(+O PR 270% ped 1376 GS of fl. Cornell Aniversity Ribvary GOLDWIN SMITH HALL FROM THE FUND GIVEN BY Goldwin Smith Be ueene Cornelt University Library 3702.D63 1896 iii 3 1924 014 156 081 oe. Bie Le A. DOBSON HENRY FROWDE, M.A. PUBLISHER TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK RICHARD STEELE (1713) STEELE SELECTIONS FROM THE TATLER, SPECTATOR AND GUARDIAN WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BY AUSTIN DOBSON NEW AND REVISED EDITION Oxford AT THE CLARENDON PRESS M DCCC XCVI Ve ERY GOH, PR 3704 Db3 IE7CG G.S.\ 588 Orford PRINTED AT THE CLARENDON PRESS BY HOPACE HART PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY “rg “ty Lv PREFATORY NOTE TO THE EDITION OF 1885. AIMING chiefly at conciseness in the Introduction which ‘follows, I have not always recapitulated those statements of my predecessors for which I have substituted what seem to me to be more accurate versions of the facts. Sufficient references to my authorities will, however, be found in the foot notes. Upon certain aspects of Steele’s relations with Swift and Addison I have refrained from touching, because, in the first place, the discussion is not essential to the brief memoir here intended ; and secondly, because I hope to enter upon it more fully hereafter. Meanwhile, by careful consulta- tion of the newspapers of the day and other contemporary records, I have endeavoured to make the ‘ Chronology of Steele’s Life’ as rigorously exact as possible. Although the field of choice is not restricted to the Sfectator, but includes the Zatler and Guardian, it will doubtless be observed that the number of papers in this volume is smaller than the number of those which Mr. Amold, in his excellent Selections from Addison, has borrowed from the Spectator alone. Notwithstanding the admitted inequality of Steele’s work, it would be unjust to attribute this entirely to the inferiority of the material. The truth is, that the evidence for Addison’s author- ship is far better than that for Steele’s, and many papers and letters, which in all probability were written by the latter, can- not, in the absence of direct proof to that effect, be authori- tatively assigned to him. In the Notes I have freely made use of the labours of the earlier annotators, as well as of such modern memoirs and books of reference as bear upon the age of Anne. But I vi PREFATORY NOTE. am in justice to myself bound to say that at least three- fourths of the illustrations and explanations here given will not be found in any previous edition of the Essayists; and I take pleasure in adding that I am indebted for several valuable suggestions to two enthusiastic students of Steele, Colonel F. Grant, and Mr. Edward Solly, F.R.S. A. D. PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. THE first appearance of these ‘Selections’ was succeeded in 1886 by that fuller study of Steele (English Worthies Series) of which mention is made in the foregoing ‘ Prefatory Note.’ To the fresh information which this biography contained, further particulars were added by the laborious and exhaustive Life of Richard Steele published three years later by Mr. George A. Aitken, who has since issued an edition of Steele’s Plays (Mermaid Sertes, 1894). By the aid of these recent researches the ‘Introduction’ to the present volume has been attentively examined, while the ‘ Notes ’—with a few exceptions—have been verified throughout. Although the bulk of alteration has not been great, I trust that the revision which the book has under- gone will be found to have increased its value. AUSTIN DOBSON. EALING, January, 1896. CONTENTS. Tntroduction * : ‘ ‘ . * . Chronology of Steele’s Life . e 25 Apology, 1714, p. 80. * [bid., 1714, p. 48. 8 The serious or ‘sentimental’ portion of Steele’s comedy is not, how- ever, to be found in his French model. INTRODUCTION. xix One little lisping Rogue, Ribbandths, Gloveths, Tippeths.—Sir, cries another, will you buy a fine Sword-knot ; then a third, pretty Voice and Curtsie,—Does not your Lady want Hoods, Scarfs, fine green silk Stockins.—I went by as if I had been in a Seraglio, a living Gallery of Beauties,—staring from side to side, I bowing, they laughing,—so made my Escape, and brought your Son and Heir safe to you, through all these Darts and Glances.—To which indeed my Breast is not im- pregnable 1, The New Exchange, so often referred to by the Restoration dramatists, must have been a favourite haunt with Captain Steele”, of Lucas’s, who reverts to it on several occasions in the 7atler and Sfectator. But despite its praiseworthy motive, and some earnest passages (blank verse!) in which, like his fellow-sentimentalist Sedaine, Steele attacks duelling, the Lying Lover found little favour with its audience. The unwonted, and not very workmanlike, mingling of the serious with the comic is almost enough to account for this, though Steele may perhaps be forgiven for telling the House of Commons, years afterwards, that his play was ‘damn’d for its Piety*.’ There was another reason, however, which also had its influence : it was inferior to its predecessor. The Lying Lover was produced at Drury Lane in December 1703. In his next comedy, which appeared in April, 1705, Steele troubled himself less with a weighty purpose, although he still courageously claims in his Preface to have avoided ‘every thing that might look Ill-natur’d, Immoral, or prejudicial to what the Better Part of Mankind hold Sacred and Honourable.’ The leading incident of The Tender Husband, that of a lover who disguises himself as a painter, is obviously borrowed from the Sicdlien ; ou, l’ Amour Peintre, of Moliére, a piece to which Beaumarchais is also believed to have been indebted in the Barbier de Séville. Compared with the Funeral, the Tender Husband \acks freshness and originality; but it is a distinct improvement upon the Lying Lover; and some at least of its personages have exercised a long influence in literature. There is a country squire, who in a measure foreshadows the Tory Foxhunter of Addison and the Squire Western of Fielding, while his booby son, ‘who boggles a little } The Lying Lover, 1704, Act ii, p. 26. ? In February, 1702, he had become a Captain in Lord Lucas’s newly- raised regiment of foot. 3 Apology, 1714, p. 48. b2 XX INTRODUCTION. at Marrying his Own Cousin!’ is more than a mere suggestion of Goldsmith’s Tony Lumpkin. But the clearest anticipation of a well-known character is that of the romance-reading Miss Biddy, who objects to any thing so ordinary as going out at a door to be married instead of out of a window, and sighs for the ‘decorations of Disguise, Serenade and Adventure ?,’ like the veriest Lydia Languish. Biddy Tipkin was played by Mrs. Oldfield, then in the first blossom of her ‘ sweet-and- twenty,’ and she was supported by Wilks, Norris, and the author's friend, Dick Estcourt, whose death afterwards gave rise to one of Steele’s most eloquent papers in the Sfectator*. The play had a moderate success, being acted but five times. Addison, who had now returned from Italy, and. written the Campaign, contributed a rather colourless prologue ; and there were also, according to Steele, ‘many applauded Stroaks’ in the piece itself from the same already eminent hand*. The dedica- tion, addressed to Addison, contains a pleasant testimony to his friendship with the author,—‘I look (says Steele) upon’ my Intimacy with You as one of the most valuable Enjoyments of my Life. At the same time I hope I make the Town no ill Compliment for their kind Acceptance of this Comedy, in ac- knowledging that it has so far rais’d my Opinion of it, as to make me think it no improper Memorial of an Inviolable Friendship.’ According to the Muses’ Mercury for January, 1707, Steele must have been meditating a fresh piece towards the close of 1706. But from one reason or another, its completion appears to have been deferred until he became absorbed with other things; and more than seventeen years slipped away before he followed up the Zexder Husband by another play ®. At this time he had not left the army® Indeed, if the 1 The Tender Husband, 1705, Acti, p. 13. 2 The Tender Husband, Act iv, p. 46. Dennis, inhis Characters and Conduct of Sir John Edgar (Letter i, January, 1720) accuses Steele of taking Biddy Tipkin from the Précieuses Ridicules of Moliére. % Spectator, No. 468. 4 Spectator, No. 553. 5 Hitherto his silence has generally been attributed to the failure of The Lying Lover. This, however, was based on anerror in the sequence of the plays. The Lying Lover was the second, not the third, of Steele's comedies. Cf. Ward’s English Dramatic Literature, 1875, ii. 602-6; and Sécele's Plays, by G. A. Aitken, Athenaum, Sept. 20, 1884. § Marlborough MSS. (Hist. Manuscripts Commission, Eighth Report, App., 1881, p. 23). INTRODUCTION. Xxi sneers of Dennis, at a later date, as to his ¢wenty years blood- less service!, include any particle of truth, it must be assumed that he long continued to retain his commission, although he took no part in Marlborough’s famous campaigns. But his position as a dramatist and literary man was fully recognised. At Will’s in Russell Street, where, vce Dryden deceased, Congreve now reigned as ‘arbiter of literary disputes,’ Captain Steele, of ‘Land-Guard-Fort,’ was hail-fellow-well-met with the best contemporary Augustan wits; he was a member of the famous Kit-Cat Club in Shire Lane; and everywhere, with that keen eye for human nature, which is his dominant charac- teristic. he was accumulating the material upon which he afterwards drew so largely as an essayist. Meanwhile his prospects, clouded by the death of William the Third, seem to have brightened gradually with the ascendency of Marl- borough and Godolphin. Early in 1707, he was appointed Gazetteer. ‘His next Appearance as a Writer’—says he, speaking of himself —‘ was in the Quality of the lowest Minister of State, to wit, in the Office of Gazetteer: where he worked faithfully according to Order, without ever erring against the Rule observed by all Ministries, to keep that Paper very innocent and very insipid.’ ‘It is believed,’—he adds—‘it was to the Reproaches he heard every Gazette Day against the Writer of it, that the Defendant [i.e. Steele] owes the Fortitude of being remarkably negligent of what People say, which he does not deserve*.’ His salary as Gazetteer was ‘ 300/. a year, paying a tax of 45/.;’ and he had also been made one of the gentlemen-waiters to Queen Anne’s consort, Prince George of Denmark, the annual income of which office was £100, ‘not subject to taxes.’ This very precise information is derived from a letter written in the following September to the mother of a lady who shortly afterwards became Mrs. Steele. She was not Steele’s first wife. Early in 1705 he had married Mrs. Margaret Stretch (#ée Ford), a West Indian planter’s sister, who had died in December, 1706, leaving him an estate in Barbadoes, which was let for * Characters and Conduct of Sir John Edgar, etc., Letter iv. Theatre, 1791, ii. 435, 443- : : * Apology, 1714, p. 81. This passage is confirmed by a letter to ‘ My Lord the Secretary,’ in the Marlborough MSS, xxii INTRODUCTION. 4850 per annum". Her successor, to whom in September, 1707, he was paying his addresses, was a Miss, or in the fashion of those days, Mistress Mary Scurlock, daughter of Jonathan Scurlock, deceased, of Llangunnor in Carmarthen. She, too, possessed a small fortune, in which, however, her mother had a life interest. Moreover, she was a beauty. Steele married her, it is supposed, on the 9th; and, as marriages go, this was a happy one. Of the lady’s character nothing definite can be guessed, beyond the fact that she was somewhat ex7- geante (as beauties are apt to be), and apparently combined the irreconcileable qualities of thrift and extravagance. Few of her letters have been preserved ; but there is little doubt that she was sincerely attached to her husband, while there is no doubt that he was devoted to her. This may be read in every one of the four hundred and odd thoroughly characteristic epistles, which she so carefully preserved, and most of which the antiquary John Nichols gave to the world in 1787, without suppression of a single line*. It has sometimes been forgotten that this famous correspondence was never intended for publica- tion. On the contrary, it was the express wish of the writer that his letters should be shown to no one living. ‘Let us be contented,’ he says, ‘with one another’s thoughts upon our words and actions, without the intervention of other people, who can- not judge of so delicate a circumstance as the commerce between man and wife*.’ It has been forgotten, also, that they were entirely intimate and familiar communications, which cannot fairly be tried by any test applied to more guarded effusions. ‘As Keys do open Chests, so Letters open Breasts,’ says the old adage ; and if it be true of any written utterances it is certainly true of these. They come to us exactly as they slipped from the hasty and impetuous pen of Steele ; and they have every mark of the moment—seldom more than a moment —in which they were penned. They were thrown off at all times, in all places ; and they record faithfully all his fugitive hopes, regrets, yearnings, failings and feelings. They treat of all themes, from Prince George’s death and the most pious aspirations to the despatch of a ‘bottle of tent,’ or the safe conduct of a parcel of walnuts. It would be easy to describe 1 Epist. Corr. of Sir R. Steele, 1809, i, p. 112. 2 Epist, Corr., 1809, i, vy vi. 3 Tbid. i. 117. INTRODUCTION, XXiil “them at length; but a few examples chosen without much selection, will give a better idea of their general character than any summary, however detailed and explicit. Aug. 30, 1707 MapDaM I begg pardon that my paper is not guilt but I am forc’d to write from a Coffee-house where I am attending about businesse. There is a dirty Croud of Busie faces all around me talking politicks and managing Stocks while all my Ambition, all my wealth is Love! Love, which animates my Heart, sweetens my Humour, enlarges my Soul, and affects every Action of my Life. °*Tis to my Lovely Charmer I owe that many Noble Ideas are continually affix’d to my words and Actions; tis the naturall effect of that Generous passion to create some similitude in the Admirer of the object admir’d. ‘Thus my Dear am I every day to Improve from so sweet a Companion. Look up, My Fair One, to that Heav’n which made thee such, and Join with me to Implore Its influence on our Tender Innocent hours, and beseech the Author of Love, to blesse the Rights He bas ordain’d, and mingle with our happinesse a just sense of our Transient Condition, and a resignation to His Will, which only can regulate our minds to a steddy endeavour to please each other. I am for ever Y' Faithful Sert!, R: STEELE '. Sepbr. 1st, 1707. Sut JAMES’s COFFEE-HOUSE. Mapam It is the hardest thing in the World to be in Love, and yet attend businesse. As for me, all that speake to me find me out, and I must Lock my self up, or other people will do it for me. A Gentleman ask’d me this morning what news from Lisbon, and I answer’d She’s Exquisitly handsome. Another desir’d to know when I had been last at Hampton Court, I reply’d twill be on Tuesday come se’nnight 7. Prethee Allow me at least to kisse your hand before that day, that my mind may be in some Composure. Oh Love A thousand Torments dwell about thee, Yet who would Live to Live without thee ? Methinks I could write a Volume to you but all the Language on earth would fail in saying how much, and with what disinterested passion Iam Ever Y*8, RicH*, STEELE. 1 This and the following letter were afterwards published in Sgectator, No. 142. The original MSS. at the British Museum show the altera- tions which Steele made to adapt them for the press. The word ‘ guilt’ (line 1, letter 1) was first altered to ‘guilded,’ then struck out and ‘finer ’ substituted. In Jetter 2,‘ Windsor’ was put instead of ‘ Hampton Court,’ which might have betrayed the writer. These two letters are here re- produced from the MS. as originally written. Another of Steele’s letters was printed in Zatler, No. 35. ? His marriage. Xxiv INTRODUCTION. The above letters were pre-nuptial; the next were written after marriage. TENNIS-CouRT COFFEE-HOUSE. May 5, 17-8. DEAR WIFE, I hope I have done this day what will be pleasing to you ; in the mean time shall lie this night at a barber’s, one Leg, over-against the Devil tavern at Charing Cross. I shall be able to confront the fools who wish me uneasy, and shall have the satisfaction to see thee chearful and at ease. ‘ If the printer's boy be at home, send him hither; and let Mrs. Todd send by the boy my night-gown, slippers, and clean-linen. You shall hear from me early in the morning. RicH. STEELE. Lorp SUNDERLAND’S OFFICE. May 19, 1708, 11 o'clock. DEAR PRUE, , I desire of you to get the coach and yourself ready as soon as you can conveniently, and call for me here, from whence we will go and spend some time together in the fresh air in free conference. Let my best periwig be put in the coach-box, and my new shoes, for it is a comfort to be well-dressed in agreeable company. You are vital life to your obliged, affectionate husband, and humble servant, RicH. STEELE. Aug. 12, 1708. MADAM, I have your letter, wherein you let me know, that the little dispute we have had is far from being a trouble to you; nevertheless, I assure you, any disturbance between us is the greatest affliction to me imaginable. You talk of the judgement of the world; I shall never govern my actions by it, but by the rules of morality and right reason. I love you better than the light of my eyes, or the life blood in my heart ; but, when I have let you know that, you are also to understand, that neither my sight shall be so far inchanted, or my affection so much master of me, as to make me forget our common interest. To attend my busi- ness as I ought, and improve my fortune, it is necessary that my time and my will should be under no direction but my own. Pray give my most humble service to Mrs. Binns. I write all this, rather to explain my own thoughts to you than answer your letter distinctly. I inclose it to you, that, upon second thoughts, you may see the disrespectful manner in which you treat your affectionate, faithful husband, Ricu. STgeExe. JNTRODUCTION. XXV Sept. 20, 1708 DEAR PRUE, If a servant I sent last night got to Hampton-court, you received 29 walnuts and a letter from me. I inclose the Gazette; and am, with all my soul, Your passionate lover, and faithful husband, RIcuH. STEEIE. _ Since I writ the above, ] have found half an hundred more of walnut, which I send herewith. My service to Binns, MONDAY, 7 AT NIGHT Sept. 27, 1708. DEAR PRUE, You see that you are obeyed in everything, and that I write over-night for the day following. I shall now in earnest, by Mr. Clay’s good conduct, manage my business with that method as shall make me easy. The news, I am told, you had last night, of the taking of Lille, does not prove true ; but I hope we shall have it soon. I shall send by to-morrow’s coach. lam, dear Prue, a little in drink, but at all times your faithful husband, RICH. STEELE. HALF-HOUR AFTER TEN Sept. 28, 1708. DEAR PRUE, It being three hours since I writ to you, I send this to assure you I am now going very soberly to-bed, and that you shall be the last thing in my thoughts to-night, as well as the first to-morrow morning. I am, with the utmost fondness, Your faithful husband, Ricu. STEELE. Such are the majority of the letters in this memorable series, surely one of the most unsophisticated exhibitions in literature. We know of nothing which can be compared to it except Swift’s Journal to Stella, and Swift’s journal was composed under restrictions as regards his correspondents, which were quite unknown to Steele. As the record runs on, there are signs of the amantium ire and the redintegratio amoris, of haste and worry, of debt and difficulty; but to the end the kind and steadfast heart of Steele beats out undaunted ; and to the end his wife is his ‘capricious Beauty,’ his ‘absolute Governess,’ his “dear, dearest Prue.’ ‘I wish you would learn of Mr. Steele to write to your Wife,’ says clever Lady Mary Wortley Montagu to XXVvVi INTRODUCTION, her husband. In the eighteenth century such a sequence of mis- sives from a lover to his mistress would be exceptional: from a husband to his wife they are almost unique. Those to whom their often domestic details seem trivial or ridiculous will do well to remember in what period they were written, and their unfeigned candour and absolute purity of tone will more than excuse their minor blemishes. Lovable as he was, it would be disingenuous, as well as idle, to attempt to show that Steele was a prudent man, still less that he was exempt from the error of his age, indicated in one of the foregoing quotations. His genial, gregarious nature made him an easy prey to the opportunities of conviviality, while he was too quick-feeling and impulsive for any thing like thought for the morrow. Hence, throughout his whole lifetime, he was scarcely ever free from money difficulties. When he married he had probably over-estimated his means, and he began his married life upon his fictitious, and not his actual income. Anxious to do honour to his wife’s expectations, he took a town house in Bury Street, St. James’s, to which he afterwards (1708) added a little cottage at Hampton Wick, christened unambitiously, from its proximity to the palace, by the name of ‘The Hovel.’ Here he was the near neighbour of Lord Halifax, another arrangement which was but ill calculated to promote economy. Then ‘dearest Prue’ must have her coach and two, sometimes four, as well as a little saddle- horse, which occasionally eats off its head in town. To meet all this prodigality, he has to borrow £1000 of Addison, which he repays. But further borrowings follow, which drag on in a most discreditable manner for years to come. Towards the close of 1708, he is seriously embarrassed, his wife’s confine- ment is approaching, an execution for rent is put into the Bury Street house, and he has a difficulty in getting bail. He has been trying for the post of Gentleman Usher of the Privy Chamber, worth £200 a year, with £100 perquisites; and a letter of three days later records the death of Prince George of Denmark, by which he loses his place, though in common with all the Prince’s attendants, he gets a bounty of £100 per annum. In December he has great hopes,—all hopes were great with sanguine Steele,— of succeeding, so he tells his wife, to ‘her rival Addison,’ who is vacating his office of Under INTRODUCTION. xxvii Secretary for that of Secretary of State to the Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, Lord Wharton. The result of this expectation is thus given in that curious record, the ‘Wentworth Papers’ ‘Mr. Addisson’—says gossipping and incoherent Peter Went- worth—‘is certain of going over Secretary to Lord Wharton, and Mr. Steel put in for his place, but Lord Sunderland has put him off with a promise to get him the next place he shall ask that may be keep (szc) with his Gazette. I hear it is one of the Scotch members that is to come into Mr. Addisson place, but I don’t know his name yet.’ This is confirmed by another of Steele’s letters in which it is stated that the for- tunate candidate was a North Briton (Mr. R. Pringle). And so time wears away, until we come to the first great enterprise of Steele’s life, the establishment of the eighteenth-century periodical essay. ‘ The letter to which we last referred is dated January 20, 1709. On the 12th of April following, Steele issued, without much warning, the first number of the 7a¢/er, a name, he tells us, not without some suspicion of irony, invented in honour of the fair sex. Its supposed author was ‘ Isaac Bickerstaff, the pseudonym already employed by Swift in those fortunate Predictions for the Year 1708, by which he had overwhelmed poor Partridge, the starmonger, with such inextinguishable laughter In external appearance the new venture was homely enough ; and not entirely free from the imputations of ‘Tobacco Paper’ and ‘ Scurvy Letter,’ cast upon it later by an outraged correspondent. The days of publication were Tues- day, Thursday, and Saturday, being those on which the post left London ; and the price, after the first four numbers, which were given away gratis, was a penny. For country subscribers ‘there was, subsequently to No. 25, a special issue with a blank half-sheet for transmission by post, which cost a half-penny more. According to No. 1, to which and many succeeding numbers, was prefixed the well-worn Quzcguid agunt homines, it professed to embrace ‘ Accounts of Gallantry, Pleasure, and Entertainment,’ ‘under the article of White’s Chocolate House,’ poetry under that of Will’s, learning under the Grecian, foreign and domestic news (in which the author counted largely upon ? Letters of Peter Wentworth. Went. Papers, 1883, p. 68. ? See Dedication to Vol. i, 1710. > Tatler, No. 160. XXViil INTRODUCTION. his position as Gazetteer) under St. James’s Coffee-House, and whatsoever remained from *my own Apartment. He was assisted in his records by an ubiquitous familiar named Pacolet, who makes his first appearance in No. 13. With the progress of the paper its scope widened; and in the Dedication of vol. i. to Arthur Maynwaring, its projector was able to claim for it a more elevated mission than that of merely retailing the gossip of the Town, namely, ‘to expose the false Arts of Life, to pull off the Disguises of Cunning, Vanity, and Affectation, and to recommend a general Simplicity in our Dress, our Discourse, and our Behaviour.’ At the time these words were written, Addison had played but a small part in the fortunes of the Zatler. When the first number appeared he was starting for Ireland ; and it does not seem that he had even been consulted by his friend as to the new project, though it is probable that Swift, whose pseudonym it borrowed, had some inkling of the undertaking. But, in a reference to the beauty of the Virgilian epithet in No. 6, Addi- son recognised a remark of his own ; and he shortly afterwards offered his services to Steele. His earliest known contribution is part of No. 18, wherein the distress of the News Writers at the prospect of peace is ironically treated ; and thenceforth his assistance was regularly given, first in the form of notes and suggestions, afterwards in such finished papers as the Polztical Upholsterer, No. 155, Tom Folio, No. 158, the Adventures of a Shilling, No. 249, Frozen Voices, No. 254, andso on. Gradually the news element began to fade out of the paper, and the essay to take its place. Then, in January 1711, with No. 271, the Tatler ceased as suddenly as it began,—the colourable reason being that the public had penetrated the editor’s disguise, and that the object of the work was wholly lost by ‘his [Steele’s] being so long understood as the Author.’ ‘The general Purpose of the whole,’ he says, ‘has been to recommend Truth, Inno- cence, Honour, and Virtue, as the chief Ornaments of Life ; but I considered, that Severity of Manners was absolutely necessary to him who would censure others, and for that Reason, and that only, chose to talk in a Mask. I shall not carry my Humility so far as to call myself a vicious Man; but at the same Time must confess, my Life is at best but pardonable. And with no greater Character than this, a Man would make but an in- INTRODUCTION. XXIX different Progress in attacking prevailing and fashionable Vices, which Mr. Bickerstaff has done with a Freedom of Spirit that would have lost both its Beauty and Efficacy, had it been pre- tended to by Mr. Steele}, This, if it signifies anything at all, must be taken to imply that some of Steele’s contemporaries, as in the case of the Christian ffero, had been too narrowly contrasting ‘ the least Levity in his Words and Actions’ with the admirable precepts of the Shire Lane philosopher. But other and more urgent motives for the cessation of Mr. Bickerstaff’s Lucubrations have been suggested. After the accession of the Tories in August, 1710, Steele lost or resigned his post as Gazetteer, and it may be that there is some obscure connection between this fact and the discontinuance of the paper. Then again Addison had returned from his Irish Secretaryship; and his assistance, already so valuable in developing its social and literary side, was more intimately available. In these circumstances, it might be better to begin afresh with a new venture, in which the new character- istics would be retained, while the old ones were wholly aban- doned. There was already, the printer reported, material for four volumes ; and Steele took leave of his subscribers. In his general preface to the collected edition, he inserted an oft-quoted compliment to his friend and ally. ‘I have only one Gentleman, who will be nameless, to thank for any frequent Assistance to me, which indeed it would have been barbarous in him to have denied to one with whom he has lived in an Intimacy from Childhood, considering the great Ease with which he is able to dispatch the most entertaining Pieces of this Nature. This good Office he performed with such Force of Genius, Humour, Wit, and Learning, that I fared like a distressed Prince who calls in a powerful Neighbour to his Aid; I was undone by my Auxiliary ; when I had once called him in, I could not subsist without De- pendance on him”? In this passage Steele gives an example of that generous self-suppression, to which Fielding refers in his Journey from this World to the Next. There can be no doubt of the fine qualities of Addison’s contributions, and of the material aid which they afforded to Steele in determining his original design. 1 Tatler, No. 271. ? Preface to Vol. iv, 1711. XXX INTRODUCTION, But his own part in the enterprise was by no means contemp- tible. In the first place, he had invented it, for it is idle, as some would, to transfer the credit of this to Swift, merely because he had contrived the lay-figure of Bickerstaff. Nor is it necessary, except as an exercise in ingenuity, to connect it very closely with the somewhat similar productions of Defoe. Secondly, by far the larger proportion of papers are Steele’s own; and, in nearly every case, the new departure, the fresh ex- tension, comes from him, Often Addison’s most brilliant efforts are built upon a chance hint thrown off at random by Steele’s hurrying pen. In this conjunction, in short, Steele seems to have been the originating and Addison the elaborating intellect. What See with his keen sympathy and ‘veined humanity’ found in ‘conversation ’—to use the eighteenth-century term for commerce with the world—the delicate lapidary skill of his more placid and introspective companion turned in the study into those gems of graceful irony, which, if only by reason of their style and polish, must outlive more ambitious performances. They are faultless in their a art, and in ind in this way achieve an ex- cellence which was beyond the. range of Steele’s quicker and more impulsive nature. But ‘for words which the heart finds when the head is seeking ; for phrases glowing with the white heat of a generous emotion; for sentences which throb and tingle with manly pity or courageous indignation, we must go to the essays of Steele. Nothing so clearly illustrates the relations of the two writers as the conception and progress of the Club, to whose members ‘we are introduced in No. 2 of the new paper, which, a few weeks later, took the place of the concluded Zatler. In No. 1, Addison, embodying some of his own characteristics, had care- fully delineated the portrait of the taciturn and contemplative ‘looker-on,’ from whom the journal borrowed its name. In the essay that followed, Steele threw off his sketch of that famous friendly gathering, which, to most people, is the most memorable thing in the Sfectator. The foremost of the group is Sir Roger de Coverley. Tickell, Addison’s Zrotégé and biographer, says that these two papers were ‘projected [by Addison] in concert with Steele.’ This may be true; but it is also probable that each writer took to himself those parts of the scheme which he held to be most peculiarly his own. The picture of Mr. Spec- INTRODUCTION. Xxxi tator is just such a finished study as might have originated with the creator of Tom Folio or Ned Softly in the Za//er, while the “conversation-piece’ of the Club is equally characteristic of the broader and hastier hand which drew Sir Jeoffrey Notch and the little knot of notables, who assembled nightly at the Trumpet}, But Addison saw in Steele’s kit-cat of Sir Roger the occasion for a full-length after his own heart. The plan of the periodical permitted either writer to exhibit any of the members of the society; and Addison was thus enabled to build upon Steele’s foundation that inimitable reproduction of the Tory country-gentleman of his day which ranks beside the best creations of the school of fiction which it preceded and anticipated. Will Honeycomb, Captain Sentry, Sir Andrew Freeport, the Templar, the Clergyman, all Steele’s other concep- tions pale before this central figure ; and Steele’s best social papers, and Addison’s best literary criticisms, would have had far less currency if Sir Roger de Coverley had never existed. The first number of the Sectator was issued on March 1, 1711. Until December 6, 1712, it was continued daily with in- creased success, and an indomitable vitality which survived even the baleful Stamp Act of August in that year. While the AZed- leys and Flying Posts of Grub Street sank under the deadly half-penny tax to rise no more, the little leaflet of Addison and Steele audaciously doubled its price (a penny) and yet retained its readers. Towards the close of its career the sale reached 10,000 copies per week, and we have Steele’s own authority ? for saying that in volume form it acquired a further circulation of gooo. Of the two colleagues, Addison was, in this instance, the larger contributor. Out of a total of 555, his papers numbered 274 to Steele’s 236, leaving only 45 for Budgell, Hughes, and (with exception of Pope) the other comparatively undistinguished occasional assistants. As in the concluding Za/ler, Steele does not omit, when winding up its successor, to make admiring reference to his still anonymous auxiliary. ‘I am, indeed, much more proud of his long continued Friendship, than I should be of the Fame of being thought the Author of any Writings which he himself is capable of producing. I remember when I finished the Tender Husband, I told him there was nothing 1 See Zatler, No. 132. ? Spectator, No. 555. XXXii INTRODUCTION. I so ardently wished, as that we might some time or other publish a Work written by us both, which should bear the Name of the Monument in Memory of our Friendship‘ Why the SZectator was thus brought to an end in the full tide of its success is difficult to understand ; and it is nowhere very satisfactorily explained. Weariness of the scheme may have had something to do with it ; and it is also not unlikely that, in the high-running strife of Whig and Tory, Steele’s eager spirit of partisanship, never entirely held in check by the reti- cences of the social essay, was beginning to disquiet him, as it had already done in the Zatlery. During the progress of the Spectator, his patriotism had broken out in a little pamphlet called The Englishman's Thanks to the Duke of Marlborough, occasioned by the disgrace in December, 1711, of that great Captain” ; and, even in the pages of the S#ectator itself, there had been indications of his inability to maintain the ‘exact Neutrality,’ announced at the outset of the paper*. ‘He has been mighty impertinent of late,’ says Swift, writing to Stella in July, 1712. ‘I believe he will very soon lose his employment.’ Nevertheless, in the Guardian, with which, on the 12th of March, 1713, he again appeared as a periodical essayist, introducing a fresh plan and a new set of characters, he continues to make profession of abstinence from political questions. While declar- ing himself, as regards the government of the church, a Tory, and with respect to the State, a Whig, Mr. Nestor Ironside goes on to say :—‘I am past all the regards of this life, and have nothing to manage with any person or party ; but to deliver myself as becomes an old man, with one foot in the grave, and one who thinks he is passing to eternity‘? ‘Matters of state’ were, however, too strong for Richard Steele. He was an ardent adherent of King William and the Revolution. The air was charged with faction, and rife with rumours of Jacobite plots against the Hanoverian succession. Thus it came about that the Guardian, beginning brilliantly with a staff which, in addition to Addison, included Berkeley and Pope, soon deviated 1 Spectator, No. 555. * ‘l'his event, on Swift’s side, prompted the rancorous Fade of Midas (Journal to Stella, February 14, 1712). ’ V. Spectator, No.1, Cf. also Spectator, No. 262. * Guardian, No. 1. « INTRODUCTION. XXXiil into controversy. The first manifestation of this was an in- dignant defence, in No. 41, of Lady Charlotte Finch, afterwards Duchess of Somerset, who, because her father, the Earl of Not- tingham, had become obnoxious to the Tory party, was herself assailed, incidentally, by the Tory Examiner. ‘No sooner was Dismal [her father] among the Whigs,’ said the writer, ‘and confirm’d past retrieving, but Lady Char—te is taken knotting? in Saint James’s Chapel, during Divine Service, in the imme- diate presence both of God and Her Majesty, who were affronted together, that the Family might appear to be entirely come over.’ Steele rightly considered this to be a wholly unwarrantable attack, for political purposes, upon an unoffending young lady, and he expostulated with considerable warmth. The Examiner replied feebly by counter-charges against the personalities of the Tatler; and in May Steele vindicated himself over his own signature”. A month later his irrepressible enthusiasm broke into open warfare with the Ministers. He threw up his Com- missionership of Stamps in a letter to the Lord Treasurer of June 4, resigned his pension as Prince George’s gentleman in waiting, and shortly afterwards attacked the Government upon the burning question of the demolition of the Dunkirk fortifica- tions. This, which had been stipulated in the Treaty of Utrecht, was now, if certain ugly rumours could be credited, to be tacitly set aside. Steele’s watchful patriotism took fire. ‘ The British nation’—he wrote imperatively in No. 128 of the Guardian—‘ expects the demolition of Dunkirk.’ To this outspoken declaration the Examiner replied by charging him with ingratitude and disloyalty. Steele thereupon followed up the controversy with a pamphlet called The Importance of Dun- kirk consider d, etc., addressed to the Bailiff of Stockbridge, for which borough he had just been returned to the House of Commons*. Meanwhile, upon some ill-explained disagreement 1 This was a fashionable occupation under Anne. Cf. Addison in Spectator, No. 536; and Dorset’s poem on Knotting. 2 V. Examiner, May 8 (No. 37), and Guardian, May 12 (No. 53). * The Importance of Dunkirk consider'd, etc., was published Sep- tember 22, 1713. On October 31 Swift answered it by a bitter and vindictive pamphlet, entitled Zhe mportance of the Guardian Consider'd, in which the note of personal animosity is plainly audible. It is im- possible, in our brief space, to enter upon the tangled tale of Swift’s quarrel with Steele at this period. Political differences had already for c XXXIV INTRODUCTION, with his publisher Tonson, the Guardian was abruptly dis- continued, and immediately succeeded by the Englishman, ‘a sequel,’ designed to give greater latitude to his political con- victions. With the same object, he published, in January 1714, along pamphlet called the Cyzszs, in which, largely aided by Mr. William Moore of the Temple (who probably supplied the first draft), and fortified by the encouraging criticisms of Addison, Hoadly, and others, he reviewed the whole question of the ‘Hanoverian succession. The Cy7s’s was widely circulated ; its immediate result being that Steele had no sooner taken his seat as member for Stockbridge than he was accused of uttering seditious publications, and, in brief space, called upon for his defence. Though taken to some extent by surprise, he made this with great dexterity, and unsuspected powers of oratory, speaking—says the old author of the Reign of Queen Anne—‘for near Three Hours... with such a Temper, Mo- desty, Unconcern, easy and manly Eloquence, as gave entire Satisfaction to all, who were not inveterately prepossess’d against him.’ Addison sat near him to prompt him as occasion required, while Walpole (afterwards Sir Robert), General Stan- hope, and other leading Whigs addressed the House in his favour. Young Lord Finch, too, Lady Charlotte’s brother, who, like Steele himself, was a new member, also rose in defence of his sister’s champion. Overcome by timidity, however, he presently sat down exclaiming, ‘It is strange I cannot speak for this man, though I could willingly fight for him.’ Those in some time past estranged them. Swift, nevertheless, seems to have endeavoured to help Steele with those in power, and he thought him ungrateful. Steele, on the other hand, fancied, rightly or wrongly, that he detected Swift’s influence, if not his pen, in the Axaminer’s attacks on Lord Nottingham and himself; and his replies, based on this conjecture, stung Swift to the quick. When later Steele’s Crzszs came out, Swift re- plied to that also in the Publick Spirit of the Whigs, etc. (February, 1714) ; and it is now practically admitted that he inspired, if he did not actually write, a particularly personal Character of Richard St—le, Esq., by Toby, Abel's kinsman (i.e. Abel Roper of the Tory Postboy), usually fathered upon an obscure William Wagstaffe. Swift carried far more guns than Steele in this kind of conflict, and his method is more noisome and deadly ; but any one who will take the trouble to read the whole of these pamphlets to-day will rapidly be convinced that if Swift had the ad- vantage in irony and logic, he cannot compete with Steele in straight- forwardness or magnanimity. f INTRODUCTION. XXXV his immediate neighbourhood caught up the muttered words ; they were quickly repeated; and the ready outburst of en- couraging applause brought the neophyte again on his feet, when, it is recorded, he made an effective speech. But neither Lord Finch’s maiden rhetoric, nor Steele’s more powerful advocates, could save him from what, with pardonable energy, he terms ‘the arbitrary Use of Numbers,’ and the ‘insolent and unmanly Sanction of a Majority.” On the 18th of March, 1714, he was expelled the House. In an Afology for Himself and his Writings, published in the following October, from which we have already made several quotations, he gives an account of this episode in his career, which is well worth con- sulting. His reputation in another way has overshadowed his political pamphlets; but the extreme hostility which they aroused in his opponents is a certain testimony to their con- temporary import. He was not of a nature to be long cast down by his misfor- tune; and turned anew to literature. A month before his expulsion, he had closed the Englishman, and almost imme- diately afterwards began the Lover, which was more in the Sfectator manner. In No. 11 of this, issued but two days after his senatorial disgrace, he printed a whimsical account of it, in which Harley (the Lord Treasurer) figured as ‘Sir Anthony Crabtree,’ and Foley, the Auditor, who had impeached him, as ‘Brickdust.’ The Lover, however, in the turn things had taken, offered too little opportunity for the more exciting topics, that, for the moment, engaged his attention. Before it was discon- tinued, he started, in direct opposition to the Tory Examiner, another and more distinctly political paper, the Reader. From No. 6 of this, it appears that he contemplated undertaking that enterprise, which afterwards drifted from Glover to Mallet, and was ultimately performed, only in this century, by Archdeacon Coxe, the story of Marlborough’s campaigns. He had also published, during the progress of the Exg/ishman, a volume of Poetical Miscellanies, which included an elaborate dedication to Congreve, and was enriched by contributions from Pope and Gay. To this succeeded a treatise on the Romzsh Ecclesias- tical History of late Years, a Letter on the Bill for preventing the Growth of Schism, and a further pamphlet on the Dunkirk question. The last literary effort with which he was con- c2 XXXvi INTRODUCTION, nected in 1714, if the Afology be excepted, was the three mysterious volumes known as Zhe Ladies Library, to which in all probability he did little more than supply the Preface, Dedications, and a few editorial touches. The first of the dedi- cations is addressed to the Countess of Burlington ; and the second to the Mrs. Catharine Bovey, whom a rather futile tradi- tion has associated with Sir Roger de Coverley’s ‘ perverse widow!’ The third, couched in an admirable strain of loyal and affectionate eulogy, is to Steele’s own wife, who, surrounded by her family, may be supposed to be depicted in Du Guernier’s frontispiece. It would be unjust not to give an extract from it, if only to show that in an age of adulatory addresses, there exists at least one which is neither venal nor feigned : It is impossible for me to look back on many Evils and Pains which I have suffered since we came together, without a Pleasure which is not to be expressed, from the Proofs I have had in those Circumstances of your unwearied Goodness. How often has your Tenderness re- moved Pain from my sick Head? How often Anguish from my afflicted Heart? With how skilful Patience have I known you comply with the vain Projects which Pain has suggested, to have an aking Limb removed by Journeying from one side of a Room to another; how often the next Instant travelled the same Ground again, without telling your Patient it was to no Purpose to change his Situation? If there are such Beings as Guardian Angéls, thus are they employed; I will no more believe one of them more Good, in its Inclinations, than I can conceive it more charming in its Form than my Wife. . : _ But I offend, and forget that what I say to you is to appear in Pub- lick : You are so great a Lover of Home, that I know it will be irksome to you to go into the World even in an Applause. I will end this with- out so much as mentioning your Little Flock, or your own amiable Figure at the Head of it: That I think them preferable to all other Children, I know is the Effect of Passion and Instinct; that I believe You the best of Wives, I know proceeds from Expeiience and Reason *. There is little that is hopeless or broken in these graceful and tender words. The fact is, that before The Ladtes Library was published, the tide had again turned for Steele. In August Queen Anne died; and with the landing of her successor at Greenwich, honours began incontinently to rain upon the courageous champion of the Protestant succession. He was made a deputy lieutenant of the county of Middlesex, Surveyor of the Royal Stables at Hampton Court, and (like 1 V. Spectator, No. 113. 2 The Ladies Library, 1714, iii. INTRODUCTION. xxxvii Fielding after him) a justice of peace. Another and more lucrative office also fell to his lot. With Queen Anne’s death, the license of Drury Lane also expired; and the managers, enlisting Steele’s services to obtain its renewal, invited him to join them, and supervise the theatre at a salary of £700 a year. By a subsequent arrangement, under which the license gave place to a patent, this sum was further increased to Z1000, In Cibber’s AZology, the story of this transaction is related at length, and, incidentally, it affords an illustration of the estimation in which Steele’s powers as a dramatic critic were held by the players. ‘We knew,’ says Cibber, ‘the Obligations the Stage had to his Writings ; there being scarce a Comedian of Merit, in our whole Company, whom his Zatlers had not made better, by his publick Recommendation of them. And many Days had our House been particularly fill’d, by the Influence, and Credit of his Pen.’ Steele, Cibber continues, was so highly pleased with the offer, ‘that had we been all his own Sons, no unexpected Act of filial Duty could have more endear’d us to him} The patent for Drury Lane was received from the Lord Chancellor on the 19th January, 1715. The next day Steele set out for Boroughbridge in Yorkshire, for which place he was shortly afterwards elected member. In April of the same year, he drew up, for the Lord-Lieutenant of Middlesex, an address to King George, upon presentation of which he was knighted. On the 28th May following, being his Majesty’s birthday, the new knight celebrated that event by an enter- tainment in his house in Villiers Street, York Buildings, Strand, at which there were more than two hundred guests. Tickell wrote a prologue, spoken by Miss Younger; and there was an epilogue, attributed to Addison, pleasantly rallying the foibles of the good-natured host. After touching upon some early and frustrate enquiries for the philosopher’s stone, which had been one of the genuine enterprises of the pseudo-Bickerstaff, it proceeds thus :— That Project sunk, you saw him entertain A notion more chimerical and vain, To give chaste morals to ungovern’d youth, To Gamesters honesty, to Statesmen truth ; 1 Cibber’s Apology, 1740, pp. 289-90. XXXViil INTRODUCTION. To make you virtuous all; a thought more bold, Than that of changing Dross and Lead to Gold. But now to greater actions he aspir'’d, : For still his Country’s good our Champion fir’d ; In Treaties vers’d, in Politicks grown wise, He look’d on DUNKIRK with suspicions eyes ; Into her dark foundations boldly dug, And overthrew in fight the fam'd SrEUR TUGGHE', Still on his wide unwearied view extends, Which I may tell, since none are here but Friends ; In a few months he is not without hope, But ’tis a secret[,] to convert the Pope. Of this however, he'll inform you better, Soon as his Holiness receives his Letter ?. The last lines, says Nichols, refer to a dedication, ostensibly by Steele, but in reality by Hoadly, prefixed to An Account of the State of the Roman Catholick Religion throughout the World, a translation from the Italian of Urbano Cerri, which Sir Richard reprinted in 1715. The above epilogue was entrusted to Wilks, and the little shafts of satire it contained lost none of their point under that admirable actor’s delivery. From the account which Steele himself gives of this event, it seems that it was intended as the prelude to another of his multifarious projects —the Censorium, a name borrowed from the room in Villiers Street where it was to be held, and which, so far as it is intelligible, was to consist of a kind of periodical conversazione for both sexes, enlivened by Music, acting, and recitations*. 1 Mons. Tugghe was the Deputy of the Magistrates of Dunkirk. (See Notes to No. 133 in this volume.) * Town-Talk, No. 4. 3 Town-Talk, No. 4. It is with reference to the Censorium (the theatre, not the entertainment named after it) that Drake tells the following anecdote :—‘Sir Richard had constructed a very elegant theatre in his house for the recitation of select passages from favourite authors, and wishing to ascertain whether it was as well calculated to gratify the ear as the eye, desired the carpenter, who had completed the work, to ascend a pulpit placed at one end of the building and speak a few sentences. The carpenter obeyed, but when mounted found himself utterly at a loss for the matter of his harangue. Sir Richard begged he would pronounce whatever first came into his head. Thus encouraged, the new-made orator began, and looking steadily at the knight, in a voice like thunder, exclaimed, “Sir Richard Steele, here has I, and these here men, been doing your work for three months, and never seen the colour of your money. When are you to pay us? I cannot pay my journeymen without money, and money I must have.” INTRODUCTION. XXXIX Amid all these distractions, Steele continued to occupy himself with literature; and in July 1715, began a second volume of the Englishman. To this succeeded Zown-Talk, the Zea-Tadle, and Chit-Chat ; none of which extended beyond afew numbers. In 1716, after the suppression of the northern rebellion, he was made a Commissioner for the forfeited Estates, and spent some time in Scotland. Returning again in 1718, he obtained a patent for the Fish-Pool, a plan, fully described in a pamphlet of that year, for bringing salmon alive from Ireland in a well-boat. But the fish battered themselves to pieces e2 route; and despite much ingenuity of detail, the scheme proved abortive. In December, 1718, Lady Steele died; and was buried in Westminster Abbey. Early in the following year Steele’s political sympathies involved him in a paper war with his life-long friend, Addison. Lord Sunderland had proposed a measure limiting the number of peers, one result of which would have been the practical exclusion of the Commons from the honours of the Upper House. Steele, although the measure originated with his own party, felt this keenly, and immediately started the Pledecax to denounce the Bill. Addison replied to the Pledecan in the Old Whig; and this dellum plusguam civile, as Johnson calls it, was continued, with increasing acrimony, through two or three numbers. As far as dignity is concerned, Steele has certainly the best of the quarrel, since to his opponent’s oblique personalities about Grub Street pamphleteers and ‘stagnated Pools,’ he simply rejoins by a complimentary quotation from Addi- son’s Cato’. Still, upon different grounds, his own conduct of the controversy was by no means irreproachable ; and,,in both cases, it is difficult not to echo the wish that faction could have found less illustrious advocates. The worst result was that the breach thus made seems never to have been repaired ; and a few months later, reconciliation was rendered Sir Richard replied, that he was in raptures with the eloquence, but by no means admired the subject.’ Zssays, ed. 1814, i. 179-80. ‘ The alleged reference to Steele as ‘ Little Dickey,’ exposed and ex- ploded by Lord Macaulay, could hardly, as that writer says, have been misunderstood by any one who had actually consulted the text. The mistake originated in a blunder of the Biographia Britannica, per- petuated by Johnson, who had not seen the Old Whig, which was first reprinted by Nichols, some years after Johnson's death. xl INTRODUCTION. impossible by Addison’s death. Other troubles, besides estrangement from his old friend, also crowded upon Steele at this time. Owing to his opposition to the Peerage Bill, which was dropped, his patent for Drury Lane was revoked by the Duke of Newcastle, then Lord Chamberlain, at ruinous pecuniary loss to an already embarrassed man. In anticipation of this blow, as well as to vindicate himself and his brother- managers, and defend the stage generally, he established the Theatre, by ‘Sir John Edgar, a bi-weekly paper, which brought upon him, among other things, a ferocious and probably hireling attack from the wolfish old critic, John Dennis, a man whom he had formerly befriended. His reply to this unexpected onslaught is a mixture of satire, dignity, good-humour, and raillery, some of which last must have been rather over his adversary’s head. But, besides a few useful biographical particulars, already drawn upon in this sketch, it contains a memorable passage respecting his friendship with Addison. In Cibber’s dedication to Steele of the tragedy of Ximenes, he had inserted an absurdly adulatory passage, the effect of which was to liken Steele to an eagle, and Addison to a wren carried upon his back. Dennis charged Steele with tacit complicity in this piece of bad taste. After admitting that, on the contrary, it had given him pain, Steele, in his character of Edgar, comments as follows :—‘It could not be imagined, that, to diminish a worthy man, as soon as he was no more to be seen, could add to him who had always raised, and almost worshipped him, when living. There never was a more strict friendship than between those Gentlemen ; nor had they ever any difference but what proceeded from their different way of pursuing the same thing. The one with patience, foresight, and temperate address, always waited and stemmed the torrent; while the other often plunged himself into it, and was as often taken out by the temper of him who stood weeping on the brink for his safety, whom he could not dissuade from leaping into it. Thus these two men lived for some years last past, shunning each other, but still preserving the most passionate concern for their mutual welfare. But when they met, they were as unreserved as boys, and talked of the greatest affairs, upon which they saw where they differed, without pressing (what they knew impossible) INTRODUCTION, xli to convert each other.’ Towards the close of the same paper he again refers, with a touch of self-reproachful sadness, to Addison and to his wife, now both dead and gone :—‘ There is not now in his [Steele’s] sight that excellent man, whom Heaven made his friend and superior, to be, at a certain place, in pain for what he should say or do. I will go on in his further encouragement; the best Woman that ever Man had, cannot now lament and pine at his neglect of himself.’ The Theatre, from No. 12 of which these passages are taken, came to an end in April, 1720. The only other works which Steele produced in the same year were The Crisis of Property and A Nation a Family, two pamphlets in which he warmly com- bated the South Sea Mania. His changing fortunes turned once more in 1721. Walpole, his ancient ally, became Chancellor of the Exchequer ; and he was speedily re-instated as Governor of the Royal Company of Comedians. The same year was distinguished by his publication of a second edition of Addison’s Drummer, with a prefatory letter or dedication to Congreve, commenting upon certain aspersions made by Tickell in the recently published edition of Addison’s works. This letter, which is most interesting, throws considerable light upon Addison’s part in Steele’s literary ventures ; and proves clearly (if proof were needed) that Steele, at least, cherished no angry memories of the great writer whom he names his ‘Dear and Honoured Friend.’ The next year (1722) witnessed the production at Drury Lane of his best comedy, the Conscious Lovers, con- cerning which Fielding’s Parson Adams affirms that it ranks with Cato as the only play fit for a Christian to see, adding that it contains ‘some things almost solemn enough for a sermon.’ Notwithstanding this dubious recommendation, the Consctous Lovers succeeded in escaping being ‘damn’d’ (like the Lying Lover) ‘for its Piety,’ and proved such a hit that the King, to whom it was dedicated, sent the author 500 guineas. Its groundwork is supplied by the Andrza of Terence; and its condemnation of duelling would, according to the Biographia Dramatica, have constituted the final word on that text, ‘had not the subject been since more amply and completely treated by the admirable author of Szr Charles Grandison, in the affair between that truly accomplished gentleman and Sir xlii INTRODUCTION. Hargrave Pollexfen.’ That Richardson, who built Lovelace out of Rowe’s Lothario, may have been indebted to the Bevil, and Myrtle of the Conscious Lovers, does not appear to have occurred to Mr. Isaac Reed or his predecessor. After his last comedy, little remains to be told of Steele. He began two others—the School of Action and the Gentle- man, but did not finish them. Fragments of both were published by Nichols in 1809, with the 2nd edition of the correspondence. Money difficulties, the accumulation of a life-time of improvidence and prodigality, appear to have thickened upon him in his later days, and he sold his share in the theatre. Then came an unhappy lawsuit with the managers, which he lost. In 1724, in pursuance of an honour- able arrangement for doing justice to his creditors’, he quitted London, lived some time at Hereford, and finally retired to his wife’s Welsh estate”. He died at Carmarthen on September 1, 1729, aged fifty-eight; and was buried in St. Peter's Church, where a mural tablet was first erected to him as late as 1876, by a gentleman who then owned part of his old property. There is also an earlier tablet to him at Llangunnor. Not long before his death he had a paralytic seizure ; but he retained his kind heart to the last. The latest account of him which is preserved 1 Swift, with strange cruelty to the memory of the dead man who had been his friend, represents this as an ignoble flight. Steele—he says in some verses printed in 1730— ‘From Perils of a hundred Jayls Withdrew to starve, and dye in Wales,’ It is instructive to contrast this with the generosity with which Steele, in his defence before the House, spoke of the living Author of the /wzport- ance of the Guardian consider'd, and the Publick Spirit of the Whigs. After quoting a laudatory notice from the 7at/er of a book by Swift, he continues :—‘ The Gentleman I here intended was Dr. Swift ; this kind of Man I thought him at that time: We have not met of late, but I hope he deserves this Character still’ Again (speaking in No. 57 of the Englishman of Toby's Character of Richard St—le, Esq.) he says, ‘I think I know the Author of this, and to shew him I know no Revenge but in the Method of heaping Coals on his Head by Benefits, I forbear giving him what he deserves; for no other Reason, but that I know his Sensibility of Reproach is such, as that he would be unable to bear Life it self under half the ill Language he has given me.’ There is every reason to believe that he rightly estimated Swift's nature. * There is a view of the house at Llangunnor in the Geréleman’s Magazine for 1797, p.457. It was then occupied as a farm. INTRODUCTION. xliii shows him watching the country-folk at their sports from his invalid’s chair on a summer evening, and writing an order upon his agent for a prize of a new gown to the best dancer’. Of his four children, only two survived him. His eldest daughter, Elizabeth, born in 1709, married a Welsh judge, afterwards the third Lord Trevor of Bromham. Richard, the second child, died in 1716; and Eugene, the third, to whom there are some references in the Zheatre and Town-Talk, in 1723. Mary, the youngest, was carried off by consumption in the year following her father’s death. There are several portraits of Sir Richard Steele. To three of these he himself makes reference in his reply to one of Dennis’s papers, which contains a vulgar caricature of him in the Rowlandson or Bunbury manner,—‘a caricature,’ says Mr. Thackeray, who quotes it, which has ‘a dreadful resemblance to the original.’ This, it may be submitted, is true of all cari- catures of any ability. Dennis, here and elsewhere, laid stress upon his short face, his black peruke, and his dusky countenance. The short face Sir Richard could scarcely have contested, as he pleads guilty to it in the Sfectator?, But the black wig, it appears in this instance, was brown; and he evades the ‘dusky countenance.’ He was, in fact, what in those days was called ‘a black man*;’ and he goes on to say, with respect to this ‘insinuation against his beauty,’ that he has ordered new editions of his face after Kneller, Thornhill, and Richardson to disabuse mankind in this particular*, The first, he adds, has painted him ‘resolute,’ the second ‘thoughtful,’ and the third ‘indolent.’ All these pictures, we believe, are still in existence. The Kneller was painted for the Kit-Cat Club, and is engraved by Simon, Faber, and Houbraken. A beautiful little copy of it by Vertue generally forms the frontis- piece to the collected plays. It exhibits Steele, apparently, in the voluminous ‘full-bottomed dress periwig,’ in which he rode abroad or penned homilies against luxury and extravagance *. The Thornhill at Cobham Hall—the ‘thoughtful’ one—depicts him in the disarray of a dressing gown and tasselled cap; ! Victor’s Original Letters, Dramatic Pieces, and Poems, 1776, i. 330. 2 Spectator, Nos. 17 and 19. * Spectator, No. 262. * Theatre, No. 11. ® Drake's Zssays, ed. 1814, i. 179. A xliv INTRODUCTION. and is the original of the circular print engraved by Basire, which figures in so many of Nichols’s publications. A copy by Vertue forms our frontispiece. The third portrait, by Jonathan Richardson, is now in the National Portrait Gallery. This, an unusually fine specimen of the painter’s work, gives us the Steele of 1712, the Steele of the Spectator. He is here shewn as a portly, good-humoured man ‘of a ruddy countenance,’ with broad dark eyebrows, very bright dark brown eyes, and a mass of curling brown hair that conceals his ears. He wears a collarless coat, and a plain cravat. Nichols mentions another portrait by Michael Dahl, taken when he was Commissioner in Scotland. There is also a second reputed Kneller at Stationers’ Hall. Dennis, it may be added, seems to have regarded Sir Richard’s reply to his personal remarks, as proof positive of his vanity. But Dennis did not understand raillery, and Steele was not vain of his appearance. ‘My Person,’ he says in his charming paper on Estcourt, ‘is very little of my Care; and it is indifferent to me what is said of my Shape, my Air, my Manner, my Speech, or my Address.’ .... ‘I am arrived at the Happiness of thinking nothing a Diminution to me,. but what argues a Depravity of my Will? Of his work it may be said generally that his essays alone survive. Upon the strength of his slender contribution to the Poetical Miscellanies, and a few occasional verses, it would bet impossible to set up a claim for him as a poet, to which dignity, indeed, he never pretended’. His political pamphlets served the purposes of the hour; and, except to the minute student of parliamentary history or the all-sifting biographer, are now unreadable. His plays again, to-day, are but faintly vital. They were not brilliant successes in his life-time ; and they have never passed into the repertory of the stage. The fact that their author so willingly leaned upon the plot of a predecessor indicates his weak point—the lack of that stage- craft which seems to be still one of the rarest gifts of English- men. Another difficulty with which he struggled unsuccess- fully was his laudable desire to conciliate the pulpit and the stage. Whether this can or should be done, and whether 1 Rundle’s Anticipation of the Posthumous Character of Sir R. Steele, Epist. Corr. 1809, ii, p. 690. INTRODUCTION, xlv Steele’s attempts to do it are chargeable with the blame of initiating the pestilent Sentimental Drama of subsequent years, —the ‘mawkish drab of spurious breed’? who, in Garrick’s words, was to supplant the Comic Muse,—are questions which it is needless to discuss here. It is sufficient to note that in Steele’s case the fusion was not satisfactorily effected. In the dialogue, too, it may be admitted with Chalmers, that he is “sometimes tedious.’ ‘He wants the quick repartee of Con- greve; and, though possessed of humour, falls into the style rather of an essay than a drama.’ Still it was impossible that so lively a humourist and so penetrating an observer could fail entirely. As we have already pointed out, his comedies contain many original sketches of character, some of which have furnished hints to later hands, while there are episodes in all of them which, it is safe to say, nobody but Mr. Bicker- staff could have written. Take, for example, this thoroughly eighteenth-century idyll from the ComscZous Lovers, in which the actors are Tom the man and Phillis the maid. (Phillis, it may be observed parenthetically, was later one of the famous characters of the famous Mrs. Margaret Woffington. One can imagine with what arch vivacity she would have invested the part of the coquettish window-cleaner.) Tom... . Ah! too well I remember when, and how, and on what Occasion I was first surpriz’d. It was on the first of Agrz/, one thousand seven hundred and fifteen, I came into Mr. Sealand’s Service ; I was then a Hobble-de-Hoy, and you a pretty little tight Girl, a favourite Handmaid of the Housekeeper—At that Time, we neither of us knew what was in us: I remember, I was order'd to get out of the Window, one pair of Stairs, to rub the Sashes clean,—the Person employ'd, on the innerside, was your Charming self, whom I had never seen before. Phil. I think, I remember the silly Accident : What made ye, you Oaf, teady to fall down into the Street? Tom. You know not, I warrant you—You could not guess what surpriz’d me, You took no Delight, when you immediately grew wan- ton, in your Conquest, and put your Lips close, and breath’d upon the Glass, and when my Lips approach’d, a dirty Cloth you rubbed against my Face, and hid your beauteous Form; when I again drew near, you spit, and rubb’d, and smil’d at my Undoing. Phil, What silly Thoughts you Men have ! Tom. We were Pyramus and Thisbe—but ten times harder was my Fate; Pyramus could peep only through a Wall, I saw her, saw my 1 Prologue to She Stoops to Conquer, 1773. xvi INTRODUCTION. Thisbe in all her Beauty, but as much kept from her as if a hundred Walls between, for there was more, there was her Will against me— Would she but yet relent !—Oh, Phillis! Phillis! shorten my Torment, and declare you pity me. Phil. I believe, it’s very sufferable; the Pain is not so exquisite, but that you may bear it, a little longer‘. As a prose-writer Steele does not rank with the great masters of English style. He claimed, indeed, in his capacity as a Zatler, to use ‘common speech,’ to be even ‘incorrect’? if need be, and, it may be added, he sometimes abused this license. Writing hastily and under pressure, his language is frequently involved and careless; and it is only when he is strongly stirred by his subject that he attains to real elevation and dignity of diction. His eloquence is wholly of the heart ; and there is little or nothing of epigram in his ex- pression. Now and then, the warmth of his feeling reaches its flashing point; and the result is some supremely happy phrase, such as the well-known ‘To love her, is a liberal Educa- tion,’ which he applies to Lady Elizabeth Hastings®. As might be expected from his emotional nature, his pathetic side is especially strong; but it is strong with all the defects of that nature,—that is to say,.it is rather poignant and intense than fine or suggestive. He is not in the least ashamed of his tears, and when, with Master Stephen, he mounts his stool to be melan- choly, he is for no half-measures in grief. He delights in highly-strained situations, which he breaks off abruptly at the critical moment, like the story of Clarinda and Chloe in Tatler, No. 94. Sometimes, as in the case of the bride- groom who shoots his bride by accident‘, he heightens the tragedy by a playful prelude. He is at his best when he is depending wholly upon his personal memories, as in the familiar paper upon his father’s death (Za¢/er, No. 181). The character of his humour, too, is also strongly influenced by his personal differentia, It has little of practised art or perceptive delicacy ; but it is uniformly kindly, genial; indulgent, recognising always that to ‘step aside is human.’ An object is never so ludicrous but he has somewhere some subordinate stroke to show that though he is laughing, there is nothing sardonic in his mirth. » The Conscious Lovers, 1723, Act. iii, pp. 40, 41. Cf. Guardian, No. 87, for the first sketch of this scene. 2 Yatler, No. 5. 3 Tatler, No. 49. * Tatler, No. 82. INTRODUCTION. xlvii Nay, he has so much compassion for the frailties of his fellow creatures, that he often seems to be satirising himself more than others, and smiling—a little ruefully perhaps—at his own weaknesses rather than at theirs. His humour, in short, has the prevailing characteristics of his genius; it is spontaneous and genuine; but often negligent and ill-considered in its expression. Still it is so cheerful and good-natured, so frank and manly and generous, that one is often tempted to echo the declaration of Leigh Hunt—‘I prefer open-hearted Steele with all his faults to Addison with all his essays.’ In the selections from Steele which follow, no minute or scientific classification has been attempted. They have been made from the Za¢ler and Guardian as well as the Spectator, because to select papers from. the Sfectator alone not only places Steele at a disadvantage as compared with Addison, but would not give a just idea of his achievements as an essayist. From his minor works very little has been taken, chiefly for the reason that, when not variations on his earlier utterances, they are generally political or controversial. The first section is made up of the ‘ Moral Essays,’ which, until they succumbed to the imitators of Johnson, formed so frequent a feature of eighteenth-century literature. In Steele’s hands they are in their earliest and best stage. They suited his inclinations and habits of composition, which made it easier for him to depend upon his feelings and quick-kindled sympathies than to spend time in the evolution of character, and the refinements of artistic construction ; they suited also his sincere desire,—for, whatever his errors, it was a sincere desire,—to promote the reformation of manners. In the second section come the ‘ Social Essays,’ which include character-sketches, and descriptions of manners, fashions, and follies. Sometimes it happens that the moral and social elements are combined in one paper: in this case it is classed according to the predominant note. But the hortatory and didactic play so large a part in Steele’s perform- ances that many of the ‘ Social’ papers might fairly be described as ‘ Moral,’ and can only be said to differ because they are less obviously and exclusively absorbed by the moral purpose. The third section contains the ‘Theatrical’ papers, a small group, but easily detached from the rest; and the fourth is composed of those of a Miscellaneous or ‘general’ character. xviii INTRODUCTION. Into this last division fall naturally all those papers which can- not conveniently be ranked under the remaining heads ; and it also comprehends a few examples which have been preserved more for their biographical or antiquarian interest than their literary excellence. The paper on Dunkirk fortifications is an instance of the former kind; that on the Humours of Bath of the latter. Few of the letters have been reprinted because it is impossible, in many cases, to decide positively whether they are by Steele or his contributors!, The same difficulty has sometimes prevented the insertion of otherwise meritorious essays, whose authorship is mixed or doubtful. What Professor Jebb calls ‘the unpopular and much-sus- pected office of expurgator’ has been very sparingly exer- cised. As a general rule, omission has been preferred to mutilation, and excised passages are usually indicated by marks. In the case of the Zatler, where the majority of the papers treat of several separate subjects, one of these has sometimes been taken without reference to the rest. But this can scarcely be considered in the light of a suppression. ' Cf. Spectator, No. 542. CHRONOLOGY OF STEELE’S LIFE. 1673. March. Born in Dublin, and baptised at St. Bridget’s Church, March 12. {1672. May 1. Addison born.] 1684. November 17. Nominated to Charterhouse by the first Duke of Ormond. (1688. July 21. Death of the first Duke of Ormond.] 1690. March 13. Matriculates at Christ Church, Oxford. 1691. August 27. Postmaster at Merton College. 1694. Enters the army as a Cadet under the second Duke of Ormond. 1695. March. Publishes ‘The Procession,’ a poem on the funeral of Queen Mary, who died December 28, 1694, buried March 5, 1695. 1695. Becomes Secretary to John Lord Cutts; and Ensign in the Cold- stream Guards, 1700. June 16. Fights duel with Captain Kelly. 17or. April 17. Publishes the ‘ Christian Hero.’ July 19. Second Edition. December 20. Publishes the ‘Funeral; or, Grief @-/a-Mode,’ a Comedy, acted at Drury Lane, same year. 1702. February. Captain in Lucas’s Regiment of Foot. March 8. Death of William III. April 14. Gildon’s ‘ Comparison between the Two Stages.’ 1704. January 26. Publishes the ‘Lying Lover ; or, the Ladies’ Friend- ship,’ a Comedy, produced at Drury Lane, December 2, 1703. 1705. May 9. Publishes the ‘Tender Husband; or, the Accomplished Fools,’ a Comedy, produced at Drury Lane, April 23, 1703. Marries Mrs. Stretch, zée Ford. 1706. July. Publishes a ‘ Prologue to the University of Oxford.’ August. Gentleman- Waiter to Prince George of Denmark. 1707. April or May. Appointed Gazetteer. September. Marries Miss Mary Scurlock. 1708. October. Loses his post of Gentleman-Waiter by the death of Prince George, October 28. 1709. April 12. ‘Tatler’ begun. ‘Ode to the Duke of Marlborough.’ 1710. January. Made Commissioner of Stamps. October. Loses his appointment as Gazetteer. 1 1711, 1712, 1713. 1714 CHRONOLOGY OF STEELE’S LIFE, January 2. ‘Tatler’ finished. March 1. ‘Spectator’ begun. [December 30. Marlborough deprived of all his offices.] January 4. Publishes ‘The Englishman’s Thanks to the Duke of Marlborough.’ (August 1. Stamp Act (10 Anne, Cap. 19) comes into force.] December 6. ‘Spectator’ (vol. vii) finished. March 5. ‘Letter to Sir Miles Wharton concerning Occasional Peers.’ March 12. ‘ Guardian’ begun. June 4. Letter to the Earl of Oxford resigning Commissionership of Stamps. August 7. Publishes ‘Guardian No. 128’ on the Demolition of Dunkirk fortifications. August 25. Elected M.P. for Stockbridge, Hants. September 22, Publishes ‘Importance of Dunkirk consider’d,’ ete. October 1. ‘ Guardian’ finished. October 6. ‘Englishman’ begun. {October 31. Swift's ‘Importance of the ‘‘ Guardian” consider’d’ published, November 12. ‘Character of Richard St—le, Esq.’ published.] December 29-31. ‘ Poetical Miscellanies’ published. [January 5-7. Swift’s ‘ Paraphrase of Horace ii, 1’ published.] January 19. ‘ Crisis’ published. February 15. ‘ Englishman’ finished. Febmary 25. ‘Lover’ begun. [February 26. Swift’s ‘ Publick Spirit of the Whigs’ published.] March 18. Expelled the House of Commons, April 22. ‘Reader’ begun. May. Proposes to write the ‘History of the War in Flanders’ (‘ Reader’ No. 6). May to. ‘Reader’ finished. May 25. ‘Romish Ecclesiastical History of late Years’ pub- lished. May 27. ‘ Lover’ finished. June 3. ‘Letter toa Member of Parliament concerning the Bill for preventing the Growth of Schism’ published. July 2. ‘ French Faith represented in the Present State of Dunkirk’ published. [August 1. Queen Anne dies. September 18. George I lands at Greenwich. ] October [?]. Appointed Surveyor of the Royal Stables at Hampton Court, J.P., and Deputy Lieutenant of the County of Middlesex. 1715. 1716, 1718, 1719. 1720. 1721. 1722, 1723. 1725. 1729. CHRONOLOGY OF STEELE'S LIFE. li October 9. Publishes ‘ The Ladies Library.’ October 18. Supervisor of the Theatre Royal. October 22. Publishes ‘Mr. Steele’s Apology for Himself and his Writings.’ January 19. Patentee of Drury Lane. February 2. Elected M.P. for Boroughbridge, Yorkshire. April 8. Knighted by George I. May 13. ‘Account of the State of the Roman-Catholick Religion throughout the World’ published. May 28. Banquet at the Censorium. July 11. Second volume of ‘Englishman’ begun; finished November 21. December 17. ‘Town Talk’ begun. February 2. ‘ Tea-Table’ begun. March 6. ‘Chit-Chat’ begun. [March 21. Addison’s ‘Drummer’ published; produced at Drury Lane, March 10.] June 7. Appointed Commissioner for Forfeited Estates in Scotland. June Io. Obtains Patent for ‘ Fish Pool.’ December 26. Death of Lady Steele. March 14. ‘ Plebeian’ begun. (June 17. Death of Addison.) December 8. ‘ Letter to the Earl of Oxford concerning the Bill of Peerage.’ December 19. ‘Spinster’ published. January 2. ‘ Theatre’ begun, January 23. License for Drury Lane revoked. February 1. Publishes ‘ The Crisis of Property.’ February 27. Publishes ‘ A Nation a Family,’ sequel to the above. May 2. License for Drury Lane restored. [October 3. Addison’s works published by Tickell.] December 29. Publishes Addison’s ‘Drummer’ [1722], 2nd edition, with prefatory letter to Congreve. March 21. Elected M.P. for Wendover, Bucks. December 1. Publishes the ‘Conscious Lovers,’ a Comedy, pro- duced at Drury Lane, November 7, 1722. September. Leaves London for Bath, [‘ Letters sent to the Tatler and Spectator’ published by Charles Lillie.) Living at Hereford. September 1. Dies at Carmarthen, and is buried on the 4th in St. Peter’s Church. ERRATA Page xvi, 1. 7, énsert built defore Expostulations xvii, 1. 19, for Sidney read Sydney 1,1. 27, for February 26 read February 23 ” ord Selections from Steele oe we BS wide fel ae ere f bague for yrs Wiffine 0D nail "ner, A ninint embliifie leat. TD tf bo I 2 ° ° 1. MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. No.1. Ox Charity. Difficile est plurimum virtutem revereri qui semper secunda fortuna sit usus.—TULL. ad Herennium. INSOLENCE is the crime of all others which every man is apt to rail at ; and yet there is one respect in which almost all men living are guilty of it, and that is in the case oflaying a greater value upon the gifts of fortune than we ought. It is here in England come into our very language, as a propriety of distinc- tion, to say, when we would speak of persons to their advantage, ‘They are people of condition” There. is no doubt but the proper use of riches implies, that a man should exert all the good qualities imaginable ; and if we mean by a man of condi- tion or quality, one who, according to the wealth he is master of, shows himself just, beneficent, and charitable, that term ought very deservedly to be had in the highest veneration ; but when wealth is used only as it is the support of pomp and luxury, to be rich is very far from being a recommendation to honour and respect. It is indeed the greatest insolence imagin- able, in a creature who would feel the extremes of thirst and hunger, if he did not prevent” his appetites, before they call upon him, to be so forgetful of the common necessity of human nature, as never to cast an eye upon the poor and needy. The fellow who escaped from a ship which struck upon a rock in the west, and joined with the country people to destroy his brother sailors, and make her a wreck, was thought a most execrable creature ; but does not every man who enjoys the possession of what he naturally wants, and is unmindful of the unsupplied dis- tress of other men, betray the same temper of mind? Whena ek . ‘ 10 '20 30 40 2 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. man looks about him, and, with regard to riches and poverty, beholds some drawn in pomp and equipage, and they, and their very servants, with an air of scorn and triumph, overlooking the multitude that pass by them; and in the same street a creature of the same make, crying out, in the name of all that is good and sacred, to behold his misery, and give him some supply against hunger and nakedness; who would believe these two beings were of the same species? But so it is, that the consideration of fortune has taken up all our minds, and as I have often complained, poverty and riches stand in our imagina- tions in the places of guilt and innocence. But in all seasons there will be some instances of persons who have souls too large to be taken with popular prejudices, and, while the rest of man- kind are contending for superiority in power and wealth, have their thoughts bent upon the necessities of those below them. The charity schools, which have been erected of late years, are the greatest instances of public spirit the age has produced. But, indeed, when we cunsider how long this sort of beneficence has been on foot, it is rather from the good management of those institutions, than from the number or value of the bene- factions to them, that they make so great a figure. One would think it impossible that in the space of fourteen years there should not have been five thousand pounds bestowed in gifts this way, nor sixteen hundred children, including males and females, put out to methods of industry. It is not allowed me to speak of luxury and folly with the severe spirit they deserve; I shall only therefore say, I shall very readily compound with any lady in a hooped petticoat, if she give the price of one half yard of the silk towards clothing, feeding, and instructing an innocent helpless creature of her own sex, in one of these schools. The consciousness of such an action will give her features a nobler life on this illustrious day, than all the jewels that can hang in her hair, or can be clustered in her bosom. It would be uncourtly to speak in harsher words to the fair, but to men one may take a little more freedom. It is monstrous how a man can live with so little reflection, as to fancy he is not in a condition very unjust and disproportioned to the rest of man- kind, while he enjoys wealth, and exerts no benevolence or bounty to others. As for this particular occasion of these schools, there cannot any offer more worthy a generous mind. Io 20 30 40 ON CHARITY. 4 Would. you do a handsome thing without return? do it for an infant that is not sensible of the obligation. Would you do it for public good? do it for one who will be an honest artificer. Would you do it for the sake of heaven? give it to one who shall be instructed in the worship of him for whose sake you gave it. It is, methinks, a most laudable institution this, if it were of no other expectation than that of producing a race of good and useful servants, who will have more than a liberal, a religious education. What would not a man do in common prudence, to lay out in purchase of one about him, who would add to all his orders he gave, the weight of the commandments, to enforce an obedience to them ? for one who would consider his master as his father, his friend, and benefactor, upon the easy terms, and in expectation of no other return, but moderate wages and gentle usage? It is the common vice of children, to run too much among the servants ; from such as are educated in these places they would see nothing but lowliness in the servant, which would not be disingenuous in the child. All the ill offices and defamatory whispers, which take their birth from domestics, would be prevented, if this charity could be made universal: and a good man might havea knowledge of the whole life of the persons he designs to take into his house for his own service, or that of his family or children, long before they were admitted. This would create endearing dependencies ; and the obligation would have a paternal air in the master, who would be relieved from much care ard anxiety from the gratitude and diligence of an humble friend, attending him as his servant. I fall into this discourse from a letter sent to me, to give me notice that fifty boys would be clothed, and take their seats (at the charge of some generous benefactors) in St. Bride’s church, on Sunday next. I wish I could promise to myself any thing which my correspondent seems to expect from a publication of it in this paper; for there can be nothing added to what so many excel- lent and learned men have said on this occasion. But that there may be something here which would move a generous mind, like that. of him who writ to me, I shall transcribe an handsome paragraph of Dr. Snape’s® sermon on these charities, which my correspondent enclosed with his letter. ‘The wise Providence has amply compensated the disad- vantages of the poor and indigent, in wanting many of the B2 10 20 30 4 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS, conveniences of this life, by a more abundant provision for their happiness in the next. Had they been higher born, or more richly endowed, they would have wanted this manner of educa- tion, of which those only enjoy the benefit, who are low enough to submit to it; where they have such advantages without money, and without price, as the rich cannot purchase with it. The learning which is given, is generally more edifying to them, than that which is sold to others. Thus do they become exalted in goodness, by being depressed in fortune, and their poverty is, in reality, their preferment.’ Spectator, No. 294.] [February 6, 1712. No. 2. On Benevolence. Consuetudinem benignitatis largitioni munerum longe antepono. Hee est gravium hominum atque magnorum ; illa quasi assentatorum populi, multitudinis levitatem voluptate quasi titillantium—TUuLL. When we consider the offices of human life, there is, me- thinks, something in what we ordinarily call generosity, which, when carefully examined, seems to flow rather from a loose and unguarded temper than an honest and liberal mind. For this reason, it is absolutely necessary that all liberality should have for its basis and support, frugality. By this means the bene- ficent spirit works in a man from the convictions of reason, not from the impulses of passion. The generous man in the ordinary acceptation, without respect of the demands of his own family, will soon find upon the foot of his account, that he has sacrificed to fools, knaves, flatterers, or the deservedly un- happy, all the opportunities of affording any future assistance where it ought to be. Let him therefore reflect, that if to bestow be in itself laudable, should not a man take care to secure an ability to do things praiseworthy as long as he lives? Or could there be a more cruel piece of raillery upon a man who should have reduced his fortune below the capacity of acting according to his natural temper, than to say of him, ‘That gentleman was generous?’ My beloved author” there- fore has, in the sentence on the top of my paper, turned his eye ON BENEVOLENCE, 5 with a certain satiety from beholding the addresses to the . people by largesses and other entertainments, which he asserts to be in general vicious, and are always to be regulated accord- ing to the circumstances of time and a man’s own fortune. A constant benignity in commerce with the rest of the world, which ought to run through all a man’s actions, has effects more useful to those whom you oblige, and less ostentatious in yourself. He turns his recommendation of this virtue in commercial life: and, according to him, a citizen who is frank in his kindnesses, and abhors severity in his demands; he who, in buying, selling, lending, doing acts of good neighbour- hood, is just and easy; he who appears naturally averse to disputes, and above the sense of little sufferings ; bears a nobler character, and does much more good to mankind than any other man’s fortune, without commerce, can possibly support. For the citizen, above all other men, has opportunities of arriving at ‘that highest fruit of wealth, to be liberal without the least expense of a man’s own fortune.’ It is not to be denied but such a practice is liable to hazard; but this there- 20 fore adds to the obligation, that, among traders, he who obliges is as much concerned to keep the favour a secret as he who receives it. The unhappy distinctions among us in England are so great, that to celebrate the intercourse of com- mercial friendship (with which I am daily made acquainted) would be to raise the virtuous man so many enemies of the contrary party. I am obliged to conceal all I know of ‘Tom the Bounteous,’ who lends at the ordinary interest, to give men of less fortune opportunities of making greater advantages. He conceals, under a rough air and distant behaviour, a bleeding 30 compassion and womanish tenderness. This is governed by the most exact circumspection, that there is no industry want- ing in the person whom he is to serve, and that he is guilty of no improper expenses. This I know of Tom; but who dare say it of so known a Tory? The same care I was forced to use some time ago, in the report of another’s virtue, and said fifty instead of a hundred, because the man I pointed at was a Whig. Actions of this kind are popular, without being invidious : for every man of ordinary circumstances looks upon a man who has this known benignity in his nature as a person 4o ready to be his friend upon such terms as he ought to expect I o To 6 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. it; and the wealthy, who may envy such a character, can do no injury to its interests, but by the imitation of it, in which the good citizens will rejoice to be rivalled. I know not how to form to myself a greater idea of human life, than in what is the practice of some wealthy men whom I could name, that make no step to the improvement of their own fortunes, wherein they do not also advance those of other men, who would languish in poverty without that munificence. In a nation where there are so many public funds to be supported, I know not whether he can be called a good subject who does not embark some part of his fortune with the state, to whose vigilance he owes ‘the security of the whole. This certainly is an immediate 30 40 way of laying an obligation upon many, and extending his benignity the furthest a man can possibly who is not engaged in commerce. But he who trades, besides giving the state some part of this sort of credit he gives his banker, may, in all the occurrences of his life, have his eye upon removing want from the door of the industrious, and defending the unhappy up- right man from bankruptcy. Without this benignity, pride or vengeance will precipitate a man to choose the receipt of half his demands from one whom he has undone, rather than the whole from one to whom he has shown mercy. This benignity is essential to the character of a fair trader, and any man who designs to enjoy his wealth with honour and self-satisfaction : nay, it would not be hard to maintain, that the practice of supporting good and industrious men, would carry a man further even to his profit than indulging the propensity of serving and obliging the fortunate. My author argues on this subject, in order to incline men’s minds to those who want them most, after this manner: ‘We must always consider the nature of things, and govern ourselves accordingly. The wealthy man, when he has repaid you, is upon a balance with you; but the person whom you favoured with a loan, if he be a good man, will think himself in your debt after he has paid you. The wealthy and the conspicuous are not obliged by the benefits you do them; they think they conferred a benefit when they received one. Your good offices are always sus- pected, and it is with them the same thing to expect their favour as to receive it. But the man below you, who knows, in the good you have done him, you respected himself more Io 2 o ON GENEROSITY. 7 than his circumstances, does not act like an obliged man only to him from whom he has received a benefit, but also to all who are capable of doing him one. And whatever little office he can do for you, he is so far from magnifying it, that he will labour to extenuate it in all his actions and expressions. More- over the regard to what you do to a great man at best is taken notice of no further than by himself or his family; but what you do to a man of an humble fortune (provided always that he is a good and a modest man) raises the affections towards you of all men of that character (of which there are many) in the whole city, There is nothing gains a reputation to a preacher so much as his own practice ; I am therefore casting about what act of benignity is in the power of a Spectator. Alas! that lies but in a very narrow compass: and I think the most immediately under my patronage are either players, or such whose circum- stances bear an affinity with theirs. All, therefore, I am able to do at this time of this kind, is to tell the town, that on Friday the 11th of this instant, April, there will be performed, in York- buildings ®, a concert of vocal and instrumental music, for the benefit of Mr. Edward Keen, the father of twenty children; and that this day the haughty George Powell" hopes all the good- natured part of the town will favour him, whom they applauded in Alexander, Timon, Lear, and Orestes, with their company this night, when he hazards all his heroic glory for their appro- bation in the humbler condition of honest Jack Falstaff. Spectator, No. 346.] [April 7, 1712. No. 3. On Generosity. Hoc maxime officii est, ut quisque maxime opis indigeat, ita ei potis- simum opitulari—_TuLL. Off. i. 16. There are none who deserve superiority over others in the esteem of mankind, who do not make it their endeavour to be beneficial to society ; and who upon all occasions which their circumstances of life can administer, do not take a certain unfeigned pleasure in conferring benefits of one kind or other. Those whose great talents and high birth have Io 20 30 40 8 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. placed them in conspicuous stations of life are indispensably obliged to exert some noble inclinations for the service of the world, or else such advantages become misfortunes, and shade and privacy are a more eligible portion. Where oppor- tunities and inclinations are given to the same person, we sometimes see sublime instances of virtue, which so dazzle our imaginations, that we look with scorn on all which in lower scenes of life we may ourselves be able to practise. But this is a vicious way of thinking; and it bears some spice of romantic madness, for a man to imagine that he must grow ambitious, or seek adventures, to be able to do great actions. It is in every man’s power in the world who is above mere poverty, not only to do things worthy, but heroic. The great foundation of civil virtue is self-denial; and there is no one above the necessities of life, but has opportunities of exercising that noble quality, and doing as much as his circumstances will bear for the ease and convenience of other men; and he who does more than ordinary men practise upon such occasions as occur in his life, deserves the value of his friends, as if he had done enterprises which are usually attended with the highest glory. Men of public spirit differ rather in their circumstances than their virtue; and the man who does all he can, in a low station, is more a hero than he who omits any worthy action he is able to accomplish in a great one. It is not many years ago since Lapirius, in wrong of his elder brother, came to a great estate by gift of his father, by reason of the dissolute behaviour of the first-born. Shame and con- trition reformed the life of the disinherited youth, and he became as remarkable for his good qualities as formerly for his errors. Lapirius, who observed his brother’s amendment, sent him on a new-year’s day in the morning the following letter : ‘HONOURED BROTHER, ‘I enclose to you the deeds whereby my father gave me this house and land. Had he lived till now, he would not have bestowed it in that manner; he took it from the man you were, and I restore it to the man you are. ‘I am, Sir, your affectionate Brother, and humble Servant, ©P, T? I ° 30 ON GENEROSITY. 9 As great and exalted spirits undertake the pursuit of hazardous actions for the good of others, at the same time gratifying their passion for glory ; so do worthy minds in the domestic way of life deny themselves many advantages, to satisfy a generous benevolence, which they bear to their friends oppressed with distresses and calamities. Such natures one may call stores of Providence, which are actuated by a secret celestial influence to undervalue the ordinary gratifications of wealth, to give comfort to a heart loaded with affliction, to save a falling family, to preserve a branch of trade in their neigh- bourhood, and give work to the industrious, preserve the portion of the helpless infant, and raise the head of the mourning father. People whose hearts are wholly bent towards pleasure, ‘or intent upon gain, never hear of the noble occurrences among men of industry and humanity. It would look like a city romance, to tell them of the generous merchant, who the other day sent this billet to an eminent trader, under difficulties to support himself, in whose fall many hundreds besides him- self had perished ; but because I think there is more spirit and true gallantry in it than in any letter I have ever read from Strephon to Phillis, I shall insert it even in the mer- cantile honest style in which it was sent : ‘SIR, ‘TI have heard of the casualties which have involved you in extreme distress at this time; and knowing you to be a man of great good-nature, industry, and probity, have resolved to stand by you. Be of good cheer; the bearer brings with him five thousand pounds, and has my order to answer your drawing as much more on my account. I did this in haste, for fear I should come too late for your relief ; but you may value yourself with me to the sum of fifty thousand pounds; for I can very cheerfully run the hazard of being so much less rich than I am now, to save an honest man whom I love. ‘Your Friend and Servant, ‘W. S’ I think’ there is somewhere in Montaigne mention made of a family-book, wherein all the occurrences that happened from one generation of that house to another were recorded. 10 20 3 fo] 10 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS, Were there such a method in the families which are con- cerned in this generosity, it would be a hard task for the greatest in Europe to give in their own, an instance of a benefit better placed, or conferred with a more graceful .air. It has been heretofore urged ' how barbarous and inhuman is any unjust step made to the disadvantage of a trader; and by how much such an act towards him is detestable, by so much an act of kindness towards him is laudable. I remember to have heard a bencher of the Temple tell a story of a tradition in their house, where they had formerly a custom of choosing kings™ for such a season, and allowing him his expenses at the charge of the society. One of our kings, said my friend, carried his royal inclination a little too far, and there was a committee ordered to look into the manage- ment of his treasury. Among other things it appeared, that his majesty walking incog. in the cloister, had overheard a poor man say to another, ‘Such a small sum would make me the happiest man in the world.’ The king, out of his royal compassion, privately inquired into his character, and finding him a proper object of charity, sent him the money. When the committee read the report, the house passed his accounts with a plaudife without further examination, upon the recital of this article in them: For making a man happy ‘ . : ; £10 0 Oo Spectator, No. 248.] [December 14, 1711. No. 4. On Praise. Letus sum laudari a te laudato viro.—TULL. He is a very unhappy man who sets his heart upon being admired by the multitude, or affects a general and undistin- guishing applause among men. What pious men call the tes- timony of a good conscience, should be the measure of our ambition in this kind ; that is to say, a man of spirit should contemn the praise of the ignorant, and like being applauded for nothing but what he knows in his own heart he deserves. Besides which, the character of the person who commends you ON PRAISE, IL is to be considered, before you set a value upon his esteem. ‘The praise of an ignorant man is only good-will, and you should receive his kindness as he is a good neighbour in society, and not as a good judge of your actions in point of fame and repu- tation. The satirist ® said very well of popular praise and accla- mations, ‘ Give the tinkers and cobblers their presents again, and learn to live of yourself.’ It is an argument of a loose and ungoverned mind to be affected with the promiscuous approba- tion of the generality of mankind ; and a man of virtue should 1o be too delicate for so coarse an appetite of fame. Men of honour should endeavour only to please the worthy, and the man of merit should desire to be tried only by his peers. I thought it a noble sentiment which I heard yesterday uttered in conversation: ‘I know,’ said a gentleman, ‘a way to be greater than any man. If he has worth in him, I can rejoice in his superiority to me; and that satisfaction is a greater act of the soul in me, than any in him which can possibly appear to me.’ This thought could proceed but from a candid and generous spirit ; and the approbation of such minds is what may 20 be esteemed true praise: for with the common rate of men there is nothing commendable but what they themselves may hope to be partakers of, and arrive at; but the motive truly glorious is, when the mind is set rather to do things laudable, than to purchase reputation. Where there is that sincerity as the foundation of a good name, the kind opinion of virtuous men will be an unsought, but a necessary consequence. The Lacedemonians®, though a plain people, and no pretenders to politeness, had a certain delicacy in their sense of glory, and sacrificed to the Muses when they entered upon any great 30 enterprise. They would have the commemoration of their actions be transmitted by the purest and most untainted memo- rialists. The din which attends victories and public triumphs, is by far less eligible than the recital of the actions of great men by honest and wise historians. It is a frivolous pleasure to be the admiration of gaping crowds ; but to have the approbation of a good man in the cool reflections of his closet, is a gratifica- tion worthy an heroic spirit. The applause of the crowd makes the head giddy, but the attestation of a reasonable man makes the heart glad. 40 What makes the love of popular or general praise still more Io to Oo 30 12 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. ridiculous, is, that it is usually given for circumstances which are foreign to the persons admired. Thus they are the ordinary attendants on power and riches, which may be taken out of one man’s hands, and put into another’s. The application only, and not the possession, makes those outward things honourable. The vulgar and men of sense agree in admiring men for having what they themselves would rather be possessed of ; the wise man applauds him whom he thinks most virtuous, the rest of the world him who is most wealthy. When a man is in this way of thinking, I do not know what can occur to one more monstrous, than to see persons of in- genuity address their services and performances to men no way addicted to liberal arts. In these cases, the praise on one hand, and the patronage on the other, are equally the objects of ridicule". Dedications to ignorant men are as absurd as any of the speeches of Bulfinch” in the Droll™. Such an address one is apt to translate into other words ; and when the different parties are thoroughly considered, the panegyric generally implies no more than if the author should say to the patron; “My very good lord, you and I can never understand one an- other ; therefore I humbly desire we may be intimate friends for the future.’ The rich may as well ask to borrow of the poor, as the man of virtue or merit hope for addition to his character from any but such as himself. He that commends another engages so much of his own reputation as he gives to that person com- mended; and he that has nothing laudable in himself is not of ability to be such a surety. The wise Phocion® was so sensible how dangerous it was to be touched with what the multitude approved, that upon a general acclamation made when he was making an oration, he turned to an intelligent friend who stood near him, and asked in a surprised manner, ‘ What slip have I made ?’ I shall conclude this paper with a billet which has fallen into my hands, and was written to a lady from a gentleman whom she had highly commended. The author of it had formerly been her lover. When all possibility of commerce between them on the subject of love was cut off, she spoke so hand- somely of him, as to give occasion to this letter. Io 20 ON PRAISE WITH RESERVATION. 13 *Mapam, ‘I should be insensible to a stupidity, if I could forbear making you my acknowledgments for your late mention of me with so much applause. It is, I think, your fate to give me new sentiments: as you formerly inspired me with the true sense of love, so do you now with the true sense of glory. As desire had the least part in the passion I heretofore professed towards you, so has vanity no share in the glory to which you have now raised me. Innocence, knowledge, beauty, virtue, sincerity, and discretion, are the constant ornaments of her who has said this of me. Fame is a babbler, but I have arrived at the highest glory in this world, the commendation of the most de- serving person in it.’ Spectator, No. 188.] [October 5, 1711. No.5 On Praise with Reservation. Falsus honor juvat, et mendax infamia terret Quem nisi mendosum et mendacem ?--—- Hor. Ep. i. 16. 39. I know no manner of speaking so offensive as that of giving praise, and closing it with an exception ; which proceeds (where men do not do it to introduce malice, and make calumny more effectual) from the common error of considering man as a perfect creature. But, if we rightly examine things, we shall find that there is a sort of economy in providence, that one shall excel where another is defective, in order to make men more useful to each other, and mix them in society. This man having this talent, and that man another, is as necessary in conversation, as one professing one trade, and another another, is beneficial in commerce. The happiest climate does not produce all things; and it was so ordered, that one part of the earth should want the product of another, for uniting man- kind in a general correspondence and good understanding. It is, therefore, want of good sense as well as good nature, to say Simplicius has a better judgment, but not so much wit as 10 20 14 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS, Latius; for that these have not each other’s capacities is no more a diminution to either than if you should say, Simplicius is not Latius, or Latius not Simplicius. The heathen world had so little notion that perfection was to be expected amongst men, that among them any one quality or endowment in an heroic degree made a god. Hercules had strength ; but it was never objected to him that he wanted wit. Apollo presided over wit, and it was never asked whether he had strength. We hear no exceptions against the beauty of Minerva, or the wisdom of Venus. These wise heathens were glad to immortalize any one serviceable gift, and overlook all imperfections in the person who had it. But with us it is far otherwise, for we reject many eminent virtues, if they are ac- companied with one apparent weakness. The reflecting after this manner made me account for the strange delight men take in reading lampoons and scandal, with which the age abounds, and of which I receive frequent complaints. Upon mature consideration, I find it is principally for this reason, that the worst of mankind, the libellers, receive so much encourage- ment in the world. The low race of men take a secret pleasure in finding an eminent character levelled to their condition by a report of its defects; and keep themselves in countenance, though they are excelled in a thousand virtues, if they believe’ they have in common with a great person any one fault. The libeller falls in with this humour, and gratifies this baseness of temper, which is naturally an enemy to extra- ordinary merit. It is from this, that libel and satire are promiscuously joined together in the notions of the vulgar, though the satirist and libeller differ as much as the magis- trate and the murderer. In the consideration of human life, the satirist never falls upon persons who are not glaringly faulty, and the libeller on none but who are conspicuously commendable. Were I to expose any vice in a good or great man, it should certainly be by correcting it in some one where that crime was the most distinguishing part of the character; as pages are chastized for the admonition of princes", When it is performed otherwise, the vicious are kept in credit, by placing men of merit in the same accusation. But all the pasquils®, lampoons, and libels we meet with now-a- 4o days are a sort of playing with the four-and-twenty letters, and fo ; ON PRAISE WITH RESERVATION, 15 throwing them into names and characters, without sense, truth, or wit. In this case, I am in great perplexity to know whom they mean, and should be in distress for those they abuse, if I did not see their judgment and ingenuity in those they com- mend, This is the true way of examining a libel; and when men consider, that no one man living thinks the better of their heroes and patrons for the panegyric given them, none can think themselves lessened by their invective. The hero or patron in a libel is but a scavenger to carry off the dirt, and by that very employment is the fiithiest creature in the street. Dedications and panegyrics are frequently ridiculous, let them ’ be addressed where they will; but at the front, or in the 2 oO 30 body of a libel, to commend a man, is saying to the persons applauded, ‘ My Lord, or Sir, I have pulled down all men that the rest of the world think great and honourable, and here is a clear stage ; you may, as you please, be valiant or wise ; you may choose to be on the military or civil list ; for there is no one brave who commands, or just who has power. You may rule the world now it is empty, which exploded you when it was full: I have knocked out the brains of all whom mankind thought good for any thing; and I doubt not but you will reward that invention, which found out the only expedient to make your lordship, or your worship, of any consideration.’ Had I the honour to be in a libel; and had escaped the approbation of the author, I should look upon it exactly in this manner. But though it is a thing thus perfectly indifferent who is exalted or debased in such performances, yet it is not so with relation to the authors of them ; therefore, I shall, for the good of my country, hereafter take upon me to punish these wretches. What is already passed may die away ac- cording to its nature, and continue in its present oblivion ; but, for the future, I shall take notice of such enemies to honour and virtue, and preserve them to immortal infamy. Their names shall give fresh offence many ages hence, and be detested a thousand years after the commission of their crime. It shall not avail, that these children of infamy publish their works under feigned names, or under none at all; for I am so perfectly well acquainted with the styles of all my contemporaries, that I shall not fail of doing them justice, 40 with ‘their proper names, and at their full length. Let those 10 20 30 40 16 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. miscreants, therefore, enjoy their present act of oblivion, and take care how they offend hereafter. But, to avert our eyes from such objects, it is, methinks, but re- quisite to settle our opinion in the case of praise and blame: and I believe, the only true way to cure that sensibility of reproach, which is a common weakness with the most virtuous men, is to fix their regard firmly upon only what is strictly true, in relation to their advantage, as well as diminution. For, if I am pleased with commendation which I do not deserve, I shall, from the same temper, be concerned at scandal I do not deserve. But he that can think of false applause with as much contempt, as false detraction, will certainly be prepared for all adventures, and will become all occasions. ‘Undeserved praise can please only those who want merit, and undeserved reproach frighten only those who want sincerity®.’ I have thought of this with so much attention, that I fancy there can be no other method in nature found for the cure of that delicacy which gives good men pain under calumny, but placing satisfaction no where but in a just sense of their own integrity, without regard to the opinion of others. If we have not such a foundation as this, there is no help against scandal but being in obscurity, which to noble minds is not being at all. The truth of it is, this love of praise dwells most in great and heroic spirits ; and those who best deserve it have generally the most exquisite relish of it. Methinks I see the renowned Alexander, after a painful and laborious march, amidst the heats of a parched soil and a burning climate, sitting over the head of a fountain, and, after a draught of water, pronounce that memorable saying, ‘Oh! Athenians! How much do I suffer that you may speak well of me!’ The Athenians were at that time the learned of the world, and their libels against Alexander were written, as he was a professed enemy of their state. But how monstrous would such invectives have appeared in Macedonians ! As love of reputation is a darling passion in great men, so the defence of them in this particular is the business of every man of honour and honesty. We should run on such an occasion, as if a public building was on fire, to their relief; and all who spread or publish such detestable pieces as traduce their merit, should be used like incendiaries. It is the common cause of our country to support the reputation of those who preserve it ON ENVY. 17 against invaders ; and every man is attacked in the person of that neighbour who deserves well of him. Tatler, No. 92.] [November Io, 1709. No. 6. Ox Envy. Di bene fecerunt, inopis me, quodque pusilli Finxerunt animi, raro et perpauca loquentis. Hor. Sat. i. 4. 17. Observing one person behold another, who was an utter stranger to him, with a cast of his eye, which methought ex- pressed an emotion of heart very different from what could be raised by an object so agreeable as the gentleman he looked at, I began to consider, not without some secret sorrow, the condition of an envious man. Some have fancied that envy has a certain magical force in it, and that the eyes of the envious 10 have, by their fascination, blasted the enjoyments of the happy. Sir Francis Bacon® says, some have been so curious as to re- mark the times and seasons when the stroke of an envious eye is most effectually pernicious, and have observed that it has been when the person envied has been in any circumstance of glory and triumph. At such a time the mind of the prosperous man goes, as it were, abroad, among things without him, and is more exposed to the malignity. But I shall not dwell upon speculations so abstracted as this, or repeat the many excellent things which one might collect out of authors upon this miser- 20 able affection ; but keeping in the road of common life, consider the envious man with reiation to these three heads, his pains, his reliefs, and his happiness. The envious man is in pain upon all occasions which ought to give him pleasure. The relish of his life is inverted; and the objects which administer the highest satisfaction to those who are exempt from this passion, give the quickest pangs to persons who are subject to it. All the perfections of their fellow- creatures are odious. Youth, beauty, valour, and wisdom, are provocations of their displeasure. What a wretched and apos- 30 tate state is this: to be offended with excellence, and to hate a man because we approve him! The condition of the envious c 18 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. man is the most emphatically miserable ; he is not only in- capable of rejoicing in another’s merit or success, but lives in a world wherein all mankind are ina plot against his quiet, by studying their own happiness and advantage. Will Prosper is an honest tale-bearer ; he makes it his business to join in con- versation with envious men. He points to such a handsome young fellow, and whispers that he is secretly married to a great fortune. When they doubt, he adds circumstances to prove it; and never fails to aggravate their distress by assur- io ing them, that, to his knowledge, he has an uncle will leave 2 3 ° ° him some thousands. Will has many arts of this kind to tor- ture this sort of temper, and delights in it. When he finds them change colour, and say faintly they wish such a piece of news is true, he has the malice to speak some good or other of every man of their acquaintance. The reliefs of the envious man, are those little blemishes and imperfections that discover themselves in an illustrious cha- racter. It is matter of great consolation to an envious person, when a man of known heneur does a thing unworthy of ‘himself ; or when any action which was well executed, upon better infor- mation appears so altered in its circumstances, that the fame of it is divided among many, instead of being attributed to one. This is a secret satisfaction to these malignants; for the person whom they before could not but admire, they fancy is nearer their own condition as soon as his merit is shared among others. I remember some years ago, there came out an excellent poem without the name of the author. The little wits, who were in- capable of writing it, -began to pull in pieces the supposed writer. When that would not do, they took great pains to suppress the opinion that it was his. That again failed. The next refuge was, to say it was overlooked by one man, and many pages wholly written by another. An honest fellow, who sat amongst a cluster of them in debate on this subject, cried out, ‘Gentlemen, if you are sure none of you yourselves had a hand in it, you are but where you were, whoever writ it.’ But the most usual succour to the envious, in cases of nameless. merit in this kind, is to keep the property, if possible, unfixed, and by that means to hinder the reputation of it from falling upon any particular person. You see an envious man clear up 40 his countenance, if, in the relation of any man’s great happiness Io 20 30 ON FLATTERY. 19 in one point, you mention his uneasiness in another. When he hears such a one is very rich, he turns pale, but recovers when you add that he has many children. In a word, the only sure way to an envious man’s favour is not to deserve it. But if we consider the envious man in delight, it is like reading of the seat of a giant in romance; the magnificence of his house consists in the many limbs of men whom he has slain. If any who promised themselves success in any uncommon undertaking miscarry in the attempt, or he that aimed at what would have been useful and laudable, meets with contempt and derision, the envious man, under the colour of hating vain-glory, can smile with an inward wantonness of heart at the ill effect it may have upon an honest ambition for the future. Having thoroughly considered the nature of this passion, I have made it my study how to avoid the envy that may accrue to me from these my speculations ; and if I am not mistaken in myself, I think I have a genius to escape it. Upon hearing in a coffee-house one of my papers commended, I immediately apprehended the envy that would spring from that applause ; and therefore gave a description of my face® the next day; being resolved, as I grow in reputation for wit, to resign my preten- sions to beauty. This, I hope, may give some ease to those un- happy gentlemen who do me the honour to torment themselves upon the account of this my paper. As their case is very deplorable, and deserves compassion, I shall sometimes be dull in pity to them, and will, from time to time, administer consola- tions to them by farther discoveries of my person. In the meanwhile, if any one says the Spectator has wit, it may be some relief to them to think that he does not show it in com- pany. And if any one praises his morality, they may comfort themselves by considering that his face is none of the longest. Spectator, No, 19.] [March 22, 1711. No.7. On Flattery; Character of an agreeable Companion. Si dixeris zstuo, sudat.—JUV. Sat. iii. 103. An old acquaintance, who met me this morning, seemed overjoyed to see me, and told me I looked as well as he had c2 10 20 30 20 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. known me do these forty years: ‘but,’ continued he, ‘not quite the man you were, when we visited together at Lady Brightly’s. Oh! Isaac, those days are over. Do you think there are any such fine creatures now living, as we then conversed with?’ He went on with a thousand incoherent circumstances, which, in his imagination, must needs please me; but they had quite the contrary effect. The flattery with which he began, in telling me how well I wore, was not disagreeable ; but his indiscreet mention of a set of acquaintance we had out-lived, recalled ten thousand things to my memory, which made me reflect upon my present condition with regret. Had he indeed been so kind as, after a long absence, to felicitate me upon an indolent and easy old age; and mentioned how much he and I had to thank for, who at our time of day could walk firmly, eat heartily, and converse cheerfully, he had kept up my plea- sure in myself. But of all mankind, there are none so shocking as these injudicious civil people. They ordinarily begin upon something that they know must be a satisfaction ; but then, for fear of the imputation of flattery, they follow it with the last thing in the world of which you would be reminded. It is this that perplexes civil persons. The reason that there is such a general outcry among us against flatterers is, that there are so very few good ones. It is the nicest art in this life, and is a part of eloquence which does not want the preparation that is necessary to all other parts of it, that your audience should be your well-wishers ; for praise from an enemy is the most pleasing of all commendations. It is generally to be observed, that the person most agreeable to a man for a constancy is he that has no shining qualities, but is a certain degree above great imperfections ; whom he can live with as his inferior, and who will either overlook, or not observe his little defects. Such an easy companion as this either now and then throws out a little flattery, or lets a man silently flatter himself in his superiority to him. If you take notice, there is hardly a rich man in the world, who has not such a led friend” of small consideration, who is a darling for his insignificancy. It is a great ease to have one in our own shape a species below us, and who, without being listed in our service, is by nature of our retinue. These dependants are of excellent 40 use on a rainy day, or when a man has not a mind to dress ; or ON FLATTERY, 21 to exclude solitude, when one has neither a mind to that or to company. There are of this good-natured order, who are so kind as to divide themselves, and do these good offices to many. Five or six of them visit a whole quarter of the town, and exclude the spleen, without fees, from the families they frequent. If they do not prescribe physic, they can be com- pany when you take it. Very great benefactors to the rich, or those whom they call people at their ease, are your persons of no consequence. I have known some of them, by the help of 10 a little cunning, make delicious flatterers. They know the course of the town, and the general characters of persons ; by this means they will sometimes tell the most agreeable false- hoods imaginable. They will acquaint you, that such a one of a quite contrary party said, ‘That though you were engaged in different interests, yet he had the greatest respect for your good sense and address.’ When one of these has a little cunning, he passes his time in the utmost satisfaction to him- self and his friends ; for his position is never to report or speak a displeasing thing to his friend. As for letting him go on in 20 an error, he knows, advice against them is the office of persons of greater talents and less discretion. The Latin word for a flatterer, assentator, implies no more than a person that barely consents ; and indeed such a one, if a man were able to purchase or maintain him, cannot be bought too dear. Such a one never contradicts you; but gains upon you, not by a fulsome way of commending you in broad terms, but liking whatever you propose or utter; at the same time, is ready to beg your pardon, and gainsay you, if you chance to speak ill of yourself. An old lady is very seldom without 3° such a companion as this, who can recite the names of all her lovers, and the matches refused by her in the days when she minded such vanities, as she is pleased to call them, though she so much approves the mention of them. It is to be noted, that a woman’s flatterer is generally elder than herself; her years serving at once to recommend her patroness’s age, and to add weight to her complaisance in all other particulars. We gentlemen of small fortunes are extremely necessitous in this particular. I have indeed one who smokes with me 40 often ; but his parts are so low, that all the incense he does me Io 20 30 40 22 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. is to fill his pipe with me, and to be out at just as many whiffs as I take. This is all the praise or assent that he is capable of; yet there are more hours when I would rather be in his company than in that of the brightest man I know. It would be a hard matter to give an account of this inclination to be flattered ; but if we go to the bottom of it, we shall find, that the pleasure in it is something like that of receiving money which we lay out. Every man thinks he has an estate of reputation, and is glad to see one that will bring any of it home to him. It is no matter how dirty a bag it is conveyed to him in, or by how clownish a messenger, so the money be good. All that we want, to be pleased with flattery, is to be- lieve that the man is sincere who gives it us. It is by this one accident, that absurd creatures often outrun the most skilful in this art. Their want of ability is here an advantage ; and their bluntness, as it is the seeming effect of sincerity, is the best cover to artifice. Terence introduces a flatterer talking to a coxcomb, whom he cheats out of a livelihood ; anda third person on the stage makes on him this pleasant remark ®, ‘ This fellow has an art of making fools madmen.’ The love of flattery is, indeed, some- times the weakness of a great mind; but you see it also in persons, who otherwise discover no manner of relish of any thing above mere sensuality. These latter it sometimes im- proves ; but always debases the former. A fool is in himself the object of pity, until he is flattered. By the force of that, his stupidity is raised into affectation, and he becomes of dignity enough to be ridiculous. I remember a droll, that upon one’s saying, ‘ The times are so ticklish, that there must great care be taken what one says in conversation ;’? answered with an air of surliness and honesty, ‘If people will be free, let them be so in the manner that I am, who never abuse a man but to his face.’ He had no reputation for saying dangerous truths ; therefore when it was repeated, ‘You abuse a man but to his face?’ ‘Yes,’ says he, ‘I flatter him.’ It is indeed the greatest of injuries to flatter any but the unhappy, or such as are displeased with themselves for some infirmity. In this latter case we have a member of our club, who, when Sir Jeffery™ falls asleep, wakens him with snoring. This makes Sir Jeffery hold up for some moments the longer, Io 20 3° ON PRIDE, AS AFFECTING THE REASON. 23 to see there are men younger than himself among us, who are more lethargic than he is. When flattery is practised upon any other consideration, it is the most abject thing in nature; nay, I cannot think of any character below the flatterer, except he that envies him. You meet with fellows prepared to be as mean as possible in their condescensions and expressions; but they want persons and talents to rise up to such a baseness. As a coxcomb is a fool of parts, so is a flatterer a knave of parts. ‘ The best of this order, that I know, is one who disguises it under a spirit of contradiction or reproof. He told an arrant driveller the other day, that he did not care for being in com- pany with him, because he heard he turned his absent friends into ridicule. And upon Lady Autumn’s disputing with him about something that happened at the Revolution, he replied with a very angry tone, ‘ Pray, madam, give me leave to know more of a thing in which I was actually concerned, than you who were then in your nurse’s arms,’ Tatler, No. 208.] [August 8, 1710. Wo. 8. Ox Pride, as affecting the Reason. Nimirum insanus paucis videatur, eo quod Maxima pars hominum morbo jactatur eodem. Hor. Sat. ii, 3. 120, There is no affection of the mind so much blended in human nature, and wrought into our very constitution, as pride. It appears under a multitude of disguises, and breaks out in ten thousand different symptoms. Every one feels it in himself, and yet wonders to see it in his neighbour. I must confess, I met with an instance of it the other day, where I should very little have expected it. Who would believe the proud person I am going to speak of is a cobbler upon Ludgate-hill? This artist being naturally a lover of respect, and considering that his circumstances are such that no man living will give it him, has contrived the figure of a beau, in wood ; who stands before him in a bending posture, with his hat under his left arm, and 24 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. his right hand extended in such a manner as to hold a thread, a piece of wax, or an awl, according to the particular service in which his master thinks fit to employ him. When I saw him, he held a candle in this obsequious posture. I was very well pleased with the cobbler’s invention, that had so in- geniously contrived an inferior, and stood a little while con- templating this inverted idolatry, wherein the image did homage to the man. When we meet with such a fantastic vanity in one of this order, it is no wonder if we may trace it 1o through all degrees above it, and particularly through all the steps of greatness. We easily see the absurdity of pride when it enters into the heart of a cobbler; though in reality it is altogether as ridiculous and unreasonable, wherever it takes possession of a human creature. There is no temptation to it from the reflection upon our being in general, or upon any comparative perfection, whereby one man may excel another. The greater a man’s knowledge is, the greater motive he may seem to have for pride; but in the same proportion as the one rises, the other sinks, it being the chief office of wisdom to dis- 20 cover to us our weaknesses and imperfections. : As folly is the foundation of pride, the natural superstructure of itis madness. If there was an occasion for the experiment, I would not question to make a proud man a lunatic in three weeks’ time ; provided I had it in my power to ripen his frenzy with proper applications. It is an admirable reflection® in Terence, where it is said of a parasite, Wzc homines ex stultis Jacit insanos. ‘This fellow,’ says he, ‘has an art of converting fools into madmen.’ When I was in France, the region of complaisance and vanity, I have often observed, that a great 30 man who has entered a levee of flatterers humble and tem- perate, has grown so insensibly heated by the court which was paid him on all sides, that he has been quite distracted before he could get into his coach. If we consult the collegiates of Moor-fields, we shall find most of them are beholden to their pride for their introduction into that magnificent palace®. I had, some years ago, the curiosity to enquire into the particular circumstances of these whimsical freeholders : and learned from their own mouths the condition and character of each of them. Indeed, I found 4o that all I spoke to were persons of quality. There were at Io 2 3 ON PRIDE, AS AFFECTING THE REASON. 25 that time five duchesses, three earls, two heathen gods, an emperor, and a prophet. There were also a great number of such as were locked up from their estates, and others who concealed their titles. A leather-seller of Taunton whispered me in the ear, that he was ‘the duke of Monmouth ;’ but begged me not to betray him. At a little distance from him sat a tailor’s wife, who asked me, as I went, if I had seen the sword-bearer: upon which I presumed to ask her, who she was? and was answered, ‘my lady mayoress.’ I was very sensibly touched with compassion towards these miserable people ; and, indeed, extremely mortified to see human nature capable of being thus disfigured. However, I reaped this benefit from it, that I was resolved to guard myself against a passion which makes such havoc in the brain, and - produces so much disorder in the imagination. For this reason ° ° I have endeavoured to keep down the secret swellings of re- sentment, and stifle the very first suggestions of self-esteem ; to establish my mind in tranquillity, and over-value nothing in my own or in another’s possession. For the benefit of such whose heads are a little turned, though not to so great a degree as to qualify them for the place of which I have been now speaking, I shall assign one of the sides of the college which I am erecting, for the cure of this dangerous distemper. The most remarkable of the persons, whose disturbance arises from pride, and whom I shall use all possible diligence to cure, are such as are hidden in the appearance of quite contrary habits and dispositions. Among such, I shall, in the first place, take care of one who is under the most subtle species of pride that I have observed in my whole experience. This patient is a person for whom I have a great respect, as being an old courtier, and a friend of mine in my youth. The man has but a bare subsistence, just enough to pay his reckoning with us at the ‘Trumpet’: but, by having spent the beginning of his life in the hearing of great men and persons of power, he is always promising to do good offices to introduce every man he converses with into the world ; will desire one of ten times his substance to let him see him sometimes, and hints to him, that he does not forget him. He answers to matters of no 40 consequence with great circumspection ; but, however, main- Io 20 30 26 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. tains a general civility in his words and actions, and an insolent benevolence to all whom he has to do with. This he practisés with a grave tone and air; and though I am his senior by twelve years, and richer by forty pounds per annum, he had yesterday the impudence to commend me to my face, and tell me, ‘he should be always ready to encourage me.’ In a word, he is a very insignificant fellow, but exceeding gracious. The best return I can make him for his favours is, to carry him myself to Bedlam, and see him well taken care of. The next person I shall provide for is of a quite contrary character, that has in him all the stiffness and insolence of quality, without a grain of sense or good-nature, to make it either respected or beloved. His pride has infected every muscle of his face; and yet, after all his endeavours to show mankind that he contemns them, he is only neglected by all that see him, as not of consequence enough to be hated. For the cure of this particular sort of madness, it will be necessary to break through all forms with him, and familiarize his carriage by the use of a good cudgel. It may likewise be of great benefit to make him jump over a stick half a dozen times every morning. A third, whom I have in my eye, is a young fellow, whose lunacy is such that he boasts of nothing but what he ought to be ashamed of. He... . talks publickly of having committed crimes which he ought to be hanged for by the laws of his country. There are several others whose brains are hurt with pride, and whom I may hereafter attempt to recover; but shall conclude my present list with an old woman, who is just dropping into her grave, that talks of nothing but her birth. Though she has not a tooth in her head, she expects to be valued for the blood in her veins ; which she fancies is much better than that which glows in the cheeks of Belinda® and sets half the town on fire. Tatler, No. 127.] [January 31, 1710. 10 20 30 ON ANGER, 27 No. 9. On Anger. Animum rege, qui nisi paret Imperat. Hor. Ep. i. 2. 62. It is a very common expression, that such a one is very good- natured, but very passionate. The expression, indeed, is very good-natured, to allow passionate people so much quarter: but I think a passionate man deserves the least indulgence imagin- able. It is said, it is soon over; that is, all the mischief he does is quickly dispatched, which, I think, is no great recom- mendation to favour. I have known one of these good-natured passionate men say in a mixed company, even to his own-wife or child, such things as the most inveterate enemy of his family would not have spoken, even in imagination. It is certain that quick sensibility is inseparable from a ready understanding ; but why should not that good understanding call to itself all its force on such occasions, to master that sudden inclination to anger? One of the greatest sotls™ now in the world is the most subject by nature to anger, and yet so famous, from a conquest of himself this way that he is the known example when you talk of temper and command of a man’s self. To contain the spirit of anger, is the worthiest discipline we can put ourselves to. When a man has made any progress this way, a frivolous fellow in a passion is to him as contemptible as a froward child. It ought to be the study of every man for his own quiet and peace. When he stands combustible and ready to flame upon every thing that touches him, life is as uneasy to himself as it is to all about him, Syncropius leads, of all men living, the most ridiculous life; he is ever offending and begging pardon. If his man enters the room without what he was sent for—‘ That blockhead,’ begins he—‘ Gentlemen, I ask your pardon, but servants now-a-days’—. The wrong plates are laid, they are thrown into the middle of the room ; his wife stands by in pain for him, which he sees in her face, and answers as if he had heard all she was thinking:—‘ Why? what the devil! Why don’t you take care to give orders in these things?’ His friends sit down to a tasteless plenty of every thing, every minute expecting new insults from his impertinent passions. Io 28 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS, In a word, to eat with, or visit Syncropius, is no other than going to see him exercise his family, exercise their patience, and his own anger. It is monstrous that the shame and confusion in which this good-natured angry man must needs behold his friends, while he thus lays about him, does not give him so much reflection, as to create an amendment. This is the most scandalous disuse of reason imaginable: all the harmless part of him is no more than that of a bull-dog, they are tame no longer than they are not offended. One of these good-natured angry men shall, in an instant, assemble together so many allusions to - secret circumstances, as are enough to dissolve the peace of all 20 30 40 the families and friends he is acquainted with in a quarter of an hour, and yet the next moment be the best-natured man in the whole world. If you would see passion in its purity, without mixture of reason, behold it represented in a mad hero, drawn by a mad poet. Nat. Lee™ makes his Alexander say thus :— Away! begone! and give a whirlwind room, Or I will blow you up like dust! Avaunt! Madness but meanly represents my toil. Etemal discord ! Fury! revenge! disdain and indignation ! Tear my swoll’n breast, make way for fire and tempest. My brain is burst, debate and reason quench’d ; The storm is up, and my hot bleeding heart Splits with the rack; while passions, like the wind, Rise up to heav’n, and put out all the stars. Every passionate fellow in town talks half the day with as little consistency, and threatens things as much out of his power. The next disagreeable person to the outrageous gentleman, is one of a much lower order of anger, and he is what we com- monly call a peevish fellow. A peevish fellow is one who has some reason in himself for being out of humour, or has a natural incapacity for delight, and therefore disturbs all who are happier than himself with pishes and pshaws, or other well- bred interjections, at every thing that is said or done in his presence. There should be physic mixed in the food of all which these fellows eat in good company. This degree of anger passes, forsooth, for a delicacy of judgment, that will not. admit of being easily pleased; but none above the character of Io 20 30 40 ON ANGER, 29 wearing a peevish man’s livery ought to bear with his ill manners. All things among men of sense and condition should pass the censure, and have the protection, of the eye of reason. No man ought to be tolerated in an habitual humour, whim, or particularity of behaviour, by any who do not wait upon him for bread. Next to the peevish fellow is the snarler. This gentleman deals mightily in what we call the irony; and as those sort of people exert themselves most against those below them, you see their humour best in their talk to their servants. ‘This is so like you; You are a fine fellow; Thou art the quickest head-piece;’ and the like. One would think the hectoring, the storming, the sullen, and all the different species and subordinations of the angry should be cured, by knowing they live only as pardoned men; and how pitiful is the condi- tion of being only suffered! But I am interrupted by the pleasantest scene of anger and the disappointment of it that I have ever known, which happened while I was yet writing, and I overheard as I sat in the back-room at a French book- seller’s, ‘There came into the shop a very learned man with an erect solemn air; and though a person of great parts other- wise, slow in understanding any thing which makes against himself. The composure of the faulty man, and the whimsical perplexity of him that was justly angry, is perfectly new. After turning over many volumes, said the seller to the buyer, ‘Sir, you know I have long asked you to send me back the first volume of French sermons I formerly lent you.’—‘ Sir,’ said the chapman®, ‘I have often looked for it, but cannot find it ; it is certainly lost, and I know not to whom I lent it, it is so many years ago.”—‘ Then, Sir, here is the other volume ; Tl send you home that, and please to pay for both’—‘ My friend,’ replied he, ‘canst thou be so senseless as not to know that one volume is as imperfect in my library as in your shop ?’—‘Yes, Sir, but it is you have lost the first volume; and, to be short, I will be paid.’—‘ Sir,’ answered the chapman, ‘you are a young man, your book is lost ; and learn by this little loss to bear much greater adversities, which you must expect to meet with.’—‘ Yes, Sir, but I’ll bear when I must, but I have not lost now, for I say you have it, and shall pay me.’— ‘Friend, you grow warm ; I tell you the book is lost; and I foresee, in the course even of a prosperous life, that you will Io 20 30 30 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS, meet afflictions to make you mad, if you cannot bear this trifle.’ —‘Sir, there is in this case no need of bearing, for you have the book.’—‘ I say, Sir, I have not the book. But your passion will not let you hear enough to be informed that I have it not. Learn resignation of yourself to the distresses of this life : nay, do not fret and fume ; it is my duty to tell you, that you are of an impatient spirit, and an impatient spirit is never without woe.’—‘ Was ever any thing like this?’—‘ Yes, Sir, there have been many things like this. The loss is but a trifle; but your temper is wanton, and incapable of the least pain; therefore let me advise you, be patient, the book is lost, but do not you for that reason lose yourself.’ Spectator, No. 438.] [July 23, 1712. Wo. 10. Ox Bravery. Like leaves on trees the race of man is found. Pove’s HomeEr’s /iad, Bk. 6. There is no sort of people whose conversation is so pleasant as that of military men, who derive their courage and mag- nanimity from thought and reflection. The many adventures which attend their way of life makes their conversation so full of incidents, and gives them so frank an air in speaking of what they have been witnesses of, that no company can be more amiable than that of men of sense who are soldiers. There is a certain irregular way in their narrations or dis- course, which has something more warm and pleasing than we meet with among men who are used to adjust and methodize their thoughts. I was this evening walking in the fields with my friend Captain Sentry", and I could not, from the many relations which I drew him into of what passed when he was in the service, forbear expressing my wonder, that the fear of death, which we, the rest of mankind, arm ourselves against with so much contemplation, reason, and philosophy, should appear so little in camps, that common men march into open breaches, meet opposite battalions, not only without reluctance, but with ON BRAVERY. 31 alacrity. My friend answered what I said in the following manner: ‘What you wonder at may very naturally be the subject of admiration to all who are not conversant in camps; but when a man has spent some time in that way of life, he observes a certain mechanic courage which the ordinary race of men become masters of from acting always in a crowd. They see indeed many drop, but then they see many more alive; they observe themselves escape very narrowly, and they do not know why they should not again. Besides which to general way of loose thinking, they usually spend the other part of their time in pleasures upon which their minds are so entirely bent, that short labours or dangers are but a cheap purchase of jollity, triumph, victory, fresh quarters, new scenes, and uncommon adventures. Such are the thoughts of the executive part of an army, and indeed of the gross of mankind in general ; but none of these men of mechanical courage have ever made any great figure in the profession of arms. Those who are formed for command, are such as have reasoned themselves, out of a consideration of greater good than length 20 of days, into such a negligence of their being, as to make it their first position, that it is one day to be resigned ;—and since it is, in the prosecution of worthy actions and service or mankind they can put it to habitual hazard. The event of our designs, say they, as it relates to others, is uncertain ; but as it relates to ourselves it must be prosperous, while we are in the pursuit of our duty, and within the terms upon which Providence has ensured our happiness, whether we die or live. All that nature has prescribed must be good; and as death is natural to us, it is absurdity to fear it. Fear loses 20 its purpose when we are sure it cannot preserve us, and we should draw resolution to meet it from the impossibility to escape it. Without a resignation to the necessity of dying, there can be no capacity in man to attempt any thing that is glorious : but when they have once attained to that perfection, the pleasures of a life spent in martial adventures are as great as any of which the human mind is capable. The force of reason gives a certain beauty, mixed with the conscience of well- doing and thirst of glory to all which before was terrible and ghastly to the imagination. Add to this, that the fellowship 40 of danger, the common good of mankind, the general cause, 32 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. and the manifest virtue you may observe in so many men, who made no figure until that day, are so many incentives to destroy the little consideration of their own persons. Such are the heroic part of soldiers, who are qualified for leaders. As to the rest whom I before spoke of, I know not how it is, but they arrive at a certain habit of being void of thought, insomuch that on occasion of the most imminent danger they are still in the same indifference. Nay I remember an instance of a gay Frenchman®, who was led on in battle by Io a superior officer (whose conduct it was his custom to speak of always with contempt and raillery), and in the beginning of the action received a wound he was sensible was mortal; his reflection on this occasion was, “I wish I could live another hour, to see how this blundering coxcomb will get clear of this business.” ‘I remember two young fellows who rid in the same squadron of a troop of horse, who were ever together ; they ate, they drank, they intrigued ; in a word, all their passions and affections seemed to tend the same way, and they appeared serviceable to each other in them. We were in the dusk of the evening to march over a river, and the troop these gentlemen belonged to were to be transported in a ferry-boat, as fast as they could. One of the friends was now in the boat, while the other was drawn up with others by the water-side, waiting the return of the boat. A disorder hap- pened in the passage by an unruly horse; and a gentleman who had the rein of his horse negligently under his arm, was forced into the water by his horse’s jumping over. The friend on the shore cried out, “ Who is that is drowned, trow?”2 He 30 was immediately answered, “Your friend Harry Thompson.” He very gravely replied, “ Ay, he had a mad horse.” This short epitaph from such a familiar, without more words, gave me, at that time under twenty, a very moderate opinion of the friendship of companions. Thus is affection and every other motive of life in the generality rooted out by the present busy scene about them; they lament no man whose capacity can be supplied by another; and where men converse without delicacy, the next man you meet will serve as well as he whom you have lived with half your life. To such the devastation 40 of countries, the misery of inhabitants, the cries of the pillaged, 2 ° Io ON COURAGE AND MAGNANIMITY, 33 and the silent sorrow of the great unfortunate, are ordinary objects ; their minds are bent upon the little gratifications of their own senses and appetites, forgetful of compassion, in- sensible of glory, avoiding only shame; their whole hearts taken up with the trivial hope of meeting and being merry. These are the people who make up the gross of the soldiery. But the fine gentleman” in that band of men is such a one as I have now in my eye, who is foremost in all danger to which he is ordered. His officers are his friends and com- panions, as they are men of honour and gentlemen; the private men his brethren, as they are of his species. He is beloved of all that behold him. They wish him in danger as he views their ranks, that they may have occasions to save him at their own hazard. Mutual love is the order of the files where he commands; every man afraid for himself and his neighbour, not lest their commander should punish them, but lest he should be offended. Such is his regiment who knows mankind, and feels their distresses so far as to prevent ‘them. Just in distributing what is their due, he would think 20 himself below their tailor to wear a snip of their clothes in lace upon his own ; and below the most rapacious agent should he enjoy a farthing above his own pay. Go on, brave man! immortal glory is thy fortune, and immortal happiness thy reward.’ Spectator, No. 152.] [August 24, 1711. No. 11, On Courage and Magnanimity. Ea animi elatio que cemitur in periculis, si justitia vacat pugnatque pro suis commodis, in vitio est —TULL. Captain Sentry was last night at the club, and produced a letter from Ipswich, which his correspondent desired him to communicate to his friend the Spectator. It contained an account of an engagement between a French privateer, com- manded by one Dominick Pottiere, and a little vessel of that 30 place laden with corn, the master whereof, as I remember, was one Goodwin. The Englishman defended himself with D I ° 20 30 40 34 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS, incredible bravery, and beat off the French, after having been boarded three or four times. The enemy still came on with greater fury, and hoped by his number of men to carry the prize; till at last the Englishman, finding himself sink apace, and ready to perish, struck; but the effect which this singular gallantry had upon the captain of the privateer was no other than an unmanly desire of vengeance for the loss he had sus- tained in his several attacks. He told the Ipswich man ina speaking-trumpet, that he would not take him aboard, and that he stayed to see him sink. The Englishman at the same time observed a disorder in the vessel, which he rightly judged to proceed from the disdain which the ship’s crew had of their captain’s inhumanity. With this hope he went into his boat, and approached the enemy. He was taken in by the sailors in spite of their commander: but, though they received him against his command, they treated him, when he was in the ship, in the manner he directed. Pottiere caused his men to hold Goodwin, while he beat him with a stick, till he fainted with loss of blood and rage of heart ; after which he ordered him into irons, without allowing him any food, but such as one or two of the men stole to him under peril of the like usage: and having kept him several days overwhelmed with the misery of stench, hunger, and soreness, he brought him into Calais.- ‘The governor of the place was soon acquainted with all that had passed, dismissed Pottiere from his charge with ignominy, and gave Goodwin all the relief which a man of honour would bestow upon an enemy barbarously treated, to recover the im- putation of cruelty upon his prince and country. When Mr. Sentry had read his letter, full of many other cir- cumstances which aggravate the barbarity, he fell into a sort of criticism upon magnanimity and courage, and argued that they were inseparable ; and that courage, without regard to justice and humanity, was no other than the fierceness of a wild beast. “A good and truly bold spirit,’ continued he, ‘is ever actuated by reason, and a sense of honour and duty. The affectation of such a spirit exerts itself in an impudent aspect, an overbearing confidence, and a certain negligence of giving oftence. This is visible in all the cocking youths you see about this town, who are noisy in assemblies, unawed by the presence of wise and virtuous men; in a word, insensible of all the honours and 10 20 30 40 ON COURAGE AND MAGNANIMITY, 35 decencies of human life. A shameless fellow takes advantage of merit clothed with modesty and magnanimity, and, in the eyes of little people, appears sprightly and agreeable: while the man -of resolution and true gallantry is overlooked and disregarded, if not despised. There is a propriety in all things ; and I believe what you scholars call just and sublime, in opposition to turgid and bombast expression, may give you an idea of what I mean, when I say modesty is the certain indication of a great spirit, and impudence the affectation of it. He that writes with judgment, and never rises into improper warmths, manifests the true force of genius ; in like manner, he who is quiet and equal in all his behaviour, is suppoyted in that deportment by what we may call true courage. Alas! it is not so easy a thing to be a brave man as the unthinking part of mankind imagine. To dare, is not all that there is init. The privateer we were just now talking of had boldness enough to attack his enemy, but not greatness of mind enough to admire the same quality exerted by that enemy in defending himself. Thus his base and little mind was wholly taken up in the sordid regard to the prize of which he failed, and the damage done to his own vesscl; and therefore he used an honest man, who defended his own from him, in the manner as he would a thief that should rob him. ‘He was equally disappointed, and had not spirit enough to consider, that one case would be laudable, and the other criminal, Malice, rancour, hatred, vengeance, are what tear the breasts of mean men in fight; but fame, glory, conquests, desires of opportunities to pardon and oblige their opposers, are what glow in the minds of the gallant” The captain ended his discourse with a specimen of his book-learning ; and gave us to understand that he had read a French author on the subject of justness in point of gallantry. ‘I love,’ said Mr. Sentry, ‘a critic who mixes the tules of life with annotations upon writers. My author,’ added he, ‘in his discourse upon epic poetry, takes occasion to speak of the same quality of courage drawn in the two different characters of Turnus and AEneas. He makes courage the chief and greatest ornament of Turnus ;*but in Eneas there are many others’ which outshine it ; amongst the rest, that of piety. Turnus is, therefore, all along painted by the poet full of ostentation, his language haughty and vain-glorious, D2 10 20 30 36 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. as placing his honour in the manifestation of his valour: AZneas speaks little, is slow to action, and shows only a sort of defen- sive courage. If equipage and address make Turnus appear more courageous than Aineas, conduct and success prove /Eneas more valiant than Turnus,’ Spectator, No. 350.] [April 11, 1712. No. 12. On the Portable Quality of Good Humour; Characters of Harry Tersett and Rebecca Quickly, of Varilas. Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico.— Hon. Sat. i. 5. 44. A man advanced in years that thinks fit to look back upon his former life, and call that only life which was passed with satisfaction and enjoyment, excluding all parts which were not pleasant to him, will find himself very young, if not in his in- fancy. Sickness, ill-humour and idleness will have robbed him of a great share of that space we ordinarily call our life. It is therefore the duty of every man that would be true to himself, to obtain, if possible, a disposition to be pleased, and place himself in a constant aptitude for the satisfactions of his being. Instead of this, you hardly see a man who is not uneasy~in pro- portion to his advancement in the arts of life. An affected delicacy is the common improvement we meet with in those who pretend to be refined above others. They do not aim at true pleasures themselves, but turn their thoughts upon observ- ing the false pleasures of other men. Such people are vale- tudinarians in society, and they should no more come into company than a sick man should come into the air. If a man is too weak to bear what is a refreshment to men in health, he must still keep his chamber. When any one in Sir Roger’s company complains he is out of order, he immediately calls for some posset-drink for him ; for which reason that sort of people who are ever bewailing their constitution in other places, are the cheerfullest imaginable when he is present. It is a wonderful thing that so many, and they not reckoned absurd, shall entertain those with whom they converse, by giving them the history of their pains and aches, and imagine ON THE PORTABLE QUALITY, ETC. 37 such narrations their quota of the conversation. This is of all other the meanest help to discourse, and a man must not think at all, or think himself very insignificant, when he finds an account of his head-ache answered by another’s asking what news in the last mail? Mutual good humour is a dress we ought to appear in whenever we meet, and we should make no mention of what concerns ourselves, without it be of matters wherein our friends ought to rejoice; but indeed there are crowds of people who put themselves in no method of pleasing 10 themselves or others ; such are those whom we usually call in- dolent persons. Indolence is, methinks, an intermediate state between pleasure and pain, and very much unbecoming any part of our life after we are out of the nurse’s arms. Such an aver- sion to labour creates a constant weariness, and one would think should make existence itself a burden. The indolent man descends from the dignity of his nature, and makes that being which was rational merely vegetative. His life consists only in the mere increase and decay of a body, which, with relation to the rest of the world, might as well have been unin- 20 formed, as the habitation of a reasonable mind. Of this kind is the life of that extraordinary couple, Harry Tersett and his lady. Harry was, in the days of his celibacy, one of those pert creatures who have much vivacity and little understanding ; Mrs. Rebecca Quickly, whom he married, had all that the fire of youth and a lively manner could do towards making an agreeable woman. These two people of seeming merit fell into each other’s arms ; and, passion being sated, and no reason or good sense in either to succeed it, their life is now at a stand; their meals are insipid and their time tedious ; their 30 fortune has placed them above care, and their loss of taste reduced them below diversion. When we talk of these as instances of-inexistence, we do not mean, that in order to live, it is necessary we should be always in jovial crews, or crowned with chaplets of roses, as the merry fellows among the ancients are described; but it is intended, by considering these con- traries to pleasure, indolence, and too much delicacy, to show that it is prudence to preserve a disposition in ourselves to receive a certain delight in all we hear and see. This portable quality of good humour seasons all the parts 40 and occurrences we meet with in such a manner, that there are 10 20 30 38 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. no moments lost : but they all pass with so much satisfaction, that the heaviest of loads (when it is a load,) that of time, is never felt by us. Varilas has this quality to the highest perfec- tion, and communicates it wherever he appears. The sad, the merry, the severe, the melancholy, show a new cheerfulness when he comes amongst them. At the same time no one can repeat any thing that Varilas has ever said that deserves repeti- tion ; but the man has that innate goodness of temper, that he is welcome to every body, because every man thinks he is so to him. He does not seem to contribute any thing to the mirth of the company; and yet upon reflection you find it all happened by his being there. I thought it was whimsically said of a gentleman, that if Varilas had wit, it would be the best wit in the world. It is certain, when a well-corrected lively imagination and good-breeding are added to a sweet disposi- tion, they qualify it to be one of the greatest blessings as well as pleasures of life. Men would come into company with ten times the pleasure they do, if they were sure of hearing nothing which should shock them, as well as expected what would please them. When we know every person that is spoken of is represented by one who has no ill-will, and every thing that is mentioned described by one that is apt to set it in the best light, the entertainment must be delicate, because the cook has nothing brought to his hand but what is the most excellent in its kind. Beautiful pictures are the entertainments of pure minds, and deformities of the corrupted. It is a degree towards the life of angels, when we enjoy conversation wherein there is nothing presented but in its excellence ; and a degree towards that of demons, wherein nothing is shown but in its degeneracy. Spectator, No. 100.] [June 25, 1711. No.18. On Being Agreeable in Company. Cum tristibus severe, cum remissis jucunde, cum senibus graviter, cum juventute comiter vivere—TULL. The piece of Latin on the head of this paper is part of a character extremely vicious, but I have set down no more than ON. BEING AGREEABLE IN COMPANY. 39 may fall in with the rules of justice and honour. Cicero spoke it of Catiline, who, he said, ‘lived with the sad severely, with the cheerful agreeably, with the old gravely, with the young pleasantly ;?> he added, ‘with the wicked boldly, with the wanton lasciviously.? The two last instances of his com- plaisance I forbear to consider, having it in my thoughts at present only to speak of obsequious behaviour as it sits upon a companion in pleasure, not a man of design and intrigue. To vary with every humour in this manner cannot be agreeable, to except it comes from a man’s own temper and natural com- plexion ; to do it out of an ambition to excel that way, is the most fruitless and unbecoming prostitution imaginable. To put on an artful part to obtain no other end but an unjust praise from the undiscerning, is of all endeavours the most despicable. A man must be sincerely pleased to become pleasure, or not to interrupt that of others; for this reason it is a most calamitous circumstance, that many people who want to be alone, or should be so, will come into conversation. It is certain that all men, who are the least given to reflection, are seized with an inclination that way: when, perhaps, they had rather be inclined to company ; but indeed they had better go home and be tired with themselves, than force themselves upon others to recover.their good humour. In all this, the ‘case of communicating to a friend a sad thought or difficulty, in order to relieve a heavy heart, stands excepted ; but what is here meant is, that a man should always go with inclination to the turn of the company he is going into, or not pretend to be of the party. It is certainly a very happy temper to be able to live with all-kinds of dispositions, because it argues a mind that lies open to receive what is pleasing to others, and not obstinately bent on any particularity of his own. This is it which makes me pleased with the character of my good acquaintance Acasto. You meet him at the tables and conversations of the wise, the impertinent, the grave, the frolic, and the witty; and yet his own character has nothing in it that can make him particularly agreeable to any one sect of men; but Acasto has natural good sense, good nature, and discretion, so that every man enjoys himself in his company ; and though Acasto contributes nothing to the entertainment, 4o he never was at a place where he was not welcome a second 2 oo us ° 10 20 40 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS, time. Without the subordinate good qualities of Acasto, a man of wit and learning would be painful to the generality of mankind, instead of being pleasing. Witty men are apt to imagine they are agreeable as such, and by that means grow the worst companions imaginable; they deride the absent or rally the present in a wrong manner, not knowing that if you pinch or tickle a man till he is uneasy in his seat, or ungracefully distinguished from the rest of the company, you equally hurt him. I was going to say, the true art of being agreeable in company (but there can be no such thing as art in it) is to appear well pleased with those you are engaged with, and rather to seem well entertained, than to bring entertainment to others. A man thus disposed is not indeed what we ordinarily call a good companion, but essentially is such, and in all the parts of his conversation has something friendly in his behaviour, which conciliates men’s minds more than the highest sallies of wit or starts of humour can possibly do. The feebleness of age in a man of this turn has something which should be treated with respect even in a man no otherwise venerable. The forwardness of youth, when it proceeds from alacrity and not insolence, has also its allowances. The companion who is formed for such by nature, gives to every character of life its due regards, and is ready to account for their imperfections, and receive their accomplishments as if they were his own. It must appear that you receive law from, and not give it to, your company, to make you agreeable. I remember Tully, speaking, I think, of Antony, says, that, in eo facetie@ erant, gue nulla arte tradi possunt: ‘He hada witty mirth, which could be acquired by no art.’ This quality must be of the kind of which I am now speaking ; for all sorts of behaviour which depend upon observation and knowledge of life are to be acquired ; but that which no one can describe, and is apparently the act of nature, must be every where pre- valent, because every thing it meets is a fit occasion to exert it; for he who follows nature can never be improper or un- seasonable, How unaccountable then must their behaviour be, who, without any manner of consideration of what the company 4o they have just now entered are upon, give themselves the air Io 20 30 ON SOLITUDE, ‘CHARACTER OF IRUS. 41 of a messenger, and make as distinct relations of the occur- rences they last met with, as if they had been dispatched from those they talk to, to be punctually exact in a report of those circumstances! It is unpardonable to those who are met to enjoy one another that a fresh man shall pop in, and give us only the last part of his own life, and put a stop to ours during the history. If such a man comes from ’Change, whether you will or not, you must hear how the stocks go: and, though you are ever so intently employed on a graver subject, a young fellow of the other end of the town will take his place and tell you, Mrs. Such-a-one is charmingly handsome, because he just now saw her. But I think I need not dwell on this subject, since I have acknowledged there can be no rules made for excelling this way; and precepts of this kind fare like rules for writing poetry, which, it is said, may have prevented ill poets, but never made good ones, Spectator, No. 386.] [May 23, 1712. No. 14. On Solitude; Character of Irus. Secretum iter, et fallentis semita vitee. Hor. Ep. i. 18. 103. It has been from age to age an affectation to love the pleasure of solitude, among those who cannot possibly be supposed qualified for passing life in that manner. This people have taken up from reading the many agreeable things which have beer written on that subject, for which we are beholden to ex- cellent persons who delighted in being retired, and abstracted from the pleasures that enchant the generality of the world. This way of life is recommended indeed with great beauty, and in such a manner as disposes the reader for the time to a pleasing forgetfulness, or negligence of the particular hurry of life in which he is engaged, together with a longing for that state which he is charmed with in description. But when we con- sider the world itself, and how few there are capable of a religious, learned, or philosophic solitude, we shall be apt to change a regard to that sort of solitude, for being a little Io 20 30 40 42 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. singular in enjoying time after the way a man himself likes best in the world, without going so far as wholly to withdraw from it. I have often observed, there is not a man breathing who does not differ from all other men as much in the sentiments of his: mind as the features of his face. The felicity is, when any one is so happy as to find out and follow what is the proper bent of his genius, and turn all his endeavours to exert himself accord- ing as that prompts him. Instead of this, which is an innocent method of enjoying a man’s self, and turning out of the general tracks wherein you have crowds of rivals, there are those who pursue their own way out of a sourness and spirit of contradic- tion. These men do every thing which they are able to support, as if guilt and impunity could not go together. They choose a thing only because another dislikes it ; and affect forsooth an inviolable constancy in matters of no manner of moment. Thus sometimes an old fellow shall wear this or that sort of cut in his clothes with great integrity, while all the rest of the world are degenerated into buttons, pockets, and loops unknown to their ancestors. As insignificant as even this is, if it were searched to the bottom, you perhaps would find it not sincere, but that he is in the fashion in his heart, and holds out from mere ob- stinacy. But I am running from my intended purpose, which was to celebrate a certain particular manner of passing away life, and is a contradiction to no man, but a resolution to contract none of the exorbitant desires by which others are enslaved. The best way of separating a man’s self from the world, is to give up the desire of being known to it. After a man has pre- served his innocence and performed all duties incumbent upon him, his time spent his own way is what makes his life differ from that of a slave. If they who affect show and pomp knew how many of their spectators derided their trivial taste, they would be very much less elated, and have an inclination to examine the merit of all they have to do with: they would soon find out that there are many who make a figure below what their fortune or merit entitles them to, out of mere choice, and an elegant desire of ease and disencumbrance. It would look like romance to tell you in this age, of an old man who is con- tented to pass for a humourist, and one who does not understand the figure he ought to make in the world, while he lives ina lodging of ten shillings a weck with only one servant ; while he ON SOLITUDE, CHARACTER OF IRUS, 43° dresses himself according to the season in cloth or in stuff, and has no one necessary attention to any thing but the bell which calls to prayers twice a-day: I say it would look like a fable to report that this gentleman gives away all which is the overplus of a great fortune by secret methods to other men. If he has not the pomp of a numerous train, and of professors of service to him, he has every day he lives the conscience that the widow, the fatherless, the mourner, and the stranger, bless his unseen hand in their prayers. This humourist gives up all the compli- ro ments which people of his own condition could make hin, for | the pleasure of helping the afflicted, supplying the needy, and befriending the neglected. This humourist keeps to himself much more than he wants, and gives a vast refuse of his superfluities to purchase heaven, and by freeing others from the temptations of worldly want, to carry a retinue with him thither. Of all men who affect living in a particular way, next to this admirable character, I am the most enamoured of Irus, whose condition will not admit of such largesses, and who perhaps 20 would not be capable of making them if it were. Irus, though he is now turned of fifty, has not appeared in the world in his real character since five-and-twenty, at which age he ran out a small patrimony, and spent some time after with rakes who had lived upon him. A course of ten years time passed in all the little alleys, by-paths, and sometimes open taverns and streets of this town, gave Irus a perfect skill in judging of the inclina- tions of mankind, and acting accordingly. He seriously con- sidered he was poor, and the general horror which most men have of all who are in that condition. Irus judged very rightly, 30 that while he could keep his poverty a secret, he should not feel the weight of it; he improved this thought into an affectation of closeness and covetousness. Upon this one principle he resolved to govern his future life ; and in the thirty-sixth year of his age he repaired to Long-lane®, and looked upon several dresses which hung there deserted by their first masters, and exposed to.the purchase of the best bidder. At this place he exchanged his gay shabbiness of clothes fit for a much younger man, to warm ones that would be decent for a much older one. Irus came out thoroughly equipped from head to foot, with a 4o little oaken cane, in the form of a substantial man that did not Io 20 44 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS, mind his dress, turned of fifty. He had at this time fifty pounds in ready money; and in this habit, with this fortune, he took his present lodging in St. John-street 2, at the mansion-house of a tailor’s widow, who washes, and can clear-starch his bands®. From that time to this he has kept the main stock, without alteration under or over to the value of five pounds. He left off all his old acquaintance to a man, and all his arts of life, except the play of back-gammon, upon which he has more than bore his charges. Irus has, ever since he came into this neigh- bourhood, given all the intimations he skilfully could of being a close hunks worth money: nobody comes to visit him, he re- ceives no letters, and tells his money morning and evening. He has from the public papers a knowledge of what generally passes, shuns all discourses of money, but shrugs his shoulders when you talk of securities ; he denies his being rich, with the air which all do who are vain of being so. He is the oracle of a neighbouring justice of peace, who meets him at the coffee-house ; the hopes that what he has must come to some- body, and that he has no heirs, have that effect wherever he is known, that he every day has three or four invitations to dine at different places, which he generally takes care to choose in such a manner as not to seem inclined to the richer man. All the young men respect him, and say he is just the same man he was when they were boys. He uses no artifice in the world, but makes use of men’s designs upon him to get a main- tenance out of them. This he carries on by a certain peevish- ness (which he acts very well) that no one would believe could possibly enter into the head of a poor fellow. His mien, his dress, his carriage, and his language, are such, that you would be at a loss to guess whether in the active part of his life he had been a sensible citizen, or scholar that knew the world. These are the great circumstances in the life of Irus, and thus does he pass away his days a stranger.to mankind ; and at his death, the worst that will be said of him will be, that he got by every man who had expectations from him more than he had to leave him. I have an inclination to print the following letters ; for that I have heard the author of them" has somewhere or other seen me, and by an excellent faculty in mimicry my correspondents 40 tell me he can assume my air, and give my taciturnity a slyness ON SOLITUDE; CHARACTER OF IRUS. 45 which diverts more than anything I could say if I were present. Thus I am glad my silence is atoned for to the good company in town. He has carried his skill in imitation so far as to have ‘forged a letter from my friend Sir Roger ® in such a manner, that Io 20 3 oO any one but I, who am thoroughly acquainted with him, would have taken it for genuine. ‘MR. SPECTATOR, ’ ‘Having observed in Lilly’s grammar how sweetly Bacchus and Apollo run in a verse; I have (to preserve the amity between them) called in Bacchus to the aid of my profession of the theatre. So that while some people of quality are bespeaking plays of me to be acted on such a day, and others, hogsheads for their houses against such a time ; I am wholly employed in the agreeable service of wit and wine. Sir, I have sent you Sir Roger de Coverley’s letter to me, which pray comply with in favour of the Bumper tavern. Be kind, for you know a player’s utmost pride is the approbation of the Spectator. ‘Iam your admirer, though unknown, ‘RICHARD ESTCOURT.’ *To Mr. ESTCOURT, 6 At his house in Covent-Garden, ‘ Coverley, December the 18th, 1711. SOLD COMICAL ONE, ‘The hogsheads of neat port came safe, and have gotten thee good reputation in these parts; and I am glad to hear, that a fellow who has been laying out his money ever since he was born for the mere pleasure of wine, has bethought himself of joining profit and pleasure together. Our sexton (poor man) having received strength from thy wine since his fit of the gout, is hugely taken with it: he says it is given by nature for the use of families, and that no steward’s table can be without it ; that it strengthens digestion, excludes surfeits, fevers, and physic ; which green wines of any kind can’t do. Pray get a pure snug room ; and I hope next term to help fill your Bumper with our people of the club; but you must have no bells stirring when the Spectator comes ; I forebore ringing to dinner while he was down with me in the country. Thank you for the little hams and Portugal onions; pray keep some always by you. You know my supper is only good Cheshire cheese, best mustard, 10 20 30 46 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS, a golden pippin, attended with a pipe of John Sly’s best™. Sir Harry has stolen all your songs, and tells the story of the 5th of November to perfection. ‘Yours to serve you, ‘ROGER DE COVERLEY. ‘We have lost old John since you were here.’ Spectator, No. 264.] [January 2, 1712. No. 15. On the Abuse of the Understanding; the Athenians and Lacedemonians compared. Credebant hoc grande nefas, et morte piandum, Si juvenis vetulo non assurrexerat. Juv. Sat, xiii. 54. I know no evil under the sun so great as the abuse of the understanding, and yet there is no one vice more common. It has diffused itself through both sexes, and all qualities of mankind, and there is hardly that person to be found, who is not more concerned for the reputation of wit and sense, than honesty and virtue. But this unhappy affectation of being wise rather than honest, witty than good-natured, is the source of most of the ill habits of life. Such false impressions are owing to the abandoned writings of men of wit, and the awkward imitation of the rest of mankind. For this reason Sir Roger was saying last night, that he was of opinion none but men of fine parts deserved to be hanged. The reflections of such men are so delicate upon all occurrences which they are concerned.in, that they should be exposed to more than ordinary infamy and punishment, for offending against such quick admonitions as their own souls give them, and blunting the fine edge of their minds in such a manner, that they are no more shocked at vice and folly than men of slower capacities. There is no greater monster in being, than a very ill man of great parts. He lives like a man in a palsy, with one side of him dead. While perhaps he enjoys the satis- faction of luxury, of wealth, of ambition, he has lost the taste of good-will, of friendship, of innocence. Scarecrow, the beggar in Lincoln’s-inn-fields, who disabled himself in his right leg, ON THE ABUSE OF THE UNDERSTANDING, 47 and asks alms all day to get himself a warm supper at night, is not half so despicable a wretch as such a man of sense. The beggar has no relish above sensations ; he finds rest more agreeable than motion ; and while:he has a warm fire and his doxy, never reflects that he deserves to be whipped. Every man who terminates his satisfactions and enjoyments within the supply of his own necessities and passions is, says Sir ‘Roger, in my eye, as poor a rogue as Scarecrow. ‘But,’ con- tinued he, ‘for the loss of public and private virtue, we are 10 beholden to your men of parts forsooth; it is with them no matter what is done, so it be done with an air. But to me, who am so whimsical in a corrupt age as to act according to nature and reason, a selfish man, in the most shining circum- stance and equipage, appears in the same condition with the fellow above-mentioned, but more contemptible in proportion to what more he robs the public of, and enjoys above him. I lay it down therefore for a rule, that the whole man is to move together; that every action of any importance is to have a prospect of public good: and that the general tendency of our indifferent actions ought to be agreeable to the dictates of reason, of religion, of good-breeding; without this, a man,.as I have before hinted, is hopping instead of walking, he is not in his entire and proper motion.’ While the honest knight was thus bewildering himself in good starts, I looked attentively upon him, which made him, I thought, collect his mind a little. ‘What I aim at,’ says he, ‘is to represent, that I am of opinion, to polish our under- standings, and neglect our manners, is of all things the most inexcusable. ‘Reason should govern passion, but instead of that, you see, it is often subservient to it; and as unaccount- able as one would think it, a wise man is not always a good man.’ This degeneracy is not only the guilt of particular per- sons, but also at some times of a whole people ; and perhaps it may appear upon examination, that the most polite ages are the least virtuous. This may be attributed to the folly of admitting wit and learning as merit in themselves, without con- sidering the application of them. By this means it becomes a rule, not so much to regard what we do, as how we doit. But this false beauty will not pass upon men of honest minds, and 40 true taste. Sir Richard Blackmore says", with as much good ye °o a ° 10 2 °o 30 48 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS, sense as virtue, ‘It is a mighty dishonour and shame to employ excellent faculties and abundance of wit, to humour and please men in their vices and follies. The great enemy of mankind, notwithstanding his wit and angelic faculties, is the most odious being in the whole creation.’ He goes on soon after to say, very generously, that he undertook the writing of his poem ‘to rescue the Muses out of the hands of ravishers, to restore them to their sweet and chaste mansions, and to engage them in an’ employment suitable to their dignity.’ This certainly ought to be the purpose of every man who appears in public, and who- ever does not proceed upon that foundation, injures his country as far as he succeeds in his studies. When modesty ceases to be the chief ornament of one sex, and integrity of the other, society is upon a wrong basis, and we shall be ever after with- out rules to guide our judgment in what is really becoming and ornamental. Nature and reason direct one thing, passion and humour another. To follow the dictates of the two latter, is going into a road that is both endless and intricate; when we: pursue the other, our passage is delightful, and what we aim at easily attainable. I do not doubt but England is at present as polite a nation as any in the world ; but any man who thinks, can easily see, that the affectation of being gay and in fashion, has very near eaten up our good sense, and our religion. Is there any thing so just, as that mode and gallantry should be built upon exerting our- selves in what is proper and agreeable to the institutions of justice and piety among us? And yet is there any thing more common, than that we run in perfect contradiction to them? ‘All which is supported by no other pretension, than that it is done with what we call a good grace. Nothing ought to be held laudable or becoming, but what nature itself should prompt us to think so. Respect to all kind of superiors is founded, methinks, upon instinct ; and yet what is so ridiculous as age? I make this abrupt transition to the mention of this vice more than any other, in order to intro- duce a little story, which I think a pretty instance, that the most polite age is in danger of being the most vicious. ‘It happened at Athens, during a public representation of some play exhibited in honour of the commonwealth, that an 40 old gentleman came too late for a place suitable to his age and ON THE USELESSNESS OF RETROSPECT. 49 quality. Many of the young gentlemen, who observed the diffi- culty and confusion he was in, made signs to him that they would accommodate him if he came where they sat. The good man bustled through the crowd accordingly; but when he came to the seats to which he was invited, the jest was to sit close and expose him, as he stood out of countenance, to the whole audience. The frolic went round all the Athenian benches. But on those occasions there were also particular places assigned for foreigners. When the good man skulked towards the boxes 10 appointed for the Lacedemonians, that honest people, more virtuous than polite, rose up all to a man, and with the greatest respect received him among them, The Athenians being sud- denly touched with a sense of the Spartan virtue and their own degeneracy, gave a thunder of applause; and the old man cried out, “ The Athenians understand what is good, but the Lacede- monians practise it.”’ Spectator, No. 6.] [March 7, 1711. No. 16. Ox the Uselessness of Retrospect. Nil actum reputans si quid superesset agendum. Lucan, ii. 57. There is a fault, which, though common, wants a name. It is the very contrary to procrastination. As we lose the present hour by delaying from day to day to execute what we ought to 20 do immediately, so most of us take occasion to sit still and throw away the time in our possession by retrospect on what is past, imagining we have already acquitted ourselves, and established our characters in the sight of mankind. But when we thus put a value upon ourselves for what we have already done, any further than to explain ourselves in order to assist our future conduct, that will give us an over-weening opinion of our merit, to the prejudice of our present industry. The great rule, methinks, should be, to manage the instant in which we stand, with fortitude, equanimity, and moderation, 30 according to men’s respective circumstances. If our past actions reproach us, they cannot be atoned for by our own severe reflections so effectually as by a contrary behaviour, E 50 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. If they are praiseworthy, the memory of them is of no use but to act suitably to them. Thus a good present behaviour is an implicit repentance for any miscarriage in what is past ; but present slackness will not make up for past activity. Time has swallowed up all that we contemporaries did yesterday as irrevocably as it has the actions of the antediluvians. But we are again awake, and what shall we do to-day—to-day, which passes while we are yet speaking? Shall we remember the folly cf last night, or resolve upon the exercise of virtue to- Io morrow? Last night is certainly gone, and to-morrow may never arrive. This instant make use of. Can you oblige any man of honour and virtue? Do it immediately. Can you visit a sick friend? Will it revive him to see you enter, and suspend your own ease and pleasure to comfort his weakness, and hear the impertinencies of a wretch in pain? Do not stay to take coach, but be gone. Your mistress will bring sorrow, and your bottle madness. Go to neither Such virtues and diversions as these are mentioned because they occur to all men. But every man is sufficiently convinced, that to 20 Suspend the use of the present moment, and resolve better for the future only, is an unpardonable folly. What I attempted to consider, was the mischief of setting such a value upon what is past, as to think we have done enough. Let a man have filled all the offices of life with the highest dignity till yester- day, and begin to live only to himself to-day, he must expect he will, in the effects upon his reputation, be considered as the man who died yesterday. The man who distinguishes himself from the rest, stands in a press of people: those before him intercept his progress; and those behind him, if he does not 30 urge on, will tread him down. Cesar 4, of whom it was said that he thought nothing done while there was left any thing for him to do, went on in performing the greatest exploits, without as- suming to himself a privilege of taking rest upon the foundation of the merit of his former actions. It was the manner of that glorious captain to write down what scenes he passed through ; but it was rather to keep his affairs in method, and capable of a clear review in case they should be examined by others, than that ‘he built a renown upon any thing that was past. I shall produce two fragments of his, to demonstrate 4c that it was his rule of life to support himself rather by what he ON THE USELESSNESS OF RETROSPECT. 51 should perform, than what he had done already. In the tablet which he wore about him the same year in which he obtained the battle of Pharsalia, there were found these loose notes for his own conduct. It is supposed, by the circumstances they alluded to, that they might be set down the evening of the same night. ‘My part is now but begun, and my glory must be sustained by the use I make of this victory ; otherwise my loss will be greater than that of Pompey. Our personal reputation wil! rise or fall as we bear our respective fortunes. All my private enemies among the prisoners shall be spared. I will forget this, in order to obtain such another day. Trebutius is ashamed to see me; I will go to his tent, and be reconciled in private. Give all the men of honour, who take part with me, the terms I offered before the battle. Let them owe this to their friends who have been long in my interests. Power is weakened by the full use of it, but extended by moderation. Galbinius is proud, and will be servile in his present fortune : let him wait. Send for Stertinius : he is modest, and his virtue 20 is worth gaining. I have cooled my heart with reflection, and am fit to rejoice with the army to-morrow. He is a popular general, who can expose himself like a private man during a battle; but he is more popular who can rejoice but like a private man after a victory.’ , What is particularly proper for the example of all who pretend to industry in the pursuit of honour and virtue, is, that this hero was more than ordinarily solicitous about his reputation, when a common mind would have thought itself in security, and given itself a loose to joy and triumph. But 30 though this is a very great instance of his temper, I must confess Iam more taken with his reflections when he retired to his closet in some disturbance upon the repeated ill omens of Calphurnia’s dream, the night before his death. The literal translation of that fragment shall conclude this paper. ‘Be it so then. If I am to die to-morrow, that is what I am to do to-morrow. It will not be then, because I am willing it should be then; nor shall I escape it, because I am unwilling. It is in the gods when, but in myself how, I shall die. If Cal- phurnia’s dreams are fumes of indigestion, how shall I behold 4° the day after to-morrow! If they are from the gods, their E2 I ° 10 20 30 52 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS, admonition is not to prepare me to escape from their decree, but to meet it. I have lived a fulness of days and of glory: what is there that Czesar has not done with as much honour as ancient heroes >—Czsar has not yet died! Caesar is prepared to die,’ Spectator, No. 374.] [May 9, 1712. No.17. Ox Debt. Caput domina venale sub hasta. Juv. Sat. iii. 33. Passing under Ludgate™ the other day, I heard a voice bawl- ing for charity, which I thought I had somewhere heard before. Coming near to the grate, the prisoner called me by my name, and desired I would throw something into the box; I was out of countenance for him, and did as he bid me, by putting in half-a-crown. I went away, reflecting upon the strange con- stitution of some men, and how meanly they behave themselves in all sorts of conditions. The person who begged of me is now, as I take it, fifty: I was well acquainted with him till about the age of twenty-five ; at which time a good estate fell to him by the death of a relation. Upon coming to this unexpected good .fortune, he ran into all the extravagances imaginable ; was frequently in drunken disputes, broke drawers’ heads, talked and swore loud, was unmannerly to those above him, and insolent to those below him. I could not but remark, that it was the same baseness of spirit which worked in his behaviour in both fortunes: the same little mind was insolent in riches, and shameless in poverty. This accident made me muse upon the circumstance of being in debt in general, and solve in my mind what tempers were most apt to fall into this error of life, as well as the misfortune it must needs be to languish under such pressures. As for myself, my natural aversion to that sort of conversation which makes a figure with the generality of mankind, exempts me from any temptations to expense ; and all my business lies within a very narrow compass, which is only to give an honest man who takes care of my estate, proper vouchers for his quarterly payments to me, and observe what ON DEBT. 53 linen my laundress brings and takes away with her once a week. My steward brings his receipt ready for my signing ; and I have a pretty implement with the respective names of shirts, cravats, handkerchiefs, and stockings, with proper num- bers, to know how to reckon with my laundress. This being almost all the business I have in the world for the care of my own affairs, I am at full leisure to observe upon what others do, with relation to their equipage and economy. When I walk the street and observe the hurry about me in 10 this town, Where, with like haste, through diff’rent ways they run; Some to undo, and some to be undone! I say, when I behold this vast variety of persons and humours, with the pains they both take for the accomplishment of. the ends mentioned in the above verses of Denham®, I cannot much wonder at the endeavour after gain, but am extremely astonished that men can be so insensible of the danger of . running into debt. One would think it impossible a man who is given to contract debts should know, that his creditor 2c has, from that moment in which he transgresses payment, so much as that demand comes to, in his debtor’s honour, liberty, and fortune. One would think he did not know that his creditor can say the worst thing imaginable of him, to wit, ‘That he is unjust,’ without defamation; and can seize his person, without being guilty of an assault. Yet such is the loose and abandoned turn of some men’s minds, that they can live under these constant apprehensions, and still go on to increase the cause of them. Can there be a more low and servile con- dition, than to be ashamed or afraid to see any one man breath- 30 ing? Yet he that is much in debt, is in that condition with ‘relation to twenty different people. There are indeed circum- stances wherein men of honest natures may become liable to debts, by some unadvised behaviour in any great point of their life, or mortgaging a man’s honesty as a security for that of another, and the like ; but these instances are so particular and circumstantiated, that they cannot come within general consi- derations. For one such case as one of these, there are ten where a man, to keep up a farce of retinue and grandeur within his own house, shall shrink at the expectation of surly demands 40 at his doors. The debtor is the creditor’s criminal ; and all the 10 54 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. officers of power and state, whom we behold make so great a figure, are no-other than so many persons in authority to make good his charge against him. Human society depends upon his having the vengeance iaw allots him ; and the debtor owes his liberty to his neighbour, as much as the murderer does his life to his prince. Our gentry are, generally speaking, in debt; and many families have put it into a kind of method of being so from generation to generation. The father mortgages when his son is very young ; and the boy is to marry, as soon as he is at age, to redeem it and find portions for his sisters. This, forsooth, “ is no great inconvenience to him; for he may keep a public 20 40 table, or feed dogs, like a worthy English gentleman, till he has out-run half his estate, and leave the same encumbrance upon his first-born, and so on; till one man of more vigour than ordinary goes quite through the estate, or some man of sense comes into it, and scorns to have an estate in partnership, that is to say, liable to the demand or insult of any man living. There is my friend Sir Andrew®, though for many years a great and general trader, was never the defendant in a law suit, in all the perplexity of business, and the iniquity of mankind at pre- sent; no one had any colour for the least complaint against his dealings with him. This is certainly as uncommon, and in its proportion as laudable in a citizen, as it is in a gencral never to nave suffered a disadvantage in fight. How different from this gentleman is Jack Truepenny", who has been an old acquaintance of Sir Andrew and myself from boys, but could never learn our caution. Jack has an unresisting good nature, which makes him incapable of having a property in any thing. His fortune, his reputation, his time, and his capa- city, are at any man’s service that comes first. When he was at school he was whipped thrice a week for faults he took upon him to excuse others ; since he came into the business of the world, he has been arrested twice or thrice a-year for debts he had nothing to do with, but as surety for others;...’ Jack had a good estate left him, which came to nothing; because he believed all who pretended to demands upon it. This easiness and credulity destroy all the other merit he has; and he has all his life been a sacrifice to others, without ever receiving thanks, or doing one good action, ON THE CONDITION OF BANKRUPTCY. 55 I will end this discourse with a speech which I heard Jack make to one of his creditors (of whom he deserved gentler usage) after lying a whole night in custody at his suit. ‘Sir, your ingratitude for the many kindnesses I have done you, shall not make me unthankful for the good you have done me, in letting me see there is such a man as you in the world. I am obliged to you for the diffidence I shall have all the rest of my life: I shall hereafter trust no man so far as to be in his debt.’ Spectator, No. 82.] [June 4, 1711. No. 18. Ox the Condition of Bankruptcy. De quo libelli in celeberrimis locis proponuntur, huic ne perire quidem tacite conceditur—TULL. 1o Otway, in his tragedy of Venice Preserved, has described the misery of a man whose effects are in the hands of the law, with great spirit. The bitterness of being the scorn and laughter of base minds, the anguish of being insulted by men hardened beyond the sense of shame or pity, and the injury of a man’s fortune'being wasted, under pretence of justice, are excellently aggravated in the following speech of Pierre to Jaffier : I pass’d this very moment by thy doors, And found them guarded by a. troop of villains ; The sons of public rapine were destroying. 20 They told me, by the sentence of the law, They had commission to seize all thy fortune: Nay more, Priuli’s cruel hand had signed it. Here stood a ruffian with a horrid face, Lording it o’er a pile of massy plate, Tumbled into a heap for public sale. There was another making villanous jests At thy undoing. He had ta’en possession Of all thy ancient most domestic ornaments ; Rich hangings intermix'd and wrought with gold; 30 The very bed, which on thy wedding night Receiv’d thee to the arms of Belvidera, The scene of all thy joys, was violated By the coarse hands of filthy dungeon villains, And thrown amongst the common lumber. I 2 3 ° oO ° 56 . MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. Nothing indeed can be more unhappy than the condition of bankruptcy. The calamity which happens to us by ill fortune, or by the injury of others, has in it some consolation ; but what arises from our own misbehaviour, or error, is the state of the most exquisite sorrow. When a man considers not only an ample fortune, but even the very necessaries of life, his pretence to food itself, at the mercy of his creditors, he cannot but look upon himself in the state of the dead, with his case thus much worse, that the last office is performed by his adversaries instead of his friends. From this hour the cruel world does not only take possession of his whole fortune, but even of every thing else which had no relation to it. All his indifferent actions have new interpretations put upon them; and those whom he has favoured in his former life, discharge themselves of their obli- gations to him, by joining in the reproaches of his enemies. It is almost incredible that it should be so; but it is too often seen that there is a pride mixed with the impatience of the creditor; and there are who would rather recover their own by the downfall of a prosperous man, than be discharged to the common satis- faction of themselves and their creditors. The wretched man, who was lately master of abundance, is now under the direction of others ; and the wisdom, economy, good sense, and skill in human life before, by reason of his present misfortune, are of no use to him in the disposition of any thing. The incapacity ofan infant or a lunatic is designed for his provision and accommoda- tion ; but, that of a bankrupt, without any mitigation in respect of the accidents by which it arrived, is calculated for his utter ruin, except there be a remainder ample enough, after the dis- charge of his creditors, to bear also the expense of rewarding those by whose means the effect of all this labour was trans- ferred from him. This man is to look on and see others giving directions upon what terms and conditions his goods are to be purchased ; and all this usually done, not with an air of trustees to dispose of his effects, but destroyers to divide and tear them to pieces. There is something sacred in misery to great and good minds; for this reason all wise lawgivers have been extremely tender how they let loose even the man who has right on his side, to act with any mixture of resentment against the defendant. 4o Virtuous and modest men, though they be used with some ON THE CONDITION OF BANKRUPTCY. 57 artifice, and have it in their power to avenge themselves, are slow in the application of that power, and are ever constrained to go into rigorous measures. They are careful to demonstrate themselves not only persons injured, but also that to bear it longer would be a means to make the offender injure others before they proceed. Such men clap their hands upon their hearts, and consider what it is to have at their mercy the life of a citizen. Such would have it to say to their own souls, if possible, that they were merciful when they could have de- Io stroyed, rather than when it was in their power to have spared a man, they destroyed. This is a due to the common calamity of human life, due in some measure to our very enemies. They who scruple doing the least injury, are cautious of exacting the utmost justice. ' Let any one who is conversant in the variety of human life reflect upon it, and he will find the man who wants mercy has a taste of nod enjoyment of any kind. There is a natural dis- relish of every thing which is good in his very nature, and he is born an enemy to the world. He is ever extremely partial to 20 himself in all his actions, and has no sense of iniquity but from the punishment which shall attend it. The law of the land is his gospel, and all his cases of conscience are determined by his attorney. Such men know not what it is to gladden the heart of a miserable man; that riches are the instruments of serving the purposes of heaven or hell, according to the dispo- sition of the possessor. The wealthy can torment or gratify all who are in their power, and choose to do one or other, as they are affected with love, or hatred to mankind. As for such who are insensible of the concerns of others, but merely as they 30 affect themselves, these men are to be valued only for their mortality, and as we hope better things from their heirs. I could not but read with great delight a letter from an eminent citizen, who has failed, to one who was intimate with him in his better fortune, and able by his countenance to retrieve his lost condition. ‘SIR, ‘It is in vain to multiply words and make apologies for what is never to be defended by the best advocate in the world, the guilt of being unfortunate. All that a man in my condition can 40 do or say, will be received with prejudice by the generality of 10 20 58 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS, mankind, but I hope not with you: you have been a great in- strument in helping me to get what I have lost; and I know (for that reason, as well as kindness to me) you cannot but be in pain to see me undone. To show you I am not a man incapable of bearing calamity, I will, though a poor man, lay aside the distinction between us, and talk with the frankness we did when we were nearer to an equality; as all I do will be received with prejudice, all you do will be looked upon with partiality. What I desire of you is, that you, who are courted by all, would smile upon me, who am shunned by all. Let that grace and favour which your fortune throws upon you, be turned to make up the coldness and indifference that is used towards me. All good and generous men will have an eye of kindness for me for my own sake, and the rest of the world will regard me for yours. There is a happy contagion in riches, as well as a destructive one in poverty : the rich can make rich without parting with any of their store ; and the conversation of the poor makes men poor, though they borrow nothing of them. How this is to be accounted for I know not ; but men’s estimation follows us according to the company we keep. If you are what you were to me, you can go a great way towards my recovery; if you are not, my good fortune, if ever it returns, will return by slower approaches. ‘Tam, Sir, * Your affectionate Friend and humble Servant.’ This was answered with a condescension that did not, by long impertinent professions of kindness, insult his distress, but was as follows: “DEAR Tom, ‘I am very glad to hear that you have heart enough to begin the world a second time. I assure you, I do not think your numerous family at all diminished (in the gifts of nature, for which I have ever so much admired them) by what has so lately happened to you. I shall not only countenance your affairs with my appearance for you, but shall accommodate you with a considerable sum at common interest for three years. You know I could make more of it; but I have so great a love for you, that I can waive opportunities of gain to help you; for ON THE $UST DISTRIBUTION OF FAVOURS, 59 I do not care whether they say of me after I am dead, that I had a hundred or fifty thousand pounds more than I wanted when I was living. ‘Your obliged humble Servant.’ Spectator, No. 456.] [August 13, 1712. No. 19. On the Fust Distribution of Favours. Oirés gor: yarewrns -yépwr. MENANDER. A favour well bestowed is almost as great an honour to him who confers it as to him who receives it. What indeed makes for the superior reputation of the patron in this case is, that he is always surrounded with specious pretences of unworthy candidates, and is often alone in the kind in- To clination he has towards the well-deserving. Justice is the first quality in the man who is in a post of direction; and I remember to have heard an old gentleman talk of the civil wars, and in his relation give an account of a general officer, who with this one quality, without any shining endowments, became so popularly beloved and honoured, that all decisions between man and man were laid before him by the parties concerned, in a private way; and they would lay by their animosities implicitly, if he bid them be friends, or submit themselves in the wrong without reluctance, if he said it, zo without waiting the judgment of courts-martial. His manner was to keep the dates of all commissions in his closet, and wholly dismiss from the service such who were deficient in their duty; and after that took care to prefer according to the order of battle. His familiars were his’ entire friends, and could have no interested views in courting his acquaint- ance ; for his affection was no step to their preferment, though it was to their reputation. By this means, a kind aspect, a salutation, a smile, and giving out his hand, had the weight of what is esteemed by vulgar minds more substantial. His 30 business was very short, and he who had nothing to do but justice, was never affronted with a request of a familiar daily 60 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS, visitant for what was due to a brave man ata distance. Ex- traordinary merit he used to recommend to the king for some distinction at home ; till the order of battle made way for his rising in the troops. Add to this, that he had an excellent manner of getting rid of such who he observed were good at a halt, as his phrase was. Under this description he compre- hended all those who were contented to live without reproach, and had no promptitude in their minds towards glory. These fellows were also recommended to the king, and taken off of the general’s hands into posts wherein diligence and common honesty were all that were necessary. This general had no weak part in his line, but every man had as much care upon him, and as much honour to lose as himself. Every officer could answer for what passed where he was ; and the general's presence was never necessary anywhere, but where he had placed himself at the first disposition, except that accident happened from extraordinary efforts of the enemy which he could not foresee; but it was remarkable that it never fell out from failure in his own troops. It must be confessed the 20 world is just so much out of order, as an unworthy person possesses what should be in the direction of him who has better pretensions to it. Instead of such a conduct as this old fellow used to describe in his general, all the evils which have ever happened among mankind have arose from the wanton disposition of the favours ofthe powerful. It is generally all that men of modesty and virtue can do, to fall in with some whimsical turn in a great man, to make way for things of real and absolute service. In the time of Don Sebastian of Portugal, or some time since, 30 the first minister would let nothing come near him but what bore the most profound face of wisdom and gravity. They carried it so far, that, for the greater show of their profound knowledge, a pair of spectacles tied on their noses, with a black riband round their heads, was what completed the dress of those who made their court at his levee, and none with naked noses were admitted to his presence. A blunt honest fellow, who had a command in the train of artillery, had attempted to make an impression upon the porter, day after day in vain, until at length he made his appearance in a 40 very thoughtful dark suit of clothes, and two pairs of spectacles I ° ON THE UST DISTRIBUTION OF FAVOURS, 61 on at once. He was conducted from room to room, with great deference, to the minister ; and, carrying on the farce of the place, he told his excellency that he had pretended in this manner to be wiser than he really was, but with no ill in- tention; but he was honest Such-a-one of the train, and he came to tell him that they wanted wheelbarrows and pickaxes. The thing happened not to displease, the great man was seen to smile, and the successful officer was reconducted with the same profound ceremony out of the house. 1o When Leo X, reigned pope of Rome, his holiness, though a man of sense, and of an excellent taste of letters, of all things affected fools, buffoons, humourists, and coxcombs. Whether it were from vanity, and that he enjoyed no talents in other men but what were inferior to him, or whatever it was, he carried it so far, that his whole delight was in finding out new fools, and, as our phrase is, playing them off, and making them show themselves to advantage. A priest” of his former acquaintance suffered a great many disappointments in at- tempting to find access to him in a regular character, until 20 at last in despair he retired from Rome, and returned in an equipage so very fantastical, both as to the dress of himself and servants, that the whole court were in an emulation who should first introduce him to his holiness. What added to the expectation his holiness had of the pleasure he should have in his follies, was, that this fellow, in a dress the most exquisitely ridiculous, desired he might speak to him alone, for he had matters of the highest importance, upon which he wanted a conference. Nothing could be denied to a coxcomb of so great hope; but when they were apart, the impostor 30 revealed himself, and spoke as follows :-— ‘Do not be surprised, most holy father, at seeing, instead of a coxcomb to laugh at, your old friend, who has taken this way of access to admonish you of your own folly. Can any thing show your holiness how unworthily you treat mankind, more than my being put upon this difficulty to speak with you? It is a degree of folly to delight to see it in others, and it is the greatest insolence imaginable to rejoice in the disgrace of human nature. It is a criminal humility in a person of your holiness’s understanding, to believe you can- go not excel but in the conversation of half-wits, humourists, 62 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS, coxcombs, and buffoons. If your holiness has a mind to be diverted like a rational man, you have a great opportunity for it, in disrobing all the impertinents you have favoured of all their riches and trappings at once, and bestowing them on the humble, the virtuous, and the meek. If your holiness is not concerned for the sake of virtue and religion, be pleased to reflect, that for the sake of your own safety, it is not proper to be so very much in jest. When the pope is thus merry, the people will in time begin to think many things, which to they have hitherto beheld with great veneration, are in them- selves objects of scorn and derision. If they once get a trick of knowing how to laugh, your holiness’s saying this sentence in one night-cap, and the other with the other, the change of your slippers, bringing you your staff in the midst of a prayer, then stripping you of one vest, and clapping on a second during divine service, will be found out to have nothing in it. Consider, Sir, that at this rate a head will be reckoned never the wiser for being bald; and the ignorant will be apt to say, that going barefoot does not at all help on in the way to 20 heaven. The red cap and the cowl will fall under the same contempt; and the vulgar will tell us to our faces, that we shall have no authority over them but from the force of our arguments, and the sanctity of our lives.’ , Spectator, No. 497.] [September 30, 1712. No. 20. Ox Satire. Quis iniquee Tam patiens urbis, tam ferreus ut teneat se ? Juv. Sat. i. 30. It was with very great displeasure I heard this day a man say of a companion of his, with an air of approbation, ‘ You know Tom never fails of saying a spiteful thing. He has a great deal of wit, but satire is his particular talent. Did you mind how he put the young fellow out of countenance that pretended to talk to him?’ Such impertinent applauses, which 30 One meets with every day, put me upon considering, what true raillery and satire were in themselves ; and this, methought, 2 3 ° ° ON SATIRE. 63 occurred to me from reflection upon the great and excellent persons that were admired for talents this way. When I had run over several such in my thoughts, I concluded, however unaccountable the assertion might appear at first sight, that good-nature was an essential quality in a satirist, and that all the sentiments which are beautiful in this way of writing, must proceed from that quality in the author. Good nature produces a disdain of all baseness, vice, and folly; which prompts them to express themselves with smartness against the errors of men, without bitterness towards their persons. This quality keeps the mind in equanimity, and never lets an offence unseasonably throw a man out of his character. When Virgil said, ‘he that did not hate Bavius might love Meevius,’ he was in perfect good humour ; and was not so much moved at their absurdities, as passionately to call them sots, or block- heads in a direct invective, but laughed at them with a delicacy of scorn, without any mixture of anger. The best good man with the worst-natur’d muse, was the character ® among us of a gentleman as famous for his humanity as his wit. The ordinary subjects for satire are such as incite the greatest indignation in the best tempers, and consequently men of such a make are the best qualified for speaking of the offences in human life. These men can behold vice and folly, when they injure persons to whom they are wholly unacquainted, with the same severity as others resent the ills they do to them- ‘selves. A good-natured man cannot see an overbearing fellow put a bashful man of merit out of countenance, or out-strip him in the pursuit of any advantage, but he is on fire to succour the oppressed, to produce the merit of the one, and confront the impudence of the other. The men of the greatest character in this kind were Horace and Juvenal. There is not, that I remember, one ill-natured expression in all their writings, nor one sentence of severity, which does not apparently proceed from the contrary dis- position. Whoever reads them, will, I believe, be of this mind ; and if they were read with this view, it might possibly persuade our young fellows, that they may be very witty men without speaking ill of any but those who deserve it. But, in Io 20 64 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. the perusal of these writers, it may not be unnecessary to consider, that they lived in very different times. Horace was intimate with a prince of the greatest goodness and humanity imaginable, and his court was formed after his example: there- fore the faults that poet falls upon were little inconsistencies in behaviour, false pretences to politeness, or impertinent affectations of what men were not fit for. Vices of a coarser sort could not come under his consideration, or enter the palace of Augustus. Juvenal, on the other hand, lived under Domitian, in whose reign every thing that was great and noble was banished the habitations of the men in power. Therefore he attacks vice as it passes by in triumph, not as it breaks into conversation. The fall of empire, contempt of glory, and a general degeneracy of manners, are before his eyes in all his writings. In the days of Augustus, to have talked like Juvenal had been madness; or in those of Domitian, like Horace. Morality and virtue are every where recommended in Horace, as became a man in.a polite court, from the beauty, the pro- priety, the convenience of pursuing them. Vice and corruption are attacked by Juvenal in a style which denotes, he fears he shall not be heard without he calls to them in their own language, with a barefaced mention of the villanies and ob- scenities of his contemporaries. This accidental talk of these two great men carries me from my design, which was to tell some coxcombs that run about this town with the name of smart satirical fellows, that they are by no means qualified for the characters they pretend to, of being severe upon other men; for they want good-nature. There is no foundation in them for arriving at what they aim at; and they may as well pretend to flatter as rally agreeably, without being good-natured. There is a certain impartiality necessary to make what a man says bear any weight with those he speaks to. This quality, with respect to men’s errors and vices, is never seen but in good-natured men. They have ever such a frankness of mind, and benevolence to all men, that they cannot receive impressions of unkindness without mature deliberation; and writing or speaking ill of a man upon personal considerations, is so irreparable and mean an injury, that no one possessed of 40 this quality is capable of doing it: but in all ages there have Io 2 °o ON SATIRE, 65 been interpreters to authors when living, of the same genius with the commentators into whose hands they fall when dead. I dare say it is impossible for any man of more wit than one of these to take any of the four-and-twenty letters, and form out of them a name to describe the character of a vicious man with greater life, but one of these would immediately cry, ‘ Mr. Such-a-one is meant in that place.’ But the truth of it is, satirists describe the age, and backbiters assign their descriptions to private men. In all terms of reproof, when the sentence appears to arise from personal hatred or passion, it is not then made the cause of mankind, but a misunderstanding between two persons. For this reason the representations of a good-natured man bear a pleasantry in them, which shows there is no malignity at heart, and by consequence they are attended to by his hearers or readers, because they are unprejudiced. This deference is only what is due to him ; for no man thoroughly nettled can say a thing general enough, to pass off with the air of an opinion declared, and not a passion gratified. I remember a humorous fellow at Oxford, when he heard any one had spoken ill of him, used to say, ‘I will not take my revenge of him until I have forgiven him.’ What he meant by this was, that he would not enter upon this subject until it was grown as indifferent to him as any other: and I have by this rule, seen him more than once triumph over his adversary with an inimitable spirit and humour ; for he came to the assault against a man full of sore places and he himself invulnerable. There is no possibility of succeeding in a satirical way of writing or speaking, except a man throws himself quite out of the question. It is great vanity to think any one will attend to a thing, because it is your quarrel. You must make your satire the concern of society in general if you would have it regarded. When it is so, the good-nature of a man of wit will prompt him to many brisk and disdainful sentiments and replies, to which all the malice in the world will not be able to repartee. Tatler, No. 242.) {October 26, 1710. 10 20 30 66 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS, 4, No. 21. On Raillery. Hee scripsi non otii abundantia, sed amoris erga te. TULL. Epist. I do not know any thing which gives greater disturbance to conversation, than the false notion some people have of raillery. It ought, certainly, to be the first point to be aimed at in society, to gain the good-will of those with whom you converse : the way to that is, to show you are well inclined towards them. What then can be more absurd than to set up for being ex- tremely sharp and biting, as the term is, in your expressions to your familiars? A man who has no good quality but courage, is in a very ill way towards making an agreeable figure in the world, because that which he has superior to other people cannot be exerted without raising himself an enemy. Your gentleman of a satirical vein is in the like con- dition. To say a thing which perplexes the heart of him you speak to, or brings blushes into his face, isa degree of murder; and it is, I think, an unpardonable offence to show a man you do not care whether he is pleased or displeased. But will you not then take a jest?—Yes: but pray let it be a jest. It is no jest to put me, who am so unhappy as to have an utter aversion to speaking to more than one man at a time, under a necessity to explain myself in much company, and reducing me to shame and derision, except I perform what my infirmity of silence disables me to do. Callisthenes has great wit, accompanied with that quality without which a man can have no wit at all—a sound judgment. This gentleman rallies the best of any man I know; for he forms his ridicule upon a circumstance which you are in your heart not unwilling to grant him;.to wit, that you are guilty of an excess in something which is in itself laudable. He very well understands what you would be, and needs not fear your anger for declaring you are a little too much that thing. The generous will bear being reproached as lavish, and the valiant as rash, without being provoked to resentment against their monitor. What has been said to be a mark of a good writer will fall in with the character of a good companion. The 10 20 40 ON RAILLERY., 67 good writer makes his reader better pleased with himself, and the agreeable man makes his friends enjoy themselves, rather than him, while he is in their company. Callisthenes does this with inimitable pleasantry. He whispered a friend the other day, so as to be overheard by a young officer who gave symptoms of cocking upon the company, ‘That gentleman has very much of the air of a general officer.” The youth immediately put on a composed behaviour, and behaved him- self suitably to the conceptions he believed the company had of him. It is to be allowed™ that Callisthenes will make a man run into impertinent relations to his own advantage, and express the satisfaction he has in his own dear self, till he is very ridiculous ; but in this case the man is made a fool by his own consent, and not exposed as such whether he will or no. I take it, therefore, that, to make raillery agreeable, a man must either not know he is rallied, or think never the worse of himself if he sees he is. Acetus is of a quite contrary genius, and is more generally admired than Callisthenes, but not with justice. Acetus has no regard to the modesty or weakness of the person he rallies ; but if his quality or humility gives him any superiority to the man he would fall upon, he has no mercy in making the onset. He can be pleased to See his best friend out of countenance, while the laugh is loud in his own applause. His raillery always puts the company into little divisions and separate interests, while that of Callisthenes cements it, and makes every man not only better pleased with himself, but also with all the rest in the conversation. To rally well, it is absolutely necessary that kindness must run through all you say; and you must ever preserve the character of a friend to support your pretensions to be free with aman. Acetus ought to be banished human society, because he raises his mirth upon giving pain to the person upon whom he is pleasant. Nothing but the malevolence which is too general towards those who excel could make his company tolerated; but they with whom he converses are sure to see some man sacrificed wherever he is admitted; and all the credit he has for wit, is owing to the gratification it gives to other men’s ill-nature. Minutius has a wit that conciliates a man’s love, at the same F2 10 20 30 40 68 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. time that it is exerted against his faults. He has an art of keeping the person he rallies in countenance, by insinuating that he himself is guilty of the same imperfection, This he does with so much address, that he seems rather to bewail him- self, than fall upon his friend. It is really monstrous to see hew unaccountably it prevails among men to take the liberty of displeasing each other. One would think sometimes that the contention is who shall be most disagreeable. Allusions to past follies, hints which revive what a man has a mind to forget for ever, and deserves that all the rest of the world should, are commonly brought forth even in company of men of distinction. They do not thrust with the skill of fencers, but cut up with the barbarity of butchers. It is, methinks, below the character of men of humanity and good-manners to be capable of mirth while there is any of the company in pain and disorder. They who have the true taste of conversation, enjoy themselves in a communication of each other’s excellencies, and not in a triumph over their imperfections. Fortius would have been reckoned a wit, if there had never been a fool in the world; he wants not foils to be a beauty, but has that natural pleasure in observing perfection in others, that his own faults are over- looked out of gratitude by all his acquaintance. After these several characters of men who succeed or fail in raillery, it may not be amiss to reflect a little further what one takes to be the most agreeable kind of it; and that to me appears when the satire is directed against vice, with an air of contempt of the fault, but no ill-will to the criminal. Mr. Congreve’s Doris" is a master-piece in this kind. It is the character of a woman utterly abandoned; but her im- pudence, by the finest piece of raillery, is made only gene- rosity:— Peculiar therefore is her way; Whether by nature taught, I shall not undertake to say, Or by experience bought ; But who o’er-night obtain’d her grace, She can next day disown, And stare upon the strange man’s face, As one she ne’er had known. 10 20 ON DEFERENCE TO PUBLIC OPINION, 69 So well she can the truth disguise, Such artful wonder frame, The lover or distrusts his eyes, Or thinks ’twas all a dream. Some censure this as lewd and low, Who are to bounty blind; For to forget what we bestow Bespeaks a noble mind. Spectator, No. 422.] {July 4, 1712. No. 22. On Deference to Public Opinion. Secretosque pios, his dantem jura Catonem. VirG. Ain. viii. 670. It is an argument of a clear and worthy spirit in a man to be able to disengage himself from the opinions of others, so far as not to let the deference due to the sense of mankind ensnare him to act against the dictates of his own reason. But the generality of the world are so far from walking by any such maxim, that it is almost a standing rule to do as others do, or be ridiculous. I have heard my old friend, Mr. Hart®, speak it as an observation among the players, ‘that it is impossible to act with grace, except the actor has forgot that he is before an audience.’ Until he is arrived at that, his motion, his air, his every step and gesture, have something in them which discovers he is under a restraint, for fear of being ill received ; or if he considers himself as in the presence of those who approve his behaviour, you see an affectation of that pleasure run through his whole carriage. It is as common in life, as upon the stage, to behold a man in the most indifferent action betray a sense he has of doing what he is about gracefully. Some have such an immoderate relish for applause, that they expect it for things, which in themselves are so frivolous, that it is impossible, with- out this affectation, to make them appear worthy either of blame or praise. There is Will Glare, so passionately intent 30 upon being admired, that when you see him in public places, every muscle of his face discovers his thoughts are fixed upon the consideration of what figure he makes, He will often fall 2 3 ° ° 70 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. into a musing posture, to attract observation; and is then obtruding himself upon the company, when he pretends to be withdrawn from it.’ Such little arts are the certain and infal- lible tokens of a superficial mind, as the avoiding observation is the sign of a great and sublime one. It is therefore extremely difficult for a man to judge even of his own actions, without ~ forming to himself an idea of what he should act, were it in his power to execute all his desires without the observation of the rest of the world. There is an allegorical fable in Plato, which seems to admonish us, that we are very little acquainted with ourselves, while we know our actions are to pass the censures of others ; but, had we the power to accomplish all our wishes unobserved, we should then easily inform ourselves how far we - are possessed of real and intrinsic virtue. The fable I was going to mention is that of Gyges, who is said to have had an enchanted ring, which had in it a miraculous quality, making him who wore it visible or invisible, as he turned it to or from his body. The use Gyges made of his occasional invisibility was, by the advantage of it, to violate a queen, and murder a king. Tully" takes notice of this allegory, and says very handsomely, ‘that a man of honour who had such a ring would act just in the same manner as he would without it.’ It is indeed no small pitch of virtue, under the temptation of im- punity, and the hopes of accomplishing all a man desires, not to transgress the rules .of justice and virtue; but this is rather not being an ill man, than being positively a good one; and it seems wonderful, that so great a soul as that of Tully should not form to himself a thousand worthy actions, which a virtuous mind would be prompted to by the possession of such a secret. There are certainly some part of mankind who are guardian- beings to the other. Sallust could say of Cato, ‘That he had rather be, than appear, good,’ but, indeed, this eulogium rose no higher than, as I just now hinted, to an inoffensiveness, rather than an active virtue. Had it occurred to the noble orator to represent, in his language, the glorious pleasures of a man secretly employed in beneficence and generosity, it would certainly have made a more charming page than any he has left behind him. How might a man, furnished with Gyges’s secret, employ it in bringing together distant friends; laying 4o snares for creating good-will in the room of groundless hatred ; Io 2 ° 30 ON TRUE DISTINCTION. 71 in removing the pangs of an unjust jealousy, the shyness of an imperfect reconciliation, and the tremor of an awful love! Such a one could give confidence to bashful merit, and confusion to overbearing impudence. Certain it is, that secret kindnesses done to mankind are as beautiful as secret injuries are detestable. To be invisibly good, is as godlike, as to be invisibly ill, diabolical. As degene- rate as we are apt to say the age we live in is, there are still amongst us men of illustrious minds, who enjoy all the pleasures of good actions, except that of being commended for them. There happens, among other very worthy instances of a public spirit, one which I am obliged to discover, because I know not otherwise how to obey the commands of the benefactor. A citizen of London has given directions to Mr. Rayner®, the writing-master of St. Paul’s-school, to educate at his charge ten boys, who shall be nominated by me, in writing and ac- counts, until they shall be fit for any trade; I desire, therefore, such as know any proper objects for receiving this bounty, to give notice thereof to Mr. Morphew2, or Mr. Lillie™ ; and they shall, if properly qualified, have instructions accordingly. Actions of this kind have in them something so transcendent, that it is an injury to applaud them, and a diminution of that merit which consists in shunning our approbation. We shall therefore leave them to enjoy that glorious obscurity; and silently admire their virtue who can contemn the most delicious of human pleasures, that of receiving due praise. Such celes- tial dispositions very justly suspend the discovery of their benefactions, until they come where their actions cannot be misinterpreted, and receive their first congratulations in the company of angels. Tatler, No. 138.] [February 24, 1710. No. 23. On True Distinction. Quid oportet Nos facere, a vulgo longe lateque remotos? Hor. Sat. i. 6. 17. It is, as far as it relates to our present being, the great end of education to raise ourselves above the vulgar; but what is 10 20 1 30 40 72 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. intended by the vulgar, is not, methinks, enough understood. In me, indeed, that word raises a quite different idea from what it usually does in others; but perhaps that proceeds from my being old, and beginning to want the relish of such satisfactions as are the ordinary entertainment of men. However, such as my opinion is in this case, I will speak it ; because it is possible that turn of thought may be received by others, who may reap as much satisfaction from it as I do myself. It is to me a very great meanness, and something much below a philosopher, which is what I mean by a gentleman, to rank a man among the vulgar for the condition of life he is in, and not according to his behaviour, his thoughts, and sentiments, in that condition®. For if a man be loaded with riches and honours, and in that state of life has thoughts and inclinations below the meanest artificer ; is not such an artificer, who, within his power, is good to his friends, moderate in his demands for his labour, and cheerful in his occupation, very much superior to him who lives for no other end but to serve himself, and assumes a prefer- ence in all his words and actions to those who act their part with much more grace than himself? Epictetus has made use of the similitude of a stage-play to human life with much spirit. ‘It is not,’ says he, ‘to be considered among the actors, who is prince, or who is beggar, but who acts prince or beggar best.’ The circumstance of life should not be that which gives us place, but our behaviour in that circumstance is what should be our solid distinction, Thus a wise man should think no man above him or below him, any further than it regards the outward order or discipline of the world: for, if we conceive too great an idea of the eminence of our superiors, or subordination of our inferiors, it will have an ill effect upon our behaviour to both. He who thinks no man above him but for his virtue, none below him but for his vice, can never be obsequious or assuming in a wrong place ; but will frequently emulate men in rank below him, and pity those above him. This sense of mankind is so far from a levelling principle, that it only sets us upon a true basis of distinction, and doubles the merit of such as become their condition. A man in power, who can, without the ordinary prepossessions which stop the way to the true knowledge and service of mankind, overlook the little distinctions of fortune, raise obscure merit, and discountenance 10 20 30 ON VIRTUOUS INDEPENDENCE. 73 successful indesert®, has, in the minds of knowing men, the figure of an angel rather than a man; and is above the rest of men in the highest character he can be, even that of their benefactor. Turning my thoughts, as I was taking my pipe this evening, after this manner, it was no small delight to me to receive advice from Felicia, that Eboracensis® was appointed a governor of one of their plantations. As I am a great lover of mankind, I took part in the happiness of that people who were to be governed by one of so great humanity, justice, and honour. Eboracensis aas read all the schemes which writers have formed of govern- ment and order, and has been long conversant with men who have the reins in their hands; so that he can very well distin- guish between chimerical and practical politics. It is a great blessing, when men have to deal with such different characters in the same species as those of freemen and slaves, that they who command have a just sense of human nature itself, by which they can temper the haughtiness of the master, and soften the servitude of the slave—‘ He tibi erunt artes.’ This is the notion with which those of the plantation receive Eboracensis : and as I have cast his nativity, I find there will bea record made of this person’s administration ; and on that part of the shore from whence he embarks to return from his government, there will be a monument, with these words: ‘ Here the people wept, and took leave of Eboracensis, the first governor our mother Felicia sent, who, during his command here, believed himself her subject.’ Tatler, No. 69.] [September 16, 1709. No. 24. Ox Virtuous Independence. Quisnam igitur liber? Sapiens, sibique imperiosus ; Quem neque pauperies, neque mors, nec vincula terrert: Responsare cupidinibus, contemnere honores Fortis, et in seipso totus teres atque rotundus, Externi ne quid valeat per leve morari; In quem manca ruit semper fortuna. Hor. Sat. ii. 7. 83. It is necessary to an easy and happy life, to possess our minds in such a manner as to be always well satisfied with Io 20 30 40 TA MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. our own reflections. The way to this state is to measure our actions by our own opinion, and not by that of the rest of the world. The sense of other men ought to prevail over us in things of less consideration, but not in concerns where truth and honour are engaged. When we look into the bottom of things, what at first appears a paradox is a plain truth ; and those professions, which, for want of being duly weighed, seem to proceed from a sort of romantic philosophy, and ignorance of the world, after a little reflection, are so reasonable, that it is direct madness to walk by any other rules. Thus to con- tradict our desires, and to conquer the impulses of our ambition, if they do not fall in with what we in our inward sentiments approve, is so much our interest, and so absolutely necessary to our real happiness, that to contemn all the wealth and power in the world, where they stand in competition with a man’s honour, is rather good sense than greatness of mind. Did we consider that the mind of a man is the man himself, we should think it the most unnatural sort of self-murder to sacrifice the sentiment of the soul to gratify the appetites of the body. Bless us! is it possible, that when the necessities of life are supplied, a man would flatter to be rich, or cir- cumvent to be powerful! When we meet a poor wretch, urged with hunger and cold, asking an alms, we are apt to think this a state we could rather starve than submit to: but yet how much more despicable is his condition, who is above necessity, and yet shall resign his reason and his integrity to purchase superfluities! Both these are abject and common beggars ; but sure it is less despicable to beg a supply to a man’s hunger than his vanity. But custom and general prepossessions have so far prevailed over an unthinking world, that those neces- sitous creatures, who cannot reiish life without applause, attendance, and equipage, are so far from making a con- temptible figure, that distressed virtue is less esteemed than successful vice. But if a man’s appeal, in cases that regard his honour, were made to his own soul, there would be a basis and standing rule for our conduct, and we should always endeavour rather to be, than appear honourable. Mr. Collier” in his ‘Essay on Fortitude,’ has treated this subject with great wit and magnanimity. ‘What,’ says he, ‘can be more honour- able than to have courage enough to execute the commands of ON VIRTUOUS INDEPENDENCE, 75 reason and conscience ; to maintain the dignity of our nature, and the station assigned us? to be proof against poverty, pain, and death itself? I mean so far as not to do any thing that is scandalous or sinful to avoid them. To stand adversity under all shapes with decency and resolution! To do this, is to be great above title and fortuge. This argues the soul of a heavenly extraction, and is worthy the offspring of the Deity.’ What a generous ambition has this man pointed to us? When men have settled in themselves a conviction, by such to noble precepts, that there is nothing honourable which is not accompanied with innocence; nothing mean but what has guilt in it: 1 say, when they have attained thus much, though poverty, pain, and death, may still retain their terrors, yet riches, pleasures, and honours, will easily lose their charms, if they stand between us and our integrity. What is here said with allusion to fortune and fame, may as justly be applied to wit and beauty; for’ these latter are as adventitious as the other, and as little concern the essence of the soul, They are all laudable in the man who possesses them, zo only for the just application of them. A bright imagination, while it is subservient to an honest and noble soul, is a faculty which makes a man justly admired by mankind, and furnishes him with reflections upon his own actions, which add delicates® to the feast of a good conscience: but when wit descends to wait upon sensual pleasures, or promote the base purposes of ambition, it is then to be contemned in proportion to its ex- cellence. If a man will not resolve to place the foundation of his. happiness in his own mind, life is a bewildered and unhappy state, incapable of rest or tranquillity. For to sucha 30 one, the general applause of valour, wit, nay of honesty itself, can give him but a very feeble comfort ; since it is capable of being interrupted by any one who wants either understanding or good-nature to see or acknowledge such excellencies. ‘This rule is so necessary, that one may very safely say, it is im- possible to know any true relish of our being without it. Look about you in common life among the ordinary race of mankind, and you will find merit in every kind is allowed only to those who are in particular districts or sets of company ; but, since men can have little pleasure in these faculties which deno- 4o minate them persons of distinction, let them give up such an I ° 20 46 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS, empty pursuit, and think nothing essential to happiness but what is in their own power; the capacity of reflecting with pleasure on their own actions, however they are interpreted. It is so evident a truth, that it is only in our own bosoms we are to search for any thing to make us happy, that it is, methinks, a disgrace to our nature to talk of taking our measures from thence only, as a matter of fortitude. When all is well there, the vicissitudes and distinctions of life are the mere scenes of a drama; and he will never act his part well, who has his thoughts more fixed upon the applause of the audience than the design of his part. The life of a man who acts with a steady integrity, without valuing the interpretation of his actions, has but one uniform regular path to move in, where he cannot meet opposition, or fear ambuscade. On the other side, the least deviation from the rules of honour introduces a train of numberless evils, and involves him in inexplicable mazes. He that has entered into guilt has bid adieu to rest ; and every criminal has his share of the misery expressed so emphatically in the tragedian 3, Macbeth shall sleep no more ! It was with detestation of any other grandeur but the calm command of his own passions, that the excellent Mr. Cowley® . cries out with so much justice : If e’er ambition did my fancy cheat With any thought so mean as to be great, Continue, heaven, still from me to remove The humble blessings of that life I love! Tatler, No. 251.] [November 15, 1710. No. 25. On Ambition; Heroism in Private Life. Hic est ; Est Ulubris, animus si te non deficit aquus. Hor. Ep. 1. xi. ver. ult. This afternoon I went to visit a gentleman of my acquaintance at Mile-End; and passing through Stepney church-yard, I 30 could not forbear entertaining myself with the inscriptions on ON AMBITION, HEROISM IN PRIVATE LIFE, 77 the tombs and graves. Among others, I observed one with this notable memorial : ‘Here lies the body of T. B.’ This fantastical desire of being remembered only by the two first letters of a name, led me into the contemplation of the vanity and imperfect attainments of ambition in general. When I run back in my imagination all the men whom I have ever known and conversed with in my whole life, there are but very few who have not used their faculties in the pursuit of what it is 10 impossible to acquire ; or left the possession of what they might have been, at their setting out, masters, to search for it where it was out of their reach. In this thought it was not possible to forget the instance of Pyrrhus", who proposing to himself in discourse with a philosopher, one, and another, and another conquest, was asked, what he would do after all that? ‘Then,’ says the king, ‘we will make merry.’ He was well answered, ‘What hinders your doing that in the condition you are already?’ The restless desire of exerting themselves above the common level of mankind is not to be resisted in some tempers ; and 20 minds of this make may be observed in every condition of life. Where such men do not make to themselves, or meet with em- ployment, the soil of their constitution runs into tares and weeds. An old friend of mine, who lost a major’s post forty years ago, and quitted, has ever since studied maps, encampments, retreats, and countermarches ; with no other design but to feed his spleen and ill-humour, and furnish himself with matter for arguing against all the successful actions of others. He that, at his first setting out in the world, was the gayest man in our regiment; ventured his life with alacrity, and enjoyed it with satisfaction ; 30 encouraged men below him, and was courted by men above him, has been ever since the most froward creature breathing. His warm complexion spends itself now only in a general spirit of contradiction: for which he watches all occasions, and is in his conversation still upon sentry, treats all men like enemies, with every other impertinence of a speculative warrior. He that observes in himself this natural inquietude, should take all imaginable care to put his mind in some method of gratification ; or he will soon find himself grow into the condi- tion of this disappointed major. Instead of courting proper Io 20 78 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. occasions to rise above others, he will be ever studious of pulling others down to him: it being the common refuge of disappointed ambition, to ease themselves by detraction. It would be no great argument ‘against ambition, that there are such mortal things in the disappointment of it ; but it certainly is a forcible exception, that there can be no solid happiness in the success of it. If we value popular praise, it is in the power of the meanest of the people to disturb us by calumny. If the fame of being happy, we cannot look into a village, but we see crowds in actual possession of what we seek only the appearance. To this may be added, that there is I know not what malignity in the minds of ordinary men, to oppose you in what they see you fond of; and it is a certain exception against a man’s receiving applause, that he visibly courts it. However, this is not only the passion of great and undertaking spirits ; but you see it in the lives of such as, one would believe, were far enough removed from the ways of ambition. The rural esquires of this nation even eat and drink out of vanity. A vain-glorious fox-hunter shall enter- tain half a county, for the ostentation of his beef and beer, with- out the least affection for any of the crowd about him. He feeds them, because he thinks it a superiority over them that he does so; and they devour him, because they know he treats them out of insolence. This indeed is ambition in grotesque ; but may figure to us the condition of politer men, whose only pursuit is glory. When the superior acts out ofa principle of vanity, the dependant will be sure to allow it him ; because he knows it destructive of the very applause which is courted by the man who favours him, and consequently makes him nearer himself. But as every man living has more or less of this incentive, which makes men impatient of an inactive condition, and urges men to attempt what may tend to their reputation, it is abso- lutely necessary they should form to themselves an ambition, which is in every man’s power to gratify. This ambition would be independent, and would consist only in acting what, to a man’s own mind, appears most great and laudable. It is a pur- suit in the power of every man, and is only a regular prosecu- tion of what he himself approves. It is what can be interrupted by no outward accidents; for no man can be robbed of his good 4o intention. One of our society of the Trumpet ™ therefore started 10 20 ON WISHING ONESELF YOUNGER, 79 last night a notion, which I thought had reason in it. ‘It is, methinks,’ said he, ‘an unreasonable thing, that heroic virtue should, as it seems to be at present, be confined to a certain order of men, and be attainable by none but those whom fortune has elevated to the most conspicuous stations. I would have every thing to be esteemed as heroic, which is great and un- common in the circumstances of the man who performs it.’ Thus there would be no virtue in human life, which every one of the species would not have a pretence to arrive at, and an ardency to exert. Since fortune is not in our power, let us be as little as: possible in hers. Why should it be necessary that a man should be rich, to be generous? If we measured by the quality and not the quantity of things, the particulars which accompany an action is what should denominate it mean or great. The highest station of human life is to be attained by each man that pretends to it: for every man can be as valiant, as generous, as wise, and as merciful, as the faculties and oppor- tunities which he has from heaven and fortune will permit. He that can say to himself, ‘I do as much good, and amas virtuous as my most earnest endeavours will allow me,’ whatever is his station in the world, is to see himself possessed of the highest honour. If ambition is not thus turned, it is no other than a continual succession of anxiety and vexation. But when it has this cast, it invigorates the mind ; and the consciousness of its own worth is a reward, which is not in the power of envy, re- proach, or detraction, to take from it. Thus the seat of solid honour is in a man’s own bosom ; and no one can want support who is in possession of an honest conscience, but he who would suffer the reproaches of it for other greatness. Tatler, No. 202.] [July 25, 1710. No. 26. Ox wishing oneself younger. Habet natura ut aliarum omnium rerum sic vivendi modum; senectus autem peractio statis est tanquam fabule. Cujus defatigationem tugere debemus, preesertim adjuncta satietate—TULL. De Senect. : Of all the impertinent wishes which we hear expressed in conversation, there is not one more unworthy a gentleman or Io 20 30 40 80 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS, a man of liberal education, than that of wishing one’s self younger. I have observed this wish is usually made upon sight of some object which gives the idea of a past action, that it is no dishonour to-us that we cannot now repeat ; or else on what was in itself shameful when we performed it. It is a certain sign of a foolish or a dissolute mind if we want our youth again only for the strength of bones and sinews which we once were masters of. It is (as my author” has it) as absurd in an old man to wish for the strength of youth, as it would be in a young man to wish for the strength of a bull or a horse. These wishes are both equally out of nature, which should direct in all things that are not contradictory to justice, law, and reason. But though every old man has been young, and every young one hopes to. be old, there seems to be a most unnatural misunderstanding between those two stages of life. This unhappy want of commerce arises from the insolent arrogance or exultation in youth, and the irrational despondence or self-pity in age. A young man whose passion and ambition is to be good and wise, and an old one who has no inclination to be lewd or debauched, are quite unconcerned in this speculation ; but the cocking young fellow who treads upon the toes of his elders, and the old fool who envies the saucy pride he sees in him, are the objects of our present contempt and derision. Contempt and derision are harsh words ; but in what manner can one give advice to a youth in the pursuit and possession of sensual pleasures, or afford pity to an old man in the impotence and desire of enjoying them? When young men in public places betray in their deportment an abandoned resignation to their appetites, they give to sober minds a prospect of a despicable age, which, if not interrupted by death in the midst of their follies, must certainly come. When an old man bewails the loss of such gratifications which are past, he discovers a monstrous incli- nation to that which it is not in the course of Providence to recall, The state of an old man, who is dissatisfied merely for his being such, is the most out of all measures of reason and good sense of any being we have any account of from the highest angel to the lowest worm. How miserable is the contemplation to consider an old man (while all created beings, besides himself and devils, are following the order of Io zo 30 40 ON WISHING ONESELF YOUNGER. 81 Providence) fretting at the course of things, and being almost the sole malecontent in the creation. But let us a little reflect upon what he has lost by the number of years. The passions which he had in youth are not to be obeyed as they were then, but reason is more powerful now without the disturbance of them. An old gentleman the other day in discourse with a friend of his (reflecting upon some adventures they had in youth together) cried out, ‘Oh Jack, those were happy days !’ ‘That is true,’ replied his friend, ‘but methinks we go about our business more quietly than we did then.’ One would think it should be no small satisfaction to have gone so far in our journey that the heat of the day is over with us. When life itself is a fever, as it is in licentious youth, the pleasures of it are no other than the dreams of a man in that distemper ; and it is as absurd to wish the return of that season of life, as for a man in health to be sorry for the loss of gilded palaces, fairy walks, and flowery pastures, with which he remembers he was entertained in the troubled slumbers of a fit of sickness. As to all the rational and worthy pleasures of our being— the conscience of a good fame, the contemplation of another life, the respect and commerce of honest men, our capacities for such enjoyments are enlarged by years. While health endures, the latter part of life, in the eye of reason, is certainly the more eligible. The memory of a well-spent youth gives a peaceable, unmixed, and elegant pleasure to the mind; and to such who are so unfortunate as not to be able to look back on youth with satisfaction, they may give themselves no little consolation that they are under no temptation to repeat their follies, and that they at present despise them. It was prettily said, ‘He that would be long an old man, must begin early to be one.’ It is too late to resign a thing after a man is robbed of it; therefore it is necessary that before the arrival of age we bid adieu to the pursuits of youth, otherwise sensual habits will live in our imaginations, when our limbs cannot be subservient to them. The poor fellow who lost his arm last siege, will tell you, he feels the fingers that are buried in Flanders ache every cold morning at Chelsea. The fond humour of appearing in the gay and fashionable G I ° 20 30 82 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. world, and being applauded for trivial excellences, is what makes youth have age in contempt, and makes age resign with so ill a grace the qualifications of youth; but this in both sexes is inverting all things, and turning the natural course of our minds, which should build their approbations and dislikes upon what nature and reason dictate, into chimera and confusion. Age in a virtuous person, of either sex, carries in it an authority which makes it preferable to all the pleasures of youth. If to be saluted, attended, and consulted with defer- ence, are instances of pleasure, they are such as never fail a virtuous old age. In the enumeration of the imperfections and advantages of the younger and later years of man, they are so near in their condition, that, methinks, it should be incredible we see so little commerce of kindness between them. If we consider youth and age with Tully, regarding the affinity to death, youth has many more chances to be near it than age: what youth can say more than an old man, ‘he shall live until night?’ Youth catches distempers more easily, its sickness is more violent, and its recovery more doubtful. The youth indeed hopes for many more days, so cannot the old man. The youth’s hopes are ill-grounded ; for what is more foolish than to place any confidence upon an uncertainty? But the old man has not room so much as for hope ; he is still happier than the youth; he has already enjoyed what the other does but hope for. One wishes to live long, the other has lived long. But, alas! is there any thing in human life, the duration of which can be called long? There is nothing which must end, to be valued for its continuance. If hours, days, months, and years pass away, it is no matter what hour, what day, what month, or what year we die. The applause of a good actor is due to him at whatever scene of the play he makes his exz¢. It is thus in the life of a man of sense; a short life is sufficient to manifest himself a man of honour and virtue; when he ceases to be such he has lived too long ; and while he is such, it is of no consequence to him how long he shall be so, pro- vided he is so to his life’s end. Spectator, No. 153.] [August 25, 1711. ON THE CONTEMPLATION OF DEATH, ETC, 83 No.27. On the Contemplation of Death; Soliloquy by a Dying friend, Quis desiderio sit pudor, aut modus Tam cari capitis?—Hor. Od. i. 24. 1. There is a sort of delight, which is alternately mixed with terror and sorrow, in the contemplation of death. The soul has its curiosity more than ordinarily awakened, when it turns -its thoughts upon the conduct of such who have behaved ° 20 30 themselves with an equal, a resigned, a cheerful, a generous, or heroic temper in that extremity. We are affected with these respective manners of behaviour, as we secretly believe the part of the dying person imitated by ourselves, or such as we imagine ourselves more particularly capable of. Men of ex- alted minds march before us like princes, and are to the ordinary race of mankind rather subjects of their admiration than example. However, there are no ideas strike more forci- bly upon our imaginations, than those which are raised from reflections upon the exits of great and excellent men. Innocent men who have suffered as criminals, though they were benefac- tors to human society, seem to be persons of the highest distinction, among the vastly greater number of human race, the dead. When the iniquity of the times brought Socrates to his execution, how great and wonderful is it to behold him, unsupported by any thing but the testimony of his own conscience and conjectures of hereafter, receive the poison with an air of mirth and good-humour, and, as if going on an agreeable journey, bespeak some deity to make it fortunate ! When Phocion’s good actions had met with the like reward from his country, and he was led to death with many other of his friends, they bewailing their fate, he walking composedly towards the place of his execution, how gracefully does he sup- port his illustrious character to the very last instant! One of the rabble spitting at him as he passed, with his usual authority he called to know if no one was ready to teach this fellow how to behave himself. When a poor-spirited creature that died at the same time for his crimes, bemoaned himseif G2 10 20 30 4o 84 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. unmanfully, he rebuked him with this question, ‘Is it no con- solation to such a man as thou art to die with Phocion?’ At the instant when he was to die, they asked what commands he had for his son: he answered, ‘To forget this injury of the Athenians.’ Niocles, his friend, under the same sentence, desired he might drink the potion before him: Phocion said, ‘because he never had denied him any thing, he would not even this, the most difficult request he had ever made.’ These instances™ were very noble and great, and the reflec- tions of those sublime spirits had made death to them what it is really intended to be by the Author of nature, a relief from a various being, ever subject to sorrows and difficulties. Epaminondas, the Theban general, having received in fight a mortal stab with a sword, which was left in his body, lay in that posture till he had intelligence that his troops had obtained the victory, and then permitted it to be drawn out, at which instant he expressed himself in this manner: ‘ This is not the end of my life, my fellow-soldiers ; it is now your Epaminondas is born, who dies in so much glory.’ It were an endless labour to collect the accounts, with which all ages have filled the world, of noble and heroic minds that have resigned this being, as if the termination of life were but an ordinary occurrence of it. This common-place way of thinking I fell into from an awk- ward endeavour to throw off a real and fresh affliction, by turning over books in a melancholy mood ; but it is not easy to remove griefs which touch the heart, by applying remedies which only entertain the imagination. «As therefore this paper is to consist of any thing which concerns human life, I cannot help letting the present subject regard what has been the last object of my eyes, though an entertainment of sorrow. I went this evening to visit a friend®, with a design to rally him, upon a story I had heard of his intending to steal a mar- riage without the privity of us his intimate friends and acquaint- ance. I came into his apartment with that intimacy which I have done for very many years, and walked directly into his bed-chamber, where I found my friend in the agonies of death.— What could Ido? The innocent mirth in my thoughts struck upon me like the most flagitious wickedness : I in vain called upon him; he was senseless, and too far spent to have the least ON THE CONTEMPLATION OF DEATH, ETC. 85 knowledge of my sorrow, or any pain in himself. Give me leave then to transcribe my soliloquy, as I stood by his mother, dumb with the weight of grief for a son who was her honour and her comfort, ‘and never till that hour since his birth had been a moment’s sorrow to her. ‘How surprising is the change! From the possession of vigorous life and strength, to be reduced in a few hours to this fatal extremity! Those lips which look so pale and livid, within these few days gave delight to all who heard their utterance ; it to was the business, the purpose of his being, next to obeying Him to whom he is going, to ‘please and instruct, and that for no other end but to please and instruct. Kindness was the motive of his actions, and with all the capacity requisite for making a figure in a contentious world, moderation, good-nature, affa- bility, temperance, and chastity, were the arts of his excellent life—There as he lies in helpless agony, no wise man who knew him so well as I, but would resign all the world. can bestow to be so near the end of such a life. Why does my heart so little obey my reason as to lament thee, thou excellent zo man?—Heaven receive him or restore him!—Thy beloved mother, thy obliged friends, thy helpless servants, stand around thee without distinction. How much wouldst thou, hadst thou thy senses, say to each of us! ‘But now that good heart bursts, and he is at rest.— With that breath expired a soul who never indulged a passion unfit for the place he is gone to. Where are now thy plans of jus- tice, of truth, of honour? Of what use the volumes thou hast collated, the arguments thou hast invented, the examples thou hast followed? Poor were the expectations of the studious, the modest, and the good, if the reward of their labours were only to be expected from man. No, my friend; thy intended plead- ings, thy intended good offices to thy friends, thy intended services to thy country, are already performed (as to thy con- cern in them) in His sight, before whom the past, present, and future, appear at one view. While others with their talents were tormented with ambition, with vain glory, with envy, with emulation—how well didst thou turn thy mind to its own im- provement in things out of the power of fortune: in probity, in integrity, in the practice and study of justice! How silent thy 40 passage, how private thy journey, how glorious thy end! °o 3 10 20 30 86 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. “Many have I known more famous, some more knowing, not one so innocent.” Spectator, No. 133.] [August 2, I7II. No. 28. Ox the Reading of the Common Prayer. Pronunciatio est vocis et vultus et gestus moderatio cum venustate. TULL. Mr. SPECTATOR, ‘The well reading of the Common Prayer is of so great im- portance, and so much neglected, that I take the liberty to offer to your consideration some particulars on that subject. And what more worthy your observation than this? A thing so public, and of so high consequence. It is indeed wonderful, that the frequent exercise of it should not make the performers of that duty more expert in it. This inability, as I conceive, proceeds from the little care that is taken of their reading while boys, and at school, where, when they have got into Latin, they are looked upon as above English, the reading of which is wholly neglected, or at least read to very little purpose, without any due observations made to them of the proper accent and manner of reading; by this means they have ac- quired such ill habits as will not easily be removed. The only way that I know of to remedy this, is to propose some person of great ability that way as a pattern for them; ex- ample being most effectual to convince the learned, as well as instruct the ignorant. ‘You must know, Sir, I have been a constant frequenter of the service of the church of England for above these four years last past, and until Sunday was sevennight never dis- covered, to so great a degree, the excellency of the Common Prayer. When, being at St. James’s Garlick-Hill™ church, I heard the service read so distinctly, so emphatically, and so fervently, that it was next to an impossibility to be inatten- tive. My eyes and my thoughts could not wander as usual, but were confined to my prayers. I then considered I addressed myself to the Almighty, and not to a beautiful face. .And when I reflected on my former performances of that duty, I found I ON THE READING OF THE COMMON PRAYER. 87 had run it over as a matter of form, in comparison to the manner in which IJ then discharged it. My mind was really affected, and fervent wishes accompanied my words. The Con- fession was read with such resigned humility, the Absolution with such a comfortable authority, the Thanksgivings with such a religious joy, as made me feel those affections of the mind in a manner I never did before. To remedy therefore the griev- ance above complained of, I humbly propose, that this excellent reader, upon the next and every annual assembly of the clergy 10 of Sion-college®, and all other conventions, should read prayers before them. For then those that are afraid of stretching their mouths, and spoiling their soft voice, will learn to read with clearness, loudness, and strength. Others that affect a rakish, negligent air, by folding their arms, and lolling on their books, will be taught a decent behaviour, and comely erection of body. Those that read so fast as if impatient of their work, may learn to speak deliberately. There is another sort of persons, whom I call Pindaric readers, as being confined to no set measure : these pronounce five or six words with great deliberation, and zo the five or six subsequent ones with as great celerity ; the first part of a sentence with a very exalted voice, and the latter part with a submissive one: sometimes again, with one sort of a tone, and immediately after with a very different one. These gentlemen will learn of my admired reader an evenness of voice and delivery ; and all who are innocent of these affecta- tions, but read with such an indifferency as if they did not understand the language, may then be informed of the art of reading movingly and fervently, how to place the emphasis and give the proper accent to each word, and how to vary the voice 30 according to the nature of the sentence. There is certainly a very great difference between the reading a prayer anda gazette, which I beg of you to inform a set of readers, who affect, for- sooth, a certain gentleman-like familiarity of tone, and mend the language as they go on, crying, instead of ‘pardoneth and absolveth,’ ‘pardons and absolves,’ These are often pretty classical scholars, and would think it an unpardonable sin to read Virgil or Martial with so little taste as they do divine service. ‘ This indifferency seems to me to arise from the endeavour of 4o avoiding the imputation of cant, and the false notion of it. It 10 20 88 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS, will be proper, therefore, to trace the original and signification of this word. “Cant®’ is, by some people, derived from one Andrew Cant, who, they say, was a Presbyterian minister in some illiterate part of Scotland, who by exercise and use had obtained the faculty, alias gift, of talking in the pulpit in such a dialect, that it is said he was understood by none but his own congregation, and not by allof them. Since Master Cant’s time, it has been understood in a larger sense, and signifies all sudden exclamations, whinings, unusual tones, and in fine all praying and preaching, like the unlearned of the Presbyterians. But I hope a proper elevation of voice, a due emphasis and | accent, are not to come within this description. So that our readers may still be as unlike the Presbyterians as they please. The dissenters (I mean such as I have heard) do indeed elevate their voices, but it is with sudden jumps from the lower to the higher part of them; and that with so little sense or skill, that their elevation and cadence is bawling and muttering. They make use of an emphasis, but so improperly, that it is often placed on some very insignificant particle, as upon ‘if’ or ‘and.’ Now, if these improprieties have so great an effect on the people as we see they have, how great an influence would the service of our church, containing the best prayers that ever were composed, and that in terms most affecting, most humble, and most expressive of our wants, and dependence on the object of our worship, disposed in most proper order, and void of all confusion ; what influence, I say, would these prayers have, were they delivered with a due emphasis, and apposite rising and variation of voice, the sentence concluded with a gentle cadence, and, in a word, with such an accent and turn of speech as is peculiar to prayer? ‘ As the matter of worship is now managed, in dissenting con- gregations, you find insignificant words and phrases raised by a lively vehemence; in our own churches, the most exalted sense depreciated, by a dispassionate indolence. I remember to have heard Dr. S e4 say in his pulpit, of the Common Prayer, that, at least, it was as perfect as any thing of human institution. Ifthe gentlemen who err in this kind would please to recollect the many pleasantries they have read upon those who recite good things with an ill grace, they would go on to 4o think, that what in that case is only ridiculous, in themselves is ON BEHAVIOUR AT CHURCH. 89 impious. But leaving this to their own reflections, I shall con- clude this trouble with what Czsar said upon the irregularity of tone in one who read before him, “ Do you read or sing? If you sing, you sing very ill.” * Your most humble servant.’ Spectator, No. 147.} [August 18, 1711. No. 29. On Behaviour at Church. Inter scabiem tantam et contagia. Hor. Ep, i. 12. 14. There is not any where, I believe, so much talk about religion, as among us in England ; nor do I think it possible for the wit of man to devise forms of address to the Almighty, in more ardent and forcible terms than are every where to be found in our book of common prayer; and yet I have heard it read with such a negligence, affectation, and impatience, that the efficacy of it has been apparently lost to all the congregation. For my part, I make no scruple to own it, that I go sometimes to a particular place in the city, far distant from my own home, to hear a gentleman, whose manner I admire, read the liturgy%. Iam persuaded devotion is the greatest pleasure of his soul, and there is none hears him read without the utmost reverence. I have seen the young people, who have been interchanging glances of passion to each other’s person, checked into an attention to the service at the interruption which the authority of his voice has given them. But the other morning I happened to rise earlier than ordinary, and thought I could not pass my time better, than to go upon the admonition of the morning bell, to the church prayers at six of the clock. I was there the first of any in the con- gregation, and had the opportunity, however I made use of it, to look back on all my life, and contemplate the blessing and advantage of such stated early hours for offering ourselves to our Creator, and prepossessing ourselves with the love of Him, and the hopes we have from Him, against the snares of business and pleasure in the ensuing day. But whether it be that people think fit to indulge their own ease in some 3 o go MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. secret, pleasing fault, or whatever it was, there was none at the confession but a set of poor scrubs of us®, who could sin only in our wills, whose persons could be no temptation to one another, and might have, without interruption from any body else, humble, lowly hearts, in frightful looks and dirty dresses, at our leisure. When we poor souls had presented ourselves with a contrition suitable to our worthlessness, some pretty young ladies in mobs, popped in here and there about the church, clattering the pew-door after them, and squatting into a whisper behind their fans. Among others, one of lady Lizard’s ® daughters, and her hopeful maid, made their entrance: the young lady did not omit the ardent form behind the fan, while the maid immediately gaped round her to look for some other devout person, whom I saw at a distance very well dressed; his air and habit a little military, but in the pert- ness, not the true possession, of the martial character. This Jackanapes was fixed at the end of a pew, with the utmost impudence, declaring, by a fixed eye on that seat (where our beauty was placed), the object of his devotion. This obscene sight gave me all the indignation imaginable, and I could attend to nothing but the reflection, that the greatest affronts imaginable are such as no one can take notice of. Before I was out of such vexatious inadvertencies to the business of the place, there was a great deal of good company now come in. There was a good number of very jaunty slatterns, who gave us to understand, that it is neither dress nor art to which they were beholden for the town’s admiration. Besides these, there were also by this time arrived two or three sets of whisperers, who carry on most of their calumnies by what they entertain one another with in that place, and we were now altogether very good company. There were indeed a few, in whose looks there appeared a heavenly joy and glad- ness upon the entrance of a new day, as if they had gone to sleep with expectation of it. For the sake of these it is worth while that the church keeps up such early matins throughout the cities of London and Westminster; but the generality of those who observe that hour, perform it with so tasteless a behaviour, that it appears a task rather than a voluntary act. Bat of all the world, those familiar ducks who are, as it were, 4o at home at the church, and by frequently meeting there throw 10 20 30 40 ON BEHAVIOUR AT CHURCH. 9! the time of prayer very negligently into their common life, and make their coming together in that place as ordinary as any other action, and do not turn their conversation upon any improvements suitable to the true design of that house, but on trifles below even their worldly concerns and characters. These are little groups of acquaintance dispersed in all parts of the town, who are, forsooth, the only people of unspotted characters, and throw all the spots that stick on those of other people. Malice is the ordinary vice of those who live in the mode of religion, without the spirit of it. The pleasurable world are hurried by their passions above the consideration of what others think of them, into a pursuit of irregular en- joyments ; while these, who forbear the gratifications of flesh and blood, without having won over the spirit to the interests of virtue, are implacable in defamations on the errors of such who offend without respect to fame. But the consideration of persons whom one cannot but take notice of, when one sees them in that place, has drawn me out of my intended talk, which was to bewail that people do not know the pleasure of early hours, and of dedicating their first moments of the day, with joy and singleness of heart, to their Creator. Expe- rience would convince us, that the earlier we left our beds, the seldomer should we be confined to them. One great good which would also accrue from this, were it bécome a fashion, would be, that it is possible our chief divines would condescend to pray themselves, or at least those whom they substitute would be better supplied, than to be forced to appear at those oraisons” in a garb and attire which makes them appear mortified with worldly want, and not abstracted from the world by the contempt of it. How is it possible for a gentleman, under the income of filty pounds a year®, to be attentive to sublime things? He must rise and dress like a labourer for sordid hire, instead of approaching his place of service with the utmost pleasure and satisfaction, that now he is going to be mouth of a crowd of people who have laid aside all the distinctions of this contemptible being, to beseech a protection under its manifold pains and disadvantages, or a release from it, by his favour who sent them into it. He would, with decent superiority, look upon himself as orator before the throne of grace, for a crowd, who hang upon his Q2 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. ‘words, while he asks for them all that is necessary in a re) ° 20 30 transitory life ; from the assurance that a good behaviour, for a few moments in it, will purchase endless joy and happy immortality. But who can place himself in this view, who, though not pinched with want, is distracted with care from the fear of it? No; a man, in the least degree below the spirit of a saint or a martyr, will loll, huddle over his duty, look confused, or assume a resolution in his behaviour which will be quite as ungraceful, except he is supported above the necessities of life. ‘Power and commandment to his minister to declare and pronounce to his people,’ is mentioned with a very unguarded air, when the speaker is known in his own private condition to be almost an object of their pity and charity. This last circumstance, with many others here loosely suggested, are the occasion that one knows not how to recommend, to such as have not already a fixed sense of devotion, the pleasure of passing the earliest hours of the day in a public congregation. But were this morning solemnity as much in vogue, even as it is now at more advanced hours of the day, it would necessarily have so good an effect upon us, as to make us more disengaged and cheerful in conversation, and less artful and insincere in business. The world would be quite another place than it is now, the rest of the day ; and every face would have an alacrity in it, which can be borrowed from no other reflections, but those which give us the assured protection of Omanipotence. Guardian, No. 65.) [May 26, 1713. No. 30. Ox the Uses of Sunday, and Devotion, Nequeo monstrare, et sentio tantum. Juv. Sat. vii. 56. If there were no other consequences of it, but barely that human creatures on this day assemble themselves before their Creator, without regard to their usual employments, their minds at leisure from the cares of this life, and their bodies adorned with the best attire they can bestow on them ; I say, were this Io 20 4o ON THE USES OF SUNDAY, AND DEVOTION. 93 mere outward celebration of a sabbath all that is expected from men, even that were a laudable distinction, and a purpose worthy the human nature. But when there is added to it, the sublime pleasure of devotion, our being is exalted above itself; and he who spends a seventh day in the contemplation of the next life, will not easily fall into the corruptions of this in the other six. They, who never admit thoughts of this kind into their imaginations, lose higher and sweeter satisfactions than can be raised by any other entertainment. The most illiterate man who is touched with devotion, and uses frequent exercises of it, contracts a certain greatness of mind, mingled with a noble simplicity, that raises him above those of the same con- dition; and there is an indelible mark of goodness in those who sincerely possess it. It is hardly possible it should be otherwise ; for the fervours of a pious mind will naturally contract such an earnestness and attention towards a better being, as will make the ordinary passages of life go off with a becoming inditference. By this a man in the lowest condition will not appear mean, or, in the most splendid fortune, in- solent. As to all the intricacies and vicissitudes, under which men are ordinarily entangled with the utmost sorrow and passion, one who is devoted to heaven, when he falls into such difficulties, is led by a clue through a labyrinth. As to this world, he does not pretend to skill in the mazes of it; but fixes his thoughts upon one certainty, that he shall soon be out of it. And we may ask very boldly, what can be a more sure consolation than to have a hope in death? When men are arrived at thinking of their very dissolution with pleasure, how few things are there that can be terrible to them! Certainly, nothing can be dreadful to such spirits, but what would make death terrible to them, falsehood towards man, or impiety towards heaven. To such as these, as there are certainly many such, the gratifications of innocent pleasures are doubled, even with reflections upon their imperfection. The disappointments which naturally attend the great promises we make ourselves in expected enjoyments, strike no damp upon such men, but only quicken their hopes of soon knowing joys which are too pure to admit of allay or satiety. It is thought, among the politer sort of mankind, an imper- 94 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. fection to want a relish of any of those things which refine our lives. This is the foundation of the acceptance which eloquence, music, and poetry make in the world; and I know not why devotion, considered merely as an exaltation of our happiness, should not at least be so far regarded as to be considered. It is possible the very enquiry would lead men into such thoughts and gratifications as they did not expect to meet with in this place. Many a good acquaintance has been lost from a general prepossession in his disfavour, and a severe aspect has often 10 hid under it a very agreeable companion. There are no distinguishing qualities among men to which there are not false pretenders; but though none is more pretended to than that of devotion, there are perhaps fewer successful impostors in this kind than any other. There is something so natively great and good in a person that is truly devout, that an awkward man may as well pretend to be genteel, as a hypocrite to be pious. The constraint in words and actions is equally visible in both cases ; and any thing set up in their room does but remove the endeavourers farther off 20 from their pretensions. But, however the sense of true piety is abated, there is no other motive of action that can carry us through all the vicissitudes of life with alacrity and resolution. But piety, like philosophy, when it is superficial, does but make men appear the worse for it; and a principle that is but half received does but distract, instead of guiding our behaviour. When I reflect upon the unequal conduct of Lotius, I see many things that run directly counter to his interest; therefore I cannot attribute his labours for the public good to ambition. When I consider his disregard to his fortune I cannot esteem 30 him covetous. How then can I reconcile his neglect of himself, and his zeal for others? I have long suspected him to be a ‘little pious:’ but no man ever hid his vice with greater caution than he does his virtue. It was the praise of a great Roman, ‘that he had rather be, than appear good.’ But such is the weakness of Lotius, that I dare say, he had rather be esteemed irreligious than devout. By I know not what im- patience of raillery, he is wonderfully fearful of being thought too great a believer. A hundred little devices are made use of to hide a time of private devotion ; and he will allow you any 40 suspicion of his being ill employed, so you do not tax him with ON THE USES OF SUNDAY, AND DEVOTION. 95 being well. But alas! how mean is such a behaviour? To boast of virtue, is a most ridiculous way of disappointing the merit of it, but not so pitiful as that of being ashamed of it. How unhappy is the wretch, who makes the most absolute and independent motive of action the cause of perplexity and in- constancy! How different a figure does Czlicolo® make with all who know him! His great and superior mind, frequently exalted by the raptures of heavenly meditation, is to all his friends of the same use, as if an angel were to appear at the decision of their disputes. They very well understand, he is as much disinterested and unbiassed as such a being. He considers all applications made to him, as those addresses -will affect his own application to heaven. All his determi- mations are delivered with a beautiful humility; and he pronounces his decisions with the air of one who is more frequently a supplicant than a judge. Thus humble, and thus great, is the man who is moved by piety, and exalted by devotion. But behold this recommended by the masterly hand of a great divine® I have heretofore made 20 bold with. ‘It is such a pleasure as can never cloy or overwork the mind ; a delight that grows and improves under thought and reflection ; and while it exercises, does also endear itself to the mind, All pleasures that affect the body must needs weary, because they transport; and all transportation is a violence ; and no violence can be lasting ; but determines upon the falling of the spirits, which are not able to keep up that height of motion that the pleasure of the senses raises them to. And therefore how inevitably does an immoderate laughter end in 30 a sigh, which is only nature’s recovering itself after a force done to it : but the religious pleasure of a well-disposed mind moves gently, and therefore constantly. It does not affect by rapture and ecstasy, but is like the pleasure of health, greater and stronger than those that call up the senses with grosser and more affecting impressions. No man’s body is as strong as his appetites ; but Heaven has corrected the boundlessness of his voluptuous desires by stinting his strength, and contracting his capacities—The pleasure of the religious man is an easy and a portable pleasure, such a one as he carries about in his 40 bosom, without alarming either the eye or the’ envy of the I fo} 10 20 w 96 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. world. A man putting all his pleasures into this one, is like a traveller putting all his goods into one jewel ; the value is the same, and the convenience greater.’ Tatler, No, 211.] [August 15, 1710. No. 31. On Old and New Freethinkers; Anecdote of a French Officer. Quod si in hoc erro, quod animos hominum immortales esse credam, libenter erro ; nec mihi huncerrorem, quo delector, dum vivo, extorqueri volo: sin mortuus, ut quidam minuti philosophi censent, nihil sentiam ; non vereor, ne hunc errorem meum mortui philosophi irrideant. TuLL. De Senect. cap. ult. Several letters, which I have lately received, give me in- formation, that some well-disposed persons have taken offence at my using the word Free-thinker as a term of reproach. To set, therefore, this matter in a clear light, I must declare, that no one can have a greater veneration than myself for the Free- thinkers of antiquity; who acted the same part in those times, as the great men of the reformation did in several nations of Europe, by exerting themselves against the idolatry and super- stition of the times in which they lived. It was by this noble impulse that Socrates and his disciples, as well as all the philosophers of note in Greece, and Cicero, Seneca, with all the learned men of Rome, endeavoured to enlighten their contem- poraries amidst the darkness and ignorance in which the. world was then sunk and buried. The great points which these free-thinkers endeavoured to establish and inculcate into the minds of men, were, the forma- tion of the universe, the superintendency of providence, the perfection of the Divine Nature, the immortality of the soul, and the future state of rewards and punishments. They all complied with the religion of their country, as much as possible, in such particulars as did not contradict and pervert these great and fundamental doctrines of mankind. On the contrary, the persons who now set up for free-thinkers, are such as en- deavour, by a little trash of words and sophistry, to weaken and destroy those very principles, for the vindication of which, free- dom of thought at first became laudable and heroic. These apo- 10 20 30 ON OLD AND NEW FREETHINKERS, ETC. 97 states from reason and good sense, can look at the glorious frame of nature, without paying an adoration to Him that raised it; can consider the great revolutions in the universe, without lifting up their minds to that superior power which hath the direction of it; can presume to censure the Deity in his ways towards men ; can level mankind with the beasts that perish ; can extin- guish in their own minds all the pleasing hopes of a future state, and lull themselves into a stupid security against the terrors of it. If one were to take the word priestcraft out of the mouths of these shallow monsters, they would be imme- diately struck dumb. It is by the help of this single term that they endeavour to disappoint the good works of the most learned and venerable order of men, and harden the hearts of the ignorant against the very light of nature, and the common- received notions of mankind. We ought not to treat such miscreants as these upon the foot of fair disputants; but to pour out contempt upon them, and speak of them with scorn and infamy, as the pests of society, the revilers of human nature, and the blasphemers of a Being, whom a good man would rather die than hear dishonoured. Cicero", after having mentioned the great heroes of knowledge that recommended this divine doctrine of the immortality of the soul, calls those small pretenders to wisdom, who declared against it, certain minute philosophers, using a diminutive even of the word ‘little,’ to express the despicable opinion he had of them. The con- | tempt he throws upon them in another passage is yet more — remarkable ; where, to show the mean thoughts he entertains of them, he declares ‘he would rather be in the wrong with Plato, than in the right with such company.’ There is, indeed, nothing ‘in the world so ridiculous as one of these grave philo- sophical free-thinkers, that hath neither passions nor appetites to gratify, no heats of blood, nor vigour of constitution, that can turn his systems of infidelity to his advantage, or raise pleasures out of them which are inconsistent with the belief of a here- after. One that has neither wit, gallantry, mirth, or youth, to indulge by these notions, but only a poor, joyless, uncomfortable vanity of distinguishing himself from the rest of mankind, is rather to be regarded as a mischievous lunatic, than a mistaken philosopher. A chaste infidel, a speculative libertine, is an 4o animal that I should not believe to be in nature, did I not H 10 20 98 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. sometimes meet with this species of men, that plead for the indul- gence of their passions in the midst of a severe studious life, and talk against the immortality of the soul over a dish of coffee. I would fain ask a minute philosopher, what good he pro- poses to mankind by the publishing of his doctrines? Will: they make a man a better citizen, or father of a family; a more endearing husband, friend, or son? will they enlarge his public or private virtues, or correct any of his frailties or vices? What is there either joyful or glorious in such opinions? do they either refresh or enlarge our thoughts? do they contribute to the happiness, or raise the dignity, of human nature? The only good that I have ever heard pretended to, is, that they banish terrors, and set the mind at ease. But whose terrors do they banish? It is certain, if there were any strength in their arguments, they would give great disturbance to minds that are influenced by virtue, honour, and morality, and take from us the only comforts and supports of affliction, sickness, and old age. The minds, therefore, which they set at ease, are only those of impenitent criminals and malefactors, and which, to the good of mankind, should be in perpetual terror and alarm. I must confess, nothing is more usual than for a free-thinker, ‘in proportion as the insolence of scepticism is abated in him 40 by years and knowledge, or humbled and beaten down by sorrow or sickness, to reconcile himself to the general concep- tions of reasonable creatures; so that we frequently see the apostates turning from their revolt towards the end of their lives, and employing the refuse of their parts in promoting those truths which they had before endeavoured to invalidate. The history of a gentleman in France is very well known, who was so zealous a promoter of infidelity, that he had got together a select company of disciples, and travelled into all parts of the kingdom to make converts. In the midst of his fantastical success he fell sick, and was reclaimed to such a sense of his condition, that after he had passed some time in great agonies and horrors of mind, he begged those who had the care of burying him, to dress his body in the habit of a capuchin, that the devil might not run away with it; and, to do further justice upon himself, desired them to tie a halter about his neck, as a mark of that ignominious punishment, which, in his own thoughts, he had so justly deserved. 20 30 40 ON OLD AND NEW FREETHINKERS, ETC. 99 I would not have persecution so far disgraced, as to wish these vermin might be animadverted on by any legal penalties ; though I think it would be highly reasonable, that those few of them who die in the professions of their infidelity, should have such tokens of infamy fixed upon them, as might distinguish those bodies which are given up by the owners to oblivion and putrefaction, from those which rest in hope, and shall rise in glory. But at the same time that I am against doing them the honour of the notice of our laws, which ought not to suppose there are such criminals in being, I have often wondered, how they can be tolerated in any mixed conversations, while they are venting these absurd opinions; and should think, that if, on any such occasions, half a dozen of the most robust Christians in the company would lead one of those gentlemen to a pump, or convey him into a blanket, they would do very good service both to church and state. I do not know how the laws stand in this particular; but I hope, whatever knocks, bangs, or thumps, might be given with such an honest intention, would not be construed as a breach of the peace. I dare say, they would not be returned by the person who receives them ; for whatever these fools may say in the vanity of their hearts, they are too wise to risk their lives upon the uncertainty of their opinions. ‘ When I was a young man about this town, I frequented the ordinary of the Black-horse in Holborn, where the person that usually presided at the table was a rough old-fashioned gentle- man, who, according to the customs of those times, had been the major and preacher of a regiment. It happened one day that a noisy young officer, bred in France, was venting some new-fangled notions, and speaking, in the gaiety of his humour, against the dispensations of Providence. The major, at first, only desired him to talk more respectfully of one for whom all the company had an honour ; but, finding him run on in his extravagance, began to reprimand him after a more serious manner. ‘ Young man,’ said he, ‘ do not abuse your Benefactor whilst you are eating his bread. Consider whose air you breathe, whose presence you are in, and who it is that gave you the power of that very speech which you make use of to his dishonour.’ The young fellow, who thought to turn matters into a jest, asked him ‘if he was going to preach?’ but at the H 2 Io 20 30 100 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS, same time desired him, ‘to take care what he said when he spoke to a man of honour.” ‘A man of honour!’ says the major; ‘thou art an infidel and a blasphemer, and I shall use thee as such.’ In short, the quarrel ran so high, that the major was desired to walk out. Upon their coming into the garden, the old fellow advised his antagonist to consider the place into which one pass might drive him; but, finding him grow upon him to a degree of scurrility, as believing the advice proceeded from fear; ‘Sirrah,’ says he, ‘if a thunderbolt does not strike thee dead before I come at thee, I shall not fail to chastise thee for thy profaneness to thy Maker, and thy sauciness to his servant.’ Upon this he drew his sword, and cried out with a loud voice, ‘The sword of the Lord and of Gideon!’ which so terrified his antagonist, that he was immediately disarmed, and thrown upon his knees. In this posture he begged his life; but the major refused to grant it, before he had asked pardon for his offence in a short extemporary prayer, which the old gentleman dictated to him upon the spot, and which his proselyte repeated after him in the presence of the whole ordinary, that were now gathered about him in the garden. Tatler, No. 135.] [February 17, 1710. No. 32. On the Power of Women. Si sapis, Neque preterquam quas ipse amor molestias Habet addas; et illas quas habet, recte feras. TER. Eun. act i. se. 1. I was the other day driving in a hack" through Gerrard-street, when my eye was immediately catched with the prettiest object imaginable—the face of a very fair girl, between thirteen and fourteen, fixed at the chin to a painted sash, and made part of the landscape. It seemed admirably done, and, upon throwing myself eagerly out of the coach to look at it, it laughed, and flung from the window. This amiable figure dwelt upon me; and I was considering the vanity of the girl, and her pleasant coquetry in acting a picture until she was taken notice of, and raised the admiration of her beholders. This little circumstance 10 20 30 ON THE POWER OF WOMEN. IOL made me run into reflections upon the force of beauty, and the wonderful influence the female sex has upon the other part of the species. Our hearts are seized with their enchantments, and there are few of us, but brutal men, who by that hardness lose the chief pleasure in them, can resist their insinuations, though never so much against our own interest and opinion. It is common with women to destroy the good effects a man’s following his own way and inclination might have upon his honour and fortune, by interposing their power over him in matters wherein they cannot influence him, but to his loss and disparagement. I do not know therefore a task so difficult in human life, as to be proof against the importunities of a woman a man loves. There is certainly no armour against tears, sullen looks, or at best constrained familiarities, in her whom you usually meet with transport and alacrity. Sir Walter Raleigh™ was quoted in a letter (of a very ingenious correspondent of mine) upon this subject. That author, who had lived in courts, camps, travelled through many countries, and seen many men under several climates, and of as various complexions, speaks of our impotence to resist the wiles of women in very severe terms. His words are as follows :— ‘What means did the devil find out, or what instruments did his own subtlety present him, as fittest and aptest to work his mischief by? Even the unquiet vanity of the woman; so as by Adam’s hearkening to the voice of his wife, contrary to the ex- press commandment of the living God, mankind by that her in- cantation® became the subject of labour, sorrow, and death ; the woman being given to man for a comforter and companion, but not for a counsellor. It is also to be noted by whom the woman was tempted : even by the most ugly and unworthy of all beasts, into whom the devil entered and persuaded. ‘Secondly, What was the motive of her disobedience? Even a desire to know what was most unfitting her knowledge ; an affection which has ever since remained in all the posterity of her sex. Thirdly, What was it that moved the man to yield to her persuasions ? _Even the same cause which hath moved all men since to the 40 like consent; namely, an unwillingness to grieve her, or make her sad, lest she should pine, and be overcome'with sorrow. But if Adam, in the state of perfection, and Solomon, the son of David, God’s chosen servant, and himself a2 man endued 10 20 uw ° 102 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. with the greatest wisdom, did both of them disobey their Creator by the persuasion, and for the love they bare to a woman, it is not so wonderful as lamentable, that other men in succeeding ages have been allured to so many inconvenient and wicked practices by the persuasions of their wives, or other beloved darlings, who cover over and shadow many malicious purposes with a counterfeit passion of dissimulate sorrow and unquietness.’ The motions of the minds of lovers are no where so well described as in the works of skilful writers for the stage. The scene between Fulvia and Curius, in the second act of Jon- son’s Cataline, is an excellent picture of the power of a lady over her gallant. The wench plays with his affections : and as a man, of all places of the world, wishes to make a good figure with his mistress, upon her upbraiding him with want of spirit, he alludes to enterprises which he cannot reveal but with the hazard of his life. When he is worked thus far, with a little flattery of her opinion of his gallantry, and desire to know more of it out of her overflowing fondness to him, he brags to her until his life is in her disposal. When a man is thus liable to be vanquished by the charms of her he loves, the safest way is to determine what is proper to be done; but to avoid all expostulation with her before he executes what he has resolved. Women are ever too hard for us upon a treaty ; and one must consider how senseless a thing it is to argue with one whose looks and gestures are more pre- valent with you, than your reason and arguments can be with her. It is a most miserable slavery to submit to what you dis- approve, and give up a truth for no other reason, but that you had not fortitude to support you in asserting it. A man has enough to do to conquer his own unreasonable wishes and desires; but he does that in vain, if he has those of another to gratify. Let his pride be in his wife and family, let him give them all the conveniences of life in such a manner as if he were proud of them ; but let it be his own innocent pride, and not their exorbitant desires, which are indulged by him. In this case all the little arts imaginable are used to soften a man’s heart, and raise his passion above his understanding. But in all con- cessions of this kind, a man should consider whether the present 40 he makes flows from his own love, or the importunity of his ON MATRIMONY. 103 beloved. If from the latter, he is her slave ; if from the former, her friend. We laugh it off, and do not weigh this subjection to women with that seriousness which so important a circumstance deserves. Why was courage given to man, if his wife’s fears are to frustrate it? When this is once indulged, you are no longer her guardian and protector, as you were designed by nature ; but, in compliance to her weaknesses, you have disabled yourself from avoiding the misfortunes into which they will lead you both, and you are to see the hour in which you are to be 10 reproached by herself for that very complaisance to her. It is indeed the most difficult mastery over ourselves we can possibly attain, to resist the grief of her who charms us; but let the heart ache, be the anguish never so quick and painful, it is what must be suffered and passed through, if you think to live like a gentleman, or be conscious to yourself that you are a man of honesty. The old argument, that ‘you do not love me if you deny me this,’ which first was used to obtain a trifle, by habitual success will oblige the unhappy man who gives way to it to re- sign the cause even of his country and his honour®. Spectator, No. 510.] [Octeber 15, 1712. No. 33. On Matrimony. Dare jura maritis—Hor. Ars Poet. 308. 20 Many are the epistles I every day receive from husbands who complain of vanity, pride, but, above all, ill-nature in their wives. I cannot tell how it is, but I think I see in all their letters that the cause of their uneasiness is in themselves ; and indeed I have hardly ever observed the married condition unhappy, but from want of judgment or temper in the man. The truth is, we generally make love in a style and with sentiments very unfit for ordinary life: they are half theatrical, half romantic. By this means, we raise our imaginations to what is not to be expected in human life ; and because we did not beforehand think of the 30 creature we are enamoured of, as subject to dishumour®, age, sickness, impatience, or sullenness, but altogether considered her as the object of joy ; human nature itself is often imputed to her as her particular imperfection, or defect. Io 20 104 MORAL AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. I take it to be a rule, proper to be observed in all occurrences of life, but more especially. in the domestic, or matrimonial part of it, to preserve always a disposition to be pleased. This cannot be supported but by considering things in their right light, and as Nature has formed them, and not as our own fancies or appetites would have them. He then who took a young lady to his bed, with no other consideration than the ex- pectation of scenes of dalliance, and thought of her (as I said before) only as she was to administer to the gratification of desire; as that desire flags, will, without her fault, think her charms and her merit abated: from hence must follow indiffer- ence, dislike, peevishness, and rage. But the man who brings his reason to support his passion, and beholds what he loves, as liable to all the calamities of human life both in body and mind, and even at the best what must bring upon him new cares and new relations; such a lover, I say, will form himself accordingly, and adapt his mind to the nature of his circumstances. This latter person will be prepared to be a father, a friend, an advo- cate, a steward for people yet unborn, and has proper affections ready for every incident in the marriage state. Such a man can hear the cries of children with pity instead of anger ; and, when they run over his head, he is not disturbed at their noise, but is glad of their mirth and health. Tom Trusty has told me, that he thinks it doubles his attention to the most intricate affair he ’ is about, to hear his children, for whom all his cares are applied, 40 make a noise in the next room: on the other side, Will Sparkish cannot put on his perriwig, or adjust his cravat at the glass, for the noise of those damned nurses and squalling brats; and then ends with a gallant reflection upon the comforts of matri- mony, runs out of the hearing, and drives to the chocolate-house. According as the husband has disposed in himself, every circumstance in his life is to give him torment or pleasure. When the affection is well placed, and is supported by the con- siderations of duty, honour, and friendship, which are in the highest degree engaged in this alliance, there can nothing rise in the common course of life, or from the blows or favours of fortune, in which a man will not find matters of some delight unknown to a single condition. He that sincerely loves his wife and family, and studies to improve that affection in himself, conceives pleasure from the ON MATRIMONY, : 105 most indifferent things; while the marriéd man, who has not bid adieu to the fashions and false gallantries of the town, is perplexed with every thing around him. In both these cases men cannot, indeed, make a sillier figure, than in repeating such pleasures and pains to the rest of the world: but I speak of them only, as they sit upon those who are involved in them. As I visit all sorts of people, I cannot indeed but smile, when the good lady tells her husband what extraordinary things the child spoke since he went out. No longer than yesterday I was 1o prevailed with to go home with a fond husband ; and his wife told him, that his son, of his own head, when the clock in the parlour struck two, said papa would come home to dinner presently. While the father has him in a rapture in his arms, and is drowning him with kisses, the wife tells me he is but just four years old. Then they both struggle for him, and bring him up to me, and repeat his observation of two o’clock. I was called upon, by looks upon the child, and then at me, to say something : and I told the father that this remark of the infant of his coming home, and joining the time with it, was a certain 20 indication that he would be a great historian and chronologer. They are neither of them fools, yet received my compliment with great acknowledgment of my prescience. I fared very well at dinner, and heard many other notable sayings of their heir, which would have given very little entertainment to one less turned to reflection than I was: but it was a pleasing specu- lation to remark on the happiness of a life, in which things of no moment give occasion of hope, self-satisfaction, and triumph. On the other hand, I have known an ill-natured coxcomb, who has hardly improved in any thing but bulk, for want of this 30 disposition, silence the whole family as a set of silly women and children, for recounting things which were really above his own capacity. When I say all this, I cannot deny but there are perverse jades that fall to men’s lots, with whom it requires more than common proficiency in philosophy to be able to live. When these are joined to men of warm spirits, without temper or learning, they are frequently corrected with stripes ; but one of our famous lawyers is of opinion, that this ought to be used sparingly ; as I remember, those are his very words ; but as it 40 is proper -to draw some spiritual use out of all afflictions, I Io 30 4o 106 MORAL, AND DIDACTIC PAPERS. should rather recommend to those who are visited with women of spirit, to form themselves for the world by patience at home. Socrates, who is by all accounts the undoubted head of the sect of the hen-pecked, owned and acknowledged that he owed great part of his virtue to the exercise which his useful wife constantly gave it. There are several good instructions may be drawn from his wise answers to the people of less fortitude than himself on her subject. A friend, with indignation, asked how so good a man could live with so violent a creature? He observed to him, that they who learn to keep a good seat on horseback, mount the least manageable they can get ; and, when they have mastered them, they are sure never to be discomposed on the backs of steeds less restive. At several times, to different persons, on the same subject he has said, ‘ My dear friend, you are beholden to Xantippe, that I bear so well your flying out in a dispute.’ To another, ‘My hen clacks very much, but she brings me chickens. They that live in a trading street are not disturbed at the passage of carts.’ I would have, if possible, a wise man be contented with his lot, even with a shrew; for, though he cannot make her better, he may, you see, make him- self better by her means. But, instead of pursuing my design of displaying conjugal love in its natural beauties and attractions, I am got into tales to the disadvantage of that state of life. I must say, therefore, that I am verily persuaded, that whatever is delightful in human life is to be enjoyed in greater perfection in the married than in the single condition. He that has this passion in perfection, in occasions of joy, can say to himself, besides his own satisfaction, ‘How happy will this make my wife and children!’ Upon occurrences of distress or danger, can comfort himself, ‘ But all this while my wife and children are safe.’ There is something in it, that doubles satisfactions, because others participate them; and dispels afflictions because others are exempt from them. All who are married without this relish of their circumstance are in either a tasteless indolence and negligence which is hardly to be attained, or else live in the hourly repetition of sharp answers, eager upbraidings, and distracting reproaches. In a word, the married state, with and without the affection suitable to it, is the completest image of heaven and hell we are capable of ereeciving in this life. Spectator, No. 479.] Sesaiic: 9, 1712. Io 20 Ii, SOCIAL PAPERS. § 1. THE SPECTATOR CLUB. No. 34. On the Members of the Spectator Club, Ast alii sex Et plures, uno conclamant ore.—Juv. Sat. vii. 167. The first of our society is a gentleman of Worcestershire, of ancient descent, a baronet, his name Sir Roger de Cover- ley". His great-grandfather was inventor of that famous country-dance® which is called after him. All who know that shire are very well acquainted with the parts and merits of Sir Roger. He is a gentleman that is very singular in his behaviour, but his singularities proceed from his good sense, and are contradictions to the manners of the world only as he thinks the world is in the wrong. However, this humour creates him no enemies, for he does nothing with sourness or obstinacy ; and his being unconfined to modes and forms makes him but the readier and more capable to please and oblige all who know him. When he is in town, he lives in Soho-square%. It is said, he keeps himself a bachelor by reason he was crossed in love by a perverse beautiful widow” of the next county to him. Before this disappointment, Sir Roger was what you call a fine gentleman, had often supped with my Lord Rochester® and Sir George Etheredge ®, fought a duel upon his first coming to town, and kicked bully Dawson® in a public coffee-house for calling him youngster. But being ill-used by the above-mentioned widow, he was very serious for a year and a-half; and though, his temper being naturally jovial, he ‘at last got over it, he grew careless of himself, and 10 20 30 40 108 SOCIAL PAPERS, never dressed afterward. He continues to wear a coat and doublet of the same cut that were in fashion at the time of his repulse, which, in his merry humours, he tells us, has been in and out twelve times since he first wore it...... He is now in his fifty-sixth year, cheerful, gay, and hearty ; keeps a good house both in town and country ; a great lover of mankind ; but there is such a mirthful cast in his behaviour, that he is rather beloved than esteemed. His tenants grow rich, his servants look satisfied, all the young women profess love to him, and the young men are glad of his company. When he comes into a house he calls the servants by their names, and talks all the way up stairs to a visit. I must not omit, that Sir Roger is a justice of the quorum ; that he fills the chair at a quarter-session with great abilities, and three months ago gained universal applause, by explaining a passage in the game act. The gentleman next in esteem and authority among us is another bachelor, who is a member of the Inner Temple, a man of great probity, wit, and understanding; but he has chosen his place of residence rather to obey the direction of an old humoursome father, than in pursuit of his own inclinations. He was placed there to study the laws of the land, and is the most learned of any of the house in those of the stage. Aristotle and Longinus are much better understood by him than Littleton or Coke". The father sends up every post questions relating to marriage-articles, leases, and tenures in the neighbourhood; all which questions he agrees with an attorney to answer and take care of in the lump. He is studying the passions themselves when he should be inquiring into the debates among men which arise from them. He knows the argument of each of the orations of Demosthenes and Tully, but not one case in the reports of our own courts. No one ever took him for a fool; but none, except his intimate friends, know he has a great deal of wit. This turn makes him at once both disinterested and agreeable: as few of his thoughts are drawn from business, they are most of them fit for conversation. His taste of books is a little too just for the age he lives in; he has read all, but approves of very few. His familiarity with the customs, manners, actions, and writings of the ancients, makes him a very delicate observer Io 2 3 fe} oO ON THE MEMBERS OF THE SPECTATOR CLUB. {09 of what occurs to him in the present world. He is an excellent critic, and the time of the play is his hour of business ; exactly at five he passes through New-Inn, crosses through Russell- court, and takes a turn at Will’s till the play begins ; he has his shoes rubbed and his perriwig powdered at the barber’s as you go into the Rose™. It is for the good of the audience when he is at a play, for the actors have an ambition to please him. The person of next consideration is Sir Andrew Freeport, a merchant of great eminence in the city of London; a person of indefatigable industry, strong reason, and great experience. His notions of trade are noble and generous, and (as every rich man has usually some sly way of jesting, which would make no great figure were he not a rich man) he calls the sea the British Common. - He is acquainted with commerce in all its parts, and will tell you that it is a stupid and barbarous way to extend dominion by arms: for true power is to be got by arts and industry. He will often argue, that if this part of our trade were well cultivated, we should gain from one nation ; and if another, from another. I have heard him prove, that diligence makes more lasting acquisitions than valour, and that sloth has ruined more nations than the sword. He abounds in several frugal maxims, amongst which the greatest favourite is, ‘A penny saved is a penny got.’ A general trader of good sense is pleasanter company than a general scholar; and Sir Andrew having a natural unaffected eloquence, the perspicuity of his discourse gives the same pleasure that wit would in another man. He has made his fortunes himself; and says that England may be richer than other kingdoms, by as plain methods as he himself is richer than other men ; though at the same time I can say this of him, that there is not a point in the compass, but blows home a ship in which he is an owner. Next to Sir Andrew in the club-room sits Captain Sentry%, a gentleman of great courage, good understanding, but invin- cible modesty. He is one of those that deserve very well, but are very awkward at putting their talents within the obser- vation of such as should take notice of them. He was some years a captain, and behaved himself with great gallantry in ao several engagements and at several sieges ; ‘but having a small Io 20 4° 110 SOCIAL PAPERS. estate of his own, and being next heir to Sir Roger, he has quitted a’ way of life in which no man can rise suitably to his merit, who is not something of a courtier as well as a soldier. I have heard him often lament, that in a profession where merit is placed in so conspicuous a view, impudence should get the better of modesty. When he had talked to this pur- pose, I never heard him make a sour expression, but frankly confess that he left the world, because he was not fit for it. A strict honesty, and an even regular behaviour, are in them- selves obstacles to him that must press through crowds, who endeavour at the same end with himself, the favour of a com- mander. He will, however, in his way of talk excuse generals, for not disposing according to men’s desert, or inquiring into it; for, says he, that great man who has a mind to help me, has as many to break through to come at me, as I have to come at him: therefore he will conclude, that the man who would make a figure, especially in a military way, must get over all false modesty, and assist his patron against the importunity of other pretenders, by a proper assurance in his own vindi- cation. He says it is a civil cowardice to be backward in asserting what you ought to expect, as it is a military fear to be slow in attacking when it is your duty. With this candour does the gentleman speak of himself and others. The same frankness runs through all his conversation. The military part of his life has furnished him with many adventures, in the relation of which he is very agreeable to the company; for he is never over-bearing, though accustomed to command men in the utmost degree below him ; nor ever too obsequious, from a habit of obeying men highly above him. But that our society may not appear a set of humourists, unacquainted with the gallantries and pleasures of the age, we have amongst us the gallant Will Honeycomb®, a gentle- man who, according to his years, should be in the decline of his life, but having been very careful of his person, and always had a very easy fortune, time has made but very little impres- sion, either by wrinkles on his forehead, or traces on his brain. His person is well turned, and of a good height. He is very ready at that sort of discourse with which men usually entertain women. He has all his life dressed very well, and remembers habits as others do men. He can smile when one speaks to 10 20 30 ON THE MEMBERS OF THE SPECTATOR CLUB. 111 him, and laughs easily. He knows the history of every mode, and can inform you from which of the French king’s wenches our wives and daughters had this manner of curling their hair, that way of placing their hoods ;...and whose vanity to shew her foot made that part of the dress so short in sucha year. Ina word, all his conversation and knowledge has been in the female world. As other men of his age will take notice to you what such a minister said upon such an occasion, he will tell you, when the Duke of Monmouth danced at court, such a woman was then smitten—another was taken with him at the head of his troop in the Park. In all these important’ relations, he has ever about the same time received a kind glance, ora blow of a fan from some celebrated beauty, mother of the present Lord Such a-one.... This way of talking of his very much enlivens the conversation among us of a more sedate turn; and I find there is not one of the company, but myself, who rarely speak at all, but speaks of him as of that sort of man, who is usually called a well-bred fine gentleman. To conclude his character, where women are not concerned, he is an honest worthy man. I cannot tell whether I am to account him whom I am next to speak of, as one of our company; for he visits us but seldom ; but when he does, it adds to every man else a new enjoyment of himself. He is a clergyman, a very philosophic man, of general learning, great sanctity of life, and the most exact good breeding. He has the misfortune to be of a very weak constitution, and consequently, cannot accept of such cares and business as preferments in his function would oblige him to ; he is therefore among divines what a chamber-counsel- lor is among lawyers. The probity of his mind, and the integrity of his life, create him followers, as being eloquent or loud advances others. He seldom introduces the subject he speaks upon ; but we are so far gone in years, that he observes, when he is among us, an earnestness to have him fall on some divine topic, which he always treats with much authority, as one who has no interest in this world, as one who is hastening to the object of all his wishes, and conceives hope from his decays and infirmities. These are my ordinary companions. Spectator, No. 2.] [March 2, 1711. Io 20 30 112 SOCIAL PAPERS. No. 35. Character of Mr. Spectator. Egregii mortalem’ altique silentii! Hor. Sat. ii. 6. 58. An author, when he first appears in the world, is very apt to believe it has nothing to think of but his performances. With a good share of this vanity in my heart, I made it my business these three days to listen after my own fame; and as I have sometimes met with circumstances which did not displease me, I have been encountered by others which gave me much morti- fication. It is incredible to think how empty I have in this time observed some part of the species to be, what mere blanks they are when they first come abroad in the morning, how utterly they are at a stand until they are set a-going by some paragraph in a newspaper. Such persons are very acceptable to a young author, for they desire no more in any thing but to be new, to be agreeable. If I found consolation among such, I was as much disquieted by the incapacity of others. These are mortals who have a certain curiosity without power of reflection, and perused my papers like spectators rather than readers. But there is so little plea- sure in inquiries that so nearly concern ourselves (it being the worst way in the world to fame, to be too anxious about it) that upon the whole I resolved for the future to go on in my ordinary way; and without too much fear or hope about the business of reputation, to be very careful of the design of my actions, but very negligent of the consequences of them. It is an endless and frivolous pursuit to act by any other rule, than the care of satisfying our own minds in what we do. One would think a silent man, who concerned himself with no one breathing, should be very little liable to misinterpretations ; and yet I remember I was once taken up for a Jesuit", for no other reason but my profound taciturnity. It is from this mis- fortune, that, to be out of harm’s way, I have ever since affected crowds. He who comes into assemblies only to gratify his curiosity, and not to. make a figure, enjoys the pleasures of re- tirement in a more exquisite degree than he possibly could in his closet : the lover, the ambitious, and the miser, are followed 2 3 ° ° CHARACTER OF MR, SPECTATOR. 113 thither by a worse crowd than any they can withdraw from. To be exempt from the passions with which others are tormented, is the only pleasing solitude. I can very justly say with the ancient sage, ‘I am never less alone than when alone.’ As I am insignificant to the company in public places, and as it is visible I do not come thither as most do, to show myseli, I gratify the vanity of all who pretend to make an appearance, and have often as kind looks from well-dressed gentlemen and ladies, as a poet would bestow upon one of his audience. There are sO many gratifications attend this publicsort of obscurity, that some little distastes I daily receive have lost their anguish; and I did, the other day, without the least displeasure, overhear one say of me, ‘that strange fellow ;’ and another answer, ‘1 have known the fellow’s face these twelve years, and so must you; but I believe you are the first ever asked who he was.’ There are, I must confess, many to whom my person is as well known as that of their nearest relations, who give themselves no farther trouble about calling me by my name or quality, but speak of me very currently by Mr. What-d’ye-call-him. To make up for these trivial disadvantages, I have the high satisfaction of beholding all nature with an unprejudiced eye ; and having nothing to do with men’s passions or interests, I can, with the greater sagacity, consider their talents, manners, fail- ings, and merits. It is remarkable, that those who want any one sense, possess the others with greater force and vivacity. Thus my want of, or rather resignation of speech, gives me the advantages ofa dumb man. I have, methinks, a more than ordinary penetration in seeing ; and flatter myself that I have looked into the highest and lowest of mankind, and make shrewd guesses, without being admitted to their conversation, at the inmost thoughts and reflections of all whom I behold. It is from hence that- good or ill fortune has no manner of force towards affecting my judgment. I see men flourishing in courts, and languishing in jails, without being prejudiced, from their circumstances, to their favour or disadvantage ; but from their inward manner of bearing their condition, often pity the prosperous, and admire the unhappy. Those who converse with the dumb, know from the turn of 4o their eyes, and the changes of their countenance, their senti- I Io 30 TI4 SOCIAL PAPERS. ments of the objects before them. I have indulged my silence to such an extravagance, that the few who are intimate with me answer my smiles with concurrent sentences, and argue to the very point I shaked my head at, without my speaking. Will Honeycomb was very entertaining the other night at a play, to a gentleman who sat on his right hand, while I was at his left. The gentleman believed Will was talking to himself, when upon my looking with great approbation at a young thing in a box before us, he said, ‘I am quite of another opinion. She has, I will allow, a very pleasing aspect, but, methinks, that simplicity in her countenance is rather childish than innocent.’ When I observed her a second time, he said, ‘I grant her dress is very becoming, but perhaps the merit of that choice is owing to her mother ; for though,’ continued he, ‘I allow a beauty to be as much to be commended for the elegance of her dress, as a wit for that of his language, yet if she has stolen the colour of her ribands from another, or had advice about her trimmings, I shall not allow her the praise of dress, any more than I would call a plagiary an author.’ When I threw my eye towards the next woman to her, Will spoke what I looked, according to his romantic imagination, in the following manner : ‘Behold, you who dare, that charming virgin; behold the beauty of her person chastised by the innocence of her thoughts. Chastity, good-nature, and affability, are the graces that play in her countenance ; she knows she is handsome, but she knows she is good. Conscious beauty adorned with conscious virtue ! What a spirit is there in those eyes! What a bloom in that per- son! How isthe whole woman expressed in her appearance! Her air has the beauty of motion, and her look the force of language.’ It was prudence to turn away my eyes from this object, and therefore I turned them to the thoughtless creatures who make up the lump of that sex, and move a knowing eye no more than the portraiture of insignificant people by ordinary painters, which are but pictures of pictures. Thus the working of my own mind is the general entertain- ment of my life: I never enter into the commerce of discourse with any but my particular friends, and not in public even with them. Such a habit has perhaps raised in me uncommon re- flections ; but this effect I cannot communicate but by my 40 writings. As my pleasures are almost wholly confined to those 10 20 30 CHARACTER OF MR, SPECTATOR. 115 of the sight, I take it for a peculiar happiness that I have always had an easy and familiar admittance to the fair sex. If I never praised or flattered, I never belied or contradicted them. As these compose half the world, and are, by the just complaisance and gallantry of our nation, the more powerful part of our people, I shall dedicate a considerable share of these my specu- lations to their service, and shall lead the young through all the becoming duties of virginity, marriage, and widowhood. When it is a woman’s day, in my works, I shall endeavour at a style and air suitable to their understanding. When I say this, I must be understood to mean, that I shall not lower but exalt the subjects I treat upon. Discourse for their entertainment is not to be debased, but refined. A man may appear learned without talking sentences, as in his ordinary gesture he discovers he can dance, though he does not cut capers. In a word, I shall take it for the greatest glory of my work, if among reasonable women this paper may furnish tea-table talk". In order to it, I shall treat on matters which relate to females, as they are concerned to approach or fly from the other sex, or as they are tied to them by blood, interest, or affection. Upon this occasion I think it but reasonable to declare, that whatever skill I may have in speculation, I shall never betray what the eyes of lovers say to each other in my presence. At the same time I shall not think myself obliged by this promise to conceal any false protestations which I observe made by glances in public as- semblies ; but endeavour to make both sexes appear in their conduct what they are in their hearts. By this means, love, during the time of my speculations, shall be carried on with the same sincerity as any other affair of less consideration. As this is the greatest concern, men shall be from henceforth liable to the greatest reproach for misbehaviour in it. Falsehood in love shall hereafter bear a blacker aspect than infidelity in friendship, or villainy in business. For this great and good end, all breaches against that noble passion, the cement of society, shall be severely examined. But this, and all other matters loosely hinted at now, and in my former papers, shall have their proper place in my following discourses. The present writing is only to admonish the world, that they shall not find me an idle but a busy Spectator. Spectator, No. 4.] [March 5, 1711. 12 10 20 30 116 SOCIAL PAPERS. No. 36. On Sir Roger de Coverley’s Servants. fisopo ingentem statuam posuere Attici, Servumque collocarunt eterna in basi, Patere honoris scirent ut cunctis viam. PuaDR. Epilog. 1. 2. The reception, manner of attendance, undisturbed freedom and quiet, which J meet with here in the country, has confirmed me in the opinion I always had, that the general corruption of manners in servants is owing to the conduct of masters. The aspect of every one in the family carries so much satisfaction, that it appears he knows the happy lot which has befallen him in being a member of it. There is one particular which I have seldom seen but at Sir Roger’s ; it is usual in all other places, that servants fly from the parts of the house through which their master is passing; on the contrary, here they industriously place themselves in his way ; and it is on both sides, as it were, understood as a visit, when the servants appear without calling. This proceeds from the humane and equal temper of the man of the house, who also perfectly well knows how to en- joy a great estate with such economy as ever to be much beforehand. This makes his own mind untroubled, and con- sequently unapt to vent peevish expressions, or give passionate or inconsistent orders to those about him. Thus respect and love go together; and a certain cheerfulness in perform- ance of their duty is the particular distinction of the lower part of this family. When a servant is called before his master, he does not come with an expectation to hear him- self rated for some trivial fault, threatened to be stripped, or used with any other unbecoming language, which mean masters often give to worthy servants ; but it is often to know, what road he took that he came so readily back according to order: whether he passed by such a ground ; if the old man who rents it is in good health ; or whether he gave Sir Roger’s love to him, or the like. A man who preserves a respect founded on his benevo- lence to his dependants, lives rather like a prince than a master in his family: his orders are received as favours rather 2 ° o ON SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY’S SERVANTS. 117 than duties ; and the distinction of approaching him is part of the reward for executing what is commanded by him. There is another circumstance in which my friend excels in his management, which is the manner of rewarding his ser- vants. He has ever been of opinion, that giving his cast clothes to be worn by valets has a very ill effect upon little minds, and creates a silly sense of equality between the parties, in persons affected only with outward things. I have heard him often pleasant on this occasion, and describe a young gentleman abusing his man in that coat, which a month or two before was the most pleasing distinction he was conscious of in himself. He would turn his discourse still more pleasantly upon the ladies’ bounties of this kind; and I have heard him say he knew a fine woman, who distributed rewards and punishments in giving becoming or unbecoming dresses to her maids. But my good friend is above these little instances of good- will, in bestowing only trifles on his servants: a good servant to him is sure of having it in his choice very soon of being no servant at all. As I before observed, he is so good a husband”, and knows so thoroughly that the skill of the purse is the car- dinal virtue of this life ; I say he knows so well that frugality is the support of generosity, that he can often spare a large fine when a tenement falls, and give that settlement to a good servant who has a mind to go into the world, or make a stranger pay the fine to that servant for his more comfortable main- tenance, if he stays in his service. A man of honour and generosity considers it would be miser- able to himself to have no will but that of another, though it were of the best person breathing, and, for that reason, goes on as fast as he is able to put his servants into independent liveli- hoods. The greatest part of Sir Roger’s estate is tenanted by persons who have served himself or his ancestors. It was to me extremely pleasant to observe the visitants from several parts to welcome his arrival into the country; and all the difference that I could take notice of between the late servants who came to see him, and those who stayed in the family was, that these latter were looked upon as finer gentlemen and better courtiers. This manumission and placing them in a way of livelihood, 40 1 look upon as only what is due to a good servant; which 20 30 118 SOCIAL PAPERS, encouragement will make his successor be as diligent, as humble, and as ready as he was. There is something wonderful in the narrowness of those minds which can be pleased, and be barren of bounty to those who please them. One might, on this occasion, recount the sense that great per- sons in all ages have had of the merit of their dependants, and the heroic services which men have done their masters in the extremity of their fortunes, and shown to their undone patrons that fortune was all the difference between them ; but as I de- sign this my speculation only as a gentle admonition to thankless masters, I shall not go out of the occurrences of common life, but assert it as a general observation, that I never saw, but in Sir Roger’s family and one or two more, good servants treated as they ought to be. Sir Roger’s kindness extends to their children’s children ; and this very morning he sent his coach- man’s grandson to prentice. I shall conclude this paper with an account of a picture in his gallery, where there are many which will deserve my future observation. At the very upper end of this handsome structure I saw the portraiture of two young men standing in a river, the one naked, the other in a livery. The person supported seemed half dead, but still so much alive as to showin his face ex- quisite joy and love towards the other. I thought the fainting figure resembled my friend Sir Roger; and looking at the butler who stood by me, for an account of it, he informed me that the person in the livery was a servant of Sir Roger’s, who stood on the shore while his master was swimming, and observ- ing him taken with some sudden illness and sink under water, jumped in and saved him. He told me Sir Roger took off the dress he was in as soon as he came home, and by a great bounty at that time, followed by his favour ever since, had made him master of that pretty seat which we saw ai a distance as we came to this house. I remembered, indeed, Sir Roger said, there lived a very worthy gentleman, to whom he was highly obliged, without mentioning any thing farther. Upon my looking a little dissatisfied at some part of the picture, my attendant informed me that it was against Sir Roger’s will, and at the earnest request of the gentleman himself, that he was drawn in the habit in which he had saved his master. Spectator, No. 107.] [July 3, 1711. 10 20 30 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY’S PORTRAIT GALLERY, 11g No. 87. Ox Sir Roger de Coverley’s Portrait Gallery. Abnormis sapiens —Honr. Sat. ii. 2. 3. I was this morning walking in the gallery, when Sir Roger entered at the end opposite to me, and advancing towards me, said he was glad to meet me among his relations the De Coverleys, and hoped I liked the conversation of so much good company, who were as silent as myself. I knew he alluded to the pictures, and as he is a gentleman who does not a little value himself upon his ancient descent, I expected he would give me some account of them. We were now arrived at the upper end of the gallery, when the knight faced towards one of the pictures, and, as we stood before it, he entered into the matter after his blunt way of saying things as they occur to his imagination, without regular introduction, or care to preserve the appearance of chain of thought. “It is;? said he, ‘worth while to consider the force of dress ; aud how.the persons of one age differ from those of another, merely by that only. One may observe also, that the general fashion of one age has been followed by one particular set of people in another, and by them preserved from one generation to another. Thus the vast jetting coat and small bonnet, which was the habit in Henry the Seventh’s time, is kept on in the yeomen of the guard; not without a good and politic view, because they look a foot taller, and a foot and a half broader— besides that the cap leaves the face expanded, and consequently more terrible and fitter to stand at the entrance of palaces. This predecessor of ours, you see, is dressed after this manner, and his cheeks would be no larger than mine were he in a hat as I am. He was the last man that won a prize in the Tilt yard (which is now a common street before Whitehall). You see the broken lance that lies there by his right foot. He shivered that lance of his adversary all to pieces ; and bearing himself, look you, Sir, in this manner, at the same time he came within the target of the gentleman who rode against him, and taking him with incredible force before him on the pummel of his saddle, he in that manner rid the tournament over, with an air that shewed he did it rather to perform the rules of the lists, 1 2 3 ° oO fo} 120 SOCIAL PAPERS, than expose his enemy: however, it appeared he knew how to make use of a victory, and with a gentle trot he marched up to a gallery where their mistress sat (for they were rivals), and let him down with laudable courtesy and pardonable insolence. I do not know but it might be exactly where the coffee-house” is now. ‘You are to know this my ancestor was not only of a military genius, but fit also for the arts of peace, for he played on the bass-viol as well as any gentleman at court ; you see where his viol hangs by his basket-hilt sword. The action at the Tilt- yard, you may be sure, won the fair lady, who was a maid of honour and the greatest beauty of her time; here she stands, the next picture. You see, Sir, my great great great grand- mother has on the new-fashioned petticoat, except that the modern is gathered at the waist ; my grandmother appears ® as if she stood in a large drum, whereas the ladies now walk as if they were in a go-cart. For all this lady was bred at court, she became an excellent country-wife; she brought ten children, and when I show you the library, you shall see in her own hand (allowing for the difference of the language) the best receipt now in England both for a hasty-pudding and a white-pot3. ‘If you please to fall back a little, because it is necessary to look at the three next pictures at one view; these are three sisters. She on the right hand who is so very beautiful, died a maid; the next to her, still handsomer, had the same fate, against her will; this homely thing in the middle had both their portions added to her own, and was stolen by a neigh- bouring gentleman, a man of stratagem and resolution ; for he poisoned three mastiffs to come at her, and knocked down two deer-stealers in carrying her off. Misfortunes happen in all families. The theft of this romp, and so much money, was no great matter to our estate. But the next heir that possessed it was this soft gentleman whom you see there. Observe the small buttons, the little boots, the laces, the slashes about his clothes, and above all the posture he is drawn in (which to be sure was his own choosing) : you see he sits with one hand on a desk, writing, and looking as it were another way, like an easy writer, or a sonnetteer. He was one of those that had too much wit to knew how to live in the world ; he was a man of no 40 justice, but great good manners; he ruined every body that had STR ROGER DE COVERLEY’S PORTRAIT GALLERY,” 121 any thing to do with him, but never said a rude thing in his life ; the most indolent person in the world, he would sign a deed that passed away half his estate with his gloves on, but would not put on his hat before a lady if it were to save his country. He is said to be the first that made love by squeezing the hand. He left the estate with ten thousand pounds debt upon it ; but, however, by all hands I have been informed, that he was every way the finest gentleman in the world. That debt lay heavy on our house for one generation, but it was retrieved by a gift 10 from that honest man you see there, a citizen of our name, but nothing at all akin to us. I know Sir Andrew Freeport has said behind my back, that this man was descended from one of the ten children of the maid of honour I showed you above: but it was never made out. We winked at the thing indeed, because money was wanting at that time.’ Here I saw my friend a little embarrassed, and turned my face to the next portraiture. Sir Roger went on with his account of the gallery in the following manner: ‘This man (pointing to him I looked at) I 20 take to be the honour of our house, Sir Humphry de Coverley ; he was in his dealings as punctual as a tradesman, and as generous ‘as a gentleman. He would have thought himself as much undone by breaking his word, as if it were to be followed by bankruptcy. He served his country as knight of the shire to his dying day. He found it no easy matter to maintain an integrity in his words and actions, even in things that regarded the offices which were incumbent upon him, in the care of his ‘own affairs and relations of life, and therefore dreaded (though he had great talents) to go into employments of state, where he 30 must be exposed to the snares of ambition. Innocence of life, and great ability, were the distinguishing parts of his character; the latter, he had often observed, had led to the destruction of the former, and he used frequently to lament that great and good had not the same signification. He was an excellent husbandman®, but had resolved not to exceed such a degree of wealth ; all above it he bestowed in secret bounties many years after the sum he aimed at for his own use was attained. Yet he did not slacken his industry, but to a decent old age spent the life and fortune which were superfluous to himself, in the 40 service of his friends and neighbours.’ 1c 20 30 122 SOCIAL PAPERS. Here we were called to dinner, and Sir Roger ended the discourse of this gentleman, by telling me, as we followed the servant, that this his ancestor was a brave man, and narrowly escaped being killed in the civil wars; ‘for,’ said he, ‘he was sent out of the field upon a private message, the day before the battle of Worcester.’ The whim of narrowly escaping by having been within a day of danger, with other matters above-mentioned, mixed with good sense, left me at a loss whether I was mare delighted with my friend’s wisdom or simplicity. Spectator, No. 109.] [July 5, 1711. No. 38. On the Perverse Widow and Sir Rogers Disappoint- ment in Love. Heerent infixi pectore vultus——V1IRG. AEn. iv. 4. In my first description of the company in which I pass most of my time, it may be remembered, that I mentioned a great affliction which my friend Sir Roger had met with in his youth ; which was no less than a disappointment in love. It happened this evening, that we fell into a very pleasing walk at a distance from his house. As soon as we came into it, ‘It is,’ quoth the good old man, looking round him with a smile, * very hard, that any part of my land should be settled upon one who has used me so ill as the perverse widow” did ; and yet I am sure I could not see a sprig of any bough of this whole walk of trees, but I should reflect upon her and her severity. She has certainly the finest hand of any woman in the world. You are to know, this was the place wherein 1 used to muse upon her ; and by that custom I can never come into it but the same tender sentiments revive in my mind, as if] had actually walked with that beautiful creature under these shades. I have been fool enough to'carve her name on the bark of several of these trees; so unhappy is the condition of men in love, to attempt the removing of their passion by the methods which serve only to imprint it deeper. She has certainly the finest hand of any woman in the world,’ I 2 Oo °° ON THE PERVERSE WIDOW, ETC. 123 Here followed a profound silence; and I was not displeased to observe my friend falling so naturally into a discourse which I had ever before taken notice he industriously avoided. After a very long pause, he entered upon an account of this great circumstance in his life, with an air which I thought raised my idea of him above what I had ever had before ; and gave me the picture of that cheerful mind of his, before it received that stroke which has ever since affected his words and actions. But he went on as follows :— ‘I came to my estate in my twenty-second year, and resolved to follow the steps of the most worthy of my ancestors who have inhabited this spot of earth before me, in all the methods of hospitality and good neighbourhood, for the sake of my fame ; and in country sports and recreations, for the sake of my health. In my twenty-third year I was obliged to serve as sheriff of the county ; and in my servants, officers, and whole equipage, in- dulged the pleasure of a young man (who did not think ill of his own person) in taking that public occasion of showing my figure and behaviour to advantage. You may easily imagine to yourself what appearance I made, who am pretty tall, ride well, _and was very well dressed, at the head of a whole county, ° with music before me, a feather in my hat, and my horse well bitted. I can assure you I was not a little pleased with the kind looks and glances I had from all'the balconies and windows as I rode to the hall where the assizes were held. But, when I came there, a beautiful creature in a widow’s habit sat in court to hear the event of a cause concerning her dower. This com- manding creature (who was born for the destruction of all who behold her) put on such a resignation in her countenance, and bore the whispers of all around the court with such a pretty un- easiness, I warrant you, and then recovered herself from one eye to another, until she was perfectly confused by meeting something so wistful in all she encountered, that at last, with a murrain to her, she cast her bewitching eye upon me. I no sooner met it but I bowed like a great surprised booby; and knowing her cause to be the first which came on, I cried, like a captivated calf as I was, “Make way for the defendant’s witnesses.” This sudden partiality made all the county immediately see the sheriff also was become a slave to the 40 fine widow. During the time her cause was upon trial, she 20 30 40 124 SOCIAL PAPERS. behaved herself, I warrant you, with such a deep attention to her business, took opportunities to have little billets handed to her counsel, then would be in such a pretty confusion, occa- sioned, you must know, by acting before so much company, that not only I but the whole court was prejudiced in her favour ; and all that the next heir to her husband had to urge was thought so groundless and frivolous, that when it came to her counsel to reply, there was not half so much said as every one besides in the court thought he could have urged to her advantage. You must understand, Sir, this perverse woman is one of those unaccountable creatures that secretly rejoice in the admiration of men, but indulge themselves in no farther conse- quences. Hence it is that she has ever had a train of admirers, and she removes from her slaves in town to those in the coun- try, according to the seasons of the year. She is a reading lady, and far gone in the pleasures of friendship. She is always accompanied by a confidante, who is witness to her daily pro- testations against our sex, and consequently a bar to her first steps towards love, upon the strength of her own maxims and declarations. “However, I must need say, this accomplished mistress of mine has distinguished me above the rest, and has been known to declare Sir Roger de Coverley was the tamest and most humane of all the brutes in the country. I was told she said so by one who thought he rallied me ; but upon the strength of this slender encouragement of being thought least detestable, I made new liveries, new-paired my coach-horses, sent them all to town to be bitted, and taught to throw their legs well, and move all together, before I pretended to cross the country, and wait upon her. As soon as I thought my retinue suitable to the character of my fortune and youth, I set out from hence to make my addresses. The particular skill of this lady has ever been to inflame your wishes, and yet command respect. To make her mistress of this art, she has a greater share of know- ledge, wit, and good sense than is usual even among men of merit. Then she is beautiful beyond the race of women. If you will not let her go on with a certain artifice with her eyes, and the skill of beauty, she will arm herself with her real charms, and strike you with admiration instead of desire. It is certain that if you were to behold the whole woman, there Io 20 30 40 ON THE PERVERSE WIDOW, ETC. 125 is that dignity in her aspect, that composure in her motion, that complacency in her manner, that if her form makes you hope, her merit makes you fear. But then again, she is such a desperate scholar, that no country gentleman can approach her without being a jest. As I was going to tell you, when I came to her house I was admitted to her presence with great civility ; at the same time she placed hersel. to be first seen by me in such an attitude, as I think you call the posture of a picture, that she discovered new charms, and I at last came towards her with such an awe as made me speechless. This she no sooner observed but she made her advantage of it, and began a discourse to me concerning love and honour, as they both are followed by pretenders, and the real votaries to them. When she discussed these points in a discourse which, I verily believe, was as learned as the best philosopher in Europe could possibly make, she asked me whether she was so happy as to fall in with my sentiments on these important particulars. Her confidante sat by her, and on my being in the last confusion and silence, this malicious aid of her’s turning to her, says, ‘I am very glad to observe Sir Roger pauses upon this subject, and seems resolved to deliver all his sentiments upon the matter when he pleases to speak.’ They both kept their countenances, and after I had sat half an hour meditating how to behave before such profound casuists, I rose up and took my leave. Chance has since that time thrown me very often in her way, and she as often has directed a discourse to me which I do not understand. This barbarity has kept me ever at a distance from the most beautiful object my eyes ever beheld. It is thus also she deals with all mankind, and you must make love to her as you would conquer the sphinx, by posing her. But were she like other women, and that there were any talking to her, how constant must the pleasure of that man be, who could converse with a creature—But, after all, you may be sure her heart is fixed on some one or other: and yet I have been credibly informed—but who can believe half that is said !—After she had done speaking to me, she put her hand to her bosom, and ad- justed her tucker ; then she cast her eyes a little down, upon my beholding her too earnestly. They say she sings excellently : her voice in her ordinary speech has something in it inexpres- sibly sweet. You must know I dined with her at a public table 10 20 126 SOCIAL PAPERS. the day after I first saw her, and she helped me to some tansy” in the eye of all the gentlemen in the country. She has certainly the finest hand of any woman in the world. I can assure you, Sir, were you to behold her, you would be in the same condition ; for as her speech is music, her form is angelic. But I find I grow irregular while I am talking of her; but indeed it would be stupidity to be unconcerned at such perfection. Oh, the ex- cellent creature! she is as inimitable to all women, as she is inaccessible to all men,’ I found my friend begin to rave, and insensibly led him towards the house, that we might be joined by some other com- pany; and ant convinced that the widow is the secret cause of all that inconsistency which appears in some part of my friend's discourse ; though he has so much command of himself as not directly to mention her, yet according to that of Martial 2 which one knows not how torender into English, dum tacet hanc logut- tur. shall end this paper with that whole epigram, which re- presents with much humour my honest friend’s condition :— Quicquid agit Rufus, nihil est, nisi Nzvia Rufo, Si gaudet, si flet, si tacet, hanc loquitur: Coenat, propinat, poscit, negat, annuit, una est Neevia: si non sit Neevia, mutus erit. Scriberet hesterna patri cum luce salutem, Neevia lux, inquit, Neevia numen, ave. Let Rufus weep, rejoice, stand, sit, or walk, Still. he can nothing but of Nevia talk; Let him eat, drink, ask questions, or dispute, Still he must speak of Nzvia, or be mute. He writ to his father, ending with this line— I am, my lovely Nevia, ever thine, Spectator, No. 113.] [July 10, 1711. No. 39. Zhe Huntsman in Love. Heeret lateri lethalis arundo.— Vire. AEn. iv. 73. This agreeable seat is surrounded with so many pleasing walks, which are struck out of a wood, in the midst of which the house stands, that one can hardly ever be weary of rambling from one labyrinth of delight to another. To one used to live THE HUNTSMAN IN LOVE, 127 in a. city, the charms of the country are so exquisite that the mind is lost in a certain transport which raises us above ordinary life, and is yet not strong enough to be inconsistent with tranquillity. This state of mind was I in—ravished with the murmur of waters, the whisper of breezes, the singing of birds ; and whether I looked up to the heavens, down on the earth, or turned to the prospects around me, still struck with new sense of pleasure ;—when I found by the voice of my friend, who walked by me, that we had insensibly strolled into 10 the grove sacred to the widow®. ‘This woman,’ says he, ‘is of all others the most unintelligible : she either designs to marry, or she does not. What is the most perplexing of all is, that she doth not either say to her lovers she has any resolution against that condition of life in general, or that she banishes them ; but, conscious of her own merit, she permits their addresses, without fear of any ill consequence, or want of respect, from their rage or despair. She has that in her aspect against which it is impossible to offend. A man whose thoughts are constantly bent upon so agreeable an object, must be excused 20 if the ordinary occurrences in conversation are below his atten- tion. Lcall her indeed perverse, but, alas ! why do I call her so f—because her superior merit is such, that I cannot ap- proach her without awe—that my heart is checked by too much esteem: I am angry that her charms are not more accessible—that I am more inclined to worship than salute her. How often have I wished her unhappy, that I might have an opportunity of serving her! and how often troubled in that very imagination at giving her the pain of being obliged ! Well, I have led a miserable life in secret upon her account ; 30 but fancy she would have condescended to have some regard for me, if it had not been for that watchful animal her con- fidante. ‘Of all persons under the sun’ (continued he, calling me by my name), ‘be sure to set a mark upon confidantes: they are of all people the most impertinent. What is most pleasant to observe in them is, that they assume to themselves the merit of persons whom they have in their custody. Orestilla is a great fortune, and in wonderful danger of surprises, therefore full of suspicions of the least indifferent thing, particularly careful of 4° new acquaintance, and of growing too familiar with the old. 10 20 30 40 128 SOCIAL PAPERS. Themista, her favourite woman, is every whit as careful of whom she speaks to, and what she says. Let the ward be a beauty, her confidante shall treat you with an air of dis- tance; let her be a fortune, and she assumes the suspicious behaviour of her friend and patroness, Thus it is that very many of our unmarried women of distinction are to all intents and purposes married, except the consideration of different sexes. They are directly under the conduct of their whisperer ; and think they are in a state of freedom, while they can prate with one of these attendants of all men in general, and still avoid the man they most like. You do not see one heiress in a hundred whose fate does not turn upon this circumstance of choosing a confidante. Thus it is that the lady is addressed to, presented, and flattered, only by proxy, in her woman. In my case, how is it possible that » Sir Roger was proceed- ing in his harangue, when we heard the voice of one speaking very importunately, and repeating these words, ‘What, not one smile?’ We followed the sound till we came to a close thicket, on the other side of which we saw a young woman sitting as it were in a personated sullenness just over a trans- parent fountain™. Opposite to her stood Mr. William, Sir Roger’s master of the game. The knight whispered me, ‘ Hist, these are lovers.’ The huntsman looking earnestly at the shadow of the young maiden in the stream—‘Oh thou dear picture, if thou couldest remain there in the absence of that fair creature whom you represent in the water, how willingly could I stand here satisfied for ever, without troubling my dear Betty herself with any mention of her unfortunate William, whom she is angry with! But alas! when she pleases to be gone, thou wilt also vanish—yet let me talk to thee while thou dost stay. Tell my dearest Betty thou dost not more depend upon her than does her William ; her absence will make away with me as well as thee. If she offers to remove thee, I will jump into these waves to lay hold on thee—herself, her own dear person, J must never embrace again. Still do you hear me without one smile-—It is too much to bear. He had no sooner spoken these words, but he made an offer of throwing himself into the water : at which his mistress started up, and at the next instant he jumped across the fountain, and met her in an embrace. She, half recovering from her fright, said in 10 20 30 40 THE HUNTSMAN IN LOVE, 129 the most charming voice imaginable, and with a tone of com- plaint, ‘I thought how well you would drown yourself. No, no, you will not drown yourself till you have taken your leave of Susan Holiday.’ The huntsman, with a tenderness that spoke the most passionate love, and with his cheek close to hers, whispered the softest vows of fidelity in her ear, and cried, ‘Do not, my dear, believe a word Kate Willow says ; she is spiteful, and makes stories, because she loves to hear me talk to herself for your sake” ‘Look you there,’ quoth Sir Roger, ‘do you see there, all mischief comes from confidantes ! But let us not interrupt them ; the maid is honest, and the man dares not be otherwise, for he knows I loved her father: I will interpose in this matter, and hasten the wedding. Kate Willow is a witty mischievous wench in the neighbourhood, who was a beauty; and makes me hope I shall see the perverse widow in her condition. She was so flippant in her answers to all the honest fellows that came near her, and so very vain of her beauty, that she has valued herself upon her charms till they have ceased. She therefore now makes it her business to pre- vent other young women from being more discreet than she was herself: however, the saucy thing said the other day well enough, “Sir Roger and I must make a match, for we are both despised by those we loved.” The hussy has a great deal of power wherever she comes, and has her share of cunning. ‘However, when I reflect upon this woman, I do not know whether in the main I am the worse for having loved her: whenever she is recalled to my imagination, my youth returns, and I feel a forgotten warmth in my veins. This affliction in my life has streaked all my conduct with a softness, of which I should otherwise have been incapable. It is owing, perhaps, to this dear image in my heart that I am apt to relent, that I easily forgive, and that many desirable things are grown into my temper, which I should not have arrived at by better motives-than the thought of being one day hers. I am pretty well satisfied such a passion as I have had is never well cured ; and between you and me, I am often apt to imagine it has had some whimsical effect upon my brain : for I frequently find, that in my most serious discourse I let fall some comical familiarity of speech or odd phrase that makes the company laugh. How- ever, I cannot but allow she is a most excellent woman. When K Io 20 130 SOCIAL PAPERS. she is in the country, I warrant she does not run into dairies, but reads upon the nature of plants; but has a glass hive, and comes into the garden out of books to see them work, and observe the policies of their commonwealth. She understands every thing. I would give ten pounds to hear her argue with my friend Sir Andrew Freeport about trade. No, no, for all she looks so innocent as it were, take my word for it she is no fool.’ Spectator, No. 118.] [July 16, 1711. No. 40. A Letter from Captain Sentry. Nunquam ita quisquam bene subducta ratione ad vitam fuit, Quin res, eetas, usus semper aliquid apportet novi, Aliquid moneat: ut illa, que te scire credas, nescias ; Et, que tibi putaris prima, in experiendo ut repudies. TER. Adelph. act v. sc. 4. There are, I think, sentiments in the following letter from my friend Captain Sentry, which discover a rational and equal frame of mind, as well prepared for an advantageous as an unfortunate change of condition :— * Coverley-Hall, Nov. 15, ‘SIR, Worcestershire. ‘I am come to the succession of the estate of my honoured kinsman, Sir Roger de Coverley ; and I assure you I find it no easy task to keep up the figure of master of the fortune which was so handsomely enjoyed by that honest plain man. I cannot’ (with respect to the great obligations I have, be it spoken) reflect upon his character, but I am confirmed in the truth which I have, I think, heard spoken at the club; to wit, that a man of a warm and well-disposed heart, with a very small capacity, is highly superior in human society to him who with the greatest talents, is cold and languid in his affections, But alas! why do 1 make a difficulty in speaking of my worthy ancestor’s failings? His little absurdities and incapacity for the conversation of the politest men are dead with him, and his greater qualities are even now useful to him. I know not whether by naming those disabilities I do not enhance his 10 20 30 40 A LETTER FROM CAPTAIN SENTRY. I3L merit, since he has left behind him a reputation in his country, which would be worth the pains of the wisest man’s whole life to arrive at. By the way, I must observe to you, that many of your readers have mistook that passage in your writings® wherein Sir Roger is reported to have inquired into the private character of the young woman at the tavern. I know you men- tioned that circumstance as an instance of the simplicity and innocence of his mind, which made him imagine it a very easy thing to reclaim one of those criminals. ... The less discerning of your readers cannot enter into that delicacy of description in the character: but indeed my chief business at this time is to represent to you my present state of mind, and the satis- faction I promise to myself in the possession of my new fortune. I have continued all Sir Roger’s servants, except such as it was a relief to dismiss into little beings within my manor. Those who are in a list of the good knight’s own hand to be taken care of by me, I have quartered upon such as have taken new leases of me, and added so many advantages during the lives of the persons so quartered, that it is the interest of those whom they are joined with to cherish and befriend them upon all occasions. I find a considerable sum of ready money, which I am laying out among my dependants at the common interest, but with a design to lend it according to their merit, rather than according to their ability. I shall lay a tax upon such as I have highly obliged, to become security to me for such of their own poor youth, whether male or female, as want help towards getting into some being in the world. I hope I shall be able to manage my affairs so as to improve my fortune every year by doing acts of kindness. I will lend my money to the use of none but indigent men, secured by such as have ceased to be indigent by the favour of my family or myself. What makes this the more practicable is, that if they will do any one good with my money, they are welcome to it upon their own security: and I make no exception against it, because the persons who enter into the obligations do it for their own family. I have Jaid out four thousand pounds this way, and it is not to be imagined what a crowd of people are obliged by it. In cases where Sir Roger has recommended, I have lent money to put out children, with a clause which makes void the obli- gation in case the infant dies before he is out of his apprentice- K 2 10 20 30 132 SOCIAL PAPERS, ship ; by which means the kindred and masters are extremely careful of breeding him to industry, that he may repay it himself by his labour, in three years’ journey-work.: after his time is out, for the use of his securities. Opportunities of this kind are all that have occurred since I came to my estate: but I assure you I will preserve a constant disposition to catch at all the occasions I can to promote the good and happiness of my neighbourhood. ‘But give me leave to lay before you a little establishment which has grown out of my past life, that I doubt not will administer great satisfaction to me in that part of it, whatever that is, which is to come. ‘There is a prejudice in favour of the way of life to which a man has been educated, which I know not whether it would not be faulty to overcome. It is like a partiality to the interest of one’s own country before that of any other nation. It is from a habit of thinking, grown upon me from my youth spent in arms, that I have ever held gentlemen, who have preserved modesty, good-nature, justice, and humanity, in a soldier’s life, to be the most valuable and worthy persons of the human race. To pass through imminent dangers, suffer painful watchings, frightful alarms, and laborious marches, for the greater part of a man’s time, and pass the rest in sobriety conformable to the rules of the most virtuous civil life, is a merit too great to deserve the treatment it usually meets with among the other part of the world. But I assure you, Sir, were there not very many who have this worth, we could never have seen the glorious events which we have in our days. I need not say more to illustrate the character of a soldier than to tell you he is the very contrary to him you observe loud, saucy, and over- bearing, in a red coat about town. But I was going to tell you that, in honour of the profession of arms, I have set apart a certain sum of money for a table for such gentlemen as have served their country in the army, and will please from time to time to sojourn all, or any part of the year, at Coverley. Such of them as will do me that honour shall find horses, servants, and all things necessary for their accommodation and enjoy- ment of all the conveniences of life in a pleasant various country. If Colonel Camperfeldt ™ be in town, and his abilities 4o are not employed another way in the service, there is no man Io 20 MR. BICKERSTAFF VISITS A FRIEND. 133 would be more welcome here. That gentleman’s thorough knowledge in his profession, together with the simplicity of his manners and goodness of his heart, would induce others like him to honour my abode; and I should be glad my ac- quaintance would take themselves to be invited or not, as their characters have an affinity to his, ‘I would have all my friends know, that they need not fear (though I am become a country gentleman) I will trespass against their temperance and sobriety. No, Sir, I shall retain so much of the good sentiments for the conduct of life, which we cultivated in each other at our club, as to contemn all inordinate pleasures ; but particularly remember, with our be- loved Tully, that the delight in food consists in desire, not satiety. They who most passionately pursue pleasure sel- domest arrive at it. Now I am writing to a philosopher I can- not forbear mentioning the satisfaction I took in the passage I read yesterday in the same Tully. A nobleman of Athens® made a compliment to Plato the morning after. he had supped at his house: “Your entertainments do not only please when you give them, but also the day after.” ‘I am, my worthy Friend, ‘Your most obedient humble Servant, ‘WILLIAM SENTRY.’ Spectator, No. 544.] [November 24, 1712. § 2. DOMESTIC PAPERS. No 41. My. Bickerstaff visits a friend. Interea dulces pendent circum oscula nati, Casta pudicitiam servat domus. % VIRG. Georg. ii. 523. There are several persons who have many pleasures and en- tertainments in their possession, which they do not enjoy. It is, therefore, a kind and good office to acquaint them with their own happiness, and turn their attention to such instances of 10 20 134 SOCIAL PAPERS. their good fortune as they are apt to overlook. Persons in the married state often want such a monitor ; and pine away their days, by looking upon the same condition in anguish and murmur, which carries with it in the opinion of others a com- plication of all the pleasures of life, and a retreat from its inquietudes. I am led into this thought by a visit I made an old friend, who was formerly my school-fellow®, He came to town last week with his family for the winter, and yesterday morning sent me word his wife expected me to dinner. I am, as it were, at home at that house, and every member of it knows me for their well-wisher. I cannot indeed express the pleasure it is, to be met by the children with so much joy as I am when I go thither. The boys and girls strive who shall come first, when they think it is I that am knocking at the door; and that child which loses the race to me runs back again to tell the father it is Mr. Bickerstaff. This day I was led in by a pretty girl, that we all thought must have forgot me; for the family has been out of town these two years. Her knowing me again was a mighty subject with us, and took up our discourse at the first entrance. After which, they began to rally me upon a thousand little stories they heard in the country, about my marriage to one of my neighbour’s daughters. Upon which the gentleman, my friend, said, ‘Nay, if Mr. Bickerstaff marries a child of any of his old companions, I hope mine shall have the preference ; there is Mrs. Mary is now sixteen, and would make him as fine a widow as the best of them. But I know . him too well; he is so enamoured with the very memory of 40 those who flourished in our youth, that he will not so much as look upon the modern beauties. I remember, old gentleman, how often you went home in a day to refresh your countenance and dress when Teraminta reigned in your heart. As we came up in the coach, I repeated to my wife some of your verses on her. With such reflections on little passages which happened long ago, we passed our time, during a cheerful and elegant meal. After dinner, his lady left the room, as did also the children. As soon as we were alone, he took me by the hand; ‘Well, my good friend,’ says he, ‘I am heartily glad to see thee ; I was afraid you would never have seen all the company that dined with you to-day again. Do not you think the good 10 20 MR, BICKERSTAFF VISITS A FRIEND, 135 woman of the house a little altered since you followed her from the play-house, to find out who she was, for me?’ I perceived a tear fall down his cheek as he spoke, which moved me not a little. But, to turn the discourse, I said, ‘She is not indeed quite that creature she was, when she returned me the letter I carried from you; and told me, “she hoped, as I was a gentle- man, I would be employed no more to trouble her, who had never offended me; but would be so much the gentleman’s friend, as to dissuade him from a pursuit, which he could never succeed in.” You may remember, I thought her in earnest ; and you were forced to employ your cousin Will, who made his sister get acquainted with her, for you. You cannot expect her to be for ever fifteen.’ ‘Fifteen!’ replied my good friend : ‘Ah! you little understand, you that have lived a bachelor, how great, how exquisite a pleasure there is, in being really beloved! It is impossible, that the most beauteous face in nature should raise in me such pleasing ideas, as when I look upon that excellent woman. That fading in her countenance is chiefly caused by her watching with me, in my fever. This was fol- lowed by a fit of sickness, which had like to have carried her off last winter. I tell you sincerely, I have so many obligations to her, that I cannot, with any sort of moderation, think of her present state of health. But as to what you say of fifteen, she gives me every day pleasures beyond what I ever knew in the possession of her beauty, when I was in the vigour of youth. Every moment of her life brings me fresh instances of her complacency to my inclinations, and her prudence in re- gard to my fortune. Her face is to me much more beautiful than when I first saw it; there is no decay in any feature, which I cannot trace, from the very instant it was occasioned by some anxious concern for my welfare and interests. Thus, at the same time, methinks, the love [ conceived towards her for what she was, is heightened by my gratitude for what she is. The love of a wife is as much above the idle passion com- monly called by that name, as the loud laughter of buffoons is inferior to the elegant mirth of gentlemen. Oh! she is an inestimable jewel. In her examination of her household affairs, she shows a certain fearfulness to find a fault, which makes her servants obey her like children ; and the meanest we have has 40 an ingenuous shame for an offence, not always to be seen in 10 20 136 SOCIAL PAPERS, children in other families. I speak freely to you, my old friend ; ever since her sickness, things that gave me the quickest joy before, turn now to a certain anxiety. As the children play in the next room, I know the poor things by their steps, and am considering what they must do, should they lose their mother in their tender years. The pleasure I used to take in telling my boy stories of battles, and asking my girl questions about the disposal of her baby®, and the gossiping of it, is turned into inward reflection and melancholy.’ He would have gone on in this tender way, when the good lady entered, and with an inexpressible sweetness in her countenance told us, ‘she had been searching her closet for something very good, to treat such an old friend as I was.’ Her husband’s eyes sparkled with pleasure at the cheerfulness of her coun- tenance; and I saw all his fears vanish in an instant. The lady observing something in our looks which showed we had been more serious than ordinary, and seeing her husband receive her with great concern under a forced cheerfulness, immediately guessed at what we had been talking of; and applying herself to me, said, with a smile, ‘ Mr. Bickerstaff, do not believe a word of what he tells you, I shall still live to have you for my second, as I have often promised you, unless he takes more care of himself than he has done since his coming to town. You must know, he tells me that he finds London is a much more healthy place than the country; for he sees several of his old acquaintance and school-fellows are here young fellows with fair full-bottomed periwigs. I could scarce keep him in this morning from going out open-breasted®”’ My friend, who is always extremely delighted with her agreeable humour, made her sit down with us. She did it with that easi- ness which is peculiar to women of sense; and to keep up the good humour she had brought in with her, turned her raillery upon me. ‘Mr. Bickerstaff, you remember you followed me one night from the play-house ; suppose you should carry me thither to-morrow night, and lead me into the front box™.’ This put us into a long field of discourse about the beauties, who wete mothers to the present, and shined in the boxes twenty years ago. I told her, ‘I was glad she had transferred so many of her charms, and I did not question but her eldest daughter 40 was within half-a-year of being a toast.’ Io 20 MR. BICKERSTAFF VISITS A FRIEND. 137 We were pleasing ourselves with this fantastical preferment of the young lady, when on a sudden we were alarmed with the noise of a drum, and immediately entered my little godson to give me a point of war". His mother, between laughing and chiding, would have put him out of the room ; but I would not part with him so. I found, upon conversation with him, though he was a little noisy in his mirth, that the child had excellent parts, and was a great master of all the learning on the other side eight years old. I perceived him a very great historian in Esop’s Fables: but he frankly declared to me his mind, ‘that he did not delight in that learning, because he did not believe they were true’; for which reason I found he had very much turned his studies, for about a twelvemonth past, into the lives and adventures of Don Belianis of Greece, Guy of Warwick, the Seven Champions, and other historians of that age™. I could not but observe the satisfaction the father took in the forwardness of his son ; and that these diversions might turn to some profit, I found the boy had made remarks, which might be of service to him during the course of his whole life. He would tell you the mismanagements of John Hickerthrift, find fault with the passionate temper in Bevis of Southampton, and loved Saint George for being the champion of England; and by this means had his thoughts insensibly moulded into the notions of discretion, virtue, and honour. I was extolling his accomplish- ments, when the mother told me, ‘that the little girl who led me in this morning was in her way a better scholar than he. Betty,’ said she, ‘deals chiefly in fairies and sprights ; and sometimes in a winter-night will terrify the maids with her accounts, until they are afraid to go up to bed.’ I sat with them until it was very late, sometimes in merry, sometimes in serious discourse, with this particular pleasure, which gives the only true relish to all conversation, a sense that every one of us liked each other. I went home, considering the different conditions of a married life and that of a bachelor ; and I must confess it struck me with a secret concern, to reflect, that whenever I go off I shall leave no traces behind me. In this pensive mood I returned to my family ; that is to say, to my maid, my dog, and my cat, who only can be the better or worse for what happens to me. Tatler, No. 95.] [November 17, 1709. 138 SOCIAL PAPERS, No. 42. Mr. Bickerstaff vistts a Friend (continued). Ut in vita, sic in studiis, pulcherrimum et humanissimum existimo, severitatem comitatemque miscere, ne illa in tristitiam, hac in petu- lantiam procedat.—PLIN. Epist. I was walking about my chamber this morning in a very gay humour, when I sawa coach stop at my door, and a youth about fifteen alighting out of it, whom I perceived to be the eldest son of my bosom friend that I gave some account of in my ’ paper of the seventeenth of the last month. I felt a sensible Io 20 30 pleasure rising in me at the sight of him, my acquaintance having begun with his father when he was just such a stripling, and about that very age. When he came up to me, he took me by the hand, and burst out in tears. I was extremely moved, and immediately said, ‘Child, how does your father do?’ He began to reply, ‘My mother. > But could not go on for weep- ing. I went down with him into the coach, and gathered out of him, ‘that his mother was then dying, and that, while the holy man was doing the last offices to her, he had taken that time to come and call me to his father, who, he said, would certainly break his heart, if I did not goand comfort him.’ The child’s discretion in coming to me of his own head, and the tenderness he showed for his parents, would have quite over- powered me, had I not resolved to fortify myself for the season- able performances of those duties which I owed to my friend. As we were going, I could not but reflect upon the character of that excellent woman, and the greatness of his grief for the loss of one who has ever been the support to him under all other afflictions. How, thought I, will he be able to bear the hour of her death, that could not, when I was lately with him, speak of a sickness, which was then past, without sorrow! We were now got pretty far into Westminster, and arrived at my friend’s house. At the door of it I met Favonius ®, not without a secret satisfaction to find he had been there. I had formerly con- versed with him at this house; and as he abounds with that sort of virtue and knowledge which makes religion beautiful, and never leads the conversation into the violence and rage of party-disputes, I listened to him with great pleasure. Our MR, BICKERSTAFF VISITS A FRIEND. 139 discourse chanced to be upon the subject of death, which he treated with such a strength of reason, and greatness of soul, that, instead of being terrible, it appeared to a mind rightly cultivated, altogether to be contemned, or rather to be desired. As I met him at the door, I saw in his face a certain glowing of grief and humanity, heightened with an air of fortitude and resolution, which, as I afterwards found, had such an irresistible force, as to suspend the pains of the dying, and the lamentation of the nearest friends who attended her. I went up directly to the room where she lay, and was met at the entrance by my friend, who, notwithstanding his thoughts had been composed a little before, at the sight of me turned away his face and wept. The little family of children renewed the expressions of their sorrow according to their several ages and degrees of understanding. The eldest daughter was in tears, busied in attendance upon her mother; others were kneeling about the bed side ; and what troubled me most was, to see a little boy, who was too young to know the reason, weeping only because his sisters did. The only one in the room who seemed resigned zo and comforted was the dying person. At my approach to the bed side, she told me, with a low broken voice, ‘ This is kindly done—take care of your friend—do not go from him!” She. had before taken leave of her husband and children, in a manner proper for so solemn a parting, and, with a gracefulness peculiar to a woman of her character. My heart was torn in pieces, to see the husband on one side suppressing and keeping down the swellings of his grief, for fear of disturbing her in her last moments ; and the wife, even at that time, concealing the pains she endured, for fear of increasing his affliction. She kept 30 her eyes upon him for some moments after she grew speechless, and soon after closed them for ever. In the moment of her departure, my friend, who had thus far commanded himself, gave a deep groan, and fell into a swoon by her bed side. The distraction of the children, who thought they saw both their parents expiring together, and now lying dead before them, would have melted the hardest heart ; but they soon perceived their father recover, whom I helped to remove into another room, with a resolution to accompany him until the first pangs of his affliction were abated. I knewconsolation would now be 40 impertinent ; and therefore contented myself to sit by him, and I oO 140 SOCIAL PAPERS, condole with him in silence. For I shall here use the method of an ancient author®, who, in one of his epistles, relating the virtues and death of Macrinus’s wife, expresses himself thus : ‘1 shall suspend my advice to this best of friends, until he is made capable of receiving it by those three great remedies— Necessitas thsa, dies longa, et satzetas doloris—the necessity of submission, length of time, and satiety of grief.’ In the mean time, I cannot but consider, with much com- miseration, the melancholy state of one who has had such a 10 part of himself torn from him, and which he misses in every circumstance of life. His condition is like that of one who has lately lost his right arm, and is every moment offering to help himself with it. He does not appear to himself the same person in his house, at his table, in company, or in retirement ; and loses the relish of all the pleasures and diversions that were before entertaining to him by her participation of them. The most agreeable objects recall the sorrow for her with whom he used to enjoy them. This additional satisfaction, from the taste of pleasures in the society of one we love, is admirably described in Milton, who represents Eve, though in Paradise itself, no further pleased with the beautiful objects around her, than as she sees them in company with Adam, in that passage ® so inexpressibly charming: 2 ° With thee conversing, I forget all time ; All seasons, and their change; all please alike. Sweet is the breath of mom, her rising sweet With charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun, When first on this delightful land he spreads His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower 30 Glist’ring with dew ; fragrant the fertile earth After soft showers ; and sweet the coming on Of grateful evening mild ; the silent night, With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, And these the gems of heaven, her starry train. But neither breath of mom when she ascends With charm of earliest birds ; nor rising sun On this delightful land ; nor herb, fruit, flower, Glist’ring with dew ; nor fragrance after showers ; Nor grateful evening mild; nor silent night, 40 With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon, Or glittering star-light, without thee is sweet. The variety of images in this passage is infinitely pleasing, and the recapitulation of each particular image, with a little ON RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD, ETC, 14! varying of the expression, makes one of the finest turns of words that I have ever seen; which I rather mention, because Mr. Dryden has said, in his preface to Juvenal, that he could meet with no turn of words in Milton®. It may be further observed, that though the sweetness of these verses has something in it of a pastoral, yet it excels the ordinary kind, as much as the scene of it is above an ordinary field or meadow. I might here, since I am accidentally led into this subject, show several passages in Milton that have as To excellent turns of this nature as any of our English poets what- soever ; but shall only mention that which follows, in which he describes the fallen angels engaged in the intricate disputes of predestination, free-will, and fore-knowledge ; and, to humour the perplexity, makes a kind of labyrinth in the very words that describe it. Others apart sat on a hill retir’d, In thoughts more elevate, and reason’d high Of Providence, fore-knowledge, will, and fate, Fix’d fate, free-will, fore-knowledge absolute, 20 And found no end, in wand'ring mazes lost. Tatler, No. 114.] [December 31, 1709. No. 43. On Recollections of Childhood, Death of Parents; First Love. Dies, ni fallor, adest, quem semper acerbum, Semper honoratum, sic dii voluistis, habebo. Vire. En. v. 49. There are those among mankind, who can enjoy no relish of their being, except the world is made acquainted with all that relates to them, and think every thing lost that passes unob- served ; but others find a solid delight in stealing by the crowd, and modelling their life after such a manner, as is as much above the approbation as the practice of the vulgar. Life being too short to give instances great enough of true friendship or good will, some sages have thought it pious to preserve a cer- tain reverence for the manes of their deceased friends ; and 30 have withdrawn themselves from the rest of the world at certain Io 20 3 fe} 142 SOCIAL PAPERS, seasons, to commemorate in their own thoughts such of their acquaintance who have gone before them out of this life. And indeed, when we are advanced in years, there is not a more pleasing entertainment, than to recollect in a gloomy moment the many we have parted with, that have been dear and agree- able to us, and to cast a melancholy thought or two after those, with whom, perhaps, we have indulged ourselves in whole nights of mirth and jollity. With such inclinations in my heart I went to my closet yesterday in the evening, and resolved to be sorrow- ful ; upon which occasion I could not but ‘look with disdain upon myself, that though all the reasons which I had to lament the loss of many of my friends are now as forcible as at the moment of their departure, yet did not my heart swell with the same sorrow which I felt at the time; but I could, without tears, reflect upon many pleasing adventures I have had with some, who have long been blended with common earth. Though it is by the benefit of nature, that length of time thus blots out the violence of afflictions ; yet, with tempers too much given to pleasure, it is almost necessary to revive the old places of grief in our memory; and ponder step by step on past life, to lead the mind into that sobriety of thought which poises the heart, and makes it beat with due time, without being quickened with desire, or retarded with despair, from its proper and equal motion. When we wind up a clock that is out of order, to make it go well for the future, we do not immediately set the hand to the present instant, but we make it strike the round of all its hours, before it can recover the regularity of its time. Such, thought I, shall be my method this evening; and since it is that day of the year which I dedicate to the memory of such in another life as I much delighted in when living, an hour or two shall be sacred to sorrow and their memory, while I run over all the melancholy circumstances of this kind which have occurred to me in my whole life. The first sense of sorrow I ever knew was upon the death of my father”, at which time I was not quite five years of age ; but was rather amazed at what all the house meant, than possessed with a real understanding why nobody was willing to play with me. I remember I went into the room where his body lay, and my mother sat weeping alone byit. I had my battledore in my 40 hand, and fell a beating the coffin, and calling Papa ; for, I ON RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD, ETC, 143 know not how, I had some slight idea that he was locked up there. My mother catched me in her arms, and, transported beyond all patience of the silent grief she was before in, she almost smothered me in her embraces ; and told me in a flood of tears, ‘Papa could not hear me, and would play with me no more, for they were going to put him under ground, whence he could never come to us again.’ She was a very beautiful woman, of a noble spirit, and there was a dignity in her grief amidst all the wildness of her transport ; which, methought, struck me 10 with an instinct of sorrow, that, before I was sensible of what it was to grieve, seized my very soul, and has made pity the weak- ness of my heart ever since®, The mind in infancy is, methinks, like the body in embryo ; and receives impressions so forcible, that they are as hard to be removed by reason, as any mark with which a child is born is to be taken away by any future application. Hence it is, that good-nature in me is no merit; but having been so frequently overwhelmed with her tears be- fore I knew the cause of any affliction, or could draw defences from my own judgment, I imbibed commiseration, remorse, and 20 an unmanly gentleness of mind, which has since insnared me into ten thousand calamities ; and from whence I can reap no advantage, except it be, that, in such a humour as I am now in, I can the better indulge myself in the softnesses of humanity, and enjoy that sweet anxiety which arises from the memory of past afflictions. We, that are very old, are better able to remember things which befell us in our distant youth, than the passages of later days. For this reason it is, that the companions of my strong and vigorous years present themselves more immediately to me 30 in this office of sorrow. Untimely and unhappy deaths are what we are most apt to lament; so little are we able to make it indifferent when a thing happens, though we know it must happen. Thus we groan under life, and bewail those who are relieved from it. Every object that returns to our imagination raises different passions, according to the circumstance of their departure. Who can have lived in an army, and in a serious hour reflect upon the many gay and agreeable men that might long have flourished in the arts of peace, and not join with the imprecations of the fatherless and widow on the tyrant to whose 4° ambition they fell sacrifices? But gallant men, who are cut off Io 20 144 SOCIAL PAPERS, by the sword, move rather our veneration than our pity ; and we gather relief enough from their own contempt of death, to make that no evil, which was approached with so much cheer- fulness, and attended with so much honour. But when we turn our thoughts from the great parts of life on such occasions, and instead of lamenting those who stood ready to give death to those from whom they had the fortune to receive it; I say, when we let our thoughts wander from such noble objects, and consider the havock which is made among the tender and the innocent, pity enters with an unmixed softness, and possesses all our souls at once. Here (were there words to express such sentiments with proper tenderness) I should record the beauty, innocence, and untimely death, of the first object" my eyes ever beheld with love. The beauteous virgin! how ignorantly did she charm, how carelessly excel? Oh death! thou hast right to the bold, to the ambitious, to the high, and to the haughty; but why this cruelty to the humble, to the meek, to the undiscerning, to the thoughtless ? Nor age, nor business, nor distress, can erase the dear image from my imagination. In the same week, I saw her dressed for a ball, and ina shroud. How ill did the habit of death become the pretty trifler? I still behold the smiling earth A large train of disasters were coming on to my memory, when my servant knocked at my closet-door, and interrupted me with a letter, attended with a hamper of wine, of the same sort with that which is to be put to sale on Thurs- day next, at Garraway’s coffee-house®. Upon the receipt of it, I sent for three of my friends. We are so intimate, that we can be company in whatever state of mind we meet, and can enter- 30 tain each other without expecting always to rejoice. The wine we found to be generous and warming, but with such a heat as moved us rather to be cheerful than frolicksome. It revived the spirits, without firing the blood. We commended it until two of the clock this morning ; and having to-day met a little before dinner, we found, that though we drank two bottles a man, we had much more reason to recollect than forget what had passed the night before. Tatler, No. 181.] [June 6, 1710. 10 20 30 TO THOSE ABOUT TO MARRY. 145 No. 44. To those about to Marry; Wedding of Jenny Distaf. Felices ter, et amplius, Quos irrupta tenet copula; nec malis Divulsus querimoniis, Suprema citius solvet amor die. Hor. Od. i. 13. 17. My sister Jenny’s lover, the honest Tranquillus, for that shall be his name, has been impatient with me to despatch the necessary direction for his marriage ; that while I am taken up with imaginary schemes, as he calls them, he might not burn with real desire, and the torture of expectation. When I had reprimanded him for the ardour wherein he expressed him- self, which I thought had not enough of that veneration with which the marriage-bed is to be ascended, I told him, ‘the day of his nuptials should be on the Saturday following, which was the eighth instant.’ On the seventh in the evening, poor Jenny came into my chamber, and, having her heart full of the great change of life from a virgin condition to that of a wife, she long sat silent. I saw she expected me to entertain her on this important subject, which was too delicate a circumstance for herself to touch upon ; whereupon I relieved her modesty in the following manner: ‘Sister,’ said I, ‘you are now going from me: and be contented, that you leave the company of a talkative old man, for that of a sober young one: but take this along with you, that there is no mean in the state you are entering into, but you are to be exquisitely happy or miserable, and your fortune in this way of life will be wholly of your own making. In all the marriages I have ever seen, most of which have been unhappy ones, the great cause of evil has proceeded from slight occasions; and I take it to be the first maxim in a married condition, that you are to be above trifles. When two persons have so good an opinion of each other as to come together for life, they will not differ in matters of importance, because they think of each other with respect, in regard to all things of consideration that may affect them, and are prepared for mutual assistance and relief in such occurrences ; but for less occasions, they have formed no resolutions, but leave their minds unprepared. ‘This, dear Jenny, is the reason that the quarrel between Sir L 10 20 40 146 SOCIAL PAPERS. Harry Willit and his lady, which began about her squirrel, is irreconcilable. Sir Harry was reading a grave author; she runs into his study, and in a playing humour, claps the squirrel upon the folio: he threw the animal in a rage upon the floor ; she snatches it up again, calls Sir Harry a sour pedant, without good nature or good manners. This cast him into such a rage, that he threw down the table before him, kicked the book round the room; then recollected himself: ‘Lord, madam,’ said he, ‘why did you run into such expressions? I was,’ said he, ‘in the highest delight with that author, when you clapped your squirrel upon my book ;’ and, smiling, added upon recol- lection, ‘I have a great respect for your favourite, and pray let us all be friends.’ My lady was so far from accepting this apology, that she immediately conceived a resolution to keep him under for ever: and with a serious air replied, ‘ There is no regard to be had to what a man says, who can fall into so indecent a rage, and such an abject submission, in the same moment, for which I absolutely despise you.’ Upon which she rushed out of the room. Sir Harry staid some minutes behind, to think and command himself; after which he followed her into her bed-chamber, where she was prostrate upon the bed, tearing her hair, and naming twenty coxcombs who would have used her otherwise. This provoked him to so high a degree, that he forbore nothing but beating her ; and all the servants in their family were at their several stations listening, whilst the best man and woman, the best master and mistress, defamed each other in a way that is not to be repeated even at Billings- gate. You know this ended in an immediate separation: she longs to return home, but knows not how to do it: he invites her home every day. Her husband requires no submission of her; but she thinks her very return will argue she is to blame, which she is resolved to be for ever, rather than ac- knowledge it. Thus, dear Jenny, my great advice to you is, be guarded against giving or receiving little provocations. Great matters of offence I have no reason to fear either from you or your husband.’ After this, we turned our discourse into a more gay style, and parted: but before we did so, I made her resign her snuff-box” for ever, and half drown herself with washing away the stench of the musty”. Io 20 40 TO THOSE ABOUT TO MARRY, 147 But the wedding morning arrived, and our family being very numerous, there was no avoiding the inconvenience of making the ceremony and festival more public, than the modern way of celebrating them makes me approve of. The bride next morning came out of her chamber, dressed with all the art and care that Mrs. Toilet, the tire-woman, could bestow on her. She was on her wedding-day three-and-twenty; her person is far from what we call a regular beauty; but a certain sweetness in her countenance, an ease in her shape and motion, with an unaffected modesty in her looks, had attractions beyond what symmetry and exactness can inspire, without the addition of these endowments. When her lover entered the room, her features flushed with shame and joy; and the ingenious man- ner, so full of passion and of awe, with which Tranquillus approached to salute her, gave me good omens of his future behaviour towards her. The wedding was wholly under my care. After the ceremony at church, I was resolved to enter- tain the company with a dinner suitable to the occasion, and pitched upon the Apollo” at the Old-Devil at Temple-bar, as a place sacred to mirth tempered with discretion, where Ben Jonson and his sons used to make their liberal meetings. Here the chief of the Staffian race appeared; and as soon as the company were come into that ample room, Lepidus Wagstaff began to make me compliments for choosing that place, and fell into a discourse upon the subject of pleasure and entertain- ment, drawn from the rules of Ben’s club, which are in gold letters over the chimney. Lepidus has a way very uncommon, and speaks on subjects on which any man else would certainly offend, with great dexterity. He gave us a large account of the public meetings of all the well-turned minds who had passed through this life in ages past, and closed his pleasing narrative with a discourse on marriage, and a repetition of the following verses out of Milton? :— Hail, wedded love! mysterious law! true source Of human offspring, sole propriety In Paradise, of all things common else. By thee adulterous lust was driven from men Among the bestial herds to range ; by thee Founded in reason, loyal, just, and pure, Relations dear, and all the charities Of father, son, and brother, first were known... L2 Io 20 148 SOCIAL PAPERS. Perpetual fountain of domestic sweets Whose bed is undefiled and chaste pronounced, Present or past, as saints and patriarchs used. Here Love his golden shafts employs ; here lights His constant lamp, and waves his purple wings : Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile Of harlots, loveless, joyless, unendeared, Casual fruition; nor in court amours, Mixed dance, or wanton mask, or midnight ball, Or serenade, which the starved lover sings To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain. In these verses, all the images that can come into a young woman’s head on such an occasion are raised ; but that in so chaste and elegant a manner, that the bride thanked him for his agreeable talk, and we sat down to dinner.... Tatler, No. 79.] [October 11, 1709. No. 45. A Matrimonial Quarrel, Character of Tim Dapper. My brother Tranquillus, who is a man of business, came to me this morning into my study, and after very many civil ex- pressions in return for what good offices I had done him, told me ‘he desired to carry his wife, my sister, that very morning to his own house.’ I readily told him, ‘I would wait upon him,’ without asking why he was so impatient to rob us of his good company. He went out of my chamber, and I thought seemed to have a little heaviness upon him, which gave me some dis- quiet. Soon after, my sister came to me, with a very matron- like air, and most sedate satisfaction in her looks, which spoke her very much at ease; but the traces of her countenance seemed to discover that she had been lately in a passion, and that air of content to flow from a certain triumph upon some advantage obtained. She no sooner sat down by me, but I perceived she: was one of those ladies who begin to be managers within the time of their being brides. Without letting her speak, which I saw she had a mighty inclination to do, I said, ‘Here has been your husband, who tells me he has a mind to go home this very morning, and I have consented to it.’ ‘It is well,’ said she, ‘ for you must know—’ ‘Nay, Jenny,’ said I, ‘I beg your pardon, A MATRIMONIAL QUARREL, 149 for it is you must know—You are to understand, that now is the time to fix or alienate your husband’s heart for ever ; and I fear you have been a little indiscreet in your expressions or behaviour towards him, even here in my house.’ ‘ There has,’ says she, ‘been some words: but I will be judged by you if he was not in the wrong: nay, I need not be judged by any body, for he gave it up himself, and said not a word when he saw me grow passionate, but, ‘“ Madam, you are perfectly in the right of it :” as you shall judge—’ ‘Nay, madam,’ said I, ‘I am judge 10 already, and tell you, that you are perfectly in the wrong of it ; for if it was a matter of importance, I know he has better sense than you ; if a trifle, you know what IJ told you on your wedding- day, that you were to be above little provocations.’ She knows very well I can be sour upon occasion, therefore gave me leave to go on. ‘Sister,’ said I, ‘I will not enter into the dispute between you, which I find his prudence put an end to before it came to ex- tremity ; but charge you to have a care of the first quarrel, as you tender your happiness"; for then it is that the mind will 20 reflect harshly upon every circumstance that has ever passed between you. If such an accident is ever to happen, which I hope never will, be sure to keep to the circumstance before you ; make no allusions to what is passed, or conclusions referring to what is to come: do not show a hoard of matter for dissen- sion in your breast ; but, if it is necessary, lay before him the thing as you understand it, candidly, without being ashamed of acknowledging an error, or proud of being in the right. If a young couple be not careful in this point, they will get into a habit of wrangling: and when to displease is thought of no 30 consequence, to please is always of as little moment. There is a play, Jenny, I have formerly been at when I was a student: we got into a dark corner with a porringer of brandy, and threw raisins into it, then set it on fire. My chamber-fellow and I diverted ourselves with the sport of venturing our fingers for the raisins ; and the wantonness of the thing was, to see each other look like a demon, as we burnt ourselves, and snatched out the fruit. This fantastical mirth was called snap-dragon. You may go into many a family, where you see the man and wife at this sport: every word at their table alludes to some 40 passage between themselves ; and you see by the paleness and I fo) 20 150 SOCIAL PAPERS, emotion in their countenances, that it is for your sake, and not their own, that they forbear playing out the whole game of burning each other’s fingers. In this case, the whole purpose of life is inverted, and the ambition turns upon a certain conten- tion, who shall contradict best, and not upon an inclination to excel in kindness and good offices. Therefore, dear Jenny, remember me, and avoid snap-dragon,’ ‘I thank you, brother,’ said she, ‘ but you do not know how he loves me; I find I can do anything with him.’—‘ If you can so, why should you desire to do any thing but please him? but I have a word or two more before you go out of the room ; for I see you do not like the subject I am upon: let nothing pro- voke you to fall upon an imperfection he cannot help ; for, if he has a resenting spirit, he will think your aversion as immove- able as the imperfection with which you upbraid him. But above all, dear Jenny, be careful of one thing, and you will be something more than woman; that is, a levity you are almost all guilty of, which is, to take a pleasure in your power to give pain. It is even in a mistress an argument of meanness of spirit, but in a wife it is injustice and ingratitude. When a sensible man once observes this in a woman, he must have a very great or very little spirit, to overlook it. A woman ought, therefore, to consider very often, how few men there are who will regard a meditated offence as a weakness of temper.’ Iwas going on in my confabulation, when Tranquillus en- tered. She cast all her eyes upon him with much shame and confusion, mixed with great complacency and love, and went up to him. He took her in his arms, and looked so many soft things at one glance, that I could see he was glad I had been talking to her, sorry she had been troubled, and angry at him- self that he could not disguise the concern he was in an hour before. After which, he says to me, with an air awkward enough, but methought not unbecoming—‘I have altered my mind, brother ; we will live upon you a day or two longer.’ I replied, ‘That is what I have been persuading Jenny to ask of you, but she is resolved never to contradict your inclination, and refused me.’ We were going on in that way which one hardly knows how to express ; as when two people mean the same thing in a nice 40 case, but come at it by talking as distantly from it as they can; 10 2 ° 30 A MATRIMONIAL QUARREL, 151 when very opportunely came in upon us an honest inconsider- able fellow, Tim Dapper, a gentleman well known to us both. Tim is one of those who are very necessary, by being very in- considerable. Tim dropped in at an incident, when we knew not how to fall into either a grave or a merry way. My sister ‘took this occasion to make off, and Dapper gave us an account of all the company he had been in to-day, who was, and who was not at home, where he visited. This Tim is the head of a species : he is alittle out of his element in this town; but he is a relation of Tranquillus, and his neighbour in the country, which is the true place of residence for this species. The habit of a Dapper, when he is at home, is a light broad cloth, with calamanco® or red waistcoat and breeches; and it is remarkable, that their wigs seldom hide the collar of their coats. They have always a peculiar spring in their arms, a wriggle in their bodies, and a trip in their gait. All which motions they express at once in their drinking, bowing, or saluting ladies ; for a dis- tant imitation of a forward fop, and a resolution to overtop him in his way, are the distinguishing marks of a Dapper. These under-characters of men, are parts of the sociable world by no means to be neglected: they are like pegs in a building ; they make no figure in it, but hold the structure together, and are as absolutely necessary as the pillars and columns. I am sure we found it so this morning ; for Tranquillus and I should, perhaps, have looked cold at each other the whole day, but Dapper fell in with his brisk way, shook us both by the hand, rallied the bride, mistook the acceptance he met with amongst us for ex- traordinary perfection in himself, and heartily pleased, and was pleased, all the while he staid. His company left us all in good humour, and we were not such fools as to let it sink, before we confirmed it by great cheerfulness and openness in our carriage the whole evening. Tatler, No. 85.] [October 24, 1709. 10 20 30 152 ' SOCIAL PAPERS, No. 46. On Conjugal Happiness; and some old Love Letters. Garrit aniles Ex re fabellas. Tor. ii. Sat. vi. 77. My brother Tranquillus being gone out of town for some days, my sister Jenny sent me word she would come and dine with me, and therefore desired me to have no other company. I took care accordingly, and was not a little pleased to see her enter the room with a decent and matron-like behaviour, which I thought very much became her. I saw she had a great deal to say to me, and easily discovered in her eyes, and the air of her countenance, that she had abundance of satisfaction in her heart, which she longed to communicate. However, I was re- solved to let her break into her discourse her own way, and reduced her to a thousand little devices and intimations to bring me to the mention of her husband. But, finding I was resolved not to name him, she began of her own accord. ‘ My husband,’ said she, ‘gives his humble service to you,’ to which I only answered, ‘I hope he is well ;? and, without waiting for a reply, fell into other subjects. She at last was out of all patience, and said, with a smile and manner that I thought had more beauty and spirit than I had ever observed before in her, ‘I did not think, brother, you had been so ill-natured. You have seen, ever since I came in, that I had a mind to talk of my husband, and you will not be so kind as to give me an occasion.’—‘I did not know,’ said I, ‘but it might be a disagreeable subject to you. You do not take me for so old-fashioned a fellow as to think of entertaining a young lady with the discourse of her husband. I know nothing is more acceptable than to speak of one who is to be so, but to speak of one who is so! indeed, Jenny, I am a better bred man than you think me.’ She showed a little dislike at my raillery; and, by her bridling up, I perceived she expected to be treated hereafter not as Jenny Distaff, but Mrs. Tranquillus. I was very well pleased with this change in her humour; and, upon talking with her on several subjects, I could not but fancy that I saw a great deal of her husband’s way and manner in her remarks, her phrases, the tone of her voice, and the very air of her coun- ON CON}UGAL HAPPINESS. 153 tenance. This gave me an unspeakable satisfaction, not only because I had found her a husband from whom she could learn many things that were laudable, but also because I looked upon her imitation of him as an infallible sign that she entirely loved him. This is an observation that I never knew fail, though I do not remember that any other has made it. The natural shyness of her sex hindered her from telling me the greatness of her own passion; but I easily collected it from the repre- sentation she gave me of his. ‘I have every thing, says she, 10 ‘in Tranquillus, that I can wish for; and enjoy in him, what indeed you have told me were to be met with in a good husband, the fondness of a lover, the tenderness of a parent, and the intimacy of a friend.’ It transported me to see her eyes swimming in tears of affection when she spoke. ‘And is there not, dear sister,’ said I, ‘more pleasure in the possession of such a man, than in all the little impertinencies of balls, assemblies, and equipage, which it cost me so much pains to make you contemn?’ She answered, smiling, ‘Tranquillus has made me a sincere convert in a few weeks, though I am afraid 20 you could not have done it in your whole life. To tell you truly, I have only one fear hanging upon me, which is apt to give me trouble in the midst of all my satisfactions: I am afraid, you must know, that I shall not always make the same amiable appearance in his eye that I do at present. You know, brother Bickerstaff, that you have the reputation of a conjurer?; and, if you have any one secret in your art to make your sister always beautiful, I should be happier than if I were mistress of all the worlds you have shown me in a starry night——’ ‘Jenny,’ said I, ‘without having recourse to magic, I shall give you one 30 plain rule, that will not fail of making you always amiable to a man who has so great a passion for you, and is of so equal and reasonable a temper as Tranquillus. Endeavour to please, and you must please ; be always in the same disposition as you are when you ask for this secret, and you may take my word, you will never want it. An inviolable fidelity, good humour, and complacency of temper, out-live all the charms of a fine face, and make the decays of it invisible.’ We discoursed very long upon this head, which was equally agreeable to us both; for, I must confess, as 1 tenderly love 40 her, I take as much pleasure in giving her instructions for her 154 SOCIAL PAPERS. welfare, as she herself does in receiving them. I proceeded, therefore, to inculcate these sentiments, by relating a very particular passage that happened within my own knowledge. There were several of us making merry at a friend’s house in a country village, when the sexton of the parish church entered the room in a sort of surprise, and told us, ‘that as he was digging a grave in the chancel, a little blow of his pick-axe opened a decayed coffin, in which there were several written papers.’ Our curiosity was immediately raised, so that we 10 went to the place where the sexton had been at work, and found a great concourse of people about the grave. Among the rest, there was an old woman, who told us, the person buried there was a lady” whose name I do not think fit to mention, though there is nothing in the story but what tends very much to her honour. This lady lived several years an exemplary pattern of conjugal love, and, dying soon after her husband, who every way answered her character in virtue and affection, made it her death-bed request, ‘that all the letters which she had received from him, both before and after her marriage, should be buried in the coffin with her.’ These, I found upon examination, were the papers before us. Several of them had suffered so much by time, that I could only pick out a few words; as “my soul! lilies! roses! dearest angel!” and the like. One of them, which was legible throughout, ran thus, ‘MADAM, ‘If you would know the greatness of my love, consider that of your own beauty. That blooming countenance, that snowy bosom, that graceful person, return every moment to my imagin- 30 ation; the brightness of your eyes hath hindered me from closing mine since I last saw you. You may still add to your beauties by a smile. A frown will make me the most wretched of men, as I am the most passionate of lovers.’ It filled the whole company with a deep melancholy, to compare the description of the letter with the person that oc- casioned it, who was now reduced to a few crumbling bones, and a little mouldering heap of earth, With much ado I deciphered another letter, which began with, ‘My dear, dear wife” This gave me a curiosity to see how the style of one 40 written in marriage differed from one written in courtship. To bb oO Io 20 MR. BICKERSTAFF’S THREE NEPHEWS. 155 my surprise, I found the fondness rather augmented than lessened, though the panegyric turned upon a different ac- complishment. The words were as follow: ‘Before this short absence from you, I did not know that I loved you so much as I really do; though, at the same time, I thought I loved you as much as possible. I am under great apprehension, lest you should have any uneasiness whilst I am defrauded of my share in it, and cannot think of tasting any pleasures that you do not partake with me. Pray, my dear, be careful of your health, if for no other reason, but because you know I could not outlive you. It is natural in absence to make professions of an inviolable constancy ; but towards so much merit, it is scarce a virtue, especially when it is but a bare return to that of which you have given me such continued proofs ever since our first acquaintance. I am, &c.’ It happened that the daughter of these two excellent persons was by when I was reading this letter. At the sight of the coffin, in which was the body of her mother, near that of her father, she melted into a flood of tears. As I had heard a great character of her virtue, and observed in her this instance of filial piety, I could not resist my natural inclination of giving advice to young people, and therefore addressed myself to her. *Young lady,’ said I, ‘you see how short is the possession of that beauty, in which nature has been so liberal to you. You find the melancholy sight before you is a contradiction to the first letter that you heard on that subject ; whereas, you may observe, the second letter, which celebrates your mother’s con- stancy, is itself, being found in this place, an argument of it. But, madam, I ought to caution you, not to think the bodies that lie before you your father and your mother. Know, their constancy is rewarded by a nobler union than by this mingling of their ashes, in a state where there is no danger or possibility of a second separation.’ Tatler, No. 104.] [December 8, 1709. No. 47. Mr. Bickerstaff’’s three nephews ; Character of Will Courtly. The vigilance, the anxiety, the tenderness, which I have for the good people of England, I am persuaded, will in time be Io 20 156 SOCIAL PAPERS. much commended; but I doubt whether they will be ever rewarded. However, I must go on cheerfully in my work of reformation: that being my great design, I am studious to prevent my labour’s increasing upon me; therefore am par- ticularly observant of the temper and inclinations of childhood and youth, that we may not give vice and folly supplies from the growing generation. It is hardly to be imagined how use- ful this study is, and what great evils or benefits arise from putting us in our tender years to what we are fit and unfit : therefore, on Tuesday last (with a design to sound their in- clinations) I took three lads, who are under my guardianship, a-rambling in a hackney-coach, to show them the town; as the lions, the tombs, Bedlam2, and the other places which are entertainments to raw minds, because they strike forcibly on the fancy. The boys are brothers, one of sixteen, the other of fourteen, the other of twelve. The first was his father’s darling, the second his mother’s, and the third mine, who am their uncle. Mr. William is a lad of true genius; but, being at the upper end of a great school, and having all the boys below him, his arrogance is insupportable. If I begin to show a little of my Latin, he immediately interrupts: ‘Uncle, under favour, that which you say, is not understood in that manner.’ ‘Brother,’ says my boy Jack, ‘you do not show your manners much in con- tradicting my uncle Isaac!’ ‘ You queer cur,’ says Mr. William, ‘do you think my uncle takes any notice of such a dull rogue as you are?’ Mr. William goes on, ‘ He is the most stupid of all my mother’s children: he knows nothing of his book: when he should mind that, he is hiding or hoarding his taws and marbles, or laying up farthings. His way of thinking is, four- and-twenty farthings make sixpence, and two sixpences a shilling ; two shillings and sixpence half-a-crown, and two half-crowns five shillings. So within these two months the close hunks has scraped up twenty shillings, and we will make him spend it all before he comes home.’ Jack immediately claps his hands into both pockets, and turns as pale as ashes. There is nothing touches a parent (and such I am to Jack) so nearly as a provident conduct. This lad has in him the true temper for a good husband, a kind father, and an honest executor. All the great people you see make considerable figures on the 40 exchange, in court, and sometimes in senates, are such as in MR. BICKERSTAFF’S THREE NEPHEWS. 157 reality have no greater faculty than what may be called human instinct, which is a natural tendency to their own preservation, and that of their friends, without being capable of striking out the road for adventurers. There is Sir William Scrip was of this sort of capacity from his childhood; he has bought the country round him, and makes a bargain better than Sir Harry Wildfire, with all his wit and humour. Sir Harry never wants money but he comes to Scrip, laughs at him half an hour, and then gives bond for the other thousand. The close men are 10 incapable of placing merit any where but in their pence, and therefore gain it; while others, who have larger capacities, are diverted from the pursuit by enjoyments which can be sup- ported only by that cash which they despise ; and, therefore, are in the end slaves to their inferiors both in fortune and understanding. I once heard a man of excellent sense observe, that more affairs in the world failed by being in the hands of men of too large capacities for their business, than by being in the conduct of such as wanted abilities to execute them. Jack, therefore, being of a plodding make, shall be a citizen: and I 20 design him to be the refuge of the family in their distress, as well as their jest in prosperity. His brother Will shall go to Oxford with all speed, where, if he does not arrive at being a man of sense, he will soon be informed wherein he is a cox- comb, There is in that place such a true spirit of raillery and humour, that if they cannot make you a wise man, they will certainly let you know you are a fool; which is all my cousin wants, to cease to be so. Thus, having taken these two out of the way, I have leisure to look at my third lad. I observe in the young rogue a natural subtilty of mind, which discovers 30 itself rather in forbearing to declare his thoughts on any occa- sion, than in any visible way of exerting himself in discourse. For which reason I will place him, where, if he commits no faults, he may go farther than those in other stations, though they excel in virtues. The boy is well-fashioned, and will easily fall into a graceful manner ; wherefore, I have a design to make him a page to a great lady of my acquaintance; by which means he will be well skilled in the common modes of life, and make a greater progress in the world by that know- ledge, than with the greatest qualities without it. A good mien 40 in a court, will carry a man greater lengths than a good under- 10 20 158 SOCIAL PAPERS. standing in any other place. We see a world of pains taken, and the best years of life spent in collecting a set of thoughts in a college for the conduct of life, and, after all, the man so qualified shall hesitate in a speech to a good suit of clothes, and want common sense before an agreeable woman. Hence it is, that wisdom, valour, justice, and learning, cannot keep a man in countenance that is possessed with these excellencies, if he wants that inferior art of life and behaviour, called good- breeding. A man endowed with great perfections, without this, is like one who has his pockets full of gold, but always wants change for his ordinary occasions. Will Courtly is a living instance of this truth, and has had the same education which I am giving my nephew. He never spoke a thing but what was said before, and yet can converse with the wittiest men without being ridiculous. Among the learned, he does not appear ignorant; nor with the wise, indiscreet. Living in conversation from his infancy, makes him no where at a loss; and a long familiarity with the per- sons of men, is, in a manner, of the same service to him, as if he knew their arts. As ceremony is the invention of wise men to keep fools at a distance, so good-breeding is an expedient to make fools and wise men equals. Tatler, No. 30.] [June 16, 1709. No. 48. Mr. Bickerstaff entertains his three nephews and a young lady. Having yesterday morning received a paper of Latin verses, written with very much elegance in honour of these my papers, and being informed at the same time, that they were composed by a youth under age, I read them with much delight, as an instance of his improvement. There is not a greater pleasure to old age, than seeing young people entertain themselves in such a man- ner as that we can partake of their enjoyments, On such occasions we flatter ourselves, that we are not quite laid aside in the world ; but that we are either used with gratitude for what we were, or honoured for what we are. A well-inclined young man, and whose good-breeding is founded upon the 10 20 30 40 MR, BICKERSTAFF ENTERTAINS HIS NEPHE WS, ETC. 159 principles of nature and virtue, must needs take delight in being agreeable to his elders, as we are truly delighted when we are not the jest of them. When I say this, I must confess I cannot but think it a very lamentable thing, that there should be a necessity for making that a rule of life, which should be, methinks, a mere instinct of nature. If reflection upon a man in poverty, whom we once knew in riches, is an argument of commiseration with generous minds ; sure old age, which is a decay from that vigour which the young possess, and must certainly, if not prevented against their will, arrive at, should be more forcibly the object of that reverence which honest spirits are inclined to, from a sense of being themselves liable to what they observe has already overtaken others. My three nephews, whom, in June last was twelvemonth, I disposed of according to their several capacities and inclina- tions; the first to the university, the second to a merchant, and the third to a woman of quality as her page, by my invitation dined with me to-day. It is my custom often, when I have a mind to give myself a more than ordinary cheerfulness, to invite a certain young gentlewoman of our neighbourhood to make one of the company. She did me that favour this day. The presence of a beautiful woman of honour, to minds which are not trivially disposed, displays an alacrity which is not to be communicated by any other object. It was not unpleasant to me, to look into her thoughts of the company she was in. She smiled at the party of pleasure I had thought of for her, which was composed of an old man and three boys. My scholar, my citizen, and myself, were very soon neglected ; and the young courtier, by the bow he made to her at her entrance, engaged her observation without a rival. I observed the Oxonian not a little discomposed at this preference, while the trader kept his eye upon his uncle. My nephew Will had a thousand secret resolutions to break in upon the discourse of his younger brother, who gave my fair companion a full account of the fashion, and what was reckoned most becoming to this complexion, and what sort of habit appeared best upon the other shape. He proceeded to acquaint her, who of quality was well or sick within the bills of mortality, and named very familiarly all his lady’s acquaint- ance, not forgetting her very words when he spoke of their characters. Besides all this, he had a road of flattery; and 160 SOCIAL PAPERS. upon her enquiring, what sort of woman lady Lovely was in her person, ‘Really, madam,’ says the Jackanapes, ‘she is exactly of your height and shape; but, as you are fair, she is a brown woman.’ There was no enduring that this fop should outshine us all at this unmerciful rate ; therefore I thought fit to talk to my young scholar concerning his studies ; and, because I would throw his learning into present service, I desired him to repeat to me the translation he had made of some tender verses in Theocritus. He did so, with an air of elegance peculiar to the 10 college to which I sent him. I made some exceptions to the turn of the phrases ; which he defended with much modesty, as believing in that place the matter was rather to consult the soft- ness of a swain’s passion, than the strength of his expressions. It soon appeared that Will had out-stripped his brother in the opinion of our young lady. A little poetry to one who is bred a scholar, has the same effect that a good carriage of his person has on one who is to live in courts. The favour of women is so natural a passion, that I envied both the boys their success in the approbation of my guest ; and I thought the only person invulnerable was my young trader. During the whole meal, I could observe in the children a mutual contempt and scorn of each other, arising from their different way of life and educa- tion, and took that occasion to advertise them of such growing distastes ; which might mislead them in their future life, and disappoint their friends, as well as themselves, of the advan- tages, which might be expected from the diversity of their pro- fessions and interests. The prejudices, which are growing up between these brothers from the different ways of education, are what create the most 30 fatal misunderstandings in life. But all distinctions of disparage- ment, merely from our circumstances, are such as will not bear the examination of reason. The courtier, the trader, and the scholar, should all have an equal pretension to the denomina- tion of a gentleman. That tradesman, who deals with me ina commodity which I do not understand, with uprightness, has much more right to that character, than the courtier that gives me false hopes, or the scholar who laughs at my ignorance. The appellation of gentleman is never to be affixed to a man’s circumstances, but to his behaviour in them. For this reason I 40 Shall ever, as far as I am able, give my nephews such impres- 2 ° ON PARENTAL PARTIALITY, 161 sions as shall make them value themselves rather as they are useful to others, than as they are conscious of merit in them- selves, There are no qualities for which we ought to pretend to the esteem of others, but such as render us serviceable to them: for ‘free men have no superiors but benefactors. .. .’ Tatler, No. 207.] [August 5, 1710. No. 49. Ox Parental Partiality. Scit Genius, natale comes qui temperat astrum. Hor. Ep. ii. 2, 187. Among those inclinations which are common to all men, there is none more unaccountable than that unequal love by which parents distinguish their children from each other. Sometimes vanity and self-love appear to have a share towards 10 this effect; and in other instances I have been apt to attribute it to mere instinct: but, however that is, we frequently see the child, that has been beholden to neither of these impulses in his parents, in spite of being neglected, snubbed, and thwarted at home, acquire a behaviour which makes him as agreeable to all the rest of the world, as that of every one else of their family is to each other. I fell into this way of thinking from an inti- macy which I have with a very good house in our neighbour- hood, where there are three daughters of a very different character and genius. The eldest has a great deal of wit 20 and cunning; the second has good sense, but no artifice ; the third has much vivacity, but little understanding. The first is a fine, but scornful woman; the second is not charming, but very winning; the third is no way commendable, but very desirable. The father of these young creatures was ever a great pretender to wit, the mother a woman of as much coquetry. ‘This turn in the parents has biassed their affections towards their children. ‘The old man supposes the eldest of his own genius ; and the mother looks upon the youngest as herself renewed. By this means, all the lovers who approach 30 the house are discarded by the father for not observing Mrs, Mary’s wit and beauty"; and by the mother, for being blind to M Io 20 4c 162 SOCIAL PAPERS. the mien and air of Mrs. Biddy. Come never so many pre- tenders, they are not suspected to have the least thought of Mrs. Betty, the middle daughter. Betty, therefore, is mortified into a woman of a great deal of merit, and knows she must depend on that for her advancement. The middlemost is thus the favourite of all her acquaintance, as well as mine ; while the other two carry a certain insolence about them in all con- versations, and expect the partiality which they meet with at home to attend them wherever they appear. So little do parents understand that they are, of all people, the least judges of their children’s merit, that what they reckon such is seldom any thing else but a repetition of their own faults and infirmities. There is, methinks, some excuse for being particular, when one of the offspring has any defect in nature. In this case, the child, if we may so speak, is so much longer the child of its parents, and calls for the continuance of their care and indul- gence from the slowness of its capacity, or the weakness of its body. But there is no enduring to see men enamoured only at the sight of their own impertinencies repeated, and to observe, as we may sometimes, that they have a secret dislike of their children for a degeneracy from their very crimes. Commend me to Lady Goodly; she is equal to all her own children, but prefers them to those of all the world beside. My lady is a perfect hen in the care of her brood; she fights and squabbles with all that appear where they come, but is wholly unbiassed in dispensing her favours among them. It is no small pains she is at to defame all the young women in her neighbourhood, by visits, whispers, intimations, and hearsays; all which she ends with thanking heaven, ‘that no one living is so blessed with such obedient and well-inclined children as herself. Perhaps,’ she says, ‘ Betty cannot dance like Mrs. Frontinet, and it is no great matter whether she does or not; but she comes into a room with a good grace; though she says it that should not, she looks like a gentlewoman. Then, if Mrs. Rebecca is not so talkative as the mighty wit Mrs. Clapper, yet she is discreet, she knows. better what she says when she does speak. If her. wit be slow, her tongue never runs before it.’ This kind parent lifts up her eyes and hands in congratulation of her own good fortune, and is maliciously thankful that none of her girls are like any of her neighbours ; but this preference 10 20 40 ON PARENTAL PARTIALITY. 163 of her own to all others is grounded upon an impulse of nature ; while those, who like one before another cf their own are so unpardonably unjust, that it could hardly be equalled in the children, though they preferred all the rest of the world to such parents. It is no unpleasant entertainment to see a ball at a dancing-school, and observe the joy of relations when the young ones, for whom they are concerned, are in motion. You need not be told whom the dancers belong to. At their first appearance, the passions of their parents are in their faces, and there is always a nod of approbation stolen at a good step or a graceful turn. I remember, among all my acquaintance, but one man” whom I have thought -to live with his children with equanimity and a good grace. He had three sons and one daughter, whom he bred with all the care imaginable in a liberal and ingenuous way. I have often heard him say, ‘he had the weakness to love one much better than the other, but that he took as much pains to correct that as any other criminal passion that could arise in his mind.’ His method was, to make it the only pre- tension in his children to his favour, to be kind to each other ; and he would tell them, ‘that he who was the best brother, he would reckon the best son.’ This turned their thoughts into an emulation for the superiority in kind and tender affection towards each other. The boys behaved themselves very early with a manly friendship ; and their sister, instead of the gross familiarities, and impertinent freedoms in behaviour usual in other houses, was always treated by them with as much com- plaisance as any other young lady of their acquaintance. It was an unspeakable pleasure to visit, or sit at a meal, in that family. I have often seen the old man’s heart flow at his eyes with joy, upon occasions which would appear indifferent to such as were strangers to the turn of his mind; but a very slight accident, wherein he saw his children’s good-will to one another, created in him the god-like pleasure of loving them because they loved each other. This great command of him- self, in hiding his first impulse to partiality, at last improved to a steady justice towards them ; and that, which at first was but an expedient to correct his weakness, was afterwards the mea- sure of his virtue. The truth of it is, those parents who are interested in the M2 10 20 30 164 SOCIAL PAPERS. care of one child more than that of another, no longer deserve the name of parents, but are, in effect, as childish as their children, in having such unreasonable and ungoverned inclina- tions. A father of this sort has degraded himself into one of his own offspring ; for none but a child would take part in the passions of children. Tatler, No. 235.] [October 10, 1710. No. 50. Ox the Relations of Parents and Children, Letter Jrom a Mother to her Son. Gratulor quod eum quem necesse erat diligere, qualiscunque esset, talem habemus ut libenter quoque diligamus.—TREBONIUS apud TULL. “MR. SPECTATOR, ‘Iam the happy father of a very towardly son, in whom I do not only see my life, but also my manner of life, renewed. It would be extremely beneficial to society, if you would fre- quently resume subjects which serve to bind these sort of relations faster, and endear the ties of blood with those of good-will, protection, observance, indulgence, and veneration. I would, methinks, have this done after an uncommon method, and do not think any one, who is not capable of writing a good play, fit to undertake a work wherein there will necessarily occur so many secret instincts, and biasses of human nature which would pass unobserved by common eyes. I thank Heaven I have no outrageous offence against my own excel- lent parents to answer for; but when I am now and then alone, and look back upon my past life, from my earliest infancy to this time, there are many faults which I committed that did not appear to me, even until I] myself became a father. I had not until then a notion of the yearnings of heart, which a man has when he sees his child do a laudable thing, or the sudden damp which seizes him when he fears he will act some- thing unworthy. It is not to be imagined what a remorse touched me for a long train of childish negligences of my mother, when I saw my wife the other day look out of the window, and turn as pale as ashes upon seeing my younger boy sliding upon the ice. These slight intimations will give Io 20 30 40 ON THE RELATIONS OF PARENTS AND CHILDREN. 165 you to understand, that there are numberless little crimes which children take no notice of while they are doing, which, upon reflection, when they shall themselves become fathers, they will look upon with the utmost sorrow and contrition, that they did not regard before those whom they offended were to be no more seen. How many thousand things do I re- member which would have highly pleased my father, and I omitted for no other reason, but that I thought what he proposed the effect of humour and old age, which I am now convinced had reason and good sense init. I cannot now go into the parlour to him, and make his heart glad with an account of a matter which was of no consequence, but that I told it, and acted in it. The good man and woman are long since in their graves, who used to sit and plot the welfare of us their children, while, perhaps, we were sometimes laugh- ing at the old folks, at another end of the house. The truth of it is, were we merely to follow nature in these great duties of life, though we have a strong instinct towards the performing of them, we should be on both sides very deficient. Age is so unwelcome to the generality of mankind, and growth towards manhood so desirable to all, that resignation to decay is too difficult a task in the father ; and deference, amidst the impulse of gay desires, appears unreasonable to the son. There are so few who can grow old with a good grace, and yet fewer who can come slow enough into the world, that a father, were he to be actuated by his desires, and a son, were he to consult himself only, could neither of them behave himself as he ought to the other. But when reason interposes against instinct, where it would carry either out of the interests of the other, there arises that happiest intercourse of good offices between those dearest relations of human life. The father, according to the oppor- tunities which are offered to him, is throwing down blessings on the son, and the son endeavouring to appear the worthy off- spring of such a father. It is after this manner that Camillus and his first-born dwell together. Camillus enjoys a pleasing and indolent old age, in which passion is subdued, and reason exalted. He waits the day of his dissolution with a resignation mixed with delight; and the son fears the accession of his father’s fortune with diffidence, lest he should not enjoy or become it as well as his predecessor. Add to this, that the I o 2 oO 4o 166 SOCIAL PAPERS. father knows he leaves a friend to the children of his friends, an easy landlord to his tenants, and'an agreeable companion to his acquaintance. He believes his son’s behaviour will make him frequently remembered, but never wanted. This com- merce is so well cemented, that without the pomp of saying, “Son, be a friend to such-a-one when I am gone,” Camillus knows being in his favour is direction enough to the grateful youth who is to succeed him, without the admonition of his mentioning it. These gentlemen are honoured in all their neighbourhood, and the same effect which the court has on the manners of a kingdom, their characters have on all who live within the influence of them. ‘My son and I are not of fortune to communicate our good actions or intentions to so many as these gentlemen do ; but I will be bold to say, my son has, by the applause and approba- tion which his behaviour towards me has gained him, occasioned that many an old man besides myself has rejoiced. Other men’s children follow the example of mine, and I have the inexpressible happiness of overhearing our neighbours, as we ride by, point to their children, and say, with a voice of joy, “ There they go.” ‘You cannot, Mr. Spectator, pass your time better than in insinuating the delights which those relations, well regarded, bestow upon each other. Ordinary passages are no longer such, but mutual love gives an importance to the most indif- ferent things, and a merit to actions the most insignificant. When we look round the world, and observe the many mis- understandings which are created by the malice and insinuation of the meanest servants between people thus related, how necessary will it appear that it were inculcated, that men would be upon their guard to support a constancy of affection, and that grounded upon the principles of reason, not the impulses of instinct. ‘It is from the common prejudices which men receive from their parents, that hatreds are kept alive from one generation to another; and when men act by instinct, hatred will descend when good offices are forgotten. For the degeneracy of human life is such, that our anger is more easily transferred to our children, than our love. Love always gives something to the object it delights in, and anger spoils the person against whom 20 ws °o ON THE RELATIONS OF' PARENTS AND CHILDREN, 167 it is moved of something laudable in him ; from this degeneracy, therefore, and a sort of self-love, we are more prone to take up the ill-will of our parents, than to follow them in their friend- ships. ‘ ‘One would think there should need no more to make men keep up this sort of relation with the utmost sanctity, than to examine their own hearts. If every father remembered his own thoughts and inclinations when he was a son, and every son remembered what he expected from his father, when he himself was in a state of dependance, this one reflection would preserve men from being dissolute or rigid in these several capacities. The power and subjection between them, when broken, make them more emphatically tyrants and rebels against each other, with greater cruelty of heart, than the disruption of states and empires can possibly produce. I shall end this appli- cation to you with two letters, which passed between a mother and son very lately, and are as follows : ‘DEAR FRANK, ‘If the pleasures, which I have the grief to hear you pursue in town, do not take up all your time, do not deny your mother so much of it as to read seriously this letter. You said before Mr. Letacre, that an old woman might live very well in the country upon half my jointure, and that your father was a fond fool to give me a rent charge of eight hundred a-year to the prejudice of his son. What Letacre said to you upon that occasion, you ought to have borne with more decency, as he was your father’s well-beloved servant, than to have called him country-put. In the first place, Frank, I must tell you, I will have my rent duly paid, for I will make up to your sisters for the partiality I was guilty of, in making your father do so much as he has done for you. I may, it seems, live upon half my jointure! I lived upon much less, Frank, when I carried you from place to place in these arms, and could neither eat, dress, or mind any thing for feeding and tending you a weakly child, and shedding tears when the convulsions you were then troubled with returned upon you. By my care you outgrew them, to throw away the vigour of your youth, and deny your mother what is not yours to detain. Both your sisters are crying to see the passion which I smother; but if you please to go on 168 SOCIAL PAPERS, thus like a gentleman of the town, and forget all regards to yourself and family, I shall immediately enter upon your estate for the arrear due to me, and, without one tear more, contemn you for forgetting the fondness of your mother, as much as you have the example of your father. O Frank, do I live to omit writing myself, *Your affectionate Mother, ‘A. T? *‘MapDaM, to ‘TI will come down to-morrow and pay the money on my knees. Pray write so no more. I will take care you never shall, for I will be for ever hereafter, ‘Your most dutiful Son, ‘F. T. ‘T will bring down new heads® for my sisters. Pray let all be forgotten.’—T. Spectator, No. 263.] {January 1, 1712. § 3. MANNERS AND FASHIONS. No. 51. Zhe Trumpet Club, Habeo senectuti magnam gratiam, que mihi sermonis aviditatem anxit, potionis et cibi sustulit—TULL. DE SENECT. After having applied my mind with more than ordinary atten- tion to my studies, it is my usual custom to relax and unbend it in the conversation of such as are rather easy than shining 20 companions. This I find particularly necessary for me before I retire to rest, in order to draw my slumbers upon me by degrees, and fall asleep insensibly. This is the particular use I make of a set of heavy honest men, with whom I have passed many hours with much indolence, though not with great pleasure. Their conversation is a kind of preparative for sleep: it takes the mind down from its abstractions, leads it into the familiar traces of thought, and lulls it into that state of tranquillity, which is the condition of a thinking man, when he is but half awake. THE TRUMPET CLUB. 169 After this, my reader will not be surprised to hear the account which I am about to give of a club of my own contemporaries, among whom I pass two or three hours every evening. This I look upon as taking my first nap before I go to bed. The truth of it is, I should think myself unjust to posterity, as well as to the society at the 7umfet>, of which I am a member, did not lin some part of my writings give an account of the persons among whom I have passed almost a sixth part of my time for these last forty years. Our club consisted originally of fifteen ; 10 but, partly by the severity of the law in arbitrary times, and partly by the natural effects of old age, we are at present reduced to a third part of that number; in which, however, we have this consolation, that the best company is said to consist of five persons. I must confess, besides the aforementioned benefit which I meet with in the conversation of this select society, I am not the less pleased with the company, in that I find myself the greatest wit among them, and am heard as their oracle in all points of learning and difficulty. Sir Jeoffery Notch, who is the oldest of the club, has been in 20 possession of the right-hand chair time out of mind, and is the only man among us that has the liberty of stirring the fire. This, our foreman, is a gentleman of an ancient family, that came to a great estate some years before he had discretion, and run it out in hounds, horses, and cock-fighting ; for which reason he looks upon himself as an honest, worthy gentleman, who has had misfortunes in the world, and calls every thriving man a pitiful upstart. Major Matchlock is the next senior, who served in the last civil wars, and has all the battles by heart. He does not think 30 any action in Europe worth talking of since the fight of Marston Moor® ; and every night tells us of his having been knocked off his horse at the rising of the London apprentices® ; for which he is in great esteem among us. Honest old Dick Reptile is the third of our society. He is a good-natured indolent man, who speaks little himself, but laughs at our jokes; and brings his young nephew along with him, a youth of eighteen years old, to show him good company, and give him a taste of the world. This young fellow sits generally silent ; but whenever he opens his mouth, or laughs at any 4o thing that passes, he is constantly told by his uncle, after a 20 40 170 SOCIAL PAPERS, jocular manner, ‘ Ay, ay, Jack, you young men think us fools ; but we old men know you are.’ The greatest wit of our company, next to myself, is a bencher of the neighbouring inn, who in his youth frequented the ordi- naries about Charing-cross, and pretends to have been intimate with Jack Ogle®. He has about ten distichs of Hudibras without book, and never leaves the club until he has applied them all. If any modern wit be mentioned, or any town-frolic spoken of, he shakes his head at the dulness of the present age, and tells us a story of Jack Ogle. For my own part, I am esteemed among them, because they see I am something respected by others ; though at the same time I understand by their behaviour, that I am considered by them as a man of a great deal of learning, but no knowledge of the world; insomuch, that the major sometimes, in the height of his military pride, calls me the Philosopher : and sir Jeoffery, no longer ago than last night, upon a dispute what day of the month it was then in Holland, pulled his pipe out of his mouth, and cried, ‘ What does the scholar say to it?’ Our club meets precisely at six o’clock in the evening ; but I did not come last evening until half an hour after seven, by which means I escaped the battle of Naseby®, which the major usually begins at about three quarters after six: I found also, that my good friend the bencher had already spent three of his distichs ; and only waited an opportunity to hear a sermon spoken of, that he might introduce the couplet where ‘a stick’ rhymes to ‘ecclesiastic™.’ At my entrance into the room, they were naming a red petticoat and a cloak, by which I found that the bencher had been diverting them with a story of Jack Ogle. I had no sooner taken my seat, but sir Jeoffery, to show his good-will towards me, gave me a pipe of his own tobacco, and stirred up the fire. I look upon it as a point of morality, to be obliged by those who endeavour to oblige me ; and therefore, in requital for his kindness, and to set the conversation a-going, I took the best occasion I could to put him upon telling us the story of old Gauntlett, which he always does with very parti- cular concern. He traced up his descent on both sides for several generations, describing his diet and manner of life, with his several battles, and particularly that in which he fell. This Gauntlett was a game cock, upon whose head the knight, in his 2 3 oO °o THE TRUMPET CLUB, 17t youth, had won five hundred pounds, and lost two thousand. This naturally set the major upon the account of Edge-hill fight ®, and ended in a duel of Jack Ogle’s. Old Reptile was ‘extremely attentive to all that was said, though it was the same he had heard every night for these twenty years, and, upon all occasions, winked upon his nephew to mind what passed. This may suffice to give the world a taste of our innocent conversation, which we spun out until about ten of the clock, when my maid came with a lantern® to light me home. I could not but reflect with myself, as I was going out, upon the talkative humour of old men, and the little figure which that part of life makes in one who cannot employ his natural propensity in dis- courses which would make him venerable. I must own, it makes me very melancholy in company, when I hear a young man begin a story ; and have often observed, that one of a quarter of an hour long in a man of five-and-twenty, gathers circumstances every time he tells it, until it grows into a long Canterbury tale of two hours by that time he is threescore. The only way of avoiding such a trifling and frivolous old age is, to lay up in our way to it such stores of knowledge and observation, as may make us useful and agreeable in our declin- ing years. The mind of man in a long life will become a maga- zine of wisdom or folly, and will consequently discharge itself in something impertinent or improving. For which reason, as there is nothing more ridiculous than an old trifling story-teller, so there is nothing more venerable, than one who has turned his experience to the entertainment and advantage of mankind. In short, we, who are in the last stage of life, and are apt to indulge ourselves in talk, ought to consider, if what we speak be worth being heard, and endeavour to make our discourse like that of Nestor, which Homer compares to the flowing of honey for its sweetness. I am afraid I shall be thought guilty of this excess I am speaking of, when I cannot conclude without observing, that Milton certainly thought of this passage in Homer, when, in his description of an eloquent spirit, he says, His tongue dropped manna. Tatler, No. 132.] [February 11, 1710. 20 172 SOCIAL PAPERS, No. 52. On Personal Defects ; Proposals for an Ugly Club. Tetrum ante omnia vultum.—Jvv. x. 191. Since our persons are not of our own making, when they are such as appear defective or uncomely, it is, methinks, an honest and laudable fortitude to dare to be ugly ; at least to keep our- selves from being abashed with a consciousness of imperfections which we cannot help, and in which there is no guilt. I would not defend a haggard beau for passing away much time at a glass, and giving softness and languishing graces to deformity: all I contend is, that we ought to be contented with our coun- tenance and shape, so far, as never to give ourselves an uneasy reflection on that subject. It is to the ordinary people who are not accustomed to make very proper remarks on any occasion, matter of great jest, if a man enters with a prominent pair of shoulders into an assembly, or is distinguished by an expansion of mouth, or obliquity of aspect. It is happy for a man that has any of these oddnesses about him, if he can be as merry upon himself, as others are apt to be upon that occasion. When he can possess himself with such a cheerfulness, women and children, who are at first frighted at him, will afterwards be as much pleased with him. As it is barbarous in others to rally him for natural defects, it is extremely agreeable when he can jest upon himself for them. Madam Maintenon’s first husband was a hero in this kind, and has drawn many pleasantries from the irregularity of his shape, which he describes as very much resembling the letter Z. He diverts himself likewise by representing to his reader the make of an engine and pully, with which he used to take off his hat. When there happens to be any thing ridiculous in a visage, and the owner thinks it an aspect of dignity, he must be of very great quality to be exempt from raillery. The best expedient, therefore, is to be pleasant upon himself. Prince Harry and Falstaff, in Shakspeare, have carried the ridicule upon fat and lean as far as it will go. Falstaff is humorously called wool- sack, bedpresser, and hill of flesh; Harry, a starveling, an elves-skin, a sheath, a bow-case, and a tuck. There is, in several incidents of the conversation between them,the jest still kept up upon the person. Great tenderness and sensibility in Io 20 30 ON PERSONAL DEFECTS, 173 this point is one of the greatest weaknesses of self-love. For my own part, lam a little unhappy in the mould of my face ®, which is not quite so long as it is broad. Whether this might not partly arise from my opening my mouth much seldomer than other people, and by consequence not so much lengthening the fibres of my visage, I am not at leisure to determine. However it be, I have been often put out of countenance by the shortness of my face, and was formerly at great pains in concealing it by wearing a periwig with a high fore-top, and letting my beard grow. But now I have thoroughly got over this delicacy, and could be contented with a much shorter, provided it might qualify me for a member of the merry club, which the following letter gives me an account of. I have received it from Oxford, and as it abounds with the spirit of mirth and good humour, which is natural to that place, I shall set it down word for word as it came to me. ‘Most PROFOUND SIR, ‘ Having been very well entertained, in the last of your specu- lations that I have yet seen, by your specimen upon clubs, which I therefore hope you will continue, I shall take the liberty to furnish you with a brief account of such a one as, perhaps, you have not seen in your travels, unless it was your fortune to touch upon some of the woody parts of the African continent, in your journey to or from Grand Cairo®. There have arose in this university (long since you left us without saying any thing) several of these inferior hebdomadal societies, as the Punning Club, the Witty club, and amongst the rest, the Handsome club ; as a burlesque upon which, a certain merry species, that seem to have come into the world in masquerade, for some years last past have associated themselves together, and assumed the name of the Ugly club. This ill-favoured iraternity consists of a president and twelve feliows ; the choice of which is not con- fined by patent to any particular foundation (as St. John’s men would have the world believe, and have therefore erected a separate society within themselves), but liberty is left to elect from any school in Great Britain, provided the candidates be within the rules of the club, as set forth in a table, entitled, The Act of Deformity: a clause or two of which I shall transmit to you. 174 SOCIAL PAPERS. ‘1, That no person whatsoever shall be admitted without a visible queerity 2 in his aspect, or peculiar cast of countenance ; of which the president and officers for the time being are to determine, and the president to have the casting voice. ‘2. That a singular regard be had upon examination, to the gibbosity" of the gentlemen that offer themselves as founder’s kinsmen ; or to the obliquity of their figure, in what sort soever. ‘3. That if the quantity of any man’s nose be eminently to miscalculated, whether as to length or breadth, he shall have a just pretence to be elected. ‘Lastly, That if there shall be two or more competitors for the same vacancy, ceteris paribus, he that has the thickest skin to have the preference. ‘Every fresh member, upon his first night, is to entertain the company with a dish of cod-fish, and a speech in praise of A.sop®, whose portraiture they have in full proportion, or rather dis- proportion, over the chimney ; and their design is, as soon as their funds are sufficient, to purchase the heads of Thersites™, zo Duns Scotus 2, Scarron, Hudibras®, and the old gentleman in Oldham 2, with all the celebrated ill faces of antiquity, as furni- ture for the club-room. ‘As they have always been professed admirers of the other sex, so they unanimously declare that they will give all possible encouragement to such as will take the benefit of the statute, though none yet have appeared to do it. ‘The worthy president, who is their most devoted champion, has lately shown me two copies of verses, composed by a gentle- man of his society ; the first, a congratulatory ode, inscribed to 30 Mrs. Touchwood, upon the loss of her two fore teeth ; the other, a panegyric upon Mrs. Andiron’s left shoulder. Mrs. Vizard (he says), since the small pox, has grown tolerably ugly, and a top toast in the club; but I never heard him so Javish of his fine things, as upon old Nell Trott, who continually officiates at their table; her he even adores and extols as the very counter- part of Mother Shipton™ ; in short, Nell (says he) is one of the extraordinary works of nature ; but as for complexion, shape, and features, so valued by others, they are all mere outside and symmetry, which is his aversion. Give me leave to add, that 40 the president is a facetious pleasant gentleman, and never more ON THE MOHOCK CLUB. v5 so, than when he has got (as he calls them) his dear mummers about him ; and he often protests it does him good to meet a fellow with a right genuine grimace in his air (whichis so agree- able in the generality of the French nation) ; and, as an instance of his sincerity in this particular, he gave me a sight of a list in his pocket book of all this class, who for these five years have fallen under his observation, with himself at the head of them, and in the rear (as one of a promising and improving aspect), ‘Sir, your obliged and humble servant, 10 ‘ALEXANDER CARBUNCLE.’ ‘Oxford, March 12, 1711.’ Spectator, No.17.] [March 20, 1711. No. 53. Ox the Mohock-Club,; Letter from Mrs. Margaret Clark. O curve in terris anime, et ccelestium inanes ! Pers. Sat. ii. 61, ‘Mr. SPECTATOR, ‘The materials you have collected towards a general history of clubs, make so bright a part of your speculations, that I think it is but a justice we all owe the learned world, to furnish ‘you with such assistance as may promote that useful work. For this reason I could not forbear communicating to’ you some imperfect information of a set of men (if you will allow them a place in that species of being) who have lately erected zo themselves into a nocturnal fraternity, under the title of the Mohock-club®, a name borrowed it seems from a sort of canni- bals in India, who subsist by plundering and devouring all the nations about them. The president is styled “ Emperor of the Mohocks ;” and his arms are a Turkish crescent, which his imperial majesty bears at present in a very extraordinary man- ner engraved upon his forehead. Agreeable to their name, the avowed design of their institution is mischief; and upon this foundation all their rules and orders are framed. An out- rageous ambition of doing all possible hurt to their fellow- 30 creatures, is the great cement of their assembly, and the only qualification required in the members. In order to exert this 10 30 40 176 SOCIAL PAPERS. principle in its full strength and perfection, they take care to drink themselves to a pitch, that is, beyond the possibility of attending to any motions of reason or humanity; then make a general sally, and attack all that are so unfortunate as to walk the streets through which they patrol. Some are knocked down, others stabbed, others cut and carbonadoed®. To put the watch to a total rout, and mortify some of those inoffensive militia, is reckoned a coup a’état. The particular talents by which these misanthropes are distinguished from one another, consist in the various kinds of barbarities which they execute upon their prisoners. Some are celebrated for a happy dex- terity in tipping the lion upon them; which is performed by squeezing the nose flat to the face, and boring out the eyes with their fingers. Others are called the dancing-masters, and teach their scholars to cut capers ; by running swords through their legs ; a new invention, whether originally French I cannot tell. A third sort are the tumblers”, whose office it is to set women on their heads. But these I forbear to mention, because they cannot but be very shocking to the reader as well as the Spec- tator. In this manner they carry on a war against mankind ; and by the standing maxims of their policy, are to enter into no alliances but one, and that is offensive and defensive with all bawdy-houses in general, of which they have declared them- selves protectors and guarantees. “I must own, Sir, these are only broken, incoherent memoirs of this wonderful society ; but they are the best I have been yet able to procure : for, being but of late established, it is not ripe for a just history; and, to be serious, the chief design of this trouble is to hinder it from ever being so. You have been pleased, out of a concern for the good of your countrymen, to act, under the character of Spectator, not only the part of a looker-on, but an observer of their actions; and whenever such enormities as this infest the town, we immediately fly to you for redress. I have reason to believe, that some thought- less youngsters, out of a false notion of bravery, and an immo- derate fondness to be distinguished for fellows of fire, are insensibly hurried into this senseless, scandalous project. Such will probably stand corrected by your reproofs, especially if you inform them, that it is not courage for half a score of fellows, mad with wine and lust, to set upon two or three soberer than 10 20 30 ON THE MOHOCK CLUB. , AZZ themselves ; and that the manners of Indian savages are not becoming accomplishments to an English fine gentleman. Such of them as have been bullies and scowerers” of a long standing, and are grown veterans in this kind of service, are, I fear, too hardened to receive any impressions from your admo- nitions. But I beg you would recommend to their perusal your ninth Speculation. They may there be taught to take warning from the club of Duellists; and be put in mind, that the common fate of those men of honour, was to be hanged. ‘I am, Sir, ‘Your most humble Servant, ‘ PHILANTHROPOS. ‘March Io, 1712.’ The following letter is of a quite contrary nature ; but I add it here, that the reader may observe, at the same view, how amiable ignorance may be, when it is shown in its simplicities ; and how detestable in barbarities. It is written by an honest countryman to his mistress, and came to the hands of a lady of good sense, wrapped about a thread-paper®, who has long kept it by her as an image of artless love. *To her I very much respect, Mrs. Margaret Clark. Lovely, and O that I could write loving Mrs. Margaret Clark, I pray you let affection excuse presumption. Having been so happy as to enjoy the sight of your sweet countenance and comely body, sometimes when I had occasion to buy treacle or liquorish powder at the apothecary’s shop, I am so enamoured with you, that I can no more keep close my flaming desire to become your servant. And I am the more bold now to write to your sweet self, because I am now my own man, and may match‘ where I please; for my father is taken away; and now I am come to my living, which is ten yard land” and a house ; and there is never a yard land in our field, but is as well worth ten pounds a year as a thief is worth a halter, and all my brothers and sisters are provided for: besides, I have good household stuff, though I say it, both brass and pewter®, linens and woollens; and though my home be thatched, yet, if you and I match, it shall go hard but I will have one half of it slated. If you think well of this motion, I N 178 SOCIAL PAPERS. will wait upon you as soon as my new clothes are made, and hay-harvest is in. I could, though I say it, have good = [matches in our town ; but my mother (God’s peace be with her) charged me upon her death-bed to marry a gentlewoman, one who had been well trained up in sewing and cookery. I do not think but that if you and I can agree to marry, and lay our means together, I shall be made grand jury-man e’er two or three years come about, and that will be a great credit to us. If I could have got a messenger for sixpence, I would have sent to one on purpose, and some trifle or other for a token of my love ; but I hope there is nothing lost for that neither. So hoping you will take this letter in good part, and answer it with what care and speed you can, *I rest and remain, ‘Yours, if my own, ‘Mr. GABRIEL BULLOCK, ‘now my father is dead. ‘Swepston, Leicestershire. ‘When the coal carts come, I shall send oftener ; and may 20 come in one of them myself.’] Spectator, No. 324.] [March 27, 1712. Wo. 54. On Coffee Houses; Succession of Visitors; Character of Eubulus. Hominem pagina nostra sapit—_MartT. It is very natural for a man who is not turned for mirthful meetings of men, or assemblies of the fair sex, to delight in that sort of conversation which we find in coffee-houses. Here aman of my temper is in his element; for if he cannot talk, he can still be more agreeable to his company, as well as pleased in himself, in being only a hearer. It is a secret known but to few, yet of no small use in the conduct of life, that when you fall into a man’s conversation, the first thing you should consider is, whether he has a great inclination to 30 hear you, or that you should hear him. The latter is the more Io 20 30 40 ON COFFEE HOUSES, 179 general desire, and I know very able flatterers that never speak a word in praise of the persons from whom they obtain daily favours, but still practise a skilful attention to whatever is uttered by those with whom they converse. We are very curious to observe the behaviour of great men and their clients; but the same passions and interests move men in lower spheres ; and I (that have nothing else to do but make observations) see in every parish, street, lane, and alley, of this populous city, a little potentate that has his court and his flatterers, who lay snares for his affection and favour by the same arts that are practised upon men in higher stations, In the place I most usually frequent, men differ rather in the time of day in which they make a figure, than in any real greatness above one another. I, who am at the coffee-Kouse at six in the morning, know that my friend Beaver, the haber- dasher®, has a levee of more undissembled friends and admirers than most of the courtiers or generals of Great Britain. Every man about him has, perhaps, a newspaper in his hand; but none can pretend to guess what step will be taken in any one court of Europe, till Mr. Beaver has thrown down his pipe, and declares what measures the allies must enter into upon this new posture of affairs. Our coffee-house is near one of the inns of court, and Beaver has the audience and admiration of his neighbours from six till within a quarter of eight, at which time he is interrupted by the students of the house; some of whom are ready dressed for Westminster at eight in a morning, with faces as busy as if they were retained in every cause there; and others come in their night-gowns™ to saunter away their time, as if they never designed to go thither. I do not know that I meet in any of my walks, objects which move both my spleen and laughter so effectually, as those young fellows at the Grecian, Squire’s, Serle’s ®, and all other coffee-houses adjacent to the law, who rise early for no other purpose but to publish their laziness. One would think these young virtuosos take a gay cap and slippers, with a scarf and party-coloured gown, to be ensigns of dignity; for the vain things approach each other with an air, which shews they regard one another for their vestments. I have observed, that the superiority among these proceeds from an opinion of gallantry and fashion. The gentleman in the strawberry sash, who presides so much over N2 Io 20 40 180 SOCIAL PAPERS. the rest, has, it seems, subscribed to every opera this last winter, and is supposed to receive favours from one of the actresses. When the day grows too busy for these gentlemen to enjoy any longer the pleasures of their dishabille with any manner of confidence, they give place to men who have business or good sense in their faces, and come to the coffee-house either to transact affairs, or enjoy conversation. The persons to whose behaviour and discourse I have most regard, are such as are between these two sorts of men; such as have not spirits too active to be happy and well pleased in a private condition, nor, complexions too warm to make them neglect the duties and relations of life. Of these sort of men consist the worthier part of mankind ; of these are all good fathers, generous brothers, friends, and faithful subjects. Their enter- tainments are derived rather from reason than imagination ; which is the cause that there is no impatience or instability in their speech or action. You see in their countenances they are at home, and in quiet possession of their present instant as it passes, without desiring to quicken it by gratifying any passion, or prosecuting any new design. These are the men formed for society, and those little communities which we express by the word neighbourhoods. The coffee-house is the place of rendezvous to all that live near it, who are thus turned to relish calm and ordinary life. Eubulus presides over the middle hours of the day, when this assembly of men meet together. He enjoys a great fortune handsomely, without launching into expense ; and exerts many noble and useful qualities, without appearing in any public employment. His wisdom and knowledge are serviceable to all that think fit to make use of them; and he does the office of a counsel, a judge, an executor, and a friend, to all his acquaintance, not only without the profits which attend such offices, but also without the deference and homage which are usually paid to them. The giving of thanks is displeasing to him. The greatest gratitude you can shew him is, to let him see that you are a better man for his services; and that you are so ready to oblige others, as he is to oblige you. In the private exigencies of his friends, he lends at legal value considerable sums which he might highly increase by Io 20 30 ON DON QUIXOTE, ETC. 181 rolling in the public stocks. He does not consider in whose hands his money will improve most, but where it will do most good. ‘ Eubulus has so great an authority in his little diurnal au- dience, that when he shakes his head at any piece of public news, they all of them appear dejected ; and on the contrary, go home to their dinners with a good stomach and cheerful aspect when Eubulus seems to intimate that things go well”. Nay, their veneration towards him is so great, that when they are in other company they speak and act after him; are wise in his sentences, and are no sooner sat down at their own tables, but they hope or fear, rejoice or despond, as they saw him do at the coffee-house. In a word, every man is Eubulus as soon as his back is turned. Having here given an account of the several reigns that succeed each other from day-break till dinner-time, I shall mention the monarchs of the afternoon on another occasion, and shut up the whole series of them with the history of Tom the Tyrant"; who, as the first minister of the coffee-house, takes the government upon him between the hours of eleven and twelve at night, and gives his orders in the most arbitrary manner to the servants below him, as to the disposition of liquors, coal, and cinders. Spectator, No. 49.] [April 26, 1711. No. 55. On Don Quixote, and a Coffee-House Politician, When we look into the delightful history of the most ingenious Don Quixote of the Mancha, and consider the exercises and manner of life of that renowned gentleman, we cannot but ad- mire the exquisite genius and discerning spirit of Michael Cervantes ; who has not only painted his adventurer with great mastery in the conspicuous parts of his story, which relate to love and honour ; but also intimated in his ordinary life, in his economy and furniture, the infallible symptoms he gave of his growing frenzy, before he declared himself a Knight Errant. His hall was furnished with old lances, halberds, and morions ; his food, lentils ; his dress, amorous. He slept moderately, rose I 2 3 fe} O° ° 182 SOCIAL PAPERS, early, and spent his time in hunting. When by watchfulness and exercise he was thus qualified for the hardships of his in- tended peregrinations, he had nothing more to do but to fall hard to study ; and before he should apply himself to the practical part, get into the methods of making love and war by reading books of knighthood. As for raising tender passions in him, Cervantes reports, that he was wonderfully delighted with a smooth intricate sentence; and when they listened at his study- door, they could frequently hear him read loud, ‘The reason of the unreasonableness, which against my reason is wrought, doth so weaken my reason, as with all reason I do justly complain of your beauty.’ Again, he would pause until he came to another charming sentence, and, with the most pleasing accent imagin- able, be loud at a new paragraph : ‘ The high heavens, which with your divinity, do fortify you divinely with the stars, make you deserveress of the deserts that your greatness deserves.’ With these and other such passages, says my author, the poor gentleman grew distracted, and was breaking his brains day and night to understand and unravel their sense. As much as the case of this distempered knight is received by all the readers of his history as the most incurable and ridiculous of all frenzies ; it is very certain, we have crowds among us far gone in as visible a madness as his, though they are not observed to be in that condition. As great and useful discoveries are sometimes made by accidental and small beginnings, I came to the knowledge of the most epidemic ill of this sort, by falling into a coffee-house, where I saw my friend the upholsterer®, whose crack® towards politics I have heretofore mentioned. This touch in the brain of the British subject, is as certainly owing to the reading newspapers, as that of the Spanish worthy above- mentioned to the reading works of chivalry. My contem- poraries, the novelists”, have, for the better spinning out para- graphs, and working down to the end of their columns, a most happy art in saying and unsaying, giving hints of intelligence, and interpretations of indifferent actions, to the great disturbance of the brains of ordinary readers. This way of going on in the words, and making no progress in the sense, is more particu- larly the excellency of my most ingenious and renowned fellow- labourer, the Post-man; and it is to this talent in him that I 4o impute the loss of my upholsterer’s intellects. That unfortunate 10 20 30 ON DON QUIXOTE, ETC. 183 tradesman has, for years past, been the chief orator in ragged assemblies, and the reader in alley coffee-houses. He was yesterday surrounded by an audience of that sort, among whom I sat unobserved, through the favour of a cloud of tobacco, and saw him with the Post-man in his hand, and all the other papers safe under his elbow. He was intermixing remarks, and reading the Paris article of May the thirtieth, which says, ‘That it is given out that an express arrived this day with advice, that the armies were so near in the plain of Lens, that they cannonaded each other.’ ‘Ay, ay, here we shall have sport.’ ‘ And that it was highly probable the next express would bring us an account of an engagement.’ ‘They are welcome as soon as they please.’ ‘Though some others say that the same will be put off until the second or third of June, because the marshal Villars expects some further reinforcements from Germany, and other parts, before that time.’ ‘ What does he put it off for? Does he think our horse is not marching up at the same time? But let us see what he says further.’ ‘They hope that Monsieur Albergotti2, being encouraged by the presence of so great an army, will make an extraordinary defence.’ ‘ Why then, I find, Albergotti is one of those that love to have a great many on their side. Nay, I say that for this paper, he makes the most natural inferences of any of them all.’ ‘ The elector of Bavaria, being uneasy to be without any command, has desired leave to come to court, to communicate a certain project to his majesty. ‘Whatever it be, it is said, that prince is suddenly expected ; and then we shall have a more certain account of his project, if this report has any foundation” ‘Nay, this paper never imposes upon us ; he goes upon sure grounds; for he will not be positive the elector has a project, or that he will come, or if he does come at all; for he doubts, you see, whether the-report has any founda- tion.’ What makes this the more lamentable is, that this way of writing falls in with the imaginations of the cooler and duller part of her majesty’s subjects. The being kept up with one line contradicting another ; and the whole, after many sentences of conjecture, vanishing in a doubt whether there is any thing at all in what the person has been reading, puts an ordinary head into a vertigo, which his natural dulness would have secured 40 him from. Next to the labours of the Post-man, the upholsterer Io 20 o 3 40 184 SOCIAL PAPERS. took from under his elbow honest Ichabod Dawks’s Letter, and there, among other speculations, the historian takes upon him to say, ‘ That it is discoursed that there will be a battle in Flan- ders before the armies separate, and many will have it to be to-morrow, the great battle of Ramillies being fought on a Whit- sunday».’ A gentleman, who was a wag in this company, laughed at the expression, and said, ‘By Mr. Dawks’s favour, I warrant you, if we meet them on Whitsunday or Monday we shall not stand upon the day with them, whether it be before or after the holidays.’ “An admirer of this gentleman stood up, and told a neighbour at a distant table the conceit ; at which indeed we were all very merry. These reflections, in the writers of the transactions of the times, seize the noddles of such as were not born to have thoughts of their own, and consequently lay a weight upon every thing which they read in print. But Mr. Dawks concluded his paper with a courteous sentence, which was very well taken and applauded by the whole company. ‘We wish,’ says he, ‘all our customers a merry Whitsuntide and many of them.’ Honest Ichabod is as extraordinary a man as any of our fraternity, and as particular. His style is a dialect between the familiarity of talking and writing, and his letter such as you cannot distinguish whether print or manuscript ™, which gives us a refreshment of the idea from what has been told us from the press by others. This wishing a good Tide had its effect upon us, and he was commended for his salutation, as showing as well the capacity of a bell-man as a historian. My distempered old acquaintance read, in the next place, the account of the affairs abroad in the Courant: but the matter was told so dis- tinctly, that these wanderers thought there was no news in it; this paper differing from the rest, as a history from a romance. The tautology, the contradiction, the doubts, and wants of con- firmations, are what keep up imaginary entertainments in empty heads and produce neglect of their own affairs, poverty, and bankruptcy, in many of the shop-statesmen; but turn the imaginations of those of a little higher orb into deliriums of dis- satisfaction, which is seen in a continual fret upon all that touches their brains, but more particularly upon any advantage obtained by their country, where they are considered as lunatics, and therefore tolerated in their ravings. What I am now warning the people of is, that the newspapers 10 20 30 ON DON QUIXOTE, ETC. 185 of this island are as pernicious to weak heads in England, as ever books of chivalry to Spain; and therefore shall do all that in me lies, with the utmost care and vigilance imaginable, to prevent these growing evils. A flaming instance of this malady appeared in my old acquaintance at this time, who, after he had done reading all his papers, ended with a thoughtful air, ‘ If we should have a peace, we should then know for certain whether it was the king of Sweden that lately came to Dunkirk?’ I whispered him, and desired him to step aside a little with me. When I had opportunity, I decoyed him into a coach, in order for his more easy conveyance to Moor-fields. The man went very quietly with me ; and by that time he had brought the Swede from the defeat by the czar to the Boristhenes, we were passing by Will’s coffee-house, where the man of the house beckoned to us. We made a full stop, and could hear from above a very loud swearing, with some expressions towards treason, that the subject in France was as free as in England. His distemper would not let him reflect, that his own discourse was argunient of the contrary. They told him, one would speak with him below. He came immediately to our coach-side. I whispered him, ‘that I had an order to carry him to the Bastile.’ He immediately obeyed with great resignation : for to this sort of lunatic, whose brain is touched for the French, the name of a gaol in that kingdom has a more agreeable sound, than that of a paternal seat in this their own country. It happened a little unluckily bringing these lunatics together, for they immediately fell into a debate concerning the greatness of their respective monarchs ; one for the king of Sweden, the other for the grand monarque of France. This gentleman from Will’s is now next door to the upholsterer, safe in his apartment in my Bedlam, with proper medicaments, and the Mercure Gallant to soothe his imagination that he is actually in France. If therefore he should escape to Covent-garden again, all persons are desired to lay hold of him and deliver him to Mr. Morphew, my over- seer. At the same time, I desire all true subjects to forbear discourse with him, any otherwise than, when he begins to fight a battle for France, to say, ‘ Sir, I hope to see you in England.’ Tatler, No. 178.] [May 30, 1710. 10 20 186 SOCIAL PAPERS, No. 56. On the Misbehaviour of Servants. Quid domini facient, audent cum talia fures? Vira. Ecl. iii. 16. ‘May 30, I711. ‘MR. SPECTATOR, ‘I have no small value for your endeavours to lay before the world what may escape their observation, and yet highly conduces to their service. You have, I think, succeeded very well on many subjects ; and seem to have been conversant in very different scenes of life. But in the considerations of man- kind, as a Spectator, you should not omit circumstances which relate to the inferior part of the world, any more than those which concern the greater. There is one thing in particular, which I wonder you have not touched upon—and that is the general corruption of manners in the Servants of Great Britain. I am a man that have travelled and seen many nations, but have for seven years last past resided constantly in London or within twenty miles of it. In this time I have contracted a numerous acquaintance among the best sort of people, and have hardly found one of them happy in their servants. This is matter of great astonishment to foreigners, and all such as have visited foreign countries ; especially since we cannot but observe, that there is no part of the world where servants have those privileges and advantages as in England. They have no where else such plentiful diet, large wages, or indulgent liberty. There is no place where they labour less, and yet where they are so little respectful, more wasteful, more negli- gent, or where they so frequently change their masters. To this I attribute, in a great measure, the frequent robberies and losses which we suffer on the high road and in our own houses. That indeed which gives me the present thought of the kind is, that a careless groom of mine has spoiled me the prettiest pad 30 in the world with only riding him ten miles; and I assure you, if I were to make a register of all the horses I have known thus abused by the negligence of servants, the number would mount a regiment. I wish you would give us your observa- I 3 fo} ° ON THE MISBEHAVIOUR OF SERVANTS. 187 tions, that we may know how to treat these rogues, or that we masters may enter into measures to reform them. Pray give us a speculation in general about servants, and you make me ‘Yours, ‘ PHILO-BRITANNICUS. *P.S. Pray do not omit the mention of grooms in particular.’ This honest gentleman, who is so desirous that I should write a satire upon grooms, has a great deal of reason for his resentment ; and I know no evil which touches all mankind so much as this of the misbehaviour of servants. The complaint of this letter runs wholly upon men-servants ; and I can attribute the licentiousness which has at present prevailed among them, to nothing but what a hundred before me have ascribed it to, the custom of giving board-wages. This one instance of false economy is sufficient to debauch the whole nation of servants, and makes them as it were but for some part of their time in that quality. They are either attending in places where they meet and run into clubs, or else, if they wait at taverns, they eat after their masters, and reserve their wages for other occasions. From hence it arises, that they are but in a lower degree what their masters themselves are ; and usually affect an imitation of their manners: and you have in liveries, beaux, fops, and coxcombs, in as high perfec- tion as among people that keep equipages. It is a common humour among the retinue of people of quality, when they are in their revels—that is, when they are out of their masters’ sight—to assume in a humorous way the names and titles of those whose liveries they wear. By which means, characters and distinctions become so familiar to them, that it is to this, among other causes, one may impute a certain insolence among our servants, that they take no notice of any gentleman, though they know him ever so well, except he is an acquaintance of their master. My obscurity and taciturnity leave me at liberty, without scandal, to dine, if I think fit, at a common ordinary, in the meanest as well as the most sumptuous house of entertain- ment. Falling in the other day at a victualling-house near the house of peers, I heard the maid come down and tell the land- lady at the bar, that my lord bishop swore he would throw her 20 188 SOCIAL PAPERS. out at window, if she did not bring up more mild beer, and that my lord duke would have a double mug of purl. My surprise was increased, in hearing loud and rustic® voices speak and answer to each other upon the public affairs, by the names of the most illustrious of our nobility; till of a sudden one came running in, and cried the house was rising. Down came all the company together, and away! The alehouse was immediately filled with clamour, and scoring one mug to the marquis of such a place, oil and vinegar to such an earl, three quarts to my new lord for wetting his title, and so forth. It is a thing too notorious to mention the crowd of servants, and their insolence, near the courts of justice, and the stairs towards the supreme assembly, where there is a universal mockery of all order, such riotous clamour and licentious confusion, that one would think the whole nation lived in jest, and that there were no such thing as rule and distinction among us. The next place of resort, wherein the servile world are let loose, is at the entrance of Hyde-park, while the gentry are at the Ring®. Hither people bring their lackeys out of state, and here it is that all they say at their tables, and act in their houses, is communicated to the whole town. There are men of wit in all conditions of life ; and mixing with these people at their diversions, I have heard coquettes and prudes as well rallied, and insolence and pride exposed (allowing for their want of education) with as much humour and good sense, as in the politest companies. It is a general observation, that all dependants run in some measure into the manners and be- haviour of those whom they serve. You shall frequently meet with lovers and men of intrigue among the lackeys as well as at White’s® or in the side-boxes*. I remember once some years ago an instance of this kind. A footman to a captain of the guards used frequently, when his master was out of the way, to carry on amours and make assignations in his master’s clothes. The fellow had a very good person, and there were very many women who think no further than the outside of a gentleman : besides which, he was almost as learned a man as the colonel himself: I say, thus qualified, the fellow could scrawl dz//ets- doux so well, and furnish a conversation on common topics, that he had, as they call it, a great deal of good business on his 4o hands. It happened one day that, coming down a tavern ON MASTERS AND MISTRESSES. 189 stairs, in his master’s fine guard-coat, with a well-dressed woman masked, he met the colonel coming up with other company ; but with a ready assurance he quitted his lady, came up to him, and said, ‘Sir, ] know you have too much respect for yourself to cane me in this honourable habit. But you see there is a lady in the case®, and I hope on that score also you will put off your anger till I have told you all another time.’ After a little pause the colonel cleared up his countenance, and with an air of familiarity whispered his man apart. ‘Sirrah, bring 10 the lady with you to ask pardon for you:’ then aloud, ‘ Look to it, Will, I'll never forgive you else.’ The fellow went back to his mistress, and telling her, with a loud voice and an oath, That was the honestest fellow in the world, conveyed her to a hackney-coach. But the many irregularities committed by servants in the places above-mentioned, as well as in the theatres, of which masters are generally the occasions, are too various not to need being resumed on another occasion, Spectator, No. 88.] [June 11, 1711. No. 57. On Masters and Mistresses; Letters from Ralph Valet and Patience Giddy. At heec etiam servis semper libera fuerunt, timerent, gauderent, dole- rent, suo potius quam alterius arbitrio—TUuLL. Epist. It is no small concern to me, that I find so many complaints 20 from the part of mankind whose portion it is to live in servitude, that those whom they depend upon will not allow them to be even as happy as their condition will admit of. There are, as these unhappy correspondents inform me, masters who are offended at a cheerful countenance, and think a servant is broke loose from them, if he does not preserve the utmost awe in their presence. There is one who says, if he looks satisfied his master asks him, ‘What makes him so pert this morning?’ if a little sour, ‘Hark ye sirrah, are not you paid your wages?’ The poor creatures live in the miost extreme 30 misery together; the master knows not how to preserve respect, 10 20 30 1990 SOCIAL PAPERS. nor the servant how to give it. It seems this person is of so sullen a nature that he knows but little satisfaction in the midst of a plentiful fortune, and secretly frets to see any appearance of content in one that lives upon the hundredth part of his income, who is unhappy in the possession of the whole. Uneasy persons, who cannot possess their own minds, vent their spleen upon all who depend upon them; which, I think, is expressed in a lively manner in the following letters :— “SIR, August 2, 1711. ‘T have read your Spectator” of the third of the last month and wish I had the happiness of being preferred to serve so good a master as Sir Roger. The character of my master is the very reverse of that good and gentle knight’s. All his directions are given, and his mind revealed by way of con- traries: as when any thing is to be remembered, with a peculiar cast of face he cries, “Be sure to forget now.” If Iam to make haste back, “Do not come these two hours; be sure to call by the way upon some of your companions.” Then another excellent way of his is, if he sets me any thing to do, which he knows must necessarily take up half a day, he calls ten times in a quarter of an hour to know whether I have done yet. This is his manner; and the same perverseness runs through all his actions, according as the circumstances vary. Besides all this, he is so suspicious, that he submits himself to the drudgery of a spy. He is as unhappy himself as he makes his servants; he is constantly watching us, and we differ no more in pleasure and liberty than as a gaoler and a prisoner. He lays traps for faults ; and no sooner makes a discovery, but falls into such language, as ] am more ashamed of for coming from him, than for being directed to me. This, Sir, is a short sketch of a master I have served upwards of nine years ; and though I have never wronged him, I confess my despair of pleasing him has very much abated my endeavour to do it. If you will give me leave to steal a sentence out of my master’s Clarendon, I shall tell you my case in a word, “being used worse than I deserved, I cared less to deserve well than I had done.” “I am, Sir, your humble servant, “RALPH VALET.’ Io ON MASTERS AND MISTRESSES, Ig! “DEAR MR. SPECTER, ‘Iam the next thing to a lady’s woman, and am under both my lady and her woman. I am so-used by them both, that I should be very glad to see them in the Specter. My lady herself is of no mind in the world, and for that reason her woman is of twenty minds in a moment. My lady is one that never knows what to do with herself; she pulls on and puts off every thing she wears twenty times before she resolves upon it for that day. I stand at one end of the room, and reach things to her woman. When my lady asks for a thing, I hear, and have half brought it, when the woman meets me in the middle of the room to receive it, and at that instant she says, “No, she will not have it.” Then I go back, and her woman 20 comes up to her, and by this time she will have that and two or three things more in an instant. The woman and I run to each other; I am loaded and delivering the things to her, when my lady says she wants none of all these things, and we are the dullest creatures in the world, and she the unhappiest woman living, for she shall not be drest in any time. Thus we stand, not knowing what to do, when our good lady, with all the patience in the world, tells us as plain as she can speak, that she will have temper because we have no manner of un- derstanding ; and begins again to dress, and see if we can find out, of ourselves, what we are todo. When she is dressed she goes to dinner, and after she has disliked every thing there, she calls for her coach, then commands it in again, and then she will not go out at all, and then will go, too, and orders the chariot. Now, good Mr. Specter, I desire you would, in the behalf of all who serve froward ladies, give out in your paper, that nothing can be done without allowing time for it, and that one cannot be back again with what one was sent for, if one is called back before one can goa step for that they want. And if you please, let them know that all mistresses are as like as all servants, ‘I am your loving friend, ‘ PATIENCE GIDDY.’ These are great calamities; but I met the other day in the Five fields®, towards Chelsea, a pleasanter tyrant than either of the above represented. A fat fellow was puffing on in his 192 SOCIAL PAPERS. . open waistcoat; a boy of fourteen in a livery, carrying after Io 20 him his cloak, upper coat, hat, wig, and sword. The poor lad was ready to sink with the weight, and could not keep up with his master, who turned back every half furlong, and wondered what made the lazy young dog lag behind. There is something very unaccountable, that people cannot put themselves in the condition of the persons below them, when they consider the commands they give. But there is nothing more common, than to see a fellow (who if he were reduced to it, would not be hired by any man living) lament that he is troubled with the most worthless dogs in nature. It would, perhaps, be running too far out of common life to urge, that he who is not master of himself and his own passions, cannot be a proper master of another. Equanimity in a man’s own words and actions, will easily diffuse itself through his whole family. Pamphilio has the happiest house- hold of any man I know, and that proceeds from the humane regard he has to them in their private persons, as well as in respect that they are his servants. If there be any occasion, wherein they may in themselves be supposed to be unfit to attend their master’s concerns by reason of any attention to their own, he is so good as to place himself in their condition. I thought it very becoming in him, when at dinner the other day, he made an apology for want of more attendants. He said, ‘One of my footmen is gone to the wedding of his sister, and the other I do not expect to wait, because his father died but two days ago.’ Spectator, No. 137.] [August 7, 1711. No. 58. On Testimonials and Recommendatory Epistles. Qualem commendes, etiam atque etiam aspice, ne mox Incutiant aliena tibi peccata pudorem.—Honr. Ep. i. 18, 76. It is no unpleasant matter of speculation to consider the recommendatory epistles that pass round this town from hand 30 to hand, and the abuse people put upon one another in that kind, It is indeed come to that pass, that, instead of being the 10 20 ON TESTIMONIALS, ETC. 193 testimony of merit in the person recommended, the true read- ing of a letter of this sort is, ‘The bearer hereof is so uneasy to me, that it will be an act of charity in you to take him off my hands ; whether you prefer him or not, it is all one; for I have no manner of kindness for him, or obligation to him or his; and do what you please as to that.’ As negligent as men are in this respect, a point of honour is concerned in it; and there is nothing a man should be more ashamed of, than passing a worthless creature into the service or interests of a man who has never injured you. The women indeed are a little too keen in their resentments to trespass often this way: but you shall sometimes know, that the mistress and the maid shall quarrel, and give each other very free language, and at last the lady shall be pacified to turn her out of doors, and give her a very good word to any body else. Hence it is that you see, in a year and a half’s time, the same face a domestic in all parts of the town. Good-breeding and good-nature lead people in a great measure to this injustice: when suitors of no consider- ation will have confidence enough to press upon their superiors, those in power are tender of speaking the exceptions they have against them, and are mortgaged into promises out of their impatience of importunity. In this latter case, it would be a very useful inquiry to know the history of recommendations. There are, you must know, certain abettors of this way of torment, who make it a profession to manage the affairs of candidates. These gentlemen let out their impudence to their clients, and supply any defective recommendation, by inform- ing how such and such a man is to be attacked. They will tell you, get the least scrap from Mr. Such-a-one, and leave the rest to them. When one of these undertakers has your busi- ness in hand, you may be sick, absent in town or country, and the patron shall be worried, or you prevail. I remember to have been shown a gentleman some years ago, who punished a whole people for their facility in giving their credentials. This person had belonged to a regiment which did duty in the West Indies, and, by the mortality of the place, happened to be.com- manding-officer in the colony. He oppressed his subjects with great frankness, till he became sensible that he was heartily hated by every man under his command. When he had carried 40 his point to be thus detestable, in a pretended fit of dishumour, Oo 10 20 30 194. SOCIAL PAPERS, and feigned uneasiness of living where he found he was so universally unacceptable, he communicated to the chief inhabit- ants a design he had to return for England, provided they would give him ample testimonials of their approbation. The planters came into it to a man, and, in proportion to his de- serving the quite contrary, the words justice, generosity, and courage, were inserted in his commission, not omitting the general good-liking of people of all conditions in the colony. The gentleman returns for England, and within a few months after came back to them their governor, on the strength of their own testimonials. Such a rebuke as this cannot indeed happen to easy recom- menders, in the ordinary course of things, from one hand to another; but how would a man bear to have it said to him, ‘ The person I took into confidence on the credit you gave him, has proved false, unjust, and has not answered any way the character you gave me of him ?? I cannot but conceive very good hopes of that rake Jack Toper of the Temple, for an honest scrupulousness in this point. A friend of his meeting with a servant that had formerly lived with Jack, and having a mind to take him, sent to him to know what faults the fellow had, since he could not please such a careless fellow as he was. His answer was as follows :— ‘SIR, ‘Thomas that lived with me was turned away because he was too good for me. You know I live in taverns; he is an orderly sober rascal, and thinks much to sleep in an entry until two in the morning. He told me one day, when he was dress- ing me, that he wondered I was not dead before now, since I went to dinner in the evening, and went to supper at two in the morning. We were coming down Essex-street one night a little flustered, and I was giving him the word to alarm the watch ; he had the impudence to tell me it was against the law. You that are married, and live one day after another the same way, and so on the whole week, I dare say will like him, and he will be glad to have his meat in due season. The fellow is certainly very honest. My service to your lady. Yours,