F. LEWIS.
TO THE RAMBLER.
SIR,
The writers who have undertaken the unpromising task of moderating
desire, exert all the power of their eloquence, to shew that happiness
is not the lot of man, and have, by many arguments and examples, proved
the instability of every condition by which envy or ambition are
excited. They have set before our eyes all the calamities to which we
are exposed from the frailty of nature, the influence of accident, or
the stratagems of malice; they have terrified greatness with
conspiracies, and riches with anxieties, wit with criticism, and beauty
with disease.
All the force of reason, and all the charms of language, are indeed
necessary to support positions which every man hears with a wish to
confute them. Truth finds an easy entrance into the mind when she is
introduced by desire, and attended by pleasure; but when she intrudes
uncalled, and brings only fear and sorrow in her train, the passes of
the intellect are barred against her by prejudice and passion; if she
sometimes forces her way by the batteries of argument, she seldom long
keeps possession of her conquests, but is ejected by some favoured
enemy, or at best obtains only a nominal sovereignty, without influence
and without authority.
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