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N° 102. SATURDAY, MARCH 29, 1760.
IT very seldom happens to man that his business is his pleasure. What is done from necessity is so often to be done when against the present inclinátion, and so often fills the mind with anxiety, that an habitual dislike steals upon us, and we shrink involuntarily from the remembrance of our task. This is the reason why almost every one wishes to quit his employment; he does not like another state, but is disgusted with his own.
From this unwillingness to perform more than is required of that which is commonly performed with reluctance, it proceeds that few authors write their own lives. Statesmen, courtiers, ladies, generals, and seamen, have given to the world their own stories, and the events with which their different stations have made them acquainted. They retired to the closet as to a place of quiet and amusement, and pleased themselves with writing, because they could lay down the pen whenever they were weary. But the author, however conspicuous, or however important, either in the public eye or in his own, leaves his life to be related by his successors, for he cannot gratify his vanity but by sacrificing his
It is commonly supposed that the uniformity of a studious life affords no matter for narration: but the truth is, that of the most studious life a great part passes without study. An author partakes of the common condition of humanity; he is born and married like another man; he has hopes
and fears, expectations and disappointments, grief and joys, and friends and enemies, like a courtier o a statesman; nor can I conceive why his affair should not excite curiosity as much as the whispe of a drawing-room, or the factions of a camp.
Nothing detains the reader's attention more pow erfully than deep involutions of distress, or suddei vicissitudes of fortune; and these might be abun dantly afforded by memoirs of the sons of literature They are intangled by contracts which they knov not how to fulfil, and obliged to write on subject which they do not understand. Every publication i a new period of time, from which some increase o declension of fame is to be reckoned. The grada tions of a hero's life are from battle to battle, and o an author's from book to book.
Success and miscarriage have the same effects in all conditions. The prosperous are feared, hated and flattered; and the unfortunate avoided, pitied and despised. No sooner is a book published thai the writer may judge of the opinion of the world If his acquaintance press round him in public places or salute him from the other side of the street; i invitations to dinner come thick upon him, an those with whom he dines keep him to supper; i the ladies turn to him when his coat is plain, anı the footmen serve him with attention and alacrity
may be sure that his work has been praised b; some leader of literary fashions.
Of declining reputation the symptoms are no less easily observed. If the author enters a coffee house, he has a box to himself; if he calls at : bookseller's, the boy turns his back; and, what i the most fatal of all prognostics, authors will visi him in a morning, and talk to him hour after hou of the malevolence of critics, the neglect of me
rit, the bad taste of the age, and the cảndour of posterity.
All this, modified and varied by accident and custom, would form very amusing scenes of biography, and might recreate many a mind which is very little delighted with conspiracies or battles, intrigues of a court, or debates of a parliament; to this might be added all the changes of the countenance of a patron, traced from the first glow which flattery raises in his cheek, through ardour of fondness, vehemence of promise, magnificence of praise, excuse of delay, and lamentation of inability, to the last chill look of final dismission, when the one grows weary of soliciting, and the other of hearing solicitation.
Thus copious are the materials which have been hitherto suffered to lie neglected, while the repositories of every family that has produced a soldier or a minister are ransacked, and libraries are crowded with useless folios of state papers which will never be read, and which contribute nothing to valuable knowledge.
I hope the learned will be taught to know their own strength and their value, and, instead of devoting their lives to the honour of those who seldom thank them for their labours, resolve at last to do justice to themselves.
N° 103. SATURDAY, APRIL 5, 1760.
Respicere ad longa jussit spatia ultima vitæ.
Much of the pain and pleasure of mankind arises from the conjectures which every one makes of the thoughts of others; we all enjoy praise which we do not hear, and resent contempt which we do not see. The Idler may therefore be forgiven, if he suffers his imagination to represent to him what his readers will say or think when they are informed that they have now his last paper in their hands.
Value is more frequently raised by scarcity than by use. That which lay neglected when it was common, rises in estimation as its quantity becomes lesse We seldom learn the true want of what we have, till it is discovered that we can have no more.
This essay will, perhaps, be read with care even by those who have not yet attended to any other; and he that finds this late attention recompensed, will not forbear to wish that he had bestowed it
Though the Idler and his readers have contracted no close friendship, they are perhaps both unwilling to part. There are few things not purely evil, of which we can say, without some emotion of uneasiness, this is the last. Those who never could
agree together, shed tears when mutual discontent has determined them to final separation; of a place which has been frequently visited, though without pleasure, the last look is taken with heaviness of heart; and the
Idler, with all his chillness of tranquillity, is not wholly unaffected by the thought that his last essay is now before him.
This secret horror of the last is inseparable from a thinking being, whose life is limited, and to whom
ath is dreadful. We always make a secret comparison between a part and the whole; the termination of any period of life reminds us that life itself has likewise its termination; when we have done any. thing for the last time, we involuntarily reflect that a part of the days allotted us is past, and that as more are past there are less remaining.
It is very happily and kindly provided, that in every life there are certain pauses and interruptions, which force consideration upon the careless, and seriousness upon the light; points of time where one course of action end, and another begins; and by vicissitudes of fortune, or alteration of employment, by change of place or loss of friendship, we are forced to say of something, this is the last.
An even and unvaried tenour of life always hides from our apprehension the approach of its end. Succession is not perceived but by variation; he that lives to-day as he lived yesterday, and expects that as the present day is, such will be the morrow, easily conceives time as running in a circle and returning to itself. The uncertainty of our duration is impressed commonly by dissimilitude of condition; it is only by finding life changeable that we are reminded of its shortness.
This conviction, liowever forcible at every new impression, is every moment fading from the mind; and partly by the inevitable incursion of new images, and partly by voluntary exclusion of unwelcome thoughts, we are again exposed to the universal fallacy; and we must do another thing for the last time, before we consider that the time is nigh when, we shall do no more,