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Essay Johnson Samuel


I sat yesterday morning employed in deliberating on which, among the various subjects that occurred to my imagination, I should bestow the paper of today. After a short effort of meditation by which nothing was determined, I grew every moment more irresolute, my ideas wandered from the first intention, and I rather wished to think, than thought upon any settled subject; till at last I was awakened from this dream of study by a summons from the press: the time was come for which I had been thus negligently purposing to provide, and, however dubious or sluggish, I was now necessitated to write.

Though to a writer whose design is so comprehensive and miscellaneous that he may accommodate himself with a topic from every scene of life, or view of nature, it is no great aggravation of his task to be obliged to a sudden composition; yet I could not forbear to reproach myself for having so long neglected what was unavoidably to be done, and of which every moment's idleness increased the difficulty. There was however some pleasure in reflecting that I, who had only trifled till diligence was necessary, might still congratulate myself upon my superiority to multitudes who have trifled till diligence is vain; who can by no degree of activity or resolution recover the opportunities which have slipped away; and who are condemned by their own carelessness to hopeless calamity and barren sorrow.

The folly of allowing ourselves to delay what we know cannot be finally escaped is one of the general weaknesses which, in spite of the instruction of moralists, and the remonstrances of reason, prevail to a greater or lesser degree in every mind; even they who most steadily withstand it find it, if not the most violent, the most pertinacious of their passions, always renewing its attacks, and, though often vanquished, never destroyed.

It is indeed natural to have particular regard to the time present, and to be most solicitous for that which is by its nearness enabled to make the strongest impressions. When therefore any sharp pain is to be suffered, or any formidable danger to be incurred, we can scarcely exempt ourselves wholly from the seducements of imagination; we readily believe that another day will bring some support or advantage which we now want; and are easily persuaded, that the moment of necessity, which we desire never to arrive, is at a great distance from us.

Thus life is languished away in the gloom of anxiety, and consumed in collecting resolution which the next morning dissipates; in forming purposes which we scarcely hope to keep, and reconciling ourselves to our own cowardice by excuses which, while we admit them, we know to be absurd. Our firmness is by the continual contemplation of misery hourly impaired; every submission to our fear enlarges its dominion; we not only waste that time in which the evil we dread might have been suffered and surmounted, but even where procrastination produces no absolute increase of our difficulties, make them less superable to ourselves by habitual terrors. When evils cannot be avoided, it is wise to contract the interval of expectation; to meet the mischiefs which will overtake us if we fly; and suffer only their real malignity without the conflicts of doubt and anguish of anticipation.

To act is far easier than to suffer; yet we every day see the progress of life retarded by the vis inertiae, the mere repugnance to motion, and find multitudes repining at the want of that which nothing but idleness hinders them from enjoying. The case of Tantalus, in the region of poetic punishment, was somewhat to be pitied, because the fruits that hung about him retired from his hand; but what tenderness can be claimed by those who, though perhaps they suffer the pains of Tantalus, will never lift their hands for their own relief?

There is nothing more common among this torpid generation than murmurs and complaints; murmurs at uneasiness which only vacancy and suspicion expose them to feel, and complaints of distresses which it is in their own power to remove. Laziness is commonly associated with timidity. Either fear originally prohibits endeavours by infusing despair of success; or the frequent failure of irresolute struggles, and the constant desire of avoiding labour, impress by degrees false terror on the mind. But fear, whether natural or acquired, when once it has full possession of the fancy, never fails to employ it upon visions of calamity, such as, if they are not dissipated by useful employment, will soon overcast it with horrors, and imbitter life not only with those miseries by which all earthly beings are really more or less tormented, but with those which do not yet exist, and which can only be discerned by the perspicacity of cowardice.

Among all who sacrifice future advantage to present inclination, scarcely any gain so little as those that suffer themselves to freeze in idleness. Others are corrupted by some enjoyment of more or less power to gratify the passions; but to neglect our duties merely to avoid the labour of performing them, a labour which is always punctually rewarded, is surely to sink under weak temptations. Idleness never can secure tranquillity; the call of reason and of conscience will pierce the closest pavilion of the sluggard, and, though it may not have force to drive him from his down, will be loud enough to hinder him from sleep. Those moments which he cannot resolve to make useful, by devoting them to the great business of his being, will still be usurped by powers that will not leave them to his disposal; remorse and vexation will seize upon them, and forbid him to enjoy what he is so desirous to appropriate.

There are other causes of inactivity incident to more active faculties and more acute discernment. He to whom many objects of pursuit arise at the same time, will frequently hesitate between different desires till a rival has precluded him, or change his course as new attractions prevail, and harass himself without advancing. He who sees different ways to the same end, will, unless he watches carefully over his own conduct, lay out too much of his attention upon the comparison of probabilities and the adjustment of expedients, and pause in the choice of his road, till some accident intercepts his journey. He whose penetration extends to remote consequences, and who, whenever he applies his attention to any design, discovers new prospects of advantage and possibilities of improvement, will not easily be persuaded that his project is ripe for execution; but will superadd one contrivance to another, endeavour to unite various purposes in one operation, multiply complications, and refine niceties, till he is entangled in his own scheme, and bewildered in the perplexity of various intentions. He that resolves to unite all the beauties of situation in a new purchase must waste his life in roving to no purpose from province to province. He that hopes in the same house to obtain every convenience may draw plans and study Palladio, but will never lay a stone. He will attempt a treatise on some important subject, and amass materials, consult authors, and study all the dependent and collateral parts of learning, but never conclude himself qualified to write. He that has abilities to conceive perfection will not easily be content without it; and, since perfection cannot be reached, will lose the opportunity of doing well in the vain hope of unattainable excellence.

The certainty that life cannot be long, and the probability that it will be much shorter than nature allows, ought to awaken every man to the active prosecution of whatever he is desirous to perform. It is true, that no diligence can ascertain success; death may intercept the swiftest career; but he who is cut off in the execution of an honest undertaking has at least the honour of falling in his rank, and has fought the battle, though he missed the victory.

Samuel Johnson is primarily thought of not as a fiction writer but as a critic, and since his criticism explains so much about the peculiar form which his own fiction was to take, it is wise to discuss his views on criticism. The subject of The Rambler 4 is modern fiction. Johnson recognized that fiction underwent a profound change in his lifetime. Gone were the improbabilities of the romantic fiction of the past, expressed in its giants, knights, ladies, hermits, and battles. Contemporary works of fiction, Johnson wrote, “exhibit life in its true state, diversified only by accidents that daily happen in the world, influenced by passions and qualities which are really to be found in conversing with mankind.” With this new verisimilitude, fiction acquires a new power, and consequently, a new responsibility. Since these works are chiefly read by the “young, the ignorant, and the idle, to whom they serve as lectures of conduct, and introductions into life,” writers must be very careful in choosing their subjects and characters:It is not a sufficient vindication of a character, that it is drawn as it appears, for many characters ought never to be drawn; nor of a narrative, that the train of events is agreeable to observation and experience, for that observation which is called knowledge of the world, will be found much more frequently to make men cunning than good.

Fiction, then, has a didactic purpose, whether a writer wishes it or not: Readers imitate the behavior of the characters their authors offer as admirable, and authors therefore have a moral responsibility to select their characters and incidents carefully. They must also distinguish the “good and bad qualities in their principal personages,” lest, as readers became more involved with these characters, they “lose the abhorrence of their faults, or, perhaps, regard them with some kindness for being united with so much merit.”

The type of fictional hero Johnson advocates is virtuous, although not angelic. In the plot, his virtue, “exercised in such trials as the various revolutions of things shall bring upon it, may, by conquering some calamities, and enduring others, teach us what we may hope, and what we can perform.” Vice must be shown, but it “should always disgust; nor should the graces of gaiety, or the dignity of courage, be so united with it, as to reconcile it to the mind.” The final purpose of fiction is to teach this moral truth:That virtue is the highest proof of understanding, and the only solid basis of greatness; and that vice is the natural consequence of narrow thoughts, that it begins in mistake, and ends in ignominy.

Johnson was acutely sensitive to the power which people’s lives, both fictional and historical, have on the reader. In The Rambler 60, he stresses the fundamental “uniformity in the state of man,” insisting that “there is scarce any possibility of good or ill, but is common to human kind. We are all prompted by the same motives, all deceived by the same fallacies, all animated by hope, obstructed by danger, entangled by desire, and seduced by pleasure.”

An examination of Johnson’s fiction reveals that these beliefs about character and the moral function of fiction appear again and again. Many of The Rambler, The Adventurer, and The Idler essays take the form of short fictional letters, didactic and moral in their intent, which recount more or less artificial tales of hope and misfortune. They are not really what is considered fiction: Plot is stylized, truncated, and undramatic; characterization is minimal; and both are subordinated to the moral lesson. Johnson does not create individual personalities but displays states of minds, generalized experiences, and moral decisions common to all. Carey McIntosh has pointed out that Johnson’s fiction characteristically contradicts the pattern of conventional novels: His characters begin in prosperity and success and end as sadder but wiser victims of their own folly or the world’s cruelty. These letters commonly take the form of confessions (in which the narrator admits to a fault or mistake), complaints (tales of misfortune told by a victim), or quests (in which the hero goes through a number of opportunities, all of which prove specious). In all three types, the reader is led to a sense of Johnson’s usual theme—the vanity of human wishes.

Johnson creates not individuals, but character types, and the character’s name, expressed in Latin or English, is frequently the key: Verecundulus (bashful), Hyperdulus (super slave), Misella (miserable), Squire Bluster, Prospero, Suspirius the screech owl. Some papers are sketches of characters in the Theophrastan sense, such as Prospero, the nouveau riche (The Rambler 200), and Dick Minim, the critic (The Idler 60 and 61), typifying a quality, vice, or virtue. Others are moral fables, such as the story of Seged’s futile attempt to make one week happy (The Rambler 204 and 205). Through each character the reader sees reality generalized and abstracted; the reader is not expected to believe the reality of the character or the fiction, but rather to recognize, in the formalized patterns and choices depicted, similar...

(The entire section is 2148 words.)

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