his
present state.

It is not much of life that is spent in close attention to any important
duty. Many hours of every day are suffered to fly away without any
traces left upon the intellects. We suffer phantoms to rise up before
us, and amuse ourselves with the dance of airy images, which, after a
time, we dismiss for ever, and know not how we have been busied.

Many have no happier moments than those that they pass in solitude,
abandoned to their own imagination, which sometimes puts sceptres in
their hands or mitres on their heads, shifts the scene of pleasure with
endless variety, bids all the forms of beauty sparkle before them, and
gluts them with every change of visionary luxury.

It is easy in these semi-slumbers to collect all the possibilities of
happiness, to alter the course of the sun, to bring back the past, and
anticipate the future, to unite all the beauties of all seasons, and all
the blessings of all climates, to receive and bestow felicity, and
forget that misery is the lot of man. All this is a voluntary dream, a
temporary recession from the realities of life to airy fictions; and
habitual subjection of reason to fancy.

Others are afraid to be alone, and amuse themselves by a perpetual
succession of companions: but the difference is not great; in solitude
we have our dreams to ourselves, and in company we agree to dream in
concert. The end sought in both is forgetfulness of ourselves.

[1] "For half their life," says Aristotle, "the happy differ not from
the wretched.".--Nichom. Ethic, i. 13.

[Greek: Hypn odunas adaaes, Hypne d algeon
Euaaes haemin elthois,
Euaion, euaion anax.] Soph. Philoct. 827.

No. 33. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 2, 1758.

[I hope the author of the following letter[1] will excuse the omission
of some parts, and allow me to remark, that the Journal of the Citizen
in the Spectator has almost precluded the attempt of any future writer.]

--_Non ita Romuli Praescriptum, et intonsi Catonis
Auspiciis, veterumque norma_. HOR. Lib. ii. Ode xv. 10.

Sir,

You have often solicited correspondence. I have sent you the Journal of
a Senior Fellow, or Genuine Idler, just transmitted from Cambridge by a
facetious correspondent, and warranted to have been transcribed from the
common-place book of the journalist.

Monday, Nine o'Clock. Turned off my bed-maker for waking me at eight.
Weather rainy. Consulted my weather-glass. No hopes of a ride before
dinner.