genius, he may claim indulgence beyond mortals of the lower classes, and be excused for want of prudence, or neglect of virtue. Bacon, in his History of the Winds, after having 5 offered something to the imagination as desirable, often proposes lower advantages in its place to the reason as attainable. The same method may be sometimes pursued in moral endeavors which this philosopher has observed in natural inquiries; having first set positive 10 and absolute excellence before us, we may be pardoned though we sink down to humbler virtue, trying, however, to keep our point always in view, and struggling not to lose ground, though we cannot gain it. It is recorded of Sir Matthew Hale, that he for a 15 long time concealed the consecration of himself to the stricter duties of religion, lest by some flagitious and shameful action he should bring piety into disgrace. For the same reason it may be prudent for a writer, who apprehends that he shall not enforce his own maxims 20 by his domestic character to conceal his name, that he may not injure them. There are, indeed, a great number whose curiosity to gain a more familiar knowledge of successful writers is not so much prompted by an opinion of their power 25 to improve as to delight, and who expect from them not arguments against vice, or dissertations on temperance or justice, but flights of wit and sallies of pleasantry, or, at least, acute remarks, nice distinctions, justness of sentiment, and elegance of 30 diction. This expectation is, indeed, specious and probable, and yet, such is the fate of all human hopes, that it is very often frustrated, and those who raise admiration by their books, disgust by their company. A man of 35 letters for the most part spends in the privacies of study that season of life in which the manners are to be softened into ease, and polished into elegance; and, when he has gained knowledge enough to be respected, has neglected the minuter acts by which he might have pleased. When he enters life, if his temper be soft and timorous, he is diffident and bashful, from the knowledge of his defects; or if he was born with spirit 5 and resolution, he is ferocious and arrogant from the consciousness of his merit: he is either dissipated by the awe of company, and unable to recollect his reading and arrange his arguments; or he is hot and dogmatical, quick in opposition and tenacious in defense, disabled 10 by his own violence, and confused by his haste to triumph. The graces of writing and conversation are of different kinds, and though he who excels in one might have been, with opportunities and application, equally suc- 15 cessful in the other, yet as many please by extemporary talk, though utterly unacquainted with the more accurate method and more labored beauties which composition requires; so it is very possible that men wholly accustomed to works of study may be without that readi- 20 ness of conception and affluence of language always necessary to colloquial entertainment. They may want address to watch the hints which conversation offers for the display of their particular attainments, or they may be so much unfurnished with matter on common sub- 25 jects that discourse not professedly literary glides over them as heterogeneous bodies, without admitting their conceptions to mix in the circulation. A transition from an author's book to his conversation is too often like an entrance into a large city 30 after a distant prospect. Remotely, we see nothing but spires of temples and turrets of palaces, and imagine it the residence of splendor, grandeur, and magnificence; but, when we have passed the gates, we find it perplexed with narrow passages, disgraced with despicable 35 cottages, embarrassed with obstructions, and clouded with smoke. SIR: No. 16. SATURDAY, May 12, 1750 Multis dicendi copia torrens, Et sua mortifera est facundia Juv. 10. 9. Some who the depths of eloquence have found, In that unnavigable stream were drown'd.-DRYDEN. I AM the modest young man whom you favored with your advice in a late paper; and, as I am very far from suspecting that you foresaw the numberless in5 conveniencies which I have, by following it, brought upon myself, I will lay my condition open before you, for you seem bound to extricate me from the perplexities in which your counsel, however innocent in the intention, has contributed to involve me. 10 You told me, as you thought, to my comfort, that a writer might easily find means of introducing his genius to the world, for the 'presses of England were open.' This I have now fatally experienced; the press is, indeed, Noctes atque dies patet atri janua Ditis.-VIRG. The gates of hell are open night and day; The means of doing hurt to ourselves are always at hand. I immediately sent to a printer, and contracted with him for an impression of several thousands of my 20 pamphlet. While it was at the press, I was seldom absent from the printing-house, and continually urged the workmen to haste, by solicitations, promises, and rewards. From the day all other pleasures were excluded by the delightful employment of correcting the sheets; 25 and from the night sleep generally was banished by anticipations of the happiness which every hour was bringing nearer. At last the time of publication approached, and my heart beat with the raptures of an author. I was above all little precautions, and, in defiance of envy or of criticism, set my name upon the title, without sufficiently considering, that what has once passed the press 5 is irrevocable, and that though the printing-house may properly be compared to the infernal regions for the facility of its entrance, and the difficulty with which authors return from it, yet there is this difference, that a great genius can never return to his former state, by 10 a happy draught of the waters of oblivion. I am now, Mr. Rambler, known to be an author, and am condemned, irreversibly condemned, to all the miseries of high reputation. The first morning after publication my friends assembled about me; I presented 15 each, as is usual, with a copy of my book. They looked into the first pages, but were hindered by their admiration from reading further. The first pages are, indeed, very elaborate. Some passages they particularly dwelt upon, as more eminently beautiful than the rest; and 20 some delicate strokes, and secret elegancies, I pointed out to them, which had escaped their observation. I then begged of them to forbear their compliments, and invited them (I could do no less) to dine with me at a tavern. After dinner the book was resumed; but 25 their praises very often so much overpowered my modesty, that I was forced to put about the glass, and had often no means of repressing the clamors of their admiration, but by thundering to the drawer for another bottle. 30 Next morning another set of my acquaintance congratulated me upon my performance, with such importunity of praise, that I was again forced to obviate their civilities by a treat. On the third day, I had yet a greater number of applauders to put to silence in the 35 same manner; and, on the fourth, those whom I had entertained the first day came again, having, in the perusal of the remaining part of the book, discovered so many forcible sentences and masterly touches, that it was impossible for me to bear the repetition of their commendations. I therefore persuaded them once more 5 to adjourn to the tavern, and choose some other subject on which I might share in their conversation. But it was not in their power to withhold their attention from my performance, which had so entirely taken possession of their minds, that no entreaties of mine could change 10 their topic, and I was obliged to stifle, with claret, that praise which neither my modesty could hinder, nor my uneasiness repress. The whole week was thus spent in a kind of literary revel, and I have now found that nothing is so expensive 15 as great abilities, unless there is joined with them an insatiable eagerness of praise; for to escape from the pain of hearing myself exalted above the greatest names, dead and living, of the learned world, it has already cost me two hogsheads of port, fifteen gallons of arrack, 20 ten dozen of claret, and five and forty bottles of champagne. I was resolved to stay at home no longer, and therefore rose early and went to the coffee-house; but found that I had now made myself too eminent for happiness, 25 and that I was no longer to enjoy the pleasure of mixing, upon equal terms, with the rest of the world. As soon as I enter the room, I see part of the company raging with envy, which they endeavor to conceal, sometimes with the appearance of laughter, and sometimes 30 with that of contempt; but the disguise is such that I can discover the secret rancor of their hearts, and as envy is deservedly its own punishment, I frequently indulge myself in tormenting them with my presence. But though there may be some slight satisfaction 35 received from the mortification of my enemies, yet my benevolence will not suffer me to take any pleasure in the terrors of my friends. I have been cautious, since |