In all the parts of human knowledge, whether
terminating in science merely speculative, or operating upon life, private
or civil, are admitted some
fundamental principles, or common axioms,
which, being generally received, are little doubted, and, being little
doubted, have been rarely proved.
Of these gratuitous and acknowledged truths,
it is often the fate to become less evident by endeavours to explain them,
however necessary such
endeavours may be made by the misapprehensions
of absurdity, or the sophistries of interest. It is difficult to prove
the principles of science; because
notions cannot always be found more intelligible
than those which are questioned. It is difficult to prove the principles
of practice, because they have, for
the most part, not been discovered by investigation,
but obtruded by experience; and the demonstrator will find, after an operose
deduction, that he has
been trying to make that seen, which can be
only felt.
Of this kind is the position, that "the supreme
power of every community has the right of requiring, from all its subjects,
such contributions as are necessary
to the publick safety or publick prosperity,"
which was considered, by all mankind, as comprising the primary and essential
condition of all political society,
till it became disputed by those zealots of
anarchy, who have denied, to the parliament of Britain the right of taxing
the American colonies.
......
That our commerce with America is profitable, however less than ostentatious
or deceitful estimates have made it, and that it is our interest to preserve
it,
has never been denied; but, surely, it will
most effectually be preserved, by being kept always in our own power. Concessions
may promote it for a
moment, but superiority only can ensure its
continuance. There will always be a part, and always a very large part
of every community, that have no care
but for themselves, and whose care for themselves
reaches little further than impatience of immediate pain, and eagerness
for the nearest good. The blind
are said to feel with peculiar nicety. They
who look but little into futurity, have, perhaps, the quickest sensation
of the present. A merchant's desire is not of
glory, but of gain; not of publick wealth,
but of private emolument; he is, therefore, rarely to be consulted about
war and peace, or any designs of wide
extent and distant consequence.
Yet this, like other general characters, will
sometimes fail. The traders of Birmingham have rescued themselves from
all imputation of narrow selfishness,
by a manly recommendation to parliament of
the rights and dignity of their native country.
To these men I do not intend to ascribe an
absurd and enthusiastick contempt of interest, but to give them the rational
and just praise of distinguishing real
from seeming good; of being able to see through
the cloud of interposing difficulties, to the lasting and solid happiness
of victory and settlement.
Lest all these topicks of persuasion should
fail, the greater actor of patriotism has tried another, in which terrour
and pity are happily combined, not without
a proper superaddition of that admiration
which latter ages have brought into the drama. The heroes of Boston, he
tells us, if the stamp act had not been
repealed, would have left their town, their
port, and their trade, have resigned the splendour of opulence, and quitted
the delights of neighbourhood, to
disperse themselves over the country, where
they would till the ground, and fish in the rivers, and range the mountains,
and be free.
These, surely, are brave words. If the mere
sound of freedom can operate thus powerfully, let no man, hereafter, doubt
the story of the Pied Piper. The
removal of the people of Boston into the country,
seems, even to the congress, not only difficult in its execution, but important
in its consequences. The
difficulty of execution is best known to the
Bostonians themselves; the consequence alas! will only be, that they will
leave good houses to wiser men.
Yet, before they quit the comforts of a warm
home, for the sound of something which they think better, he cannot be
thought their enemy who advises
them, to consider well whether they shall
find it. By turning fishermen or hunters, woodmen or shepherds, they may
become wild, but it is not so easy to
conceive them free; for who can be more a
slave than he that is driven, by force, from the comforts of life, is compelled
to leave his house to a casual
comer, and, whatever he does, or where ever
he wanders, finds, every moment, some new testimony of his own subjection?
If choice of evil be freedom,
the felon in the galleys has his option of
labour or of stripes. The Bostonian may quit his house to starve in the
fields; his dog may refuse to set, and smart
under the lash, and they may then congratulate
each other upon the smiles of liberty, "profuse of bliss, and pregnant
with delight."
.....
But Columbus came five or six hundred years too late for the candidates
of sovereignty. When he formed his project of discovery, the fluctuations
of
military turbulence had subsided, and Europe
began to regain a settled form, by established government and regular subordination.
No man could any longer
erect himself into a chieftain, and lead out
his fellow-subjects, by his own authority, to plunder or to war. He that
committed any act of hostility, by land or
sea, without the commission of some acknowledged
sovereign, was considered, by all mankind, as a robber or pirate, names
which were now of little
credit, and of which, therefore, no man was
ambitious.
Columbus, in a remoter time, would have found
his way to some discontented lord, or some younger brother of a petty sovereign,
who would have taken
fire at his proposal, and have quickly kindled,
with equal beat, a troop of followers: they would have built ships, or
have seized them, and have wandered
with him, at all adventures, as far as they
could keep hope in their company. But the age being now past of vagrant
excursion and fortuitous hostility, he
was under the necessity of travelling from
court to court, scorned and repulsed as a wild projector, an idle promiser
of kingdoms in the clouds; nor has any
part of the world yet had reason to rejoice
that he found, at last, reception and employment.
In the same year, in a year hitherto disastrous
to mankind, by the Portuguese was discovered the passage of the Indies,
and by the Spaniards the coast of
America. The nations of Europe were fired
with Boundless expectations, and the discoverers, pursuing their enterprise,
made conquests in both
hemispheres of wide extent. But the adventurers
were not contented with plunder: though they took gold and silver to themselves,
they seized islands and
kingdoms in the name of their sovereigns.
When a new region was gained, a governour was appointed by that power,
which had given the commission to
the conqueror; nor have I met with any European,
but Stukely, of London, that formed a design of exalting himself in the
newly found countries to
independent dominion.
To secure a conquest, it was always necessary
to plant a colony, and territories, thus occupied and settled, were rightly
considered, as mere extensions, or
processes of empire; as ramifications which,
by the circulation of one publick interest, communicated with the original
source of dominion, and which were
kept flourishing and spreading by the radical
vigour of the mother-country.
The colonies of England differ no otherwise
from those of other nations, than as the English constitution differs from
theirs. All government is ultimately
and essentially absolute, but subordinate
societies may have more immunities, or individuals greater liberty, as
the operations of government are differently
conducted. An Englishman in the common course
of life and action feels no restraint.
....
That slavery is a miserable state we have been often told, and, doubtless,
many a Briton will tremble to find it so near as in America; but bow it
will be
brought hither the congress must inform us.
The question might distress a common understanding; but the statesmen of
the other hemisphere can easily
resolve it. "Our ministers," they say, "are
our enemies, and if they should carry the point of taxation, may, with
the same army, enslave us. It may be said,
we will not pay them; but remember," say the
western sages, "the taxes from America, and, we may add, the men, and particularly
the Roman catholicks
of this vast continent, will then be in the
power of your enemies. Nor have you any reason to expect, that, after making
slaves of us, many of us will refuse
to assist in reducing you to the same abject
state."
These are dreadful menaces; but suspecting
that they have not much the sound of probability, the congress proceeds:
"Do not treat this as chimerical.
Know, that in less than half a century, the
quitrents reserved to the crown, from the numberless grants of this vast
continent, will pour large streams of
wealth into the royal coffers. If to this
be added the power of taxing America, at pleasure, the crown will possess
more treasure than may be necessary to
purchase the remains of liberty in your island."
All this is very dreadful; but, amidst the
terrour that shakes my frame, I cannot forbear to wish, that some sluice
were opened for these streams of
treasure. I should gladly see America return
half of what England has expended in her defence; and of the stream that
will "flow so largely in less than half
a century," I hope a small rill, at least,
may be found to quench the thirst of the present generation, which seems
to think itself in more danger of wanting
money, than of losing liberty.
...
"We are the acknowledged descendants of the earliest inhabitants of
Britain, of men, who, before the time of history, took possession of the
island desolate
and waste, and, therefore, open to the first
occupants. Of this descent, our language is a sufficient proof, which,
not quite a century ago, was different from
yours.
...
Dr. Johnson's Rambler #60
October 13, 1750
Samuel Johnson
Quid sit pulcrum, quid turpe, quid utile, quid non,
Plenius ac melius Chrysippo et Crantore dicit.
HORACE
Whose works the beautiful and base contain,
Of vice and virtue more instructive rules
Than all the sober sages of the schools.
FRANCIS
All joy or sorrow for the happiness or calamities
of others is produced by an act of the imagination, that realizes the event
however fictitious, or approximates it however
remote, by placing us, for a time, in the condition of him whose fortunes
we
contemplate; so that we feel, while the deception
lasts, whatever emotions would be excited by the same good or evil
happening to ourselves.
Our passions are therefore more strongly moved,
in proportion as we can more readily adopt the pains or pleasure proposed
to our minds, by recognising them as once
our own, or considering them as naturally incident to our state of life.
It is not easy
for the most artful writer to give us an interest
in happiness or misery, which we think ourselves never likely to feel,
and with
which we have never yet been made acquainted.
Histories of the downfall of kingdoms and revolutions of empires are read
with great tranquillity; the imperial tragedy
pleases common auditors only by its pomp of ornaments and grandeur of ideas;
and the man whose faculties have been engrossed
by business, and whose heart never fluttered but at the rise or fall of
stocks, wonders how the attention can be seized
or the affection agitated by a tale of love.
Those parallel circumstances and kindred images
to which we readily conform our minds are, above all other writings, to
be
found in the narratives of the lives of particular
persons; and therefore no species of writing seems more worthy of cultivation
than biography, since none can be more delightful
or more useful, none can more certainly enchain the heart by irresistible
interest, or more widely diffuse instruction
to every diversity of condition.
The general and rapid narratives of history,
which involve a thousand fortunes in the business of a day, and complicate
innumerable incidents in one great transaction,
afford few lessons applicable to private life, which derives its comforts
and its
wretchedness from the right or wrong management
of things, which nothing but their frequency makes considerable. Parva
si
non fiunt quotidie, says Pliny, and which
can have no place in those relations which never descend below the consultations
of
senates, the motions of armies, and the schemes
of conspirators.
I have often thought that there has rarely
passed a life of which a judicious and faithful narrative would not be
useful; for not
only every man has, in the mighty mass of
the world, great numbers in the same condition with himself, to whom his
mistakes
and miscarriages, escapes and expedients,
would be of immediate and apparent use; but there is such a uniformity
in the state
of man, considered apart from adventitious
and separable decorations and disguises, that there is scarce any possibility
of
good or ill but is common to human kind. A
great part of the time of those who are placed at the greatest distance
by fortune
or by temper must unavoidably pass in the
same manner; and though, when the claims of nature are satisfied, caprice
and
vanity and accident begin to produce discriminations
and peculiarities, yet the eye is not very heedful or quick which cannot
discover the same causes still terminating
their influence in the same effect, though sometimes accelerated, sometimes
retarded, or perplexed by multiplied combinations.
We are all prompted by the same motives, all deceived by the same
fallacies, all animated by hope, obstructed
by danger, entangled by desire, and seduced by pleasure.
It is frequently objected to relations of particular
lives, that they are not distinguished by any striking or wonderful
vicissitudes. The scholar who passed his life
among his books, the merchant who conducted only his own affairs, the priest
whose sphere of action was not extended beyond
that of his duty, are considered as no proper objects of public regard,
however they might have excelled in their
several stations, whatever might have been their learning, integrity, and
piety. But
this notion arises from false measures of
excellence and dignity, and must be eradicated by considering that, in
the esteem of
uncorrupted reason, what is of most use is
of most value.
It is, indeed, not improper to take honest
advantages of prejudice, and to gain attention by a celebrated name; but
the business
of the biographer is often to pass slightly
over those performances and incidents which produce vulgar greatness, to
lead the
thoughts into domestic privacies, and display
the minute details of daily life, where exterior appendages are cast aside,
and
men excel each other only by prudence and
by virtue. The account of Thuanus is, with great propriety, said by its
author to
have been written that it might lay open to
posterity the private and familiar character of that man, cujus ingenium
et
candorem ex ipsius scriptis sunt olim semper
miraturi, whose candour and genius will to the end of time be by his writings
preserved in admiration.
There are many invisible circumstances which,
whether we read as inquirers after natural or moral knowledge, whether
we
intend to enlarge our science or increase
our virtue, are more important than public occurrences. Thus Salust, the
great master
of nature, has not forgot, in his account
of Catiline, to remark that his walk has now gone quick, and again slow,
as an
indication of a mind revolving something with
violent commotion. Thus the story of Melancthon affords a striking lecture
on
the value of time, by informing us that, when
he made an appointment, he expected not only the hour but the minute to
be
fixed, that the day might not run out in the
idleness of suspense; and all the plans and enterprises of De Wit are now
of less
importance to the world than that part of
his personal character which represents him as careful of his health, and
negligent
of his life.
But biography has often been allotted to writers
who seem very little acquainted with the nature of their task, or very
negligent
about the performance. They rarely afford
any other account than might be collected from public papers, but imagine
themselves writing a life when they exhibit
a chronological series of actions or preferments; and so little regard
the manners or
behaviour of their heroes that more knowledge
may be gained of a man's real character, by a short conversation with one
of
his servants, than from a formal and studied
narrative, begun with his pedigree and ended with his funeral.
If, now and then, they condescend to inform
the world of particular facts, they are not always so happy as to select
the most
important. I know not well what advantage
posterity can receive from the only circumstance by which Tickell has
distinguished Addison from the rest of mankind,
the irregularity of the pulse: nor can I think myself overpaid for the
time
spent in reading Malherb, by being enabled
to relate, after the learned biographer, that Malherb had two predominant
opinions; one, that the looseness of a single
woman might destroy all her boast of ancient descent; the other, that the
French
beggars made use very improperly and barbarously
of the phrase noble Gentleman, because either word included the sense of
both.
There are, indeed, some natural reasons why
these narratives are often written by such as were not likely to give much
instruction or delight, and why most accounts
of particular persons are barren and useless. If a life be delayed till
interest and
envy are at an end, we may hope for impartiality,
but must expect little intelligence; for the incidents which give excellence
to
biography are of a volatile and evanescent
kind, such as soon escape the memory, and are rarely transmitted by tradition.
We
know how few can portray a living acquaintance,
except by his most prominent and observable peculiarities, and the grosser
features of his mind; and it may be easily
imagined how much of this little knowledge may be lost in imparting it,
and how
soon a succession of copies will lose all
resemblance of the original.
If the biographer writes from personal knowledge,
and makes haste to gratify the public curiosity, there is danger lest his
interest, his fear, his gratitude, or his
tenderness overpower his fidelity, and tempt him to conceal, if not to
invent. There are
many who think it an act of piety to hide
the faults or failings of their friends, even when they can no longer suffer
by their
detection; we therefore see whole ranks of
characters adorned with uniform panegyric, and not to be known from one
another
but by extrinsic and casual circumstances.
"Let me remember," says Hale, "when I find myself inclined to pity a criminal,
that
there is likewise a pity due to the country."
If we owe regard to the memory of the dead, there is yet more respect to
be paid
to knowledge, to virtue, and to truth.
The Plan of an English Dictionary (1747)
By Samuel Johnson
TO THE RIGHT HONOUBABLE PHILIP DORMER, EARL OF CHESTERFIELD, One of his Majesty's principal Secretaries of State.
MY LORD,
WHEN first I undertook to write an English Dictionary, I had no expectation of any higher patronage than that of the proprietors of the copy, nor prospect of any other advantage than the price of my labour. I knew that the work in which I engaged is generally considered as drudgery for the blind, as the proper toil of artless industry; a task that requires neither the light of learning, nor the activity of genius, but may be successfully performed without any higher quality than that of bearing burdens with dull patience, and beating the track of the alphabet with sluggish resolution.
Whether this opinion, so long transmitted, and so widely propagated,
had its beginning from truth and nature, or from accident and prejudice;
whether it be decreed by the authority of reason or the tyranny of ignorance,
that, of all the candidates for literary praise, the unhappy lexicographer
holds the lowest place, neither vanity nor interest incited me to inquire.
It appeared that the province allotted me was, of all the regions of learning,
generally confessed to be the least delightful, that it was believed to
produce neither fruits nor flowers; and that, after a long and laborious
cultivation, not even the barren laurel had been found upon it.
......
When I survey the Plan which I have laid before you, I cannot, my Lord,
but confess, that I am frighted at its extent, and, like the soldiers of
Cæsar, look on Britain as a new world, which it is almost madness
to invade. But I hope, that though I should not complete the conquest,
I shall, at least, discover the coast, civilize part of the inhabitants,
and make it easy for some other adventurer to proceed further, to reduce
them wholly to subjection, and settle them under laws.
We are taught by the great Roman orator, that every man should propose to himself the highest degree of excellence, but that he may stop with honour at the second or third: though, therefore, my performance should fall below the excellence of other dictionaries, I may obtain, at least, the praise of having endeavoured well; nor shall I think it any reproach to my diligence, that I have retired without a triumph, from a contest with united academies, and long successions of learned compilers. I cannot hope, in the warmest moments, to preserve so much caution through so long a work, as not often to sink into negligence, or to obtain so much knowledge of all its parts, as not frequently to fail by ignorance. I expect that sometimes the desire of accuracy will urge me to superfluities, and sometimes the fear of prolixity betray me to omissions; that in the extent of such variety, I shall be often bewildered, and, in the mazes of such intricacy, be frequently entangled; that in one part refinement will be subtilized beyond exactness, and evidence dilated in another beyond perspicuity. Yet I do not despair of approbation from those who, knowing the uncertainty of conjecture, the scantiness of knowledge, the fallibility of memory, and the unsteadiness of attention, can compare the causes of errour with the means of avoiding it, and the extent of art with the capacity of man: and whatever be the event of my endeavours, I shall not easily regret an attempt, which has procured me the honour of appearing thus publickly.
MY LORD,
Your Lordship's most obedient,
and most humble servant,
SAM. JOHNSON.
Dr. Johnson's letter to Early Chesterfield: the end of literary patronage!
"TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD.
"February 7, 1755.
"MY LORD,
"I HAVE been lately informed, by the proprietor
of the World, that two papers, in which my Dictionary is recommended to
the publick, were written
by your Lordship. To be so distinguished,
is an honour, which, being very little accustomed to favours from the great,
I know not well how to receive,
or in what terms to acknowledge.
"When, upon some slight encouragement, I first
visited your Lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by
the enchantment of your
address, and could not forbear to wish that
I might boast myself Le vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre; -- that I might
obtain that regard for which I
saw the world contending; but I found my attendance
so little encouraged, that neither pride nor modesty would suffer me to
continue it. When I had
once addressed your Lordship in publick, I
had exhausted all the art of pleasing which a retired and uncourtly scholar
can possess. I had done all that I
could; and no man is well pleased to have
his all neglected, be it ever so little.
"Seven years, my Lord, have now past, since
I waited in your outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door; during
which time I have been pushing
on my work through difficulties, of which
it is useless to complain, and have brought it, at last, to the verge of
publication, without one act of
assistance,2 one word of encouragement, or
one smile of favour. Such treatment I did not expect, for I never had a
Patron before.
"The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted with Love, and found him a native of the rocks.
"Is not a Patron, my Lord, one who looks with
unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reached
ground, encumbers him
with help? The notice which you have been
pleased to take of my labours, had it been early, had been kind; but it
has been delayed till I am indifferent,
and cannot enjoy it; till I am solitary, and
cannot impart it;3 till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no
very cynical asperity, not to confess
obligations where no benefit has been received,
or to be unwilling that the Publick should consider me as owing that to
a Patron, which Providence has
enabled me to do for myself.
"Having carried on my work thus far with so
little obligation to any favourer of learning, I shall not be disappointed
though I should conclude it, if less be
possible, with less; for I have been long
wakened from that dream of hope, in which I once boasted myself with so
much exultation,
"My Lord,
"Your Lordship's most humble
"Most obedient servant,
"SAM. JOHNSON."