with its Brightness, will snatch up the Idler’s Essays with a beating Heart. The Idler is naturally censorious; those who attempt nothing themselves think every thing easily performed, and consider the unsuccessful always as criminal.
I think it necessary to give notice, that I make no contract, nor incur any obligation. If those who depend on the Idler for intelligence and entertainment, should suffer the disappointment which commonly follows ill-placed expectations, they are to lay the blame only on themselves.
Yet Hope is not wholly to be cast away. The Idler, tho’ sluggish, is yet alive, and may sometimes be stimulated to vigour and activity. He may descend into profoundness, or tower into sublimity; for the diligence of an Idler is rapid and impetuous, as ponderous bodies forced into velocity move with violence proportionate to their weight.
But these vehement exertions of intellect cannot be frequent, and he will therefore gladly receive help from any Correspondent, who shall enable him to please without his own labour. He excludes no style, he prohibits no subject; only let him that writes to the Idler remember, that his letters must not be long; no words are to be squandered in declarations of esteem, or confessions of inability; conscious Dulness has little right to be prolix, and Praise is not so welcome to the Idler as Quiet.
No. 5. Saturday, 13 May 1758.
ANAC.1
Our Military Operations are at last begun; our troops are marching in all the pomp of war, and a camp is marked out on the Isle of Wight; the heart of every Englishman now swells with confidence, though somewhat softened by generous compassion for the consternation and distresses of our enemies.
This formidable armament and splendid march produce different effects upon different minds, according to the boundless diversities of temper, occupation, and habits of thought.
Many a tender Maiden considers her Lover as already lost, because he cannot reach the camp but by crossing the sea; Men, of a more political understanding, are persuaded that we shall now see, in a few days, the Ambassadors of France supplicating for pity. Some are hoping for a bloody battle, because a bloody battle makes a vendible2 narrative; some are composing songs of victory; some planning arches of triumph; and some are mixing fireworks for the celebration of a peace.
Of all extensive and complicated objects different parts are selected by different eyes; and minds are variously affected, as they vary their attention. The care of the publick is now fixed upon our Soldiers, who are leaving their native country to wander, none can tell how long, in the pathless desarts of the Isle of Wight. The Tender sigh for their sufferings, and the Gay drink to their success. I, who look, or believe myself to look, with more philosophick eyes, on human affairs, must confess, that I saw the troops march with little emotion; my thoughts were fixed upon other scenes, and the tear stole into my eyes, not for those who were going away, but for those who were left behind.
We have no reason to doubt but our troops will proceed with proper caution; there are men among them who can take care of themselves. But how shall the Ladies endure without them? By what arts can they, who have long had no joy, but from the civilities of a Soldier, now amuse their hours, and solace their separation?
Of fifty thousand men, now destined to different stations, if we allow each to have been occasionally necessary only to four women, a short computation will inform us, that two hundred thousand Ladies are left to languish in distress; two hundred thousand Ladies, who must run to Sales and Auctions without an attendant; sit at the Play, without a Critick to direct their opinion; buy their Fans by their own judgment; dispose Shells by their own invention; walk in the Mall without a Gallant; go to the Gardens without a Protector; and shuffle Cards with vain impatience for want of a fourth to complete the party.
Of these Ladies, some, I hope, have lapdogs, and some monkeys, but they are unsatisfactory companions. Many useful offices are performed by men of scarlet, to which neither dog nor monkey has adequate abilities: A parrot, indeed, is as fine as a Colonel, and if he has been much used to good company, is not wholly without conversation; but a parrot, after all, is a poor little creature, and has neither sword nor shoulder-knot, can neither dance nor play at cards.
Since the soldiers must obey the call of their duty, and go to that side of the kingdom which faces France, I know not why the Ladies, who cannot live without them, should not follow them. The prejudices and pride of man have long presumed the sword and spindle made for different hands, and denied the other sex, to partake the grandeur of military glory. This notion may be consistently enough received in France, where the Salic law3 excludes females from the Throne; but we, who allow them to be Sovereigns, may surely suppose them capable to be soldiers.
It were to be wished that some man, whose experience and authority might enforce regard, would propose that our encampments for the present year should comprise an equal number of men and women, who should march and fight in mingled bodies. If proper Colonels were once appointed, and the drums ordered to beat for female volunteers, our regiments would soon be filled without the reproach or cruelty of an impress.
Selected Essays (Penguin Classics) Page 49