LETTER CXLV. Usbek to * * *.

A MAN of parts is generally untractable in society. He chooses but few companions; he is disgusted with that numerous body of people, whom he is pleased to call bad company: this disgust he cannot thoroughly conceal, which brings upon him the hatred of numbers. Being sure to please, whenever he thinks proper to exert himself, he frequently neglects to do so. He has a turn to criticising, because he sees many things that escape another, and is more sensibly affected by them. He generally ruins his fortune, because the fertility of his genius furnishes him with a variety of means so to do. His enterprises miscarry, because he risks a great deal. His penetration, which generally

causes him to see too far, makes him often give attention to objects that are extremely remote. Add to this, that at the formation of a project, he is less occupied by the difficulties that grow out of the business, than with the remedies to them, which are of his own inventing. He neglects minute particulars, tho’ upon them the success of most great affairs depends. On the other hand, the man of more confined abilities endeavours to avail himself in every thing: he is thoroughly sensible, that he must not neglect even trifles. The man of moderate abilities oftener meets with general esteem. Every body takes pleasure in raising the one, whilst all are equally delighted to depress the other. Whilst envy falls foul upon one, and excuses him nothing, all the defects of the other are overlooked; the vanity of others declares in his favour. But if a man of genius lies under so many disadvantages, what must we think of the wretched condition of the learned? I can never think of it, without recollecting the following letter, wrote by one of them to his friend. I send it to you herewith:

‘Sir,

‘I am one of those who pass whole nights in contemplating through telescopes of thirty feet long, those vast bodies that roll over our heads; and when I am disposed to unbend my mind, I take up a microscope, and examine a maggot or a mite; I am not rich, and I have but one room: I dare not even make a fire in it, lest the warmth should make the mercury rise in my thermometer, which I keep there. Last winter the cold almost killed me: and though my thermometer was at the lowest, and though my hands were almost frozen, I still went on my own way. Thus I have the pleasure of knowing with the greatest exactness, all the most inconsiderable changes of the weather for last year. I

am very reserved, and scarce know any body that I see. But there is a person at Stockholm, another at Leipsick, and another at London, whom I neither ever saw, nor ever expect to see, with whom I keep up a constant correspondence; I write to them every post. But though I have no connection with any body in the street where I live, I have got so bad a character all over the neighbourhood, that I believe I must soon change my lodging. About five years ago, I was treated very roughly by a woman in the neighbourhood, for having dissected a dog, which, she said, belonged to her. The wife of a butcher, who happened to be present, took her part; and whilst one poured out a torrent of abuse against me, the other pelted me with stones as well as Dr.—, who was with me, who received a terrible blow upon the os frontal and os occipital, by which the seat of reason is very much injured. Ever since that time, if a dog happens to be missing in the street, it is immediately taken for granted that it has passed through my hands. A worthy citizen’s wife, that had lost a lap-dog, which, as she said herself, was more dear to her than her own children, came the other day, and fainted away in my room, and not having found her dog, summoned me before a magistrate. I believe I shall be for ever persecuted by the malice of these women, who, with their shrill voices, stun me every day, by making funeral orations upon all the automates who have died these ten years.

‘Yours, &c.’

All men of learning were accused of being magicians, some ages past. I am not at all surprized at it. Every one of them said within himself, I have acquired as much knowledge as can be attained by the power of natural abilities, and yet another philosopher has the advantage of me; he must certainly deal with

the devil. As accusations of this nature are out of date in the present age, other means have been made use of, and a man of learning can never escape being reproached with irreligion or heresy. It avails him little to be deemed innocent by the people; the wound once made, will never perfectly close. It remains a sore place ever after. An adversary may come thirty years after, and address him in these modest terms: “God forbid that I should imagine that the accusation against you is just; but you have lain under the sad necessity of vindicating your character.” Thus is his very justification turned against him. If he writes a history, and discovers an elevation of mind, or integrity of heart, he is liable to a thousand persecutions. There will not be wanting persons to irritate the magistrate against him, on account of a fact which has passed a thousand years ago; and if his pen is not venal, they would have it restrained. Their condition is, however, more happy than that of those men who violate their faith for an inconsiderable pension, who by all their numerous impostures hardly gain a single farthing; who subvert the constitution of an empire, diminish the prerogatives of one power, increase those of another; give to princes, take from their subjects, revive antiquated duties, encourage the passions which are in vogue in their age, and such vices as receive a sanction from the throne; imposing upon posterity in the more scandalous manner, as it is not provided with means to detect their impostures. But it is not enough that an author has all these insults to suffer, it is not enough that he has lived in constant anxiety for the success of his work. At length the work that cost him so much pains and trouble comes out; it involves him in a thousand quarrels, and how is it possible to avoid them? The author has an opinion, he maintains it in his writings, without knowing that another man of learning, who lives two hundred leagues distant from him, had asserted the reverse. Yet this gives rise to a paper war. It would indeed be some consolation to him, if he had any prospect of becoming famous. But he has not even this alleviation of his distress. He is at most esteemed by those who have applied themselves to the same studies with himself. A philosopher holds nothing more in contempt, than a man whose head is loaded with facts, whilst he, in his turn, is considered as a visionary by the man that has a good memory. With regard to those who take pride in their ignorance, they would willingly have all mankind buried in that oblivion to which they are themselves consigned. When a man is destitute of any particular talent, he indemnifies himself, by expressing his contempt for it; he removes that obstacle which stood between merit and him, and by that means raises himself to a level with those whom he before feared as rivals. Thus is an author obliged to abstain from pleasures, and endanger his health, to acquire a doubtful and precarious reputation.

Paris, the 26th of the moon Chahban,
1720.