No More Learning

No. 19. SATURDAY, AUGUST 19, 1758.

Some of those ancient sages that have exercised their abilities in the
inquiry after the supreme good, have been of opinion, that the highest
degree of earthly happiness is quiet; a calm repose both of mind and
body, undisturbed by the sight of folly or the noise of business, the
tumults of publick commotion, or the agitations of private interest: a
state in which the mind has no other employment, but to observe and
regulate her own motions, to trace thought from thought, combine one
image with another, raise systems of science, and form theories of
virtue.

To the scheme of these solitary speculatists, it has been justly
objected, that if they are happy, they are happy only by being useless.
That mankind is one vast republick, where every individual receives many
benefits from the labours of others, which, by labouring in his turn for
others, he is obliged to repay; and that where the united efforts of all
are not able to exempt all from misery, none have a right to withdraw
from their task of vigilance, or to be indulged in idle wisdom or
solitary pleasures.

It is common for controvertists, in the heat of disputation, to add one
position to another till they reach the extremities of knowledge, where
truth and falsehood lose their distinction. Their admirers follow them
to the brink of absurdity, and then start back from each side towards
the middle point. So it has happened in this great disquisition. Many
perceive alike the force of the contrary arguments, find quiet shameful,
and business dangerous, and therefore pass their lives between them, in
bustle without business, and negligence without quiet.

Among the principal names of this moderate set is that great philosopher
Jack Whirler, whose business keeps him in perpetual motion, and whose
motion always eludes his business; who is always to do what he never
does, who cannot stand still because he is wanted in another place, and
who is wanted in many places because he stays in none.

Jack has more business than he can conveniently transact in one house;
he has therefore one habitation near Bow-church, and another about a
mile distant. By this ingenious distribution of himself between two
houses, Jack has contrived to be found at neither. Jack's trade is
extensive, and he has many dealers; his conversation is sprightly, and
he has many companions; his disposition is kind, and he has many
friends. Jack neither forbears pleasure for business, nor omits business
for pleasure, but is equally invisible to his friends and his customers;
to him that comes with an invitation to a club, and to him that waits to
settle an account.

When you call at his house, his clerk tells you that Mr. Whirler has
just stept out, but will be at home exactly at two; you wait at a
coffee-house till two, and then find that he has been at home, and is
gone out again, but left word that he should be at the Half-moon tavern
at seven, where he hopes to meet you. At seven you go to the tavern. At
eight in comes Mr. Whirler to tell you that he is glad to see you, and
only begs leave to run for a few minutes to a gentleman that lives near
the Exchange, from whom he will return before supper can be ready. Away
he runs to the Exchange, to tell those who are waiting for him that he
must beg them to defer the business till to-morrow, because his time is
come at the Half-moon.

Jack's cheerfulness and civility rank him among those whose presence
never gives pain, and whom all receive with fondness and caresses. He
calls often on his friends, to tell them that he will come again
to-morrow; on the morrow he comes again, to tell them how an unexpected
summons hurries him away. --When he enters a house, his first declaration
is, that he cannot sit down; and so short are his visits, that he seldom
appears to have come for any other reason, but to say, He must go.

The dogs of Egypt, when thirst brings them to the Nile, are said to run
as they drink for fear of the crocodiles. Jack Whirler always dines at
full speed. He enters, finds the family at table, sits familiarly down,
and fills his plate; but while the first morsel is in his mouth, hears
the clock strike, and rises; then goes to another house, sits down
again, recollects another engagement, has only time to taste the soup,
makes a short excuse to the company, and continues through another
street his desultory dinner.

But, overwhelmed as he is with business, his chief desire is to have
still more. Every new proposal takes possession of his thoughts; he soon
balances probabilities, engages in the project, brings it almost to
completion, and then forsakes it for another, which he catches with the
same alacrity, urges with the same vehemence, and abandons with the same
coldness.

Every man may be observed to have a certain strain of lamentation, some
peculiar theme of complaint, on which he dwells in his moments of
dejection. Jack's topick of sorrow is the want of time. Many an
excellent design languishes in empty theory for want of time. For the
omission of any civilities, want of time is his plea to others; for the
neglect of any affairs, want of time is his excuse to himself. That he
wants time, he sincerely believes; for he once pined away many months
with a lingering distemper, for want of time to attend to his health.

Thus Jack Whirler lives in perpetual fatigue without proportionate
advantage, because he does not consider that no man can see all with his
own eyes, or do all with his own hands; that whoever is engaged in
multiplicity of business, must transact much by substitution, and leave
something to hazard; and that he who attempts to do all, will waste his
life in doing little.




No. 20. SATURDAY, AUGUST 26, 1758.

There is no crime more infamous than the violation of truth. It is
apparent that men can be social beings no longer than they believe each
other. When speech is employed only as the vehicle of falsehood, every
man must disunite himself from others, inhabit his own cave, and seek
prey only for himself.

Yet the law of truth, thus sacred and necessary, is broken without
punishment, without censure, in compliance with inveterate prejudice and
prevailing passions. Men are willing to credit what they wish, and
encourage rather those who gratify them with pleasure, than those that
instruct them with fidelity.

For this reason every historian discovers his country; and it is
impossible to read the different accounts of any great event, without a
wish that truth had more power over partiality.

Amidst the joy of my countrymen for the acquisition of Louisbourg, I
could not forbear to consider how differently this revolution of
American power is not only now mentioned by the contending nations, but
will be represented by the writers of another century.

The English historian will imagine himself barely doing justice to
English virtue, when he relates the capture of Louisbourg in the
following manner:

"The English had hitherto seen, with great indignation, their attempts
baffled and their force defied by an enemy, whom they considered
themselves as entitled to conquer by the right of prescription, and whom
many ages of hereditary superiority had taught them to despise. Their
fleets were more numerous, and their seamen braver, than those of
France; yet they only floated useless on the ocean, and the French
derided them from their ports. Misfortunes, as is usual, produced
discontent, the people murmured at the ministers, and the ministers
censured the commanders.

"In the summer of this year, the English began to find their success
answerable to their cause. A fleet and an army were sent to America to
dislodge the enemies from the settlements which they had so perfidiously
made, and so insolently maintained, and to repress that power which was
growing more every day by the association of the Indians, with whom
these degenerate Europeans intermarried, and whom they secured to their
party by presents and promises.

"In the beginning of June the ships of war and vessels containing the
land-forces appeared before Louisbourg, a place so secured by nature
that art was almost superfluous, and yet fortified by art as if nature
had left it open. The French boasted that it was impregnable, and spoke
with scorn of all attempts that could be made against it. The garrison
was numerous, the stores equal to the longest siege, and their engineers
and commanders high in reputation. The mouth of the harbour was so
narrow, that three ships within might easily defend it against all
attacks from the sea. The French had, with that caution which cowards
borrow from fear, and attribute to policy, eluded our fleets, and sent
into that port five great ships and six smaller, of which they sunk four
in the mouth of the passage, having raised batteries and posted troops
at all the places where they thought it possible to make a descent. The
English, however, had more to dread from the roughness of the sea, than
from the skill or bravery of the defendants. Some days passed before the
surges, which rise very high round that island, would suffer them to
land. At last their impatience could be restrained no longer; they got
possession of the shore with little loss by the sea, and with less by
the enemy. In a few days the artillery was landed, the batteries were
raised, and the French had no other hope than to escape from one post to
another. A shot from the batteries fired the powder in one of their
largest ships, the flame spread to the two next, and all three were
destroyed; the English admiral sent his boats against the two large
ships yet remaining, took them without resistance, and terrified the
garrison to an immediate capitulation. "

Let us now oppose to this English narrative the relation which will be
produced, about the same time, by the writer of the age of Louis XV.

"About this time the English admitted to the conduct of affairs a man
who undertook to save from destruction that ferocious and turbulent
people, who, from the mean insolence of wealthy traders, and the lawless
confidence of successful robbers, were now sunk in despair and stupified
with horrour. He called in the ships which had been dispersed over the
ocean to guard their merchants, and sent a fleet and an army, in which
almost the whole strength of England was comprised, to secure their
possessions in America, which were endangered alike by the French arms
and the French virtue. We had taken the English fortresses by force, and
gained the Indian nations by humanity. The English, wherever they come,
are sure to have the natives for their enemies; for the only motive of
their settlements is avarice, and the only consequence of their success
is oppression. In this war they acted like other barbarians; and, with a
degree of outrageous cruelty, which the gentleness of our manners
scarcely suffers us to conceive, offered rewards by open proclamation to
those who should bring in the scalps of Indian women and children. A
trader always makes war with the cruelty of a pirate.

"They had long looked with envy and with terrour upon the influence
which the French exerted over all the northern regions of America by the
possession of Louisbourg, a place naturally strong, and new-fortified
with some slight outworks. They hoped to surprise the garrison
unprovided; but that sluggishness, which always defeats their malice,
gave us time to send supplies, and to station ships for the defence of
the harbour. They came before Louisbourg in June, and were for some time
in doubt whether they should land. But the commanders, who had lately
seen an admiral shot for not having done what he had not power to do,
durst not leave the place unassaulted. An Englishman has no ardour for
honour, nor zeal for duty; he neither values glory nor loves his king,
but balances one danger with another, and will fight rather than be
hanged. They therefore landed, but with great loss their engineers had,
in the last war with the French, learned something of the military
science, and made their approaches with sufficient skill; but all their
efforts had been without effect, had not a ball unfortunately fallen
into the powder of one of our ships, which communicated the fire to the
rest, and, by opening the passage of the harbour, obliged the garrison
to capitulate. Thus was Louisbourg lost, and our troops marched out with
the admiration of their enemies, who durst hardly think themselves
masters of the place. "




No. 21. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 1758.

TO THE IDLER.

Dear Mr. Idler,

There is a species of misery, or of disease, for which our language is
commonly supposed to be without a name, but which I think is
emphatically enough denominated _listlessness_, and which is commonly
termed a want of something to do.

Of the unhappiness of this state I do not expect all your readers to
have an adequate idea. Many are overburdened with business, and can
imagine no comfort but in rest; many have minds so placid, as willingly
to indulge a voluntary lethargy; or so narrow, as easily to be filled to
their utmost capacity. By these I shall not be understood, and therefore
cannot be pitied. Those only will sympathize with my complaint, whose
imagination is active, and resolution weak, whose desires are ardent,
and whose choice is delicate; who cannot satisfy themselves with
standing still, and yet cannot find a motive to direct their course.

I was the second son of a gentleman, whose estate was barely sufficient
to support himself and his heir in the dignity of killing game. He
therefore made use of the interest which the alliances of his family
afforded him, to procure me a post in the army. I passed some years in
the most contemptible of all human stations, that of a soldier in time
of peace. I wandered with the regiment as the quarters were changed,
without opportunity for business, taste for knowledge, or money for
pleasure. Wherever I came, I was for some time a stranger without
curiosity, and afterwards an acquaintance without friendship. Having
nothing to hope in these places of fortuitous residence, I resigned my
conduct to chance; I had no intention to offend, I had no ambition to
delight.

I suppose every man is shocked when he hears how frequently soldiers are
wishing for war. The wish is not always sincere; the greater part are
content with sleep and lace, and counterfeit an ardour which they do not
feel; but those who desire it most are neither prompted by malevolence
nor patriotism; they neither pant for laurels, nor delight in blood; but
long to be delivered from the tyranny of idleness, and restored to the
dignity of active beings.

I never imagined myself to have more courage than other men, yet was
often involuntarily wishing for a war, but of a war, at that time, I had
no prospect; and being enabled, by the death of an uncle, to live
without my pay, I quitted the army, and resolved to regulate my own
motions.

I was pleased, for a while, with the novelty of independence, and
imagined that I had now found what every man desires. My time was in my
own power, and my habitation was wherever my choice should fix it. I
amused myself for two years in passing from place to place, and
comparing one convenience with another; but being at last ashamed of
inquiry, and weary of uncertainty, I purchased a house, and established
my family.

I now expected to begin to be happy, and was happy for a short time with
that expectation. But I soon perceived my spirits to subside, and my
imagination to grow dark. The gloom thickened every day round me. I
wondered by what malignant power my peace was blasted, till I discovered
at last that I had nothing to do.

Time, with all its celerity, moves slowly to him whose whole employment
is to watch its flight. I am forced upon a thousand shifts to enable me
to endure the tediousness of the day. I rise when I can sleep no longer,
and take my morning-walk; I see what I have seen before, and return. I
sit down, and persuade myself that I sit down to think; find it
impossible to think without a subject, rise up to inquire after news,
and endeavour to kindle in myself an artificial impatience for
intelligence of events, which will never extend any consequence to me,
but that, a few minutes, they abstract me from myself.

When I have heard any thing that may gratify curiosity, I am busied for
a while in running to relate it. I hasten from one place of concourse,
to another, delighted with my own importance, and proud to think that I
am doing something, though I know that another hour would spare my
labour.

I had once a round of visits, which I paid very regularly; but I have
now tired most of my friends. When I have sat down I forget to rise, and
have more than once overheard one asking another, when I would be gone.
I perceive the company tired, I observe the mistress of the family
whispering to her servants, I find orders given to put off business till
to-morrow, I see the watches frequently inspected, and yet cannot
withdraw to the vacuity of solitude, or venture myself in my own
company.

Thus burdensome to myself and others, I form many schemes of employment
which may make my life useful or agreeable, and exempt me from the
ignominy of living by sufferance. This new course I have long designed,
but have not yet begun. The present moment is never proper for the
change, but there is always a time in view when all obstacles will be
removed, and I shall surprise all that know me with a new distribution
of my time. Twenty years have past since I have resolved a complete
amendment, and twenty years have been lost in delays. Age is coming upon
me; and I should look back with rage and despair upon the waste of life,
but that I am now beginning in earnest to begin a reformation.

I am, Sir,
Your humble servant,

DICK LINGER.




No. 22. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 1758.

_Oh nomen dulce libertatis! Oh jus eximium nostra civitatis! _
CICERO.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

As I was passing lately under one of the gates of this city, I was
struck with horrour by a rueful cry, which summoned me _to remember the
poor debtors_.

The wisdom and justice of the English laws are, by Englishmen at least,
loudly celebrated: but scarcely the most zealous admirers of our
institutions can think that law wise, which, when men are capable of
work, obliges them to beg; or just, which exposes the liberty of one to
the passions of another.

The prosperity of a people is proportionate to the number of hands and
minds usefully employed. To the community, sedition is a fever,
corruption is a gangrene, and idleness an atrophy. Whatever body, and
whatever society, wastes more than it acquires, must gradually decay;
and every being that continues to be fed, and ceases to labour, takes
away something from the publick stock.

The confinement, therefore, of any man in the sloth and darkness of a
prison, is a loss to the nation, and no gain to the creditor. For of the
multitudes who are pining in those cells of misery, a very small part is
suspected of any fraudulent act by which they retain what belongs to
others. The rest are imprisoned by the wantonness of pride, the
malignity of revenge, or the acrimony of disappointed expectation.

If those, who thus rigorously exercise the power which the law has put
into their hands, be asked, why they continue to imprison those whom
they know to be unable to pay them; one will answer, that his debtor
once lived better than himself; another, that his wife looked above her
neighbours, and his children went in silk clothes to the dancing-school;
and another, that he pretended to be a joker and a wit. Some will reply,
that if they were in debt, they should meet with the same treatment;
some, that they owe no more than they can pay, and need therefore give
no account of their actions. Some will confess their resolution, that
their debtors shall rot in jail; and some will discover, that they hope,
by cruelty, to wring the payment from their friends.

The end of all civil regulations is to secure private happiness from
private malignity; to keep individuals from the power of one another;
but this end is apparently neglected, when a man, irritated with loss,
is allowed to be the judge of his own cause, and to assign the
punishment of his own pain; when the distinction between guilt and
happiness, between casualty and design, is intrusted to eyes blind with
interest, to understandings depraved by resentment.

Since poverty is punished among us as a crime, it ought at least to be
treated with the same lenity as other crimes; the offender ought not to
languish at the will of him whom he has offended, but to be allowed some
appeal to the justice of his country. There can be no reason why any
debtor should be imprisoned, but that he may be compelled to payment;
and a term should therefore be fixed, in which the creditor should
exhibit his accusation of concealed property. If such property can be
discovered, let it be given to the creditor; if the charge is not
offered, or cannot be proved, let the prisoner be dismissed.

Those who made the laws have apparently supposed, that every deficiency
of payment is the crime of the debtor. But the truth is, that the
creditor always shares the act, and often more than shares the guilt, of
improper trust. It seldom happens that any man imprisons another but for
debts which he suffered to be contracted in hope of advantage to
himself, and for bargains in which he proportioned his profit to his own
opinion of the hazard; and there is no reason why one should punish the
other for a contract in which both concurred.

Many of the inhabitants of prisons may justly complain of harder
treatment. He that once owes more than he can pay, is often obliged to
bribe his creditor to patience, by increasing his debt. Worse and worse
commodities, at a higher and higher price, are forced upon him; he is
impoverished by compulsive traffick, and at last overwhelmed, in the
common receptacles of misery, by debts, which, without his own consent,
were accumulated on his head. To the relief of this distress, no other
objection can be made, but that by an easy dissolution of debts fraud
will be left without punishment, and imprudence without awe; and that
when insolvency should be no longer punishable, credit will cease.

The motive to credit is the hope of advantage. Commerce can never be at
a stop, while one man wants what another can supply; and credit will
never be denied, while it is likely to be repaid with profit. He that
trusts one whom he designs to sue, is criminal by the act of trust: the
cessation of such insidious traffick is to be desired, and no reason can
be given why a change of the law should impair any other.

We see nation trade with nation, where no payment can be compelled.
Mutual convenience produces mutual confidence; and the merchants
continue to satisfy the demands of each other, though they have nothing
to dread but the loss of trade.

It is vain to continue an institution, which experience shows to be
ineffectual. We have now imprisoned one generation of debtors after
another, but we do not find that their numbers lessen. We have now
learned that rashness and imprudence will not be deterred from taking
credit; let us try whether fraud and avarice may be more easily
restrained from giving it[1].

I am, Sir, &c.


[1] This number was substituted, for some reason not ascertained, for
the keenly satirical original, which is reprinted at the end of this
volume.

The observations of the present paper are such as would naturally
suggest themselves to an honest and benevolent mind like Johnson's; but
their political correctness may reasonably be questioned. An attempt has
been made, since his day, to provide a humane protection for the
unfortunate debtor. But has it not, at the same time, exposed the
confiding tradesman to deception and to consequent ruin, by destroying
all adequate punishment, and therefore removing every check upon vice
and prodigality? In a _Dictionnaire des Gens du Monde_, insolvency has
been, not unaptly, defined, a mode of getting rich by infallible rules!
See Idler 38, and Note.




No. 23. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, 1758.

Life has no pleasure higher or nobler than that of friendship. It is
painful to consider, that this sublime enjoyment may be impaired or
destroyed by innumerable causes, and that there is no human possession
of which the duration is less certain.

Many have talked, in very exalted language, of the perpetuity of
friendship, of invincible constancy, and unalienable kindness; and some
examples have been seen of men who have continued faithful to their
earliest choice, and whose affection has predominated over changes of
fortune, and contrariety of opinion.

But these instances are memorable, because they are rare. The friendship
which is to be practised or expected by common mortals, must take its
rise from mutual pleasure, and must end when the power ceases of
delighting each other.

Many accidents therefore may happen, by which the ardour of kindness
will be abated, without criminal baseness or contemptible inconstancy on
either part. To give pleasure is not always in our power; and little
does he know himself, who believes that he can be always able to receive
it.

Those who would gladly pass their days together may be separated by the
different course of their affairs; and friendship, like love, is
destroyed by long absence, though it may be increased by short
intermissions. What we have missed long enough to want it, we value more
when it is regained; but that which has been lost till it is forgotten,
will be found at last with little gladness, and with still less if a
substitute has supplied the place. A man deprived of the companion to
whom he used to open his bosom, and with whom he shared the hours of
leisure and merriment, feels the day at first hanging heavy on him; his
difficulties oppress, and his doubts distract him; he sees time come and
go without his wonted gratification, and all is sadness within, and
solitude about him. But this uneasiness never lasts long; necessity
produces expedients, new amusements are discovered, and new conversation
is admitted.

No expectation is more frequently disappointed, than that which
naturally arises in the mind from the prospect of meeting an old friend
after long separation. We expect the attraction to be revived, and the
coalition to be renewed; no man considers how much alteration time has
made in himself, and very few inquire what effect it has had upon
others. The first hour convinces them that the pleasure, which they had
formerly enjoyed, is for ever at an end; different scenes have made
different impressions; the opinions of both are changed; and that
similitude of manners and sentiment is lost, which confirmed them both
in the approbation of themselves.

Friendship is often destroyed by opposition of interest, not only by the
ponderous and visible interest which the desire of wealth and greatness
forms and maintains, but by a thousand secret and slight competitions,
scarcely known to the mind upon which they operate. There is scarcely
any man without some favourite trifle which he values above greater
attainments, some desire of petty praise which he cannot patiently
suffer to be frustrated. This minute ambition is sometimes crossed
before it is known, and sometimes defeated by wanton petulance; but such
attacks are seldom made without the loss of friendship; for whoever has
once found the vulnerable part will always be feared, and the resentment
will burn on in secret, of which shame hinders the discovery.

This, however, is a slow malignity, which a wise man will obviate as
inconsistent with quiet, and a good man will repress as contrary to
virtue; but human happiness is sometimes violated by some more sudden
strokes.

A dispute begun in jest upon a subject which, a moment before, was on
both parts regarded with careless indifference, is continued by the
desire of conquest, till vanity kindles into rage, and opposition
rankles into enmity. Against this hasty mischief, I know not what
security can be obtained: men will be sometimes surprised into quarrels;
and though they might both hasten to reconciliation, as soon as their
tumult had subsided, yet two minds will seldom be found together, which
can at once subdue their discontent, or immediately enjoy the sweets of
peace, without remembering the wounds of the conflict.

Friendship has other enemies. Suspicion is always hardening the
cautious, and disgust repelling the delicate. Very slender differences
will sometimes part those whom long reciprocation of civility or
beneficence has united. Lonelove and Ranger retired into the country to
enjoy the company of each other, and returned in six weeks cold and
petulant; Ranger's pleasure was to walk in the fields, and Lonelove's to
sit in a bower; each had complied with the other in his turn, and each
was angry that compliance had been exacted.

The most fatal disease of friendship is gradual decay, or dislike hourly
increased by causes too slender for complaint, and too numerous for
removal. --Those who are angry may be reconciled; those who have been
injured may receive a recompense: but when the desire of pleasing and
willingness to be pleased is silently diminished, the renovation of
friendship is hopeless; as, when the vital powers sink into languor,
there is no longer any use of the physician.




No. 24. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 30, 1758.

When man sees one of the inferior creatures perched upon a tree, or
basking in the sunshine, without any apparent endeavour or pursuit, he
often asks himself, or his companion, _On what that animal can be
supposed to be thinking_?

Of this question, since neither bird nor beast can answer it, we must be
content to live without the resolution. We know not how much the brutes
recollect of the past, or anticipate of the future; what power they have
of comparing and preferring; or whether their faculties may not rest in
motionless indifference, till they are moved by the presence of their
proper object, or stimulated to act by corporal sensations.

I am the less inclined to these superfluous inquiries, because I have
always been able to find sufficient matter for curiosity in my own
species. It is useless to go far in quest of that which may be found at
home; a very narrow circle of observation will supply a sufficient
number of men and women, who might be asked, with equal propriety, _On
what they can be thinking_?

It is reasonable to believe, that thought, like every thing else, has
its causes and effects; that it must proceed from something known, done,
or suffered; and must produce some action or event. Yet how great is the
number of those in whose minds no source of thought has ever been
opened, in whose life no consequence of thought is ever discovered; who
have learned nothing upon which they can reflect; who have neither seen
nor felt any thing which could leave its traces on the memory; who
neither foresee nor desire any change in their condition, and have
therefore neither fear, hope, nor design, and yet are supposed to be
thinking beings.

To every act a subject is required. He that thinks must think upon
something.
But tell me, ye that pierce deepest into nature, ye that take
the widest surveys of life, inform me, kind shades of Malbranche and of
Locke, what that something can be, which excites and continues thought
in maiden aunts with small fortunes; in younger brothers that live upon
annuities; in traders retired from business; in soldiers absent from
their regiments; or in widows that have no children?

Life is commonly considered as either active or contemplative; but
surely this division, how long soever it has been received, is
inadequate and fallacious. There are mortals whose life is certainly not
active, for they do neither good nor evil; and whose life cannot be
properly called contemplative, for they never attend either to the
conduct of men, or the works of nature, but rise in the morning, look
round them till night in careless stupidity, go to bed and sleep, and
rise again in the morning.

It has been lately a celebrated question in the schools of philosophy,
_Whether the soul always thinks_! Some have defined the soul to be the
_power of thinking_; concluded that its essence consists in act; that,
if it should cease to act, it would cease to be; and that cessation of
thought is but another name for extinction of mind. This argument is
subtle, but not conclusive; because it supposes what cannot be proved,
that the nature of mind is properly defined. Others affect to disdain
subtilty, when subtilty will not serve their purpose, and appeal to
daily experience. We spend many hours, they say, in sleep, without the
least remembrance of any thoughts which then passed in our minds; and
since we can only by our own consciousness be sure that we think, why
should we imagine that we have had thought of which no consciousness
remains?

This argument, which appeals to experience, may from experience be
confuted. We every day do something which we forget when it is done, and
know to have been done only by consequence. The waking hours are not
denied to have been passed in thought; yet he that shall endeavour to
recollect on one day the ideas of the former, will only turn the eye of
reflection upon vacancy; he will find that the greater part is
irrevocably vanished, and wonder how the moments could come and go, and
leave so little behind them.

To discover only that the arguments on both sides are defective, and to
throw back the tenet into its former uncertainty, is the sport of wanton
or malevolent skepticism, delighting to see the sons of philosophy at
work upon a task which never can be decided. I shall suggest an argument
hitherto overlooked, which may perhaps determine the controversy.

If it be impossible to think without materials, there must necessarily
be minds that do not always think; and whence shall we furnish materials
for the meditation of the glutton between his meals, of the sportsman in
a rainy month, of the annuitant between the days of quarterly payment,
of the politician when the mails are detained by contrary winds?

But how frequent soever may be the examples of existence without
thought, it is certainly a state not much to be desired. He that lives
in torpid insensibility, wants nothing of a carcass but putrefaction. It
is the part of every inhabitant of the earth to partake the pains and
pleasures of his fellow-beings; and, as in a road through a country
desert and uniform, the traveller languishes for want of amusement, so
the passage of life will be tedious and irksome to him who does not
beguile it by diversified ideas.




No. 25. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 7, 1758.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

I am a very constant frequenter of the playhouse, a place to which I
suppose the _Idler_ not much a stranger, since he can have no where else
so much entertainment with so little concurrence of his own endeavour.
At all other assemblies, he that comes to receive delight, will be
expected to give it; but in the theatre nothing is necessary to the
amusement of two hours, but to sit down and be willing to be pleased.

The last week has offered two new actors to the town. The appearance and
retirement of actors are the great events of the theatrical world; and
their first performances fill the pit with conjecture and
prognostication, as the first actions of a new monarch agitate nations
with hope or fear.

What opinion I have formed of the future excellence of these candidates
for dramatick glory, it is not necessary to declare. Their entrance gave
me a higher and nobler pleasure than any borrowed character can afford.
I saw the ranks of the theatre emulating each other in candour and
humanity, and contending who should most effectually assist the
struggles of endeavour, dissipate the blush of diffidence, and still the
flutter of timidity.

This behaviour is such as becomes a people, too tender to repress those
who wish to please, too generous to insult those who can make no
resistance. A publick performer is so much in the power of spectators,
that all unnecessary severity is restrained by that general law of
humanity, which forbids us to be cruel where there is nothing to be
feared.

In every new performer something must be pardoned. No man can, by any
force of resolution, secure to himself the full possession of his own
powers under the eye of a large assembly. Variation of gesture, and
flexion of voice, are to be obtained only by experience.

There is nothing for which such numbers think themselves qualified as
for theatrical exhibition. Every human being has an action graceful to
his own eye, a voice musical to his own ear, and a sensibility which
nature forbids him to know that any other bosom can excel. An art in
which such numbers fancy themselves excellent, and which the publick
liberally rewards, will excite many competitors, and in many attempts
there must be many miscarriages.

The care of the critick should be to distinguish errour from inability,
faults of inexperience from defects of nature. Action irregular and
turbulent may be reclaimed; vociferation vehement and confused may be
restrained and modulated; the stalk of the tyrant may become the gait of
the man; the yell of inarticulate distress may be reduced to human
lamentation. All these faults should be for a time overlooked, and
afterwards censured with gentleness and candour. But if in an actor
there appears an utter vacancy of meaning, a frigid equality, a stupid
languor, a torpid apathy, the greatest kindness that can be shown him is
a speedy sentence of expulsion.

I am, Sir, &c.

The plea which my correspondent has offered for young actors, I am very
far from wishing to invalidate. I always considered those combinations
which are sometimes formed in the playhouse, as acts of fraud or of
cruelty; he that applauds him who does not deserve praise, is
endeavouring to deceive the publick; he that hisses in malice or sport,
is an oppressor and a robber.

But surely this laudable forbearance might be justly extended to young
poets. The art of the writer, like that of the player, is attained by
slow degrees. The power of distinguishing and discriminating comick
characters, or of filling tragedy with poetical images, must be the gift
of nature, which no instruction nor labour can supply; but the art of
dramatick disposition, the contexture of the scenes, the opposition of
characters, the involution of the plot, the expedients of suspension,
and the stratagems of surprise, are to be learned by practice; and it is
cruel to discourage a poet for ever, because he has not from genius what
only experience can bestow.

Life is a stage. Let me likewise solicit candour for the young actor on
the stage of life. They that enter into the world are too often treated
with unreasonable rigour by those that were once as ignorant and heady
as themselves; and distinction is not always made between the faults
which require speedy and violent eradication, and those that will
gradually drop away in the progression of life. Vicious solicitations of
appetite, if not checked, will grow more importunate; and mean arts of
profit or ambition will gather strength in the mind, if they are not
early suppressed. But mistaken notions of superiority, desires of
useless show, pride of little accomplishments, and all the train of
vanity, will be brushed away by the wing of time.

Reproof should not exhaust its power upon petty failings; let it watch
diligently against the incursion of vice, and leave foppery and futility
to die of themselves.




No. 26 SATURDAY, OCTOBER 14, 1758.

Mr. Idler,

I never thought that I should write any thing to be printed; but having
lately seen your first essay, which was sent down into the kitchen, with
a great bundle of gazettes and useless papers, I find that you are
willing to admit any correspondent, and therefore hope you will not
reject me. If you publish my letter, it may encourage others, in the
same condition with myself, to tell their stories, which may be,
perhaps, as useful as those of great ladies.

I am a poor girl. I was bred in the country at a charity-school,
maintained by the contributions of wealthy neighbours. The ladies, or
patronesses, visited us from time to time, examined how we were taught,
and saw that our clothes were clean. We lived happily enough, and were
instructed to be thankful to those at whose cost we were educated. I was
always the favourite of my mistress; she used to call me to read and
show my copybook to all strangers, who never dismissed me without
commendation, and very seldom without a shilling.

At last the chief of our subscribers, having passed a winter in London,
came down full of an opinion new and strange to the whole country. She
held it little less than criminal to teach poor girls to read and write.
They who are born to poverty, she said, are born to ignorance, and will
work the harder the less they know. She told her friends, that London
was in confusion by the insolence of servants; that scarcely a wench was
to be got for _all work_, since education had made such numbers of fine
ladies; that nobody would now accept a lower title than that of a
waiting-maid, or something that might qualify her to wear laced shoes
and long ruffles, and to sit at work in the parlour window. But she was
resolved, for her part, to spoil no more girls; those, who were to live
by their hands, should neither read nor write out of her pocket; the
world was bad enough already, and she would have no part in making it
worse.

She was for a short time warmly opposed; but she persevered in her
notions, and withdrew her subscription. Few listen without a desire of
conviction to those who advise them to spare their money. Her example
and her arguments gained ground daily; and in less than a year the whole
parish was convinced, that the nation would be ruined, if the children
of the poor were taught to read and write.

Our school was now dissolved: my mistress kissed me when we parted, and
told me, that, being old and helpless, she could not assist me; advised
me to seek a service, and charged me not to forget what I had learned.

My reputation for scholarship, which had hitherto recommended me to
favour, was, by the adherents to the new opinion, considered as a crime;
and, when I offered myself to any mistress, I had no other answer than,
"Sure, child, you would not work! hard work is not fit for a pen-woman;
a scrubbing-brush would spoil your hand, child! "

I could not live at home; and while I was considering to what I should
betake me, one of the girls, who had gone from our school to London,
came down in a silk gown, and told her acquaintance how well she lived,
what fine things she saw, and what great wages she received. I resolved
to try my fortune, and took my passage in the next week's waggon to
London. I had no snares laid for me at my arrival, but came safe to a
sister of my mistress, who undertook to get me a place. She knew only
the families of mean tradesmen; and I, having no high opinion of my own
qualifications, was willing to accept the first offer.

My first mistress was wife of a working watch-maker, who earned more
than was sufficient to keep his family in decency and plenty; but it was
their constant practice to hire a chaise on Sunday, and spend half the
wages of the week on Richmond Hill; of Monday he commonly lay half in
bed, and spent the other half in merriment; Tuesday and Wednesday
consumed the rest of his money; and three days every week were passed in
extremity of want by us who were left at home, while my master lived on
trust at an alehouse. You may be sure, that of the sufferers, the maid
suffered most; and I left them, after three months, rather than be
starved.

I was then maid to a hatter's wife. There was no want to be dreaded, for
they lived in perpetual luxury. My mistress was a diligent woman, and
rose early in the morning to set the journeymen to work; my master was a
man much beloved by his neighbours, and sat at one club or other every
night. I was obliged to wait on my master at night, and on my mistress
in the morning. He seldom came home before two, and she rose at five. I
could no more live without sleep than without food, and therefore
entreated them to look out for another servant.

My next removal was to a linen-draper's, who had six children. My
mistress, when I first entered the house, informed me, that I must never
contradict the children, nor suffer them to cry. I had no desire to
offend, and readily promised to do my best. But when I gave them their
breakfast, I could not help all first; when I was playing with one in my
lap, I was forced to keep the rest in expectation. That which was not
gratified, always resented the injury with a loud outcry, which put my
mistress in a fury at me, and procured sugar-plums to the child. I could
not keep six children quiet, who were bribed to be clamorous; and was
therefore dismissed, as a girl honest, but not good-natured.

I then lived with a couple that kept a petty shop of remnants and cheap
linen. I was qualified to make a bill, or keep a book; and being
therefore often called, at a busy time, to serve the customers, expected
that I should now be happy, in proportion as I was useful. But my
mistress appropriated every day part of the profit to some private use,
and, as she grew bolder in her thefts, at last deducted such sums, that
my master began to wonder how he sold so much, and gained so little. She
pretended to assist his inquiries, and began, very gravely, to hope that
"Betty was honest, and yet those sharp girls were apt to be
light-fingered. " You will believe that I did not stay there much longer.

The rest of my story I will tell you in another letter; and only beg to
be informed, in some paper, for which of my places, except perhaps the
last, I was disqualified by my skill in reading and writing.

I am, Sir,

Your very humble servant,

BETTY BROOM.




No. 27. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 21, 1758.

It has been the endeavour of all those whom the world has reverenced for
superior wisdom, to persuade man to be acquainted with himself, to learn
his own powers and his own weakness, to observe by what evils he is most
dangerously beset, and by what temptations most easily overcome.

This counsel has been often given with serious dignity, and often
received with appearance of conviction; but, as very few can search deep
into their own minds without meeting what they wish to hide from
themselves, scarcely any man persists in cultivating such disagreeable
acquaintance, but draws the veil again between his eyes and his heart,
leaves his passions and appetites as he found them, and advises others
to look into themselves.

This is the common result of inquiry even among those that endeavour to
grow wiser or better: but this endeavour is far enough from frequency;
the greater part of the multitudes that swarm upon the earth have never
been disturbed by such uneasy curiosity, but deliver themselves up to
business or to pleasure, plunge into the current of life, whether placid
or turbulent, and pass on from one point or prospect to another,
attentive rather to any thing than the state of their minds; satisfied,
at an easy rate, with an opinion, that they are no worse than others,
that every man must mind his own interest, or that their pleasures hurt
only themselves, and are therefore no proper subjects of censure.

Some, however, there are, whom the intrusion of scruples, the
recollection of better notions, or the latent reprehension of good
examples, will not suffer to live entirely contented with their own
conduct; these are forced to pacify the mutiny of reason with fair
promises, and quiet their thoughts with designs of calling all their
actions to review, and planning a new scheme for the time to come.

There is nothing which we estimate so fallaciously as the force of our
own resolutions, nor any fallacy which we so unwillingly and tardily
detect. He that has resolved a thousand times, and a thousand times
deserted his own purpose, yet suffers no abatement of his confidence,
but still believes himself his own master; and able, by innate vigour of
soul, to press forward to his end, through all the obstructions that
inconveniencies or delights can put in his way.

That this mistake should prevail for a time, is very natural. When
conviction is present, and temptation out of sight, we do not easily
conceive how any reasonable being can deviate from his true interest.
What ought to be done, while it yet hangs only on speculation, is so
plain and certain, that there is no place for doubt; the whole soul
yields itself to the predominance of truth, and readily determines to do
what, when the time of action comes, will be at last omitted.

I believe most men may review all the lives that have passed within
their observation, without remembering one efficacious resolution, or
being able to tell a single instance of a course of practice suddenly
changed in consequence of a change of opinion, or an establishment of
determination. Many, indeed, alter their conduct, and are not at fifty
what they were at thirty; but they commonly varied imperceptibly from
themselves, followed the train of external causes, and rather suffered
reformation than made it.

It is not uncommon to charge the difference between promise and
performance, between profession and reality, upon deep design and
studied deceit; but the truth is, that there is very little hypocrisy in
the world; we do not so often endeavour or wish to impose on others, as
on ourselves; we resolve to do right, we hope to keep our resolutions,
we declare them to confirm our own hope, and fix our own inconstancy by
calling witnesses of our actions; but at last habit prevails, and those
whom we invited to our triumph laugh at our defeat.

Custom is commonly too strong for the most resolute resolver, though
furnished for the assault with all the weapons of philosophy. "He that
endeavours to free himself from an ill habit," says Bacon, "must not
change too much at a time, lest he should be discouraged by difficulty;
nor too little, for then he will make but slow advances. " This is a
precept which may be applauded in a book, but will fail in the trial, in
which every change will be found too great or too little. Those who have
been able to conquer habit, are like those that are fabled to have
returned from the realms of Pluto:

--"Pauci, quos aequus amavit
Jupiter, atque ardens evexit ad aethera virtus. "

They are sufficient to give hope, but not security; to animate the
contest, but not to promise victory.

Those who are in the power of evil habits must conquer them as they can;
and conquered they must be, or neither wisdom nor happiness can be
attained; but those who are not yet subject to their influence may, by
timely caution, preserve their freedom; they may effectually resolve to
escape the tyrant, whom they will very vainly resolve to conquer.




No. 28. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 28, 1758.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

It is very easy for a man who sits idle at home, and has nobody to
please but himself, to ridicule or to censure the common practices of
mankind; and those who have no present temptation to break the rules of
propriety, may applaud his judgment, and join in his merriment; but let
the author or his readers mingle with common life, they will find
themselves irresistibly borne away by the stream of custom, and must
submit, after they have laughed at others, to give others the same
opportunity of laughing at them.

There is no paper published by the Idler which I have read with more
approbation than that which censures the practice of recording vulgar
marriages in the newspapers. I carried it about in my pocket, and read
it to all those whom I suspected of having published their nuptials, or
of being inclined to publish them, and sent transcripts of it to all the
couples that transgressed your precepts for the next fortnight. I hoped
that they were all vexed, and pleased myself with imagining their
misery.

But short is the triumph of malignity. I was married last week to Miss
Mohair, the daughter of a salesman; and, at my first appearance after
the wedding night, was asked, by my wife's mother, whether I had sent
our marriage to the Advertiser? I endeavoured to show how unfit it was
to demand the attention of the publick to our domestick affairs; but she
told me, with great vehemence, "That she would not have it thought to be
a stolen match; that the blood of the Mohairs should never be disgraced;
that her husband had served all the parish offices but one; that she had
lived five-and-thirty years at the same house, had paid every body
twenty shillings in the pound, and would have me know, though she was
not as fine and as flaunting as Mrs. Gingham, the deputy's wife, she was
not ashamed to tell her name, and would show her face with the best of
them; and since I had married her daughter--" At this instant entered my
father-in-law, a grave man, from whom I expected succour; but upon
hearing the case, he told me, "That it would be very imprudent to miss
such an opportunity of advertising my shop; and that when notice was
given of my marriage, many of my wife's friends would think themselves
obliged to be my customers. " I was subdued by clamour on one side, and
gravity on the other, and shall be obliged to tell the town, that "three
days ago Timothy Mushroom, an eminent oilman in Seacoal-lane, was
married to Miss Polly Mohair of Lothbury, a beautiful young lady, with a
large fortune. "

I am, Sir, &c.

Sir,

I am the unfortunate wife of the grocer whose letter you published about
ten weeks ago, in which he complains, like a sorry fellow, that I loiter
in the shop with my needle-work in my hand, and that I oblige him to
take me out on Sundays, and keep a girl to look after the child. Sweet
Mr. Idler, if you did but know all, you would give no encouragement to
such an unreasonable grumbler. I brought him three hundred pounds, which
set him up in a shop, and bought in a stock, on which, with good
management, we might live comfortably; but now I have given him a shop,
I am forced to watch him and the shop too. I will tell you, Mr. Idler,
how it is. There is an alehouse over the way, with a ninepin alley, to
which he is sure to run when I turn my back, and there he loses his
money, for he plays at ninepins as he does every thing else. While he is
at this favourite sport, he sets a dirty boy to watch his door, and call
him to his customers; but he is so long in coming, and so rude when he
comes, that our custom falls off every day.

Those who cannot govern themselves, must be governed. I have resolved to
keep him for the future behind his counter, and let him bounce at his
customers if he dares. I cannot be above stairs and below at the same
time, and have therefore taken a girl to look after the child, and dress
the dinner; and, after all, pray who is to blame?

On a Sunday, it is true, I make him walk abroad, and sometimes carry the
child; I wonder who should carry it! But I never take him out till after
church-time, nor would do it then, but that, if he is left alone, he
will be upon the bed. On a Sunday, if he stays at home, he has six
meals, and, when he can eat no longer, has twenty stratagems to escape
from me to the alehouse; but I commonly keep the door locked, till
Monday produces something for him to do.

This is the true state of the case, and these are the provocations for
which he has written his letter to you. I hope you will write a paper to
show, that, if a wife must spend her whole time in watching her husband,
she cannot conveniently tend her child, or sit at her needle.

I am, Sir, &c.

Sir,

There is in this town a species of oppression which the law has not
hitherto prevented or redressed.

I am a chairman. You know, Sir, we come when we are called, and are
expected to carry all who require our assistance. It is common for men
of the most unwieldy corpulence to crowd themselves into a chair, and
demand to be carried for a shilling as far as an airy young lady whom we
scarcely feel upon our poles. Surely we ought to be paid, like all other
mortals, in proportion to our labour. Engines should be fixed in proper
places to weigh chairs as they weigh waggons; and those, whom ease and
plenty have made unable to carry themselves, should give part of their
superfluities to those who carry them.

I am, Sir, &c.




No. 29. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 1758.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

I have often observed, that friends are lost by discontinuance of
intercourse without any offence on either part, and have long known,
that it is more dangerous to be forgotten than to be blamed; I therefore
make haste to send you the rest of my story, lest, by the delay of
another fortnight, the name of Betty Broom might be no longer remembered
by you or your readers.

Having left the last place in haste, to avoid the charge or the
suspicion of theft, I had not secured another service, and was forced to
take a lodging in a back-street. I had now got good clothes. The woman
who lived in the garret opposite to mine was very officious, and offered
to take care of my room and clean it, while I went round to my
acquaintance to inquire for a mistress. I knew not why she was so kind,
nor how I could recompense her; but in a few days I missed some of my
linen, went to another lodging, and resolved not to have another friend
in the next garret.

In six weeks I became under-maid at the house of a mercer in Cornhill,
whose son was his apprentice. The young gentleman used to sit late at
the tavern, without the knowledge of his father; and I was ordered by my
mistress to let him in silently to his bed under the counter, and to be
very careful to take away his candle. The hours which I was obliged to
watch, whilst the rest of the family was in bed, I considered as
supernumerary, and, having no business assigned for them, thought myself
at liberty to spend them my own way: I kept myself awake with a book,
and for some time liked my state the better for this opportunity of
reading. At last, the upper-maid found my book, and showed it to my
mistress, who told me, that wenches like me might spend their time
better; that she never knew any of the readers that had good designs in
their heads; that she could always find something else to do with her
time, than to puzzle over books; and did not like that such a fine lady
should sit up for her young master.

This was the first time that I found it thought criminal or dangerous to
know how to read. I was dismissed decently, lest I should tell tales,
and had a small gratuity above my wages.

I then lived with a gentlewoman of a small fortune. This was the only
happy part of my life. My mistress, for whom publick diversions were too
expensive, spent her time with books, and was pleased to find a maid who
could partake her amusements. I rose early in the morning, that I might
have time in the afternoon to read or listen, and was suffered to tell
my opinion, or express my delight. Thus fifteen months stole away, in
which I did not repine that I was born to servitude. But a burning fever
seized my mistress, of whom I shall say no more, than that her servant
wept upon her grave.

I had lived in a kind of luxury, which made me very unfit for another
place; and was rather too delicate for the conversation of a kitchen; so
that when I was hired in the family of an East-India director, my
behaviour was so different, as they said, from that of a common servant,
that they concluded me a gentlewoman in disguise, and turned me out in
three weeks, on suspicion of some design which they could not
comprehend.

I then fled for refuge to the other end of the town, where I hoped to
find no obstruction from my new accomplishments, and was hired under the
housekeeper in a splendid family. Here I was too wise for the maids, and
too nice for the footmen; yet I might have lived on without much
uneasiness, had not my mistress, the housekeeper, who used to employ me
in buying necessaries for the family, found a bill which I had made of
one day's expense. I suppose it did not quite agree with her own book,
for she fiercely declared her resolution, that there should be no pen
and ink in that kitchen but her own.

She had the justice, or the prudence, not to injure my reputation; and I
was easily admitted into another house in the neighbourhood, where my
business was to sweep the rooms and make the beds. Here I was, for some
time, the favourite of Mrs. Simper, my lady's woman, who could not bear
the vulgar girls, and was happy in the attendance of a young woman of
some education. Mrs. Simper loved a novel, though she could not read
hard words, and therefore, when her lady was abroad, we always laid hold
on her books. At last, my abilities became so much celebrated, that the
house-steward used to employ me in keeping his accounts. Mrs. Simper
then found out, that my sauciness was grown to such a height that nobody
could endure it, and told my lady, that there never had been a room well
swept, since Betty Broom came into the house.

I was then hired by a consumptive lady, who wanted a maid that could
read and write. I attended her four years, and though she was never
pleased, yet when I declared my resolution to leave her, she burst into
tears, and told me that I must bear the peevishness of a sick bed, and I
should find myself remembered in her will. I complied, and a codicil was
added in my favour; but in less than a week, when I set her gruel before
her, I laid the spoon on the left side, and she threw her will into the
fire. In two days she made another, which she burnt in the same manner,
because she could not eat her chicken. A third was made, and destroyed
because she heard a mouse within the wainscot, and was sure that I
should suffer her to be carried away alive. After this I was for some
time out of favour, but as her illness grew upon her, resentment and
sullenness gave way to kinder sentiments. She died, and left me five
hundred pounds; with this fortune I am going to settle in my native
parish, where I resolve to spend some hours every day in teaching poor
girls to read and write[1].

I am, Sir,
Your humble servant,

BETTY BROOM.
[1] Mrs. Gardiner, a pious, sensible, and charitable woman, for whom
Johnson entertained a high respect, is said to have afforded a hint
for the story of Betty Broom, from her zealous support of a Ladies'
Charity-school, confined to females. Boswell, vol.