go away laughing.-Madam will stretch her courses. But in the morning she came and told small shanks in the entry; she will know theme that she had one trial more for me; Euphehouse again. At sunset the two first days I was told, that my lady would see me to-morrow, and on the third, that her woman stayed.

My week was now near its end, and I had no hopes of a place. My relation, who always laid upon me the blame of every miscarriage, told me that I must learn to humble myself, and that all great ladies had particular ways: that if I went on in that manner, she could not tell who would keep me; she had known many that had refused places, sell their clothes and beg in the

streets.

It was to no purpose that the refusal was declared by me to be never on my side; I was reasoning against interest and against stupidity; and therefore I comforted myself with the hope of succeeding better in my next attempt, and went to Mrs. Courtly, a very fine lady, who had routes at her house, and saw the best company in town.

mia wanted a maid, and perhaps I might do for her; for, like me, she must fall her crest, being forced to lay down her chariot upon the loss of half her fortune by bad securities, and with her way of giving her money to every body that pretended to want it, she could have little beforehand; therefore I might serve her; for, with all her fine sense, she must not pretend to be nice. I went immediately, and met at the door a young gentlewoman, who told me she had herself been hired that morning, but that she was ordered to bring any that offered up stairs. I was accordingly introduced to Euphemia, who, when I came in, laid down her book, and told me that she sent for me not to gratify an idle curiosity, but lest my disappointment might be made still more grating by incivility; that she was in pain to deny any thing, much more what was no favour; that she saw nothing in my appearance which did not make her wish for my company; but that another, whose claims might perhaps be equal, had come before me. The thought of being so near to such a place, and missing it, brought tears into my eyes, and my sobs hindered me from returning my acknowledgments. She rose up confused, and supposing by my concern that I was distressed, placed me by her, and made me tell her my story; which when she had heard, she put two guineas in my hand, ordering me to lodge near her, and make use of her table till she could provide for me. I am now under her protection, and know not how to show my gratitude better than by giving this account to the Rambler.

No. 13.]

ZOSIMA.

TUESDAY, MAY 1, 1750.
Commissumque teges, et vino tortus et ira. Hor.

And let not wine or anger wrest
Th' intrusted secret from your breast.-

FRANCIS.

I had not waited two hours before I was called up, and found Mr. Courtly and his lady at piquet, in the height of good humour. This I looked on as a favourable sign, and stood at the lower end of the room, in expectation of the common questions. At last Mr. Courtly called out, after a whisper, Stand facing the light, that one may see you. I changed my place and blushed. They frequently turned their eyes upon me, and seemed to discover many subjects of merriment; for at every look they whispered and laughed with the most violent agitations of delight. At last Mr. Courtly cried out, Is that colour your own, child?-Yes, says the lady, if she has not robbed the kitchen hearth.-This was so happy a conceit, that it renewed the storm of laughter, and they threw down their cards in hopes of better sport. The lady then called me to her, and began with an affected gravity to inquire what I could do? But first turn about, and let us see your fine shape. Well, what are you fit for, Mrs. Mum? You would find your tongue, I suppose, in the kitchen.-No, no, says Mr. Courtly, the girl's a good girl yet, but I am afraid a brisk young fellow, with fine tags on his shoulder- It is related by Quintus Curtius, that the PerCome, child, hold up your head; What! you sians always conceived an invincible contempt have stole nothing.-Not yet, says the lady, but of a man who had violated the laws of secrecy; she hopes to steal your heart quickly. Here for they thought that, however he might be dewas a laugh of happiness and triumph, prolong-ficient in the qualities requisite to actual exceled by the confusion which I could no longer re-lence, the negative virtues at least were in his press. At last the lady recollected herself: power, and though he perhaps could not speak Stole! no-but if I had her, I should watch her: well if he was to try, it was still easy for him not for that downcast eye-why cannot you look to speak. people in the face?-Steal! says her husband, she would steal nothing but, perhaps, a few ribands before they were left off by her lady.-Sir, answered I, why should you, by supposing me a thief, insult one from whom you have received no injury?-Insult! says the lady; are you come here to be a servant, you saucy baggage, and talk of insulting! What will this world come to, if a gentleman may not jest with a servant! Well, such servants! pray be gone, and see when you will have the honour to be so insulted again. Servants insulted!-a fine time !-Insulted! Get down stairs, you slut, or the footman shall insult

In forming this opinion of the easiness of secrecy, they seem to have considered it as opposed, not to treachery, but loquacity, and to have conceived the man whom they thus censured, not frighted by menaces to reveal, or bribed by promises to betray, but incited by the mere pleasure of talking, or some other motive equally trifling, to lay open his heart without reflection and to let whatever he knew slip from him, only for want of power to retain it. Whether, by their settled and avowed scorn of thoughtless talkers, the Persians were able to diffuse to any great extent the virtue of taciturnity, we are hindered by the distance of those times from being able to discover, there being very few memoirs remaining of the court of Persepolis, nor any distinct accounts handed down to us of their office

32

THE RAMBLER.

clerks, their ladies of the bed-chamber, their at- | are intrusted is always treachery, and treachery
torneys, their chamber-maids, or their footmen. for the most part combined with folly.
In these latter ages, though the old animosity
against a prattler is still retained, it appears
wholly to have lost its effect upon the conduct
of mankind; for secrets are so seldom kept, that
it may with some reason be doubted, whether
the ancients were not mistaken in their first
postulate, whether the quality of retention be so
generally bestowed, and whether a secret has
not some subtle volatility, by which it escapes
imperceptibly at the smallest vent, or some
power of fermentation, by which it expands it-
self so as to burst the heart that will not give
it way.

There have, indeed, been some enthusiastic and irrational zealots for friendship, who have maintained, and perhaps believed, that one friend has a right to all that is in possession of another; and that, therefore, it is a violation of kindness to exempt any secret from this boundless confidence. Accordingly, a late female minister of state* has been shameless enough to inform the world, that she used, when she wanted to extract any thing from her sovereign, to remind her of Montaigne's reasoning, who has determined, that to tell a secret to a friend is no breach of fidelity, because the number of persons trusted is not multiplied, a man and his friend being virtually the same.

Those that study either the body or the mind of man, very often find the most specious and That such a fallacy could be imposed upon pleasing theory falling under the weight of contrary experience; and, instead of gratifying their any human understanding, or that an author vanity by inferring effects from causes, they are could have advanced a position so remote from always reduced at last to conjecture causes from truth and reason, any other ways than as a deeffects. That it is easy to be secret, the specu- claimer, to show to what extent he could stretch latist can demonstrate in his retreat, and there- his imagination, and with what strength he fore thinks himself justified in placing confi- could press his principle, would scarcely have dence; the man of the world knows, that, whe-been credible, had not this lady kindly shown ther difficult or not, it is uncommon, and therefore finds himself rather inclined to search after the reason of this universal failure in one of the most important duties of society.

us how far weakness may be deluded, or indolence amused. But since it appears, that even this sophistry, has been able, with the help of a strong desire, to repose in quiet upon the underThe vanity of being known to be trusted with standing of another to mislead honest intentions, a secret, is generally one of the chief motives to and an understanding not contemptible, it may disclose it; for however absurd it may be not be superfluous to remark, that those things thought to boast an honour by an act which which are common among friends are only such shows that it was conferred without merit, yet as either possesses in his own right, and can Without this limitation, confidence most men seem rather inclined to confess the alienate or destroy without injury to any other want of virtue than of importance, and more person. willingly show their influence, though at the must run on without end, the second person expense of their probity, than glide through life may tell the secret to the third, upon the same with no other pleasure than the private con- principle as he received it from the first, and a sciousness of fidelity; which, while it is pre-third may hand it forward to a fourth, till at last served,must be without praise, except from the single person who tries and knows it.

There are many ways of telling a secret, by which a man exempts himself from the reproaches of his conscience, and gratifies his pride, without suffering himself to believe that he impairs his virtue. He tells the private affairs of his patron, or his friend, only to those from whom he would not conceal his own; he tells them to those who have no temptation to betray the trust, or with a denunciation of a certain forfeiture of his friendship, if he discovers that they become public.

Secrets are very frequently told in the first ar-
dour of kindness, or of love, for the sake of
proving, by so important a sacrifice, sincerity or
tenderness; but with this motive, though it be
strong in itself, vanity concurs, since every man
desires to be most esteemed by those whom he
loves, or with whom he converses, with whom
he
passes his hours of pleasure, and to whom he
retires from business and from care.

When the discovery of secrets is under consi-
deration, there is always a distinction carefully
to be made between our own and those of an-
other; those of which we are fully masters, as
they affect only our own interest, and those
which are reposited with us in trust, and involve
the happiness or convenience of such as we have
no right to expose to hazard. To tell our own
secrets is generally folly, but that folly is with-
out guilt; to communicate those with which we

it is told in the round of friendship to them from whom it was the first intention to conceal it.

The confidence which Caius has of the faithfulness of Titius is nothing more than an opinion which himself cannot know to be true, and which Claudius, who first tells his secret to Caius, may know to be false; and therefore the trust is transferred by Caius, if he reveal what has been told him, to one from whom the person originally concerned would have withheld it, and whatever may be the event, Caius has hazarded the happiness of his friend, without necessity and without permission, and has put that trust in the hand of fortune which was given only to virtue.

All the arguments upon which a man who is telling the private affairs of another may ground his confidence of security, he must upon reflection know to be uncertain, because he finds them without effect upon himself. When he is imagining that Titius will be cautious, from a regard to his interest, his reputation, or his duty, he ought to reflect that he is himself at that instant acting in opposition to all these reasons, and revealing what interest, reputation, and duty, direct him to conceal.

Every one feels that in his own case he should consider the man incapable of trust, who believed himself at liberty to tell whatever he knew to the

* Sarah, Dutchess of Marlborough.-C.
†That of Queen Anne.-C.

first whom he should conclude deserving of his own confidence; therefore Caius, in admitting Titius to the affairs imparted only to himself must know that he violates his faith, since he acts contrary to the intention of Claudius, to whom that faith was given. For promises of friendship are like all others, useless and vain, unless they are made in some known sense, adjusted and acknowledged by both parties.

character, and having preserved in a private and familiar interview, that reputation which his works had procured him.

Those whom the appearance of virtue, or the evidence of genius, have tempted to a nearer knowledge of the writer in whose performances they may be found, have indeed had frequent reason to repent their curiosity: the bubble that sparkled before them has become common water at the touch; the phantom of perfection has vanished when they wished to press it to their bosom. They have lost the pleasure of imagining how far humanity may be exalted, and, perhaps, felt themselves less inclined to toil up the steeps of virtue, when they observe those who seem best able to point the way, loitering below, as either afraid of the labour, or doubtful of the reward.

I am not ignorant that many questions may be started relating to the duty of secrecy, where the affairs are of public concern; where subsequent reasons may arise to alter the appearance and nature of the trust; that the manner in which the secret was told may change the degree of obligation, and that the principles upon which a man is chosen for a confidant may not always equally constrain him. But these scruples, if not too intricate, are of too extensive consideration It has long been the custom of the oriental mofor my present purpose, nor are they such as ge-narchs to hide themselves in gardens and palaces, nerally occur in common life; and though casu- to avoid the conversation of mankind, and to be istical knowledge be useful in proper hands, yet known to their subjects only by their edicts. The it ought by no means to be carelessly exposed, same policy is no less necessary to him that since most will use it rather to lull than to awak-writes, than to him that governs; for men would en their own consciences; and the threads of not more patiently submit to be taught than comreasoning, on which truth is suspended, are fre-manded, by one known to have the same follies quently drawn to such subtilty, that common eyes cannot perceive, and common sensibility cannot feel them.

The whole doctrine as well as practice of secrecy, is so perplexing and dangerous, that, next to him who is compelled to trust, I think him unhappy who is chosen to be trusted; for he is often involved in scruples without the liberty of calling in the help of any other understanding; he is frequently drawn into guilt under the appearance of friendship and honesty; and sometimes subjected to suspicion, by the treachery of others, who are engaged without his knowledge in the same schemes; for he that has one confidant has generally more, and when he is at last betrayed, is in doubt on whom he shall fix the

crime.

and weaknesses with themselves. A sudden intruder into the closet of an author would perhaps feel equal indignation with the officer, who having long solicited admission into the presence of Sardanapalus, saw him not consulting upon laws, inquiring into grievances, or modelling armies, but employed in feminine amusements, and directing the ladies in their work.

It is not difficult to conceive, however, that for many reasons a man writes much better than he lives. For without entering into refined speculations, it may be shown much easier to design than to perform. A man proposes his schemes of life in a state of abstraction and disengagement, exempt from the enticements of hope, the solicitations of affection, the importunities of appetite, or the depressions of fear, and is in the The rules therefore that I shall propose con- same state with him that teaches upon land the cerning secrecy, and from which I think it not art of navigation, to whom the sea is always safe to deviate, without long and exact delibera-smooth, and the wind always prosperous. tion, are-Never to solicit the knowledge of a The mathematicians are well acquainted with secret. Not willingly, nor without many limita- the difference between pure science, which has to tions, to accept such confidence when it is offer-do only with ideas, and the application of its ed. When a secret is once admitted, to consi- laws to the use of life, in which they are conder the trust as of a very high nature, important strained to submit to the imperfection of matter as society, and sacred as truth, and therefore not and the influence of accidents. Thus, in moral to be violated for any incidental convenience, or discussions, it is to be remembered, that many imslight appearance of contrary fitness. pediments obstruct our practice, which very easily give way to theory. The speculatist is only in danger of erroneous reasoning; but the man involved in life has his own passions and those of others to encounter, and is embarrassed with a thousand inconveniences which confound him with variety of impulse, and either perplex or obstruct his way. He is forced to act without deliberation, and obliged to choose before he can examine; he is surprised by sudden alterations of the state of things, and changes his measures according to superficial appearances; he is led by others, either because he is indolent, or because he is timorous; he is sometimes afraid to know what is right, and sometimes finds friends or enemies diligent to deceive him.

No. 14.]

SATURDAY, MAY 5, 1750.

Nil fuit unquam

Sic impar Sibi

Sure such a various creature ne'er was known.

HOR.

FRANCIS.

AMONG the many inconsistencies which folly produces, or infirmity suffers, in the human mind, there has often been observed a manifest and striking contrariety between the life of an author and his writings; and Milton, in a letter to a learned stranger, by whom he had been visited, with great reason congratulates himself upon the consciousness of being found equal to his own

E

We are, therefore, not to wonder that most fail, amidst tumult, and snares, and danger, in the observance of those precepts, which they lay

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.

down in solitude, safety, and tranquillity, with a | excellence before us, we may be pardoned though mind unbiassed, and with liberty unobstructed. It is the condition of our present state to see more than we can attain; the exactest vigilance and caution can never maintain a single day of unmingled innocence, much less can the utmost efforts of incorporated mind reach the summits of speculative virtue.

It is, however, necessary for the idea of perfection to be proposed, that we may have some object to which our endeavours are to be directed; and he that is the most deficient in the duties of life, makes some atonement for his faults, if he warns others against his own failings, and hinders, by the salubrity of his admonitions, the contagion of his example.

Nothing is more unjust, however common, than to charge with hypocrisy him that expresses zeal for those virtues which he neglects to practise; since he may be sincerely convinced of the advantages of conquering his passions, without having yet obtained the victory, as a man may be confident of the advantages of a voyage, or a journey, without having courage or industry to undertake it, and may honestly recommend to others those attempts which he neglects himself. The interest which the corrupt part of mankind have in hardening themselves against every motive to amendment, has disposed them to give to these contradictions, when they can be produced against the cause of virtue, that weight which they will not allow them in any other case. They see men act in opposition to their interest, without supposing that they do not know it; those who give way to the sudden violence of passion, and forsake the most important pursuits for petty pleasures, are not supposed to have changed their opinions, or to approve their own conduct. In moral or religious questions alone, they determine the sentiments by the actions, and charge every man with endeavouring to impose upon the world, whose writings are not confirmed by his life. They never consider that themselves neglect or practise something every day inconsistently with their own settled judgment, nor discover that the conduct of the advocates for virtue can little increase or lessen the obligations of their dictates; argument is to be invalidated only by argument, and is in itself of the same force, whether or not it convinces him by whom it is proposed.

Yet since this prejudice, however unreasonable, is always likely to have some prevalence, it is the duty of every man to take care lest he should hinder the efficacy of his own instructions. When he desires to gain the belief of others, he should show that he believes himself; and when he teaches the fitness of virtue by his reasonings, he should, by his example, prove its possibility. Thus much at least may be required of him, that he shall not act worse than others, because he writes better; nor imagine that, by the merit of his 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 offered something to the imagination as desirable, often proposes lower advantages in its place to the reason as attainable. The same method may be sometime pursued in moral endeavours, which this philosopher has observed in natural inquiries; having first set positive and absolute

It is recorded of Sir Matthew Hale, that he, for a long time, concealed the consecration of himself to the stricter duties of religion, lest, by some flagitious and shameful actions, 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 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 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 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 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 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 defence, disabled 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 successful in the other, yet as many please, by extemporary talk, though utterly unacquainted with the more accurate method, and more laboured beauties, which composition requires; so it is very possible that men, wholly accustomed to works of study, may be without that readiness 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 subjects, 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 large city, after a distant prospect. Remotely, we see nothing but spires of temples and turrets of palaces, and imagine it the residence of splendour, grandeur and magnificence; but, when we have passed the gates, we find it perplexed with narrow passages, disgraced with despicable cottages, embarrassed with obstructions, and cloudwith smoke.