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are forgotten. For the degeneracy of human life ' is such, that our anger is more easily transferred 6 to our children than our love. Love always gives ( something to the object it delights in, and anger
spoils the person against whom it is moved of something laudable in him : from this degeneracy there• fore, and a sort of self-love, we are more prone to • take up the ill-will of our parents, than to follow them in their friendships.
"One would think there should need no more to " make men keep up this sort of relation with the • utmost sanctity, than to examine their own hearts. • If every father remembered his own thoughts and ( inclinations when he was a son, and every son re
membered what he expected from his father, when • he himself was in a state of dependence, this one • reflection would preserve men from being dissolute oor rigid in these several capacities. The power
and subjection between them, when broken, make • them more emphatically tyrants and rebels against • each other, with greater cruelty of heart, than the • disruption of states and empires can possibly pro• duce. I shall end this application to you with two
letters which passed between a mother and son very • lately, and are as follows.
6 DEAR FRANK,
• IF the pleasures, which I have the grief to • hear you pursue in town, do not take up all your time, do not deny your mother so much of it, as to read seriously this letter. You said before Mr. • Letacre, that an old woman might live very well in
the country upon half my jointure, and that your • father was a fond fool to give me a rent-charge of
eight hundred a year to the prejudice of his son. " What Letacre said to you upon that occasion, you
ought to have borne with more decency, as he was your father's well-beloved servant, than to have
called him country-put. In the first place, Frank,
I WILL come down to-morrow and pay
the money on my knees. Pray write so no more. I will take care you never shall, for I will be for ever
Your most dutiful son,
I will bring down new heads for my sisters. Pray "let all be forgotten.'
No. CCLXIV. WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 2.
.......... Secretum iter & fallentis semita vitae.
............ Close retirement, and a life by stealth.
IT has been from age to age an affectation to love the pleasure of solitude, among those who cannot possibly be supposed qualified for passing life in that manner. This people have taken up from reading the many agreeable things which have been writ on that subject, for which we are beholden to excellent persons who delighted in being retired and abstracted from the pleasures that enchant the generality of the world. This way of life is recommended indeed with great beauty, and in such a manner as disposes the reader for the time to a pleasing forgetfulness, or negligence of the particular hurry of life in which he is engaged, together with a longing for that state which he is charmed with in description. But when we consider the world itself, and how few there are capable of a religious, learned, or philosophic solitude, we shall be apt to change a regard to that sort of solitude, for being a little singular in enjoying time after the way a man himself likes best in the world, without going so far as wholly to withdraw from it. I have often observed, there is not a man breathing who does not differ from all other men, as much in the sentiments of his mind, as the features of his face. The felicity is, when any one is so happy as to find out and follow what is the proper bent of his genius, and turn all his endeavours to exert himself according as that prompts him. Instead of this, which is an innocent method of enjoying a man's self, and turning out of the general tracks wherein you have crowds of rivals, there are those who pursue their own way out of a sourness
and spirit of contradiction : these men do every thing which they are able to support, as if guilt and impunity could not go together. They choose a thing only because another dislikes it; and affect forsooth an inviolable constancy in matters of no manner of moment. Thus sometimes an old fel. low shall wear this or that sort of cut in his clothes with great integrity, while all the rest of the world are degenerated into buttons, pockets, and loops unknown to their ancestors. As insignificant as even this is, if it were searched to the bottom, you perhaps would find it not sincere, but that he is in the fashion in his heart, and holds out from mere obstinacy. But I am running from my intended purpose, which was to celebrate a certain particular manner of passing away life, and is a contradiction to no man, but a resolution to contract none of the exorbitant desires by which others are enslaved. The best way of separating a man's self from the world, is to give up the desire of being known to it. After a man has preserved his innocence, and performed all the duties incumbent upon him, his time spent his own way is what makes his life differ from that of a slave. If they who affect show and pomp knew how many of their spectators derided their trivial taste, they would be very much less elated, and have an inclination to examine the inerit of all they have to do with : they would soon find out that there are many who make a figure below what their fortune or merit entities them to, out of mere choice, and an elegant desire of ease and disincumbrance. It would look like a romance to tell you in this age, of an old man who is contented to pass for an humourist, and one who does not understand the figure he ought to make in the world, while he lives in a lodging of ten shillings a week with only one servant: while he dresses himself according to the season in cloth or in stuff, and has
no one necessary attention to any thing but the bell which calls to prayers twice a day. I say it would look like a fable to report that this gentleman gives away all which is the overplus of a great fortune, by secret methods, to other men. If he has not the pomp of a numerous train, and of professors of service to him, he has every day he lives the conscience that the widow, the fatherless, the mourner, and the stranger, bless his unseen hand in their prayers. This humourist gives up all the compliments which people of his own condition could make him, for the pleasures of helping the afflicted, supplying the needy, and befriending the neglected. This humourist keeps to himself much more than he wants, and gives a vast refuse of his superfluities to purchase heaven, and by freeing others from the temptations of worldly want, to carry a retinue with him thither.
Of all men who affect living in a particular way, next to this admirable character, I am the most enamoured of Irus, whose condition will not admit of such largesses, and perhaps would not be capable of making them, if it were. Irus, though he is now turned of fifty, has not appeared in the world, in his real character, since five-and-twenty, at which age he ran out a small patrimony, and spent some time after with rakes who had lived upon him: a course of ten years time, passed in all the little alleys, byepaths, and sometimes open taverns and streets of this town, gave Irus a perfect skill in judging of the inclinations of mankind, and acting accordingly. He seriously considered he was poor, and the general horror which most men have of all who are in that condition. Irus judged very rightly, that while he could keep his poverty a secret, he should not feel the weight of it; he improved this thought into an affectation of closeness and covetousness. Upon this one principle he resolved to govern his