I look upon a
periodical essayist as a writer who claims a peculiar intimacy with the public.
He does not come upon them at once in all the majesty of a quarto or all the
gaiety of a beau duodecimo,’ smooth and well dressed: but his acquaintance is
likely to be more lasting, because it is more gradual and because you see him
in a greater variety of subject and opinion. If you do not like him at first
you may give up his conversation; but the author of a book is fixed upon you
forever, and if he cannot entertain you beyond the moment, you must even give
him sleeping room in your library. But how many pleasant modes are there of getting
rid of a periodical essay? It may assist your meditation by lighting your pipe,
it may give steadiness to your candle, it may curl the tresses of your daughter
or your sister, or lastly, if you are not rich enough to possess an urn or a
cloth-holder, it may save you a world of opodeldoc* by wrapping the handle of
your tea-kettle. These are advantages.
The title of my
essays may perhaps alarm some of my friends with its magnificence, and the
repetition of the name Examiner may annoy others with its monotony. But with
respect to the later objection, I regard the various departments of this paper
as children of the same family, and therefore though of different professions
they all have the same surname: A gentleman of the name of Simkins for instance
has three sons, one a politician, another a theatrical critic, and the third a
philosopher; a person sees these three honest men and points them out to his
friend, That is Mr. Simkins the politician, with the black hair; the next to
him, a thin man, Mr. Simkins the critic; the other, pale-faced gentleman, is
Mr. Simkins the philosopher.’ Just so I have my Political Examiner, my
Theatrical Examiner, and my Literary and Philosophical Examiner. As to the
epithet literary, it is no very boastful title when every editor of a newspaper
claims the palm of authorship; and with respect to the title of philosopher, it
means nothing more in its original sense than a Lover of Wisdom, and my readers
must confess, that it would be a most unpardonable rudeness in any person to
come with his objections between me and my mistress. (I put the lady last for
the sake of climax.)
A Philosopher in
fact, or in other words a Lover of Wisdom, claims no more merit to himself for
his title than is claimed by the lover of any other lady; all his praise
consists in having discovered her beauty and good sense. He is, like any other
submissive swain, a mere machine in her hands. It is his business to echo and
to praise every word she says, to doat upon her charms, and to insist to every
body he meets that the world would want its sunshine without her.
The age of
periodical philosophy is perhaps gone by, but Wisdom is an ever-lasting beauty;
and I have the advantage of all the lessons in philosophic gallantry which my
predecessors have left behind them. Perhaps I may avoid some of the
inelegancies, though I may be hopeless of attaining the general charm of these celebrated
men. I shall always endeavor to recollect the consummate ease and gentility
with which Addison approached his divine fair one and the passionate
earnestness with which he would gaze upon her in the intervals of the most
graceful familiarity; but then I must not forget his occasional incorrectness
of language and his want of depth, when he attempted to display the critic.
Goldsmith, next to Addison, was the favorite who approached Wisdom with the
happiest mixture of seriousness and pleasantry; the instant he began to speak,
you were prepared for elegance, solidity; and a most natural manner of
expression: it must be confessed indeed, that he was infinitely more correct in
his general manner than Addison, but it must also be recollected that the
latter spoke first and was more original.
Johnson paid his
devoirs like one who claimed rather than entreated notice, for he knew his
desert; it becomes me to be more humble, and I hope it will be my good fortune
to see Wisdom in her cheerful moments a little oftener than the melancholy
Rambler; at the same time I must confess that I have not the slightest hope of
viewing her so clearly or of venturing half so far within the sphere of her
approach. There was a coldness in the obeisance of Hawkesworth, but there was
also a thoughtfulness and a dignity: what he spoke was always acknowledged by
the circle, but it seldom reached their feelings. Colman and Thornton did not
profess sensibility, they were content with a jauntiness and a pleasantry, that
ought to have been their ornament rather than their sole merit.
Mackenzie felt
the beauty more than the mind of his goddess; he stood rather bashfully behind,
and could never venture into her presence without an introduction by some other
admirer; but he was full of sensibility, and Wisdom never smiled upon him with
such complacency as when his eyes were filled with tears.
If I can
persuade the public to hear me after these celebrated men, I shall think myself
extremely fortunate; if I can amuse them
with any originality, I shall think myself deserving; if I procure them any
moral benefit, I shall think myself most happy. It will be my endeavor to avoid
those subjects which have been already handled in periodical works, or at any
rate if I should be tempted to use them, I will exert myself to give them a new
air and recommendation. .
If I begin with
promises however, my reader will begin with suspicion. I wish to make an
acquaintance with him, and I know that
it is not customary on your first introduction to a person to tell him how you
mean to enchant him in your future connexion. My new acquaintance and I
therefore will sit still a little and reconnoitre each other with true English
civility.
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