❝ again....Servants insulted....a fine time! Insulted! "Get down stairs, you slut, or the footman shall in ❝sult you The last day of the last week was now coming; and my kind cousin talked of sending me down in 'the waggon to preserve me from bad courses. But in the morning she came and told me she had one 'trial more for me: Euphemia 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, 6 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 hi'red that morning, but that she was ordered to bring any that offered up stairs. I was accordingly intro'duced 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 disap'pointment 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 shew my gratitude better than by giving 'this account to the Rambler. 'ZOSIMA.' No. XIII. TUESDAY, MAY 1, 1750. Commissumque teges et vino tortus et ira. And let not wine or anger wrest HOR. FRANCIS. IT is related by Quintus Curtius, that the Persians always conceived an invincible contempt of a man who had violated the laws of secrecy; for they thought that, however, he might be deficient in the qualities requisite to actual excellence, the negative virtues at least were in his power; and though he, perhaps, could not speak well if he was to try, it was still easy for him not to speak. 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-clerks, their ladies of the bed-chamber, their attornies, their chamber-maids, or their footmen. In these latter ages, though the old animosity against a prattler is still retained, it appears wholly to have lost its effects 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 itself so as to burst the heart that will not give it way. Those that study either the body or the mind of man, very often find the most specious and pleasing theory falling under the weight of contrary experi ence; and, instead of gratifying their vanity by inferring effects from causes, they are always reduced, at last, to conjecture causes from effects. That it is easy to be secret, the speculatist cannot demonstrate, in his retreat; and therefore thinks himself justified in placing confidence; the man of the world knows, that, whether 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. The vanity of being known to be trusted with a secret is generally one of the chief motives to disclose it; for however absurd it may be thought to boast an honour by an act which shews that it was conferred without merit, yet most men seem rather inclined to confess the want of virtue than of importance; and more willingly shew their influence, though at the expence of their probity, than glide through life with no other pleasure than the privatè consciousness of fidelity; which, while it is preserved, must be with out 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 publick. Secrets are very frequently told in the first ardour 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 consideration, there is always a distinction carefully to be made between our own and those of another; 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 without guilt; to communicate those with which we are intrusted is always treachery, and treachery, for the most part, combined with folly. 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. That such a fallacy could be imposed upon any human understanding, or that an author could have advanced a position so remote from truth and reason, any other way than as a declaimer, to show to what extent he could stretch his imagination, and with what strength he could press his principle, would scarcely have been credible, had not this lady kindly shown 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 understanding of another, to mislead honest intentions, and an understanding not contemptible, it may not be superfluous to remark, that those things which are common among friends are only such as either possesses in his own right, and can alineate or destroy without injury to any other person. Without this limitation, confidence must run on without end; the second person may tell the secret to the third, upon the same principle as he received it from the first; and the third may hand it forward to a fourth; till, at last, 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 reveals 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 hazard |