147. TUESDAY, AUGUST 13, 1751.
Tu nihil invita dices faciesve Minerva. Hon. Ar. Poet. 385.
--You are of too quick a sight,
Not to discern which way your talent lies. ROSCOMMON.
TO THE RAMBLER.
SIR,
As little things grow great by continual accumulation, I hope you will
not think the dignity of your character impaired by an account of a
ludicrous persecution, which, though it produced no scenes of horrour or
of ruin, yet, by incessant importunity of vexation, wears away my
happiness, and consumes those years which nature seems particularly to
have assigned to cheerfulness, in silent anxiety and helpless
resentment.
I am the eldest son of a gentleman, who having inherited a large estate
from his ancestors, and feeling no desire either to increase or lessen
it, has from the time of his marriage generally resided at his own seat;
where, by dividing his time among the duties of a father, a master, and
a magistrate, the study of literature, and the offices of civility, he
finds means to rid himself of the day, without any of those amusements,
which all those with whom my residence in this place has made me
acquainted, think necessary to lighten the burthen of existence.
When my age made me capable of instruction, my father prevailed upon a
gentleman, long known at Oxford for the extent of his learning and the
purity of his manners, to undertake my education.
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