those who say this little know the force, the darkness being the season of terror and uncercaprice, or the defects of the imagination. Persons after a debauch of liquor, or under the influence of terror, or in the deliria of a fever, or in a fit of lunacy, or even walking in their sleep, have had their brain as deeply impressed with chimerical representations as they could possibly have been, had their representations struck their senses. I have mentioned but a few instances, wherein the brain is primarily affected. Others may be given, perhaps not quite so common, where the stronger passions, either acute or chronical, have impressed their object upon the brain; and this in so lively a manner, as to leave the visionary no room to doubt of their real presence. How difficult then must it be to undeceive a person as to objects thus imprinted! imprinted absolutely with the same force as their eyes themselves could have portrayed them! and how many persons must there needs be, who could never be undeceived at all. Some of these causes might not improbably have given rise to the notion of apparitions; and when the notion had been once promulgated, it had a natural tendency to produce more in stances. The gloom of night, that was productive of terror, would be naturally productive of apparitions. The event confirmed it. The passion of grief for a departed friend, of horror for a murdered enemy, of remorse for a wronged testator, of love for a mistress killed by inconstancy, of gratitude to a wife of long fidelity, of desire to be reconciled to one who died at variance, of impatience to vindicate what was falsely construed, of propensity to consult with an adviser that is lost-the more faint as well as the more powerful passions, when bearing relation to a person deceased, have often, I fancy, with concurrent circumstances, been sufficient to exhibit the dead to the living. But, what is more, there seems no other account that is adequate to the case as I have stated it. Allow this, and you have at once a reason why the most upright may have published a falsehood, and the most judicious confirmed an absurdity. Supposing then that apparitions of this kind may have some real use in God's moral government: is not any moral purpose, for which they may be employed, as effectually answered on my supposition, as the other? for surely it cannot be of any importance, by what means the brain receives these images. The effect, the conviction, and the resolution consequent, may be just the same in either of the cases. Such appears, to me at least, to be the true existence of apparitions. tainty, and the imagination less restrained, they are never visible to more than one person: which had more probably been the case, were not the vision internal. They have not been reported to have appeared these twenty years. What cause can be assigned, were their existence real, for so great a change as their discontinuance. The cause of superstition has lost ground for this last century: the notion of ghosts has been altogether exploded: a reason why the imagination should be less prone to conceive them; but not a reason why they themselves should cease. Most of those who relate that these spectres have appeared to them, have been persons either deeply superstitious in other respects; of enthusiastic imaginations, or strong passions, which are the consequence; or else have allowedly felt some perturbation at the time. Some few instances may be supposed, where the caprice of imagination, so very remarkable in dreams, may have presented phantasms to those that waked. I believe there are few but can recollect some, wherein it has wrought mistakes, at least equal to that of a white horse for a winding-sheet. To conclude. As my hypothesis supposes the chimera to give terror equal to the reality, our best means of avoiding it, is to keep a strict guard over our passions-to avoid intemperance, as we would a charnel-house; and by making frequent appeals to cool reason and common sense, secure to ourselves the property of a well-regulated imagination. ON WRITING AND BOOKS. Fine writing is generally the effect of sponta neous thoughts and a laboured style. Long sentences in a short composition are like large rooms in a little house. The world may be divided into people that read, people that write, people that think, and fox-hunters. Superficial writers, like the mole, often fancy themselves deep, when they are exceeding near the surface. There is no word in the Latin language that signifies a female friend. "Amica" means a mistress; and perhaps there is no friendship betwixt the sexes wholly disunited from a degree of love. The chief advantage that ancient writers can boast over modern ones, seems owing to simplicity. Every noble truth and sentiment was expressed by the former in the natural manner; in word and phrase, simple, perspicuous, and incapable of improvement. What then remained for later writers but affectation, witticism, and conceit. The reasons against any external apparition, among others that may be brought, are these that follow : Perhaps an acquaintance with men of genius They are, I think, never seen by day; and is rather reputable than satisfactory. It is as nnaccountable, as it is certain, that fancy heightens sensibility; sensibility strengthens passion; and passion makes people humorists. Yet a person of genius is often expected to show more discretion than another man; and this on account of that very vivacity, which is his greatest impediment. This happens for want of distinguishing betwixt the fanciful talents and the dry mathematical operations of the judgment, each of which indiscriminately give the denomination of a man of genius. People in high or in distinguished life ought to have a greater circumspection in regard to their most trivial actions. For instance, I saw Mr Pope-and what was he doing when you saw him?-why, to the best of my memory, he was picking his nose. It is obvious to discover that imperfections of one kind have a visible tendency to produce perfections of another. Mr Pope's bodily disadvantages must incline him to a more laborious cultivation of his talent, without which he foresaw that he must have languished in obscurity. The advantages of person are a good deal essential to popularity in the grave world as well as the gay. Mr Pope, by an unwearied application to poetry, became not only the favourite of the learned, but also of the ladies. Pope's talent lay remarkably in what one may naturally enough term the condensation of thoughts. I think no other English poet ever brought so much sense into the same number of lines with equal smoothness, ease, and poetical beauty. Let him who doubts of this peruse his Essay on Man with attention. Perhaps this was a talent from which he could not easily have swerved: perhaps he could not have sufficiently rarefied his thoughts to produce that flimsiness which is required in a ballad or love-song. His monster of Ragusa and his translations from Chaucer have some little tendency to invalidate this observation. his "Fairy Queen," which will be instances of a great and cultivated genius misapplied. Boileau has endeavoured to prove, in one of his admirable satires, that man has no manner of pretence to prefer his faculties before those of the brute creation. Oldham has translated him: my Lord Rochester has imitated him: and even Mr Pope declares, "That, reason raise o'er instinct how you can, In this 'tis God directs: in that 'tis man." Indeed, the Essay on Man abounds with illustrations of this maxim; and it is amazing to find how many plausible reasons may be urged to support it. It seems evident that our itch of reasoning, and spirit of curiosity, precludes more happiness than it can possibly advance. What numbers of diseases are entirely artificial things, far from the ability of a brute to contrive! We disrelish and deny ourselves cheap and natural gratifications, through speculative presciences and doubts about the future. We cannot discover the designs of our Creator. We should learn then of brutes to be easy under our ignorance, and happy in those objects that seem intended, obviously, for our happiness: not overlook the flowers of the garden, and foolishly perplex ourselves with the intricacies of the labyrinth. OF MEN AND MANNERS. The word folly is, perhaps, the prettiest word in the language. Amusement and diversion are good well-meaning words: but pastime is what never should be used but in a bad sense: it is vile to say such a thing is agreeable, because it helps to pass the time away. A plain, downright, open-hearted fellow's conversation is as insipid, says Sir Plume, as a play without a plot; it does not afford one the amusement of thinking. I cannot see why people are ashamed to acknowledge their passion for popularity. The love of popularity is the love of being beloved. I consider your very testy and quarrelsome people in the same light as I do a loaded gun: which may by accident go off and kill one. In a heavy, oppressive atmosphere, when the spirits sink too low, the best cordial is to read over all the letters of one's friends. The plan of Spenser's "Fairy Queen" appears to me very imperfect. His imagination, though very extensive, yet somewhat less so, perhaps, than is generally allowed; if one considers the facility of realising and equipping forth the virtues and vices. His metre has some advantages, though, in many respects, exceptionable. His good-nature is visible through every part of his poem. His conjunction of the pagan and Christian scheme (as he introduced the deities of both acting simultaneously) wholly inexcusable. Much art and judgment are discovered in parts, and but little in the whole. One may entertain some doubt whether the perusal of his monstrous descriptions be not as prejudicial to true taste, as it is advantageous to the extent of imagina-But money engrosses all our deference; and we tion. Spenser, to be sure, expands the last; but then he expands it beyond its due limits. after all, there are many favourite passages in Third thoughts often coincide with the first, and are generally the best grounded. We first relish nature and the country; then artificial amusements and the city; then become impatient to retire to the country again. The world would be more happy, if persons gave up more time to an intercourse of friendship. scarce enjoy a social hour, because we think it unjustly stolen from the main business of our lives. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. BORN 1728: DIED 1774. (From the "Citizen of the World," and Miscellaneous Essays.) DESCRIPTION OF A CLUB OF AUTHORS. WERE we to estimate the learning of the English by the number of books that are every day published among them, perhaps no country, not even China itself, could equal them in this particular. I have reckoned not less than twentythree new books published in one day, which, upon computation, makes eight thousand three hundred and ninety-five in one year. Most of these are not confined to one single science, but embrace the whole circle. History, politics, poetry, mathematics, metaphysics, and the philosophy of nature, are all comprised in a manual not larger than that in which our children are taught the letters. If, then, we suppose the learned of England to read but an eighth part of the works which daily come from the press (and surely none can pretend to learning upon less easy terms), at this rate every scholar will read a thousand books in one year. From such a calculation, you may conjecture what an amazing fund of literature a man must be possessed of, who thus reads three new books every day, not one of which but contains all the good things that ever were said or written. And yet I know not how it happens, but the English are not, in reality, so learned as would seem from this calculation. We meet but few who know all arts and sciences to perfection; whether it is that the generality are incapable of such extensive knowledge, or that the authors of those books are not adequate instructors. In China, the emperor himself takes cognisance of all the doctors in the kingdom who profess authorship. In England, every man may be an author that can write; for they have by law a liberty not only of saying what they please, but of being also as dull as they please. Yesterday, I testified my surprise to the man in black, where writers could be found in suffi cient number to throw off the books I daily saw crowding from the press. I at first imagined that their learned seminaries might take this method of instructing the world. But to obviate this objection, my companion assured me that the doctors of colleges never wrote, and that some of them had actually forgot their reading; but if you desire, continued he, to see a collection of authors, I fancy I can introduce you this evening to a club, which assemble every Saturday at seven, at the sign of the Broom, near Islington, to talk over the business of the last, and the entertainment of the week ensuing. I accepted this invitation; we walked together, and entered the house some time before the usual hour for the company assembling. My friend took this opportunity of letting me into the characters of the principal members of the club, not even the host excepted: who, it seems, was once an author himself, but preferred by a bookseller to this situation as a reward for his former services. "The first person," said he, "of our society, is Doctor Nonentity, a metaphysician. Most people think him a profound scholar; but as he seldom speaks, I cannot be positive in that particular; he generally spreads himself before the fire, sucks his pipe, talks little, drinks much, and is reckoned very good company. I am told he writes indexes to perfection, he makes essays on the origin of evil, philosophical inquiries upon any subject, and draws up an answer to any book upon twenty-four hours' warning. distinguish him from the rest of the company by his long grey wig, and the blue handkerchief round his neck. You may "The next to him in merit and esteem is Tim Syllabub, a droll creature; he sometimes shines as a star of the first magnitude among the choice spirits of the age; he is reckoned equally excellent at a rebus, a riddle, a lewd song, and a hymn for the tabernacle. You will know him by a shabby finery, his powdered wig, dirty shirt, and broken silk stockings. "After him succeeds Mr Tibs, a very useful hand; he writes receipts for the bite of a mad dog, and throws off an Eastern tale to perfection: he understands the business of an author as well as any man, for no bookseller alive can cheat him. You may distinguish him by the peculiar clumsiness of his figure, and the coarseness of his coat; however, though it be coarse (as he frequently tells the company), he has paid for it. "Lawyer Squint is the politician of the society; he makes speeches for Parliament, writes addresses to fellow-subjects, and letters to noble commanders; he gives the history of every new play, and finds seasonable thoughts upon every occasion." My companion was proceeding in his description, when the host came running in with terror on his countenance to tell us that the door was beset with bailiffs. "If that be the case, then," says my companion, "we had as good be going; for I am positive we shall not see one of the company this night." Wherefore, disappointed, we were both obliged to return home, he to enjoy the oddities which compose his character alone, and I to write as usual to my friend the occurrences of the day. PROCEEDINGS OF THE CLUB OF AUTHORS. By my last advices from Moscow, I find the caravan has not yet departed for China: I still continue to write, expecting that you may receive a large number of letters at once. In them you will find rather a minute detail of English peculiarities, than a general picture of their manners or dispositions. Happy it were for mankind if all travellers would thus, instead of characterising a people in general terms, lead us into a detail of those minute circumstances which first influenced their opinion. The genius of a country should be investigated with a kind of experimental inquiry: by this means, we should have more precise and just notions of foreign nations, and detect travellers themselves when they happened to form wrong conclusions. My friend and I repeated our visit to the club of authors; where, upon our entrance, we found the members all assembled, and engaged in a loud debate. The poet in shabby finery, holding a manuscript in his hand, was earnestly endeavouring to persuade the company to hear him read the first book of an heroic poem, which he had composed the day before. But against this all the members very warmly objected. They knew no reason why any member of the club should be indulged with a particular hearing, when many of them had published whole volumes which had never been looked in. They insisted that the law should be observed where reading in company was expressly noticed. It was in vain that the poet pleaded the peculiar merit of his piece; he spoke to an assembly insensible to all his remonstrances: the book of laws was opened, and read by the secretary, where it was expressly enacted, "That whatsoever poet, speech-maker, critic, or historian, should presume to engage the company by reading his own works, he was to lay down sixpence previous to opening the manuscript, and should be charged one shilling an hour while he continued reading: the said shilling to be equally distributed among the company as a recompense for their trouble." Our poet seemed at first to shrink at the penalty, hesitating for some time whether he should deposit the fine, or shut up the poem: but, looking round, and perceiving two strangers in the room, his love of fame outweighed his prudence, and laying down the sum by law established, he insisted on his prerogative. A profound silence ensuing, he began by explaining his design. "Gentlemen," says he, "the present piece is not one of your common epic poems which come from the press like paper kites in summer; there are none of your Turnuses or Didos in it; it is an heroical description of Nature. I only beg you will endeavour to make your souls in unison with mine, and hear with the same enthusiasm with which I have written. The poem begins with the description of an author's bed-chamber: the picture was sketched in my own apartment: for you must know, gentlemen, that I am myself the hero." Then putting himself into the attitude of an orator, with all the emphasis of voice and action, he proceeded: "Where the Red Lion flaring o'er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay; The morn was cold, he views with keen desire With this last line he seemed so much elated that he was unable to proceed. "There, gentlemen," cries he, "there is a description for you; Rabelais's bed-chamber is but a fool to it. A cap by night-a stocking all the day! There is sound, and sense, and truth, and nature, in the trifling compass of ten syllables." He was too much employed in self-admiration to observe the company; who, by nods, winks, shrugs, and stifled laughter, testified every mark of contempt. He turned severally to each for their opinion, and found all, however, ready to applaud. One swore it was inimitable; another said it was fine; and a third cried out in a rapture, "Carissimo." At last, addressing himself to the president-"And pray, Mr Squint," says he, "let us have your opinion." "Mine!" answered the president (taking the manuscript out of the author's hand), "may this glass suffocate me, but I think it equal to anything I have seen; and I fancy" (continued he, doubling up the poem and forcing it into the author's pocket), "that you will get great honour when it comes out; so I shall beg leave to put it in. We will not intrude upon your good-nature, in desiring to hear more of it at present; ex ungue Herculem, we are satisfied, perfectly satisfied." The author made two or three attempts to pull it out a second time, and the president made as many to prevent him. Thus, though with reluctance, he was at last obliged to sit down, |